With a quick slit of her knife, the oyster opened, revealing the tender meat inside. Taking just the slightest moment to savor the sight of the vulnerable, exposed treat, she quickly sucked it from its shell, enjoying the raw taste and texture. It was good. Expensive. A meal fit for a Queen. Then, she placed the shell aside and grabbed another, only to be interrupted by the sound of a door opening.

Looking up, she saw two men. One, enormous, with a great red mane of hair, a giant paw clapped on the other man's shoulder. They couldn't seem to be more different. The first, a lion Faunus, was a true warrior born, broad shouldered and with a broader grin that showed he salivated at the power he held, especially over his prisoner. And the prisoner… slender, a scholar in appearance, though she knew that looks belied his truth. She could see those furtive eyes, those deep pools of wisdom far more ancient than any man should hold.

"My Queen!" the larger one boomed, a little too loudly for her preference, "I have brought the prisoner, as you requested."

"You may go, Rubicante," she said, breezily, to the man, "You can leave… Osric with me."

Rubicante roughly shoved the man down into his seat at the far side of the long table, though it was unnecessary—he clearly would have done so voluntarily. It wasn't hard to tell when he had fight in him or not. She continued to slice open oysters with her knife, not even looking up to the man who'd been brought to her. "Osric…" she held the word in the air, like she was tasting it, "A shame. I like this one."

"It's a good name," he answered, gruffly, "though I think they've all been good names, Salem."

She looked up at him, down the length of the table, packed with an elegant feast, a teasing smile on her face. "Oh really? Even Ozwaldo?"

He cracked a smile at that. His smile, even in the dim, purple light of her realm. "Ozwaldo was… certainly unique. But the man was a noble one."

"What would happen," she asked, taking a casual sip of wine from her goblet, "if I used all my influence for a century to outlaw names beginning with 'O.' Do you think you might finally, truly die then?"

"If you did so, I suspect," he gave her a sardonic look, "you'd be having this conversation with Austin in a century. Or perhaps, Janosz."

She chuckled. "It would be worth a shot."

Another oyster split open, and she glanced over to Osric. "Not hungry?" she asked, "The oysters are really quite exquisite. Even though I no longer need to eat, I admit, I do enjoy the habit. And it was quite difficult to bring it here. There's the food itself, the supplies, a chef I had to have kidnapped…" she counted off on her fingers. "Quite wasteful to do all that and not, at least, enjoy the meal. Or, at the very least, enjoy the wine. You always used to like red wine," she raised her goblet, swirling the dark red liquid inside, "And on that note… I have heard that oysters are an aphrodisiac. We could pretend it's still like old times," she added with a mocking grin.

He just scowled at her, silently. Some luck in that; she just knew he'd take the chance to lecture her about her choice in wines.

But that gave her a thought. "Really? Nothing to say? My, my, I remember when it seemed like you'd never stop talking. Always had to prattle on about this or that, some fascinating tidbit you'd read or little detail you remembered. Do you remember when you used to write love poetry and read it to me over dinner?"

Nothing. The silence remained, his face as cold and stony as when she began.

"I never told you this, but you were terrible at it," Ah, that put a crack in his facade! "And yet, I still enjoyed it. I really did enjoy how you used to make every meal into a conversation, or, in some cases, more a lecture. But it was a constant in my life, and I was fond of it. Hard to believe I would one day have to prompt you to speak with me over a meal!"

He gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "Do you really think we can call this sharing a meal? You and I both know how this goes, just like every other time we've met in this castle, and I know all too well how it ends."

"Disappointing," she sighed. " I always liked our 'I threaten the world, you try to resist me, I have you killed' routine, but I have to say, I've been starting to give up hope it might end any other way, and now I know you aren't even trying. Some decades, I start wonder how much longer we can keep doing this."

"Getting tired?" His voice had a note of a taunt in it, but only a note. She disliked that the rest of it had the ring of a sincere question. A voice of concern, too familiar and too far gone to be allowed in the present. To be allowed in this world. "How much longer, do you think-"

"I'm getting tired?" she asked, her voice high and mocking, "I'm not the one who has to start from scratch every. Single. Time." She rapped her knuckle against the table with each word to punctuate them. "Took a lifetime's work to get to the position you have now, and now you'll have to do it all over again."

But he wasn't phased by the taunt. "Every time I do, I discover more of the world that's worth protecting," from you, Salem mentally added, knowing his true meaning. "Though I suppose I should ask you if you grow tired of your servants. They hardly seem like the personable types."

"Oh, Cagnazzo grows on you after a while, if you can get past the endless snivelling. And I believe you've met Rubicante," he stiffened at that name, "a few times by now. Quite the character, wouldn't you say?"

