Chapter Text
When Marinette comes to, the first she thing she registers is the feel of dirt on her cheek. It’s gritty and warm, and there are a few grains that have found their way into her mouth. She feels groggy, confused, the way it feels to wake up from a nap in the middle of the day and not know where you are or even what year it is. The sun is warm on her skin, though, so she isn’t in too much of a hurry to move.
A breeze rustles over her body as she tries to pry her eyes open, unsuccessfully. The sunlight does that thing it does when it passes through your eyelids. She can see red: veins and skin and pure solar rays. It’s only because a shadow passes over her, causing a feeling of coolness to settle on her form, that she finally stirs.
The ground, it turns out, isn’t very forgiving. It rubs uncomfortably against her thin arms, and she grimaces from the sensation.
When a hand softly brushes over her cheek, at first she wonders if Luka has come back while she was sleeping. It doesn’t entirely make sense, but waking rarely does, and she finally manages to open her eyes.
Wide open.
There’s a man hovering over her, crouched down at the knees with his elbows crooked and nonchalant. He’s tilting his head, which is covered - all but his eyes - by a hooded veil and shawl of some sort. It’s dark and looks like linen, and it’s clasped at the neck where it splits and falls in a long drape down either side of his body.
His face is difficult to see as the source of light casts his body into silhouette. Whoever this man is, though, it isn’t Luka.
All at once, she finds herself scuttling backward, scrape of dirt and gravel be damned, but she doesn’t make it far before the stranger grasps her arm.
“Miss, are you all right?”
Unsure what to say, she gapes at him.
As the last vestiges of confusion dissipate from her awareness, the surrounding scenery finally comes into focus. She’s in the middle of a field. It’s mostly dirt with patches of grass, but further off into the distance, the grass becomes thicker until it graduates into a line of trees that seems to completely enclose the space they’re in. She can see there’s a gravel road just a few meters away, and on that road stand two horses, one of which is empty, and on the other sits a man. He’s tall and dark-skinned from what she can tell, and he’s watching her curiously.
It’s then that she realizes the man directly in front of her has turned around to speak to the man on the horse.
As the two converse, she examines her surroundings a bit more closely, trying to figure out where she is and how she has arrived here. None of these landmarks look even remotely familiar, and the way the men are dressed is distinctly odd. With a frown, she turns her attention to her stranger’s clothes. Underneath the sort-of cloak is what looks like a chiton in deep maroon. A glance tells her the man on the horse is wearing something similar, but she barely has time to process any of this information before the stranger closest to her stands and without warning hoists her up, tossing her over his shoulder. Marinette releases an inhuman squawk.
“Hey! What the hell?”
The alarmed girl wants to grasp something and pull hard, but he’s covered all over by the thickness of his cloak. If the ease with which he tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of flour is any indication, he’s quite strong, too, and despite the fact she squirms a little in his grip, she gets the immediate impression resistance is, for better or worse, futile.
It doesn’t take more than a few seconds before she’s twisting around and then right side up again, not unlike a move in swing dancing, though this time, her rear is landing on something high. Marinette reaches out instinctively to balance herself by placing her hands on both the man’s shoulders. With a fearful expression, she looks around, only to find that she’s sitting atop the second horse. When she realizes she’s holding onto the strange man’s shoulders, though, it draws her attention back to him.
The sun in on his face now, and she’s stunned by the sight.
Those eyes… they’re just like-
A harsh jostle brings her out of her trance, and she shakes her head. The man is peering up at her while he adjusts a thick fibrous material beneath her--the saddle, she assumes.
“You going to tell me what you’re doing out here? Alone?”
His tone is carefully curious, but she can still detect a hint of suspicion underneath.
His eyes travel up and down her body, though there is nothing lewd about his gaze.
“And maybe what it is you’re wearing?” He cocks an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen anything like that before. It’s… interesting.”
