How many times could she be remade? At least once more.
The Empress was altered. The trials had worn away the toned muscles and gentle curves, whittling away at her frame until she was practically nothing, a few waifish angles and lines. She turned sideways and disappeared. She was lighter than the passing breeze. A faded photograph of herself, the bold blue of her hair was now black. The eyes were the same grey, of steel and the brooding sky over the ocean, but every year and new sorrow added more and more depth to drown in.
Beneath it all was still a personality larger than life. It showed in her smile at times, when she bothered to muster something other than a tired, well-done affectation.
She was biding her time. She was waiting, and as she waited, she mourned her own death and tried to live.
We of Faerie are of the wild magic. We are not creatures of spells and grimoires. We ARE spells, and we are written of in grimoires. Sandman: "Cluracan's Tale"