The soldiers press a crown of thorns onto the head of the traitor
I can't resist as they press down the ghastly thing.
All I can do is shriek incoherently and shoot looks defiance out of my eyes ... defiance that is so easily broken.
Right in this moment the pain registers less, than the annoyance of blood trickling down, running into my eyes.
I can hardly process what's being said around me,
the shouts, the taunts, the jeering and sneering
Queen this, queen that. Filth, naked, slut.
No, that is too much for her!
Someone says something about '
No, that is too much for her'
and for a moment my silly heart has hope
... are they going to spare me of something ...
.. are they going to maybe just march me around naked, whip and humiliate me ...
... but not ...
crucify me!?!
It's silly and stupid!! -- I know and I realize it a split second later,
and I'm ashamed for even half-thinking that for even half a heartbeat ...
Stupid hope,
hope is what got me here,
the hope that something could be changed, something saved, something made better,
I should not have had that hope,
should just have hung my head low and trudged along,
never try to take matters in my own hands to make a difference.
Then I could still live,
but what kind of life would it be?
Malin, what are you queen of now? Degradation, filth, shame? Death?
Never ever was I queen of anything or claimed or aspired to be ...
but degradation, filth, shame and yes death ...
... that is what you throw at me!
It's not mine, ... it's yours!!
... and it's all you have to give!
I can't resist though, and that is what you make me,
you'll mount me and raise me on that deadly throne,
and because you want and make it so, I'll serve,
serve the wicked as their queen of suffering.