by Simone Leigh
White as Bone
An Old Tale Retold
Part Two Of
‘Tales of Blood and Darkness’
Table of Contents
Title Page
White as Bone (Tales of Blood and Darkness, #2)
The Old Queen
The New Queen
Alba
The Huntsman
Alba
The Queen
Alba
Afterword
Free Download | ‘Red as Blood’ | Book One of ‘Tales of Blood and Darkness.’
Want to Read Where It All Started? | Free Download | “Buying the Virgin. Box Set One”
Who is Richard Haswell? | Free Download | “Bought by the Billionaire. Box Set One”
Free Download | ‘Enslaved’ | Book One of ‘Submissive to Her Master.’
Free Download | ‘Freedom’ | Book One of ‘Call of the Wild.’
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Author: Simone Leigh
Copyright © 2017
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White as Bone
Her skin like snow,
Her hair like night,
Her lips blood red,
Her name, Snow White.
In those times, long ago, when the Earth was yet flat, before the great convulsion of the gods, there was a Queen, an enchantress.
She was great, and powerful, yet her sorceries and wild magics left her barren, and for all her wickedness, she yearned for a child.
She called, imploring that one of the great Dark Lords might come, to give her the child she craved. And she was heard....
______________________
The Old Queen
I call on the Dark Lords, the Four, entreating them, begging for the babe I yearn for. For long years I have served them, the greatest of their kind. May I not now ask somewhat in return?
I plead, beseeching them for a child.
Be careful what you wish for....
And, at length, One answers....
There is a congealing of the darkness, a gathering of the mist. Evolving into the air before me, a pattern woven into the tapestry of the dark, he regards me with dispassionate curiosity.
Am I a curiosity? A mortal who calls on such as he for aid?
He is tall, my Dark Lord, and beautiful. His features pale and flawless; sable haired; and.... his eyes.... his eyes are voids into the abyss. There is no cruelty there; only a pitiless disregard....
He strokes my face, his fingers cool, and as his mouth opens over mine, his lips are cold.
He takes me, his flesh entering mine, and the phallus of the demon is a chill ache; the touch of Winter within as he pierces me.
When he is done, his eyes pass over me and away. “You will bear your child, but you will have no joy of the babe.”
The chill within me blooms. “You have cursed me, Lord?
“The curse is not of my doing. You have damned yourself. A mortal bearing immortal flesh? You will be consumed. The child will rend you as you bear her....”
“The babe is cursed then?”
“The babe is what she is; not of your kind, blameless.”
______________________
And as my term grows, my flesh withers and wastes, shrinking with my pregnancy. Only my belly grows, huge and distended, host to the child within.
I hear the whisperings, the rumours; those who mutter to my husband. But he holds the babe to be his. When he knew I was barren, he long ago took other women; but their sons are bastards, their daughters whores. I carry the child of his Queen.
And as my belly swells, I decline. I have no strength. All that is of me, is taken by that which I carry. I am vampirised by my own child
Those around me fail also. I see them, those who attend me; pallid, hollow eyed. Dogs snap and snarl as I pass. Horses rear, eyes rolling, champing at their bits as their riders fight for control. Children avoid me.
When I eat, my food tastes foul, as though rotting while I chew. Wine sours in my goblet. Milk curdles.
When the pains come, I shriek, as my daughter scourges my womb, seeking escape. My vigour wasted, I cannot push as I should, only writhe in torment, screaming as my body betrays me.
At the last, the chirurgeons whisper to the king. He must choose: his Queen or the child. My husband, weeping as he does so, gives command that the babe should be taken from within me.
And as the babe is birthed, rending my flesh, I see my child, my daughter....
.... She is beautiful: ivory-skinned, cherry lipped and her hair like the wing of a raven.
And lying there, quietly, with none of the usual bewailing and outcry, she watches those around her, her dark eyes following their movements.
The mid-wives, seeing her, mutter of ill luck and evil omens, saying that a new-born should not look so....
What do I care for their red and wrinkled brats? My daughter is beautiful.... the child of her father.
They say that she carries a curse, that she should be exposed. The king bids them be silent, his voice harsh,
And he names her; Alba.
As my life ebbs, I see him, my Dark Lord, his face pale and beautiful, watching me with cool disinterest, as he waits to claim me.
______________________
The New Queen
She roams her prison, aimlessly. And I watch her.
They say her mother lay with a demon, that he planted his seed within her. And that she died raving, talking to spirits, screaming into the air, as those attending her tried to persuade the King to expose the babe, avert the curse.
And when, at last, the King heeded them, the child was placed beyond the walls, given to the wolves and the night....
.... but the wolves, whimpering and skulking, would not take her, and Death did not claim her.
Days later, the child, still living, was reclaimed by the King, instated as his daughter and given a wet-nurse.
