The hand is gone.

It sits on the table. A relic. A bone. White. Clean. It does not move. It does not tremble. It is not the hand of the King.

The court is loud.

They shout. They scream. They point. They want blood. They want the head. They want the truth to bleed out on the stone floor.

Margaret stands in the center.

She is old.

Her back is bent.

Her eyes are sharp.

She looks at the hand.

She looks at the King.

The King is young.

The King is strong.

The King is afraid.

He sits on the throne.

He wears gold.

He wears fear.

He does not look at her.

He looks at the hand.

"Is this his?" the Duke asks.

The Duke is fat.

The Duke is red.

The Duke smells of wine.

He points at the hand.

He points at Margaret.

"Is this the hand of the Queen?"

Margaret does not answer.

She breathes.

In.

Out.

The air is thick.

It smells of sweat.

It smells of iron.

It smells of rot.

The hand is a mirror.

It is her hand.

She knows this.

She has always known.

The truth is a stone.

It is heavy.

It is cold.

It sits in her chest.

She has carried it for years.

Since the winter.

Since the snow.

Since the child died.

The child.

Her son.

Edward.

He was ten.

He was bright.

He was gone.

The court believes she killed him.

They believe she cut off his hand.

They believe she kept it.

They believe she is a monster.

They are wrong.

They are right.

The distinction is gone.

The distinction is ash.

Margaret looks at the King.

The King is her grandson.

He is twenty.

He is cruel.

He is just.

He believes the law.

The law is a cage.

The law is a wall.

The law is a blade.

"Speak," the King says.

His voice is thin.

His voice is weak.

He is not a lion.

He is a boy.

Playing at power.

Playing at judgment.

Margaret speaks.

"I did not cut his hand."

The court gasps.

The Duke laughs.

A dry laugh.

A barking laugh.

"Then how?" the Duke asks.

"How did it die?"

"How did it end?"

Margaret looks at the hand.

The hand is white.

The hand is still.

The hand is a lie.

"It did not die," she says.

The court is silent.

The silence is loud.

The silence is a scream.

The King leans forward.

"Explain."

Margaret closes her eyes.

She remembers.

The winter.

The house.

The fire.

The fire was out.

The house was cold.

Edward was sick.

His lungs were filled with water.

He could not breathe.

He could not sleep.

He cried.

He cried all night.

He cried for his mother.

He cried for warmth.

He cried for life.

Margaret held him.

She held him tight.

She held him too tight.

She felt his ribs.

She felt his heart.

It was a bird.

It was a sparrow.

It was breaking.

She knew it.

She knew it would break.

She knew it was already broken.

She wanted to save him.

She wanted to pull the pain out.

She wanted to pull the time out.

She reached for the knife.

Not to kill.

To cut.

To cut the pain.

To cut the flesh.

To cut the world.

She cut.

She cut the air.

She cut her own hand.

The blood flowed.

The blood was red.

The blood was warm.

She held her hand over his face.

She let the blood drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

She told him it was magic.

She told him it would stop the pain.

She told him he would sleep.

He stopped crying.

He slept.

He did not wake.

His hand was cold.

His hand was still.

His hand was white.

Margaret looked at her hand.

Her hand was red.

Her hand was wet.

Her hand was alive.

She looked at the table.

The table was wood.

The table was dark.

She looked at the hand.

The hand was not Edward’s.

The hand was hers.

She had cut it off.

She had cut it off in the dark.

She had cut it off in the madness.

She had cut it off to save him.

She had cut it off to keep it.

She had cut it off to carry it.

The hand is a relic.

The hand is a proof.

The hand is a guilt.

The court is waiting.

The King is waiting.

The Duke is waiting.

Margaret opens her eyes.

"I cut my hand," she says.

The court is silent.

The King frowns.

"Why?"

"Because he was dying," she says.

"Because I was afraid."

"Because I wanted to keep a piece of him."

"Because I wanted to keep a piece of me."

The Duke spits.

The King stands.

His face is pale.

His face is soft.

He looks at Margaret.

He looks at the hand.

He looks at the throne.

The throne is gold.

The throne is cold.

The throne is a lie.

"The law," the King says.

"The law says you are guilty."

"Of what?" Margaret asks.

"Of murder."