His face twisted into something hateful. "I find sadistic torturers to be less than enjoyable dinner companions. But if you've had to lower your standards that far…"

She shrugged. "One of the perks of being raised in a tower is that you learn to amuse yourself, without the need for so much socialization."

"You weren't like this before, Salem," his anger breaking into something pitiful and desperate, "You used to love being around people, throwing parties, having friends! This isn't who you-"

With a raised hand, the words ended in his throat. Something about his tone, his pleading for the past as he remembered it, was starting to anger her, so she changed the subject. "Tell me," she asked, "Do they ever struggle? The hosts, I mean. Have you had one, yet, who you had to force your way into taking their body?"

He was silent for a moment, but then he glowered at her. "I know what you're after, Salem. I won't fall for it. You and I both know that there have been… disagreements, in the beginning. But," and he crooked a slight smile at her, "my curse is merciful in only selecting those who are already inclined to my work."

She grabbed a wedge of lemon for her oyster. "Are they still in there, watching? No, that's not how it works, you and they… become the same, correct?"

Silence. His eyes were trained on her, keeping the anger at bay as he searched her for some hint of where she was going with this line of questioning. Well, if he had nothing to say, she took the time to enjoy the oyster.

"So, you must inherit a little bit of them each time, right? Their little quirks? Their food preferences? Does it start to… build up after a while?"

He was seething now. "Just get to your point, Salem, I don't-"

"The old Osric, before you came along, he had an older brother, didn't he? One he loved more than anything in this world, right? And now, you had to learn how shattering that loss can-"

A muscle in his forehead twitched, and the mask of composure shattered. Bellowing with rage, he snatched up the oyster knife and flung it at her with a deadly precision that revealed he wasn't as scholarly as he looked, as he leapt to attack her. But it was no challenge to deflect the blade out of the air with but one finger, and with the other hand, she gestured, and with a wave of magic, the man's charge was broken as he was flung backwards against the wall.

Salem continued eating. "Really, I don't know why you're so mad at me. I only told Rubicante to kill him. All the rest he did on the lead up was his own invention, and everything after that, well, I found it all so… distasteful."

He slumped down from the wall, but pride compelled him to stand back up. His eyes were lit with a murderous rage. Good. She was sick of his act, his attempts to seem like he was the calm, dignified one. She knew what wretched accusation he was trying to make with that. A wave of darkness threw him back down on his knees. Panting with exertion and clutching his chest, he looked up at her. "You're, augh, you're a monster, Salem, you've become-"

His words were cut off when she magically flung his chair at him, clattering off the wall beside him. She was not to be lectured. Not now, not ever again. "Sit down, dear," she said a wild giggle sneaking into her voice, "You're making a scene!"

Unable to fight, he struggled into the chair, still gripping his chest at the point where her dark magic twisted upon him. "Is cruelty the only thing that matters to you anymore?" he begged.

But she wasn't listening. "I'm tired? Ha! You'll have to wear that for the rest of your life. You'll have to carry that pain, that loss, onto your next one, too! You'll have to make him mourn your brother. And you'll both have to carry that grief to your grave. Except!" she laughed, "You won't! You'll have to pick it right back up, and carry that pain out of his grave too, with a few more losses, a few more tragedies! And bring them to the next one! Every! Single! Time!" her laugh became a cackle, wild and cruel. "And the pain will never go away. Never."

But then her voice cracked, slightly, and something painful and desperate broke in as she continued in a quiet voice. "I-I know that, I know that so, so well." She looked at him, a look as haunted as the ghost that was seated before her. "It's been a thousand years and it's never stopped hurting, Oz. I-I miss them so much. I would," she said, a strangled sob rising in her throat, "I would give anything to see them again, and I-"

The sorrow in the gaze that met her eyes… her Ozma's sorrow. She must have seen that look in her husband's eyes a thousand times, for their daughters, for all the poor and suffering in their kingdom. There was no grief he wouldn't bear for the sake of others. "I miss them too, Salem," he said, his voice soft, "Every-"

"SILENCE!" she screamed, the force of her rage slamming him and his seat against the wall. She rose, majestic and terrible, as she strode the length of the dining room towards him. With every step, it felt like the stones could crack, that the windows should burst, that the table might shatter, as her rage and grief towered above her. "You- you have no idea what you've DONE!" The dark brand sizzled on his skin and he screamed in pain. "Everything I did, I did for you. I did it all for you, Ozma! I loved you! I fought the gods for you! And when we created our kingdom together, when I watched as you ached and struggled and suffered for those ungrateful wretches, I did what you couldn't! I did what had to be done for you!"

