AN: You know what? I deserve something nice because this decade absolutely blows so far and my writers' block regarding "Let's Die Together" is as thick and long as the goddamn Great Wall of China.

I've recently discovered I have a soft spot for the Bridgertons, Red Queens, Selections, and what have yous of the world, and I wanted to capture that in a fanfiction—even if the princess I will be puppeteering for a wish-fulfilling joy ride is the traumatized and emotionally manipulated Edelgard von Hrevleg with the shitty Child Torture Cult breathing down her necks.

Which, y'know, adds a bit more drama to spice things up, y'know?

Anyways, tossing my hat into the SI, OC ring for real-sies this time!

Hope you enjoy it!

I: Thrice Awake, Still Confused

I'm not supposed to be breathing.

I don't remember why, I don't know where all this pain is coming from, and I can't place the soft voices echoing around me, but I'm not supposed to be breathing.

Something pricks me then, and I flinch as cool liquid slithers through my veins. It causes the distant pain to grow considerably and my heart starts to beat deafeningly in my ears.

Then, with a soft gasp, my lids flutter open.

Dozens of eyes stare down at me, either attached to faces I don't recognize or shrouded in eerie crow masks and backdropped by a room that I know isn't mine. And something is wrong, so, so, wrong but I don't know what it is and the room's scent burns my nose and the faces are too close and my heart won't stop beating and those masks they—

My body works on autopilot, and I shoot upwards before moving to scramble off the bed in a panting disheveled panic. But I don't get far, the bed is too large and surrounded by strange bodies that block my path. And to top it all off, my body aches, and several hands snatch me from behind, tugging me and pinning me to the silk comforters as I struggle and shriek and cry and claw at the darkly gloved hands of the strange bird masked people.

My brain is scrambled, loud and screeching thoughts bombard it torturously and I feel caught between throwing up and fainting and I don't know what the heck is going on—

"El!" A croaked male voice cuts in, and for some reason, it causes my body to become subdued under the wall of palms pressing me down into the suffocatingly soft mattress, even as my chest still heaves and my body still shakes with trapped adrenaline. My hands drop limply to the side and someone gently clasps one.

I warily peer between the forest of wide-sleeved arms to see a violently scarred hand—mine—held tenderly in an equally shaky but considerably more gaunt pair. Their owner is a sunken-faced man with unkempt white hair and agonizingly sad, tear-lined grey eyes. "El," he repeats.

El.

That's not my name…but it is my name. And that makes…no sense.

What's going on?

"She's in shock," another voice states. This one is in complete contrast to the sad man holding my hand. It's unwavering and detached from any emotion—mostly. There's something else there, something in his cadence that I'm struggling to place. "Step back. Let me see her."

The bird masked men obey, removing their hands from my chest and arms as they slink into the back of the room. The voice's owner now steps into view and it's then that I can see what is partially hidden in his voice.

Excitement. It gleams in his sharp lavender eyes as they rove my body and is etched in the slight smirk donning his lips. "Wonderful," he murmurs, bending slightly towards me and casting me in his shadow.

"It is…it is done, then?" Another man questions. He stands at the foot of the bed, squat and beady-eyed with an orange moustache and matching coloured barely-there hair.

The sharp-eyed man, still staring at me uncomfortably, holds out his hand and makes a motion with his fingers. A strange circular device is placed into his hand, courtesy of one of the bird masked men before pressing it against my stinging palm.

I hiss in pain as the devise burns before two oddly shaped symbols I don't recognize rise into the air and intertwine with one another.

His smirk broadness considerably. "Indeed." He then turns to look down at the man still holding my hand. "Hold an assembly. Catch the people up."

The man hesitates, squeezing my hand tighter as a deeper frown creases his face.

"Ionius," The violet-eyed man says lowly, a hidden threat laced into the name.

Swallowing, the man—Ionius—reluctantly lets go of my hand and stands, shuffling out of the room with two crow men by his side. The beady-eyed carrot-haired man and a couple of other well dressed people leave with him.

"…what…?" I rasp. I mean to ask "what's going on?" But my throat feels raw and scratchy, as if I'd been screaming for hours or left dehydrated in a desert.

Violet Eyes's gaze falls to me as he says, "Congratulations, niece. You have proven yourself powerful enough to extend Adrestia's borders."

