It was supposed to be a silly one-time tradition. Something I did on my wedding day to appease my grandmother, who insisted I burn some wedding food as an offering. It was SUPPOSED to be a tiny moment between a woman who was clearly losing her mind and her grandson on his wedding day, a tiny act he did to appease her.

In retrospect, it was that, but that tiny moment clearly meant everything.

I didn't notice it at first, but my new wife suddenly started to be more attentive to my needs. She would ask me questions about how my day was, and suddenly at night, she developed this sweet habit of playing with my hair. I remember once when we were dating I mentioned it, that I wondered what it felt like. To have your hair played with as you fall asleep. And she suddenly just... did it and hasn't stopped. It's become part of our routine.

That's not to say I haven't been reciprocating. I kind of have a theory that's why this situation has escalated, but I'm getting to that. I started bringing her flowers when she messages that she's been having a rough day with her kindergartners, or surprising her with a night out dancing. I cleaned the house and even suggested a cooking class together to have some fun. We don't talk about the Butterscotch Incident or else we dissolve into laughter. When we learned she was pregnant, I started rubbing her feet nightly as we talked about our days and she would still play with my hair as we went to sleep.

Three years and four months after my wedding day, I was mugged. I was on my way home, desperate to get there and help my wife with our sick son, and despite every instinct screaming at me not to cut through this one part of the city, I had to. My family needed me.

The barrel of a gun, the angry and desperate voice demanding my wallet, and the wild look in that kid's eyes as I raised my hands and tried to talk him down. He screamed and made to attack me - and then there was the golden light. Just filling every sense, consuming me.

I only have a vague recollection from there, but it was enough. A tall woman standing over the young man, robes curled around her royally, and the faintest outline of peacock feathers behind her, like an emblem of power. She spoke, but I couldn't hear her over the ringing in my ears, but my attacker sure did. He scrambled to his feet, and sprinted away, leaving the gun behind.

I remember her huffing and then helping me to my feet, still dazed. She brushed away grime from the alley, even licking her thumb and wiping off a spot on my cheek. I suddenly felt like I was eight again, and my mother was helping me up after I skinned my knee falling from a bike. Safe and assured, surrounded by warmth and unconditional love. I could only stare but try as I might, I couldn't make out her face for the halo of light hid her eyes from me. The woman smiled lovingly at me, pat my head tenderly, and suddenly I was home. Clear-headed and with a shopping bag with some baby formula that I didn't remember buying. No trace of the mugging on my clothes.

During Christmas dinner a few months later, I managed to pull my grandmother aside and ask her. I hadn't told my wife yet, I felt like I couldn't. But when I finished telling her, I asked her what she thought. My grandmother smiled and simply declared, "Alexander, you are a faithful and devoted husband. You gave a sacrifice on your wedding day to the defender of men. Of course, the Queen would protect you, my boy."

I didn't have time to ask her what she meant because I heard my wife calling for help with the baby. I wish I had asked more because my grandmother died not two months later. Books and research could only go so far. But from then on, I gave silent thanks to the Queen whenever I could. When my son took his first steps, I thought I saw her there next to my wife, smiling with pride. When my wife was in a car accident but somehow walked away unscathed, I burned some more food for the Queen in our fireplace, apologizing for the lack of ceremony but pouring my gratitude into my prayer. When my wife and I would argue but still find ways to make up and communicate, I sent her a silent prayer of thanks as I held my wife in my arms. When I disowned my sister for adultery, I begged her to help me to never stray.

I am remembering all of this because it has been fifty-one years since then. My son has grown and is married. Jason and his husband are wonderful and adopted a little girl. She would be finishing college soon, I think. On his wedding day, I instructed him to make an offering and said nothing else. But I felt it. The Queen was happy. Jason would be safe.

My wife has already passed - bless her soul. My own queen.

But now? Fifty-one years since that fateful mugging, I am remembering all of it in detail. Because there is a thunderstorm above, and some punk with a knife just got the better of me. I am bleeding out behind a small store, slumped against the brick, and not sure if the freezing sensation I feel is from the rain or the shock from the blood loss. I know better than to blame the Queen for it, as lightning arcs across the skies. I guess the King got too jealous of my devotion and trust in the Queen.

But it's not her fault.

I should rest now.

I hear arguing, but I can't pay attention. I hear the words 'jealous' and 'tryst' thrown around but it's not my business. Not a mortal's business.

But a final clap of thunder, a roar of frightening rage - and the argument ends. The rain begins to slow.

The clouds are parting now, and I hear footsteps. I see a light. I should rise. I should look at her and smile. I should thank her for my wife and my son, I should ask her to protect my son and his family. I should, but I am just so tired now.

I should rest now.

I hear my wife's voice. She's smiling and calling me to her. Beside her, stands a tall woman, draped in royal robes, and smiling at me from beneath a halo of light that hides her eyes. I swear I see peacock feathers behind her.

She touches my shoulder as my wife takes my hand, and I know. I know my son and his family will be safe. I feel the fierceness of a mother's love surrounding me, as I had felt it since the night in that alley where Hera Alexandros had first saved me.

​

(I bit of a different take, but this is what I came up with at 4 am on a coffee-fueled spur-of-the-moment choice. Please be gentle, I haven't written properly in years but this prompt jumped at me and I had to scratch the itch, so to speak.)