Title: Fledgling
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Awakening
Rating: T
Warnings/Spoilers: Brief discussions of sex?
Pairing: Chrom/Sumia
Words: 1359
Summary: If Sumia could wait until she was ready to be queen, there'd be quite a power vacuum.
Notes: Also fills bingo square 'Element.'


Let the lady-in-waiting tear the covers off of you. Let her drag you from the arms of your husband. Your husband. Remember how lovely it is.

Remember, Sumia, that there’s no time for it to be lovely.

Drink the cup of tea that the lady shoves into your hands. Don’t worry if it drips from the corners of your mouth. Scrub the sleep from your eyes.

Stand. Stretch. It’s an old habit. Reach for your agenda, then catch yourself. You know what’s coming today.

Follow the lady to the dressing room. There’s a tray waiting, a small fleet of maids. Smile when they bow to you. Sit down. Eat your breakfast, even though your stomach boils and your head still rings from last night’s champagne.

Last night’s... everything.

Stop blushing, these people barely know you. And even though they know, as well as everybody in the kingdom knows, that there was a wedding and a wedding night, and what tends to happen on wedding nights... well. Stop blushing. They don’t need to know.

Only, they do, because you’re the queen.

Stop thinking about it. Finish your breakfast. Don’t worry about what it is, how it tastes. Could be croque monsieur, could be compromised-supply-line gruel. Doesn’t matter.

Finish. Stand. Watch a maid break away from the flock. You don’t know how they decide who gets to do what, but... well, here she is.

Return her apologetic smile, let her lift your white nightdress over your head. Don’t cover yourself. You’ve done this before, just yesterday. Let them strip you, wash you, paint your eyes and lips and cheeks. Dress you, in clothes that used to be somebody else’s. Will be somebody else’s, after you.

It’s different. You feel acutely that you should have checked your skin, stood before the mirror with his sweat still drying on your chest, looked for marks. Should have told him to be careful.

He was anyway.

You look down yourself, see nothing. Let the maids help you into a scented bath, let them wash your back. Wish they wouldn’t be so silent.

Drag your fingers through your hair, salty and dry from last night’s sweat. Get the diamond on your ring caught in a snarl.

Smile, now, for real.

Let the ladies, with their gentle naked fingers, wash your hair. Grip the edges of the tub.

Let it be over when it’s over. The gods only know how much time has passed. Allow yourself to be helped out of the tub, to be wrapped in a warm and pristine towel. Almost allow yourself to laugh, thinking of the cramped, rusting tin basins in the campaign bathing tent. The cold filmy water, tinted green. The soap, black and sandy, and the single-minded speed of it all. Five minutes to bathe after battle, to groan, to fold aching muscles into a position that would fit. To listen to the splashing, the hissing oaths of the other women all as naked, cold, and ornery as you.

Almost laugh, thinking how relaxing that was, compared to this. Revitalizing. Today, your muscles have never been tenser.

Dry yourself. At least you can do that on your own. Be conscious, take it slow. Don’t towel off like you’ve still got to run and debrief. Be gentle over the thin skin of your hips, and don’t wince when the towel grates the sore spot between your legs.

The maids wrap you in a gossamer robe, seat you at a vanity. One spells your hair dry with a tome the size of your devotional. A pair of them take combs, and they turn your frizzy hair to silk with practiced ease. It takes time. Close your eyes, don’t think about last night. Recall your lines instead.

Realize that you’ve never given a speech before.

Wonder if your wedding vows count--but you just repeated those back to the hierophant. And they were promises to just one person, someone you knew and loved and fought for. You had already sworn your life to Chrom, wedding vows were just... an addition. A change of class, perhaps.

It wasn’t as if you hadn’t known about these obligations. Just... in the time of your infatuation, of your courtship, such as it was... they seemed incidental. Nothing Sumia couldn’t handle. Something you might be better suited to than swinging lances, kicking spurs.

Laugh aloud at how wrong you’d been. Blush, assure the maids that you’re alright. Say, with anxious laughter, ‘never better!’

Know they don’t believe you.

They turn you in your chair, kneel before you the way Chrom knelt when he proposed. One dips a brush into a compact, powders your cheeks. Paints your lips the soft pink of a seashell. Lines your eyes with earthen brown.

Another maid slips in behind you, braids your hair into a crown around your brow. They make much of your great beauty, the most they’ve spoken since you got there. Thank them.

Wonder how you will do this every day for the rest of your life. Be scrutinized. Seen.

Remember that there is a crowd of people outside, chanting your name. Remember that they outnumber these maids a thousand-fold.

Remember that they will not all declaim your beauty.

Your porcelain face passes muster. You are naked again, and after the hot bath the open air gives you gooseflesh. A maid sweeps you over with her eyes, nods.

Know you are allowed to ask her not to do that, but refrain. Know you are allowed to order blood and thunder. Know that you’d rather not.

The maids present you with a corset, and you grit your teeth. From yesterday, your whole belly feels bruised. Still, let them lace you in it tight. Let them tie petticoats about your waist. Light, translucent things. Just two, for this dress. Be relieved--your wedding gown required six and a crinoline, and you were certain you would fall.

This morning, you had better not fall. Yesterday, you were a virgin bride--a delicate thing. Today you are a veteran, a war hero, a queen. Yesterday they did not care that you dealt Gangrel’s killing blow. Today, they do.
The dress is carried out from a closet. Do not be too obvious about the hitch in your breath.

You’ve seen it before. Even before it was presented to you, before you tried it on and almost tore the seams.
You’ve seen Emmeryn wear this dress. Years ago, when you were a guard at a banquet. She wore it with the grace that was her constant, her small steps floating across the floor. Her hands were always neatly folded, her conversation fluid and gracious. You had curtsied to her that night, nearly tripped over yourself in doing so.

It is composed almost entirely of lace, tatted by some master artisan half a century ago. Long sleeved, with a neckline so high that you know it will constrict you. Its pinks and golds are dyed so delicately that you almost wonder if the spectators will see anything but warm white.

It’s been altered for you, let out in the sleeves, shoulders, waist. The hem has been brought up. Step into it. Feel as if you are splattering paint across a masterpiece.

When you see yourself in the gilded mirror, wonder if Chrom would call you beautiful, or if he would just turn away.

Wonder if all of those people out there--you can hear them, chattering and laughing and calling out for you--would do the same.

Know that there is only one way to find out. Know that the time for this is now. That you might even be late.
Take a breath. Let a maid link arms with you, lead you out of the room. Make your steps small, let them float. Don’t wait.

Bedroom, corridor, solar, balcony.

Look down at them, congregated in droves. Be reminded of drear mornings, running on adrenaline and scant sleep, your pegasus the only thing holding you up. Remember the sight of Plegian forces, crowded over massive swathes of land.

Chastise yourself for this. Demand of yourself that you do not fear them.

Fear them anyway, a little.

Breathe. Open your mouth. Speak.

Make yourself their queen.