You find yourself standing on the edge of a cliff that does not exist in any map you have ever studied, the wind here tasting of iron and old rain, and you know with a certainty that settles into your marrow that this is not a place for the living, but a threshold for the lost, and the sky above is a bruised purple, swollen with stars that burn with a cold, indifferent light, and below you, in the mist that clings to the rocks like wet wool, there is a path, a narrow ribbon of stone that winds down into the dark, and you walk it because you have no other choice, because the dream has taken your feet and made them its own, and you are looking for the King, or what is left of him, and you are looking for your daughter, who is no longer a child, who is no longer the small, bright thing you held in your arms when the world was young and simple, and you are looking for the crown, which is not gold, but a tangle of thorns and bone, worn by the one who sits on the throned carved from the heart of the mountain, and the air is thick with the scent of rotting lilies, a sweet, cloying perfume that makes your head swim, and you think of the last time you saw her face, how it was pale and drawn, how her eyes held a fear so deep it looked like a well, and you think of the letter, the one that arrived without a stamp, the one that said she was gone, taken by the court, taken by the King, and you thought it was a lie, a cruel trick of the mind, but here you are, in the place where lies come true, and you walk on, your feet bare against the cold stone, feeling every crack, every sharp edge, and the pain is real, the pain is the only thing that is real, and you climb up, the path steep and unforgiving, your muscles burning, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and the mist parts to reveal a castle that stands on a spire of rock, its walls black, its windows dark, and you know that you are not expected, that you are an intruder, a bug on the glass, and yet you go on, because the love you have for her is a fire that burns in your belly, a fire that does not care for logic or law or the rules of this strange, silent world, and you reach the gates, which are open, as if they have been waiting for you, as if your coming was written in the stars, and you step inside, into a hall that is vast and empty, the floor made of white marble that reflects your image back to you, distorted and stretched, and you see yourself in the stone, a woman who has been worn down by the years, by the worries, by the slow, grinding friction of a life that has not been kind, and you see the lines on your face, the gray in your hair, and you see the wear, the way you have been chipped away, piece by piece, until you are little more than a shadow, a memory of a person, and you continue walking, following the sound of a low, rhythmic beating, a heartbeat that sounds like a drum, a sound that makes your own heart ache in sympathy, and you turn a corner, and you see the throne room, which is not a room, but a cave, a natural hollow in the mountain, and in the center, on a chair made of twisted roots and bone, sits the King, and he is not a man, but a beast, a thing of fur and claw and eye, with a face that is almost human, a face that you recognize, a face that you have seen in mirrors, a face that is your own, but twisted, distorted, made monstrous by the weight of the crown, and on his head is the crown, a circlet of thorns that pierces his scalp, bleeding, dripping, and in his lap is a figure, a small, pale figure, your daughter, her eyes closed, her face peaceful, but her hands are bound with chains of light, and the King looks at you, and his eyes are your eyes, and he speaks, and his voice is a whisper, a sigh, a sound that comes from the deep places of the earth, and he says, I have waited for you, I have waited for the one who can take the weight, and you understand, then, the terrible truth, that the King is not a ruler, but a prisoner, that the crown is a curse, a weight that breaks the spine, that the throne is a trap, and that your daughter is not a hostage, but a vessel, a container for the next king, and you look at her, at her sleeping face, and you see the way the chains of light wrap around her wrists, and you know that if you take the crown, you will save her, but you will be consumed, that you will become the King, and you will be trapped in this cave, in this silence, for all eternity, and you look at your hands, your own hands, the hands that have held her, the hands that have fed her, the hands that have loved her, and you see that they are trembling, that they are afraid, and you feel the fear, a cold, sharp needle in your chest, and you think of the life you left behind, the house with the blue door, the garden where the roses bloomed in the spring, the smell of bread baking in the oven, and you think of the loss, the great, gaping hole that will be left in the world when you are gone, and you think of the gain, the peace that will come to her, the freedom that will be hers, and the two things, the loss and the gain, balance each other out, like a scale, and you step forward, and the King stands, and he bows his head, a gesture of submission, of respect, and you feel the weight of his gaze, heavy as stone, and you reach out, and you touch the crown, and it is cold, so cold it burns, and you pull it from his head, and the pain is unbearable, a searing, white heat that runs through your veins, and you feel your mind expanding, stretching, until it is too big for your skull, and you see everything, the past and the future, the life and the death, the love and the loss, and you see that there is no difference, that they are the same, that the line between good and evil is a blur, a smudge, and you place the crown on your own head, and it fits, it fits as if it was made for you, and you feel the weight settle onto your shoulders, a weight that you have carried all your life, and you look at the King, and he is no longer a beast, but a man, an old man, tired and worn, and he smiles, a small, sad smile, and he fades, like smoke in the wind, and he is gone, and you are alone in the cave, with your daughter, and you reach for her, and the chains of light dissolve, and she opens her eyes, and they are clear, and bright, and she looks at you, and she does not recognize you, and you know that you have lost her, that you have saved her body, but not her soul, that you have traded one life for another, and you sit on the throne, and you wait, and the mist rises, and the light fades, and you are alone, and you are the King, and you are the mother, and you are the sacrifice, and you are the beginning, and you are the end, and you are the wear, the chipping away, the slow, inevitable erosion of the self, and you close your eyes, and you dream of the blue door, and you dream of the roses, and you dream of her, and you wake, in your own bed, in your own house, and the sun is rising, and the light is gold, and you are alone, and you are tired, and you are free, and you are not.