"No one wants a waist over 9 inches."

It's the phrase you've been repeating over and over under your breath like a prayer, for the last five minutes. Your father, the King of France, was an eccentric man, known for his obsession with looks and appearances. That was part of the reason he had ordered your maids to start tightening your corset more and more every day, to follow the growing trend of "tight-lacing" some of the aristocrats were adopting.

"A smaller waist is more beautiful, and you wouldn't want to be mocked by the court, right ?" Was what your father had said as an excuse for this torture of a trend.

You felt stiff, the fabric of your dresses seemingly becoming heavier each day the longer you wore such a tight corset. But that wasn't the worst.

Breathing was a struggle.

Even when you didn't move much, it felt like your breath was stolen eavery time you inhaled, your fingers pressing over the fabric of your dress into the stiff corset underneath, trying to ground yourself each time your vision would darken slightly and start swimming.

This state of constant half-consciousness became part of your life, and you slowly stopped complaining, accepting the ever tighter corset forced onto you every morning.

Even when you were shipped to England to marry Simon The Bloody, King of England, just to buy your father some peace between the two countries, you kept wearing a tightly laced corsed under your dress.

Even when you married the man, said to be the worst man alive, the most violent and blood-thirsty, you weren't allowed a sliver of comfort or reprieve.

Tight-lacing wasn't as much as a trend in England as it was France, but you kept going through the pain of having the garment tightened around you each morning.

Simon, even if he hadn't really given you the time of the day since the political wedding, noticed your face paling when you moved a bit too much at once, or how your breath always appeared shorter than anyone else even when you were just standing.

He had decided to keep a close eye on you. After all, having his spouse, now Queen of England, die because of his neglicence at seeing something was wrong, would not leave a good impression to the French.

So, one day, when he spotted you taking your daily stroll in the gardens with your maids, he followed you from a distance. Your maids didn't seem to notice the occasionnal wince or frown that would cross your face, but Simon saw them. He saw your chest stutter more and more on each inhale, saw your steps falter faintly, and he quickened his pace.

He arrived at your side quickly, just in time to grab your arm and catch your limp body as your vision blacked out.