My brows furrow in further confusion.

…what on Earth is an Adrestia?

Mr. Violet Eyes's smirk slips into a contemplative frown as he hums and tilts his head to the side. He then looks up from me to someone across the bed—I'm assuming it's one of the birdmen because all the regular people left with the Ionious fellow.

"She appears far more disoriented than I foreseen she'd be. Syringe; perhaps she will sleep it off."

The realization of what he means barely dawns on me before I feel a prick on my arm again and I'm dragged back into darkness.

I'm alone when I wake up next.

It's a slow, slow process to get there though. Light flickers then fades, voices come then go, I hear wheels and light footsteps and sobbing, I feel fabric brushing against my flesh and water cooling my skin. I also feel something else that I can't quite place…I don't think I've felt it before but it causes light to warm behind my eyelids and a cool sensation to douse my body.

I don't know how much time has passed when the intricately painted ceiling above me comes into proper view, but it's the same room as before. The pain is a dull far away ache instead of the searing pain I'd felt, the people are (thankfully) gone, and the windows are open, letting in a pleasant nighttime breeze.

My head still feels very, very fuzzy and disoriented, so I try to piece together some semblance of an answer to the muddled questions in my brain by looking around this foreign area.

Sitting up slowly, I frown at the crimson-colored carpets, the ornate furniture, and the lone candle flickering by the balcony window. As I swing my legs and push myself towards the bed's edge with a grunt and wince, my eyes land on a portrait.

A girl with shoulder-length brown hair, violet eyes, and front clasped hands glares back at me. I tilt my head to the side as I take in the medieval-looking red dress, the silver circlet around her head, and the extensive amount of blush burning her cheeks.

I don't blame her for the expression, the painting is extremely detailed so she must've been there a while.

My feet slip to the carpet and I try to stand—a mistake. I stumble to my knees with a gasp as if my muscles are made of gelatine, and as I try pushing myself up I'm reminded of my scarred hands.

I look at them with wide eyes, shuddering at the plentiful and deep cuts that slash across my flesh. When I turn them palm up, I see those same scars crisscrossing horribly and only with some hesitation, do I pull the sleeve of my billowing nightgown up to confirm that that isn't even the end of it.

They make me dizzy and I blink repeatedly through an avalanche of dark spots before crashing into a crawling position on my fists.

How much are there? What's happened to me? Why am I in a strange girl's room—?

I watch alabaster hair slip onto my clenched and shaking fists and startle with a yelp. I teeter backwards and hit the bed frame, causing more oddly coloured locks to fly into the air before my very eyes.

I stare wide-eyed as gravity calls the snowy strands back down and shakily catch a couple in the palm of my scarred hand.

…this isn't my hair.

I stagger to my feet and teeter towards the vanity, knocking over several perfume bottles, makeup and hair brushes as I crash against the table.

Then, I look up.

The same violet eyes as the man from earlier stares back at me wide and horrified and so agonizingly confused.

This isn't me.

A headache explodes through my skull and I cry out as I scrunch my eyes shut and clutch the stupid pounding thing.

I remember. I remember why I was supposed to be dead, I remember who I was, and what I looked like—and it wasn't this. Not this pale, badly scarred girl with perplexing genetics.

Disorientation ruins my vision again as I sway on my legs and fall to my side. The world spins and spins and spins and I feel like something is closing around my throat—

Gasping, I scramble to my feet. My body acting once more in autopilot in an attempt to escape, I dash towards the large twin oak doors.

As I throw them open, I hear the clanking of metal. Gasping I spin around to find the sound and stumble, only to be caught by a pair of cold metal hands.

"Princess? What's the matter? Is everything alright?" The man holding me up asks.

Trying to regain my breath again, I see there's another man before me who looks as concerned as his companion sounds. He's covered head to toe in medieval-looking armor with red accents, the exception being his face.

That explains the metal sou—wait.

"P-prin—what did…did you just…?" I stammer with a still annoyingly hoarse voice. Really, what's going on here?!

The knight across from me says, "Would you…like some water, Princess?"

I blink slowly at him before faintly uttering, "No."

