After the summons, she stands in the inner chamber. Outside, the game has ended. Inside, its words have not yet arrived. What has been taken is not yet named. When it is, it will not describe. It will decide. And everything after will follow it.
Before anything was taken, she did not rise. She sat by the small fire as they came close enough to ask. One asked carefully. One did not. What they sought had already been seen. It would not be given shape. Not here. Not by her.
After one son was given, she did not sit. She stood where the water met stone. The other was not here. This was not his ground. The man stood apart. No one spoke of what had been chosen. What remained was not equal. She would not let it be made so.
A queen who does not resist, does not break, does not protest. She agrees, precisely. A son is placed. A name is corrected. The story takes shape without friction. What fits too well is not questioned. What is absorbed completely leaves no mark, except in what is no longer needed.
After the war, a mother does not weep. She listens. A father explains. A sage arranges. A bard hesitates. A presence answers without claiming. What was meant to end has not yet ended. Stories begin to gather. She does not refuse them. But not everything is allowed to pass.
After the war, a mother does not weep. She listens. A father explains. A sage arranges. A bard hesitates. A presence answers without claiming. A child survives what was meant to end him. Stories begin to settle. She allows them, but draws a line. Not for the world, for what remains.
A queen who does not resist, does not break, does not protest. She agrees, precisely. A son is placed. A name is corrected. The story takes shape without friction. What fits too well is rarely questioned. What is absorbed completely leaves no mark, except in what is no longer needed.
Random Mythoscopy 