Below is a piece of creative writing that earned me a university issued award. Enjoy. Or don't. I don't care.

Queen Helena couldn’t explain where the thought had come from other than it had taken residence in her mind months ago. But tonight, it rose like a violent wave threatening to flood over the dam. She pressed a hand to her swollen belly and exhaled, trying to connect with the little heartbeat growing inside her. It did nothing to relieve the tightness in her chest as thunder lit up the sky, casting flashes of bright lines within the cluster of dark clouds above. It illuminated the arched window pane, reflecting Helena’s image more clearly.  

The capital below was vast. The cobblestone streets of Catalan typically teemed with merchants, with whores beckoning customers forth with the curl of their fingers, with fire dancers lighting up the streets.

But tonight, everyone had retreated inside.

As Helena traced the runic tattoos along her inner arm, a rap came at her chamber door. The Queen of Astaroth straightened her spine.

“Enter,” she proclaimed, commanding an air of queenly superiority. The squeak of ancient hinges reverberated around the expansive room, echoing off its high stone walls. Leather shoes shuffled along the oakwood floor shortly after. A pause. 

"King Ennar summons you to the House of Branagh, Your Grace. He wishes to speak alone.”

The temple of the DarkMother, where they exchanged their vows. 

 “At this hour?” Helena queried, frowning to no one in particular. 

Gwyneth nodded, clasping her hands in front of her. 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Ennar was a pious man, devoting time to prayer morning, noon and night. But he’d never called on her to partake in worship with him. “I find I am able to connect more deeply with Her in solitude,” he’d told her. 

Helena turned around, her features hardening. 

“What is it that he cannot wait to speak with me upon his return? He requires his pregnant wife to make the journey instead of taking rest?” 

The handmaiden gave her Queen an apologetic frown. “The King did not say, Your Grace.”

Helena held Gwyneth’s gaze momentarily before turning back to the window. 

“Thank you, Gwyneth,” she said. “You may go.” 

With the briefest bow of her head, the handmaiden turned to leave. Helena released a deep breath and gazed back out the window. Her eyes found the dark corner of the castle across the way, where the House of Branagh was situated. The darkness stared back. Helena lifted her chin, shut the sapphire curtains, and grabbed her cloak. 

Emerging from her chamber, lantern in hand, she began down the marble hallway. The clank of armour followed immediately after.

“Do not follow,” Helena commanded.

“I cannot do that, Your Grace,” Ser Darwin countered politely, the sound of metal growing louder as he tried to keep pace with her. 

“I am ordering you not to follow me,” Helena pushed.

“I am afraid my sacred oath does not allow me to obey such a command.” 

“So you would disobey your Queen.” 

“I would never disobey my Queen, but protecting the crown is my sacred duty. You carry the future King. If you fall, or hurt yourself—” 

 “Do not insult me any further by calling me careless,” Helena scoffed. “If I weren’t so fond of you, I’d have you beheaded.” 

Ser Darwin nodded curtly. “As is Her Grace’s right. I simply do not believe it safe nor wise for Her Grace to go alone.” 

“Ser Darwin, who could possibly bring me harm within the safety of the castle?”

“Well—"

“Do you mean to say that the Royal Guard demonstrates incompetency in their duties to maintain palace security?”

“Not at all, Your Grace.” 

Helena turned, giving him a curt smile that didn’t meet her eyes. 

“Very well, then. I’ll be on my way.” 

Ser Darwin stepped forward, hands folded neatly behind him. 

“As you wish. I will accompany my Queen, even if she decides to execute me afterwards.” 

 “Your dedication to noble virtue is nauseating.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace.” 

Helena released an exasperated sigh, starting down the hallway again with quicker strides, her cloak hissing behind her against the tiles. 

“Your Grace!” he called. “Please—"

“Ser Darwin!” Helena snapped, coming to a halt as she turned to meet him. She brought a hand up between them, her palm facing outwards, and the knight almost collided with her as he brought himself to an abrupt stop. 

“Stop following me,” she commanded again. 

Ser Darwin’s face fell as he noted the look she gave him. Her dark brows were creased, her jaw set tight. He closed his mouth, studying her face for a few moments, and said nothing as he bowed his head. 

Helena’s glower lingered on him momentarily before she continued down the marble hallway. The palace atrium led her to the courtyard, where a colonnade connected the castle with the House of Branagh. It had taken her to an area of open grass shaped like a half-moon. Helena craned her neck, taking in the limestone structure that towered before her. 

Statues of women with membranous wings glared down at her from the roof, their mouths open in silent battle cries evincing abnormally long canines, and there was an overgrowth of lichen bursting from the temple’s crevices. Like an infection spreading from within. Helena skittered down the cobblestone path towards the arched double doors. Leaning her body weight into the heavy wood, she pried them open to find the temple engulfed in darkness. Her heart sank into the pit of her stomach.  

It is a requirement for Branagh’s Flame to remain alight, but the torch had been extinguished. Lifeless shadow took residence in place of the embers often seen lashing skyward. Helena lifted her lantern higher as she slowed. 

Branagh’s statue rose from the centre of the temple, an overflowing goblet in one hand and a double-edged dagger in the other. Ennar was there, kneeling before the goddess in silence.

“Husband?” Helena called warily. “You sent for me?” 

“Helena,” Ennar responded. “Come.” 

Helena drew nearer, footsteps echoing off the high walls as she came to her husband’s side.

“Ennar!” she cried, setting the lantern down as she snatched the tapered candle clasped between his hands. Thick layers of wax had hardened on the back them, leaving the surrounding skin red. The candle was nearly as its dregs, and Helena wondered how long he’d been holding it. 

She hissed as the melted wax dribbled onto her fingers, placing the candle in its holder on the altar before taking Ennar’s hands in hers. 

