SHE LOOKED AT her hands, placed one on top of the other. She ran the resting hand up and down her arm in an attempt to ground herself, trying to chase away the cold that raced down her skin. Her eyes followed the movement of her fingertips, her nails painted a somber black. It was something she had done at midnight a week ago, but the polish continued to hold up strong.

There were violins screeching in her mind, and she wanted them to stop.

A gentle knock came from her door, and then opened some moments later to reveal a maid carrying a steaming cup of tea. She walked into the room with her head down, eyes tracing her future path on the ground in front of her. The maid placed the tea and saucer on the coffee table beside her and immediately straightened herself back up, hands behind her back. She waited in the silence, waited for any recognition or thanks, but when none was given she slumped into her wearied form and began her retreat.

Only when she reached the door did she turn around and say, "I'm very sorry for your loss, your Majesty."

The Queen looked up with tired eyes. She attempted a smile, but her face didn't move, and all that maid was gifted was a blank stare covering layers upon layers of grief. She took her gentle exit.

She squeezed the hand resting on her arm, willing herself to feel something. All she felt was bone and smooth skin under a calloused hand, the hand of a woman who had worked her whole life. She trailed her hand down to her fingertips, digging her nails into them, hoping blood flow or repeated pinching would spark a fire on her skin.

It did, but she realized she was too tired to care.

She fell back against her seat, letting poor posture reign victorious. The mental violins continued to screech, crescendoing as she looked at the cream wall of what was now her bedroom. It was strange, because all her life she remembered it to be her aunt's room, full of the scent of a twilight perfume and linen sheets that felt like a cloud when she laid on them. She associated those cream walls with the lights her aunt had strewn across the bedroom, the ones that flickered when they were in the dark, but kept faces pleasantly illuminated. She thought of the period of time when her aunt had had four plants by her windowside, but after a month or two they began to wilt and holes formed in the green leaves.

She remembered fire, and gas, and screaming.

(The screams had been her own.)

She got up, suddenly, having the urge to move around. She couldn't sit still, couldn't stare at that wall any longer and think of good memories as if they weren't tainted. She paced around, and around, and around, until she was sure a circle had been worn into the wooden floors. Then, she changed her path, and found herself face to face with—

—Herself: a reflection in the large vanity mirror that occupied one wall of the room. Except, it didn't look like her; sure, the reflection's hand moved up when she moved her own, and it turned its head at the same time as her, but the hollowed out, worn-down woman wasn't the new Queen of Illéa. She was the queen, but apparently, so was this reflection.

She made the mistake of looking into her eyes, and immediately turned away.

The room became too familiar, all its nooks and crannies and little spaces known and recognizable. She wanted—no, needed—new surroundings; a new frontier to explore.

There was the room adjoining the Queen's suite (which, traditionally, had been the King's), but the door had been closed for the entire time she'd taken up residence. Perhaps it was out of respect, or a way to divide the past and what was now the present. Either way, she found her feet drifting towards the plain white entrance. The golden door knob was cold to touch, but freezing temperatures were nothing new to her. She pulled it open, somewhat surprised to find the second door on the other side already open and waiting.

It was like walking into a museum, everything perfectly placed and untouched by time. She had never been extremely close to her uncle, but she had liked him well enough. He had been funny, and intelligent, and enjoyed the same books and films she had. Of course, her aunt had loved him greatly, and she supposed that was all that really mattered.

His room was the same size as her's, but everything was placed in a parallel. It had her a bit out of her senses, trying to navigate this new setting when she had become so used to the prior. It became easier with each step, though, and she found herself drifting towards the balcony. The french doors were left slightly ajar, a gentle breeze waltzing its way into the room. It smelt like the summers of her childhood.

She opened the doors and stepped onto the balcony, looking out to the gardens below. There were gardeners pulling out weeds and tending to their floral bunches, and guards milling about as they kept watch on the palace grounds. A few maids and other servants briskly walked across the field, where children—and she had no idea who those kids belonged to—were running around and laughing, playing a variation of tag.

