Welllll, this is more than a month late but here's AU Day for @mamousaweek
It’s silly, slapstick comedy, and I’m sure there’s probably some kind of spelling, grammar error that wasn’t caught but hopefully some of you still enjoy this AU chapter
It’s finally here! This chapter has been written (as will be this whole story) in cooperation with @lightsaberwieldingdalek. Here’s the Link to AO3.
Summary:
A beloved Queen's funeral and an unwilling coronation.
Quick note:
Both Niflheim and Tenebrae have their own language. In this 'verse Lucian is the lingua franca, so the few foreign terms used will be shown at the beginning of each chapter.
Tenebrani (language of Tenebrae):
élèvet = form of address for a viceroy
Nifasi (language of Niflheim):
fanis = set phrase marking the end of an official (in the past mostly religious) speech
sitrapp = viceroy
Lunafreya tried to steady her shaking hands, to keep her breath even and only concentrate upon the task in front of her. She could not fail at this. If she did the consequences may be disastrous.
Ravus should be here to do this, not me. I should be the one helping him. He has such steady hands.
Her breath hitched and she desperately tried to keep it in, to cease breathing altogether, but her traitorous body made her release it in a heaving sob when her sight started to blur from lack of oxygen. Oxygen. A word her mother had taught her mere weeks before.
Another sobbing breath.
She could cry if she wanted to. No one was there to see, as she was alone in her mother’s study. Resolutely she scrubbed the growing tears from her eyes. After she had done this, she could cry all she wanted but now there was no time for it. Not when she had to do the tasks Ravus should have done were he here.
On the desk in front of her laid a heavy, open book. Her mother’s flower lexicon. Her own flower lexicon now, she supposed. If Niflheim deigned to let her keep it, that was.
Its paper was thick and cream with the pictures of the flowers and various plants related to Tenebrani flower language, shown in detailed hand drawings. The pages were currently practically buried under papers full of practice drawings, pencils and unused paint brushes.
Despite her young age, Lunafreya knew that the situation she now was in would not be easy for both her or her brother - wherever he had managed to hide - and not only because she had witnessed her mother’s death. The last thing she had seen of her brother was him kneeling by their mother’s side begging King Regis for help. Lunafreya had seen the pure desperation in Ravus’ eyes and hadn’t been able to run anymore, her strength leaving her, and so she had stayed. A small part of her whispered that that had been a truly bad idea.
Hopefully Ravus would stay hidden, even if she desperately wanted him to be here with her to make their mother’s burial mask.
If he was still alive, a traitorous voice whispered in her mind. But he had to be. He just had to.
Her fingers skimmed the slightly uneven surface of the mask in her lap. The features didn’t resemble her mother, not truly. Her captors had forbidden her from commissioning one of the specialized artisans to craft it. Traditionally, a royal burial mask was crafted from fine ceramic edged in silver. This one, however, was made from clay, formed by the inexperienced hands of a child helped by one of the maids who had taken pity on her.
What silver leaf Lunafreya had been able to scrounge together, she had used to line the eyes and lips, the edges slightly uneven. Now she sat there, forcing her hands to stay steady as she proceeded to carefully paint flowers upon its surface. They formed a band from the lower left to the upper right. Lunafreya knew the barest minimum about actually arranging the flowers, so she grouped them together the way she liked them, and hoped it would be enough for her mother’s soul to remember herself.
She started with the sage, as that had been what her mother was with her deepest devotion. A healer.
The sun set and Lunafreya continued to struggle, her small hands smudged with paint and formal dress stained and crumpled. She had been here all day, hidden in her mother’s study, to pick out the flowers and painstakingly paint them with unpracticed hands upon the mask.
Even as the light faded, she squinted by the large, ornate window, before harsh electric light sparked in sudden brightness. Lunafreya flinched back from where her nose was nearly touching the drying paint. Luckily the paintbrush hadn’t been touching the clay surface, otherwise there would now be an ugly purple stain on its cheek.
The harsh sound of metal boots on marble grated against her ears. Not a second later the door was thrown open violently enough that it crashed against the wall, and a struggling old man was pulled into the room, dressed only in night clothes. A rifle was pointed at him as he puffed and panted, clearly not having been able to keep up with these soldiers.
His wizened face was streaked by teartracks, and a large black eye was forming over a bruise the shape of a rifle’s butt. Stammering, he turned to the soldiers who dragged him in: “I-I-I can’t do this here, there are ceremonies! Please, General Glauca has to know- The crown, the sceptre, everything! We’re not even at the Oracle’s temple!”
His voice was high pitched and loud in his panic.
She knew who this poor old man was without having to look. He was the High Priest of Shiva. If the Oracle was unable to preside over a holy ceremony, it was him who did it. Last year he had spoken the grace of the new year because her mother had been away to help the rising number of scourge-sick.
