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Hippolyta stands at the shoreline and watches her daughter leave for war. It is a day she has feared since the moment she first held Diana in her arms, a day she hoped would never come. It is a day she saw coming each time her daughter’s eyes lit up at the mere mention of battle, at any display of swordsmanship. A godling is not so easily dissuaded from war; Hippolyta knows this. She also knows that Diana can resist her calling no more than she can put down her crown.
Her crown weighs on her even from the beginning. She claws herself out of the sea, hours old, and the gods bestow the title of queen upon her. All she can do is turn to her sisters, hundreds of them standing behind her, looking to her, some still retching seawater from their lungs, and pray they find her worthy of it.
Her crown plagues her with the betrayal of man, weighs on her more than the chains on her wrists. She is Queen of the Amazons but can do nothing for her sisters as they waste away in the dungeons of Man. Hateful, mistrusting, deceiving Man who the Amazons were created to guide, who proved themselves too corrupt to be saved. Hippolyta dreams of rebellion, schemes with Antiope, and passes whispers of a coming battle to any of her people she can reach. She watches defeated faces turn hard and fire light up within broken eyes as she breathes hope into the very souls of the Amazons. It is not until the night of their escape, swords flashing in the torchlight and the blood of their captors staining her clothes, that she truly understands who she is. Antiope leaps from a dying man, snarling in the dim light. At the same time, Hippolyta’s sword claims another soul. Each Amazon is a vengeful angel and they breathe as one massive beast, a hundred years hungry for revenge. Hippolyta whirls from soldier to soldier, sword flashing, and between battles she comes face to face with her people; faces burning with savage vengeance, eyes alight with, for the first time in many centuries, hope. Hope born of her rebellion. Hope born of her. She does not truly understand what it means to rule until that moment.
Zeus creates a safe haven for the Amazons and Hippolyta can hang up her sword, put her days of battle behind her save for the memories that haunt her sleep. She lost too many of her sisters to consider her rebellion a victory. They are free, yes, but the parade of the lost, the slain, and those who they never found even after the war was won, burden Hippolyta more than the chains she escaped. Aello, Eriobea, Celaneo, Euryhe, Marpe, Tecmessa… They will not be forgotten, for as long as she is queen, she will carry the names of those who have died for her as a reminder that her crown is not without its sacrifices.
Of all her queenly duties in the world, the Godkiller, her daughter, Diana, was the only one that did not burden her. The palace seemed lighter for the sound of a child’s laughter and running feet, the burden of her crown stolen from her, if only for a few seconds, by a toddler’s bubbly laughter and wondering eyes. Diana sees the crown as a bauble, a toy to be grabbed and played with, or another delightful piece of jewelry. Hippolyta knows that one day Diana will know the true meaning of the crown and the bracelets every Amazon wears, forged from the very chains they had been enslaved by, symbols of imprisonment turned to empowerment. She wishes that day would never come. But for now, Diana is young and innocent, and she knows nothing of the crown. Briefly, Hippolyta thinks that the crown was better suited to be her daughter’s plaything than to be on her own head. What person deserved to rule for as many years as she had? Time passes strangely on Themyscira, but Hippolyta knows that hundreds of years have gone by. No mortal ruler has ever reigned as long as she has. But the gods chose her, Zeus himself chose her for this burden, and she would not put down her crown until her people demanded it. She owes them that much for so many years of war on her command.
The Amazons have never rebelled against their queen. However, Hippolyta is no stranger to disagreements and arguments against her rule; it is why she formed the senate. She is not all-knowing or all-seeing, and god-ordained queen or not, Hippolyta would be a fool not to listen to her people and she would be a fool to believe rebellion would never occur. However, she never expected it from her own blood. Antiope trained Diana against her explicit orders. Diana is the Godkiller, yes, but she is also Diana. Hippolyta’s head and heart war with each other at this contradiction. Godkiller and daughter, Queen and mother. Her crown digs into her forehead as she bows to Antiope’s wishes. A scorpion must sting, a wolf must hunt… And a queen must rule fairly, even if it breaks her heart.
