Why? Did you think I’d forget?

My hand wandered in thought. It always did. Whenever I was deep in thought, it would stray to this perfectly straight line of freckles that ran down from my temple to just bellow my eye. A burst of frustration surged through my veins. I was now 16 years of age, or at least it looked that way. I was actually 2000 years old, or I had been until my old right-hand man had tried to kill me with a magic laced silver dagger.

You see I’m a fairy and it’s rather difficult to kill me. Over my 2000 years of life, I have collected lots of magic and old long forgotten charms to protect me as the reigning monarch of the Land of the Forgotten. Mortal weapons have no effect on me, mythical and demonic beasts all respect and obey me, iron normally effects fairies but doesn’t affect me to the same extent due to my half mortal blood (just gives me a nasty headache), and I have all sorts of wards to protect me against elemental magic. The only thing that could possibly kill me are old silver relics laced with the destructive magic of the Old Mages who died for the relics and pored their life source into the items, but even then I just reawaken at the age of 13, which is really irritating cause I have to train and become stronger again and the whole dying temporarily thing is painful and an exhausting process to go through.

Grinding my teeth and dropping my arm as HE walked in, I thought angrily, “If you’re going to take my kingdom from me and kill me at least do it correctly. “

I wasn’t a bad ruler. My right-hand man was a greedy pig and thought he could take it from me when we had finally achieved peace for the Forgotten. Bastard.

He now sat on the ancient throne of the Forgotten, MY throne, the throne that had been in my family for centuries. He sat on it with his large wine belly, chubby face, grubby hands and his piggish eyes dancing with delight as he ogled the handmaidens. Glaring from under my hooded cloak I stood silent as all servants who waited on the king should. I was only a cup bearer, but it gave me full access to his drink so I could lace the wine or whatever drink had taken his fancy that week with magic.

Standing there I thought of why I had kept him on as my right-hand man, even when I had known he was a greedy pig, the reason being he had a knack for getting into places he wasn’t meant to be and more importantly I thought I had owed it to his brother, High heavens hold him in his eternal slumber, to look after the oaf. Now he has stolen my throne, has made my people suffer at his chubby greedy paws and I now must be one of his servants to get close enough to slowly curse his soul for all eternity and eventually duel him for the throne as the honourable thing would be to do!

Glee like a kid getting away with a successful cookie jar heist rushed through me as I thought of how much I’m going to enjoy making him pay for my peoples suffering at his hands and his outrageous spending of resources. The land was almost destroyed because of him and his greed.

Month in and month out I kept serving him, slowly, bit by bit lacing his drinks with subtle traces of magic that he would be too drunk to notice.

Month in and month out I trained and trained, from dusk till dawn, I trained until my hands were raw.

Month in and month out I spread stories of a challenger arising to challenge the Pig King.

Month in and month out I won the peoples favour secretly, promising them vengeance and the payment due to them for their suffering.

Month in and month out he grew more paranoid and became harsher with his punishments and depleted more resources trying to win the favour of the nobles.

Month in and month out the people started rebelling.

And then, the silver dagger was stolen, and a challenge was demanded of the king. In an intoxicated state he accepted the challenge and rashly announced that it would be held at the next high moon, in the ancient amphitheatre of the Old Ones. High moon was in 3 days. The dumb oaf had just signed and sealed his own life away and had it presented to me on a silver plate.

Paranoid and frantic he tried to gain back the strength he’d lost over a long 50 years of feasting and drinking. He frantically paced away those 3 days, searching for a way out.

Day 1 was paced away with all of 15mins of battle prep that ended in hunched over gasps and fits of coughing.

Day 2 was paced away as they searched for a willing mage to put a spell on the king to de-age him. They came up empty handed.

And day 3 was paced away in a fit of wheezes, coughs and failed training attempts all to end with him finding the most outlandishly decorated and covering armour and drinking the night away until the sun dawned on the challenge day.

As he walked into the arena the crowd roared with displeasure. Almost the whole kingdom had gathered to watch his downfall. Across from him I stood, standing in my silver cloak, hood concealing my identity, my traditional war paint smeared on my cheekbones and high pointed ears. Even without the symbol of my war paint that only I wore and the family sword that hung at my hip completely concealed by the cloak everyone in the kingdom would recognise me. Their old queen. The moment I removed the cloak I would watch his face fall and go snow white with fear for he thinks his worst nightmare lies cold and dead 3ft under, the bastard couldn’t even bury me properly.

The horns blare, the crowds roar and the old arena came alive again for the 1st time in almost 2100 years. His hand goes to his horrendously and grossly over decorated sword and he charges. I glide easily away. "He’s lost his touch," I think to myself as he almost trips and falls when he meets no resistance to his charge.

Smirking I grip the very dagger he tried to kill me with, still hidden from my cloak and my identity still concealed. He swings round and charges again. Without turning around, I dodge with the grace gifted to me through my ancient blood. I find a tiny gap in his armour. I slice. Nobody sees it until he grunts, falls to a knee and brings his hand to the wound to find blood seeping out. Turning around his boring brown eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open flabbergasted. The crowd is silent, nobody knows how I did it. Smiling wickedly, I whip my cloak off and let it fly with the wind. All the blood drains from his face as he looks at me. Healthy, young, strong, alive and brimming with the fury of all the monarchs who governed the beautiful Land of the Forgotten before me.

The crowd goes wild. Smirking, I’m in front of him in a second. Dagger to his throat I whisper for only him to hear fear making my words harsh and full of dark humour, “Why? Did you think I forgot? After all these years. She must have forgotten the anger from my betrayal. She can’t possibly burn with fury still. She would understand. Right? Think again.” And with that I ended his miserable existence and burnt his body as we do with traitors and not as I would have my right-hand man. I would say sorry to his brother when I do meet him on the other side but until then I will reign as monarch of the Forgotten and wear the birthmark from the wound that almost killed me, as a warning to all those who try to hurt the Forgotten ones and dare go against their Queen.