It is undeniable the activity within the chamber of recent moons; the tracks are beaten nicely, rounding with footfalls of travellers and residents alike. I cannot begin to fathom what the chamber was like in days of old, but like many kingdoms, many herds. Faces came, bodies went. Hearts were stolen and souls taken by the lands. The Chamber, it was something else. Far from the herd my father had led, far from the bachelor politics. There was a regime here, and if one kept their heads down, their noses clean and worked hard, there would be something made of them. And I was hopeful of that. That Engelsfors would not just be some name held in vain, that the fallen angel could ascend to something more than just what my mother had been. A brood who had popped children out like they were sprinkling flower seeds. Sprinkle them sparsely, you never know what might grow.
I listen to the painted queen, and like some teenagers who idly gossip and braid hair, fawning over latest crazes, we stand. I remain a still statue, gilt and glimmering in the paling moonlight, as Straia knits feathers into my pale tresses. The smile that shifts upon my lips does not fade. There is a sense of belonging here, a sense of purpose. And I am glad that I had followed the painted mare that night in the field. The thought only yields to what I would be doing right now if I hadn't.
'They say the children are the future, no?' I laugh, the dark, sultry thing, breaks the still silence of midnight. Wisps of frostbitten air clouding my lips as I turn my head to observe the chamber's clearing. Perhaps a bit bashful with Straia's notice. Of course, one can only hide such a blossoming condition for so long. 'Those ravens. They never miss a thing, do they?' my lilting voice fades, as does my smile, to a serious notion, my crystal blue eyes finding Straia. 'What was it like, with Erebor? He was far wiser than the years gave him, was he not? I often wonder, what it will be like. He, she. I wonder many things, think of what will be of the child, what path will they take, what they will turn out like. But we all surprised our mothers now didn't we? Nothing is ever paved in stone.' There is a wistful glaze to my eye, as I turn to observe the darkness above, a thoughtful moment to reflect on the change, not only of my body but my mind. When one does not sleep, they think. And when one is quite obvious with child, hormones test you. It is those hormones I blame the philosophical ramblings, the relfective words. Oh yes, I am far from where my mother wanted me. If she had it her way, I would have had numerous children by now, been worn to the ground like she. Idling in some herd like some beautiful object, shiny and glamorous on the outside but as broken as shards of glass on the inside. Oh, we are never what are mothers intended, are we?
E n g e l s f o r s
drink thy posion lightly dear. there are deeper and darker things than you
minister of the chamber |
