To Anora, there was something so stage crafted about the events that were to follow. Two staunch ruffians, a worn opportunist, 82 blustering spectators, one fool.
To face the proposed Landsmeet was a simple enough prospect, for it was duty, duty was all that she breathed, but to face the proposed Landsmeet in the aim of opposing blood was a different kind of duty, the duty that didn't ask for opinions, not of commoners, not of queens.
Her father, as downtrodden and as staggered as the aftermath of a stampede, was this opposing blood.
It was all politics, it was all for sake, it was all that she was brilliant at, a craft that curved her smiles and assembled her good words, craft that swayed hearts and gave her warmth.
She took a breath and exhaled the strain. Was she not a queen? Was she not strong?
This was a calling for sacrifice, to summon the strength to swipe a metaphorical hand across the faces of the clueless public, shake them into choice.
Pragmatism was practically, practicality was purpose, a promise carried inevitability. But traitors were traitors.
Tears fell, as lost and as adamant as she.
