She had hoped. She had prayed. It did nothing.

She was at her son's side - she had kept faith that he would get stronger for so long, so long, but the child failed to get better. Her little boy was skinny... weak...

She was the Empress of all China, soon the Empress of both the East and the West. She had defeated countless enemies. She had commanded endless armies. She had been the best ruler she knew how to be, and likely the best ruler there ever could be, but still she could not bring her son back from the brink of death. Nothing seemed to cure his ailment.

She went to the doctors when his fever grew great. He was just an infant then, a gorgeous infant prince. She knew he would be strong. The doctors told him it was an illness of the liver, and that doses of mercury would help.

What fools they had been.

She went to the wise men, who had seen many winters, when his cough was thunderous. They said it was a sickness of the lungs, now, and that the toddler prince would become better when drinking tea made of the root of a cedar.

What fools that they had been.

Then, when he grew pale and his fingers grew blue, and he slept for longer and longer, she asked the priests. They reccommended prayer, as they always did. Prayer had helped her long ago, but it didn't help her now, but she prayed anyways. Prayed for her son.

She was the fool.

The child never woke now. His eyes were crusted shut, his breathing was shallow, his face was white as powder, and his beautiful golden hair turned to straw and fell out.

She had one last hope.

One desperate, terrible last hope.

She turned to the brazier, lit to keep the warm in the room when her son turned cold. She looked into the flames. And she threw in a bone, and stared.