1
She had always thought the room was too big. "It's befitting of your stature," is what they told her; but there, sitting atop a throne that could fit two of her, in a room bigger than any she'd seen before her ascension, she didn't feel anything except small and insignificant. The room was airy and well lit, decorated with the symbol of the freedom she had given to the people on long, blue, billowing streamers adorning the archways of the columned walls. Light filtered brightly through, casting the room in a peaceful hue for every hour of the day.
"A more subtle reminder of the tyranny you so graciously conquered, and of the peace you are bringing." The contrast of the color of the room and of her own pallor did nothing more than to make her discomfort even greater, and her place in this new world she'd created even more uncomfortable. She knew, above all else, that she didn't belong where she was. The power, the confinement, the responsibility, none of these things sat well with the beloved ruler. She stayed for the good of the people, hoping deep within that she knew what that good was.
The door opened silently and a small man dressed to the nines in the finest clothes his absorbent salary could buy began scuttling down the expansive hall. As the man, her royal advisor, made his way across the great length, particularly so for a man with such a small foot fall, she couldn't help but think of what an utter waste of space the room was. "It will be good for your image, for the people to see you in such a room," but she'd never seen an ordinary citizen in the room in all of her rule yet, no matter how brief an amount of time had accrued under her title. She could hear tiny footfalls echo off the tall ceiling.
As the man finally neared the steps leading up to throne upon which she sat, he knelt quickly before rising, and addressing her. "Highness you should not sit like that upon your throne, it isn't befitting one of such rank," he lightly chastised. She sighed once, her breath filling the empty space of the hall, before adjusting her position from lounging horizontally across the damned thing, legs dangling over the right arm rest, to sitting straight up, feet on the ground, forward and away from the back. She raised one eyebrow in question as if to ask, 'Are you happy now?' but only received the other all-too-familiar reprimand of "And really, Majesty, why do you insist on wearing such commonplace clothes? Surely a flowing gown would be more suited to your role as Queen and Liberator."
Again, she sighed. "If I've told you one, I've told you a thousand times, Mr. Butler, these clothes are perfectly suited to my station. Do you think I fought and conquered in dresses and flowing gowns?" She paused, and as the persnickety man began to answer, she held up a hand for silence, not keen at all upon hearing another lecture, and he cut himself off before he began. A heaviness fell over the two. "What was the verdict, Mr. Butler? Did the council reach unanimity?"
He looked up at her through his spectacles, tugging the collar of his blue tailcoat. "Yes, Majesty," came the short reply.
She waited for him to continue for a moment before rolling her eyes. "Well? What was it? Did you think I asked of such an answer to be completely unanimous only to be denied that same answer by a man who fears to be the bringer of bad news?" She gripped the armrests of her throne impatiently, her eyes flashing a myriad of colors before settling on red. "Tell me now, Peppermint Man, or you'll see exactly how I overthrew the old regime."
He gave a small squeak, cleared his through once, forcing his voice to return to its normal octave from high-pitched fear, and spoke delicately. "Majesty…Highness…we all thought it best if she…if she would be…put down, so to speak."
Her grip on the throne relaxed as she began to get her answer. She eyed the man twiddling before her warily. She knew from her short relationship that he had an affinity for twisting meanings and words, giving half-truths and politicians reasons to things she wished were told blunt and to the point. His choice of words led her to believe the worst, which is what she had been expecting all along. As her emotions twisted inside, her eyes drew fast rainbows, before landing on peaceful blue. "What do you mean, 'put down'?" She asked grimly.
He cleared his throat again. "Surely, Her Majesty has to understand that what with the most recent attack to befall the Greater Kingdom, such a threat has to be eliminated. Exile, while more marketable, has been far from successful in keeping your people free from her continued madness. While we may not understand your affection for her, we do understand that you've had enough killing. But, as the case may be, we can no longer do anything except err on the side of caution. The last show of aggression on the outer reaches of your kingdom caused untold horror, destruction, and cost many of your citizens their lives.
"I cannot begin to count how many times you've had to send out the Captain of the Guard to take care of issues she has caused, and you've not been reigning for even a year! It is time at last, we've all agreed, to put an end to her insanity, and her existence. Sirs Finn and Jake will certainly take up the task and have it done in a timely and humane fashion."
She stared out the nearest window, gazing through the light fabric boasting her coat of arms and out to the sunny day on the other side of the imprisoning glass. Silence befell the room as she contemplated with finality the news she had just heard. Turning to him with all the grace and wisdom she possessed, she said, "No. I will complete this task myself, and have no arguments on the matter. You are dismissed."
Not daring to defy his sovereign, her advisor gave a low bow before scurrying his was out of the room, leaving her alone to mull over her thoughts.
The castle was painfully stereotypical, and she couldn't help but laugh a bit to herself. Tall, angry spires pierced the night sky, and lightning crashed melodramatically, casting shifting shadows in peculiar shapes along the beaten and weeded cobblestone square. A blackened tree, dead from who knows what, twisted and grew in disfigured shapes all too similar to hands reaching out and faces screaming for mercy. Vines and brambles scattered and littered the courtyard, and ruined steps led to a great wooden door hanging off of its old iron hinges.
The door howled as she opened it, entering into a long-abandoned entrance hall that held the ghosts of a once great family. Suits of armor, shattered vases, and torn tapestries and portraits adorned every cob-webbed and dusty hall as she made her way to the place she'd find her reason for being in such a place. As she rounded a corner, she saw the faintest of glows emanating from a door only slightly cracked. She opened it, and found a stone stairwell leading to the basement, as she had expected.
Descending in her own pace, steely resolve the dominant emotion on her face, she grew closer and closer to the lair where she'd find her target. Metallic sounds and sparking noised jumped of the walls around her and up the narrow way she'd come from. Incomprehensible mumblings followed the shattering of glass and the boiling of liquids before she reached an old wooden door and pushed it open, revealing the basement to her well-worn eyes. The woman there immediately looked up from her work, the door clicking against the wall as it opened fully drawing her attention. "Marceline. You've come home."