It was a horrible day. She had woken up three times that morning, sobbing and writhing in pain from the haunting images in her dreams. Her and another man sat at a small table, staring at their food placed in front of them. She knew him. Older, wiser, but… not able to take the weight she had to carry on her own.
They didn't drink. They didn't talk. Her eyes gazed at the wall, to the scratched paint - remnants of the attack. He felt worse. She knew he felt worse, especially when he wasn't there for them. He blamed himself. Even after he requested the people of London to approach and come before their walls so she might give a speech.
It wasn't his fault. Alas, that boiling pit in her stomach was hard to keep from bursting out of her tight dress. She wanted to take the pain and scream, smear it across the walls, crush it into nothing until she couldn't recognise the people she saw in the paintings anymore. Then she wanted to cry about it some more until the lump formed again.
There was a man. Neo. Someone that her parents were rather intent on watching over her. Had they sensed their unfortunate demise? Did they think she was incapable of handling herself? Why an untrained commoner, of all people? So many questions roamed her mind, and the very thought of never getting answers made her angry.
Watching the sun peak through her window every morning was what made the pit in her stomach grow even larger, and she couldn't help but try to ask herself why. However, she didn't want to talk about it - not to anyone. Not even to herself. She didn't want to reconcile those feelings within, even for just a moment. She was in pain and it was far too much to bear, but the days blended together.
Soon enough, she was sitting in front of a vanity. Looking off at a pair of eyes staring back at her with an empty disdain. She could breathe in and out, try to rid her mind of old thoughts and come up with new, but everything felt empty. Her soul was cold, like the bed she would lie in until she had to wrap herself in blankets just to stop shivering.
Even just staring at her own reflection, she thought she might cry. She couldn't quite recognise the person she had been looking at anymore. They were wearing her face, dawning her features. Smooth brown skin with dark violet hair tied back into a high ponytail, braids undone. Alas, that was all. Just another unfamiliar person wearing her face. She couldn't see herself anymore.
Quilliene blinked and turned from the mirror. She took a look about the room, her eyes slowly focusing as if awakening from a dream. Noise filtered into her ears, and she had just seemed to realise that one of the maids was trying to talk to her. Struggling for a moment, she managed to listen.
"You look beautiful, your majesty," They were saying. "We all know you and his royal highness are going through a challenging time. But the people will be looking to you. They want you to guide them…"
The maid had said something else, but it sounded muffled. She thought clearly about those words for a moment longer. The responsibility was being placed upon her. There wasn't even a funeral yet and she was already being forced to take upon the mantle. It was insufferable, irritating, and most of all, it made her skin crawl.
It wasn't fair.
(¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.-> 🖋 <-.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯)
Quilliene slightly lowered her head and gave a simple curtsy. Looking on into the crowds of people, patiently standing around her gates, they had returned the gesture in kind. They looked at her with those eyes. Those eager, expecting eyes, mixed with all sorts of emotions and desires and fears. They were waiting for her and she would have to do nothing else at the time but speak.
"My loyal subjects of England," She began loud and clear into the microphones. "I come before you now to bring something to your attention. As you may have heard… it is with heartfelt words that I must inform you that his and her majesty, my mother and father, have passed on."
At first there seemed to be sighs of relief, as if they were holding their breaths waiting to officially hear the news that might have been spread by the press. Alas, those sighs quickly changed into frowns and glances of uncertainty. Their voices rose with gossip and concern. Their king and queen were gone. What were they to do?
Quilliene held up a single hand and the volume grew to a whisper before she continued. "Tomorrow, a ceremony will be held to grieve the loss that this country and this family have experienced. All the loyal subjects to the royal family have been invited to pay their respects. Soon after that, their memorials will be built for his and her majesty."
She took a deep breath. "Alas, that is not the only reason I stand here before you today. The deaths of our king and queen only mean one thing and one thing alone - a new monarch must step forward to accept the crown. This country will not fall under disloyalty and misguidance. We will not show weakness by dividing and losing ourselves within their absence!"
Quilliene's gaze hardened. "My family has held and protected this land for generations, and it will continue to do so from henceforth. However, my elder brother, the prince, cannot take this duty. You are all aware why. Therefore, that leaves one option and one option alone. I, Quilliene Ravenheart, shall accept the crown from this day forward."
The crowd was silent. No doubt their minds were full of wonder on how a woman so young would rule. She simply raised her chin higher. "England needs a monarch," She announced. "A symbol. A guiding hand to help us properly enter a bright future that we are so sure of. That monarch…"
She took a deep breath. Then was the moment they were all waiting for, and she was happy to oblige them with their wondrous curiosity. So, she continued, speaking the last phrase of her sentence in utter confidence. "Is me."