I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand a word you say, but I shall still be your affectionate Godfather, C. S. Lewis.
Ever so often you could hear it; the bright sound of the young Queen’s laugh echoing down the halls. You’d catch a sight of her, dancing around barefoot in the garden with the dryads, catching sunlight in her hair – making it seem like it was made out of pure embers. It was the fire in her soul, they said. Her burning desire to protect the ones she loved: her family, her subjects. You could not help but to smile if you laid eyes on her, or even if you simply heard the sound of her. Her brightness was infectious. She was their sun, their Queen. She was Queen Lucy, The Valiant.