"Of treason."

"Of madness."

Margaret smiles.

The smile is small.

The smile is sad.

The smile is free.

"I am guilty," she says.

"Of loving him too much."

"Of being old."

"Of being weak."

"Of being human."

The King raises his hand.

His hand is smooth.

His hand is clean.

His hand is empty.

"Take her," he says.

"Take her to the tower."

"Let her die in the dark."

The guards move.

They are strong.

They are silent.

They hold Margaret.

They drag her.

Her feet scrape the stone.

Her back bends.

Her eyes are open.

She looks at the hand.

The hand is on the table.

The hand is white.

The hand is still.

The hand is her.

The hand is Edward.

The hand is the truth.

The truth is a stone.

The stone is heavy.

The stone is cold.

She carries it.

She carries it to the end.

The door closes.

The light goes out.

The dark comes.

The dark is soft.

The dark is warm.

The dark is home.

Margaret sits on the floor.

The floor is stone.

The floor is cold.

She touches her stump.

The stump is smooth.

The stump is scarred.

The stump is alive.

She thinks of Edward.

She thinks of his face.

She thinks of his breath.

She thinks of the blood.

She thinks of the hand.

The hand is gone.

The hand is here.

The hand is everywhere.

The hand is nothing.

The hand is everything.

She closes her eyes.

She waits.

The time passes.

The time is slow.

The time is fast.

The time is a river.

The river flows.

The river rises.

The river drowns.

The court is done.

The King is gone.

The Duke is gone.

The guards are gone.

Only Margaret remains.

Only the hand remains.

Only the truth remains.

The truth is a mirror.

The mirror is cracked.

The mirror is broken.

The mirror is shattered.

The pieces are sharp.

The pieces are bright.

The pieces are her.

She picks up a piece.

The piece is cold.

The piece is white.

The piece is bone.

She holds it.

She feels the pain.

The pain is sharp.

The pain is sweet.

The pain is real.

She drops it.

The piece clatters.

The sound is loud.

The sound is clear.

The sound is final.

She sits.

She waits.

The dark is deep.

The dark is wide.

The dark is kind.

The dark is just.

The dark is free.

Margaret breathes.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The hand is gone.

The hand is here.

The hand is her.

The hand is the end.

The end is a door.

The door is open.

The door is light.

The door is peace.

She walks.

She walks.

She walks.

She is gone.

She is here.

She is the hand.

She is the bone.

She is the white.

She is the stillness.

She is the truth.

The truth is a lie.

The lie is a truth.

The truth is a stone.

The stone is a heart.

The heart is a bird.

The bird is a sparrow.

The sparrow is a breath.

The breath is a wind.

The wind is a whisper.

The whisper is a name.

The name is Edward.

The name is Margaret.

The name is Love.

The name is Time.

The name is Death.

The name is Life.

The name is Nothing.

The name is Everything.

The court is empty.

The table is empty.

The hand is gone.

The light is gone.

The dark is gone.

The truth is gone.

The story is done.

The story is over.

The story is a hand.

The hand is a relic.

The relic is a memory.

The memory is a ghost.

The ghost is a shadow.

The shadow is a light.

The light is a fire.

The fire is a spark.

The spark is a seed.

The seed is a root.

The root is a stone.

The stone is a heart.

The heart is a soul.

The soul is a spirit.

The spirit is a wind.

The wind is a breath.

The breath is a life.

The life is a death.

The death is a birth.

The birth is a beginning.

The beginning is an end.

The end is a beginning.

The circle is closed.

The circle is open.

The circle is broken.

The circle is whole.

The circle is Margaret.

The circle is Edward.

The circle is the King.

The circle is the Duke.

The circle is the Court.

The circle is the Time.

The circle is the Truth.

The circle is the Lie.

The circle is the Hand.

The hand is white.

The hand is still.

The hand is gone.

The hand is here.

The hand is you.

The hand is me.

The hand is us.

The hand is all.

The hand is nothing.

The hand is everything.

The hand is the end.

The hand is the start.

The hand is the truth.

The truth is the hand.

The hand is the story.

The story is the hand.

The hand is the soul.

The soul is the hand.

The hand is the light.

The light is the hand.

The hand is the dark.

The dark is the hand.

