To the watching world she was the epitome of poise and grace. Every little girl in the land wanted to be her at that very moment. Those watching from home gasped at the veritable forest of wildflowers – wrangled and tamed into a brilliant bouquet – which had been placed between her delicate hands. Those there in person inwardly fumed – frustrated that they could not catch a glimpse of her legendary beauty for themselves, for it remained shrouded behind a veil of almost spectral fabric – hidden from those who were not to be her husband… Yet, if they had but peered beneath that mask of dancing mist, they would have been shocked to see two even streams of tears flowing freely down her face.

That mask was not the prison she first thought it, as now it was saving her from the shame of the world knowing her sorrow. For this spectacular show was being televised from every imaginable angle, with each camera’s record light blinking insistently in her face – demanding answers to questions no one had asked yet. ‘Why was she unhappy?’ ‘Had her husband-to-be seen her like this?’ ‘Did anyone know the truth?’

The answer to each was simple: ‘No, she had kept it all to herself. Hidden away the pain, the sadness, and buried it deep down within her.’

Yet as with any wound, the longer she ignored it, the more she simply willed it away – the greater it grew and the further it festered. Now, what was once a simple scratch had become a great, gaping gash which threatened to destroy her…and bring that breathlessly watching world down to their knees in sorrow.

Tears were not befitting of a princess, but even less so of a queen.

Her father’s arm entwined with her own, he squeezed lightly and whispered in her ear: “All will be well, my dear. Remember, breathe through the nose.” Making sure his face was turned away from the cameras as best it could be, so not as to be the victim of any lip reader, he repeated quieter still, “Only through the nose.”

‘Because my mouth would make me whimper,’ she thought.

Through her father’s fat fingers, she could see the glint of the wedding ring she would soon bear the burden of – his knuckles scarlet from how tightly he was clutching it. One ring was a symbol of wholeness, with no true beginning or end it could encompass the finger alone – never needing another half to make it. Two rings, however, were all it would take to start a chain – one that could eventually bind and break her into a lifetime of servitude.

She couldn’t go through with this devilish pact; she couldn’t bring herself to utter those two simple words that would seal her fate forever.

Desperately unhappy in the present, her mind momentarily whisked her away to the memory of her childhood. There, she had wiled away the hours playing chess with her chambermaids – cherishing above all else her precious queen piece. Now she knew that the most mobile piece on the board was the least free in reality. If only a queen could move in so many different directions.

Perhaps she could? The high cost for that kind of choice would be an act of bravery she could never take back.

Now free of her father’s grasp and still seconds away from taking her husband-to-be’s hand, she thought on the freedom this moment offered. ‘Though I have been but a pawn in my father’s political games, now I will be elevated to the station of queen – just like that piece on the board, I can move in any direction I wish.’

Moving up to her husband-to-be’s side, he motioned to remove her veil. Stepping back from him suddenly and breathing deeply through her mouth, she lifted the fabric herself and revealed her tear-stained face. What the young king was about to hear, so too would the world – no script would be thrust into her hand this time.

“Know you take not the hoof of a lamb here, as your courtiers have undoubtedly whispered wryly in your ear,” she said, smiling up innocently at the young king. “You must swear that if you take up my hand that I will rule beside you, not beneath you.”

A playful smirk danced across the corner of the king’s lips as he simply replied: “I do.”

– Laurence Sullivan