The knight nods, and I'm only able to briefly scan the stone brick walls, the dangling candelabras, and the large paintings before the knight still holding me guides me back into the room and sits me down on the large bed.

I'm still blinking dazedly as he walks around the room in search of any intruders before nodding and saying something that I don't quite hear and don't really care to as he leaves and gently shuts my door.

Knights, what appears to be a castle, princess?

I would've felt like I was in a fairy tale had one, this body belonged to me and not some stranger whose life I hope to God I haven't just stolen (I probably did) and two, if said body didn't show signs that something very, very, horrible had happened to her.

When I search my frazzled mind for an explanation, I only find my own memories. Of a world where I wasn't scarred up and I wasn't a princess, where my eyes weren't a freakish lilac and I didn't feel like throwing up every damn second.

I fall back onto my bed, dazed and horrified and frustrated and worried all at once.

I don't know what's going on, I don't know who I am, and I'm heir to…someplace.

This body—this girl looked to be about my age from what I remember seeing in the mirror. That means I'm missing almost two decades' worth of memories that are probably important because I'm stuck inside of her and have to rule a darn country!

No, forget that, how did I even get here in the first place? Why didn't I just…die?

For the umpteenth time, what is going on here?!

As my thoughts become a whirlwind of question marks, I slip into unconsciousness without even remembering I had.

When I awake for the third time it's to the too-bright light of the sun burning my foreign eyes behind scrunched lids.

Groaning, I pop one lid open to see several women in simple uniformed dresses striding around the room. Two parting the curtains simultaneously, one setting up a tray by the bed's night table and three others setting up utensils by the vanity.

It takes three seconds for my brain to realize that they're maids. It takes another three to realize that I'm still here in this stranger's body.

This really isn't a dream. I really am stuck here.

A woman wearing different attire from the others, a heavier-looking dress that is black and accented with red, gives me a quick courtesy. "Your Highness," she says. "With your permission, may I proceed?"

Proceed with…what exactly?

"Um…sure…?" I say in confusion, voice thankfully less raspy than the previous two nights. She then presses a palm against my forehead and—

It glows, pulsing a strange liquid feeling through my veins.

I shriek and jerk away in shock, clutching the blankets (when did I go under the covers last night?) to my chest as I pant and shake like a terrified deer.

What in the candy-coloured hell was that?!

My scream seems to have frozen the maids in their work, and one elder looking one with a frilled bonnet barks, "What have you done?!"

"N-nothing!" The woman cries in horror. "I-I was simply—!"

"Out! The Emperor will deal with your carelessness!"

The woman whimpers before clutching her skirts and dashing out the room in a panic.

I blink owlishly at her retreating form before pressing a finger gingerly to my forehead. "What…was that?" I ask slowly.

"Oh never mind, Your Highness. Are you alright?" The elder maid fretts, pressing the back of her palm against my forehead.

"I'm okay…I think," I tell her.

She sighs in relief and drops her hand. "Good, good. It wouldn't do for your condition to worsen over some shoddy Faith Magic—"

Faith Magic? Magic? Holy hell where am I? I press my hand to my skull again as my brain spins out of control in a confused panic.

"—especially not today."

The woman flits around the room handing out ribbon wrapped boxes to different maids as she talks. "Lord Arundel is impatient for Goddess knows what reason—what are you doing, help her up!" Two maids rush over to gently grasp my arms and hoist me to my feet.

"So, I am truly, truly sorry, Your Highness, as I know this is short notice but you are to be officially made Crown Princess today."

Magic. Crown Princess. I want to tell her to slow down but my mouth doesn't seem to work. I tense as my nightgown is slipped over my head and instinctively cover myself with my arms, shrinking even further as some maids gasp at my back.

I swallow as I peer down my front. More scars. And I can only assume that's what they see on my back too.

God, what happened to this poor girl?

The elder maid claps her hands impatiently, and the other women snap out of their horrified staring to pick up cloth and layer me in a hundred thousand pieces of clothing.

My mind wanders as I'm dolled up and struggle not to flinch every time someone pulls too tight at my hair or pokes me with a sewing pin. What do I have to do exactly during this Crown Princess thing? Do I (hopefully) just stand there and look pretty while someone does the speech? Or do I have to do the horrible deed? Did I—this girl…El, I guess—have a speech prepared before hand? Or do I say things from the back of my brain? Either way I am royally, royally screwed.

