Moon Drunk: Origins

A Joyful Bride

"Felicite! Felicite, wake up!" Anjolique hisses, shaking her shoulders. "Get up, girl, get yourself out of this bed! There is much to be done!"

"Hmmm?" Felicite murmurs, struggling to pull herself from the dream, a dream in which Jolis is still alive, holding her in his arms, resting his cheek upon her belly and speaking to his child. She smiles at the memory of the dream, her troubles temporarily forgotten with this blessed escape from reality.

"Get up this instant!" her mother demands.

"What is it, Lady Mother?" Felicite asks, sitting upright.

"Have you gone mad? It is your wedding day! The day we have all been waiting for!"

"What?" Felicite asks again absently, feeling exhausted and weary.

"The sickness will pass," Margrithe says, giving Felicite's hand a sympathetic pat. "It is the same for all of us, I'm afraid."

"It is so cold," Felicite grumbles, burying herself deeper into her furs. "Only a Fleming would have such a cold heart as to insist upon a winter wedding. Not only is it unbearably cold, it is bad luck, as well."

"I've banked the fire," Shimara says. "Your linens are warming beside the hearth."

Felicite nods gratefully. Then she climbs reluctantly from the warm, comforting sanctuary of her bed, where her ladies begin to fuss over the process of dressing her, beginning with her silk-trimmed undergarments, and finally her burgundy overgown. They tie the laces, and it takes a bit of effort - the gown fits a bit more snugly then when first fitted. As her pregnancy has advanced, her breasts have grown fuller, and her middle is swelling. She notices the changes, of course, but no one else seems to, for which she is grateful.

"The gown is magnificent," Anjolique comments. "The king's mother chose something that would accentuate your beauty, Felicite. Your skin appears flawless, and your hair shines so brightly! The color is perfect. You are fortunate she has taken such a liking to you."

"I do not feel fortunate," Felicite says miserably as she stares at her pale reflection in the looking glass. "Look at me. I am fat."

"Stop it, now. You are not fat. You carry the future king of the Three Kingdoms beneath your heart. You carry the last hope for our line inside of you. You are radiant." Anjolique is already dressed as well in a cream gown trimmed with burgundy and silver ribbons, and she takes Felicite's hands and kisses her on both cheeks. "You look lovely, daughter mine. Your father would be very proud."

"Father," Felicite says miserably, glancing down at the gown she wears now.

"Hush," Anjolique says, placing a gentle hand on Felicite's back. "This is our day of triumph."

Felicite's throat tightens at the truth of the words her mother speaks, at the loss of her father, at the loss of Jolis. The tears that have threatened to spill all day now begin to slip down her cheeks and Anjolique rubs at them with the heels of her hand.

"There is no time for tears," she says. "There is nothing we can do now but smile. Sometimes we win in this life, Felicite, and sometimes we lose, but our fortune makes no matter. What matters is that we raise our banners and march onward."

"We? There is no 'we' any longer, Mother. The House of Agincourt is defeated. Today, what remains of our line becomes Fleming. This is not our victory. This is our final defeat. This is the death blow, to our house, our family, our name."

"No, not 'we' the Agincourts," Anjolique explains patiently. "'We', the descendants of the First Wolves. Your grandmother was the daughter of Lumiel, the First Wolf, and her lover, Berren. We hold her power - our power - and we hold our strength. We never falter. Set your sights on what you want, daughter, raise your banner, and keep your courage to walk the path toward it, no matter the obstacles set before you. You have Lumiel's sight, my child, only you do not yet know how to use it. Her gifts are strong within you. And she has promised that you will be Queen. Through you, daughter, the Agincourts regain the throne of the Three Kingdoms that is their birthright. Raise your banner, muster your men, and march forward through your sorrow."