tiara 

•∞•

"My highness, you are a vision for even the blind," the maid awed cheerfully, fingers dancing atop the princess's perfected ebony halo, checking for stray strands daring to escape the heavy amount of hairspray and bobby pins. 

The princess was a beautiful mixture of midnight and gold; a fusion of the night sky, glittering constellations and droplets of space. 

The princess tucked her petticoat from below her golden gown, which sparkled under the chandelier of her room, enhancing the shimmer of her tanned skin. Her lavender eyes coruscated, approval pooling a flush on her heavily blushed cheeks. 

"Chin up, eyes forward, arms straight, shoulders back," the princess recited. "Only speak when addressed, glare if someone is out of line, whistle if threatened, smile at any conjugal offers, and nod politely at other dignitaries." 

Straightening her petite frame, the princess smirked (faux confidence—first rule of being a future queen). "This is my queendom. You will soon be an empress. You are important. Do not allow your tiara to slip."

She was a dynamic, as she grew to balance stairs with high heels and robes, dominate those of power hunger, and ruin the violent reprisals with a flick of a wrist; she was a queen without a blacklist, a heart without spilled blood, a royal without missing jewels.

"My Highness, you are our queen," they praised, knees on ruddy floors and hats on chests. 

She would rise from her throne on trembling knees, wrinkles burying the youth in her small smile. "And you are my loyal subjects! May you all find peace!" 

Raising her head proud and high, she cried, "This is my queendom. I am your empress. We are important. And may my crown, firm and strong, never slip!"

•∞•