Chapter 140: Aella’s Journey
The second vigil the next night was a subdued affair. They all wore the same style of robes as the first, though Aella knew they were not the same. The shade of red was different, and they had been made to mimic the mourning clothing: no buttons, sashes or adornments of any kind. They used a different room, this one was covered in tiles, with a door that locked, next to the bath house. They were under the castle, not near the throne room as before. There were still cushions, but the room felt much less welcoming and much less flammable.
Basiano was dressed in a simple linen tunic that went down to his knees, trousers and nothing more; no crown, no belt, not even any shoes. He paced the room, more anxious than Aella had been the first night. Every time a child shifted or sneezed, or someone whispered, Basiano would whip his head toward the door as if he expected tragedy to come storming in a second time. It was a far cry from the gentle, solid man she had known on the ship. Aella wondered if anything could be said to the soon-to-be king to make him relax, but none of his wives or siblings had any effect on his manic anxiety.
There had been no party beforehand, and so food was brought to them to snack on throughout the night, but Basiano had taste-testers sample a little of everything under his watchful eye before he let the food come inside with his family. He insisted he eat first; not because he was going to be king, but because if there was poison, he would not let another take a blow meant for him. Nereida winced at that and busied herself with Damara. Egaz and Alejo played quiet games with their cousins, though any time Basiano made a sharp movement, Alejo pulled Egaz into his arms protectively. He was not the only older child to attempt to protect the younger ones. It was heartbreaking.
The night crawled on, with all the joy of a funeral. Basiano’s oldest son had chewed all his fingernails by the end of the night, like a trapped animal. No one could calm the boy, though he’d paste a stoic expression on his face whenever something was required of him. He helped the younger children, made sure they were all behaving. But the moment he was not needed, Diego was back to chewing his nails or pacing in his father’s wake. Aella took to mentally reciting her own lineage as far back as she could remember. She did not want to be here, to watch a man fall apart in his grief and anger when he was about to become king. She could almost taste the grief in the air, like ash and dirt on her tongue. The Moon Dragon’s magic stirred, resonating with the grief. So she ignored the grief as best she could, reciting her history, only stumbling over her parents’ names in her mind.
After nearly ten hours of forced proximity to Nereida’s grieving family, a knock sounded on the door, and a shaking, deep voice rang out from the other side.
“The stars have set for the last time on the Time of Grief. They shone all night, brightly and without fail. The star readers have spoken; the Night of Grief is done, and when the stars rise in the sky, our new King must take his place!” There was cheering on the other side of the door. Basiano’s fists were clenched tight, so tight they were losing colour. He let out a breath and answered the voice.
“I accept my new path. Begin the celebration, and at dusk I shall arrive.” The words were clearly practiced, old rituals, but they caused another cheer on the other side of the door. There was a great deal of shuffling on the other side, and then, after a few minutes, blessed quiet. Aella drifted over to Nereida, unsure of where she was supposed to be, but next to her wife seemed like a good start. Basiano turned his back to the door.
“Tonight grieving is suspended,” he said softly, though his voice hitched on the word grieving. “We present to the people as a united family. I will not be King of Grief.” He shot a look at Aella. She kept her gaze neutral, not wanting to react. “But I will speak of Camina.” One of his wives touched his arm softly, and Basiano’s angry posture softened. It was not Camina’s mother, but another wife. Aella watched as the grieving father pulled his wives into his arms and held them tight, his face gaunt. She looked at the floor, feeling like an intruder, and waited until Basiano and his wives and children began leaving the little room. Finally she felt as if she could breathe.
They returned to their suite, the boys trudging behind them, exhausted and cranky. They had not managed to sleep much during the vigil. Only Damara was in good spirits, too young to understand what was happening around her. She was chewing on her fist as if she had not a care in the world. Aella briefly envied her daughter. Nereida tucked the boys in to rest, promising to wake them in the afternoon with enough time to get ready. They groaned, Aeljo wanting to avoid the whole thing.
“Uncle Basi is so sad,” he said. “Why are we doing this? Why can’t he just be sad?”
“Because, my boy, Basi is going to be King… and a king has to put his people first, always.” She kissed his head, but the boy pouted.
“I don’t have to be king though, right?” Alejo’s voice was quiet and sad. Nereida smiled gently at him, ruffling his hair as she took a moment to answer.
“I cannot imagine a world in which you have to be king, darling boy.” Her voice trembled ever so slightly, and Aella was certain the boys did not hear it. She stepped in beside her wife, putting her arm around Nereida. The siren’s shoulders relaxed, and she leaned in to Aella’s touch.
