I hate the hands that hold me.

They have no regard for what I am. In their hands, I am not the symbol I used to be.

Nobility handled me once. They treasured me. Between their hands, I brought comfort. Behind the polished glass, I shone with warm pride. The pride of the palace. A beacon of safety. I symbolised a brutal battle won. And the re-crowning of a man we loved and respected.

Sometimes, t...