Marinette self-consciously looks down at herself and frowns. She’s wearing her favorite Jagged Stone shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. Her feet are barely covered by sandals, but she supposes that, all things considered, it’s the least contextually strange thing she’s wearing.
With one final tug, he toes a rudimentary looking stirrup and, in a single fluid movement, positions himself on the horse behind her. Both his arms encircle her and grab the reins, and she curls in a little on herself.
“Wh- where am I?” she finally ventures to ask.
The man makes a sort of clicking sound with his mouth and kicks lightly against the horse’s sides. It feels strange as the giant animal beneath her begins to walk forward, followed, if the clip clop sound behind them is any indication, by the other rider.
The deep resonance of his voice catches her off guard, and she realizes that she has missed what he said.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Marinette turns a bit to the side, not quite enough to actually see his face, but enough to indicate that she’s listening. His voice once again reaches her ear.
“We’re about a half a day’s ride from Corinthus.”
Corinth?
She can’t help the frown that seems to keep deepening on her brow. She’s sure she must be dreaming; she has to be. None of this makes any sense. Subtly, she pinches herself, only to find that it hurts. Marinette shakes her head. No, that’s not right--
“But that’s--” she mutters without thinking, almost to herself, “that can’t be.”
Out of her view the man shares a look with his companion, who is traveling alongside and just a little behind the horse Marinette is riding.
“Are you… maybe here to observe the celebration?”
“I’m sorry, the what?”
Some of the words he uses sound strange, and it’s with a shock that Marinette realizes the language he’s speaking isn’t one she recognizes.
But she understands him. And she’s responding to him in the same language.
This has to be a dream.
As though trying to find some fragment of reality in her waking nightmare, Marinette’s hands fly to her earlobes. The last thing she can remember doing before waking up in the middle of nowhere is putting on the earrings from Luka.
They’re not there.
For a moment, she considers if these men are thieves, and whether they mean to do her harm. But try as she might, even against her better judgment, she has a difficult time imagining anything of the sort from them, particularly the man whose chest is currently mere centimeters from her back. If she shifts even just a little, she’ll be leaning into him.
His voice brings her out of her thoughts once again.
“What is your name, miss?”
“My n- name?”
Panic rises in her. He doesn’t seem violent or criminal, but she isn’t quite sure she’s ready to trust him yet. Her mind grasps at something- anything other than her real name, but comes up blank. A small red insect floats listlessly by. She blurts out the first thing she can think of.
“L- Ladybug!”
“Ladybug’s” eyes widen dramatically at her own ridiculous answer. Ladybug? What was she thinking?
She chances a quick look his way and finds him studying her intently, then faces forward once more.
“Y- you?” she asks, ignoring the squeak in her voice. “C- can I ask you what your name is?”
A few seconds of silence pass in which all she can hear is the clopping of horses' feet on the hard-packed ground. Then, finally:
“I am Lucius. This is Antonius.”
Marinette glances to the side at the other man, who has remained largely quiet up until now. He seems to nod in her direction, but offers no other formal salutation. She nods awkwardly before returning her gaze to the horizon before them. The sun is quite high in the sky, which leads her to guess it is around midday.
“Do you, uh, do you know… how I can get home?” If she’s going to believe that this situation is real, and somehow, miraculously, she has landed in the middle of Greece, then she has to find a way back home. Who knows how long she’s been gone, or where her loved ones think she is?
“Well, that all depends. Where do you call home?”
The steady jostle back and forth of the horse below them is bothersome at first, but she’s quickly adjusting to its rhythm. Without even realizing it, she’s leaning into the rocking motion and swaying along.
“Paris,” she says, then adds, just in case, “France.”
The silence that ensues stretches out for longer than she’s comfortable with. After almost a half a minute, she turns to look at her riding companion. His brows are drawn low over his eyes. A beat passes.
“I can’t say that I know it,” he finally responds, and she feels floored. Does he live under a rock? She gazes around again, considering the possibility. “Regardless,” he adds, “you’ll have to go before the His Majesty first.”
