Alabaster. A pristine image perched upon her roost, savior of the below lands. A god.
Ever patient. Ever present. Ever the same, perfect image ingrained into the sleeping forms she had raised, a mother to the world itself. There was nothing but offer, gift, from the queen, as she sewn the lands with bits and pieces of her very self, and yet as she watched her beloved grow, still more seeds were needed.
So she gave.
Slowly freed of a perky, energetic youth, and bestowed with maternal lethargia. Slowly, almost not at all, she faded, and none would see it. Her very creations were slowly gaining, growing, becoming free, and while a gods image was all they thought of the princess, no less. Simply, she didn't see herself at all. After all, when one spent millennial seasons upon a crop, you simply join it. A mother tending to her children, dripping into their hearts till she was no more, a youthful face in shadow, proceeding light, preceding shadow. She was no different.
And by the time she realized this, it seemed to her as if half of her life passed, to a mere suns lap. Her student, her daughter, the first of them all, to breach, surface, and breath independent, straining the umbilical she and all others never knew.
And she slowly picked others from the branches, as if a massive reaction had occured. It would not end. Her children had grown. Her winter had finally come.
An alabaster mare stood, her glass doors left open.
A scroll written in a years time, left to her daughter. Her true daughter.
An embrace with nights maiden shared.
A song in no language. A voice shared, angelic, as beauty itself wept.
A song of herself,and all she was of, the few seeds left in alabaster, scattered.
As younger turned to eldest, to watch and reap the old, and sleep herself at the end.
The brightening eyes of thousands, young and of joy.
Children too young to understand.
Mother is gone.