You slowly decend infront of your friends, tired and worn.
It's been three long years since you've seen any of them. You wonder how they've been holding up since you've left. You hope they've been doing alright, however well they can.
As you land, you watch as they follow you with their eyes, that same tiredness you know all too well staring right back up at you. You realize, then, that there's something else underneath the weariness and relief.
Fear.
You wish you'd never put on the ring. You wish you never had to look like him. You wish you were never Queen.
You've come to loathe the title of Monarch. The only thing it's done is remind you of what you failed to do. What you failed to protect.
The Questant is the first to leave the little group, greeting you with a small nod. Wordlessly, she holds her hand out, and you know what she's asking you to do.
You old your hand out to her, and she gently takes it, slowly guiding the ring off. Finally, after so long, you're free