The Wistful Throne
The iron bars of the cell are cold against your shins, a chill that seems to seep into your marrow and settle there, permanent as the ivy climbing the stone walls of the chapel where you were born. You sit on the straw, your hands resting in your lap, still stained with the green residue of the plants you have tended for thirty years. They do not wither here. In this place of stone and silence,...
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