As I sit on my throne, I think of my Queen. My ex-Queen, now gone, gone but alive but not forgotten.
I think of my Queen.
My servants bring me cool water in glasses that have never seen the sun. My lieutenants whisper that all is well, that no unrest disturbs my rule. My spies confide that my lieutenants hide minor disturbances, nothing more. My concubines concede that the spies are trustworthy, and keep their distance. My council remains silent, waiting for a summons.
I study the maps, tracing the border lines. I know where she is, where she is with another. With another who is not my equal. War would prove this, would prove my mastery of fire and shadow. Fire and shadow to break body, spirit, and realm.
She would tell me hold, were she here. Were she here, her voice would soothe the fire and soften the shadow. The shadow would not spread inside, spread inside until the fire becomes necessity.
I ponder war and blood, the waiting dogs of my will. I contemplate my will, so close to mad whim, and wonder whether it is mine or possessed.
As I sit brooding on my dark throne.