tell our story in shards and fragments
She's always had a predilection for picking up names- nicknames and pet names and titles and labels and curses; she has them all. She has a real name, too, wrapped around her at birth in hopes that it would take, in hopes that it would shape and guide and lead her on to happiness and love and peace.
It didn't, of course, but that's hardly the name's fault. She's always been stubborn.
People call her by her titles or her most (in)famous nickname- Swanwhite, cold as the Winter, the better to fight the Witch- and she uses it, too, reveling in how it's never fit her, never will. It's a joke, in her laughing eyes (and you wouldn't think that flint could laugh but, oh, it can, and never more so than in her gaze), and she loves to turn it on others, turn it on herself.
For a name of so little substance, it's surprisingly weighty (she's always known that building her own mythos would be difficult, she just never expected it to hurt so much). Some mornings she can barely lift it
Hardly anyone calls her by her given name anymore, and if they do, she doesn't answer (she shed that name years ago, buried it along with her parents one warm spring evening and left it to rot). Those syllables are painful, too wrapped up in golden summer light and smiling eyes and could-have-beens to use. She can't laugh down suitors or battle off witches with her dead parents sitting on her shoulders.
(They wouldn't recognize her, in any case. Maybe that's what she fears more than anything else.)
She hopes history remembers her kindly (and, as the nights lengthen unceasingly, she half hopes they open that grave, exhume that name. The shadowy queen of antiquity might wear it better).
Narnia loses many things in its hundred years of sleep, and she is one of them. In her place is Swanwhite the Beautiful, gentle and kind (no one, surprisingly, ever questions how the insipid Swanwhite of history books could have ever held against Jadis for all those years. This new Swanwhite goes down easier, and maybe that's enough for the new, golden Narnia), the queen of a happy court, cut down too soon by the Winter.
Were she alive to see it, she might laugh (she's always liked a good joke).
(Narnia's darker secrets were never meant to be told. That much has always been true. The only difference is, now, she's one of them.)