THE THRONE REPORT — every throne, every rumor, every week.
Down by the old bridge, where the path narrows and the water runs quick beneath it, sits a low stone throne with moss softening its edges. The Report sat a while. The water did most of the talking.
Nobody was fighting over it. Nobody was claiming it, which is as it should be — sit if you like, the Report reminds readers, claim nothing. A walker left a smooth stone on its arm, as walkers sometimes do. A bird left nothing, which is also, in its way, a kind of respect.
The Report cannot say how long the throne has been there, and will not guess. It has been there longer than the bridge, the bridge-keeper says, which is saying something, since the bridge is older than anyone's grandfather. That is all the Report knows, and all it needs to know.