For a moment, thoughts of grief and pain left her mind. She was lifted off her mountain built on pain and suffering, and instead set upon a soft pink cloud of fragrant flowers and gentle bliss.

However, it was only the briefest second of time, and soon she was crashing back down to Earth. She had already learnt nothing beautiful lives on forever.

The least favourite part of her day were the council meetings, but unfortunately, as the new sovereign, her days consisted of back to back hours slotted into boardrooms, the dark wood and somber attitudes of all doing little for her mental health. It also didn't help that most of them seemed to be against her, throwing her less than impressed looks, and rolling their eyes as soon as she opened her mouth. She understood the apprehension—she honestly did—but she was quite literally their only option, and they had to understand she was as qualified as she could be, given the circumstances.

"With all due respect, your Majesty," one of the councillors said, though it was implied he meant no respect at all. "Do you really believe it's wise to host the Report on your own, so soon after your family's death?"

Her hands were hidden under the table, and she clenched her fingers tightly until she was sure bones would break. All eyes turned to her, equals parts apprehensive and intrigued for her answer.

"I believe I must do what's necessary for my country."

"But is Illéa really your country?"

A hush fell across the room. She wasn't sure who said that, but with a veil of red anger clouding her vision, she hoped for their sake she'd never find out. She took in a deliberate breath to cool herself before responding. "Is there evidence to suggest it's not?"

"You do not carry the royal bloodline," someone else said. A few murmurs flew around the room, seemingly in agreement. She could feel herself losing her grasp.

"I am an Illéa and Schreave by birth," she snapped. "I possess more of the royal bloodline than most of the sovereigns before me. And, as it were, I was next in the order of ascendence to the throne. I am your Queen, whether you like it or not, so I suggest you show respect before I show someone else your position."

It was as if a vacuum had sucked out all sound from the dismal room. No one dared to breathe too loud, lest it catch her eye and, therefore, her wrath. In truth, it was the most she had spoken at once, in all these weeks of dreary meetings upon meetings.

The red veil evaporated, leaving her with a newfound, crystal clear view of the room. She was met with fear, and surprise, and—most unnervingly—pure anger. There were people in here, people that worked for her, that wanted to see her off the throne. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that there was no loyalty in this palace. They would not sure her compassion, or be gentle with her after such intense and immediate loss. She would have to pave her own way to victory.

"Am I understood?" she asked, at last.

"Yes, your Majesty," said a chorus back, some with nerves pushing them forward and others with fury biting at each word. However, there was an older man, perhaps before her aunt's—and even her grandfather's—time, who looked up at her with cloudy grey eyes. He was the only one who looked afraid.

He hung his head, and from his ancient lips said, "God save the Queen."

A/N: hi! i'm impulsive :D. this has been sitting with me for a few weeks, and this morning i got the urge to write it immediately. don't worry, this won't affect my other syoc in any way, but is moreso another project to fill up the time when i'm anyways not working on crowns. coronacation is giving me lots of free time to write.

so this is a syoc, but not in the traditional selection way (ie, there will be no selection). the characters you can submit will be mostly palace staff (the council/diplomats (i need lots of people for that btw), maids, guards, anyone who would be in contact with the queen (so not like, a greenhand or stable worker)). there may even be some opportunity to submit other royals (if you're interested, please pm me separately before coming up with a character!). aside from this, there's no other "guidelines" except the classic diversity! and that doesn't just mean in ethnicity and sexuality, but also in age too! sure, give me young 20-year-olds, but also give me people in their 40s, or who are elderly and nearing retirement! anything works, and i know this fandom is creative as heck.

when you submit, please have the subject line of the form be: ALF: CHARACTER'S NAME
this just keeps things organized in my inbox. submission form is on my profile.

thank you for reading, and i can't wait to see what you all come up with!
- anj