Chapter Text
If he had to describe his current situation, he would call it akin to lightning. Lightning strikes without warning, bright tendrils branching out and seeking paths tangent to each other, and the world shakes with the thunderclap that bellows out retribution, punishing the world one last time.
He has long since become distant from his mother – too many silences and ugly truths severed the relationship they barely had – but he never expected her to suddenly do this to him.
Gripping his veil, lifted over his head as he hides within his carriage and its bamboo blinds – for he is the prince of imperial Inazuma, blood of the gods and the divine masculinity of the court – he experimentally tugs until he feels the clips holding his veil in place resist.
It’s silly, but the sensation frightens him. He stops pulling, letting the veil remain secured on his head and fall gently against his body.
The floor beneath him trembles, and it’s like the Raijin herself sucks in a breath within the second it takes for the carriage to settle. He’s arrived, he knows it even before his servant comes up to the window, but he waits to move until he hears, “Please forgive this servant for intruding upon your peace, Your Highness. We have arrived at the palace gates of Paraselene.”
Khaenri’ah’s royal palace. He lifts his fingers and slowly, his joints creaking in protest for he’s been kneeling in this cart for much too long now, lowers his veil over his face.
Even if he is to be married, he will keep his face hidden from these godless wretches until he is made to writhe in the same dirt.
So this is your last gift to me, Mother.
He is dressed in his white robes, the soft fabric draped over him artfully, representative of his divine purity while hiding his skin from the eyes of these worms.
How fitting, he thinks as he lowers himself onto the dusty, drab grey stone of Paraselene’s court pathways, that his hem is dirtied immediately just by standing. It is such awful symbolism that he feels the Raijin is just a little too on the nose with it.
Even worse, when he looks up he realizes that the only guards stationed are six outside of the palace doors, before which stands a lone man dressed in hues of morning glory and shadow. He knows this is a lowly country, poor and wild, but to think they would have the audacity to barely spare him any sort of security detail…
It rankles. He is the most holy thing to walk their grounds, and his wife-to-be will not even spare the time to greet him?
He is glad for the veil concealing his face, for he doesn’t think he is able to hide the twist of rage upon his features as the man – the princess’ chamberlain – guides him and the single valet he’s been granted to the princess. Not only is he being made to walk to the princess of a wild country – a princess so stained in blood that she is feared even by his mother, the Raiden Shogun, lightning embodied – but she is not even the true monarch. She is a mere princess, not a queen.
He is Mikoto, a tendril of eternity – how is this in any way what he was born to do?
The princess sits on a throne of carved stone within a small room, nothing like the grand throne room in Tenshukaku. There are no sumptuous red carpets or high ceilings, only fraying banners and axes hanging on the stone walls, and off to the side of the throne’s platform he spies simple wooden tables and chairs.
He halts before the staircase, staring up expectantly at the princess.
She stares back.
They stand in uncomfortable silence, to the point where he starts to wonder if she is capable of speech, before the chamberlain leans close to him, so close Mikoto starts to wonder if he can smell the scent of death.
“It is common courtesy to bow before the princess,” he explains. “You are the visiting party, after all.”
The visiting party. As if Mikoto is actually here by his own will and not coercion. As if he must bow to a wretch that knows nothing but blood and barbarism—
“It’s alright,” the princess says as she gets up from her throne. She is hardly anything impressive, dressed in a frankly scandalous dress that ends just above her knees and reveals more of her bust than Mikoto ever wanted to see. “I suppose I should start the introductions, given our circumstances.”
She walks down the steps, measured and almost regal, except how could that be? The princess comes to a stop just an arm’s length away from him and smiles, girlish and frivolous.
“It is my honor to meet you,” she says, taking the edges of her skirt in her fingers and curtseying. “I am Princess Lumine of Khaenri’ah, and I welcome you to our humble country, prince.”
He cannot help how he scoffs. “It is an honor to meet you too,” he says, words clipped. “Please take care of me.”
She seems to take his anger in stride, which only worsens his mood. “Of that, you can be assured. As my husband-to-be, I could never allow you to feel unwelcome.” She snaps her fingers, and her chamberlain bows before leaving. “I see you have one servant with you, and I offer you two more if you’ll have them.”
“No.” The word is out before he can contain it, but now he has to push on. “I will accept only my valet. No one else.”
“Ah,” she says, and he knows he didn’t just imagine that laugh hidden beneath a breath. “Of course. Is there anything else you would like to request?”
My freedom. Your impending death.
“Nothing,” he says.
“Alright. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything. This is to be your palace too.” Lumine eyes soften as she looks upon him, almost kind. As if she is human.
“If you don’t mind,” she begins gently, “may I ask you a question?”
He can hardly stand her gaze upon him, but at least she is attempting to imitate a proper request. “Yes?” he intones, aiming for generous and falling flat. “What is it?”
“What is your name?”
He should have known better.
Shouldn’t you know this, he wants to ask, terribly confused and irritated. The princess was the one to negotiate this marriage with his mother, and he can hardly imagine them discussing him without even properly addressing him.
Then again, he stands here before his wife-to-be of degenerate blood and on dirty, godless earth, as though he is a god cast down to hell, or perhaps worse – as prized cattle to be sold off. It’s hardly a stretch to think they would disrespect his name.
Still, he remains gods-blessed until the time when they seal their marriage with cursed rings and kisses. Squaring his shoulders and raising his chin, looking his betrothed in the eyes even if she cannot meet his gaze, he speaks, “Mikoto.”
