Antoinette
Un.
Thousands of peasants had assembled outside of the palace walls, uprising in the name of revolution under the monarchy. Hundreds of sullen faces voiced anger in protest of the very flag they stood under, the rule they had instituted so long ago. The night was alive with the sounds of mutiny and the glow of crudely lit torches. Inside, however, painted an entirely different scene.
Some time ago, the Queen’s servants and mistresses had been sent away under royal orders to seek shelter among the bordering regions, the infant prince and young princess had, as well, pursued refuge on the outskirts of the country. The palace walls, no matter how thick, allowed the sound of the riot to filter into every room. The candles that normally lit the interior, showing the decadence of the gold accents and the luxuriously heavy tapestries, had been extinguished, leaving only a cold, shadowy light to filter through the windows. Even the marvelous floral wall-coverings and tiled, marble floors seemed cold and vacant, as if the very breath had been sucked out of the castle, leaving only a lifeless, empty shell.
The King and Queen stood in the grand hall, hand in hand, saying what was destined to be their final farewells. The young couple, married at the tender ages of seventeen in order to assume the throne, had known from the beginning that they were not yet fit to rule. The truth in this could not be any clearer, as the first official gunshot rang through the mob. Surely enough, the guardsman that had fired this fateful bullet, had called in the general to save the teenage Queen.
As the armed gentleman approached the young royals, the teary-eyed Queen wrapped her arms around her brave husband, who would be staying behind to wait out the rebellion in hopes of a peaceful new beginning. Not even a second had passed before the guardsman tugged upon the Queen’s elbow, breaking the miserable embrace, beckoning the Queen to hurry with her affairs.
With clouded, hazy vision, the Queen bid the King her final adieu and made her way to the carriage that awaited her.
Some time ago, the Queen’s servants and mistresses had been sent away under royal orders to seek shelter among the bordering regions, the infant prince and young princess had, as well, pursued refuge on the outskirts of the country. The palace walls, no matter how thick, allowed the sound of the riot to filter into every room. The candles that normally lit the interior, showing the decadence of the gold accents and the luxuriously heavy tapestries, had been extinguished, leaving only a cold, shadowy light to filter through the windows. Even the marvelous floral wall-coverings and tiled, marble floors seemed cold and vacant, as if the very breath had been sucked out of the castle, leaving only a lifeless, empty shell.
The King and Queen stood in the grand hall, hand in hand, saying what was destined to be their final farewells. The young couple, married at the tender ages of seventeen in order to assume the throne, had known from the beginning that they were not yet fit to rule. The truth in this could not be any clearer, as the first official gunshot rang through the mob. Surely enough, the guardsman that had fired this fateful bullet, had called in the general to save the teenage Queen.
As the armed gentleman approached the young royals, the teary-eyed Queen wrapped her arms around her brave husband, who would be staying behind to wait out the rebellion in hopes of a peaceful new beginning. Not even a second had passed before the guardsman tugged upon the Queen’s elbow, breaking the miserable embrace, beckoning the Queen to hurry with her affairs.
With clouded, hazy vision, the Queen bid the King her final adieu and made her way to the carriage that awaited her.