Damara was given to the nanny, and the wives retired to bed. Aella let sleep crash into her, consume her and she spent most of the day sleeping with her arms around her wife, too exhausted to think. But such sleep did not last long, and before she knew it, a servant was waking them.
“It is three hours until supper, my ladies,” the voice carried through the room, soft but insistent. “Do you require maids for assistance?”
“No,” Aella grouched. She pulled the pillow over her head to block out the light and the irritatingly cheerful sound of the servant’s voice.
“The boys will need it,” Nereida added, her tone infinitely kinder and calmer than Aella’s had been. Aella heard the sound of their door close, and then felt her wife’s hand on her back.
“Do I at least get to put my hair up?” Aella asked, her eyes still scrunched closed. She did not want the light. She wanted more sleep. Nereida laughed musically, a truly happy sounding laugh, and Aella felt her heart flutter at the sound.
“Yes my love. You can do your hair. If you’d like, you can even do mine.” Aella tossed the heavy blankets off.
“Well then,” she declared, a yawn breaking up her words briefly. “I suppose I can drag myself out of the depth of sleep to be by your side.” Nereida smiled a bright, happy smile at her. There was no grief or pain in her stormy eyes. Aella stared into the stormy, beautiful eyes, wishing she could just get lost in them. Nereida gently touched her face, her thumb brushing across Aella’s lip.
“Help me get dressed?” Nereida asked, her voice soft, inviting. Aella distinctly preferred undressing her wife, but she nodded, kissing the tip of Nereida’s thumb that still rested on her lip. A promise of more, when they were not drowning in both grief and responsibility.
There was no anticipation or fanfare in the removal of their simple shifts, and the fabric fell to the ground. Aella took a moment to appreciate her wife’s curves, but she did not touch the alluring flesh, just helped Nereida into a fresh cotton shift, the first layer in her monumental get-up. Nereida donned three petticoat layers, her corset, and then, finally, her overdress. It was a beautiful creation, this dress. Primarily purple, there was black and red embroidery throughout, along her bustline which was shaped like a heart and put her on display in a way that Aella quite enjoyed. The endless skirt over three petticoats gave her the appearance of a much smaller waist. The skirt swished about as she moved, hiding Nereida’s legs almost completely in all the fabric. She wore slippers of fine silk and leather, one specially made to fit over her lizard claws. Nereida sent Aella to fetch something out of the top drawer, and Aella chuckled when she saw what it was. Nestled amongst their underthings was a long, thin dirk within a scabbard meant to be affixed to a leg.
“Steel under the silk,” Aella muttered. Nereida laughed, but it was a mean little laugh.
“I’ll not be caught without a weapon again,” Nereida said, her voice dark. “If you’d had a weapon to start, maybe things would not have….” She trailed off, unwilling to voice her niece’s fate aloud. “You can’t hide one,” she continued. “Not in that sleek suit. And you don’t need a cane, or I’d hide one in that.”
“So if there’s trouble you… you want me to lift your skirt in front of court?” Aella asked, unable to keep the amusement from her tone at the image. “Petticoats lifted, fabric everywhere, and, suddenly, a knife in my hands as I crawl out from under your voluminous skirt. Can you imagine the expressions on those old, judgemental biddies?” Nereida’s stormy expression was quickly overtaken by laughter at the absurd mental image. She started to laugh, her body, and the skirt, shaking so hard she nearly fell over.
Aella helped her wife right herself, and escorted her to a couch to sit, so that she could do Nereida’s hair. She loved to touch the soft locks. Now that they had access to proper maintenance, Nereida’s hair was softer than ever. It was back down to her chin, the cut even. Just long enough for three thin little braids from her temples, joined at the back. The rest of her hair hung down straight. Nothing fancy, as Nereida had a crown to wear. Once the crown was on, Aella kissed her wife’s cheek.
“Beautiful,” she told Nereida. “You will turn heads.”
“Yours is the only one I care about.”
“Flatterer,” Aella replied, grinning wildly. Her wife was perfect.
Aella got herself ready, dressing in a set of trousers, a fine linen tunic and a sleek Bolero jacket. The jacket was purple, trimmed in black, the lining red. It was not her own military jacket, which hung in their closet. She did not feel right, wearing it here. She was not foreign military, not now, not without her ship. But her fashion preferences had been heeded, which was a small comfort. She’d had enough of dresses. She braided her hair into one, long, thick braid, and had Nereida sew the braid into a basket-like shape at the back of her head. It would keep the hair from her face, but looked more fancy than her usual warrior’s braid. She took Nereida’s arm, slipping her hand in the crock of her elbow. Mine. Nereida smiled at her, soft and dreamy, before her expression turned to steel.
The coronation would soon begin.