Hippolyta watches Diana grow, watches her flourish under her training. Diana rises rapidly through the ranks of the Amazon army, and it is clear she is a prodigy. Diana practically bounces in her seat with excitement during meals as she pours over her training; the newest weapon she is learning, the newest military drills Antiope has taught her. Hippolyta forces a smile on her face at each new technique mastered, but she does not force her pride. That, at least, comes easily as Diana rises through the ranks, for Diana is her daughter and she would move mountains to see her happy. Hippolyta does not force her pride, but she forces down her fear and hides it as best she can. She sees Diana’s destiny more and more with each bullseye, each sword stroke, each fist flung. The mantle of Godkiller falls more and more upon her daughter’s shoulders without her realizing, and Hippolyta knows more than anyone the weight of titles. Her crown weighs on her more and more each passing day.
What have I done? The wave of energy flies from Diana’s gauntlets, hurling Antiope across the field, and Hippolyta watches her daughter become the Godkiller before her very eyes. There is a sad satisfaction spreading its cold fingers across her heart as she beholds the godling before her, the godling that is her daughter. The godling stares in shock at her own hands, not comprehending her own power, and runs off in shock as Hippolyta wonders numbly if she should have stopped her. Instead, she stays frozen. The worried murmurs of the army around her become little more than white noise. It is not until she hears the shriek of a dying warship, gazes out onto the horizon, and sees Man again, that she can bring it upon herself to move.
It is on the beach, fighting in fear for her daughter’s life and fighting for her home, that Hippolyta remembers what war is like. Her crown digs into her forehead once again as she desperately cuts down the invaders one by one, each stroke of her blade leaving one less man to hurt her people. Yet still her people fall, eyes unseeing, and bodies strewn about the beach like ragdolls. Oh, does Hippolyta remember war. Aello, Eriobea, Celaneo, Euryhe, Marpe, Tecmessa… The first war and the first fallen, fallen for her and her war, and now they are no longer the last. Her crown cuts into her forehead and she remembers the burden once more. And then, when the last bullet is shot, she hears her daughter scream and her heart turns to ice.
Antiope lies unmoving on the beach, and Diana cries out from the sort of pain that Hippolyta never wanted her to feel, the same pain that shatters her heart. She hears Menalippe scream as the warrior runs to her lover, throws herself on the sand beside the queen and her daughter and the unmoving body of one they love. Hippolyta sees nothing except the body of her sister, another Amazon she failed, just one among the many that lie dead on this beach. She’d thought Antiope would never fall. Antiope had always seemed invincible and untouchable. She had commanded war and death like they were pawns on the great chess board of battle. Hippolyta looks up, sees Man and then nothing but red. She lunges at him with a thousand years of rage and the weight of the crown behind her, and her daughter runs between them. Her own daughter, rebelling against the queen. Hippolyta remembers Antiope’s rebellion against her, as small as it was, and as large as its impact became, and forces back her rage. Antiope is dead. Diana lives. And this Man lives, for better or for worse. Life is kind and cruel, and Hippolyta stands on sands soaked with the blood of her people and lets her crown consume her. Her heart cannot bear the same weight.
Her crown is a burden. Her crown is a heavy weight, set upon her since she crawled out of the ocean. It is her people’s beacon and she is their leader. The crown is symbol of the gods’ faith in her. Yet she wishes she could throw it down on these bloodied sands and leave with her daughter, protecting her from Man for just a few moments longer. Better yet, she wishes she could pull the title of Godkiller from Diana, throw it away, or take it into her own hands, before her daughter’s young heart is poisoned by the weight these sorts of titles bring with them. But Diana is the Godkiller and Hippolyta is the Queen. Neither can escape their burdens, nor the greatness and sorrow each bring with them. She gives Diana Antiope’s tiara, wondering if her sister would approve. She does not pray for Diana’s protection, knowing full well that her daughter needs none. Perhaps this is what terrifies her. She raised Diana, the Princess of Themyscira, but she sends Diana the Godkiller off to war.
Hippolyta has never regretted her burdens in life. She takes them in stride, finding happiness in the smallest moments in between. Hope in her people’s eyes, laughter from a younger Diana as she stole the crown from Hippolyta’s forehead, the sparkle in Antiope’s eyes when Diana mastered a new technique. As Diana’s boat fades away, Hippolyta reaches up and lifts the crown from her head. The sea breeze rustles softly through her hair and she closes her eyes. She breathes in and out and lets her burden slip away.