ab initio, ad infinitum

the princess.

A/N: i haven't posted in a hot min, so hi! life has been, wonky, to say the least, but i wrote this in a fit of inspiration so here. idk fi it makes sense, and I KNOW lioness' don't typically have manes, but the imagery and metaphor were too good, so i kept it. if you have a better idea, lemme know ur suggestions. do good, be well <3

T H E   P R I N C E S S .

Some days, the princess mourns the girl she once knew. The young lioness. Wide eyes, hungry for the future. Little palms, always outstretched and wanting. A smile that took over her entire face, crinkling her eyes to the point of blindness, her beam brighter than any ray of the sun. Furrowed brows, deeply upset by others' misfortune and always wanting to find a way to spread a little good out into the world. A high and sweet laugh, tinkling like bells, loud and ravenous and fierce.

She mourns the girl who grew into a curious being, eyes a little more shrewd, tongue a little sharper, courage as unfailing as ever. She mourns the adventure that girl longed for, mourns the kind fire that has since burnt out. She mourns the young lioness, long hair flying behind her as she danced through life, her mane lit aflame by the dying rays of sunlight. The girl who was never afraid of sunset, because she was all the light in the world that she needed; she need not carry torches for the darkness would not dare touch her.

She wonders what has happened to that girl. What had transpired for that girl to have hidden herself away, deep in the princess' chest? No amount of coaxing has ever brought that girl back to the surface. No, now she is but a ghost that haunts the halls of marble and grandeur.

Court was not designed for wild creatures like that girl. Generations of nobility had passed down the secrets of how to turn lionesses into lap cats. How to file down claws, dull wickedly sharp fangs, steal away ferocity and achieve total submission.

Court was a crucible; a torturous, toilsome place where dreams died and only the most perfect flowers could be grown. It was a white-hot oven where that girl had been burnt alive, leaving behind a fragile porcelain princess.

The princess did not want her fate. She never wanted to be covered in swathes of velvet, dripping in jewels until she could barely keep her head up, let alone stand up straight for herself. She did not the weight of perfection placed atop her unworthy shoulders; she never asked to be subjected to the impossible standards everyone knew she could never live up to.

But although the princess is a lioness no more, that girl she once knew occasionally demands to be heard, pounding against her ribcage, hammering blood through her veins that sings, roaring and delightful in the visceral need to be heard. They do not sing songs of justice or righteousness. No, all the songs are the same. Survive, they demand.

And so the princess learns. Who was once an unfailingly kind girl learns how to grow thorns, learns to wear fake smiles, learns how to navigate unfamiliar lands with the agility of a knight on a chess board. A knight she may not be by birth, but neither was she a princess.

At the end of the day, the princess is ready to become whoever to survive.

Survive, survive, survive.

Duty-bound, she removes the veil of innocence she had donned her whole life. She sees the ugliness of court again, of her own torture chamber, of the place that stole her childhood away from her and kept it prisoner. And she does not flinch. She does not avert her eyes.

She still mourns that girl she used to know, a little lioness who wanted the world before she knew how cruel it could be. She will likely forever mourn that girl, haunted by the possibility of what ifs and should have beens, the creatures of the night she had never feared as a child, constant night terrors for her now.

But she cannot turn back the hands of the clock, nor can she hold the hands of that little lioness on the first day she stepped foot in the gloriously beautiful palace that would ultimately be her final resting place. She could not guide that girl to safety, safe from a fate so cruel and cold.

But for the first time in forever, the princess is able to raise her head under the weight of the crown, spilling with sapphires and rubies, dripping with the sins of the kingdom, with the blood of its people. It is not an easy feat, but it is the same heavy burden on her head that makes it possible for her to save all the other girls out there, just like that young lioness, from the world's ruthless claws. She could not save the little lioness, but there are still more to help.

A princess kneels, made of porcelain, had been cracked and damaged, the ragged remains of a life once glorious, now gone. Damaged beyond repair.

A queen rises, mended with silver and forged anew, scars proving that beyond repair was something made up by those who did not know what phoenixes were.

The young lioness was dead. But a phoenix queen rose from her ashes.

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