Consume (2011)

Something unearthly stirred the village when she entered the town with her cavalry following closely behind. Women weren’t meant to be in charge or have the amount of power that she had in her grasp. Many were convinced because of her femininity, she would not be able to handle the pressure of being a captain—or taking the place of the current captain. It was rare enough that a woman was accepted into the guard. She was a lucky one indeed—but that would not suffice for her. The more you gave her, the more she desired. It was a never-ending hunger for an object unknown.

Zenastasia.

A name that—if mentioned—could smite upon a person in a number of ways.

Her very presence may have had others suddenly speak in hushed, secretive tones, but her beauty surely turned heads. She entered with a grace that defied the laws of gravity, as if the very sight of her was a mix of both devil and angel. Her demanding eyes caught the gazes of others’ and they froze—completely enchanted by this descendent of Medusa. Once her gaze caught theirs, a soft—a possible hidden poison—fell upon the skin cells of the open-pored townspeople. A soft rain allowed itself asylum on earth.

She wore the finest of all cloths, a uniform showing of distinct royalty that touched and caressed her every skin cell, a chain hung from her neck—a single ring dangling upon it (said to have been from the first person she'd ever murdered with her bare hands—her mother) and a cape clipped upon the straps on her shoulders, dipping down behind her back and flowing in the wind that made its way against her face. Her heeled boots came up to her knees, nearly blending into the pure blackness of her uniform.

With her, she wielded her sword. At all times, she had it beside her; whether it be in the castle or on a simple walk in the luxurious gardens of the King and Queen. Her hands, like instinct, would fly to her sword at every noise and movement. She was a born soldier.

Zenastasia reached for her sword, nearing the children that had been frolicking with delight a moment previous. A haunting smirk touched her blood-stained lips to allow her tongue a taste of the angel-given rain. They stared at her in awe . . . and for a moment, the world froze. Angels cried. And demons sent their very best wrath to smite upon the heavens.

Zenastasia raised her sword and prepared her battle cry.

***

The room was secluded, closely packed with awaiting guards, their cautious glances turned cold as she entered, a daring smirk crossing her face. They all knew the sound of Zenastasia—and they were sure to stay out of her way. Her ability had been all too well expressed many times before.

Had it been anyone else entering the largest room in the castle—the throne room, of course—they would have killed first, asked questions later. Stationed in every corner of the room were the King and Queen's most personal guards, sworn in complete loyalty to them and only them.

The room, along with the rest of the castle, had velvet stained walls, golden frames with the finest portraits of them all. The long carpet that had rolled out in front of the thrones was black; to some, it was a walk to their death. There were no windows stationed in this room. Instead, illuminating the room were torches, hung along the walls beside the portraits and candles that were set specifically beside the carpet to keep the illusion of newcomer's fears alive.

At the front of the room, were two thrones—two rulers—their faces hidden at all times, concealed within the darkness. Their eyes were only seen, blue, oceanic, distant at times. They had no children, for their children were their guards, even their slaves. And their responsibility was their kingdom. Their strategy was to spread their reign throughout the land, to conquer the world with their love. So they said. It was believable to ones who still believed in it.

Yet, it was hypocritical when their kingdom had a captain who showed no such thing. It was no question as to whether Zenastasia had ever felt love, for she was a cold one and if she did actually believe in it, it was surely a mystery of all mysteries.

She kneeled in front of the King and Queen, their names just as much as a mystery as their faces narrowed down to just "His Majesty" and "Her Majesty" or "M'lord" and "M'lady." Zenastasia kissed both of her hands before setting them in front of her to receive the blessing from both of her Majesties.

"Zenastasia." Her Majesty’s voice was a ringing one. One that questioned whether or not she was suited for this job of being Queen. Her voice was too sweet to hold the strictness. It seemed to Zenastasia that it had always been filled with laughter—what had happened for it to become so cold?

"Have you any news?" His Majesty's voice was the stereotypical deep voice that commanded his every attention at all times. It could shake the world into fear if he ever did take a step out of the castle walls.

"No, m'lord." Her voice was melodic, even the tone of failure in her voice was beautiful. "But we wiped out the Southern tribe of rebels."

"Impressive," His Majesty mused, a smile tinting his voice. "That's one less tribe to worry about.”

"Also the most powerful," Her Majesty joined in the praises, letting out a low yawn.

“M’lord, m’lady,” a voice called as a scuffle broke out before the sound of chains clattering to the floor was heard behind her. “We have a sympathizer amongst us.”

Zenastasia stood up swiftly and removed herself from her current position, dispersing into the line of soldiers that stood before their Majesties.

She knew the voice of this specific guard member. He showed no mercy when slaughtering. And no mercy to any troublemakers. Flynn. Captain of the Royal Guard. He had earned the rightful name of Captain, but Zenastasia only laughed at that. She was more than qualified for that title.

When you looked at him, he was the essence of all beauty. Had he not been so brutal—or a complete womanizer, he would have suited Zenastasia.

