Picture the scene; its a cold blustery day, where the snow drips down our weary faces. The roast dinner is in the oven and the scent of fresh gingerbread wafts under our noses. The dog barks and the cat mewls, the day turns to the night and the fireplace crackles. The trees sway in the breeze and the revelers drink til’ morning comes. In this winter wonderland there is peace and prosperity, but for how long will tranquility last? For there is a dark storm brewing as the skies turn ink black. The laughter stops, the cheers quieten down and the revelers stop drinking- at least for a while. She is here, the Queen who feeds on fear- her season has come and conquered. For she is no ordanairy queen but a queen of the North.
The crowds disperse as if by magic, unwilling to watch the culling of another young innocent. Every year a young soul is sacrificed to sate the queens thirst for blood and gore, this time it was one of their own. It was the Warlock of the South who predicted this fateful day would come. He pointed his gnarled fingers at the cards on the old oak table and cleared his throat. He said “one day all the young will be rounded up and killed” , cut down before their lives have begun. It was a grim tale but none of the Northerners had taken him seriously. After all it was well known that his powers were ebbing with age.
The warlock might have been old but his words rang true; the Queen’s guards pillaged homes and started fires. Killed the young and made the elders watch. The revelers were blocked from escaping and the young children who played by the open fire were engulfed by hungry flames. Tears mixed with bile as the queen carried out her hedonistic fantasies. It was a celebration of debauchery and despite the Northerners hardened stomachs, the smell of roasting flesh was too much to bear. The Ice Queen cackled, her fantasy was coming true at last, soon the extinction of the north would be complete. Without the powers of the young the elders would have nothing to live for and those who remained could follow her into captivity.
It would suit her to escape into a warmer clime, she was getting tired of the blustering winds and craved the touch of a warmer hand. The Ice Queen was getting no younger but thanks to the culling of innocents the elixir of youth would be hers again. Then, and only then, would she be young and free to claim what was rightfully hers. You see The Ice queen wasn’t always bitter and twisted. As a youth she was kind, inquisitive and eager to learn. It all changed the day that man touched her. He made her feel broken inside and when the deed was done, her heart turned to stone. Hours of torture shaped her to be this symbol of fear that she was today. But why the culling of the innocents I hear you ask? Because it was when she was young that she died inside and her heart stopped beating. That man was her father, the king and he should have known better. Her father was a man who people looked up to but she knew better. It was he who made her evil and when the Grim Reaper came to claim his life, noone knew that it was she who killed him.
The Queen sat on her throne, a raven perched beside her. She made a promise the day that she killed her father. She would make his people, the kingdom of the north pay for what happened to her. Only then would she be happy. She would plunder their villages and take their children, cut them down in the prime of their youth and make the people pay for her fathers transgressions. Deep down she knew that it wasn’t their fault but she was still hurting all these decades later and wanted them to suffer like she once had. Under the light of the moon she made her guards kill them one by one, the silver light highlighting them in an unearthly glow. Her work was coming to an end and her breath quickened with delight. Now they would know how it felt to be heartless, now they would know.
Do You Believe That Criminals -Fictional or Not- Become ‘Bad Because of Their Pasts?
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