Cicatrice

Prologue

I witness a rioting crowd of enraged Toulousian locals outside the palace infirmary. No quiet, no peace, just pure rage. Torches - pitchforks, even. The plague claimed the lives of nearly every French servant, and somehow my father, the King, was to blame. Some were lonely wives, now widows, and some were even children. Most of all, however, it was a mob of infuriated socialites who were now left without a cleaner for their bathrooms.

Evidently, this was such a major concern that people felt compelled to follow my father, King Frederick, while he sought medical attention for underlying health problems outside of our infirmary. 

I go to sit back down. Holding a fine china mug to my lips,  I sip warm, black tea - The best discovery of the seventeenth century, by far. I watch my father glance out the window at what once were adoring civilians, now harassing him. 

I'm suddenly startled out of my trance by a crash, seeing a brick smash the formerly blue-stained window. My heart jolts out of my chest as I rush to my father's aid, who was now lying on the floor. I didn't know what it meant when people say they have an 'out of body' experience, but after this, I'm pretty sure I had experienced it for myself.

"Father! Are you alright?" I panic, struggling to lean next to him due to my sage-coloured gown. A tear flows down my cheeks as I observe the shattered blue glass. 

Two nurses rush down to my father's aid through the grand doors. "Miss Estelle, Miss Estelle, your highness, what has become of the King?" one panics, yet I'm speechless. There has never been anything like this in the Kingdom. Father was not at fault for anything.

"Your majesty, you're bleeding," the same nurse continues. The look of terror invades her face as I place my hand over my forehead, noticing crimson blood on my fingertips. I gasp for air, my blue eyes almost as the size of the moon. However, I was unable to feel a thing.

Some days pass. Father is doing well. I'm alright, despite a nasty scar that is still healing and runs from my eyebrow to my forehead. The entryway is where we're seated, enjoying - or at least, trying to enjoy each other's company. I was the only person who could stand my father at this point, after all. 

He sighs. "I am afraid I cannot do this any longer, Este," 

He faces the large stained glass window. I furrow my thin eyebrows, staring at him in confusion. "What are you talking about, father?" 

"I think you've shown yourself to be a worthy young lady," he mutters. 

He reaches for the crown on his head, passed down through the generations of the Belshaw royal line and will one day, be bestowed upon me. "And I suppose that means my time is up," 

I watch him as he slightly jerks his head to the side. "The throne," he simply states. His silhouette blends perfectly with the light behind the window. He turns to face me, a tear slowly rolling down his cheek. I had never seen father cry before. 

My attention is drawn down to the blindingly bright crown resting in both of his hands, and that's when I feel my breath hitch to the back of my throat. I had no idea that father had such high regard for me as his successor.

"I'm surrendering the throne,"