Her Majesty had come up with a comprimise that pleased Zenastasia, had Flynn been more accepting of a new era of feminism. He rejected Her Majesty’s proposition politely, when Zenastasia knew inside, he was probably hating Her Majesty with a passion that could only be severed by death.

At one point, Flynn had developed quite a fondness for Zenastasia. He wanted the one thing that he could not have. Her mind was not set on love, or a certain one night affair. She was interested in his title, and he may or may not have seen that when trying to seduce her into his room—so many times—until one day, he just gave up. The fire may have still been there, the desire to have Zenastasia in his grasp, but it had surely dimmed.

“Bring him to me,” Her Majesty’s voice was low and cautious.

Zenastasia refused to look up—it was as if she knew who it was going to be, and she denied in every possible way that it was him. She saw Flynn reach for the iron collar locked around the neck of the guard, grabbing him and pulling him forward has his legs and feet dragged along the floor.

The guard in Flynn’s clutches was in black—all black. Well, as of now, it was specked with dirt and dust, but besides that, it was a decent wear of clothing. And only one person said decent many more times than for their own good.

But it had surely caught Zenastasia by surprise. Nobody seemed to have their own sense of fashion anymore. Unless their clothes were picked out for them.

Guard members around her stiffened and looked up, straight ahead. She mimicked their way and watched the scene unfold, clutching her hands into tight fists.

The guard’s head was bowed down as Flynn looked down upon him, muttering incoherant threats under his breath, removing the helmet from his head and bowing to their Majesties.

Under that helmet, held a marvelous face. Though Zenastasia refused to compare Flynn to others, he surely shone without struggle. His dark brown hair, like the brown of a beautiful oak, flipped with every move he made, and his commanding caramel eyes that seemed so soft—were not.

“Demetrius,” Flynn muttered. “Has decided to abuse our hospitality by speaking to the prisoners whilst on Guard duty in the dungeons.”

That one name had Zenastasia’s breath caught in her throat. Her hands balled into a tight fist, and she held her poise.

“Someone has driven you in this direction of disobedience. Information is what we ask for.”

“Kill me,” he spat upon His Majesty’s feet, which alerted many Guards to step forward. “I am not your child. And I am of no more use to you. I will not speak what I know nothing—”

He was cut off as a blow was heavily landed in his gut, causing him to crumble to the ground. Zenastasia shook her head.

“Tell me who has sent you.”

“God,” he muttered. “He has told me of your ways. He wishes for it to end. If not by words—then by force.”

“I will not hear it!” His Majesty stood up and slammed his hand upon the arm of his throne in a rage.

Demetrius smirked behind his pain and tilted his head up, slowly, revealing those eyes that could only be descendant of a devil—the devil—bloodshot red like a rainfall of blood had tainted his eyes.

That was always one of his strengths, Zenastasia noted, holding back a smirk.

“Then you shall see it,” Demetrius grinned and let a drop of blood trickle down the corner of his mouth. “You will feel it. You will burn.”

“Oh, boy, you know little,” His Majesty chuckled. “I am a worshiper of God. I am not going to burn in Hell any time soon. If at all.”

The guard’s head tilted until Zenastasia could see a grim smirk fall upon his face. It was a deathly smirk, one that only Death himself could wear when preying upon his dealers.

“Who said anything . . . about Hell?”

“Flynn!” His Majesty said through clenched teeth. “I’ve had enough of him. Take him to the dungeon.” He sat back down and slammed his hand upon the arm of his chair again as her Majesty’s hand reached over to rest upon his. “Kill him.”

Demetrius was handed a blow in the head, and he lay unconscious on the floor, his cheek resting upon the carpet in an almost peaceful matter.

Zenastasia drew in a short breath and pursed her lips before stepping forward.

“Wait.”

***

“What were you thinking?” Zenastasia’s voice was the first that he heard—it sent a wave of undeniable ringing through his ears and head. “Do I always have to save your butt? That ship sailed long ago.”

“That’s me . . .” he let out a low grumble and began to stretch, immediately realizing that he was sprawled out on Zenastasia’s personal bed—and also in her personal room—though it didn’t seem that way to him. It was much too plain to be her room—yet it was. “. . . The rebel. Even after all these years, I still can’t get myself out of trouble without Zena.” He reached up to take her hand.

Zenastasia swatted him away, glaring at him darkly as she jumped out of the bed beside him with a towel in hand—bloodied. She rested a hand on her hip.

“Stop, Demetrius,” she snapped. “This is the last time I save you. And the last time you do something stupid. Learn how to fight and fight your battles on your own.

“You don’t realize how much being Captain. Means to me.”

“Ah, my Zena,” he mused, taking his cloak from the side of the bed and draping it over his shoulders. “Always thinking of me.”

“Always,” she scoffed. “Meaning never.”

Demetrius had been the first person that she’d met when she was entered into the castle as a prisoner. Had she come later, she may have met a darker fate—if this one wasn’t dark enough. Their friendship was immediate and secretive. Zenastasia was too good of a secret-keeper to allow this to be exposed and Demetrius made sure they only met at times when nobody was looking—they were just that careful with their friendship. It wasn’t considered more to Zenastasia.

