It is on the throne that Queen Avalon finds the most satisfaction. When she feels her body flat against the back of the chair, placed above others and adorned ornately with carved gold and heavy marble, there is a sense of finality about her soul. Her chin pulls into the air a bit higher, her keenness a bit sharper, her breaths a bit fuller, deeper. Her chest opens wider and her breast rises and falls visibly, slowly, as her narrowed eyes flicker over anyone that finds themselves on the floor before her.

It is only on the throne that Queen Avalon does not need a mirror to see her reflection, for in the faces of others beneath her, she can see what she is not.

Quick, hurried little footsteps echo off to the vaulted ceilings. She knows those footsteps anywhere. They belong to her hastened advisor, a little mouse of a man, who scuttles about wildly wherever she treads. When he speaks to her, his eyes dart about anywhere other than her face, and oftentimes remain downcast, fascinated with scraps upon the stone floor. During times like these, Queen Avalon leans back and casually observes his skittish behavior.

"My Queen," he calls, though it is more of a squeak.

Queen Avalon's crowned head tilts upward. "Approach."

The short, balding man scurries to the foot of the throne. Queen Avalon represses a little smirk. She can practically see his naked mouse-tail swishing to-and-fro nervously. How she would like to pinch that tail between her lithe fingers and dangle him in the air, or to see his tiny paws flail about.

The Adam's apple in his throat bobs. "There's an unexpected visitor approaching the castle, Your Majesty."

Pale lips pink like rose petals twitch in annoyance. "As in 'a pleasant surprise' unexpected, or as in 'going to burn down the kingdom' unexpected?"

"I—" The advisor meshes his fingers together fretfully. "I apologize, Your Highness. Prince Oswald of Stultania and his escorting knights are passing through the kingdom. They were caught in a terrible storm on their journey and are in need of shelter and supplies." Out of breath, he huffs a bit. "They inquire if you would be so kind as to provide them with such for a few days."

Prince Oswald Ribon, son of King Geoff Ribon and Queen Beatrix of Sitana. The Ribons didn't become or bother Queen Avalon. Their two kingdoms were neither friend nor foe, and traded with relative peace. Of her years on the throne, she only met them twice; in both occasions they seemed more or less amiable, with seemingly no potential or intent to exploit her. They certainly didn't seem like the scheming type—and even if they were, they could never outsmart Queen Avalon's perceptive eye and hawk-like ears.

She could spot a conspirator because she was one herself. Never before had she met another individual with scheming skills as honed as hers. Five assassination plots, two pathetic coup d'état attempts—and she caught them all in a matter of days after their conception.

Queen Avalon did not consider herself a merciful person, and instead of executing the dozens of traitors amidst her Court, she instead punished them by forcing them to keep their positions—to suffer under her micromanaging hand as she pawned off their daughters into unfruitful marriages and stole away from their riches with heavy taxes.

"Send a messenger immediately, and inform Prince Oswald's traveling group that they are welcome here," she orders as she rises from her throne. The quick nodding of her advisor's head and the quivering of his small body as he tries to remain tall before her makes her soul bristle like a peacock does its feathers. It is a rushing, flaring sensation that stirs an air of otherworldliness about her.

Not a Queen, but a Goddess.

~*~

After sorting other petty affairs of the Court, Queen Avalon finds herself indulging in what she loves most. It is especially moments like the conversation with her advisor that the Mirror calls to her with its deep, smooth voice. How could she resist its sweet beckon?

She cannot.

And so Queen Avalon finds herself pacing down the vaulted, arched hallways of the grand castle, past statuesque armored guards, down long flights of steps with a fluttering excitement in her heart, a wonderful—almost titillating—anticipation. Her royal gown, black as midnight, runs like spilled ink behind her. Its folds trail on the floor and spell out something enigmatic, something that makes the eyes shine and the fingers tingle, something euphoniously chaotic. As her feet carry her deeper into the bowels of the castle, as the shadows grow longer, as the quickening echo of her footsteps become louder, as the midnight of her gown begins to blend with the darkness, as the flowing script it writes against the floor becomes invisible, Queen Avalon's breath grows shallower. Her eyes dart from side to side. Here she can smile with teeth bared, for no one can witness her sheer, unadulterated pleasure in darkness thick as blood.

The chuckle of the Mirror rings like booming bells in her ears. It vibrates her very bones. Her heartbeat turns from a canter to a gallop. The Mirror calls. She is coming.

"Avalon, my sweet..." It is low but gentle, a caress.

"Mirror, Mirror..." she breathes, repeating its name—for it brings her solace. "Mirror, Mirror..."

"Avalon, Avalon..." it sings, a chorus of shining glass. "Avalon, Avalon..."

They call back and forth to each other, creating a dance, a waltz of words. The crescendo builds as they grow closer; the Mirror's voice strengthens both in its loudness and its pull, until Queen Avalon is no longer certain if she is the Mirror calling to Avalon, or if she is Avalon calling to the Mirror. It is an immensely gratifying ambiguity, the only kind of confusion that she yearns to become lost in.

She reaches the Mirror and gazes into its simple, ovular glass. At first all she sees is her glorious reflection, and she drinks it as if it were to quench her parched throat. She does not see a Queen any longer.

No, she sees something blessëd, a Goddess.

The face of the Mirror materializes before her. Even though she does not speak, the pale rose-petal lips of her reflection move. "Greetings, Mistress Avalon."

"Mirror, Mirror," she purrs, reveling in the taste of its cold, smooth name on her tongue. Her slender, pale fingers idly trace the carved patterns down its golden frame. "If only I could touch your heavenly glass."

"You know that is forbidden, Mistress."

"I dream," she continues, "of how they collapse under my hand." Her hard, sapphire eyes stare intently into the Mirror. It stares back. "Would you buckle under my fingertips?"

The Mirror does not blink, but a faint smile pulls at its lips. "I already serve you, Mistress, and you haven't laid a precious finger upon my surface."

Queen Avalon's heart quivers with excitement. "Do you enjoy your slavery?"

"My only pleasure stems from my undying loyalty to you, Mistress," it answers back evenly.

A rush of euphoria bolts from her heart and races through her blood. "Then tell me, Mirror, Mirror, on the wall," she whispers, leaning in close. She can see the glittering facets of her sapphire irises. She yearns, oh how she yearns to dip her fingers into the coolness of the Mirror and draw from it two flawless rings. "Who is the fairest of them all?"