la belle dame sans merci

The halls of the palace were slick and white, the pristine marble and ivory only broken by slashes of red draperies. The linens hung from the walls like great and elegant wounds, trimmings dripping down and brushing the floors. Captive souls scurried about the Lady's feet, ordered to keep the fortress spotless but there was never anything to clean. Maybe it was simply to keep up appearances, but all lived in fear that she would turn and snuff out their lives, as easy as extinguishing any of the numerous crimson candles that lay burning in the patterned glass sconces.

Through these halls she would pace, day in and day out, discussing nonsense policies and chattering about society to empty air. It was her place in the story, of course. Her face held the elegant features, the classic beauty that showed her as a woman of good breeding. A doe-eyed face that nonetheless held something predatory within it. Everything about her was sharp, and even her wake carried the sound of sharpening blades. Red dripped from underneath her dress, but the droplets never persisted long enough to be cleaned.

None of her servants were allowed to be more lovely than their queen, not that they could have been if they tried. Some she found attractive enough to become her escorts. Such was not an envied position; her escorts had a habit of never being seen again after too long. Lovely young women would disappear, and some swear they could hear their screams and cries from the Lady's washroom, a place no servant was deemed pure enough to enter.

Everything was terrible and everything was beautiful. Fear and awe were one and the same in her mind, and she inspired both in equal measure. She was the tall noble, long legs seeming never-ending underneath her ballgown. The long-haired beauty of which the pale kings and princes cried. The slicing of the guillotine, the spatter of blood, the still-blinking head of the peasant falling into the basket and the noblewoman's satisfied laughter.

She never had much interest in reclaiming the wayward. New servants came easily, men especially. How easily a pretty face can work as a delightful snare, she often thought to herself. And of them there would be no shortage. Not that she didn't like to remind those who had escaped of their real place. There was little as satisfying as the look of terror, impotent defiance, on the faces of the grotesque, especially those unfortunate not to have served under her. She would have at least insured they'd returned beautiful.

No matter where the strings of fate would reach, she never lost sight of her purpose. She existed to draw eyes and spirits, to have the masses kneel at her feet. Envy and adoration were her lifeblood. And she would do anything to make sure that she kept that hold in the psyches of all she encountered.

She was the Beautiful Lady Without Mercy. And all would do well to never forget.