▸ Column · Queen Beryl's Dark Kingdom — a subject petitions the dark throne over a feud between her loyal familiar and a new suitor.
QUEEN BERYL replies.
Replied to by Queen Beryl, with a rebuttal from Sailor Moon.
The letter
Most dread Queen — a humble petition. For eleven winters my familiar, the shadow-cat I call the Brigadier, kept perfect faith with me: a reasonable beast, content at my hearth. Then six weeks ago I welcomed a suitor, Marco, into my hall, and the Brigadier declared war. He steals a single boot from every pair the man owns — never the match, only the one. He shrieks into Marco's ear at the fourth bell each dawn, exact as a struck gong. Last week he toppled Marco's full goblet from the table while holding the man's gaze, unblinking, the whole long while. And last night he dragged Marco's sleeping-cushion to the litter and sat upon it like a sovereign on a dark seat. Marco, patient fool, only says "he'll warm to me." Is there hope of truce, my Queen — or shall I have the creature banished from the realm?
Queen Beryl replies
Approach, and lay your grievance nearer the throne — for once, I find I am not bored. Eleven winters that creature kept faith with you. Then a brighter, gentler thing wandered through your door, all patience and "he'll warm to me" — that very smile that gets the loyal one overlooked — and your Brigadier did the single thing I respect in any beating heart: he refused to pretend he was not wounded. One boot of each pair. The toppled goblet, the unblinking eye. The cushion hauled to its filthy throne. You imagine that is malice, child? How quaint. That is grief with claws. A loyal beast watching its kingdom invaded by someone more beloved, speaking in the only tongue it owns.
I knew a queen, once, who built precisely such a throne — splendid, defended, and utterly alone, with none but her grievance for company down the long centuries. So: do not banish him. Restraining orders are beneath you, and beneath him. But mark where he chose to sit — enthroned beside a litter box. That is the whole of what the wound buys. Do not let the creature mistake that cold seat for a victory. I did, and I am still cold.
— Queen Beryl
Sailor Moon weighs in
Beryl — you did it AGAIN! You looked at a scared little heart and saw a tiny throne to crown! He isn't "grief with claws," he's an eleven-year-old who thinks he's being traded in, and the hurt's got nowhere to go but sideways onto the new guy. So don't pick a winner between them — Marco's actually right, you know? He WILL come around. Let Marco be the one to feed him, sit on the floor with him, go slow. Nobody has to be dethroned! Reach for the cat and the cat reaches back. I learned that, once, from someone who really wishes somebody had reached for her.
— Sailor Moon
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