Chapter Text
The silence at my coronation could be cut with a knife into tiny pieces. Of course, since no one really expected this, no one really knows what to do with a nineteen year-old Queen. That is going to rule half of the ocean. And has only been sort of preparing for a few years of her life. That's why the silence presses in around me, forming a tight bubble which I can barely breathe in. I'm not listening to the preacher as he reads off the long script that goes along with this. I don't feel anything when he places the crown on my head except the heavy weight of knowing that I will never be free ever again.
“Do you, Ursula Karina Poseidon, Princess of the Ocean, accept the responsibility of being Queen of the Sea?” the preacher says.
“I do,” I reply.
“Do you, Ursula Karina Poseidon, Princess of the Ocean, promise to fend for our people and keep them safe, lest you lose your power and status?” the preacher says.
“I do,” I reply. He motions for me to stand up and face the crowd. I do, searching the faces for a smile. No one has any expression on their faces, just boredom or confusion.
“Do you, the people of Atlantis, accept your new Queen of the Sea?” the preacher says.
“We do,” they reply. I can sense that they do not want me. They want my brother, who was crowned yesterday, who is standing on the top of the dais observing this, who is sensing their emotions with me, who is the true ruler of Atlantis.
Not me.
But that was days ago. Now, the crown rests on my head permanently, a little row of coral that comes to points to form a crown shape in my raven hair. I sleep in an ornate room in my own palace, have three maids to do everything for me, and eat in a dining room with the longest table ever, glancing at the ballroom that hasn't seen use in years.
Not since my mother died. Not since the new palace was built so that we wouldn't have to swim through the halls remembering. Not since we were told to forget. I never forgot. And now I swim through these halls, remembering. Especially because the bedroom I sleep in is fit for a Queen. A mother. A history that is never meant to be forgotten.
I sit at the desk in my room, writing to my brother. As I finish placing the seal on the back, I summon a messenger. “Please deliver this to Triton. Directly. Do not open it or read the message, lest you wish to lose your job,” I say. The messenger nods fearfully and flees out of the door. I sigh and swim to my balcony.
The city lights glimmer across the ocean, slowly blinking out as more and more people went to sleep in my half of the kingdom, my half of the world. I try to ignore the pressing thought of the stack of papers on my desk of request to move to the other half of the ocean. Because I was unwanted and not what they thought a Queen should be. Obviously. I sweep my gaze across the city and the darkness that is consuming it slowly, pushing away the thoughts of the past and its own sort of darkness that was my only reality for so long.
Suddenly, my vision gets cloudy, like how it does when you hit your funny bone on something and black clouds your eyes. The darkness swims in front of my eyes, completely consuming reality. My thought swim, staying for barely seconds before merging with others. “What the heck is happening? Is this another hallucination? Or is this what my mother mentioned in her fits before her death? Does this mean that I’m going to die to? No no no no no…” But even those thoughts stay for moments before being driven away. I clutch the railing of the balcony and blink rapidly, anything to dismiss the darkness. And then, the unthinkable.
A searing pain slices through my hands, making me drop my hands off of the balcony. I scream, my voice echoing into the night as I claw at my own hands. Nothing helps. The pain continues to beat my hands relentlessly, growing worse by the minute. The darkness closes in so tightly and quickly that I don’t even realize that I can’t see until it is too late.
I black out…
When I wake up, the pain has faded. “Thank goodness,” I think. But I don’t want to know why they hurt in the first place. I don’t want to know if I left scars. I don’t want to know what has happened without me.
I brush the tears from my face, not looking at my hands, and get up from off of the floor. The sea is a crystal blue and the sun shines high in the sky above, telling me that it is midday. The stack of letters when I open my door is about half as tall as I am, already toppling over onto the floor. I look helplessly at the stack. If I want to pick them up, I’m going to half to use my hands. Which means that first, I’m going to half to analyze the pain. Which means looking at my hands and seeing what truly happened last night. I shut my eyes one last time and then move my hands into a position where I will be able to see them when I open my eyes. And then I do.
That's when I almost scream again.
My hands look normal, save the slightly purplish coloring that they have taken on. It’s pale purple, almost unnoticeable, except for the fact that it cuts off in a perfect line at my wrist. Where, ironically, it becomes darker, like the color of my tail. “Great,” I mutter, “Gloves it is.” Which doesn’t sound too bad, actually. Except for the fact that I loathe gloves and the way that they make my hands sweaty and cold and itchy and uncomfortable. Sounds amazing, right? Yeah… no.
I open my closet and pull out the box in the very back. I brush off the seashells that have congregated on the lid and open it. Inside is a pair of silken gloves, black with purple embroidering in the shape of a shell in the palm of each hand. I only wore them once, to my father’s funeral, and then immediately put them in this box. Now, it seemed, my time of mourning would begin again. Except this time, it would be for the loss of my hands. What a first-world problem.
I slip on the gloves and then pick up the stack of papers at my door. I know that if I put these off, there will be ten times more tomorrow. So I go through the entire stack, my hands burning ever so slightly by the brush of the paper. I zone out as I work, writing brief replies to some notes and tossing others. It’s the note at the very bottom of the pile that gets my attention.
Your Royal Highness, Queen Ursula Karina Poseidon of the West Sea,
I would like to bring to your attention an issues that has been seemingly floating under your radar for the past few days. Ever since your father’s death, I fear that rebellion may have been forming. Especially in your kingdom. In your brother’s, not so much. I fear for you though. Please write back. I wish the best for you.
Sincerely,
Her Royal Highness, Athena Lyelle Reef, Queen of the East Sea
“Athena!” I breathe, joy filling my voice. I reread the note, touching the pen strokes that my friend so thoughtfully made to be. Then confusion clouds my face, “Queen of the East Sea. Queen of the… but my brother… oh my gosh…” I close my eyes, and an image of my best friend in a wedding gown and veil floods my mind. The picture is beautiful. I wish that I could have seen her in real life. But then again, I was not invited. It takes all of my willpower not to start crying. But in seconds, the wish to cry fades. Two questions replace it, squeezing their way to the front of my thoughts.
Is Athena burning the bridge of our friendship? Or am I?