HP: The Servant Queen

The cold stone floor pressed against my body as I shifted, the iron chains rattling like a death knell. My arms, stiff and aching, were bound above me, shackles biting into my bruised wrists. I dared not move too much; every motion sent a jolt of pain through my battered limbs. The damp air of the dungeon clung to my skin, mingling with the scent of mold and decay. I was no longer Genevieve, the royal servant—not in this wretched hole where time was a cruel specter whispering my doom.

I opened my eyes, though the darkness was nearly absolute. A faint sliver of light crept through the barred window high above, casting eerie shadows on the jagged walls. The remains of the royal blue gown hung from my body in tatters, sullied with dirt and blood. It had once been a symbol of Queen Guinevere's status, her dignity. Now, it mocked me, a whisper of the life I had stolen, a life I was forced to take to protect her.

My throat burned with thirst, my lips cracked and parched. Days—weeks, perhaps—without proper drink had left me weak, and yet the fire within me had not been completely extinguished. They had stripped me of everything, but they could not take my will. If I must meet my end today, I would do so with the dignity befitting a queen, even if I was merely a servant girl in disguise.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond my cell. My breath hitched as the heavy iron door groaned open, spilling torchlight into the suffocating gloom. Two guards stepped in, their faces impassive, their armor clanking as they moved. Behind them stood a man clad in crimson and black—the executioner's herald.

"It is time," he intoned, his voice void of emotion.

I forced myself to lift my chin, despite the weight of exhaustion pressing down upon me. They would not see me cower. I had taken the place of Queen Guinevere, a final act of loyalty, and I would walk to my death as she would have—proud, defiant, and unbroken.

As they unshackled me and forced me forward, my mind drifted, unbidden, to the memories of my life—the life that led me here.

I saw myself as a child, running through the castle halls, my tiny feet tapping against polished stone as I chased after my mother, a handmaiden before me. I remembered the smell of fresh linen, the warm scent of bread in the kitchens, the soft laughter of the other servants.

Then I was older, my hands raw from scrubbing, my heart full of quiet dreams. I had admired Guinevere from afar, envying her grace, her effortless beauty. I had always wanted to be like her—how foolish that seemed now.

I recalled the day she summoned me to her chambers, her face pale and troubled. "Genevieve," she had whispered, gripping my hands with trembling fingers. "You must take my place. If you are loyal to me, you will do this. You must."

I had not understood at first. But then Lancelot had emerged from the shadows, his gaze fierce with determination, his arm curled protectively around the woman I had adored. They told me of their love, of their escape, and of the sacrifice that was required. The words still echoed in my mind.

"No one will know," Lady Guinevere had said. "Arthur will never suspect. You will wear my dress, my crown, and if fate asks for it… you will take my punishment."

And I had agreed.

The corridors of the castle were familiar, yet foreign, as they led me to my fate. The scent of morning dew and blooming flowers drifted in through the stone archways—a cruel reminder that life continued beyond my suffering. As we neared the courtyard, the murmuring of the gathered crowd grew louder. They had come to watch their queen perish, unaware that their true queen had already fled into the night with her lover, Lancelot, aided by Merlin's magic.

The sight of the scaffold sent a shiver down my spine, but I clenched my fists to steady myself. A single block of wood, an axe gleaming in the morning sun, and the executioner waiting with his hood drawn low. The murmurs turned to shouts, jeers, and cries, yet I focused only on the sky above—the endless stretch of blue, unmarred by chains or walls.

The priest muttered words of last rites, but I did not hear them. My mind drifted to Guinevere, to the woman I had served faithfully, to the cruel twist of fate that had led me here. 'Would she ever think of me again? Or would she and Lancelot live on in their stolen freedom, never sparing a thought for the girl who died in her stead?'

The guards forced me to my knees. I did not resist. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly, my lips parting in silent prayer—not for mercy, but for strength. A hush fell over the crowd. The executioner raised his axe.

And as the wind caressed my face one final time, I found peace in the knowledge that though my body would fall, the secret I carried would die with me.

'Perhaps in the next life, I could love who I want. I wonder... did she ever realize my feelings for her? Or was he the only thing she saw?'

As the cold metal of the axe sliced through my neck, the last thoughts that passes my mind were...

'Mother was right. Love makes us all a fool.'

---

I awoke submerged.

Water pressed around me, cool and endless, as if the world itself had swallowed me whole. Yet, I did not struggle. My lungs did not burn, nor did my limbs thrash in search of air.

I simply existed, suspended in the depths.

Light danced above me, shifting like rippling silk, casting fluid patterns upon my skin. The weight of the world had been stripped away, leaving only a strange, floating stillness.

Then, from the glow, a figure emerged.

She moved like water itself, her presence both serene and unyielding. Her hair flowed in waves of silver, her gown shimmering like the mist upon the sea. The water did not resist her; it bent to her will, parting gently as she neared.

The Lady of the Lake.

I had heard of her only in whispered rumors from the other servants—of how she had gifted Excalibur to Arthur, of how she had watched over kings and kingdoms from her eternal waters. But never had I imagined she would gaze upon a wretch like me.

Her pale, moonlit eyes studied me, their depths unknowable. Then, she spoke.

"Tell me, young maiden, what is your name?"

Her voice was soft, yet it echoed through the water like a melody I had always known.

I had no reason to answer. No reason to believe this was real. And yet, the words left my lips with certainty.

"Genevieve, my lady. My name is Genevieve."

The Lady's lips curved into something that was neither a smile nor a frown.

"Then you are not the queen of Camelot."

It was not a question.

A shudder ran through me, though the water did not chill. I should have denied it, should have clung to the lie that had been my undoing. But in this place, where the weight of deception could not reach me, I had no reason to continue the masquerade.

"No," I whispered. "I am not."

She lifted a hand, her fingers trailing through the water, and suddenly, I felt light. The cold grip of death slipped from my throat, the phantom ache of iron shackles erased from my skin. I had not noticed the remnants of my suffering until they were gone, as though they had never existed at all.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I breathed. Not through lungs, but through something deeper, more intrinsic—through the water, through the airless expanse around me.

The Lady tilted her head, considering me as if I were a puzzle yet unsolved.

"How strange," she murmured. "Not many who die return to my waters. Fewer still with their will unbroken."

I could not speak. What was there to say? That I had not wished for this fate? That I had resigned myself to death only to awaken here? Was this mercy? A second chance? Or simply another trick of the gods?

Her gaze did not waver. There was no pity in her expression, only an understanding that unsettled me, as though she could see into the marrow of my soul.

Then, she extended a hand.

"How would you like to be my apprentice? It has been far too long since I taught a young one magic."

I stared at her outstretched fingers, the offer lingering in the stillness between us.

Magic.

The word alone sent a tremor through me, a stirring in the depths of my being that I could not explain. I had been a servant, a shadow cast in the light of nobility. I had taken a queen's place and walked to my death with dignity. But never—not once—had I imagined a future beyond that scaffold.

The Lady's expression remained unreadable, but there was patience in her waiting. She did not demand. She did not command. She simply offered.

I had been denied many things in my life. Freedom. Love. A name that was truly my own. But now, in this place beyond death, I was given something I had never been granted before.

A choice.

My fingers trembled as I reached out, pressing my palm against hers. A ripple spread through the water, not seen, but felt, as if the very fabric of the lake had shifted in recognition.

"Yes," I breathed. "Teach me."

The Lady of the Lake smiled, and the water embraced me once more.