Her Majesty

Prologue

Knowing something will eventually happen and actually having it occur are two completely different things. I knew I would be Queen, that I would bear the responsibility of a nation one day. I had been trained for it since the second I learned to walk. Since the first syllables fell from my mouth and the silver spoon touched my fingertips, I have been molded into what I would one day become.

That doesn't mean I was prepared for it. Nothing prepares you for the instant it arrives, especially when I thought I had so much more time. So much more life to live before this became my reality.
I was, unfortunately, painfully and dreadfully wrong.

As I looked out at the crowd of people, I saw my life flash before my eyes. My youngest days of running the grounds of the estates, how I learned to horseback ride out in the countryside, playing football in the garden. The young girl knowing of her future but not completely understanding what it meant for her.
I still do not think I fully understand.

I saw myself running through the palace, disturbing important meetings, attending school as flashing lights pointed in my direction, and not comprehending why everyone yelled at me.

I knew what being Queen meant, that I would be a Queen, but it was only when I could grasp history that I understood what was truly planned for my future.

The day after I asked for a thorough explanation of the meaning of my title, my parents sat me down once again to tell me my father was dying in a roundabout way, explained to the education and emotional level of an eight-year-old. Five months later, I was in a black dress, seated right next to my mother, as I watched my mother hold back tears in her eyes.

My mother had lost her most trusted confidant and love of her life, Her stability and strength throughout her Reign. The man who had always stood three steps behind her, supported her, and understood his duty to the crown, to his country, was to love her.

Fifteen years later, I was once again mourning the loss. Instead, this time there was no one beside me. I was all alone in mourning. I was mourning the loss of my protector, best friend, and my confidant.

My Mother.

I had lost my last parent—the woman who meant everything to me. People over history have often thought of the Monarch as invincible, and I wish they were right. Instead, her heart gave out in the middle of the night without warning.
As I was awoken in the middle of the night, I could feel my own heart struggle.
My time had come to rule much earlier than anyone, including myself, had expected.

In an instant, my life shifted. As I helplessly wept, mourning my best friend, everything changed. No longer did I curtsy to my grandmother. Instead, she curtseyed to me. No longer could I be a slacker; no, I was Queen.

It seemed so wrong. Everything seemed wrong. I was not supposed to be in this position. I was too young. Two months out of university did not give me enough time to prepare. Although, if I had, I doubt it would have made a difference. How do you prepare to mourn your mother? How do you prepare for the days after, and how do you pretend you are strong enough to comfort a nation when your life is falling apart?

The was no mourning for me. The nation mourned a monarch. They placed flowers along the streets and balloons on posts. Parades, military salutes, and celebrations of her life followed, with billions worldwide paying respects.
They were mourning an exceptional Queen. A true ruler of the people, and they should. She was incredible.

But I was mourning my mother.

They are not the same thing.

Yet, I had to console them. I had to reassure them that the staple of the country's history was intact and strong and prove myself worthy and ready for the task ahead. It was a twisted tradition not to let me mourn. Hiding away for a few days was not ever an option. Instead, I was faced by the nation, with interviews within three hours of the news and meetings two hours after that.

I was no longer a priority. The people were, and by tradition, the emotions of my family were second. I understood that. I understood I was not only the head of the household; I was the head of Britain. I was placed into a role my mother was so good at.

Doing both.

I now not only was responsible for the people, but I was also responsible for my fourteen-year-old twin siblings. The recent change has been tough on all of us. They lost their Father, Mother, and as I changed my dialect from 'you too' to 'you as well,' they had officially lost what they knew to be who I once was.

I had lost who I once was, and she was not coming back. No longer was I the heir; I was the Queen of England.

I had no choice but to act as such.

I looked out down the aisle, my eyes turning slightly to see the twins staring at me with blank expressions as the choir sounded throughout the church. As I was lifted to this newfound conqueror, I felt the woman I could've become finally, fully, and officially die. No longer was there avoiding responsibilities, the tiniest bit of normalcy I had as a child fading. Instead, I was now theirs. I was to put duty before my aspirations, to protect, preserve, and serve as their monarch.

I gripped the scepter tightly, hoping no one saw my clammy hands shaking. The imperial robe draped around my body, swallowing me whole, the heavy crown was placed on my head. The wardrobe mimicked how I was feeling. As if the world had swallowed me whole, placing this responsibility I was not strong enough to carry on my shoulders as I said silent prayers praying to God no one noticed how terrified I was.

Praying to God that he didn't anoint the wrong one, although I was certain he had.
My chest tightened as I gazed out to the hundreds of rows, the thousands in attendance repeatedly screaming the four words that sent chills down my spine.

"God save the Queen! God save the Queen! God save the Queen!"

Yes, please. God save me.