The hand is the silence.

The silence is the hand.

The hand is the scream.

The scream is the hand.

The hand is the breath.

The breath is the hand.

The hand is the life.

The life is the hand.

The hand is the death.

The death is the hand.

The hand is the memory.

The memory is the hand.

The hand is the ghost.

The ghost is the hand.

The hand is the shadow.

The shadow is the hand.

The hand is the light.

The light is the hand.

The hand is the fire.

The fire is the hand.

The hand is the spark.

The spark is the hand.

The hand is the seed.

The seed is the hand.

The hand is the root.

The root is the hand.

The hand is the stone.

The stone is the hand.

The hand is the heart.

The heart is the hand.

The hand is the bird.

The bird is the hand.

The hand is the sparrow.

The sparrow is the hand.

The hand is the breath.

The breath is the hand.

The hand is the wind.

The wind is the hand.

The hand is the whisper.

The whisper is the hand.

The hand is the name.

The name is the hand.

The hand is Edward.

Edward is the hand.

The hand is Margaret.

Margaret is the hand.

The hand is Love.

Love is the hand.

The hand is Time.

Time is the hand.

The hand is Death.

Death is the hand.

The hand is Life.

Life is the hand.

The hand is Nothing.

Nothing is the hand.

The hand is Everything.

Everything is the hand.

The hand is the end.

The end is the hand.

The hand is the start.

The start is the hand.

The hand is the truth.

The truth is the hand.

The hand is the lie.

The lie is the hand.

The hand is the story.

The story is the hand.

The hand is the soul.

The soul is the hand.

The hand is the spirit.

The spirit is the hand.

The hand is the circle.

The circle is the hand.

The hand is the world.

The world is the hand.

The hand is the self.

The self is the hand.

The hand is the other.

The other is the hand.

The hand is the one.

The one is the hand.

The hand is the many.

The many is the hand.

The hand is the past.

The past is the hand.

The hand is the present.

The present is the hand.

The hand is the future.

The future is the hand.

The hand is the now.

The now is the hand.

The hand is the then.

The then is the hand.

The hand is the always.

The always is the hand.

The hand is the never.

The never is the hand.

The hand is the here.

The here is the hand.

The hand is the there.

The there is the hand.

The hand is the inside.

The inside is the hand.

The hand is the outside.

The outside is the hand.

The hand is the above.

The above is the hand.

The hand is the below.

The below is the hand.

The hand is the within.

The within is the hand.

The hand is the without.

The without is the hand.

The hand is the between.

The between is the hand.

The hand is the beyond.

The beyond is the hand.

The hand is the beneath.

The beneath is the hand.

The hand is the over.

The over is the hand.

The hand is the under.

The under is the hand.

The hand is the near.

The near is the hand.

The hand is the far.

The far is the hand.

The hand is the close.

The close is the hand.

The hand is the distant.

The distant is the hand.

The hand is the known.

The known is the hand.

The hand is the unknown.

The unknown is the hand.

The hand is the seen.

The seen is the hand.

The hand is the unseen.

The unseen is the hand.

The hand is the heard.

The heard is the hand.

The hand is the unheard.

The unheard is the hand.

The hand is the felt.

The felt is the hand.

The hand is the unfelt.

The unfelt is the hand.

The hand is the thought.

The thought is the hand.

The hand is the unthought.

The unthought is the hand.

The hand is the word.

The word is the hand.

The hand is the silence.

The silence is the hand.

The hand is the sound.

The sound is the hand.

The hand is the noise.

The noise is the hand.

The hand is the music.

The music is the hand.

The hand is the song.

The song is the hand.

The hand is the voice.

The voice is the hand.

The hand is the tongue.

The tongue is the hand.

The hand is the mouth.

The mouth is the hand.

The hand is the lip.

The lip is the hand.

The hand is the tooth.

The tooth is the hand.

The hand is the bone.

The bone is the hand.

The hand is the flesh.

The flesh is the hand.

The hand is the blood.

The blood is the hand.

The hand is the heart.

The heart is the hand.

The hand is the lung.

The lung is the hand.

The hand is the breath.

The breath is the hand.

The hand is the life.

The life is the hand.

The hand is the death.

The death is the hand.

The hand is the end.

The end is the hand.