The breeze blew only so softly, the dandelions merely teasing their release. The entire field waved with the gentle wind. Massive stones covered in glowing runes stood still to contrast the movement of the green. Scattered between were the stone figures of war. The faces of the statues shared shock, anger, and fear.
Only the concerned woman rustling through the field created noise to overcome the whistle of the moving air. Her simple dress disturbed the fuzz more than the wind had done, but without enough power to be carried, the seeds only fell. She moved from statue to statue, searching out something familiar. Her fret grew with each successive disappointment. Nearly at tears, she leaned against one of the monoliths, pulling at her blonde braids in idle measure. Though she was still young by many standards, lines of worry formed easily as her concern grew with the passing time.
“You have come far,” spoke an older voice, this one not far away. “What is it I am feeling? Surprise? It has been so long.”
The young woman jumped. She spun to see another nearby monolith, this one missing a large enough portion to make for a natural ledge. In this instance, it acted as a throne. Upon this seat of power lounged an older woman, refined and classically beautiful.
“Few, if ever, come this far,” the new woman said. Her own purple dress of elaborate brocade glistened in the sun. The elegant lady held a dandelion to her noise, letting the fuzz tickle her skin. With a sideward glance, she smiled. The younger turned to run but the purple-clad royal already stood in her way.
“Please forgive my intrusion,” the young woman said as she threw herself to her knees. “I mean no disrespect, your majesty.”
The queen in purple bent down to take up another dandelion.
“Searching for someone?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“And you don’t feel your life is in danger?”
“I—”
“It is.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
The queen glided over to the closet statue, this one locked in agony. She beckoned her young subject to follow.
“Is it this gentleman?” the queen asked.
“No, my queen,” the woman answered, only raising her eyes to glance at the frozen face.
“Yes, too old,” the queen realized. “This one has been here quite long. You can tell by the stone, you see?”
The queen continued on towards a grouping of soldiers, her own dress somehow immune to the collection of dandelion fuzz. “One of these, perhaps? Newer, younger.”
The woman paid closer attention to the faces, recognizing none.
“I suppose not,” the queen hummed. “I’m being awfully base. There are so many here in my field. I feel myself growing tired already.”
The woman raised her eyes to view the horizon. Its entirety held the silhouettes of soldiers and runed monoliths alike.
“Young one, do you have a name?”
“Bolly, your majesty.”
“Yes. Bolly,” the queen said before pausing, lost in her wandering thoughts. “You are from?”
“The eastern reach, near the mountain pass.”
“Delightful,” the queen answered. “We are in the proper area for a start.”
The queen floated forth, her hand reaching for another dandelion.
“Thank you, your majesty,” Bolly began as she attempted to keep pace. “Thank you for helping my search.”
“Do you know why there are so many here, Bolly?”
“The fate of those who oppose you.”
“I suppose that is a way to put it,” she said, pursing her lip. “The stones, you see, they protect me. You see them?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“They have stood for centuries, old at the time of my ascension.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Bolly’s only possible answer.
“My sentinels stand watch. The stronger the urge to bring violence against me, the quicker one turns to stone.”
“The ones we passed?”
“The unsure, the reluctant heroes, and would-be thieves. Cowardice gets you closer than bravery, but all stone by the time they mustered their courage and intent. Tell me, Bolly, was your man brave?”
“My man?”
“Bolly, why else come?” the queen said with a wave. “Husband, betrothed, father, brother.”
The queen turned for a glance.
“Young yet. A husband? A son born early?”
“My eldest son, your majesty.”
“Be relieved you found him not at the center. You’ve raised well a brave soul.” The queen said little more as they followed the eastward path away from the center. In checking each statue, Bolly found no trace of her offspring. The day wearing thin, Bolly’s hope grew sour. The queen found dandelions.
“Ah, this lot. I remember them well.”
The queen and mother came upon soldiers in the thousands, stoic in stone display and columns rigid. Her majesty walked to the horse-mounted general and blew him a kiss.
“Poor souls, barely into formation and stone in a moment. How brave they were to come for my head. And foolish.”
The queen lectured to an audience of none. She heard the sobbing a distance away. Following the sounds, she came upon Bolly beyond the army and at the feet of a stone statute, its visage that of a boy not yet a man.
“The bravest stands just inside the outer ring,” the queen said while approaching. “Was he doing it for you? Oh, what will love not do? A boy for his mother.”
The queen hummed.
“Is there nothing to be done?” Bolly cried.
“Betrayal is an act of finality.”
The queen circled Bolly’s child. Her eyes squinted at his frozen form.
“He is not completely turned, there is life.”
Bolly sprang to her feet.
“Your majesty, I beg you to be merciful.”
“I suppose I can grant one such mercy.”
From her hair, the queen pulled a long silver needle. With the gentlest of pressure, she put it to the side of the boy’s neck and pushed.
“He will suffer no more.”
Satisfied with her mercy, the queen turned to face Bolly, now transformed to stone with her own expression frozen in rage.
“Betrayal is an act of finality, Bolly,” the queen began. “And your love shall stand forever as a monument to it.”
The queen bent to take up another handful of dandelions. She casually walked away to her castle, humming a love song that rang old at the time of her ascension. The fuzz blew gently in the wind, settling on the two newest statues only for a moment.
Kyle Brandon Lee is a Texas born and raised writer of poetry, prose, and plays. As a graduate of the University of Texas at Dallas with a degree in Literary Studies, he has published multiple short stories, poems, and non-fiction pieces. These include works at Backchannels Journal, El Poral and Fiction on the Web. If someday they open an old and dusty tome made of pecan bark and armadillo hide, perhaps they'll find his work within. Hopefully, it will be plentiful. He can be found at his website www.hillsdreaming.com or on Instagram @HDTMountains