I know not when or where she rules, only that she is the mother and queen to many. I cannot exact the era, past or future by her surroundings nor the costumes of her consorts and servants.
I see her thrown, plush with finery, reclined and pillowed as for a harem. This luxurious decadence, her place of duty. She served at her thrown at wake and rest, day and night, giving nurishment to her subjects, her greatest responsibility, and pleasure in life. When she was not attending her thrown, the queen found respite strolling the gardens or lulling in the bath, even here she would let them come to her.
She once lived for the adventure, for the battle-not of the sword, but the spirit. In her early years she had traveled far and wide learning of the people and world around her, weaving her love, creating a tapestry as all learned to love and nourish in her joyful gentle way. She had experienced all, cried for the pains, wept for the triumps, understood and loved each place, each spirit she encountered. Seeking her peace, weak without love, they came to her. This is how she became queen.
At first it was the soldiers, pleading for their cause, begging for her strength, not aware her healing would change their hearts. They came baring game and gifts, to dine and to dance, to lay with her, to feel her comforting caress, to wake in her chamber renewed and undefeatable. Each returned to battle, to find they could no longer harm life, only protect it. Yet still, when one soldier, saw his friend or enemy could not fight, and would not fall, he too sought out her healing.
In time she found them too many, but she could not turn them away. Three at a time, male and female, young and old, she took the weakened, held them, suckled one on each breast, the third suckled the juice of her womb. In loving her, drinking from her, nurishment flowed, and her blessings were an everlasting fountain. Those whose strength was not depleted, those whose hearts had not been enbittered and hardened, those who found it easy to humble themselves at her breast, to rest and to suckle her milk were satisfied and full in a short time. Those not humbled by her breasts, those who could not trust as a child, those she would rebirth.
At first it was their desire to conquer her, thinking they could woo her for themselves. She was not to be won, she was not for one, but for all. There was never a closed door, never secrecy to her healing. Each knew where they were drawn to drink from her, each knew when they had drunk enough and withdrew for the next. She cradled them at her breasts; she lay opened for her orgasms to be milked for her healing waters.
When they walked away, still smelling of her, their ego had died, washed away like afterbirth by her unending capacity to give.
That is all that could be said of the beginning. She loved. She traveled to give love and when she could travel no more those needing love came to her. Soon she was surrounded with all she could need and she shared all she was given. Some chose to stay by her side, with them the love became intuition; what she felt they felt, what she needed they gave, her love had created eutopia as much for them around her as for those who traveled on, sharing her love.
And my vision was this, that every woman who knew her love could thus heal as she. So no one wanted for love, and lust had no power for there was no hunger, and ego died, for love was unconditionally shared by all.