That the new queen was in fact a witch, that his grandfather had suspected it to be true when he married her,
but that he had overlooked it because of her beauty.
The prince couldn’t topple a powerful witch on his own. He needed the fury of the villagers to help him.
The death of the farmer’s daughter saw to that. He was sorry to do it, heartbroken, he said,
but as his own father had died in defence of the kingdom, so did his fair maiden. Her death was serving to overthrow a great evil.
When he said that the queen had murdered his bride, he believed, in his own way, that it was actually true.
“That’s a load of crap!” Conor shouted. “He didn’t need to kill her. The people were behind him. They would have followed him anyway.”
The justifications of men who kill should always be heard with scepticism, said the monster.
And so the injustice that I saw, the reason that I came walking, was for the queen, not the prince.
“Did he ever get caught?” Conor said, aghast. “Did they punish him?”
He became a much beloved king, the monster said, who ruled happily until the end of his long days.
Conor looked up to his bedroom window, frowning again. “So the good prince was a murderer and the evil queen wasn’t a witch after all.
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