December; 12 months after The Start of The End

The White Rabbit died on a Tuesday. The morning was cold at his funeral, with many mourners shivering in the mist. The city lay in a perpetual twilight; great trees above cast an infinite shadow over the ruined streets. On either side of the last remaining thoroughfare the citizens huddled together, mandated to be present. They looked on as the procession passed; foreign nobles of distant lands walking in solemn silence. Ambassadors of nations, emissaries of deities, vassals and leaders of fiefdoms aplenty came to pay their final respects. A rainbow of banners flowed like water down the broken road, medals glinted on the uniforms of officers, and for a day of sorrow much color was present.

As the procession marched down the street, they neared a large platform built at the last remaining intersection. In the center of the platform the Red Queen sat watching, flanked on either side by guards in their finest parade dress. The column reached the platform and stopped, while the pallbearers walked up a flight of stairs to the elevated surface. They laid the coffin before the Queen, whose gaze appeared cold and uncaring. Her guards stood stoically in place, and she stared at the box in silent contempt. One by one the delegations of the procession stepped forward; they moved identically: climbing the small stairs to the platform, averting their eyes out of respect, and bowing to the queen and the dead. Many laid flowers upon the coffin; bouquets of red roses, the White Rabbit’s favorite. Few words if any were said, before each party moved on. The affair had a rehearsed deference; while the White Rabbit’s role garnered a state level funeral, few actually knew the man. Those that had had differing opinions, with the only agreement being his perpetual tardiness.

A commotion arose in the back of the crowd, and the people began to mutter. Eyes darted backwards, where the end of the line was parting in great haste. Whispers arose in the huddled masses: he was here. The King of Ghosts. The Ruler of the Burnt Halls. The Survivor of the Weeping Plague. Amongst the citizenry, dangerous eyes glinted back in curiosity. Rare was he seen straying from the Ashen Throne.

The parting reached the front of the procession, and the Golden Stag emerged from the rainbow of banners. His face was stoic and silent, and the crowd inched back from his presence. Slowly he walked the stairs, step by step, until he found himself before the coffin. The Red Queen shifted in her seat, staring intently at the figure. He was wearing the traditional attire of his realm; a golden antler crown and a well fitted robe of brown. Golden leaf filigree danced in a diagonal line across his chest, and he wore the ceremonial black gloves and dagger of his people. His right hand held a single white rose, and his expression was inscrutable.

The Stag sank down to one knee, bowed his head, and placed his left hand upon the coffin. He muttered something indecipherable, then rose to his feet. He placed the white rose upon the glossy black surface of the White Rabbit’s box, then raised his head and looked directly at the Red Queen. There was a hardness in his eyes, staring deep into the depths of her soul. The Stag turned away, and looked outwards at the people gathered. He observed them for a moment, embracing their silence and baited breath. Finally he spoke, his voice ringing through the streets.

“Here lies the monster who murdered my people.” The Stag said, “Herald of the Queen, stained in blood.”

The Stag glanced over at the Red Queen, and locked eyes with her again. “As he was late in life, so am I late in death.”

The Stag noted her nervous guards, who had frozen at the impromptu speech. One of them quivered slightly, while another slowly reached towards the pistol on his hip. The Stag winked at the guard reaching for his weapon, who looked back in confusion.

Faster than they could blink the Golden Stag moved, setting himself upon them. The guard who had been drawing his weapon found himself flying off the platform, the recipient of a front kick too fast to see. With a practiced speed the second guard found himself also flying; he had received a side kick from the same leg. Shouts range from the crowd, and the sound of rifles being cocked at once came from the delegations. The Golden Stag turned and drew his knife, pressing the blade against the Red Queen’s neck. He looked outwards and saw a dozen honor guards training their weapons on him, slowly moving towards the stage. His eyes glanced down at the Queen, who was completely unfazed. She glanced up with the same cold expression, and a moment of understanding passed between them.

The Stag looked outwards a final time. His eyes locked with an elderly man deep within the crowd. He was disheveled in his appearance, filthy from exposure, and had a tattered eye patch over one eye. The man looked almost sorrowful, and the Stag moved his gaze away.”I avenge the Woodland Realm.” The Golden Stag rapidly moved the knife across the Queen’s throat and the silence was shattered by the sounds of screaming. The Queen reached up to her throat subconsciously, breaking the facade as blood flowed out of the gash. She fell forward off of her throne and onto her knees, coloring the stage the same shade as her dress. She rolled onto her side, and what little light existed within her faded from her eyes.

The Red Queen died on a Wednesday.

AUTHORS NOTE:

Mythpunk - A subgenre of mythic fiction that starts in folklore and myth and adds elements of postmodernist literary techniques. (Source: Wiktionary).

This story blends numerous mythologies, American Folklore, Ghosts Stories, and was originally started on Kindle Vella before it's untimely demise (RIP). This type of story is not optimized for nor common on serial fiction sites, nor really any form of publication prominent in current literature. I've been fascinated for a long time with Mythopoeia and Mythpunk tales, and I'm hoping that this story (and others) can help to grow the genre as a whole. It is also available on Wattpad, Tapas, Ream, Royal Road, and Inkitt; I’m excited to try writing here on KoalaQuill and seeing how it goes! I write my first draft of this story offline, so if the writing time looks unusual in comparison to the reading time, that’s why.

This story is a slow burn mystery, and features numerous deep dives into the mythos its based on. Its lore is complicated, and it features a lot of time jumps and dramatic encounters. What occurs is not immediately apparent, as many mysteries shroud the Death of the White Rabbit, and the destruction of the Woodland Realm. If all of this appeals to you, then read on. I'll try to post 1 episode a week.

Next episode takes place 6 months after The Start of The End