I. The Arthurian Verse

From the Saxon Chronicle, written in the old tongue

Hear now of She-Who-Broke-Kings, the Star-Touched Mother, Who raised the first stones when the world was younger— Four thousand winters past, when dragons wore crowns, And tyrants made slaves of the star-counting daughters.

She came not with armies but with truth as her blade, The Mother-Slayer-of-Kings, who would not be made To kneel before false gods or bow to their fear— She who taught stones to stand and point to the sphere.

Where Galahad sought the Grail in latter days pure, She sought the stars' wisdom, made tyranny's cure. Where Arthur pulled sword-right from enchanted stone, She raised stones to heaven, made the cosmos our own.

II. The Beowulf-Song

As the scops sang it in the mead-halls of memory

Listen! We have heard of the high-born woman, The Mother-Slayer-of-Kings, mightiest of mortals, Who in days of darkness dared defy the dragon-crowned, Those poison-speakers, those peddlers of fear.

Born was she for battle, but also for star-wisdom, A healer and dreamer who held in her heart The hunger for heaven's high mathematics, The measuring of mysteries that move in the night.

Then came the king-serpents, those corrupters of courage, With their fire of dogma, their fear-forged chains, To steal from the star-seekers their sacred inheritance, To make small the minds that were meant to be mighty.

But the Mother rose wrathful, righteous in fury, Her fire burned hotter than any false-dragon's breath. She broke their backs on the bedrock of truth, She shattered their scepters with star-given strength.

When the tyrants lay toppled, when daughters stood free, She raised up the Ring-Stones, that covenant-circle, Each pillar a promise pointed at heaven: "We are star-substance, we shall not be slaves."

No Gold-Hall she built, but a greater memorial— A temple to truth that would teach all who came: That gods are but ghosts that the fearful have fashioned, While stars can be studied, their movements made known.

She stands now in story, the Star-Mother eternal, Who proved that a woman could break the world's chains, Who showed that the sky-vault was not for the gods only, But a book to be read by the brave and the free.

III. The Rune-Stone Fragment

Carved in the oldest script, found beneath the heel-stone

These are the words of the Breaker-of-Crowns, The Mother who saved the First World from its madness:

In the shadow-time before the stones stood watching, When king-worms coiled around the minds of men, I saw the Great Deceit—that those who claimed heaven's voice Were heaven's betrayers, wearing light like stolen armor.

The Lie-Masters spoke thus: "We stand between you and the divine, We are your only passage to the eternal fire." But I saw through their mask—they were not light's servants, They were light's thieves, hoarding stars in locked coffers.

They bound my sisters with chains called tradition, They named our star-hunger "prideful rebellion," They said our questions were poison, our knowledge was sin, That only through them could truth enter in.

But I had touched the true fire—not their tame hearth-flame, But the wild star-forge where worlds are made and unmade. I knew their greatest trick: to make us think That our prison guards were our liberators.

So I broke them. Not with armies—with arithmetic. Not with swords—with star-charts that could not lie. I showed my people that the heaven-wheel's turning Could be predicted without king or priest.

And when the false-dragons lay broken, When their poison-words could poison no more, We raised the Standing Stones—not to new gods, But to the principle that gods were never needed.

Each stone points skyward, saying: "Look up, not to masters, But to mysteries we can measure and map. We are not subjects of heaven—we are its students, Not slaves to the stars—but their kindred."

Let all who come after stand upon my shoulders, Reach higher than I reached, see farther than I saw. For I am the Mother-Slayer-of-Kings, And I freed the future from the past's false gods.

The Living Memorial

Thus the three tellings converge: Song, Saga, and Stone speak as one.

She lives still, this Woman-Who-Would-Not-Kneel, in every stone that stands at Salisbury Plain. Not as a goddess—she would spit at such diminishment—but as the eternal reminder that humanity needs no intermediary to touch infinity.

The stones she raised still stand, still point to the wheeling stars, still teach their first lesson: We are capable of comprehending the cosmos. We need no kings to interpret the sky, no priests to translate the star-tongue. We are born with eyes that can see, minds that can measure, hearts that hunger for truth.

This is her victory, harder than bronze, truer than gold: She proved that excellence is not granted by gods but grown from human greatness. She showed that wisdom is not dispensed by the powerful but discovered by the persistent.

The Mother-Slayer-of-Kings has no equal—not because she was divine, but because she was magnificently, defiantly, brilliantly human.

May all generations stand upon her shoulders. May all daughters inherit her star-hunger. May all sons remember her stone-raising.

For we are creatures of the stars, and the stars are not our gods—they are our inheritance.