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“Ah, oui? Tu t’appelles comment?”
“Ah, yes? What’s your name?”
”Je m’appelle Star.”
“My name is Star.”
”C’est tout? Pas plus? T’es qui, ma petite fille?”
“Is that all? No more? Who are you, my little girl?”
”Je m’appelle Son Altesse Royale, La Dauphine et Défenseuse de la Foi, Estarella Nymeria Dementia d’Estarame et d’autres Royaumes et Territories, de la famille royale Motto-Dementia.”
“I am called Her Royal Highness, The Princess and Defender of the Faith, Estarella Nymeria Demente of Estarame and of other Realms and Territories, of the royal family Motto-Demente.”
”Oui, ma cher, oui.”
She always spoke to me so softly, as if I was the only one meant to hear, even if we were alone together. I barely remember her face, her touch, but her voice; it was sweet and low and that’s all I can truly remember of my mother. And how was I supposed to? She left the world before I truly knew her. I don’t even know how she died. Some said it was the sickness, others say it was due to her lineage. I do not want to know how her death came to be. I don’t want to know, I want to remember.
Mother. Maman. Mère. What do I call I woman I hardly knew? Everyone told me that I called her ”Ma Maman Jolie”. My Beautiful Mama. I could believe that. After all, all the portraits of hanging on the walls of the palace were indeed beautiful. But artists lie because they fear a lighter purse. My mother was a frozen porcelain doll on canvas. There were no flaws. A heart shaped face, smooth skin, rosy cheeks, curling burgundy hair, an austere nose, round and lively eyes, smiling, pouty lips and always dressed with impeccable taste. She was the perfect image of royalty.
What else could make her even more ideal? Her personality, of course. I was told by Papa himself that Mother was a whimsical woman who loved to laugh. She would do daring acts and feign innocence. Mother was friendly and humble. But she was also forgetful and easily angered if she was having a bad day. She gave the Realm two children, both possible heirs of the throne. Crixus and I made the ruler of Estarame secure. I was told she gave birth to Crixus in Lira’s Privy Chambers. I was born under a waterfall in the North. She was flowered and gifted and daunted upon for doing her royal womanly duty. She was perfection impersonated. She did everything right.
Everyone loved her as they loved Papa and I. Gone before her time but the gods needed her more, they said. I don’t agree. The old gods of Estarame were creul and unyielding gods. I do not believe that she was meant to live any longer than she did.
As I grew, everyone called me “La Petite Lynessa.” The Little Lynessa, they thought me to be a reincarnation of her. I am her daughter after all. And I didn’t fail them either. I grew up to be just as reckless and jovial as my mother. I became an almost perfect reflection of her. I think the people rejoiced in this.
I find it funny how I became the same person (or at least I think I am) of someone who was dead. And people were actually found this comforting. I never knew her. She never knew me. What is she to me but someone who died?
I just want to remember. I just to remember Ma Maman Jolie.
High Valyrian · Thu May 24, 2012 @ 10:38pm · 0 Comments |
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