In the back of her mind, she wonders at that title of respect. Do Greeks view their politicians like royalty? Dazed as she is, though, she can’t find the words to say anything else.
Silence descends on them--well, a relative silence. There’s the sound of birds chirping in the distant trees, the quiet rustle of the wind, and above it all, the clopping of horses' feet below them. They continue on like this for many minutes, minutes which stretch into hours. She begins to wonder how long they can go without one of them saying a word.
The sun is starting to feel incredibly hot, and she wishes she had been wearing a pair of sunglasses when she was somehow transported here... What is she thinking? The whole situation is insane, yet she has several small bruises on her arm from pinching it so incessantly that attest to the reality of it.
At last, when she can take the sun, the quiet, and the emptiness of her stomach no longer, she finally blurts, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m starving! Are we going to stop and eat anything? Ever?”
If she had to put a name to it, she’d probably call the sound that reaches her ears a snicker. It a bit muted by the horses’ hooves, though, so she assumes it came from the other man. She tries to recall his name. Antonius? That sounds right.
Then there’s a whistle in her ear, and she realizes Antonius is closing the distance between them. Lucius’ arm reaches out in her peripheral vision, and he catches a small bag thrown his way. Without ceremony or explanation, he hands it to Marinette, and she only hesitates a moment before opening it.
Inside is some dried fruit and what looks like stale bread. The fact it’s tough to chew doesn’t even phase her as she begins ravenously stuffing her mouth with the food.
To her relief, it satisfies, and before much longer, the sun isn’t quite so intense. She assumes it must be five or later in the afternoon, and in the distance, she can see the first signs of a town. There’s what appears to be a large wall, and some low buildings within the confines. Marinette stuffs another bit of fig between her lips and chews thoughtfully.
“Is that it?” she asks, still nibbling on the fruit.
Lucius doesn’t respond, so she turns to look at him. The only thing visible is his eyes, but they’re crinkled as if he’s amused.
“That’s it,” he says.
She faces forward again and bites the bread, releasing a contemplative sound.
“Why does it look so small?”
The man behind her shifts slightly as though trying to find a more comfortable position.
“It’s still a bit of a distance,” he eventually answers, and she leaves it at that.
The bread in her stomach and the warmth of the day begin to make her feel sleepy, and before she realizes it, she’s slumped against him, fast asleep.
When she wakes, it’s to the sound of a low murmur. Marinette startles at first, looking about her with confused eyes as she takes in the people around them.
They’re in the middle of what appears to be a city street, but the architecture and the dress of the people is unlike anything she’s ever seen in the modern world. She wonders if there are still traditional places that follow ancient customs like this.
They are all wearing chitons and peplos, and their feet are all covered in sandals. The structures are built of stone and don’t appear to have any sort of modern plumbing or ventilation. The windows are covered by shutters instead of glass, and there are no cars anywhere to be seen-- only horses, donkeys, and carts of various sizes.
Everyone stares at her as they pass by, whispering lowly to each other. Feeling self-conscious, Marinette wraps her arms around herself in a hug and wonders where she has been taken, what kind of place she’s woken up in.
“This can’t be Corinth,” she whispers, mostly to herself.
An arm she didn’t notice around her waist tightens, pulling her firmer against Lucius’ front. His breath feels warm in her ear as he says, “And where else would it be? Do you think you are in a dream?”
I wish , she wants to say, but doesn’t.
“But… their clothes. And the houses. And… I thought Corinth was all ruins.”
Lucius remains quiet, and she sighs, looking for the first time down the road they are traveling. It leads further into the town, curving up ahead until she can’t see any farther, but the city seems to be situated in front of a hill, and at the top is some sort of tall, looming structure. It’s made of slender, fluted pillars all around, and resting atop the columns is a giant pediment.
“Wh- where are we going?” Marinette asks at last.
