Page 43 of Of Skulls Of Shackles

I considered my clawed hand that hovered in the air between us. I could pull my hand back, but a wall existed before it that I could not shove through. “Did you stop me?”

He wheezed the shocked truth, “No…did you?”

“Yes,” I answered, though he would not believe that once his brain restarted. “But I shall not bother myself to stop again if you proceed with the tribunal. Ponder your new weakness and my new strength, sir. Be reminded that a queen fights her battles and is not content to only move a step here and there. ’Tis a mistake to continue in this tribunal.”

“You are nothing more than a monster who turns on everyone around her,” he hissed. “On princes, on princess, and on a king.”

On all kings, which I very much hoped he did not connect because I had somewhat revealed my metaphorical and physical hand this night.

Except I had not stopped myself, and he had not. But something had. Or someone, maybe many of them. Ancients or my ancestral mothers? I should have trusted in the polite slumber of obsession while in Bring’s company. Clearly I was not meant to attack him tonight.

I was not meant to conquer him… yet? I could not have supposed a better time than when he wheezed.

“Good evening,” I said to King Bring, cutting off his angry accusations.

I left him shouting and hacking in coughs to rejoin my werebeasts.

I strode ahead of them.

“You attacked a king,” Huckery rumbled.

He might take this news to his king. “I thought to threaten him. King Bring understood my message.”

The pawn was very cunning and saw much, so I could not say if he believed me.

I wrenched to a halt as a group of humans darted between shadows ahead of me. They lit gasoline soaked material and threw their bottle cocktails into the bottom floor of an apartment building.

The humans of King Change made scarce after, the beastly acts committed had satisfied their agonized souls. I walked on after extinguishing the flames in the building with a gust of dust.

Goodness, Vitale was in a great mess. I hardly recognized the city that had been my home in humanity and monsterdom. One did miss a lot when they walked from dusk to dawn instead of the opposite. I did not like to see the city this way, for I had been a human too recently not to imagine what horror and terror many innocent people were feeling as they cowered here and there.

I had been told not to waste time, in more elegant phrase. Did that apply to the matter of humans? I had rather assumed that finding my fullness in queendom would resolve the problems of humans, whose affairs were a direct reflection of strife between rulers.

Assumption. There was an arrogance in that.

I put out other fires that I came across, and Unguis whined louder with each act. No doubt this saving would place them in a spot of bother with their liege. “Youdid not save, Unguis. I did.”

He did not stop, and knowing King Change’s cruel methods, I could not be surprised at his fear. But the werebeast was commanded to protect himself in such matters, and so he would need to. I could not linger too long in concern of fighting his battles because I had to figure out why my clawed hand was stopped.

I must return to the chant—and the original poem of kings. There were crossovers between them that I was yet to explore.

Up and out weaves golden fate feeling ancient in gifted wisdom.That part of the chant was clear. It referred to my feelings that I was ancient, but warned me that I had not reached fullness and must not rest.

Five powers grasp all icy demise, free from her olden prison.Now that obsession was more defined, I believed this part must refer to my need to conquer kings—to place them in my prison. If I did not, then they would assure my icy demise, or the world’s. This part also suggested that the olden rock might play a part later on. The chant described “her” prison asolden. I did not have a prison yet, but Mother provided for me in death, so no doubt a prison would appear as I started to conquer kings. As to the olden nature of it… maybe a more ancient queen would connect that part.

If throne is seat, union is seam, skulls are skin, shackles are stitches.This part frustrated me, and confirmed the missing fullness of my ancient connection. The section spoke of a reduction, much as grape might become raisin. Kings’ thrones became mere seats, which could refer to them paying homage to me. Then the rest was lost as yet, though I could assume that seam, skin, and stitch referred to my uniquities.

Seam.

The word tickled at me. For there was a mention of seams in the original poem of kings.

One touch did earn one thousand years slumber,

Time for ancients to warp, break, and build.

Five powers to grasp the world’s fraying seams,

And if golden fate deems fit, to mend.

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