Once upon a time, in a beautiful land of peace and opulence, there was a young man. A prince, and the heir to the throne. He was handsome and brave, and a little too sure of himself, but he was quite beloved by the common folk. When he was young, he had a friend who was the daughter of his mother’s handmaid. She was a pretty thing, with bright green eyes and long dark hair, and a funny sounding laugh that made everyone else laugh, too. They grew up together, and from the time they were small, they vowed to marry someday.
The prince’s father tried to bring in all sorts of beautiful princesses from other lands. They were exotic girls from powerful kingdoms, yet the prince only had eyes for one. After much argument and strife, he married his childhood love, and they became king and queen of the land.
They were the perfect match. When his temper became too hot, she could always calm him down. When she became distressed and flustered, he knew exactly what to say to ease her mind. They were righteous rulers, but also kind and understanding.
After two years of marriage, the queen grew pregnant and gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She had her mother’s eyes and her father’s nose, and bawled so loud the entire castle rang with her cries.
In the next several years the couple bore two more children, a girl and then a boy to be the heir. They also increased the wealth of the kingdom and made peace with a neighboring realm when they were on the brink of war.
It seemed like the perfect era, but good things come to an end. The queen fell ill. It happened one summer morning at breakfast. She was eating on the terrace with her king, and was overcome by a coughing fit. She picked up a napkin to cover her mouth, and it came away stained with blood.
Concerned, the king confined her to bed, even though his queen insisted she felt well enough to work. However, within the next few days she was barely able to sit on her own. Her cheeks lost their rosiness, the sparkle in her eyes began to dull, and her whole body would shake. The king left her side only when he was forced by his duties.
The weakness was followed by delirium. The queen had a fever so hot her nursemaid had to constantly dab at her face and neck with a cool cloth. She would call for her children, then sob when the king would not let them see her. He didn’t want them to catch the same disease, whatever it was. She did not seem to recognize anyone who did visit, even her husband. She talked as if she were asking advice from the king’s late mother about planting gardens and mending bed sheets.
The king sent for the best physician in the kingdom. He examined the queen very thoroughly, taking samples of blood and saliva, peering into her eyes and listening to her heart. The results were disappointing: he did not know what was wrong with her.
In a rage, the king banished him, and sent for another, and another. They all told him that the illness was not something that had ever been seen before, and they had no idea how to treat it. By now the queen was in a comatose state. She appeared to be sleeping, but her skin was gray, her fingers bone thin, and she struggled to breathe. Under her eyelids, her eyes moved, and the king would sit bedside and watch her face, wondering if she was facing demons in the unconscious world, and wishing he could help her fight them.
The king was becoming desperate. Nothing anyone did was making even a bit of progress, and the kingdom was suffering. He needed to try something different, perhaps something unusual. It didn’t matter what; he would do anything to save her life.
The common folk would always talk of three witches who lived in the woods. They would grant wishes if one asked politely enough. The king had never bothered to listen to the rumors of the common folk, he was too cultured for that. But now, he didn’t think he had another choice. His queen needed a miracle.
The witches dwelled deep in the forest, where the trees were black and sunlight rarely touched the ground. They were old, haggard women, and pale as ghosts. When the king told them of his troubles, they screeched with mirth. The king demanded that they help him, promising that he would give them anything in return.
“How about your own happiness?” One witch crooned. “Or your ability to sleep at night?”
“Anything,” the king said again.
The witches gave him two stone pendants carved with strange runes. They told him to wear one, and put the other around the queen’s neck.
“The lives of others will save your wife from death,” the witches told the king. “For every man you kill, the stronger the queen will become, until she is able to withstand anything.”
The king thanked them and went back to the castle. He did not relish the thought of taking lives, but he had to try. He went to the barracks, where he found two soldiers sound asleep after a night of drinking. The king drew his dagger and slit their throats.
The next morning, the king went to visit the queen, and asked her nursemaid if there had been any change. The nursemaid said that the queen’s breathing was easier. The king stroked his wife’s cheek. She looked more peaceful. It had worked.
