wis·dom
/ˈwizdəm/
noun
the quality of having experience, knowledge, and good judgment; the quality of being wise.
Narnia had always been a free country, until she came along. Jadis was the devil in disguise, and she brought to the kingdom an eternal...
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"We pay a high price for intelligence. Wisdom hurts." - Euripides
Narnia, 2555.
Once upon a distant time, Olivia loved ceremonies.
But she didn't anymore. Not when the person who would be waiting for her down the stairs wasn't Edmund.
Her new room was covered in creatures, trying to make her look the best she could. This ball would be her official presentation (again) to the Narnian society, the return of Queen Olivia the Warrior, saviour of Narnia.
Actually, she had been presented before. On the day of her second coronation (or was it third? Did the one with the stars count?), Olivia had been officially announced as, well, herself.
Well, actually, she was announced before when she arrived with Tirian and Jewel the unicorn at Cair Paravel after washing up the beach. Obviously, people recognised her from the paintings, statues; all of the things made in honour of her, basically.
But, the day of her coronation had been, unexpectedly, a day where she wasn't nervous. She was more sad than anything. The dress felt like it was suffocating her, eating her whole in a single mouthful.
Suddenly, she began to hate the tulips in the vase on her nightstand because they reminded her way too much of Edmund and all the tulips he used to bring her. All of the dates where he showed up in her room, with the red tulips in a bouquet.
The dress– it was too much of her. A light russet brown went up her dark green dress, shaped like roots on a morning grass field, dragging in a mermaid skirt like nature in the form of fabrics. Her hair was brought up in a braided bun like a crown, decorated in white orchids. Her hands were covered in thin white gloves, barely covering her wrist and gently caressing her fingers. The spear was placed safely in the saddle, and the old crown felt heavy on the top of her head, like a rock weighing her down.
Olivia only had one thing bringing her a light sense of security: the spear glued to her hip and the daggers hidden all over her. The feeling of metal fresh against her skin made her feel in control, and there was no denying that control felt so good.
She was dragged out of the room, barely conscious of where she was going as the memories inside those halls hit her like a truck. All the laughter, all the joy, all the secret kissing, all the sneaking around.
"Are you alright, your majesty?" Deborá, the faun, ('s) voice woke her up from her vicious cycle of grief.
