Moon Drunk: Origins

Queen Felicite, First of Her Name

Felicite forces the image of the Agincourt standard from her mind as the procession carries her through the city of Ravaenna to the Abbey of Allium. When they arrive at the abbey, Gabriel and the footmen help her from the coach, and Claude and Dulce straighten her train. 

"Today is our day of triumph," Lady Margrithe says, nodding to the crowds that have gathered along the streets to wave to her and shower her with flower petals. 

She hears the fanfare of trumpets and the booming voice of the court herald as he begins the grand event of the day, announcing the coronation of Queen Felicite, First of Her Name. He calls out the names of the dukes and duchesses first, and then the earls, and then the lesser noble lords. The greatest families of the werewolf nobility are represented at this event, an historic happening, the likes of which will never be seen again.

"I am to escort you inside," Prince Killian says, offering his arm, and she nods at him gratefully. So few are beside her for anything but personal gain, she appreciates each of them - Gabriel, Dulce, Killian - for their kindness and support. 

"Are you nervous?"

"Terrified," she admits. 

Killian pats her hand. "You have always been their queen. You have their hearts. This is merely a formality, Sister."

"May I ask you something?"

"Of course," he says, smiling and nodding to the gathered crowd as they make their way toward the stairs leading into the abbey. 

"Prince Killian, are you my friend?"

"I am, yes. Without question."

"And who else would you say I could call my friend here, in our court?"

"Your guard, Gabriel, for certain; his loyalty is unquestionable. And your sister, Dulce. Julien."

"So few," she says, her voice shaking. "So few I can trust."

"Quality over quantity," Killian says with a warm smile. "You have an army behind you. What we lack in numbers, we make up in loyalty and love. Particularly my brother. I never imagined it, but you have turned him into a lovesick, drooling, mess of a pup."

Felicite cannot hide her laughter and he pats her hand again. "This is where I must leave you. You are stronger than you know, Your Grace, and you will be a good queen. You are the heart of these kingdoms. Now, let me be your first subject to swear my oath," he says, releasing her and kneeling before her. 

"I, Prince Killian Fleming of the Norselands, do recognize you, Queen Felicite of the Houses of Agincourt and Fleming, as the rightful Queen of the Kingdoms of Briony, Bourbon and Bruges, and swear my sword to your service at your command," he says, bowing his head. 

"I accept your oath with glad heart," she says with a genuine smile. He kisses her hand before bowing and opening the abbey doors. 

Felicite smooths her burgundy and gold gown and her sisters, her mother and her aunt adjust the ceremonial robes, trimmed in ermine and heavy, so very heavy. Her mind races with all the things she must remember during this ceremony - to walk at precisely the right speed, so as not to offend anyone, nor to leave her train bearers too far behind; she must remove her shoes, as is the custom, when she reaches the brocade carpet, and proceed barefoot; that she must hold steady when the crown is placed upon her head, that if she trembles in the slightest, if she bows under its weight, that she will forever be shamed.

Choristers are singing songs of praise to the Ancestors, and then she hears her own name in the music and realizes that songs have been commissioned for this very event. She follows the High Priest to the altar where she will receive her crown, greeted by the archbishops.