The queen traced the grooves along the crystal bottle that was tucked in the pocket of her gown. She savored how the lines in the glass bit into her fingertips, hinting at the rebellious liquid inside. It would be easy to put the potion in the king's goblet tonight; he hadn't used a royal taster in years, not since the coronation. She was desperate, and this potion was her last resort.
An ancient enchantment lay on the royal bloodline of Stormhold. Only a son could inherit the throne, and so only sons were born, ensuring a robust pool of contenders. The more sons the better, which called for a fertile queen.
Although this current queen had lasted longer than most of her predecessors, she did not expect to hold the position much longer, nor did she care to if things continued along their present course. Her marriage made her miserable. Everyone knew that being a queen of Stormhold was a precarious position, but she had hoped the king would grow to love her, especially after bearing him so many sons. When he continued to ignore her outside of the bedroom, she realized that expecting the king to love his queen was like expecting a fisherman to love the worm he hooked to the end of his line. So she had refused to share her bed with him and her time was nearly up.
Was it so terrible to want some real love in her life?
Her misery had only gotten worse as her sons grew older. This year the twins had nearly drowned, her eldest son had been bedridden with a mysterious fever, and her youngest son, a toddler, had nearly choked to death on a dangerously large piece of candy. She lived in constant dread of walking in on her sons trying to murder each other, literally. This, of course, was to be expected, and the boys would have to learn to be more subtle if they wanted to succeed and inherit the throne. Yet this natural inclination to poison, stab, or throttle their brothers made it impossible for the queen to grow attached to any of her children. It broke her heart to think of bringing another doomed princeling into the world. Yet, if the there was no fish tugging at the line soon, the fisherman would discard his old bait for something fresher.
This love potion was the solution.
The witch's words had been quite clear. Once the king drank the love potion, the queen should invite him to her bed and then she would know real love, unconditional and everlasting. The bargain she had struck with the witch had cost her dearly, but it was worth it. It would have to be. She could not continue this loveless life.
Nine months later, as the queen lay in bed sheets soaked in her own blood, the midwife brought the loud newborn to her side. The queen didn't know which was more frightful, the baby covered in mucus and blood or its desperate, soul-piercing wails. The servants murmured that there was too much blood. The queen did not care anymore.
She had never felt more wretched or alone. The love potion had not worked. After he had drunk it, the king had treated her no differently than before and the results had been equally predictable.
The queen closed her eyes, trying to block out the newborn's cries, wanting the exhaustion to take her. She didn't want to meet this newest prince, who would be such an easy target for his older brothers. What would be the point?
The midwife said, "Oh! My word! It's a girl!"
It took a moment for the word, girl, and its implications, to sink into the queen's faltering thoughts. She opened her eyes and saw the naked, messy child.
Relief and joy filled the queen. Free from the threat of bloodthirsty machinations, this child could grown up safe and sound. A fierce love such as she had never known flooded the queen. She desperately wanted to hold the baby girl close and never let her go. She wanted to live and see this child grown up strong and beautiful.
The queen found the strength to take the baby in her arms and whisper, "Una, my love."