Lunafreya curled into a ball, tears dripping silently down her face, as a second bruise was added to match the first, the old man crumpling to the floor. She ducked her head as a steel toed boot thudded into his gut, and a scream echoed through the high-ceilinged room.
Eventually, a shaking hand touched Lunafreya’s shoulder. Much quieter than before, his voice rough from screaming the old man asked: “Do you-” a harsh cough splattered fine droplets of blood onto her dress “h-h-have a crown?”
Not able to bring herself to speak, Lunafreya reached for her mother’s desk and opened the topmost drawer, revealing the circlet sitting there, the one her mother likes - liked, she reminded herself, a tear dripping from her nose - to wear for informal photos.
The dripping of blood on marble sounded like a drumbeat in the silent room. Luna shivered as the empty eyes of the magitek soldiers drilled into her through opaque masks, a twisted parody of the mask sitting forgotten in her lap.
A quavering voice filled her ears, circlet held high above her head with trembling hands.
“I speak in the name of Shiva, the Glacian, the final kiss of winter, the last breath. I hold up to the Gods this wo- girl”, he quickly corrected, but even that small stumble had an ominous click coming from the nearest gun as it was pointed at the High Priest’s back.
Blood splattered the priests fist as he coughed again. “This girl, blood of the Oracles, first born daughter of the Oracle Sylva Via Fleuret, whom now walks in Ramuh’s Domain. “
No she doesn’t, whispered that voice in Luna’s mind once more, as she stares transfixed in horror at the old man. Mother has to drown first.
The words continued, but Lunafreya they sounded as if spoken underwater. Only now did she realize this is was a coronation. Her initiation as an Oracle. The only reason she would be crowned was if- she couldn’t even think of it.
The plain silver circlet was lowered onto her head, stained with fresh blood, and tilting awkwardly down one side.
In the reflection of the dark window, Lunafreya saw a slight young girl, eyes wide and tearful and blonde hair touched with red at the temples. The too large circlet only emphasising her age. Or rather her lack thereof.
For the first time since her mother burned, Lunafreya seemed to wake from her shock, looking out at the city. Its lights twinkled in the growing darkness as if nothing had happened a mere two days ago.
The High Priest bowed as low as he was able, nightclothes stained a deep red.
“My Lady,” he rasped. But not queen.
The 114th Oracle of Tenebrae, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, burst into tears.
The first silvery grey bands of the morning lightened the horizon over the still waters of Queensgrave Bay, its waters a deep black full of nightly shadows that clung to the arriving day. A single long rowing boat rocked gently by the shore, its oars neatly tucked in and new midnight blue paint barely dry enough for it not to dissipate into the water. The sheer cloth, light as a breeze, that should cover the precious cargo it carried, was instead a solid, heavy fabric that reminded Lunafreya of a bed sheet.
The young princess stood in front of the gathered crowd, dressed in a heavy gown of midnight blue, her royal mourning mask covering the right half of her face. After making her mother’s burial mask and organizing a funeral boat with the help of a few servants she hadn’t had the time to make a personalized one.
Next to her stood the man who would rule Tenebrae from now on as a protectorate of Niflheim. His name was Forsett Dunridge and Lunafreya could practically feel the oily and greedy aura the man gave off. He wore a mourning mask that covered the right half of his face, which was coloured a solid blue and had no adornments. Lunafreya wanted to tear it off his face and claw the man’s eyes out while she was at it.
But she couldn’t.
Instead she refused to look at him as he gave his speech. There wasn’t supposed to be a speech. Or any talking at all. Burials, especially royal ones, were to be attended in silence.
Everything about this Élèvet Dunridge was aggravating, but right now it was especially his voice. It was a nasally thing, strangely high pitched and the man made what he probably thought was a dramatic pause, every three words. Lunafreya concentrated on the crowd in front of her, on the blank stares and barely veiled fury paired with resignation she found there, and forced herself to listen. If she wanted to survive, to fulfill her calling, she needed to know this man as best as she could.
“... is our solemn duty to now bid farewell to one of Eos’ greatest women. Her grace and beauty will be missed by all. May the Astrals watch over her passing and guide her into the Beyond. Fanis.”
Finally, there was silence. Only now that he stopped speaking did Élèvet Dunridge seem to realize that something was not quite right. Viciously, Lunafreya wondered if it was the lack of applause that tipped him off. The new viceroy stood there, in his garish black and red military style robes that were supplemented by pieces of decorative armour in the newest Niflheimr fashion, clearly waiting for something to happen.
Lunafreya could practically feel the man vibrate in impacience, before he gave a quiet huff and waved to a group of soldiers standing at the edge of the crowd near her mother’s funeral boat. They weren’t those new magitek soldiers but actual Niflheimr people in flesh and blood. The young princess counted seven of them, one of them clearly of a higher rank. They all wore helmets that reminded her of buckets with bars through which she could see their faces.
