The Art Of Dancing In The Rain

Prologue

My mother died on a Sunday.

I remember the day clearly. 

She and my father went to the Wards to address the militia and commend them on excellent work in the most recent attack on our kingdom. It was a routine visit. The Wards were nothing to be afraid of, especially since they were only staying on the inside.

I remember her hugging me tightly. I remember her whispering in my ear I love you, be good, I'll see you this evening. I remember her smell of lavender perfume and new makeup filling my nose. I remember the way she had to crouch down to reach me because I was only six. I remember telling her I loved her, but I didn't want her to go because it was my birthday and no one should be alone on their birthday. I remember her cupping my tiny hand in hers and pressing it to my heart. Toujours victorieux. She whispered those words into my ear. Always victorious. I didn't understand the concept of victory back then. I didn't understand what in the world victory had to do with my parents leaving early in the morning and not returning until nightfall, missing my entire birthday.

When she left the palace, I remember praying I'd grow up to be like her. Always putting your kingdom before everything else. Always loyal.  Toujours fidèle. My nanny must've seen the look on my face as I watched my parents walk down the steps together, linked arm in arm, flanked by ten soldiers, because she bent down and whispered to me, "Don't worry, child, they'll be back before you know it."

Only one of them came back that night.

The worst part about it was that I didn't have anyone to blame. It would have been so much easier if I could have channeled all my aggression into one person, if I could have tracked them down and beaten them to a pulp, or had them executed in the Square, where I could have watched with sadistic satisfaction as they died a slow death. But there was no one for me to blame.

How could anyone have known that was the day our neighboring kingdom would choose to attack. No one could have known their army, one of the fiercest in the universe, was coming with the specific instruction to burn down our kingdom.

No one could have known, right?

That's what I've been told my entire life. 

No one could have known, Lis, don't be so hard on yourself. 

What if they did? What if someone knew?

In the following days, I remember being numb. Sitting on my bed, surrounded by things my mother bought me--clothes, dresses, shoes, toys, all bought by her and my father. 

My father, who locked himself away in his study and refused to come out, not even for the funeral. 

My father, who looked at me like I was a piece of trash.

My father, who only communicated to the outside world through messages delivered by his servants.

My father, who committed suicide three years later, leaving six words written on a scrap piece of paper as his goodbye to his beloved kingdom: "She looks too much like her."

My father, who left me all alone to rule a kingdom that thinks I'm weak.

Here's a newsflash to you all: I'm not, and I will never be.