And then the queen wept with all her heart. Not for the cruel and greedy man who had warred and killed and savaged everywhere he could. But for the boy who had somehow turned into that man, the boy whose gentle hand had comforted her childhood hurts, the boy whose frightened voice had cried out to her at the end of his life, as if he wondered why he had gotten lost inside himself, as if he realized that it was too, too late to get out again.
The queen wept deeply, not for the devastation wrought by a cruel and greedy man, but for the boy who had become that man. She mourned the loss of the innocent child who once comforted her and provided solace during her pains. Her heart ached for the boy who had now transformed into a figure of darkness, far removed from the gentle spirit he used to be.
In his final moments,...