The wet-nurse sickened and lost her milk. The maid entrusted with the babe’s daily care declined, with a wasting illness that aged her before her time.
At length, none were willing to go near the child.
And when the King took me as his Queen, young, blooming, ready to bear him sons, the sickness fell on me as well.
And so now, severed from the world, she wanders her palace, looking out at the humanity she is not part of; beautiful, impassive.... outcast.
And she is yet a child....
When she is a woman.... What then?
Fear gnaws endlessly at me. As Alba grows, the land declines also. As she approaches her womanhood, Famine rides, Pestilence takes man, beast and crop alike. And Death stalks us.
Alba
Wandering the grounds, listless, alone as ever, I gaze out from high walls across the surrounding lands. Beyond the city is the forest. Beyond that, the mountains; blue with distance, white capped.
Dwelling in the palace they gave me, imprisoned in my gilded cage, unspeaking, I spend my days looking out, from my high tower, or from tall battlements, at a land, brown and dry, dying.
All about me is life, the hum of the city, but none will enter.
A woman, glancing up from the cobbled street below, seeing me, makes a warding sign, quickly turning away. A dog slinks to
the shadows, whining.
They fear me, what I am.
I can taste their mortality, their fear.
______________________
He is here: my Dark Prince, Thanatos. The Greatest of the Four
They do not see him, but he comes to me, asking always the same question.
“Why do you permit this?”
I do not understand him, shaking my head, speechlessly, as he gazes at me, sombre, impassive.
And always, mounting his pale horse, he leaves.
Sometimes I see them, the others: they come in the night, shunning the daylight.
Some of them bring me gifts, curios and rarities they find as they wander the world, seeking diversion. They are always beautiful, the demons, wearing the flesh of men, or sometimes of beasts. I see a slender woman, ivory skinned and ebon-haired; or a man, tall and graceful; or a slim, black dog. Seeming male or female, human or animal, with the choice of the flesh worn, the garment will be beautiful. But always, their eyes betray their true nature, the dark immortals.
Am I a diversion for them? One of their curiosities?
Or more?
And at other times, I see the Four, on their horses, white, black and red, as they ride the land, my Prince at their head.
______________________
My gut gnawing, I make my way to the outer courtyard.
Each day, food is left for me on a stone table, but none will approach if they see me. Only when they know I am elsewhere, will they enter; leaving the food, quickly departing.
At first, as a child, I tried to run to them, holding out my hands, wanting to touch.... to be held. But always, they would shy away, avert their faces.
There was one, when I was small. I think she pitied me. She held me close, showed me books and games. Then she sickened, and came no more.
And over the years, I have learned: none will come close, none will speak.
The food is a feast for a king. I am after all, the daughter of a king, and due the respect of my rank....
....If they knew which king, perhaps they might murder me yet....
If they could....
I chew at the food, ignoring the meat, the pastries, the sweet honeyed dainties, eating only a little of the bread, a bite of apple. I do not touch the wine, only sipping at the water.
Every few days, I endure this torment, swallowing, then waiting for the reaction as my body tries to reject what it has taken, yet needing it in some small amount. Despite kingly meals and appetising aromas, I long ago understood that my body will tolerate only the most basic of foods. Anything more, will simply leave me in agony for days, as the mortal and the immortal do battle within my flesh.
Retching, I hold the stuff down, but nauseous, now leave the banquet behind me. Flies gather around it, the fruits already browning and shrivelling, the meat rank and stinking. Even the wine smells sour.
______________________
The Queen watches me from her solar, the only vantage point which looks down on me. As she works her loom, she spends her days regarding me with indifferent hatred.
At other times, I feel her, watching through her mirror, her presence an invisible awareness which follows me. It once distressed me, during what passed for my childhood, but now, almost grown, I have learned to ignore it
______________________
I stare at myself in the clouded glass.... My stepmother watches me through it. I feel her there.
‘Demon child’. That is what they call me.
My mother dying as they ripped me from her womb, they say she made a pact; that childless, she wished for a child.... and was heard....
My Prince....
They procured a wet nurse for me, a woman who had already borne a houseful of lusty babes, but who had recently lost her new-born to some blight. Full of milk, she took me to her breast, but within days, her milk dried and she fell sick.
And even as a babe, I vomited up most of what I drank.
They say that the land dies, because of me...
It is no will of mine, but the Four ride. And the land which they say should be green and fair, turns to dust. Cattle die, and crops rot before they ripen. Beasts are barren, or if they carry to term, they cannot give suck. And the young are sickly and do not prosper.
Why would I wish this? But still, it is laid at my feet.
Demon spawn....
Mirrors do not lie. Famously, they do not lie, but they may distort. My stepmother consults hers every day.... for its wisdom.
My image awry in the imperfect glass, I run fingers along my face; lips, my cheekbones, the line of my brow....
