In her heyday people had feared her.
Their trembling had filled her with a dark satisfaction, not that she had let it show.
Her dead eyes and still features had kept their dread a constant, unable to guess at or even hope for a reprieve.
She had been powerful and she had reveled in that power.
Her touch, her reach, her grasp had been inescapable and once you were in her clutches she was rarely kind.
To look at her uninformed you may have thought her vulnerable looking, open to your gaze and alone.
Few who had laboured under this misapprehension had laboured long.
Over the years many had attempted to bring her down, to defeat her, to extinguish her.
All had perished.
Except the last one.
The one who walked in luck and light.
The one who wore knowledge as a cloak and bore bravery like a weapon.
They had gotten close enough - too close - they had struck hard enough - too hard - and they been wise enough - too wise - to know the importance of symbolism.
Disarmed she had lain dormant, watching with banked malice that would not extinguish as the world turned without her, as fear dwindled and memories faded.
Forgotten she waited.
Waited until she was found, waited until she was drawn back into the light by people too far removed to know her history, to fear her legend.
Waited while they theorised and romanticised and wondered.
Waited until they acted, innocent and naive.
Because they did not know the importance of symbolism.
And in rebuilding what had been taken from her, even in effigy, they awakened her essence.
And in awakening it they returned it to her.
And for the first time in years, decades, centuries, she was able to touch, to reach and to grasp.
And in the face of their fear, their trembling she felt only dark satisfaction.
Not that you would know it from her face.
Inspired by the fact that someone has made this action figure and upon seeing it one of my friends commented 'Did anyone ever stop to think they might have taken away her arms for a reason?'
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