“There’s a basilica toward the center of the city. His majesty will be there to meet with his generals and advisors.”
She hums and goes back to watching the people around them, who are still staring at her with open curiosity. She’s never felt like such a spectacle.
Marinette tries to huddle in on herself again, but there isn’t much she can do. She sits there awkwardly cradling herself for a moment until she feels Lucius moving behind her. It’s a bit jolting so she leans forward, only to find herself being draped by something large, dark, and heavy.
It’s his cloak.
Astonished, she turns to him and is greeted again with the sight of his bright turquoise eyes above the hooded veil. They feel so familiar, it’s striking.
A large structure comes into view, something that reminds her of a temple, complete with more columns, entablature, and pediments. The horse she’s sitting on comes to a stop, Lucius’ hands pulls firmly at the reigns. He dismounts first, then reaches up to help her down and motions for her to precede him into the building.
She can only walk, speechless with wonder, as she takes in the details of its magnificent beauty.
Vast mosaics cover one wall, and there are murals painted on others detailing everything from feasts to sacrifice to war. The interior is deep and long, with ceilings as high as the roof far overhead. It’s held up by massive pillars of white marble, and the ceiling is bordered with intricate gold filigree. Marinette can’t help but feel like there isn’t another place in the world quite like this.
The further they proceed, the more the number of people around them grows. They’re all wearing chitons and peplos like the people outside, and they all seem to be headed somewhere specific as they scurry, hurried around the vast space in all directions.
Several of them stare, as she has begun to feel accustomed to, despite the fact her clothes are now covered by Lucius’ cloak, and she wonders for the first time if they are surprised by her foreign-looking facial features. Marinette does her best to ignore the sporadic whispers and continues walking. Somewhere along the way, they pick up several escorts wearing identical clothes, and as she turns to look upon them, she realizes Lucius has disappeared.
She hesitates in her step.
“Ah, what happened to-”
But before she can finish her question, she finds herself urged forward and through an archway. As they pass through the opening into a new space, she continues searching for Lucius, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
The room is much fuller than any of the spaces they have passed through yet. The hum of voices around her grows steadily into a din.
A few women she hasn’t seen before approach her, chattering amongst themselves and smiling merrily.
“Oh, would you look at this one? Where did Master Lucius find her?” one of them says.
“I think she’s quite pretty,” another retorts, fingering the cloak draped comically around Marinette’s shoulders. “Foreign, too. She might have better luck than any of the other little sprites so far.”
A third woman titters.
“She could be Helene reborn, and she wouldn’t be beautiful enough for His Majesty~”
“All right, all right,” the second one interrupts, waving away the other two. To Marinette’s discomfort, the woman draws in close to her face and studies her intently. “Well, well, well. Would you look at those eyes.” The woman smiles at her, and Marinette wonders at the look of self-satisfaction she’s witnessing. “I can definitely work with this.”
Marinette stares at her reflection in a mirror, amazed at what she’s seeing.
After the three women whisked her away to a private bath, they stripped her naked--much to her squawking protest--bathed her and dressed her in chiton made of linen so fine, it felt almost weightless on her body. It is a deep, rich red, fastened at the shoulder with a gold brooch. Her arms are decked in gold bangles and a cuff close to her shoulder. Her hair is done up half-way and fastened with a wreath in the shape of leaves made of gold. On her finger sits a ring set with a large ruby. The sandals on her feet have long straps that twine around her calves, and beetroot gives a rosy color to her lips and cheeks. With all done, she feels like some goddess of Greek mythology.
“I told you it would turn out great,” the second woman from before says, visible standing behind Marinette in the mirror’s reflection.
The noirette looks up, overcome by a feeling of familiarity again. It doesn’t make sense, but she feels like somehow they have met before.
“Um, do I… know you? Have we met before?”
She can see the woman smirk, straightening from her position leaning against a pillar and walking closer.