In that moment of arrogance, the king told the nursemaid what he had done. Her eyes widened when the king mentioned the dead soldiers.
“You are a fool!” The nursemaid cried. “Nothing good comes of witches and magic! That will not save the queen, it will only destroy everything!”
How dare she. The king grabbed the nursemaid by the hair, screaming about treason and insults. Then he drew his dagger, still stained with soldiers’ blood, and sliced her throat open.
The next morning, there was color in the queen’s cheeks.
The king was overjoyed. The witches would not destroy his wife, they were saving her with their pendants and their magic. But it wasn’t enough yet; three lives had done so little. He needed more.
His sword was laid in a case above the mantelpiece, untouched during the years of peace. The king took it from the case, weighing it in his hands. It was a beautiful blade, ornate yet effective. The blade was long, and still razor sharp. The king moved about the room, practicing his swings. Years ago, he had been the best swordsman in the kingdom. Now it was time to see if that still held truth. What did a few more lives matter, so long as he could look into the eyes of his true love again.
The king left the room, sword held before him. The first man he saw was a servant, who fell swiftly to his blade, not making a sound. The second man screamed, which brought soldiers running. They dropped their weapons when the king commanded it, and died quickly. How easy this was; no one dared raise a hand against the king.
He no longer noticed who he eliminated. Everyone became a tool to use for the queen’s recovery. His hands were stained red, and blood splattered his face, running into his eyes. But all it did was remind him of the strength and health the queen would soon have.
“Father, stop!” someone cried once, but the king barely heard it. He plowed on, swinging his sword through any living, breathing thing that stood before him.
When the screams finally stopped, the sun was low in the sky and the king could barely stand. He dropped his sword and staggered back to his chambers. On the bed, the queen slept. She breathed deeply and slowly, her bones no longer showed through her skin, and she seemed to shine. The king touched her smooth cheek, leaving a streak of blood. When he touched her hand, she clutched at his.
Relief flooded through the king, leaving him breathless. He lay beside the queen, watching her sleep. Her cheeks were no longer sunken, her lips were flushed with blood, and she smiled faintly. How could the witches have taken his happiness away? He was filled with it. That night he slept well for the first time in months.
The next morning, the king woke to a strange and terrible sight. His queen was not the same as when he fell asleep. She had turned to diamond. Her body, her hair, her face was shining silver rock, cold to the touch and unbreakable. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, but she was not living. She was nothing more than a statue of the precious stone.
The king began to weep, and tried to leave the bed, but something caught. It was his hand, trapped within the queen’s diamond one. During the night she had transformed, and now the king was locked in her grip, for she could not bend. She couldn’t even break.
With all his might, the king pulled and pulled, until the bones in his hand splintered and broke, and he was able to slip free. With a scream of agony, he cursed the three witches.
They appeared before the king, materializing out of the air.
“Well what did you expect?” one of them asked.
“Her body can now withstand anything,” the second one said.
“You’ve gotten what you want,” the third taunted.
“This isn’t what I wanted,” the king sobbed, slumping against the wall. “I take it back! Change it back!”
But the witches merely cackled and faded away. Distraught, the king roared and slammed his fist into stone. That hand broke as well, his bones weaker than the wall, and he fell to his knees. That old nursemaid had been right, damn her. He had destroyed everything, and everyone.
The king dragged himself to his feet, and forced himself to walk away. He let his hands swing by his side. It was anguish, but he deserved it. He wandered through the halls, looking down at the mangled bodies upon the marble, their blood thrown on the walls and weaving through cracks in the floor.
He saw his son, lying amongst soldiers and servants, chest laid open and eyes wide, terror frozen in them. He forced himself to move on.
He went to the throne room and climbed the steps, stepping over bodies. Two thrones rested there, one great and majestic, the other softer and more beautiful. The king brushed his fingertips over the plush seat of the smaller one. He sunk into his throne and stared at nothing, contemplating his folly amongst the broken bodies of the ones he loved.
