Moon Drunk: Origins

Broken Hearts and Shattered Dreams

She cannot stop the tears that flow from her eyes and stream down her cheeks. Her face is white, as though she is deathly ill, and her eyes are red-rimmed from her uncontrollable sobbing. She sniffs, wiping at her nose and rubbing at her tears, knowing she must regain her composure. 

Soon the soldiers will come - his soldiers - to take her away from her home. And why not? He has already taken the only men she will ever love from her. Her father, a prisoner in the tower for only a night before his execution. Her intended husband, her king, a man who brought peace and prosperity to the kingdom of Briony, lay dead on the battlefield at Beaufort, slain by his hand. Her brothers will be sent away into exile with only their mother's promise that one day she will put one of them on the throne of the Three Kingdoms. One of them...because it is likely only one will survive, and even that is doubtful. He will find them. She knows she will never see them again, not handsome, proud Mariusz, nor joyful, bright, young Richard. 

They lay together in his bed, tangled in the bedclothes. Felicite can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as his chest rises and falls beneath her cheek.

"Do not fight him, Jolis," she says softly.

His hand caresses her face and strokes her hair, and she sighs softly, closing her eyes and savoring the tenderness of his touch.

"He challenges me for my crown," Jolis replies. "He threatens my kingdom. Your kingdom. I will put these endless wars to rest for all time. I will slay him on the battlefield and then I will marry you and you will become the queen you are destined to be. My life's work will be realized, and we will reign long and happy together."

"He will kill you," she replies, her voice hoarse with tears waiting to be shed. 

"Have you so little faith in your king, my beauty?" Jolis asks with an amused smirk. 

"Please do not fight him. Lead your men onto the battlefield, yes, of course, but please do not go into this battle. I could not bear it if you were dead."

"Then I will not die."

Felicite remains silent, worrying, until he rolls onto his side and clasps her hand in his own, raising it to his lips to press a kiss against her knuckles. 

"I am to be the spoils of war," she says miserably, unwilling to meet his gaze.

He shakes his head as he tilts her chin upward, forcing her to look at him. "No. You are to be the queen of the Three Kingdoms."

"Yes, my hand goes to the victor of tomorrow's battle. And if you are not the victor, the lords have all decided that he will wed me. That is how he won the support he has, by promising to unite the houses of Agincourt and Fleming. It is I who have come against you, in the end. And the battle for my hand will destroy you."

"I am the one who proposed it, Felicite. I did it for you."

"I could never love another. Certainly not him."

Jolis smiles. "I know that, sweetheart. But you could be his queen. And you will, if that is what your people require of you. Because you are a true daughter of the Three Kingdoms, and you are meant to be their queen. You will have a home, you will be safe. If I can no longer protect you, then he will. He has promised. And so I can go into battle without fear for your future."

"Please do not fight him, Jolis. Please."

"I must, my love. You know I must. If I run from battle, if I hide behind my men, what kind of king would I be? Certainly not a king worthy of you as my queen. I will return to you, Felicite, I swear it. And when I return, our marriage will be celebrated, and we will plan for your coronation. And then we will begin to build our dynasty," he says, teasing. "Perhaps we should practice for when I return. We will have many children, little princes with my temper and little princesses with their mother's beauty."

She blushes and when he kisses her, she forgets her concerns for the moment.  As he speaks worshipful words of devotion against her ear, as he kisses her skin, as he makes love to her, she allows herself to believe in his victory.  

That was yesterday morning.

And now Jolis is dead, his body rotting on the battlefield, because the new king refuses to allow his family to retrieve him and bury him properly. He will not feast with the Ancestors in the Great Hall. King Julien has seen to that with his merciless decree that Jolis is to be left where he fell in battle. 

Felicite stares now into the shallow, shimmering water of the reflecting pool on her family's estate, Ashton Hall, a place she has spent most of her young life when not at court. She trails her hand through the water, watching her reflection ripple and fade. Every moment shared with Jolis passes through her mind, playing out in the clear water of the pond as if to torment her.  The dances they shared, the feasts, the hunt, the kisses stolen dangerously near the rest of the court; all repeating tortuously over and over in her mind, haunting her, her happiest moments turned now to her most painful memories.

The moment they met, his gentle kiss of her hand; the butterflies that soared in her stomach when he first spoke to her of his feelings for her; the joy she had felt when her father announced her betrothal, how fortunate she had felt to love the man she was intended to marry. Every kiss, every whispered word of affection between them, every touch, every caress. Every time he had made love to her, excusing their sinful lust because they were already wed in the eyes of the Ancestors. Every tender word of devotion spoken, every time they had ridden into the forests, just the two of them, her clinging to him, pressing her cheek to his back and laughing at the joy of their freedom as they galloped. Young and foolish, broken hearts waiting to happen.

Now the only hope she has at preserving her reputation is to wed the murderer of her lover. To betray her family and everything she has ever known; and at their encouragement! The very thought tears her heart into shreds. 

Not that she has a choice in the matter.

Julien Fleming has come to Briony, to Bruges and Bourbon, having devoted his entire life to taking the throne of the Three Kingdoms for himself. He has defeated the rightful king, and now, like the Three Kingdoms themselves, Felicite is to be spoils for the victor. 

If only Jolis had listened to her. If only he had led his men into the battle, and stood back. But she knows in her heart that he could never have done that; that he would never have been able to live with himself had he fled the battlefield like a coward. And would she have loved him the same if he had? No, her lover had gone down under the swords of cowards, of traitors, and then his crown had been ripped from his head and placed upon the head of another by Lucien Fleming as he lay dying. If ever there was an enemy to the Three Kingdoms, if ever a name could strike fear into the heart of werewolf and human alike, it is that of Lucien Fleming, Julien's half brother, known for his barbaric cruelty. 

Instead of celebrating Jolis's victory, instead of celebrating her wedding to her beloved  betrothed and her coronation as his queen, now she will wed Julien Fleming, and there will be no mourning for Jolis. No honors will be bestowed upon him, and his family, those who held him dearest to their hearts, must leave him to rot, alone, where he fell in battle. 

"I will never love him," she vows softly, speaking words of treason as she turns the white rose she holds in her hand over and over - the rose Jolis had given her only yesterday, before he had ridden into battle, before life as she knew it had ended.

"He may own my body, but he will never possess my heart. It belongs to you, in your hands for safekeeping, until we meet again in the Great Halls of the Ancestors. My heart and my soul belong to you, only you, for all of my eternity."

"Felicite! Come quickly!" her mother's voice breaks her from her reverie, and she rises quickly, rushing up the stairway.

Her time has come.