Suppose it is her fault . All her fault entirely . Not the fault of absent fathers . Not the world that dragged her children up by the ankles while she served selfish gods and greedy kings .
What then ?
It is far too late to call her to trial . No one will raise the axe against an old woman for simply giving birth . She only thought it her duty . That was what they told her . They never told her how to undo it .
How to pluck her children from the battlefield . From castles and cells and ships , and swallow them one by one . Hide them away in her belly until they emerge anew like recycled demi gods primed for a modern world .
Better yet , to keep them coddled in her stomach while she walks barefoot into her grave . But then again , why should she ? She has carried them long enough . It no longer matters . Too late to care .
The climb to the top of the mountain has chipped away at her bones . Sagged skin weighs down on her skull like bags of sand . Clawed toenails root her to the ground .
The howling wind blankets her ; calcifies her limbs until she can no longer feel its bitter sting . It is not her time to make a change . The life she was given has been stripped down to a single thread . In that moment , she does not regret the children she bore . Does not feel shame for her legacy . Does not mourn the mountain . She simply sings . A quiet , crackling dirge . Lamentations of a life not of her own choosing .