My ebon hair, and lips, red as sour cherries, my eyes, dark as deep water, stare out at me, from skin as white as bone.
I am beautiful. I know this. Beautiful....
But my beauty is like death.
______________________
The Huntsman
“She is no longer a child.”
“No, Lady.” I bow to my Queen.
“She must not become a woman. Her power waxes, and the land fails.”
“Lady, what is it you wish of me?”
“Take her into the forest, far from the city. When you return, bring me her heart.”
“Lady, I cannot....”
“She is cursed. She brings her curse on the city.”
“Majesty, always I wish to obey you, but she is a maiden, a virgin. They say it is ill-luck to kill a virgin....”
“Bring me her heart....”
______________________
Alba
A man comes, the hooves of his horse clattering across the cobbles. Dismounting, he tethers the horse, calming it as the beast trembles and stamps.
I have never seen this man before.
Approaching, he calls up me from the courtyard. “Alba!”
The unfamiliar stirs within me.... Astonishment?
A stranger is here, talking to me, calling for me. Suddenly uncertain of myself, I remain still, gazing down at him from my tower, as yet unseen.
And now, he is here, my Dark Lord. He watches me, across my chamber, arms folded, eyes sardonic.
“He is mortal. Why do you fear him? What do you believe he can do?”
I glance down at the man. Still, he calls my name. And looking back, my Lord is gone.
Descending the flights, I stand, framed in the door of my tower. The man stares at me, eyes widening, then “Come Alba. Come with me.”
Still hesitant, I freeze....
He is mortal. Why do you fear him?
He holds out his hand, crooking his fingers up, bidding me come. He smiles at me.
Stepping out, I go to the man. He mounts the horse, inviting me up with a hand, pulling me up behind him. His steed bucks and rears until, jabbing in his spurs, he forces its submission.
We ride, out, away from my tower and into the city, through crowded, stinking streets. The crowds melt away before us, men and women alike knowing we are there, feeling our (my) presence before they see us. Their faces betray fear, horror, as they back themselves against walls and doorways to let us pass.
Beyond the city, we journey through withered pastures and wasted crops, leafless orchards and noisome wells. A young boy tries for a fish in the river, with a worm on a pin, but the water holds naught but fever and ghosts.
And still we ride, beyond demesnes tamed by men, far into the forest deeping.
And here, the land is ancient, untouched. Trees, vast, gnarled and ancient, weeping fungus and lichen, loom above us, their canopy, a green unlight that lets no sunlight kiss the ground. The forest floor is a verdant carpet of moss, deep and damp, fragrant of earth and small, scuttling things.
This is a land of the creatures of the night.
I belong here....
The man pulls tight on the reins of the horse, which stands, quivering and snorting, ears flat against its head. Dismounting, courteously, he offers me his hand, helping me down, showing no fear of me.
Standing before me, he is ta
ll, well built; a handsome man, but his expression is grave. He gazes down at me, a knife in his hand. The blade is long, the edge bitter.
A vague disquiet curls through me.
Should I be afraid?
He is mortal. Why should you fear him?
What do you think he can do?
The man’s voice is gentle. “The Queen wants you dead.” He pauses, then, “They say you are cursed.” He waits again, gauging my reaction I think. I do not reply.
He continues. “I don’t believe such nonsense. If their crops are failing, it’s because they don’t tend them properly. Too lazy to work hard.... Out here in the forest, we know that the world is a wild place... I think the Queen is simply jealous. You, the child of the Old Queen. And so beautiful....”
Still, I say nothing; simply stare at him passively. He tilts his head, brow furrowed. “Perhaps you are simple then? Too simple to be afraid of me?”
And still, I do not speak.
“But you are beautiful....” He strokes my ebony hair, tucking a lock behind one ear. The Queen ordered me to kill you, but I don’t want to do that. I’m not a monster, to murder a virgin.... You are a virgin are you not?”
He waits, and when, still, I do not respond, he sighs. “No, I’ll not kill you. She told me to bring her your heart as proof, but how could I do that? I’ll stalk a hind. and give her the heart from that. And you must leave. Go where the Queen cannot find you.” The knife in his hand falls to the ground.
His fingers trace the contours of my face. “Look at me.” he commands, lifting my chin to look him in the face.
His eyes are a silver-grey; metallic in the half-light of the forest. As he looks into my gaze, his pupils shrink to pinheads, then expand again until his eyes appear all but black. His face softens, his breathing deepening as the trance takes him.
His eyes fall to my breasts, tightly laced in my bodice. His skin has a fine sheen of sweat, and his breath, a sour edge.
Tugging at the laces of my girdle, he loosens it, freeing my flesh. He cups my breasts with a hand. “So white...” he murmurs, then stooping, takes the pale-rose tips between his lips.
“Lie down, Girl.” he orders, his voice rough now. Compliantly, I lie on the moss-covered floor, staring past him, up at the sky.
