I finally hit my groove and lose all track of time, mindlessly immersing myself in past-cherished toil. Succumbing to light unconsciousness reunites us with better days—before we became part of the Great People’s world. 

Now in a state of fantasy, my mind soars to long ago when I had been content twirling daily beside fellow retinues, our yellow coats shimmering in the golden geometric glory of the Hall. Back then our dances were treasured rituals: for the nineteen hours we did not sleep, we honored our kingdom with a series of precursing flounces and dives, before attending to the Queen’s prize chattel. 

Outside the golden doors, expanses of blossoming garden would gleam with nectarous radiance. The fierce sweetness of our kingdom’s harvest flowers were the provenance of our prosperity and our delight in work for Her Majesty. After the Extraction, we would dance back inside her hall to leak the ambrosia into the golden floor cellars. Nightfalls carried us to sleep in preparation of waking up to another day of honorable work under golden arches. 

But one day we woke instead to a rumble in the Earth and the horror of our noble walls tumbling down. The Great People had found us despite the humble shrubs that had concealed our golden estate for epochs. We watched as the Great People slashed through the garden without mercy and shook our palace to evict the rest of us. We watched as they ushered golden pillars and bottles out of the cellar into their carriages. We watched as they seized Her Majesty out of the brambles where she hid, and with a sudden slash, disconnected her appendages. As they bolted us into dark boxes on a journey to the Gardens of the Great People, we wept for our queen. 

No one slept on that first night. Morning carried us wearily out of the bleak chamber to labor among the Great People’s gardens. We hesitated before flitting our wings; was it right to perform our treasured rituals for people that had left our gardens weeping, our sweet cellars forsaken to sourness, our beloved Queen dismembered? But we will honor the Queen with our rituals despite the evil that infuses these gardens. The Great People may have taken our Queen’s bodily autonomy, but the Great People will not purloin Her Majesty’s honor. 

As we took flight for the first pollination of an invariant garden, our sadness brought us a collective conclusion, a golden truth that would replace our buzz for an eternity: the search for vengeance would become a new sweetness. Today and tomorrow, we will dance to a beat of retributional hope: that someday we will return to the life that was once ours.