Demetrius was a fond over-looker of Zenastasia when she was a child. During the long nights where Zenastasia’s mother was out working, he would play games and tell heroic stories to her about the things he’d seen in the castle. He had worked as a servant, and there was much to tell.

But in the last few months, their friendship had really begun to bloom. Demetrius had been more engaged with the actions that Zenastasia partook in. He soaked up the shadow of Zenastasia's very existence and allowed her soul (that had suspected to have been dragged from her very body) to shine, inside and out.

Their free time (which wasn't much time) was spent eating snacks or meals together with the presence of nature in between their toes. (This was very much Demetrius's doing. Zenastasia had preferred they eat in the royal dining room.)

During late night hours, Demetrius would experiment with the piano in his room. And once in a while, the music would flow through the halls and seep through Zenastasia's door. Demetrius made her usually sleepless nights more fluid. It was something she had never thanked him for.

He only chuckled at her response, tracing his fingertips along the curtains that had remained closed—or never opened. He didn’t recall the last time he’d been in her room. So close. He suppressed a smile as his sudden jerk of arms ripped open the curtains, revealing a light that danced upon the velvet red walls, illuminating the gold frames of nature untamed.

Zenastasia followed Demetrius with her eyes, curiously. This room—her room—was always a shadow. Never had she revealed as much sunlight as Demetrius did now—she never allowed herself to do so. She never allowed herself to gaze upon the mountains, rivers—nature. She was far too good for the life beyond her own.

But Demetrius; he brought a whole new perspective to her room. Her room, dark, gloomy, bloodied walls—was now a room filled with soft, velvet walls, a warm gold tinting the edges of her eyes.

And there he stood. In all his glory that had gone untold. The sun danced upon his blonde hair, becoming almost as gold as the sun itself. It was as if the sun chose Demetrius to direct all its beauty towards. If he had opened his eyes, the sight would have been wondrous.

Her fingers clenched around the towel and she looked down. She didn’t allow herself to center her thoughts on Demetrius. He meant much to her. And the Guard—he was a fighter.

Zenastasia looked at her image through the mirror that lay across the room. Her jet black hair fell straight upon her shoulders. She had been heavily built due to her intense training, but her hands—it had gone through hell and back, yet . . .

She allowed a soft smile to play her lips.

Yet, they retained the softness that had always been there. Like her mother’s.

***

Zenastasia opened her eyes and she saw her mother. This image startled her in a way that had her speechless beyond speechlessness. Her mother reached towards Zenastasia in a soft way—just as she remembered it—so many years ago.

She took her mother’s hand and stood up, letting out a light giggle. It was a childish giggle that could only come from a small child—her 10 year old self. She recalled herself as a little girl. It was so hard to remember . . . yet the memory was there.

Allowing herself to explore this short lived flashback, she traced a finger down her simple dress, a pasty white that had turned a darker gray due to unwashed days.

“Come here, Zena,” her mother called, waving her over to the trunk of a willow, letting out a laugh that brought a painfully familiar ringing to her ears.

She descended down a bright green hill—envious of the presence of beauty—her mother’s beauty. Ylenia’s untold beauty that Zenastasia had always admired.

Zenastasia followed her mother under the tree in a childish awe—not at the leaves that tickled her nose, or the breeze that swept her hair into her eyes—no. It was her mother she was awed with.

Ylenia invited Zenastasia to a small pond where she lifted up her dress to dip her feet into the river. For Zenastasia, as she sat beside her mother, it was like a surreal dream.

For so many years, she had not remembered her mother’s features. And as Ylenia looked down at her daughter, it was as if she had never forgotten. All that emptiness, the blankness of the face she tried to recall was restored.

Zenastasia’s eyes were no match for her mother’s eyes. They stunned Zenastasia, fulfilling her urge as she reached over to touch her mother’s hand, as if to see if she was real . . . or not.

And alas, she was not.

The sun replaced her eyes and blinded poor Zenastasia’s.

“Zenastasia is your name. The beauty of your name can only be reflected through your eyes. Don’t lose it within yourself.”

The childish voice came through, letting out a cry and screaming at her mother’s figure, being dragged away—into the dark that had suddenly swallowed up the entire scene.

“Momma?”

Zenstasia found herself alone, in a black abyss of her own dark shadow.

***

Demetrius took a firm hold to Zenastasia’s frozen, closed-eyed figure, tapping her hand with a soft finger and calling her name.

“Zenastasia?” He called. “Zen . . . Zen . . .”

She inhaled deeply and gasped, jerking her entire body back and making an involuntary move as her eyes flew open. Clenching her mouth shut, she took in deep breaths that didn’t leave a mark on her reputation as Demetrius stared.

“I’m fine.”

“Zen—”

“Can you please leave?” She managed to gasp.

“Why—?” He paused once he met her demandingly desperate eyes. “Yes.”

