Once upon a time, in a kingdom of favour and fear, two shadows sat at the same table. One wore a crown; the other, a smile too quick to take the seat offered. At first, her gaze was warm — she thought me brilliant, and I basked in it.
For years I brought the mirror to her, hoping she might look. I showed the cracks in the walls, the currents beneath the floor. Each time, her eyes slid away, her tone tightened: “I’m not being defensive, but…” Still, I stayed, thinking perhaps next time she would see.
But the people saw. Quietly, they began to come to me, carrying their own questions, their own shadows. I felt the weight of it, as if I were keeper of a flame too heavy for one pair of hands. Over-responsible, I carried their truths alongside my own.
At last, she asked for my counsel. And so I lifted the mirror. Her gaze flinched, her voice deflected: “I’m not being defensive, but…” The reflection was unwelcome. Still, I persisted, righteousness rising with hers.
And soon after came the spell — words dipped in honey, offered as blessing.
“You’re too powerful.”
I laughed, tasting sweetness, mistaking it for praise.
But thunder rolled across her face, and the blessing hardened into curse.
Still, I took my place at her table.
The chair gleamed, carved for the favourite child.
Plates of privilege were set before me, seasoned with favour.
I knew the feast was laced with debt, but still I ate — until the taste soured.
At that table, the Queen’s gifts twisted in her hands.
A ribbon glinted like silk, then coiled into rope.
“I want to tie you to the kitchen table.”
A cup brimmed with broth, but burned bitter on the tongue.
A mirror shimmered with truth, yet showed one face to me and another to the realm.
When enough was enough, I carried the mirror to the circle of elders.
I laid it down in the centre, and it showed us both:
her shadow — and my own hunger for favour,
my choice to swallow what I knew was poisoned,
my righteousness polished too bright.
The mirror cracked with her warning:
“If you tell anyone I gave you permission, that’s when we’ll really fall out.”
At the time, I did not understand. I had never asked permission.
Only later did I see: she feared not my action, but exposure.
Her yes to me was hidden, her no displayed to the realm.
The mirror split, revealing both faces at once.
When the rope failed, she tipped the cup.
Poison slid into the well.
Whispers spread: conflicted, compromised, untrustworthy.
Accusations cloaked in law,
the Queen perched on the Father’s false throne.
But spells fracture, ropes unravel, poison spills dry.
Truth has its own tide.
At last, the Dark Queen’s crown tilted, and her voice broke plain:
“I thought we’d be rebels together, but you became a rebel against me.”
What she feared as too much power was only integrity taking root.
What she called betrayal was simply the Golden Rebel Child —
sovereign, unbound, ethical.
And yet — when I withdrew my warmth, I felt the sting of the bad mother’s shadow,
truth offered without tenderness.
A Call to Reflect
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Where have you knowingly feasted at a table of favour — aware of the debt, but eating anyway?
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Which gifts in your story have shifted in your hands — ribbons into ropes, cups into poison, mirrors into weapons?
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When have others come to you with truths too heavy to carry — and how did you respond?
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When has your righteous sword cut clean, and when has it wounded more than it healed?
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Where have you withheld warmth under the guise of truth — and what was the cost?
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What happens when you refuse the throne’s false blessing and stand instead in sovereignty?
This is part two of a Trilogy: Shadows in Leadership — A Modern Myth.