Rattlesnakeskin

The city had known peace for a century past. Under the watchful and gracious heart of the motherhood, the dominion had flourished in their democracy, bringing prosperity and hope to the newly migrated population. Women far across the realms had created a sanctuary, building the blocks on which their daughters and sons would stand.

Yet still, as nature might predict, the animal in fear is the most malicious of them all. Haunted by visions of betrayal, her fury led her to commit a heinous act: she murdered them, the usurpers, in their lover’s sleep.

The gods had punished her jealousy with a thousand hisses—a replacement for the kisses she so desired. And in her hurt, tainted by rejection, she sought other means of self-gratification. She, she alone, would rule. Vulnerability, by ancient lore, holds the propensity to gather terrifying strength.

And so it became.

She claimed the throne. Her red river ran the city blood-dry, taking what it could to feed its insatiable hunger. The sirens were slain in the battle of the triad. All temptresses devoured. He had told her of the ancient prophecy that would give power to venom. She was chosen. The one. It had been foretold on ancient walls, inscribed in stone. She was the prophetess of the sundial cycle.

And she would become.

The catalyst, a magician’s soundbite used in times of need. For he was the sun destiny.

Her jealousy made her a suitable fool, a device destined to rule the once desecrated land. But venom flowed within the river, a deeper onyx than her hair. Protected with spying eyes beyond the vision of a stagnant but vicious curl. The cruelty of men had made her mean. But she did not know the cruelty of man. Not yet. But a taste of it had made her a bitter hissing tongue. Weak. A perfect target. Reactionary and hurt. Vulnerable.

The plan was simple thus. The matriarchy would fall. Turn woman on woman. Such a trick. A trivial feat for one as powerful as he.

Make them hate.

He hadn’t had to do much, really, not in the way of magic. It wasn’t hard. He didn’t even have to use his wand; a word here, a stream of whispers there, he waited.

Jealousy is a ventricle of the heart.

Just a matter of time. And he was a patient man. There was time enough.

And they turned. No stone unturned. The bitch. The witch. The child killer. The snake-eyed fool.

The red river swallowed her whole in a ritual to rid the broken land of her broken soul. They burned her in her own crimson water.

And it came to pass, Merlin took his place. The master. The lord of the newfound land. Marking the dawn of patriarchy.