“Thank you.”

She watched his figure dart out the door, allowing one last glance towards her, a worried crease sprawled on his face—it was usually so composed. Zenastasia allowed the guilt to settle in place of the pain that had torn her mother from her.

***

Zenastasia’s sword pointed at the guard’s throat, the heel of her boot resting upon his sternum, a warning smile upon her face.

“Good fight, Flynn,” she laughed, swinging her sword in a circle before catching it by the handle and tucking it behind her arm. “But not good enough.”

She pulled her heel away from him and extended an arm to help him up. Flynn pushed her hand away and grumbled.

“I let you win,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his bruised head.

Flynn shook his head and leaned down to take his sword and pick up his jacket.

“Leaving so soon?” Zenastasia leaned against the muddy-colored walls, the torches that hung from them were their own person, flickering in every different direction as if in need of a place to go all at once.

“I’ve got a kingdom to protect, Zenastasia,” he ran a hand through his hair. “I have no time for childplay.”

“Is that what I am, Flynn?” Zenastasia stood in front of him in a flash and blocked his way out of the dungeon doors, which were creaking open and shut. “A child? May I inform you, Captain. I have been killing since I could pick up a sword in this castle. I’ve killed—tortured—more people than you have in your lifetime. I’ve lived to hear screams. A child does not tolerate these things. I am not a child.

“I am well acquainted to snatching that Captain title from your grasp without any trouble.”

“Women are all talk, no action.” Flynn chuckled giving a straight gaze to Zenastasia and turning on his heels and opening the gate to leave.

“I’m the exception!” She called, a hinder of hatred filling her voice. “You are only Captain due to the fact that you are a man!”

Zenastasia threw her sword across the room and gave a loud cry, threading her hands through her hair and tugging, muttering incoherently.

“Men,” she said through clenched teeth. “They think they’re absolutely everything.”

“Frustrated?” Demetrius knelt on one knee to pick up the sword.

“Hands off, Demetrius,” her blade was directed at the base of his throat and one of her hands rested upon her hips.

The sword’s blade immediately landed in her grasp.

“As you wish, m’lady,” he chuckled and bowed his head slightly before standing up once more, dusting off his jacket.

Zenastasia slipped the dagger back into her sleeve and swung her sword once into the air, catching it and sheathing it, brushing the hair out of her face, undoing the tie in it.

Once she looked up, Demetrius was on his feet and tossing two swords between his hands, catching them swiftly. "Care for a battle, Zena?"

"Are you here to criticize my feminism, Demetrius?" She snapped playfully, throwing her jacket over her bare shoulders, clicking her heels together.

"Of course not, Zena," a devious smiled played his lips. "I only wish to test your skills. I've watched you train. But I've never trained with you."

"Right now is as good as ever," she smirked, swinging her sword into a comfortable circle, warming up her arm muscles. "Bring it, Demetrius."

Their swords made a sheathing sound and then whipping as Zenastasia swirled her sword, a grim look to her eyes and her lips pressed in a thin line. The candles that lit up the dungeon cowered, shriveling away from light and turning dark. The windows there were unable to let the sun (or breeze) in.

So they fought in total darkness and humidity. But Zenastasia could make out Demetrius's figure better than he could make out hers. She was used to fighting in the dark for quite some time. Demetrius was only used to being in the dark.

The way Zenastasia and Demetrius fought was a rhythmic, almost dance-like way. When he stepped forward, she stepped back; if she gave an outside swirl, he gave an inside spin. It was a dance that they had professionalized in.

In the end, it was Zenastasia who was cornered and her own sword pointed at the base of her throat. Demetrius's fingers were kept at the tip of the blade in case (for some random, out of the blue and non-Demetrius reason) his hand slipped and the blade settled to the inside of her larynx.

It was in the dark where Zenastasia came to a revelation that was quite obviously shown, if only she had ever stared deeply into the eyes of Demetrius.

His eyes, they were not only bloodshot--they were the color of red—a glowing soft red. She had never seen such a beautiful red. It was the darkness that held the true meaning to his eyes.

Every other corner was kissed with light, except this one. Coincidence that Demetrius chose this one? She thought not.

Her breath came out in short, hot bursts, her skin beaded with sweat, a droplet slipping down her forehead and tucking underneath her chin. The moisture in the air had built up, causing the fabric on her to stick to her skin, making it almost impossible to move with comfort.

Demetrius drew in a breath, letting out a chuckle that Zenastasia had grown fond of. She took her sword back, slinging her jacket over her shoulder, then twirling the sword in her hand, curiously eyeing him with a growing thought in her mind.

She had never seen Demetrius in combat. She had never seen him in a fight. Or see him pick up a sword. This, indeed, caught her by surprise.

Her gaze never left Demetrius.

"You're . . . amazing," she gasped, suddenly realizing she was circling around him in the little light they had been provided—she was preying. "Prison guards get minimum training . . . but if you're as good as this . . . it must be a given."

