Chapter Text
Some people called him the Mad Queen of Hearts. Others called him Arthur Kirkland. Fewer called him ‘bastard’, but those people were dead now. Don’t pity them.
Aggressive, pompous, plain; this is what some people think when they see him in parades down the center of the capital. They whisper to themselves: ‘Our Queen is unfeeling and cruel. Drop to your knees and pray, for we owe the Devil our lives.’ They say: he bathes in the blood of orphans, that he plants his gardens over the rotting bodies of his people, that at night he screams as demons claw into his mind. Were any of these accusations true? He could tell you, but he won’t.
He sits upon his silver throne, admiring his red roses (bred in his gardens to absolute perfection, impossibly symmetrical, red as deep and pure as the blood that touches his heart), plucking the petals of a single flower, one at a time. “To kill the traitor, or not,” he sings, letting each red petal fall to the floor before pinching the next. “I wonder what it’ll be?”
Three petals left. Everyone knows the answer.
Ludwig, a card-knight, stands at his side, face impassive as he watches their prisoner tremble in the grass of their garden courtyard.
Arthur crushes the remainder of the rose in his hand, his palm smearing red. “Off with his head!” he shouts, throwing the crumpled bulb to the ground.
“Off with his head!” Ludwig repeats, moving forward, in sync with several other knights. Off with his head! Off with her head! Off with its head! What a familiar mantra - perhaps his life’s motto. Could there possibly be a better show of power?
The prisoner, a small, quivering man with white rabbit ears, only chants, “I was too late. I was too late. I was too late.” It is so hard to find good help.
Arthur feels no sympathy for the creature, for it had whispered secrets to the enemy with its salacious lips. Bored, he turns back to his scepter, gently stroking the large, heart-cut ruby at its end. Another day in Wonderland, and yet it’s another day of little significance; the same sun, the same impassive faces, the same painted roses, color dripping onto his boots. It’s all too easy, how simply he can control an entire kingdom – a world through fear. What more could he want? He is sure the stars will rise, his country will ignite, and clouds will part at his behest.
“What is left for a man who has everything?” he muses to himself, crossing his legs and tossing them over the arm of his throne. He expects no answer, although he can just see the elbow of his new, trembling advisor. If they keep it up, they’ll join their predecessor at the chopping block. The quivers annoy him. “Ah, I know. A warm dinner and a foot rub. Perhaps I’ll have lavender in my bath tonight. Hm.”
“Sir,” Ludwig says, returning to the Queen’s side, all traces of the prisoner removed. “There has been news from the battlefront against Clover.”
Arthur twirls around his scepter then points the gem at Ludwig’s chest, pressing it against the man’s heart. “It’s good news, is it not?” he asks, one thick brow quirking up.
Ludwig remains silent.
Hm. Not good news then. He is a little surprised. Decks and decks of card-knights should be more than glad to throw themselves upon the floor for Arthur to step upon, but most of all, they should rejoice that they might throw their lives away for him. “How close are they?”
“In the Maze Forests, Your Highness.”
Arthur frowns.
Ludwig flinches at the sight.
“That’s unfortunate.” He tilts his head to the left; to the right; left again. That is quite close. There must be a reason they have not already tried to invade his capital city. “I assume you are telling me this because they have demands that only I can answer, yes? There would be no other reason for you to bother me with something so insignificant, right?”
“That is correct.”
“Well! Out with it! Tell me what they said!”
Ludwig makes to speak but stops. He closes his eyes, then opens them to stare Arthur in the eye.
How uncomfortable, thinks Arthur. The audacity.
“They ask for your surrender, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, pish-posh,” Arthur shrieks, absolutely chuffed with the idea of it. “Please tell me that they were earnest in their desire,” he goes on to say, wiping a false tear from his eye. Fools.
Ludwig shifts. Looks uncertain. “They were,” he says after a moment. “I . . . can recite the exact message.”
“Hm. Go on, then.” He twirls his hand with impatience. There is very little that can make him change his mind. And by very little, he means nothing at all.
Clearing his throat, Ludwig pulls out a rolled parchment. It is perhaps three inches long when open. Ludwig squints at the miniscule writing before reading aloud: “To the Abominable, Self-Proclaimed, and Ugly Queen of Hearts: Surrender now or feel the wrath of your people against your milky-white, no-good-for-tea, neck. I will wish you a happy unbirthday, because it will be your last. With lots of sugar and cream, The March Hare.”
They pause, silence engulfing the entire courtyard. Not even a gull dares to squawk in the distance.
“Well? Is that all?” Arthur forces himself to say, fighting down a chill of rage.
Ludwig rolls up the parchment and holds it out towards Arthur, silent.
“Ugh,” he grunts, slapping the paper from Ludwig’s hand. “Those fools. They think they can insult me like this and face no consequence?” He crosses his arms, staring at the blooming rose bushes that surround him, trimmed into the shapes of prancing deer and roaring lions. This is all he needs – something of his creation that can be molded into whatever form he sees fit; roses, ponds, people, kingdoms. Everything else is a distraction, an aggravation, to be disposed of. “What do you know of this March Hare?” he asks, rounding on Ludwig.
Ludwig seems to think, his clear blue eyes drifting off to the side while his ever-present frown becomes deeper. “Hm. Only that he is a citizen of Hearts and is the co-founder of the United Wonderland Rebellion with Hatter Francis.”