With a cough, he struggled through the pain. He never could shut up, could he? "You slaughtered those we were duty-bound to-"

"You did everything to help them and all you were repaid with was rebellion and treason and I couldn't bear to watch you destroy yourself for them. I could- couldn't- I-" her words collapsed into a fierce, gurgling sob. "And then you f-forced me, forced my hand… I didn't want to, it was your fault too! But you made me…."

She had reached him, seated in a cracked chair against the wall, but her powers had diminished to little more than a whisper of black flames, and as though her legs could carry her no longer, she collapsed, kneeling before him and clutching his leg as her whole body heaved with sobs. "They're dead, Oz. Our children are dead, and I won't ever see them again. It- it hurts. I miss them so, so much."

Even as monstrous as her eyes had become, she gave him a wild, pleading look upwards, meeting his sorrowful gaze. "I miss them too," he answered, tears rolling down his cheeks, "Not a day goes by where I don't think about them, about the women they would have grown up to be."

"Why do we have to do this?" His eyes couldn't meet hers, "For a thousand years, we've had to mourn them. Why can't you just let me gather the relics and let this all end? Call the Brothers, call them back, show them what their idiot lesson has brought to the world and just let them end it all!"

"I…" his voice was hoarse, "I can't, Salem, I can't. Humanity needs-"

Her hands suddenly clapped upon his shoulders as she pulled herself up, now looming over him, staring him in the eyes. "They want this too! They all want to die too! Can't you hear them, Oz? Can't you feel how miserable the whole world is? The Grimm feed on hatred and fear and despair, and they have grown fat on it."

He said nothing. He had nothing to say. No defense, no argument. He had seen the misery of the world as surely as she had and all his efforts to stem it ended in failure even when she did not lift a finger. He knew the rot better than she did, living amongst the people, suffused in the inescapable stench of decay that filled their world. She could read on his face that he was remembering a thousand years of horrors and miseries, the ones he had witnessed with his own eyes and the ones he'd inherited from his hosts. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. This wasn't how the world should be at all.

"This- this world is broken, Oz," she cried. "Why can't you see that? We've both tried so hard to fix it and we have only ever failed!"

"I'm- I am sorry, Salem," he said, "I cannot turn my back on the people I love." And then he looked down at her, his eyes full of pity, full of compassion, full of Ozma. She had fallen in love with those eyes from the first time she looked into them, and now they were back in her life, looking as though nothing had changed.

But that was a lie. Everything had changed. And this wasn't her husband, not anymore. He hadn't been that for a very, very long time. Everything now was just a delusion. A delusion and old, unquiet ghosts.

With one strike, her oyster knife sliced open his throat, and with a spray of blood, Osric, the wisest of all men in Mantle, who founded the Royal Colloquium, who had been tutor and counselor and friend to King Pepin the Bold, who carried the spirit of Ozma, who loved his brother, died.

"Rubicante," she spoke, quietly and calmly, but with a force that let her words carry as far as they needed to be. "Please come in and remove our guest from my presence."

The door opened with a creak, and the lion Faunus returned. It wasn't long before he spotted the body and the blood, the great spray of blood, and he seemed quite delighted to see it. "And shall I dispose of him by-"

"Feed him to the Beowulves," was all she said before she turned and left the great hall, her magic already burning the crimson blood of Ozma's latest host off of her.

She knew she was breaking apart. Deep inside her, she could feel it. Was she still what she once was? How could she be—she ceased being the girl in the tower even before the first time he died, and so much had passed since then. So much had changed. But what was she now? And what was she becoming? She remembered her anger, sudden and flashing, and now gone, as though it was never there. Her actions already seemed so strange to her, that anger now so foreign and inexplicable. The sorrow before it, still there, the pain in her chest still ever there, but it was dulled now. Just like every time she killed him.

Every time, she felt a little bit of herself drain away. How much longer can we keep doing this? Every time he died, he became a little less her husband, a little more a stranger. Every time he died, she felt a little less anger, a little less sorrow, a little less grief. How much longer until only the fight was left? Only the rage and determination, the fulfillment of their plans and their endless battle, how long until that was the only thing keeping them going?

How much longer can we keep doing this?

This originally started as the prologue to the sequel to Let The Dead Lie, but I felt it was going in a different direction, and had a better idea instead. But I liked writing Salem like it was hundreds of years before the show started, but still hundreds of years into fighting her ex-husband, and starting to crack from the experience. I like the idea that the Salem of the show is drained and almost burnt out, trying out a new gambit to win once and for all, but she's tried two hundred such gambits before and so it's hard to be anything other than angry and cruel and mysterious. Why does she care? She's been doing this longer than anyone but him's been alive.