"You talk as if we haven't known each other for the past few years, Zena," he shook his head and rose, igniting his hair with the gleam of the torches—a spotlight that swirled around him. It was so wondrous to gaze at—but not to touch. "I'm still the same old Demetrius. Fighting or not."

Zenastasia found this disheartening. Hiding potential was not in her nature.

"You could be so powerful, Demetrius," Zenastasia sighed.

"Sometimes, when you possess a certain skill, keeping it hidden is a greater show of power," he ducked down to swipe his legs across Zenastasia's feet, knocking her to the ground.

He stood up with a smirk whipped across his face. It was a powerful gleam that she had never seen on his face.

"It knocks the world off its feet," he chuckled and extended a hand to Zenastasia, "when they find what potential lies underneath the skin."

Zenastasia was still in a state of shock as she was helped up; her eyes dilated in, and then out, as if examining this specimen of hers. He possessed all qualities that were needed as a royal guard member. She could only stare, dazed into his eyes, a questioning look still sprawled across her face.

Her look stimulated a nerve in Demetrius, a harmless smile crawling upon the corners of his lips and taking a deep hold of the hand that he hadn't let go of—Zenastasia hadn't objected. Her other hand, soft and careful with its touch, made its way to the back of Demetrius's neck, curling into a soft fist before bringing his head down to meet hers.

Only at first, did their foreheads touch, breathing in what the other had breathed out. It was unspoken, but it was how they had been living these past few years. Recycling each others' presence.

Their eyes met for a moment, and in that moment, it was as if their lives had revolved around each other. They saw each other's pain, felt it, touched it, and witnessed it with their own eyes. They saw each other's needs, wants, hates, loves.

At the touch of his arm curling around her waist and pulling of their chests closer together, Zenastasia would have flinched. She would've drawn her sword—her dagger acquainted whatever weapons she had hidden in her uniform and threatened him.

But she simply complied. Demetrius was in full command now.

Their heads tilted in a slight angle in opposite directions, tearing their gazes from one another before their lips touched ever so slightly. At the simple touch, Zenastasia’s hand reached up to intertwine her fingers through his hair, curling into a fist and pulling him closer until space between them was inevitable.

Zenastasia and Demetrius both inhaled each other’s scent, their eyes closing in a moment of euphoria before their lips touched again—rushed. She wasn’t willing to tear away from his touches. And he wasn’t willing to stop. It was a feeling she simply couldn’t fight.

It was something that Zenastasia had been deprived of since childhood. A feeling she had loathed as she saw the general public express. She had looked upon these sights—the scenes—deeming them an abomination of what the true goal of their lives were.

Love. Oh, she had heard that word so many times and she'd always felt a pang of pain. She always thought it was pain—pity for their love—and how love was never forever.

Love is the feeling Demetrius restored within her . . . with a simple kiss.

Could it have been that easy?

Yes.

Her heart may have taken flight—come alive and beat—at their first encounter if she were to believe in it.

And now, standing here, melting into his firm arms—she did.

***

Flynn watched with a contorted frown upon his face. He could not believe the scene taking place before his eyes.

How was she so content with a mere prison guard?

Had Flynn not had the urge to check up on the well being of the training arena, this scene would not have unfolded before him. But he knew Zenastasia too well to know that his fling was not going to get in her way of being captain . . . so he allowed himself the joys of planning an attack.

***

“I request we bring as much backup as possible, m’lord,” Flynn said, obviously ordering, not requesting. “This tribe—their numbers are no match . . . but their weapons may be.”

His Majesty nodded. “Take your pick, and leave, Flynn.”

Zenastasia let a fierce smirk to take its rightful place as he picked out certain guards—including her. It had been a waiting game since the last time she’d been chosen to lead. But being in the raid was enough to sustain her joy of seeing battle.

If it was a bloody battle—it was one she wanted to partake in herself.

“It’s come to my attention that Demetrius may be ready to participate in this raid,” Flynn added.

His Majesty pondered this thought as Zenastasia stood frozen, staring into Flynn’s eyes with a certain amount of surprise. She nearly praised him for this—but just nearly.

“Zenastasia, make sure he’s geared and ready by the time our troops leave castle grounds.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

She exited with an exceeding amount of grace and excitement that was only noticed by Flynn—for he knew her secret. And he knew it better than she would ever know.

***

“The armor suits you, Sir Demetrius.”

She leaned upon the door with arms crossed in front of her, her white pallor contrasting greatly upon her black armor. The danger of the raid was far too much for Flynn to allow Zenastasia her usual attire.

Though her armor was light, and fit to her very stature and rank, she preferred the comfort of her much more flexible uniform.

Adjusting her wristband of armor, she picked up her helmet, sauntering over to his side and letting out a light laugh. His eyes were brightened by the very presence of the silver armor tinting his red pupils—just enough to scare the enemy. Maybe even her.

Her fingers reached up to his shoulder and adjusted the plate of armor, dusting off the crest of the kingdom and giving him a slightly crooked smile. Her eyes lost the flame at the sight of his.

