Wistful
Sometimes she stands alone, in the shining new tower looking westward toward the sea, listening, waiting, trying to sense the gossamer end of the thread that trails back to something beneath the depths and shifting moonlit mysteries, that thread she'd never even realized was there until she'd cut it. And she wonders, a little, about the long succession of queens holding its other end; whether they know why she had to sever it, and whether they've forgiven her for it.
Whether any of them would have done the same.
She can't have been the first to feel pulled halfway between sun and sea. Perhaps her ancestors had learned to harness that tension, playing opposing forces against one another to strengthen both, but nothing in her unnatural education had helped her find balance. Then again, perhaps there was none to be found, and one was simply obligated to live with a pair of dueling inner dragons. In which case, that line of enchantresses whose fevered blood ran in her veins might envy her the freedom of choosing to let it go, to release both fire and water and bind herself to the earth, the land - the thing that needed them both.
So now, even though she no longer hears voices in the pounding surf, no longer sees certain colors in flames, she cannot regret her choice.
It was the only one she'd ever made that was truly hers alone.