My Beloved Queen

HER MUSE

( just a mother's day special. does not align chronologically with the current storyline. feel free to skip.)

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i. the mother

weaver
// tired are her fingertips. exhausted is her mind. she labored first for father and mother, second for king and kingdom. now she endeavors for the children—for the future she desires them to know.

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The evening light streaming in through the leaded glass windows was golden colored. Warm. Like the sun from which it came. It spilled into the queen of Alaimore's sitting room like water flooding an empty glass—seeking out the point closest to the earth; leaving neither crack nor crevice unfilled.

It fell like squares of fabric across the queen's still hands—shedding light upon the loom and the unfinished weave sitting placidly therein. Reminding her that her hands were wrong to be still—her mind treacherous to be so blank.

A frown pulled at the queen's lips, and she raised her hands—reached for the heddle stick she had so thoughtlessly abandoned—and then—

And then—

And then—nothing.

Nothing.

Her mind was blank; Queen Mirabell of Alaimore's careful, brilliant mind was empty. Silent. Like the light spilling through the glass; like the loom in front of her—filled with a few meaningless, colorful strands of wool.

Wool. Not silk, as she would have liked. As she had requested. Johan had said that it was too expensive—they couldn't afford to purchase silk for the tapestry, not with the war.

The war. She'd warned him—she'd tried to tell him how unwise a decision it was, upholding his father's poor foreign policies. But he was adamant—dutiful. He was a good, faithful son, and a good son remained true to his father's judgment.

A good son did as his father told him, never mind what his wife had to say.

Never mind tradition. It was but a promise to a predecessor—a man or woman neither he nor she would ever meet or know—and promises to the past were foolish to uphold.

Like needing silk to make a tapestry. How nonsensical of her, to be so adamant for such a fabric. It was only a tapestry.

A tapestry that should become the heart of their daughter's home. That should be placed above her bed or the beds of her children. That should delineate a warm, familiar space for her.

That should remind her of her home; that should make her new residence into one. A warm home. A comforting home.

But yes, it was only a tapestry, Johan. Yes, wool was just as good, Johan.

Yes, the war was dragging on for far longer than one would have thought, Johan.

The queen closed her eyes—gave her head a soft, slight shake. There was a knife settling in her chest, and she hurried to dislodge it before it could sink itself any deeper into the flesh of her heart. It was best not to mind things that couldn't be changed—that contained no hope of ever becoming different.

Or better.

Besides, she was glad to have Johan. Glad to be a wife—to have all her mother wished for her and more. He was a good man, Johan. A good son and a good man. He knew how to make her smile; he knew how to please her—how to make her severe, somber eyes crinkle at the corners from a warm smile.