Again.
She immediately understood where she was. A warm, soft featherbed, heavy curtains, the muted morning light filtering through carved shutters... The royal bedroom.
-Well, hello, new day,-she muttered.
There was something interesting. Every time she faced death, testing the courtiers, the servants, and the knights by showing herself in an unflattering, to say the least, light, she noticed that the language of the people around her became more understandable. Drop by drop, letter by letter, the words started forming clear shapes.
The maid entered and habitually babbled her gibberish. She suddenly raised an eyebrow. Something in her mumbling sounded... familiar. Not entirely, of course. But a few words, she seemed to catch.
-What did you just say?... "The queen has risen"? Or "slipped"? Well, either way, it suits me...
The maid froze, not understanding, but a shadow of anxiety appeared on her face.
-Don't panic. I won't scream, I won't jump out the window, and I won't hit a knight with a dish thinking he's a demon. Almost promise. But the maid ran out again.
So many deaths had passed that her brain had begun adjusting to the local cacophony on its own. Now in their language, she caught something... Greek? Or sly Elvish? In any case, it was a damned mix.
When she grew tired of dying, she listened to the conversations around her. Death had already become like work and even work needed breaks sometimes.
She carefully stepped into the corridor, casually eavesdropping on the conversation between two guards.
-ʋøηα ʂκʋζʌ ϯøʐʋʋ… ʋøηα ʂøϲʋʌʈʋʌ ʌ ϯɛηιʌ…
She blinked. Then, aloud, with the tone of a victor:
-"She is whispering with the shadows again!" Ha! Aha, aha! I knew that "ʂøϲʋʌʈʋʌ" meant to whisper! Or... to pick at something? Whatever. Progress!
She did not wait for her executioners, and when she decided to hang herself from the canopy rope, she noticed the painting.
It hung high, in a massive, gilded, ornate frame. At first glance, it seemed merely decorative, part of the interior. But if you kept your gaze on it, the air around it seemed to change.
He was looking at her. No, through her.
With an expression that suggested he saw more than he should.
Tall. Sharp-featured... beautiful, like something carved from marble, but not without warmth. A straight nose, narrow lips, a shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The eyes... The eyes were the strangest. Gray, with a metallic sheen, like steel before tempering. Cold. Honest. Dangerous. They seemed to pierce straight through, dragging out everything hidden inside. His hair was light, tousled, like a warrior's after battle. He wore a cloak, rich, but not gaudy. A calm strength emanated from his entire figure. And... loneliness. Strange, lingering, like an old scar. She moved closer, as if something invisible pulled her forward. A dusty sunbeam touched the gilded carving of the frame. Somewhere at the bottom, letters gleamed, carved in an old language, yet now somehow readable.
"King Theodor Raimund de Lancy."
The name rang in her ears. She didn't know why, but when she read it, goosebumps ran down her skin. Because of something about to happen.
King.
She didn't know him. But her heart responded. Beating faster.
As if it remembered something her mind did not.
She simply narrowed her eyes and whispered to herself:
-So that's who you are. His Majesty, Theodor Raimund de Lancy. Mhm, cute.- And she slipped her head into the noose.
She woke up. Once again.
Her body twitched out of habit, her fingers clutched the sheet spasmodically, her throat ached again, as if she had been strangled, burned, cut and then all of it played backward.
She would have liked to say she was surprised, amazed, horrified...
But no. Nothing.
She didn't understand what she was supposed to fight for anymore.
In all her countless deaths, she still hadn't found her son.
Tears welled up in her eyes. She bit her lip to keep from bursting into sobs, but inside everything shrank, howled.
-Where are you?..,- she whispered into the emptiness, into the same darkness that returned her again and again.
There was no answer.
This time, she didn't even move. Her eyes opened out of habit, not desire. The same ceiling. The canopy. The ornate ceiling patterns. Indecently rich. Around her, polished luxury that made her want to spit.
-"Why?- she whispered into the pillow. -What am I supposed to understand? What mistake am I supposed to fix? How much longer?
