She carries her pain like flowers. There are few women whose grief can hold back the flood; fearsome to behold, all wait in bated breath for her to shed the first tear. None loved him more than she. She doesn’t cry at the funeral, nor in the night as she caresses her growing belly. The first tears are reserved for labor, for the first cry of their child. And they do. Even still, she does not grieve. The pain of Isis seeded into something new something of magic and wombcraft and cloud walking She placed him in the arms of her sister gathered the lillies and the scorpions and departed for war.