Cut the strings and set me free

Part 1- trapped in a web

"Tighter." My mother instructs, running a critical penetrative gaze over me, as if her eyes could somehow bore through the layers I've been roped and tied into. I felt naked under the several eyes that ran over me, all of them indifferent and examining.

"Mother...I mean Your Majesty I cannot breathe." I force out, hand pressing against my stomach, feeling my upper body be crushed under the tight rigid structure of the corset I was being laced into, laced up far tightly than it should. It was getting difficult to get the air out of my lungs.

The two ladies of the wardrobe paused, eyes flickering to glance at me, sliding away from my gaze but not before I saw the slightest flashes of sympathy in them. Their hands stopped tugging at the lacing of the corset, a fine champagne gold colouring to it, to peer nervously between me and the Queen, who's face hardened.

"Tighter. I want another two inches off that waist." She states, voice full of cold demanding authority. None of that trace of the mother who'd raised me, chased me around the halls. Gone was that warmth. It had gone the day my father had died.

"Breathe in Your Highness." One of the ladies asks, curly gold tendrils framing her angular face.

I sigh, shooting a morose, downcast look towards the Queen, the look completely ignored as she walks forward, turning to inspect. I suck my breath in even more, wincing when the harsh yanking around my torso makes the air to be punched out of my lungs, material and the whalebone of the corset tightly plastering against my skin, the pressure continues, a harsh tug that makes the air thin, body squeezed beyond the limits of being uncomfortable.

"Perfect. Good thing her bust is naturally ample. Look how her breasts look." The Queen says with a tone of approval, adorned hand flourishing towards the top, where my chest threatens to spill over, breasts heaving slightly as I try to level my breathing, try to get accustomed to the cage around me, that binds me up tightly.

Her eyes meet mine and for a moment I see an instance of softness, her hand coming to cup my cheek and touch-starved of her love and easy affection I curve into the touch.

"You promised to do this for me." she reminds me, voice soft and gentle though her words still hurt, as if they've been physically inflicted as blows to my face.

But then that softness I once knew vanishes, pushed behind the cold mask of the ruler she was, Queen first, mother last.

Her duties were to her crown, to her country. They weren't towards me.

"You just need to charm one rich handsome prince. That's all. They don't all need to be besotted with you. One man and you'll have fulfilled your duty." She continues, hand falling away, stepping back.

And when she speaks, it's as the ruler once more.

"I want her to glow. She must be the centre of attention." She commands.

And then her eyes meet mine.

"One prince. Just one. Don't forget your life is not your own. Every decision you make affects your nation, your people." She says, voice authoritative and level, head held high in all its decorated splendour.

And bitterly I reflect on her words. Reflect on her imposed lessons.

If it was such a big issue for me to marry to secure our land, then why couldn't she? She was still in her prime, she still drew courtiers and admirers to her- the flame of beauty incarnate that helpless moths flew to, allowing themselves to be consumed whole in it, in their desire for her.

"Dress up, fix up and don't play around." She says before sweeping from the room, the long trailing train of her red and gold gown, every bit embodying the image of a desirable bride.