SCARS OF THE SOUL

The courtier entered the Queen's sitting room, carrying a velvet bag. His hair was white, his gait reluctant. 

"Ah, you're here," said the young monarch. "Leave us," she told everyone around her. When they were finally alone, she asked him, "Did you bring it?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," he answered, opening the bag. From it, he removed an old whip.

"Is that the whip you used to appease my father's soul with?" asked the Queen.

The old courtier considered the dark, leathery, punishing serpent in his hands. "Yes, Your Majesty." He hesitated, then the words escaped him, like an unintended miserere: "You're asking me to punish you, Your Majesty, but all you did was order a traitor to be put to death. We all know what your cousin was about to do. What else could Your Majesty have done?"

The Queen shook her head, her stare lost beyond the tall windows. "Does that lessen my transgression?" she asked. "Does it soothe his children's heartache?"

The old courtier lowered his gaze.

"I believe my father was right," the Queen said. "I can either endure this ache in my body or stow it in my soul. I think outward scars are healthier. Don't you?"

The man pondered for a brief moment, then nodded.

"Good," said the Queen. "Ten lashes, please."

As the old courtier raised the whip, he trembled.

The Queen did not.