Silence. Only her own breathing and even that sounded hesitant, as if it, too, had grown tired of trying. She pulled the blanket over her head. Tight, heavy, embroidered. It smelled of lavender and someone else's life. She wanted simply to disappear. To dissolve into the fabric. To not move. To not speak. To not resist. Enough. Let this world decide for itself what to do with me. I'm not participating anymore. She curled up into a ball, like a child.
She slept for a long time. Whenever someone entered her room, she simply lay in the same pose, as if she had never awakened.
When darkness filled the room, sleep no longer came to meet her.
Her hand slid listlessly across the mattress. Under her fingers, not fabric, not a seam. Something hard, slightly catching at her skin. She leaned forward, frowning. Her heart fluttered just a little, like an old radio catching a faint signal.
"-What?- her brows knitted slightly. Had that been there before?
She pulled the object out. A leather cover. Worn, with gold embossing. A small lock, not closed. Barely visible initials on the cover: B. L.
She sat up. Slowly. For the first time that day. She opened the first page. The line was written in elegant script, but the letters danced wildly, as if from a trembling hand:
"2nd day after the wedding."
"He didn't even look at me on the first night.
Everyone watched. But not him.
My 'husband.' My 'king.'
He stared at the wine.
I was never the one people chose."
"15th day after the wedding."
"Today Theodor forgot breakfast again. I reminded him through the guards. They were horrified. Let them be."
Her lips trembled slightly. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but too feminine, too… familiar. She flipped further. Personal entries, sharp, with a tone of pain, contempt, and something else… loneliness?
"30th day after the wedding."
"My mother said I must be a blessing for my husband. I chose to be a curse. It's safer that way."
The pages creaked. Inside - life.
"39th day after the wedding."
"They call me Beatrice de Lancy. Queen. Wife. But I am just a shadow on the throne. Be silent, Beatrice they say. Speak beautifully. Speak little. Say only what they need."
Her throat tightened. She reread it again. And again. It was her voice. Not her current voice, but still hers. Strange and familiar at once.
-So that's who you are," she whispered. Me?
And at that moment, the blanket no longer felt like shelter.
It felt like a shroud. She threw it off. Stood up. And for the first time in a long time, she felt alive.
-So... I...-Beatrice opened the next page.
"101st day after the wedding."
"They said I should be grateful. Grateful that I was chosen. Grateful that I would become Queen. Grateful that now I am an ornament to the throne, and not just the daughter of a forgotten duke."
The ink on some lines was smudged. She traced her finger over them, as if over someone else's tears.
"109th day after the wedding."
"But I wanted something else. I wanted to live. I wanted to breathe. I wanted to write poetry and eat with my hands in the garden. I wanted to wake not to the sound of bells, but to birdsong, to sunlight scattered on the sheets. I wanted... to be myself. Today, I lost the child. They are all angry at me. I am angry at myself. That child was supposed to be the crown of happiness... I had hoped."
Beatrice quickly turned to the next entry. It was short.
"200th day after the wedding."
"Maybe I really am unworthy.
Maybe I am just an extra in this crown.
If I disappear... will anyone even care?"
She closed the diary. Slowly. As if it were alive. The blanket was still nearby. It would be so easy to disappear under it again. But now she knew whose body she carried. Whose pain she felt. And whose fate she repeated. Her head ached terribly. If I am here, it means she is not. Fact. Not a conclusion, not a guess. Just the only logical outcome.
Beatrice. The king's wife. Unhappy. Married by command. It seemed she had been broken. Or she had disappeared herself when she realized there was no other way out. And then... I appeared. So my appearance wasn't an accident. Not a "second chance". I'm just a replacement. Technically. Functionally. To fill the void in the system.
But the system isn't mine. The rules aren't mine. The people don't know me. And I don't know what they want. Two options remain:
Either try to blend in, or do nothing at all. For now, the second option sounded more honest.
With new thoughts, she went back to bed.