The veil is thinning; no - has thinned. She can feel it, like a pinprick against her skin except that she is ethereal, like a breath of wind. It has been eons (so it has felt like) since she has been corporeal and flushed with life, hot and bursting like a fevered pustule.
Filaments of awareness and life burst all around her, snatching ghosts forth from the depths of the afterlife. She hangs back, lingering, not bothering to shove the magic inside her into action. That magic could catapult her across the boundary of death and back into life.
She is reluctant and not certain as to why that is so. It swirls inside her, pulsing like a star that has no constellation to call home. Isn’t this what she has always wanted? After so cruel a sacrifice as hers to ensure that her one and only child could live free of him? To quest for life but have her magic restrict her this, looking on from outside the barrier?
I am.. it doesn’t come to her. Not the name she knew herself by, but her position - her stature amongst them, despite how small and demure she was - still is. Queen. It breathes along her side, and she turns her head to it, acknowledging the truth of that in the crumpled dust of her bones.
Moselle. She names herself again, summoning it from the dark of the afterlife around her, amidst all the starbursts of others crossing back over. Childlike and small, she begins to drift closer to that edge and she notes how easily they pass through. She can feel no reluctance now, no refusal to yield her up to that same journey that others are taking. One last glimpse at the stars and planets and things that exist for her in the afterlife, and she blinks out like a candle snuffed into darkness.
Only to blink back into existence in the meadow near a mound of earth that feels entirely too familiar. She knows it is her grave, or was because she is now outside it and there are no bones in there - just moldering dirt. But crossing over has changed her somewhat; she is still small and frail, a child-sized queen by the imperial carriage of her head, a descendant of stars and this land’s past rulers, but her magic is limited.
Moselle frowns; the earth moves at her feet, small granules of dirt that gather around her hooves like anthills. Yes, limited but not terribly so. Changed, because she was allowed to come back and there is always a price to pay. Has she not paid such prices before? Her frown morphs into a smile and the silver bay takes one delicate step forward, only to what, she is uncertain.