“He’s dead, your highness.” One voice, soft. (Sympathy, I think, and pain.)
“Your majesty.” (I flinch at the title, at the harsh hiss, from an elder who advised my father.)
“We’re sorry, princess,” the sympathetic one begins, “he was a—“ (A great king, a good—my—father, I finish.)
“Queen.” The same hiss, harsher now. (I will have to speak to him, later, when my voice doesn’t crack.)
The sky is awash in the blood of my father—(his voice chuckles in my memories, “it is only a sunset, daughter”)—and these elders argue the politics of titles.
I turn away, a firm, “Leave me,” tossed over my shoulder. I crumble only when alone; I cry until I dream.
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The great spirits mingle.
A bear, red as blood, presses its paw into a rock until it fractures. A dog, green as grass, bares its teeth in a dare. A bird, blue as sky and water, settles between them. Gold flares bright, tethers them together, and then there is nothing but flashes. Eggs and sacs give birth to foals that grow up and fight, only to repeat.
Power.
Courage.
Wisdom.
It’s a legend. Everyone tells it a little different. There is power, corrupted, that must be checked by courage and wisdom. Mother spoke of shadows, father spoke of a world in the sky. The legend of—
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The dawn kisses the sky gold; I rise, Queen of High Rule.