“I want their heads brought to me by the end of tomorrow,” Arthur says, smashing the end of his scepter into the grass by his feet, the ruby clutched in his hand so tightly he thinks he might shatter the gem with the force of his anger.
“I will send out the order, but . . .” Ludwig flinches again, Arthur’s cutting gaze swiveling towards him. “I cannot guarantee success. We have been hunting them for weeks already. They are . . . tricky.”
Arthur screams, a jagged sound that scrapes his tonsils and squeezes his trachea with its ferocity. “I don’t want excuses, you bloody idiot!” He hefts up his scepter, grabs it by its middle and swings, striking Ludwig in the stomach. He pulls back and prepares to swing again, this time aiming for the bent card’s face. “Tell me that you’ll find him!” he roars, shoulders and arms shuttering with glee, adrenaline, fury - he's not sure which. Maybe all three.
“Y-yes, Your Highness,” Ludwig gasps, trying to right himself without wincing. “I’ll give the order right now.”
“As you should.” Arthur watches his card-knight march away, gait stiff. Stilling his hand, blood coursing through his ears like a white-capped river, he attempts to take a deep breath before he simply tilts his head back and screams until he feels better. It takes perhaps a minute, but when he is finished, he strolls back into his palace, ignoring the way the card-knights tremble at their posts as he passes.
The day has been long - already midday, by the time he retires to his quarters. How dreary work is; a full four hours of sitting and listening and shouting. The people should be grateful that he exhausts himself so for their benefit.
He pulls off his gloves, sets them atop his vanity, then takes a seat to appraise his reflection. The Ugly Queen of Hearts, he thinks, trying not to recall the entirety of the insipid letter from earlier, but it gnaws at him. Of course he isn't ugly. In fact, in the right light and with a little rouge, he is quite handsome. At a distance.
“Pwah,” he sighs out, flipping the mirror on the axel so nothing but a sheet of polished wood shows. “Ridiculous.” He does not need to be beautiful to be a great, iron-fisted ruler of fantastic sense and wit. Hearts is twice the size, thrice as rich, as it was when he first took the throne. They should be licking his heels with gratitude.
With that final, positive thought, he climbs into his day-bed for his afternoon nap. He needs the energy to deal with dinner, where the nobles will all clamor for his attention whenever he tries to eat a bite of fish. Soon he will lose all patience and put a fork in one of their eyes. Soon.
That night he lies upon his bed and all nobles have returned home with both eyes intact. He tries to shut his eyes for sleep but feels something is out of place. Unable to discern what the uneasy feeling in his stomach is, he sits up and looks around his darkened room. Many years of political threats, assassins, and paranoia have taught him that his gut, his instinct, is almost always correct.
There is his armoire, packed with ruffles, webbed lace, and the softest of velvets. His writing desk sits in the corner, a candle burnt down to the stand, a pot of ink tipped and never cleaned. The curtains glow in the moonlight, the finest of silk from only the fattest of silkworms.
Nothing seems out of place, so he lays back down and forces his eyes closed. Then he peeks out again, but sees nothing.
“Ludwig,” he calls, sitting up.
The door to his inner bedroom opens and Ludwig steps in, face haggard. A tired knight may not be the best guard, but it is an easily manipulated one. “Yes, sire?”
“Check my rooms for intruders.”
“As you wish.”
He lays back down, feeling vindicated. A breath, then two, pass, his shoulders beginning to relax. Then he feels something cold press against his adam's apple. He looks up to see Ludwig standing over him, face marred with a scowl.
“What are you -!” he manages to gasp out before a gloved hand covers his mouth.
“I checked the rooms and I’m the only one here. So . . . there is an intruder in your quarters, Your Majesty.” Ludwig’s face goes blank, preparing himself, or recalling a speech, or whatever he was planning, Arthur doesn’t care - his feet tangling in his sheets as he desperately searches for the knife he keeps in his bed. Where the Hell is it?
“I would say that I’m sorry,” Ludwig whispers now, leaning closer and pressing what Arthur realizes is a short sword, harder against his neck. “But I’m not. You should’ve surrendered when you had a chance, Fool Queen. Enjoy the afterlife. Or don’t. I don’t care. Not anymore.”
Before Arthur can protest or try to push Ludwig away or grab at the sword, he hears a crunch – a pause, a sliver of moonlight hitting the line of metal as it’s raised high, then another crunch, and another. So, this is what it is like to have one’s head chopped off, then. How ironic.
The pain, though excruciating, is momentary. It’s impossible, in hindsight, for Arthur to describe what being a soul felt like, but in later years, he will say it was like floating in a tub of warm water, but the tub is the size of the ocean and there is nothing but the sound of the Goddess.
This was his conversation with the Goddess that night:
“You were a terrible man.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you repent?”
“Yes, I suppose I do. A little bit.”
“Would you change - would you be a better man, if given a chance?”
"I think. . . I think I might, yes. At least a little bit."
"Then let us begin: your second death will be imminent if you do not repent."
Arthur wakes with a gasp. Immediately his hands fly to his neck, feeling for blood, meat, the stump of his spine, anything to confirm that his head is gone, that his is neck but a bloody stub upon his shoulders. Only. . . his fingers trace the line of his very much intact throat, from chin to clavicle.
"I'm alive?"