Cicatrice

Chapter VII

PRINCESS ESTELLE BELSHAW

The inevitable day I had been dreading had quickly crept up from behind me. The day I'd be announced Queen of France, the heavy, sad, hunk of gold will be placed on my head, and, at the ripe old age of seventeen, I would have to rule an entire nation.

My day of power. My coronation.

My day starts before the sun rises. Marguerite and Eddie spend hours in the kitchen preparing my favourite breakfast pastries, and they also keep the castle immaculate for the festivities that follow the coronation.

Marguerite worked tirelessly to make sure that I looked picture perfect, by spending hours styling my thick dark brown locks into a braided up-do, helping me into my white and red royal gown, of course, cinching my waist with a corset so much I couldn't breathe. As I glanced at myself in the mirror, everything began to feel incredibly real, but surreal simultaneously. Father's golden cane had now resided in my hand, and soon, his crown would be bestowed upon me.

I glance outside the window of my suite, noticing a bunch of citizens piled outside, waving their hankies and cheering. All these people, here for me. A princess, yet I felt like a nobody. Tears well up in my diamond coloured eyes, but I couldn't bare to cry.

I'm startled out of my thoughts by a loud knock on the door. I notice Marguerite standing in the doorway.

"My dear, the carriage is out the front," Marguerite speaks quietly, her voice seemed a little strained, probably exhausted from working all day, and it was only eight o'clock in the morning.
"Best be going, then," I whisper, a small smile on my lips as I stroll out of my room.

Two guards escort me from either side of me, a swarm of citizens cheering as I reach their sight of eye. I'm swiftly seated in the carriage, my heart working extra hard to make sure I don't have some sort of anxiety attack. The carriage departs from the palace gates, making its way to the royal cathedral.

There is even more people when we reach the cathedral. When they notice the carriage, they scream and cheer in excitement. I couldn't believe they were all here to see me, just a girl who happened to be born to this lifestyle - I didn't feel anywhere near special.

It takes a few guards and then some to clear a path for me to walk up the stairs, into the mediaeval cathedral's massive, bricked facade. I feel as if I am marching to my death with every steady step I take down the aisle, eyes watching me from every angle like I was the prey, and they were the hunters.

My breath is stripped away by the cathedral's slender, beige walls. Beautiful frescoes depicting angels being wounded by arrows as well as other things decorate the ceilings. I had only been in this place once or twice, but I didn't remember it being so heavenly. My nose is overwhelmed with the aroma of holy incense, yet I resist the desire to sneeze.

The procession is like a blur. Everything felt surreal, like a dream; or as if I were watching through somebody else's eyes. Even though I were here, I felt as if I were on a different planet.

Everyone moves slowly; royally. Everything had felt the same as the rehearsal, except for the roaring crowd that awaited outside. Priest Harold performs the ritual of anointment; sprinkling perfumed oil on my forehead, and dressing me with a golden robe.

The golden throne awaited in front of me, where my father, grandmother, and numerous other deceased generations had once sat and made demands for the populace. But I didn't think I had the potential to execute such actions like them.

The throne shot daggers at me.

As father leads me up the golden steps to the throne, my behind is slowly met with the hard, uncomfortable seat. Why was the throne such a big deal when it was this uncomfortable? And dare I have to sit in it for all of this time?

"Princess Estelle Belshaw, do you solemnly promise and vow to rule and care for the People of Toulouse and the Kingdom of France?" Priest Harold calls out, echoing the cathedral while reciting the royal verse.

A plump tear rolls down my cheek, but I lack feeling. My broken eyes meet my father's who resides seated in the front row of the pew, and he looks back at me. I still don't see him; he's merely a monster in my eyes.

With a quiver escaping from my throat, I take a deep breath.

"I do. I solemnly promise and vow to rule and care for the People of Toulouse and the Kingdom of France," I declare, a whimper escaping from my lips, but nobody says a word. I stare straight ahead, no sense of feeling, no sense of what was about to happen.

"I now officially promote you, Princess Estelle Belshaw, to the new Queen of France and all related areas," he bellows, holding the crown up with his two wrinkled hands. I feel as though I've been stabbed in the stomach as he carefully places the shiny crown on my head.

Me.

The Queen of France.