Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown

“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat.”

I smiled, setting the glass in my hand down.

There had been praises when I had got in.

You must be so proud of Cecilia.

Getting into the finals of HWA, at this age?

And, of course, the insults.

HWA’s standards have gotten this low?

I bet she cheated her way in - I heard her family’s, like, REALLY rich.

Have you heard of the Ivanovs?

She got in because of her money.

I had never been one to back down, so of course, when my longest rival put her finger in my face and declared that she would make me suffer a crushing defeat, I didn’t.

Back down, I mean.

Layla’s face contorted into one of confusion.

Her pale, lithe, green-eyed face that had always contained a stubborn hatred, faltered.

“What are you on about? You’re going to lose.”

“I know.” I shrugged. “I want to.”

As if she had been electrocuted, Layla recoiled.

Her feathered costume trembled.

“You want to lose HWA? HWA? The world’s biggest skating championship?” Her tone was incredulous. “Did you go senile? You’ve been working for this for what, since you were two-”

“I’m tired.” I cut her off. “I’m planning to step off the rink. It’s not because I want you to win, so don’t get your head twisted.” 

Just as Layla was about to reply, the lights dimmed.

The large televisions switched on, with a familiar red light that signaled the start of live broadcasting.

“Layla, it’s time,” her instructor hissed.

With a final concerned glance, Layla discarded her blanket, her skates skidding against the ground. Applause sounded as I watched her figure climb into the skating cubicle and unlock the gate.

“Now, the first finalist, Layla Raschee, with an rendition of Le Cygne.”

I blinked.

Once. Twice.

“You? Want to quit?”

The familiar, stinging pain of a slap.

An incredulous laugh.

“We’ve sacrificed so much for you. We gave you a roof, shelter, and we even supported your childish dreams. AND YOU WANT TO QUIT?You're a disappointment. Don't get a big head just because they called you a prodigy. It's a shame to call YOU an Ivanov."

After that conversation, I never brought up the topic of quitting again.

Cecilia Ivanov. The Princess of the Ice.

I was said to have been born with ice in my veins. The glassy, cold surface of the rink had been my only refuge from when I learned how to walk.

My distant demeanor had only warded off people, and I had begun to grow used to being alone.

I had begged my parents for skating lessons, and I became a prodigy.

“She’s a genius, Mr. and Mrs. Ivanov.” The instructors had marveled.

"An ice prodigy, in fact. I've never seen anything like her before."

I had started it competitively at their request, and I soon began winning medal after medal.

“And the Princess of the Ice strikes again, breaking her own record and joining HWA with a shattering performance.”

Medal, after medal, after medal.

Trophy, after trophy, after trophy.

Fake smiles, and camera flashes, and forced greetings.

Maybe it had started when my good-game handshakes had become accepted only reluctantly, or the hesitance that began to come with lingering hellos.

Once, when I was in the bathroom, I heard my skating acquaintances conversing.

“Ha, she really thinks she’s all that. You can tell she thinks she’s better than us.”

Armed with a title I didn’t ask for, I had won a stage pushed upon me.

HWA. The endgame.

I remembered my instructor, Felix's excited face.

“You got into HWA! Isn’t it amazing?”

His smiling, sunshiny face was in sharp contrast with my own, almost dull-looking expression.

“Yeah.” I smiled weakly. “It is.”

But I don’t remember the exact date when I stepped onto the ice and they came back.

The thoughts. The emptiness that had followed me to the figure-skating rink.

They had caught up to me, and maybe, just maybe, I wanted to run away again.

I’ll find another escape, I assured myself. If I did it once, I’ll do it again.

Figure skating had come to me naturally, and it had been fun. But the thrill had faded away. It had been temporary, I realized then. Escape had been temporary.

You could never truly run away, no. You could never truly escape.

I’ll never go away, the darkness whispered.  But even if I did, what would you be without me? I made you into you. And if I can make you, I can destroy you.

The darkness had come again with success.

It had consumed the light given to me, and pushed upon a title I hated.

A heavy moniker.

If I could not give up the crown, I would make them take it from me.

“Lourde est la tête qui porte la couronne,” I mumbled, remembering past words. The phrase rolled out on my tongue familiarly, like I was calling the name of an old friend. The phrase that had been repeated to me from birth, by my parents and textbooks. Shakespeare.

But I didn’t want to wear that weight anymore.

The booming announcer’s voice jerked me into reality.

Layla’s dainty figure had disappeared from the rink.

“And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for, the second finalist, the Ice Princess, Cecilia Ivanov, with her version of Couronne.”

Couronne. 

Crown. 

Cheers.

Mechanically, I opened the door and stepped into the ice.

Bright lights.

The familiar sharp cold.

The gossamer covering my arms.

The metal skates against ice.

Music. Piano keys.

Dun-dun. Dun. Dun-dun-dun.

Like many times before, I unravelled my arms and got into position, gliding across the rink just as rehearsed.

Wind.

A sharp twist.

A jump that I had polished to perfection.

My signature triple Axel jump.

Perhaps nobody saw my lips form the words “goodbye.”

Perhaps nobody saw my farewell.

Shifting my leg, I discreetly angled my body.

Farewell.

A crash.

The tangy taste of blood.

My planned defeat.

Lourde est la tête qui porte la couronne.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.