There's good and there's bad news.

Good: my hands are finally untied. The sheer joy! My wrists are scraped and sore, but I can operate both hands freely, which means I can pull out my hair now.

More good news: I don't ever have to see my cheating husband nor my evil sister again ... and still, it hurts.

So it might not come as a surprise that the list of bad news is longer. First up, this sorry excuse for a beach. There's no sand. It's gravel and it's gray. Everything surrounding it, is unwelcoming and violent: the vast ocean, the turbulent sky, and the towering steep cliffs.

Encompassing all else is the worst news of all: Not only are François and Elsbeth lost to me forever, I'm painted black from my hair to the soles of my boots by every person I've ever cared about.

I wanna shrivel up and die.

"A thunderstorm's coming in. We better start climbing." Ah ... and then ... there's my jester. Same fellow who a fortnight ago, impersonated my secretary of state enjoying a good fuck by my husband and thought it was funny. Same fellow who mocked my stuttering during my first public speech ever. Same fellow who made jokes about the dauphin of France groping me during a state visit. That fellow.

He points at the steps that are carved out of one of the cliffs. They lead all the way up and seem to be the only way to get off this beach which, going by the water mark on the rocks, floods entirely at high tide. Arguing the inevitable seems pointless so I hike up my skirts and start moving. I'm not going to trot behind him. As his queen, I should be going first.

The climb is as excruciating as I imagined. My dress and the layers of paint attached to it, are weighing me down. The steps are built for men with longer legs than me, and before we're even halfway, the first raindrop brushes my nose as if to mock me.

As the heaviness of black paint makes itself known with every step I take, 'They all hate me,' is what's running circles in my mind, 'They all hate me. They all hate me.'

"We're not gonna make it. The storm is approaching fast. We'll have to take shelter over there," my jester screams through the roaring wind.

Can't he stop making everything worse? Can't he let me suffer in peace? If he weren't here, I could sink to the cold stones and cry. I could wallow. Allow myself to be a pathetic mess, but no, my jester has to be here, and therefore I have to be a queen.

I have to be strong whether I want to or not. The moment I'll falter, he'll turn it into a joke and people will love him for it. Fuck him.

The wind lashes my face as thick droplets hit my crownless head and stab my eyes. A clap of thunder echoes in the distance. Even God hates me.

I peek over the side of the up-going trail. Waves have started crashing to the beach, the crests white and sharp like teeth, the sound a wild animal's roar. The height makes my head spin. We're higher than the tower room of the palace.

I remember, when I was a child, one of the maids threw herself from the tower's window. Her skull and bones cracked 'but she wouldn't have felt it,' my mother explained, 'the fall alone would've killed her.'

I move closer to the edge and lean over to get a better view of the harsh rock formations and the whirling ocean. To surrender to the inescapable brutality of nature, is a tempting thought. I don't have to suffer like this. I don't have to slave up this cliff, brave the elements while agonizing over being struck by lightning. Even if I survive, what will it be for? I've got nothing left. It's not as if anyone's going to miss me. This thought makes me laugh hysterically.

I lean a bit further. It can all be over soon.

"Over there!" the jester shouts, "majesty, there's a crevice over there!"

The wind and water drown some of his voice but not enough to obliterate him. I can't escape him, can I?

I take one more step.

"Majesty!"

For crying out loud, can't this man take a hint? "Go away!"

He grabs my elbow and tugs me away from the edge. "The crevice will shield us for the worst of it. We can't go on like this. "

"Go away!" I shout again.

"The crevice ..." he offers softly, the same way one would try to lure a mad dog with a cookie.

I take a moment to look at the crevice he keeps mentioning. It's a crack in the rock where a human might fit. A queen and a jester however? No fucking way.

I try to shake him from my elbow but he tightens his grip.

"You're hurting me."

Again, thunder rattles the air and a strike of lightning follows immediately. He looks up to the sky while shaking his head, rain pouring in dramatic rivulets down his white face. "I'm getting you to safety."

"I don't need you to save me. I didn't ask you to come. I don't want you here."

With my free hand, I claw through the paint on my dress and smear some over his chest. I'm so angry and sad. "Go! I don't want you here. I don't. I paint you black." I'm not thinking straight. I forget who I'm supposed to be. I scream, "I paint you black! I paint you black!"

Tears roll over my cheeks as I unleash my rage over him. His eyes shimmer with emotion but he doesn't release me. Instead, he clenches his jaw and pulls me closer. Without another word, he manhandles me to the crevice that's supposed to be our salvation and shoves me in roughly. I fit better than I expected but nevertheless hit my knee, cut my elbow, and tear the seam of my dress.

"I'm your queen. You can't treat me like this."

The hollow space is damp and smells like chalk.

Ignoring my protest, he follows me in as far as he can, blocking my way out and shielding me from the storm outside with his body. We're pressed to each other, my mouth to his adam's apple. Heat radiates from him and a familiar scent I can't pinpoint washes over me.

"You can't do this," I repeat. "I'm your queen. You're my jester."

"Dammit, Marigold. Look around you!"

"I can't." I literally can't. I'm stuck. Stuck here with him. I register why he smells so familiar. His cloak smells like palace laundry. He smells like home.

"There's no court, no council, no kingdom. There's no use for a queen and jester here. It's just you and me. Marigold and Lachie. We're all we've got."

"I don't want this," I sob against his throat.

"You're all I've got, Marigold," he whispers against my forehead, "all I've got. Don't you dare die on me."

His words crack something inside of me and I sob harder than I ever have while Lachie Greer strokes the back of my head and the storm does exactly what he said it would. It rages outside and for now, we are safe.

WC 1235 words
TWC 3107 words