“You’re nervous,” It wasn’t an accusation, though if she had said it to another besides Demetrius, it would have been.

“I’m proving myself to the kingdom. To my king.”

“You have no one to prove anything to,” she smiled and reached up to touch his cheek with the palm of her hand.

He pressed his lips to her palm and took a step toward her, causing her to take a step back and conceal her face in the darkness beside the curtains. Zenastasia was on guard and she shook her head, hoping that he saw it enough to give her some space.

She never allowed herself to get attached. Or be attached. Period.

His eyes lit up questioningly, and a paining look crossed his face. She couldn’t s

tand making such an angel frown.

“Demetrius,” she whispered, taking a cautious step out of the comfort of the curtains, crossing her arms behind her back as she passed by him. “Be careful out there. I won’t be there to watch your every move.”

A hand wrapped around her wrist, twirling her around to face Demetrius, a quick kiss caressing her lips.

“You be careful,” he muttered amongst her lips, a smirk playing his eyes.

She gave a quick peck and touched her forehead to his, taking her helmet from his grasp and winking before she was off.

“Oh, Zena,” he called after her, causing Zenastasia to whip around and allow her hair to jerk onto one shoulder in an elegant way. “This time. I’ll look after you.”

It was a strange thing to say to Zenastasia in its entirety, yet, it was comforting. She never needed protection, she was well enough on her own. But it was a good feeling to have—to be watched over. To actually be that someone who was worried about.

She threw a soft nod, giving an appreciated smile.

***

Zenastasia couldn’t breathe. Her air supply had stopped at her throat and refused to take in or let out any air. She was frozen on top of her horse, which neighed furiously and thrashed at the air, making contact with the snowflakes that slowly begun to accumulate on the ground.

No. She wasn’t frozen. She couldn’t get out.

The figures that swerved in front of her fought furiously against the kingdom’s army—an ambush. And she couldn’t believe the numbers that were deteriorating.

Ripping out the dagger from her sleeve, she sliced the strap on the horse that had become wrapped around her heel, leaping off of the horse and drawing her sword in mid-air.

Once she landed, she made sure that she kept focused on the enemy. Her surprise had changed the way she felt, but not the way she fought.

The circle that formed around her was large, as it was around Demetrius, who had gone into battle long before Zenastasia could get out of her horse.

Flynn.

God knew where he was.

She centered her immediate attention on the circle and let another sheathing sound caress her ears as she pulled out another stray sword, juggling the two between her hands. “Game on,” she whispered, laying a quiet death upon the enemies’ ears.

The less they heard, the better.

***

She twisted her sword violently in the man’s chest before ripping it out, staring intently at the bodies that lay before her—the kingdom’s soldiers amongst them.

A few slouched as they stood, weary from battle, but Zenastasia stood victorious as she always had.

A familiar groan broke the air and movement amongst the bodies startled her. He was buried under the debris of bodies, clutching his bloodied side and wailing.

“Flynn?”

“Zena . . .” A voice appeared right beside her ear.

Zenastasia gasped and didn’t tear her gaze from Flynn’s, but reached back to touch Demetrius’s hand. “Demetrius.”

“We’ve got to get him back,” he called to the few soldiers that remained. “Take him to the castle.”

The soldiers stood where they were, watching Zenastasia and Demetrius rise at the same time, hand in hand. The snow clung to the strands of Zenastasia’s hair, contrasting greatly whilst the snowflakes settled in Demetrius’s hair—unseen. Zenastasia frowned and narrowed her eyes, more commanding and fierce.

“NOW!” Zenastasia shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at Flynn and giving a dark, threatening look.

And as Zenastasia and Demetrius followed by foot, allowing for the guards to pass by with Flynn, slumped on a horse, he managed a smile. A haunting smile that told Zenastasia he was up to no good. She glared at Flynn for a moment before shaking her head.

What was he up to?

***

The candles flickered as an angry Zenastasia made her way down the carpet, her heels making a loud thump! As she knelt in front of His and Her Majesty, a scowl on her face.

“M’lord, m’lady!” She snapped. “You cannot!”

Their Majesties didn’t stir—it was as if they had expected her rampaged self to come barging into the doors. Snow clung to her hair and uniform, immediately melting upon contact of Her Majesty’s hand.

“My child,” she cooed, running a finger up Zenastasia’s jaw to tilt her chin upwards to meet her eyes—but not her face. “Flynn cannot operate in this condition.”

“It cannot be Demetrius,” Zenastasia’s sudden whisper of the name was a summoning, and there he came, gallantly walking into the throne room with sealed lips. But Zenastasia was not inclined to turn around. “I beg of you, m’lady.”

“We’ve ruled through fear,” Her Majesty said in a soft, mother-like tone—it was a tone Zenastasia had heard many times before—it was a comfort, but could no longer hold its poise. “Fear through Flynn—feminism through you. But . . . every tactic through Demetrius. He’s our future.

“Yes, he could learn a few things from you—which I’m entirely content if you both decide to work together as Captains.”

