"Take her away," the queen says. She is imperious in her secrecy, serenely shielded in her shadows. Her word is law, even when she is confused, or enraged, or scared. Only one has been summoned to hear this law; rather, she lingered, watching the blood spread almost decadently across the ground, slow and hedonic, lewd. The queen does not seem to know to whom she speaks: they are all interchangeable, all the many heads of the same hydra. They all scurry to do her bidding in just the same way.
"Hide her," says the queen. Her law is absolute.
The one who stays, the one who watches, finally becomes the one who does something, the who who chooses a new path, bearing a righteously heavy burden. The mandate carves into her and reforges her, by the smallest of degrees, into something else.
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