“Mikoto.” She repeats his name with perfect enunciation, practically native. “Mikoto,” she repeats again, but this time she draws out each syllable as though she is tasting them, defiling the first gift his mother ever bestowed upon him.
He presses his fingers against his thighs.
“Like the name of Makoto, the previous empress. The name of a god.” The princess looks at him, but her kindness is gone. In its wake is only her eyes, cold and moonlike, and a spider’s smile.
“That’s a very pretty name,” she tells him, as though he isn’t aware. “It suits you, I think. I cannot judge properly until I see your face.” She raises her hands, fingers reaching for him. “Will you allow me—?”
He can’t help it – he flinches.
His veil sways as her fingertips brush against the edges fabric, and he watches as her hands fall back down to her side. His heart is racing, thrumming in his ears and making him feel so terribly cold. As though the cold of these heathen lands have seeped into him, as though she has cursed him, defiled him with her touch—
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
Trembling, he stiffly bows his head and turns on his heels.
He hears nothing but the sound of heavy doors closing behind him.
The ceremony is upon them before he is able to reconcile himself with seeing the princess not through violet hues but reality’s moonlight.
The moon is sacred in Khaenri’ah. As blasphemous as they are, as void of the gods’ gaze as the land is, they have love for the moon and stars.
Due to Khaenri’ah’s traditions, he is to be wed beneath the open sky, as the stars twinkle their greetings and the full moon gazes down on their world with hardly a care.
He waits for his bride at the altar, dressed in four layers of black and grey, his graceful body hidden almost completely from sight. Only his hands are uncovered, ready to receive the ring of eternity, ready to be defiled by the skin of another.
He is—He is absolutely speechless with outrage. He is standing before a man in robes of indigo and a headdress of ram’s horns, and an audience devoid of Inazuman blood and clothed almost entirely in shadow. The sheer, blatant show of mourning, as though it is their princess who is suffering, as though she is not the one sought to shackle and ruin him—
Drums ominously thrum, and his ‘guests’ rise to their feet. Their shadows dance in the torchlight, and Mikoto watches as his bride steps into the small pavilion. She wears only a simple white dress that flares out and drags against the ground, and a dark fur is draped over her shoulders. She can hardly be called ethereal or beautiful, especially in comparison to him, but…
But she is not… awful to look at.
Her stride is full of purpose, and in a few steps she has made it before him. Lumine smiles at him, kind again.
He ignores her as they turn to the priest.
There is a grand speech made about love and its virtues but really, who are they fooling here? He is nothing but a bargaining chip, traded off to the increasingly hostile Khaenri’ah in exchange for its metalwork and allied armies.
That’s all he’s worth. Scraps of metal and a few troops.
Then it’s time to exchange their rings. Neither band was his choice – they were chosen by Lumine and Yae, and now he watches as they are brought to them in a small wicker basket lined with a cotton cloth.
This, he thinks in disgust as he plucks the gold ring from the pitiful basket, is all they could spare for a royal wedding. Not even a pillow.
“Let this ring,” he recites in as serene a tone as he can conjure, “be proof of my love; let the moon and eyes of our people be the witnesses of our union; let me vow my eternal loyalty, and swear myself as your husband.”
These godless wretches hardly know the meaning of eternity, he cannot help but think as he looks down at Lumine’s proffered hand. He has to take it, he knows, has to slide the small gold ring onto her finger, but he is terrified of her pale skin, nearly glowing in the distant moonlight. Will she be cold? Is her skin rough? Will he be left aching and trembling with the loss of his divine blessings if he willingly takes her hand?
He can’t – it’s the only thing he has left.
Suddenly, he is very cold.
“Hey.”
A soft murmur reaches his ears, and Mikoto looks up into Lumine’s eyes as her lips curve up into an almost fond look.
“Just pretend,” she whispers. “It’s alright.”
And isn’t that just the worst affront he’s faced in all this time. The whispers of demons, the enticing offers of an ayakashi reaching his ears and—and—
-and stirring his heart until he is left entranced by her fingers.
Gnashing his teeth, Mikoto decides he will not let himself be comforted by such words. He will not let go of his pride.
Taking her hand, he nearly drops it as the shock of cold seeps into his own fingers. He panics for a moment, feeling taint spreading through his arm, feeling it crawl and reach its tendrils towards his heart—
Before he realizes her skin is… soft. Plush. Unthreatening.
She is not gnarled or covered in thorns or anything equally monstrous. She is just… human.
He slips the ring on her finger and pulls away.
His victory is short-lived however, because Lumine reaches out and he remembers he must now give her his hand. He must be trapped by the ring.
This is nothing. Mikoto can hardly be afraid after he has already made contact with her. He mustn’t be afraid. He mustn’t.
He gives her his hand.
She makes the whole ordeal blessedly quick, repeating her vows perfectly and sliding the ring onto his finger with hardly a pause. It makes him feel silly for being so frightened, but then he wonders if that is simply the effect of this cursed land – to think he would feel he is the fool.
“And beneath the empty gaze of the moon,” the ridiculous priest intones, “you may seal your union with a kiss.”
The kiss.
A kiss between him and Lumine.
Physical contact made without any sort of cloak or layer protecting him.
He stares straight ahead as Lumine comes closer, hands rising up the same way as before.
“I’m sorry,” she says, the same way she did before. Fingers gripping his veil, she lifts it above their eyes.
The last thing he sees before she presses her soft lips against his, untainted by sheer violet, are her beautiful, starlike eyes.