This feeling, the immense feeling of pure hatred boiled her veins—it was an undeniable feeling of every evil in the world, all twisted into one.

This was what Flynn must’ve felt when the proposition to share power was made.

“NO!” She broke the silence and glared at the general direction of His Majesty. “I am more eligible for this title than anyone in this entire kingdom! I could take the cavalry I have to the heavens and defeat all of God’s soldiers. The experience of Captain—I have trained for my entire life. And you throw it all away—in my face—like I’m not your child!”

Her anger flared out in every direction as she stomped off, the sound of her heels disappearing along with the rest of her angered self.

Zenastasia’s eyes, blazed a color that had never surfaced before—pure fire. Pure flames. Pure wrath.

***

She watched him in all his glory from the corner of his room.

He slept so peacefully, but she wondered how he had slept at all. Did he not see what damage this caused her? Or felt it? What parasitic animal love was, latching itself upon Zenastasia’s heart and sucking his sweet love away—like it was never even real.

A candlelight flickered, but before the room could ignite in firelight, she drew her sword to his throat, her jaw clenched.

She saw herself through his eyes. She was falling apart—tearing at the seams.

Since her first day as a guard, she had never cried—she had vowed not to.

Demetrius knew her, and he saw the water that had allowed itself to settle on the edges of her eyes.

“Zena . . .”

“Tell me why,” Zenastasia’s voice broke, her sword growing shaky.

He stood up slowly and cautiously even though her sword followed his every move. They were magnets that Zenastasia refused to give into. She was negative. He was positive. And she had the ultimate urge to collapse into his arms. There were so many things she wanted to do . . . yet, could not.

"For the truth," he said softly.

But his voice echoed. It was as distant because her heart pounded in her ears, making sounds that told Zenastasia that she had lost. The title had disappeared from her grasp. She could not attain it anymore.

"What truth?" She snapped, her voice came out inhumane--a growl. "You've taken my life from me!"

"There's more to life than the position you hold."

"Easy for you to say!" She retorted.

Demetrius saw the flame touch her eyes, and he wasted no time in crouching and suddenly touching her sword with his own, eyes narrowed.

"They killed your father," he let out a whisper and backed away from the bed. "And mother."

"Lies!" she cried, raising her sword and slamming down, but was blocked by Demetrius.

"No," he said, strained. "You've been fed so many lies, you can't even decipher the truth anymore. What logically could they want with you? From you?"

Zenastasia narrowed her eyes, shaking her head once and touching the tip of her sword to the handle of his.

"Think, Zenastasia, think," he whispered, nearing her face--she only pulled away. "You grew up with a mother who loved you, a father too. Then . . . gone. First your father, then your mother. Everything you had, gone. This is not the doing of God. It is the doing of others who believe they can ruin lives and get away with it.

"Your wrath was created by everything they've done to you. They've created a monster."

"No . . ." Realization tinted her eyes.

"Your Majesties," he muttered mockingly. "Do you want to know how your parents were killed?"

There was a pause. And he took it as a yes, looking deep into her eyes.

"They tied both of them up on opposite walls, chains bound to their wrists and ankles, blindfolded. And they could only talk to one another--comfort. He kept telling your mother 'It'll be okay, Ylenia . . . they have us, but not our little one.'

"At the moment of their death . . . they were released from their hold, unbound and blindfolds taken off. They had but seconds to hold each other before they were both pinned to the wall by strong arms. Your father was first. Your mother watched your father be mutilated, beat, and eventually killed before it was her turn.

"This was carried out by no other than the King and Queen--your Majesties. They could not stand the sight of love." He looked at the ground and she clenched her teeth. "'Love,' they said, 'is a weakness.' Whilst, love . . ." he reached up to cup her face in his hands, and she leaned into his touch. "Has never made me stronger." He tilted his head to her. "So, you decide, Zenastasia. Who has ruined your life now? I've taken your position as Captain to test you. Just like they did in that cell. Your cell. Do you remember, Zenastasia?" A smirk touched his lips. "That's where your mother and father were kept. And killed."

Zenastasia felt the heaviness in her heart suddenly wrench into a twisted shape, causing her to take a sudden step back, but still holding her poise. A tear drifted from her eyes and she allowed that bottled up sadness to show itself out.

She saw it all. She closed her eyes and she saw the faces of her mother, her father. The hand that cupped her cheek was no longer the hand of Demetrius. It was the hand of her mother. She saw it all. Their last moments together before it had all ended. She saw her father's confidence that had been passed to Zenastasia. She heard the screams, felt the blows . . . and saw it all unfold before her eyes . . .

"Love conquers all," Demetrius whispered, reaching up to caress her cheek, pressing his forehead to hers and shaking his head. "But only if you conquer love."

He allowed himself to caress her lips with his and underneath the touch, Zenastasia's forehead creased, letting out a stifled sob and meeting his impulsive lips.

"Me or your title."

Her breath stopped in her throat. She couldn't. “No,” she replied breathlessly.

She breathed through him. He was her lifeline to life itself.

