Alistor Zatalia VIII gazed disinterestedly from his balcony erected high above the ground, focusing on nothing, huddled in his many layers of luxurious garments. The grey-haired king paid most attention to the wisp-like curls of his breath, his uncaring brown eyes watching as they condensed in mid-air, rising into the night sky before his wrinkled face.

The kinghood was supposed to be luxurious, or so he had always thought. Yet here he was, given lease to “bask” in its splendor, and for what? His reign was that of a wasteland; the world itself turned to a barren, icy desert. It wasn’t much to say that the queendom was a better place to live than all others, as there were no others. 108 years since the great disaster meant that even tales of the lush, warm world preceding the present were lost, decades having passed since the last man alive to tell the stories had succumbed to the numbing cold. People clung to what mean hope they could find, but the cold pressed in closer and harder with each passing year. The great capital of the Zatalian nation, a country isolated from the outside by near-impassable mountains, remained the only habited location, and a great portion of it had been abandoned still. What few summer months could beat back the cold would open up only the bare land necessary to produce meager rations for the queendom’s people, before yielding once more to the encroaching winter wind.

Alistor produced a small, bright red apple from his deep inside pocket as he cursed the cold that had ironically been keeping the apple fresh and eatable. As the aging king bit into the crisp fruit, the sound of its substance giving way to his jaw drowned out the bickering of the audience chamber behind him. Queen Elizabeth Zatalia V rubbed her delicate brow in frustration, massaging her face, strained from constant frowning as she listened to the pleas of her handful of court advisors. As had become typical during the onset of winter each year, her silvery hair became more unkempt with each passing day. The pressures of rule combined with the cold of winter and the passage of time had taken their toll on her countenance and she looked as aged as the king, despite being some significant years younger.

“The vote be damned. This isn’t right!” cried the one of the advisors. Despite being almost fully covered to conceal his appearance, the man’s youthful and unusually healthy face, at least as compared to the emaciation of commoners, was fully visible, the hood of his cloak having fallen, revealing his dull red head of hair and three-days unshaven bristle gracing his jaw and upper lip from lack of attention to such superficial things as appearances.

Another councilman approached the former. Unlike him, this one was obese, balding with traces of black hair on his scalp, and dressed ostentatiously, nearly as much as the king and queen, and in stark contrast to the previous advisor’s plain grey clothing. “Majahual, please be calm. You must understand this is the only way that we can survive through the winter as a people.” His voice grated on the nerves of all present, save the king who was still thoroughly enjoying his apple and paying the proceedings no mind. His was the sort of articulation expected from a person who could speak normally, but had chosen, for whatever reason, to speak in a way with intent to aggravate everyone within hearing range, but despite appearances otherwise, it seemed as though he was truly incapable of speaking more pleasantly, and that he had been cursed with such a voice.

The queen glared at her husband with the twin emotions of anger and jealousy. He enjoyed all the fruits of her labor, while she bore the pain of responsibility. How he could just stand there and gaze into the darkness, while she struggled with these impossible advisors? Every day it was this issue or that issue or perhaps the other issue of a yet-to-be conceived heir. It seemed as though freedom was tantalizingly inches beyond reach, but without fail, every advisor would demand her attention to their quarrels, like base dogs burdening her with meaningless yips and barks.

Rather, only one advisor troubled her at the moment. Despite unanimity amongst the rest, Majahual persisted in dissent. Often had she considered deposing him, but the political system arranged by her own hand dictated that members of the queen’s cabinet retain their position for the duration of the queen’s rule, except in cases of high crime, and not only was Andre Majahual law-abiding, but she had appointed him herself. If nothing else, she would not have her reign marred by corruption. The queen shut her eyes from the world as she kneaded her forehead, ignoring the quarreling councilmen, their voices transforming to mindless squawks of common pigeons as Elizabeth regained her composure.

“Stop,” she nearly shouted, rising from her throne. “That is enough.” Even the king, who had been until that point ignoring the proceedings completely, recognized the command in her voice, turning toward her and acknowledging her command by swallowing painfully the chunk of fruit on which he had been chewing. The court advisors fell silent and still, as their queen’s eyes pierced their own with her steely stare. “Majahual, this is beyond your jurisdiction and beyond your reach. You will abstain from discussing or meddling in this matter.” She stopped here only to glower at him, quelling any protests he may have had. “I approve of the council’s… unanimous decision. The church will by the device by which Zatalia shall thin its numbers. Councilor Corosi,” she added, turning towards the notably obese man. “I trust the delivery of this decree to you. See that it arrives in the hands of your friend, the archbishop, intact, Gousan.”

Andre pointedly stormed out of the audience chamber, visibly fuming with aggravation in such a way that suggested this was exactly the thing he wished to communicate. In contrast, Gousan bowed deeply, exiting the hall with a cursory “Yes, your majesty.” Once the room emptied, Elizabeth collapsed back into her throne, looking thoroughly exhausted by the day’s events.

“Alistor,” she called weakly, looking to her husband still holding a partly eaten apple, “have I done the right thing?” The queen slowly mustered what effort she could to massage her temples, as if trying to rub away the weight of the world from her mind.

Ambling lightly towards his wife, the king spoke calmly and reassuringly. ”Elizabeth, my dear, you always do the right thing.” Alistor took her hands in his and clasped them together, locking eyes with his queen. At once, she felt her worries dissolve. When with Alistor, Elizabeth felt truly at peace, but the dilemmas of the next day were creeping around sunrise, and nothing they did could unchain them from their burdens.