Once I'm finished, I am lead to a floor length mirror. I would look beautiful if it weren't for the disorientating feeling of looking at someone else's reflection; my hair's piled into a crown bun, my dress is a crimson red bodice with an illusion neckline and sheer mid-length sleeves. The stunning top is connected to a black diamond-encrusted skirt and my hands are adorned with wrist-length equally ebony coloured gloves.

I swallow the bile in my throat and flinch as the stranger in the mirror copies the action of my throat exactly.

The head maid frowns. "Are you displeased, Princess?"

I shake my head quickly and force a smile. "No…no I'm just…" I clear my still raspy throat and say, "I'm just nervous."

I hate this.

Not the dolling up, again, I'd appreciate it if these were different cirsumstances.

"I look beautiful," I assure her and she smiles in relief before leading me to the door. There, two knights—different from the ones last night—step from their place from beside my bedroom doors and march down the hallways with me in tow, leaving the now respectfully curtsying woman behind.

I hope they know that they're leading me and not vice versa.

I focus on my breathing…in, out, in, in—no, I messed up. I bite my bottom lip and clutch my skirt with my gloved hands. I hate this, I hate this so much.

God, why didn't I just stay dead?

After a hundred thousand hallways, we reach a taller pair of doors than the ones to the bedroom I'm sleeping in. Two people are waiting before them, Mr. Violet Eyes from...whenever I was drugged to sleep, and a young man with dark hair and a single visible green eye, glaring at the ground.

It darts upwards and zeroes in on me as soon as we get close, the intensity of it scaring me a smidge. The pupil then dilates and he inhales shakily as he starts towards me.

"Lady Edelgard—"

…wait I thought I was "El?"

Mr. Violet Eyes scowls and presses his palm against his chest to halt his advance. "Now, now, Vestra. There'll be time for a hug and cry session later."

The Vestra man's lips curl into a light snarl as he gives Mr. Violet Eyes a hate-filled glare. The older man responds with sardonic smile and waits for the latter to back off before tuning his sharp gaze to me.

Mr. Vestra's reaction to me is similar to the sad old man from yesterday in its intensity compared to the staff and weirdos of this place. I wonder what my—El, Edelgard, whatever's—relationship was with them.

Was. I swallow down more bile.

"You look ravishing, niece. As I knew you would," he states approvingly and strides towards me. Vestra looks like he's holding himself back from snatching him by the sleeve and dragging him away from me if the clench of his jaw, fists and the way his visible eye tracks his every movement says anything.

I smile weakly and nod, not quite trusting myself to speak.

"No need to look so nervous," Mr. Violet Eyes—Edelgard's uncle—says as he pushes a loose lock of hair behind my ear. "You are now the most powerful ruler in all of Fódlan. Act like it."

What the hell does…never mind. I sigh softly and look past the man to the doors where I hear a booming voice echoing.

"When they call you in, rest assured it will be the start of something truly…wonderful."

I stop myself from laughing mirthlessly.

We'll see…probably not though.

I don't hear the cue, but my not-uncle does, pressing a palm at the small of my back as he leads me forwards.

The oak doors open and I'm greeted by a million eyes boring into me. My eyes widen as they flash between all the fancifully dressed men and woman, panic sending my heart into a breathless gallop.

I'm reminded of my old recitals—except now I'm in an alien's skin, I'm doing something I've never done in my life, and there are way, way, way more people here than in—

The world spins and darkness claims me for a fourth time in a symphony of shocked cries and gasps by my audience, followed by the panicked exclamation of my body's name and title as I collapse into a pair of strong arms.

AN: NOW, I know I wasn't able to really showcase too much of OCs personality at this point of the story because this is the obligatory "WTF. OMG" arc, but it should shine through in chapter 2 according to what I've written so far.

It's slated to publish next Saturday buuut if you guys are eager enough for more I can pull back the release date! If nobody's interested at all then…

...well I'm going to post more chapters anyway because, again, I need this and I'm really enjoying this concept so far. People enjoying it too is just a happy bonus!

Hope you all enjoyed! Comments, criticism, and questions are all well welcome!

Fantasy Fan OUT!