It was her coronation day. She didn’t want it to be. It should have been 20 or 30 years from now, when her mother passed away from old age, surrounded by a dozen grandchildren.
Three days ago she had died in an accident, helping a camp of refugee women and children flee to safety from the rising flood waters.
Her funeral was this morning, it both simple and beautiful, a fitting tribute to a magnificent queen, a doting mother and a glowing individual. The sun shone upon her subjects and glittered off of the sea.
The ceremonial boat that carried her mother into the depths of the sea had fractured Jasmine’s heart. She wanted to cry, her body ached to heave and weep at the shores of the sea. Not in front of her people, her mother would be disappointed in her if she did.
As the coronation drew closer the clouds formed an opacus over the evening sky. The wind stirred and the sea grew choppy. Then her second cousin, the grand high priestess, stepped forward with the royal crown. It was a weave of shells, diamonds, pearls, and silver. A precious treasure that had been in their family for generations.
It was slowly placed down on Jasmine’s head.
It was as if she had pressed a thousand seashells to her ears. Hundreds of whispers flooded through her ears.
The one that stood out the most was her mother's.
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