The crowd grew visibly nervous as they started to move and arranged themselves at the shore, near the water’s edge, close to the boat in which her mother lay dead. Three on one side, three on the other and their leader in front of them. All but him carried elaborate rifles at their sides.
He gave an order. Lunafreya couldn’t understand it over the sound of the wind dancing over the glittering waves. In a few precise movements the other six held the rifles out in front of them, as the sun rose over the horizon another order came to which they aimed their guns into the air and fired.
Lunafreya jerked in surprise and she could feel her stomach drop in dread. Her brother’s face as the shot clipped his arm flashed through her mind and all she could do was to suppress the urge to scream, tugging it tightly behind her clenched teeth. Other people in the crowd broke their solemn silence in their fear, as they screamed and ducked for cover.
Again, the six soldiers fired, the sound of the shots echoing over the still waters and the wide plaza of Queensgrave Bay. It was near deafening. But through all that noise, the gunshots and the people screaming below them, she could still hear what Dunridge said: “And these are the people I’m supposed to rule? Pathetic.”
Silence gradually descended upon the beach again when it became clear that no more shots would be fired. Lunafreya stood there, next to this vile man, and had no idea what to do. Sweat made the palm of her hands slick and dripped down her neck. Her skin prickled uncomfortably as she slowly and carefully turned towards Dunridge.
“May I ask what this was about, Élèvet Dunridge?” she asked, her voice carefully soft and her hands clasped in front of her.
The man stared at her, disdain clear in his watery eyes. “Sitrapp, if you please, or Viceroy, if you must. It is customary to salute a deceased leader in this way.” He hesitated for barely a moment before adding, as if it was an afterthought: “Is this not done here?”
Lunafreya swallowed dryly around her nervousness and scrambled for a fitting answer. Dunridge however, had already turned away from her to watch the following proceedings.
He does not care.
The realization hit her like one of Ramuh’s devine lightning bolts. She didn’t know why deep down she had clung to the faintest hope that this man might respect Tenebrae. It had been stupid. So utterly stupid. The foolish hope of a foolish little girl. It nearly made her break down again right then and there.
The only thing keeping her upright and her tears at bay as the soldiers returned to their original spot with brisk steps and four servants dressed in midnight blue and dark silver robes started to push her mother’s funeral boat into the still ocean, was her will to not prove this man next to her right.
She knew he thought her to be a weak willed little child he had to put up with because she was the next Oracle - no, she was the Oracle now and that thought burned like acid in her mind. She knew he thought of the Tenebrani as wimpy weaklings who should not have the international influence and power they had. And now he was saddled with them.
The solid blue cloth covering her mother fluttered in the wind as the boat slowly drifted out into the bay as if to remind her why she stood there, on the bay, in the first place. A breeze tugged gently at a strand of her blonde hair, like her mother had often done when reprimanding her for not paying attention.
Her mother was right: she could think about such things later. Now she needed to fokus.
She needed to be ready to sing the traditional tunes the moment the boat started to sink. It wasn’t a song sung in words, but a series of notes, rising and falling, made to imitate the tides in respect to Leviathan.
Behind her, the crowd joined her, voices lifting in the wind, the tones a plea for the Hydraean to guide the dead Queen through her depths. And Lunafreya watched as her mother drowned.
She could still see the sinking ship in her mind like a recording, playing again and again and again, as she was pushed towards an armoured car, waiting just at the end of the plaza. Dunridge had clamped a meaty hand on her shoulder the moment she had started to sing in a subtle attempt to guide her off the platform. But she had refused to budge. This was a duty she refused to abandon with every ounce of strength left within her.
The sinking boat was still visible as a black shadow under the water, as mutterings rose within the crowd she was being pushed through. Magitek soldiers in front of her pushed the spectators aside mercilessly to free the way.
They hadn’t made it past the halfway point when the mutterings turned into loud and angry voices. And when she tore her eyes from where she knew the glittering ocean to be, as rocks began to hail down around them, and the man behind her ordered “Warning shots”, the young Oracle’s eyes met another’s, eyes as cold as ice.
Shiva, the Glacian, the Gentle, the Beauty of the first Snow, carefully suppressed the urge of her host-body to huff in annoyance. She would not lower herself to that mortal reaction. She couldn’t, however, contain her ire enough to not freeze a train conveniently coming up near her corpse-body.
Everything had gone wrong. So horribly wrong.
The sacrifice-child was far too caught in her own head, drowning in grief and self-pity, to be of any use for now. Her brother had disappeared. Somehow he was hiding from her divine gaze. It made her feel… disconcerted.
She needed to find him again. And fast. That boy may just be a backup, but power still slept within his blood. Power, that should not go unsupervised and unguided by the right hands. But that would have to come later. For now she needed to be the one to lend the sacrifice-child a sympathetic ear.
She kept watching until the car started to drive away from the angry mob, and the blighted puppet soldiers retaliated in kind to their growing unrest. Then she vanished, unnoticed, in a gust of icy cold wind to await her charge within her chambers.