"Why can't you just give me the title?" She screamed, her hands clenching around her sword.

"That's exactly what they want me to do! But I will not."

Zenastasia drew in a breath and tilted her head up to meet his, both of their gazes meeting, and the silver of swords catching the light. "Then I'll fight."

***

He'd had so many chances to slice her throat. Break her skin in any and every way possible. But he refused to touch a hair on her. He allowed her the pleasure of letting her anger out upon him. Demetrius had definitely expected it.

Once his sword clattered to the ground, he allowed a smirk on his lips, falling to the ground under Z, the blade aimed at his confident heart.

"Demetrius--"

"What do you choose, Zena?"

She looked away from Demetrius to draw one more breath of his very presence and let it out. Zenastasia was breaking her own heart. And throwing all she had away for power that would mean nothing afterwards . . . but she had nothing without her title. Only Demetrius.

But even Demetrius, was never enough.

She took the high road and plunged the sword into his heart, puncturing and severing all the life that he'd given to Zenastasia.

Love conquered all hearts.

But not Zenastasia's.

***

She cradled his dead body in her arms, resting his head on her lap, stroking the hair that she'd admired so many times in life. And death.

As the sun rose behind the mountains, shooting up luminous colors across the room, Zenastasia felt her light drain from her body, as had the blood from Demetrius's heart. His beauty in death couldn't begin to compare when it was filled with life.

Her tears stained his face with an essence that could just barely bring his features back to life. Zenastasia buried her face into the softness of his hair, sobbing and trying her hardest to wash away her guilt with tears. She pressed her cheek on his forehead, the cold, pale death just barely kissing her lips.

She had killed the one thing that ever meant anything to her. A true thing. Not a title, not something unattainable. Not something she desired. It was something she'd had. She had it in her grasp, yet she never quite opened her eyes enough to look past her need for power, need for more than she was given.

She never looked far enough to see that what she'd loved, what she'd touched, kissed--that it was the only thing real anymore.

Zenastasia removed her hands from his heart, watching the last of his blood supply pump onto the floor beneath her, crawling towards the illuminating sun, as if to seek for salvation from such darkness.

The sun illuminated the back of her uniform and the rest of the room. Zenastasia and Demetrius were their own figure as she stood up, allowing his body to lay in a soft matter on the floor, her cape grazing his skin just one last time before she looked the sun directly in the face, giving it a dark, cold stare.

Zenastasia smirked and shook her head, clenching her hands into fists around the curtains and shutting them around her, clothing herself--and her Demetrius in total darkness.

***

Everyone could hear her approach. They had been awaiting her arrival. It had been only a matter of time before she came for the King and Queen.

Flynn had been found in his bed . . . throat slit. And Demetrius was yet to be found, but that was because she had concealed his body well. But His and Her Majesty knew that the stained floor could only mean that Zenastasia had gotten to him.

Once she entered, the drum of her heels stopped--as did the orchestra of her uniform, her cape, her sword. Blood marked her hands, the artistic works of Demetrius. The man had left his mark, and even if Zenastasia didn't see it--the Guard sure did.

The blood swirled up her hands and uniform, and if they looked closely enough, they could see it just begin to form around the base of her throat, the vine-like pattern igniting her fingers with flame.

Even her sword had been decorated with a blood design--dripping and ready to kill.

Her eyes were hidden behind the wall of hair, but the Guard--lined up in front of her, fear creased upon their faces--they could still see those eyes.

She stared at the cavalry she'd fought beside only a few days ago. So much had changed. Everything was clear now--different--and she looked upon everyone as if they were strangers. Their faces were foreign to her.

The Guard--there must have been at least half of the Guard there--that was close to a hundred. They looked at her with a deep concern.

Her soldiers.

She had taught them everything--they had come from the bottom to the top. They'd grown fond of her very presence. In her presence, everything changed. She was their motivation. No longer did they need His and Her Majesty.

And as her eyes fell upon them, a green abyss of a greedy spell, she took a step forward . . . and they departed. They made a pathway for her, leading to the throne.

There was a scuffle. His and Her Majesty let out a sound that sounded like a cry for help. But Zenastasia could only smile. And stare into those eyes that she had nearly bowed to every single night.

Funny how things change so quickly. Zenastasia would have done anything and everything for their Majesties a day ago. But now, she saw them for who they really were.

Cowardly. Powerless. Helpless.

They were of no use to Zenastasia. Their Majesties were not a comfort to Zenastasia like her cavalry was. She had earned her rightful title as Captain. Nothing mattered anymore.

She watched the blood seep from the thrones and pool around her heels in an almost beautifully artistic way. Zenastasia only smiled at her loyal blade.

"C'mon, boys," she let out a giggle that sent chills down the Guard’s spines as she turned to them, her eyes, a direct descendent of Demetrius in all his beauty. Her skin had engulfed in all the beauty and danger of blood, contorted into shapes undefined, almost shimmering in the way blood did when squeezed out from a fresh wound.

"We've got a kingdom to rule."