“Not likely,” she says, still looking amused. She stops just behind Marinette’s shoulder, holding her gaze in the glass. “I’m not from around here. I’m just a slave of conquest.” Marinette frowns. Slavery? Slavery should be illegal in all developed countries. “My name is Madora, but you can call me Manon. Everyone does.”
Marinette’s eyes widen.
“Manon!”
It’s her, there is no doubt--the girl she used to babysit as a teenager. The mischievous eyes, the dark olive skin and auburn hair. She even has a remnant of a gap between her two front teeth.
Without a thought, Marinette throws her arms around her.
“You’ve grown so big!”
The woman in her arms pats her hesitantly, but doesn’t reciprocate the embrace.
“Ah, my lady?”
Marinette pulls back, logic returning to her with a vengeance. She studies the woman’s features again. She looks to be young, though still an adult--perhaps nineteen or twenty years old. Marinette herself is not much older, but the fact doesn’t make sense. The Manon she knows is a whole decade behind her and should still have several years before she reaches adulthood. Still, there is no question. It is the same face, if a bit more mature. Somewhere in the recesses of her heart, Marinette begins to question whether or not she isn’t somehow experiencing some miracle of fate. Nothing so far makes sense--not where she woke up, or the people she met, or the place she is in. There is no explanation.
Except…
There is. Only it is something bordering on insanity to even consider it.
Manon gives her a bemused look, but says nothing.
“Ah, I’m sorry,” Marinette apologizes. “You just… remind me of someone I know.”
The woman nods, choosing not to comment any more about it.
“Well, I think you’re ready for the presentation, don’t you?”
All Marinette can do is shrug. She has no clue what to expect or what is considered presentable, so she relies on Manon’s judgment.
“After you, then.”
Manon gives her an odd look.
“Usually,” she says, seeming to choose her words carefully, “a slave wouldn’t walk in front of their master’s guest. But I’ll be just behind and beside you, if you need anything.”
Marinette swallows but nods, feeling uncomfortable with accepting this difference in status. Still, she wills herself to walk forward, Manon following close behind.
The sun is mostly gone by now; it’s late evening. Torches light the hallways, casting an ethereal glow around them and creating shadows in its wake. They pass through several cavernous rooms before coming to a large, closed set of doors. Two guards stand on either side. In her peripheral, Marinette sees Manon nod to them, and they lean forward, pulling the doors open simultaneously.
A raucous din that is almost inaudible from without swells immediately through the opening. Tepidly, Marinette strides one foot forward across the threshold of the room, at which point, the echoing voices quiet to a hush. Manon whispers something to a tall, thin-looking man positioned just inside the doorway. He turns and, with a loud voice, announces to the hall:
“Her ladyship of Frankia of the house of Miraculous, Miss Ladybug.”
No one speaks. Marinette walks cautiously forward, feeling rather foolish for the names she has given but seeing no help for it. People in the crowd part for her, creating a wide path leading to the front of the room where there sits what looks like a throne. At last, the way is completely clear, and she can see the man at the end.
He is tall, lean, and blond, with eyes as bright and green as emeralds.
He wears a chiton of black linen with a matching chlamys over top, a green strip running along the edge of it. On the upper half of his face surrounding his eyes, he wears a black mask.
Marinette watches, aghast, as he stands. Then, coming belatedly to herself, she abruptly and awkwardly bows.
An attendant to the side speaks.
“His majesty, the emperor of Helles, Agrestus.”
Hesitantly, she straightens, but afraid to look him directly in the eye, she instead focuses on the row of people standing to his side.
Her bluebell eyes catch familiar turquoise, only this time, the face is not covered beneath a veil.
“My lady,” a voice says in front of her, “welcome to my court.”
But she can’t tear her eyes away. Instead, she stares at the man by the wall, who is likewise looking back at her.
That midnight hair, those eyes, that face…
She utters it before she even realizes:
“Luka.”