“You’re burnt, my King. What in Branagh’s name were you thinking?” she scolded.

 “I am not hurt,” he said flatly. 

Helena opened her mouth to counter, but when he turned his head to look at her, fear spread like a blight from her centre as blood flushed to the roots of her hair. 

Ennar’s face. His face.

His under eyes were the hue of bruised purple, once tan skin now a sickly grey, his eyes yellow and goat-like. Helena drew a sharp breath and stumbled away, scanning his face with worried urgency like she was looking for something. Looking for him. Then at last, she made a declaration.

“You are not my husband.” 

Ennar, or this false Ennar, said nothing. He just stared her, expression unchanging as his limbs began to stretch. Helena could hear his bones crack sickeningly to accommodate for his growing size. And then it was towering over her. 

A mass of grey-black skin and bone and atrophied muscle. Shadows clustered closely around it, misty darkness flowing over its hideous face. 

“What…are you?” Helena breathed. 

“I am carnivore incarnate,” it crooned. “I am the creature carved on the wall.”

It’s voice was all wrong, like shrieking metal, like a thousand voices hissing at once. It’s mouth was a black hole that simply moved as it spoke. 

“I am the Slätyr,” it continued, elongating the end of each sentence. “Marquis of the Flesh.” 

Tales of the Slätyr assuming the appearance of people’s loved ones were widespread across the realm, told to scare children into behaving. Helena wasn’t a child, though. And the beast was no longer confined to words on a page. 

“Where is Ennar? Where is my husband?” she roared. 

The beast moved its hand swiftly, and every torch and candle came alive with black flames emitting a strange, white glow. The otherworldly light illuminated the room, and then it pointed a taloned finger to the ceiling. 

“Up.” 

Helena’s heart thundered, threatening to burst from her ribcage as she craned her neck to look skyward. Something between a shriek and a sob tore from her throat as she beheld her husband. 

Ennar was pinned to the ceiling, wooden stakes lodged in his flesh like needles in a poppet. His limbs had been broken in a thousand different ways, his eyes dead and staring. 

He’d been exsanguinated. Drained to the very dregs. 

Helena almost crumpled to the ground, the tendons in her neck straining as she screamed up at him.  

“He wanted to meet his goddess so badly, so I sent him to her,” the Slätyr said casually. “I took something for myself, too. His is not an unpleasant face to wear. That handmaiden of yours was smitten with me, or him, rather.” 

Helena drew her eyes from Ennar’s corpse, her sobs tearing through her in waves as she growled. 

“You will pay for his blood with yours.” 

The Slätyr made a horrible sound Helena supposed was a laugh. 

“I do not bleed,” it said as it closed the space between them. Helena didn’t like that one bit, so she turned on her heel and ran like hell. She could see the thunder setting the world alight outside, the downpour it illuminated. 

Then the doors slammed shut, and the world was gone. Helena gasped as she came to a halt, almost falling forward in the process. She turned to look at The Slätyr. It was taking leisurely steps towards her, clearly in no rush to eat. 

“After I drink you dry, I will don your bronze skin,” it taunted loudly. “I will wear your bistre eyes like jewels.”

Helena examined her surroundings, sending silent prayers to Branagh to save her. To do anything at all. But then a cold finger pressed against her chin and forced her to look up. 

Tendrils of shadow wrapped around her, squeezing tight as they lifted her off the ground. The creature’s maw opened wide to reveal an endless black throat. 

“Caught you,” the Slätyr crooned, twirling a lock of her black hair around its finger. And suddenly Helena’s skin was wet. Her linen nightgown grew damp as the smell of copper filled the air and the space between them became hazy with crimson mist. 

It was drawing her blood through her pores. 

Helena thrashed like a fish caught, but as it indulged in her, fattening itself on her vitality, the terror on Helena’s face slowly dissipated while she watched it feed. 

The Slätyr pulled away to find the Queen of Astaroth smiling. 

A terrible shriek of pain pierced the air as it dropped her and scrambled away. It bent over and retched, Helena’s blood hitting the ground in nauseating slaps.

“Burns, doesn’t it? Like fire made liquid.”  

“You…” it hissed. “Your blood tastes like Dain Endymion’s.” 

Dain the Cruel, First King of Astaroth. Helena’s oldest ancestor. 

“I only needed to play mouse long enough for you to drink it.”

“How does it burn?” it coughed. 

“I suspect it might have something to do with these,” Helena said. 

The runes along her arms glowed white. A low growl vibrated in the creature’s throat. 

“Fróðleikr,” it hissed. “I’m going the tear the babe from your womb and hang you both from the castle walls,” it growled. The creature tilted its head and pointed at her. “I am fear personified, and you will die screaming.” 

"You are not fear,” Helena declared. “I have seen fear, and you look nothing like it.”

“And what did it look like, witch-queen?” it snapped. 

“It looked like me,” she said. 

And with the simple wave of her hand, The Slätyr fell to its knees. 

It strained against the pull of her power in a series of shrieks and hisses. Helena placed her hands on either side of its head. 

“Do not touch me,” it spat. “I rid myself of your blood. You shouldn’t be able to do this.”

“You may have retched like a drunkard outside a tavern, but it wasn’t enough.”  

“You will not survive what will come if you kill me,” it said urgently. 

Helena pressed her hand over its mouth. 

“Stop talking.” 

The runes grew hot on her skin as her hands began to glow, and then power bursted from her palm, bright and silver. It filled the Slätyr’s skull. There were no screams as its head separated from its neck, it’s body slumping towards the ground. The shadows it commanded disappeared into nothing, no longer hiding its malnourished form from sight. 

Helena burned the Slätyr from the inside out. 

She held it’s severed head, watching the smoke that wafted from its eye sockets. 

And tossed it to the side.