vistalis

          It hardly matters now the reasons I was sent to the courts of Vistalis, as I have gladly since then retired from the business of politics. However, in light of recent events—the details of which I assume you have heard by one way or another—I shall endeavor to recount that time which has haunted me many an hour since my departure in the late spring of this previous year.
          The castle of Vistalis was a magnificent structure as I recall it, surely constructed to inspire awe in the hearts of visiting dignitaries and ambassadors, though predating and following my stay there it has done little entertaining for outside guests. The blackened gates of curling wrought iron towered above me as the footman guided me up the long drive, where I found myself in the company of fancifully carved bushes—here, a ten-foot griffin, while by that fountain loomed a creature akin to a giant leopard—and overflowing flower beds bursting with color, all immaculately kept. The only living creature that I could see—excusing myself and the footman—was an exceptionally large and exceptionally old bloodhound sprawled across the front steps, his deep red fur shining dully in the morning light. When we passed, he raised his great wrinkled head to watch me intently with sagging bloodshot eyes. I was never made aware of the beast’s name while I remained at the castle, but I am convinced I should have hated him regardless of any title he responded to, for the footman identified him as the queen’s personal bloodhound. He was loyal to her and her alone, and I was most resentful of his valued position in the castle.
          Inside, it was quite easy to be overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. I craned my neck to the vaulted ceiling; the gold ribs lacing across it sloping down to melt into the columns engraved with various geometric designs. Every breath I drew seemed to live on forever, echoing out of every crevice and off every stained glass window, of which there were many; a few pictured late kings and queens of the past, while still others depicted tinted symbols and glyphs I could not comprehend—the intricacies of such glasswork was astounding. I was lead down a series of maze-like hallways, the footman murmuring explanations as we passed faded tapestries and murals, gesturing to each masterpiece in turn. The place could only be described as unapologetically beautiful; lovely in every sense of the word. I will admit I was so distracted by the lavish surroundings that I very nearly forget the purpose of my visit until my chest hit the shoulder of my guide, who had come to an abrupt halt in front of a large and polished oak door carved to bear coiling and twisting vines and flowers—the metal plaque above it held the inscription vivre pour l'amitié et par la loyauté.* My companion rapped sharply against the door, and a few moments later both oaken slabs were pulled inward. The room revealed was small without being cramped. The ceiling and walls were draped in heavy tapestries reminiscent of the sky at dusk; smokey oranges and yellows blended seamlessly with the deep purples and indigos that hung in thick folds about the edges of the room. In the center of the chamber the yellows and golds appeared to glow about the woman settled in the ornate throne.
          I had heard of this sad and beautiful queen previously in my political, and indeed human, career, but failed to understand why she was labeled such until that moment. She was wrapped in black silks; a single dark gem amidst the glowing sunset. Her skin was pale as moonlight pulled from the sky and her ebony hair darker than even the silks of her gown; the length of her neck was slender and graceful beneath a perfectly proportioned face—every feature was surely deserving of a person’s full attention—but the most captivating part of her face was her eyes—the eyes! Those deep liquid jewels hung in her moonlit face beneath the heavy lids. I could not imagine a more perfect creature, and yet there was a melancholic aura to her presence; something profoundly sad about her for someone so young. She thanked me for travelling so far to represent my king and country in her courts—I must confess I’ve no idea what my response was, as her low voice had me just as enraptured as her lovely face—and when she dismissed me to my rooms I barely cast an eye toward the surroundings which I had previously found so splendid; she was the solitary subject of my thoughts from that moment on.
          In the weeks following I blush to confess my feelings toward her bloomed into irrefutable love—despite my not being allowed to see her for any reason without her summons. I could hardly sleep at night without the thought of her midnight hair falling just so about her straight shoulders, could barely eat without thinking of the perfect slope of her scarlet lips and the glimmer of her ivory teeth placed just as they should be in her angelic face. On occasions where my fantasies urged me to leave the confines of my rooms to run to her, I found that dreaded bloodhound blocking my path. He took to lying at my door day and night, watching me with those eyes that I am sure the devil himself could not rival in fiery hatred. For the duration of everyday—with the exception of meals, when I would be brought down to the kitchens to eat— that filthy animal lounged across my threshold, pressed so close to my door that I could hear his steady heartbeat through the wood if I pressed my ear against it; and all the night the beast scratched at my chamber door with alarming persistence. His bloodshot eyes tormented me in slumber as well as in consciousness; the low whine of his throat buzzed in my ears like a fly I could not shake.
          I took to pacing, doubtful imaginings clawing their way into my heart and mind. Why hadn’t my queen sent for me while I paced, waiting, in my chambers? Surely she knew of my love for her and felt the same, but oh! how I longed to see her eyes!—To but behold those lovely liquid spheres of the night, to cure the sadness hidden in their depths! And the only thing standing between her and me was the dog—that beast! How he reveled in keeping me from my lovely queen. Over many long days I became convinced of his plot to keep me there forever, and over many days more I realised that surely he would do no such thing without the queen’s orders, as the footman assured me the dog answered to her alone—she intended to keep me there forever with nothing but my own thoughts and the scratching of the bloodhound for company! Words cannot describe my despair at this revelation, for my angel had betrayed me to the demon I hated most of all.
          By the time I was finally called upon again to go before the queen, rage and betrayal had consumed my heart to the point that I was in quite a murderous rage. I kept my silver dagger hidden in the folds of my cloak during my passage with the footman to her throne room, and still I kept the blade out of sight as the oak doors swung open to reveal the queen, more beautiful and sad than ever. I avoided looking into her eyes, and when she requested her guards leave us alone in the room it felt like a sign of some sort that I should kill this deceitful angel for her crimes. The doors swung shut with finality, and I barely spared a breath before plunging the dagger into her perfect breast, drawing a flow of deep scarlet blood that stained her skin like wine across a tablecloth while falling invisible onto her already dark silks. As she slumped into the throne her eyes found mine, and I saw that they were now aged and bloodshot, accusing me of murder from beyond the grave. I recoiled, leaving the hilt of the knife protruding from the sheath of her chest, the thoughts of how to escape after killing the Queen of Vistalis suddenly tearing through my mind. What was I to do with the body? hide it? simply hope to get away before she was discovered? The eyes of the bloodhound stared up at me from beneath her ivory brow, and I heard a scratching at the door—imagine my anger at the beast coming to find his dead master! She was his in life but mine in death, and yet the scratching continued—as if he had any claim to her now! I pulled the blade from her breast and sunk it into one of those beastly eyes, hoping to cut any part of the bloodhound from her; he surely had corrupted her feelings toward me while she was yet living, and to leave any trace of him in her now would be a sin surely punishable by death and Hell. I ignored the clawing and whining at the door for just long enough to carve the other aged eye—that abomination!—from her corpse. The door finally burst open, and when the guards rushed me I used the bloody knife to slay them as well. As I ran from the chamber and out to the front hall, the only sound chasing me was the clacking of the bloodhound’s claws against stone.
          I emerged into the evening air just as dusk was spinning its fading colors across the sky. The bush menagerie along the lane loomed over me in fearsome silhouettes as I dashed for the gates, two guards pushing them closed for the night. I could hear the beast’s heartbeat in his pursuit, angry and focused; it cut through the air louder than my footfalls. I slipped through the gates just before they clanged shut and coughed out a startled laugh—I had escaped! The scarlet sun kissed the horizon, and I turned to see the beast howling just beyond the gates—and every inch of me was frozen at the atrocious sight—the queen’s dark liquid eyes staring at me from his sagging face.

*live for friendship and by loyalty

This was a pistache written off the writing style and themes of Edgar Allen Poe.