On the Eve of The Hunt

I wasn't royal blood by their standards, but the King favoured me, I made sure of it. Now, see: the land prospers. Make no mistake: this is under my hand. Not the King's. He does his best, but it's my decisions that have brought us prosperity.

They say I'm beautiful, that I've aged well. They set great store by that. A flowering maiden can't hold a candle to my majesty and poise, they say. This is high praise from these little people, because they value youth above all else. That's absurd to me. Among my people, age is revered. It's associated with wisdom and success. Yet, naivete, too, has value. Being easy to manipulate makes them useful.

They say I've a presence. They're right: I've magic in my blood. A glamour is nothing to me.

So: every nine years, the people gather in the Great Square. I handpick the very best of the youngsters, and one of these is selected by lottery. We play out the age old trope: leaving him (or her) for the dragon. In return, we prosper in safety under the shadow of the dragon's wing.

This country used to be barren and poor, but now we are thriving.

I've always known I'd never bear him children. I pretended to grieve with him when my waistline stayed narrow, moon after moon. When pregnancies ended only in blood. The little ones I carried to term, he'd have considered deformed, monstrous. I'd have none near me when my time came. I birthed them alone, wrapped them and left them on the mountainside for the dragon.

Now, I'm past the age I could feasibly bear children. It was easy to convince him that one who could evade the dragon would be a suitable heir. All she (or he) has to do, is return to the castle.

I tread the same path I trod with those sad little bundles. I whisper to the dragon, as I've done before.

This one must live. It must be a convincing hunt, but no lasting harm. We need her alive.

Hungry! he shouts into my mind.

I'll make alternative provisions for you. Be patient, Son.

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Word count (excluding note): 366

Submitted on 12th March at 23.29

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