Chapter Text
The champagne was fizzy against Diantha’s tongue. She was finally of the Kalosian drinking age—a true, legal adult. Truth be told, most Kalosians (at least those in the echelons Diantha traveled in) had already had alcohol of some sort before their eighteenth. Diantha was no different. But being able to do it openly, in celebration and without fear of consequence… well, that was enjoyable too.
Around her, the onlookers cheered. There was her family, of course; Malva, a girlhood companion who’d already secured a position as Diantha’s right hand; a mix of older and more distant relatives and Diantha’s own peers. As the budding Champion matured into young adulthood, many of the region’s upcoming generation began orbiting her, like rocky planets caught in the wake of an errant star. Her social gravity ensnared all Kalos. Some of Diantha’s peers had tried sniping at her or bullying her in school; a word here, a complaint there, and Montbril put pressure on their families to stop that at once. Diantha had quickly learned how to wield status as a scalpel to excise anything she did not like.
The champagne burned in the young woman’s stomach, and she felt delighted. The alcohol was fine, but the power she wielded was even more intoxicating.
The soiree was held for her own benefit, and everyone made sure to attend to the lady of the hour. Young men came up to her with honeyed smiles and perfectly tousled hair, hoping to seduce themselves into her good graces. Imbeciles. Ignoring the fact that she was already betrothed, they couldn’t know that the thought of sweat and lips and teeth and all the rest repulsed her utterly. She would still do her duty, of course, when she was married. The line had to be continued. But once a healthy heir was provided, that would be that. She’d been quite open with Wikstrom about her intentions and he understood.
Speaking of Wikstrom, there he was now. Malva and other girls who couldn’t stop eyeing men told Diantha that he was quite the catch, so she had to assume that he was attractive, as men went. He had naturally tanned skin and solid dark brown Kalosian hair with a blond forelock. Some thought he dyed it but it had been consistent since his childhood, enduring in all his hairstyles. (At the moment, he kept it swept back and chin-length, as was the fashion for young men.) He was of average height for a man, but with an athlete’s bulk that made him seem taller than he was.
The crowd parted around Wikstrom—like Diantha herself, he had that natural aura around him that made others defer. Some of the other young men looked on jealously as he bent over, picking Diantha’s hand in his and raising it to his lips to brush against the knuckles.
“Welcome to adulthood,” he said playfully. He was just shy of two years older than she was, and once the two of them had figured out their relationship—Diantha was in charge, of course, but he had open reign to tease her on things that mattered little—they’d got along like rubies and a woman’s neck. One of his favorite ways to tease her was by lording his two-year ‘maturity’ over her. “Took you long enough.”
“You’re just happy,” she replied waspishly back, “that no one can accuse you of ogling a ‘child’ anymore.” The crowd giggled and Wikstrom smiled to show he was in on the joke. At the edge of the room, chatting with other adults but with eyes affixed on her son, his mother loomed. Drasna… she was the one who had engineered joining her house to Diantha’s. They’d been at loggerheads for ages, but upon displacing her father as head of their house, Drasna had admitted the truth—that they couldn’t displace Montbril. But if that was the case, why not join them instead?
Wikstrom’s mother, like her son, was a naturally tan woman. She was nearly as tall as he was, with a willowy build. She was one of those women who didn’t bother to hide her aging, which Diantha found tacky. Why look like a crone if you could hide it? Still, Drasna had keen eyes hiding behind that perpetual smile, and she wore the shed claws and fangs of her beloved Dragon-types as jewelry. Diantha found that tacky as well, but she did have to admire one thing about Drasna: her open disregard for the fashions of the times showed not that she was out-of-touch, but that she was beyond caring what anyone thought. Trends were fleeting, but power was absolute.
Power.
Wikstrom at her right hand, Malva at her left, Diantha sailed through the crowd like a cutter through the surf. All around her, the rich and famous and well-connected fawned over her. While a commoner might bend over backwards to accommodate the scion of a pharmaceutical company or a well-connected family, such esteemed guests could be made or destroyed by a smirk, a knowing look, or a single word from Diantha. The movers and shakers of Kalos clamored for her attention.
Power.
Diantha held court at her party, and the moment her champagne flute was drained, another found its way into her hand. This was her place. Her element. She—
The crowd parted and Diantha stopped. Jenna? Wait, Jenna was here?
The chairbound young woman sat near the edge of the room, watching everything unfold with a glowing smile. Her strawberry-blonde hair was kept in an elegant braid and she wore minimal yet flattering makeup. Her house was a relatively minor one, and Jenna’s low position in it (to say nothing of her poor health) dimmed her prospects even further. Nobody was paying her attention.
And yet, Diantha couldn’t help but feel joy. Jenna was a friend, as dear to her as Malva was. Dearer, perhaps, for while Malva was cutting and cunning, a dagger waiting to be used, Jenna was… earnest. Such a rarity, these days.
Immediately, the buzz of the party receded. “Entertain them while I’m busy,” Diantha murmured to her best friend and betrothed. “And privacy, please.”
Both Malva and Wikstrom nodded, and while a few eyes trailed Diantha as she made her way to the room’s edge, they snared them back easily enough.
“You made it!” Diantha said, sitting next to Jenna. When one of the older attendees—father, or was it uncle, to some boy—tried to approach, she released Freya. The Gardevoir—fresh-evolved, after spending far too long a Kirlia—gracefully shooed away any interlopers.
“I did,” Jenna said evenly. She rolled her eyes at Freya, smiling. “You could ask people to leave, you know.”
“What a waste of breath,” Diantha said. “They should know not to interrupt.”
“How could anyone know if they don’t get to know you?”
“Hush.” Diantha reached out her hand and Jenna took it. Her friend’s skin was papery and wan; she seemed delicate, like a flower left in the sun too long, though Diantha knew that her frail body concealed a sharp mind and vivid soul. “I thought you were still in the hospital? Your recent visit—”
“Was more caution than crisis,” Jenna replied. “The doctors wanted me to stay another few days just to be safe, but I told Papa that my dearest friend is only coming of age once. He pulled some strings.” She smiled again. It was, frankly, a miracle she’d lived this long. As a girl, Diantha’d overheard houseservants gossiping about how awful it was for that family, how dreadful to have a sick daughter who wouldn’t make it, how horrid to just wait for the inevitable. Diantha been sent to play with her, someone far below her station, as a show of pity.
The joke was on the adults; Jenna had proven more resilient than anyone expected, and her parents had enough wealth to afford the best treatment. She endured, and what had been someone Diantha had expected to see a few times as a girl had grown into a legitimate friend. As she aged, she’d insisted on seeing Jenna when it was clear her parents would no longer send her there on their own.
“If my health permits,” Jenna said, “Papa has spoken about sending me to Alola. He has connections with Hano Grand Resort, you know. The tropical clime is said to be good for the constitution.” A pleasant fiction—this was no longer the era where people referred to tuberculosis as ‘consumption,’ after all. But it was a way for Jenna’s family to get an ailing daughter out of the way and avoid a stain on their house while letting Jenna enjoy an extended vacation.
“You’ve always wanted to go!” Diantha said. “How lovely. I hope you have fun.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” Jenna replied. “Though I do not know how many of their beaches are wheelchair friendly. Sand can be simply awful on the works.” She patted her wheels reliably. She had not been able to walk more than half-a-dozen paces unassisted since she was seven. “I was thinking you could come.”
A vacation? To Alola? With Jenna? Oh, it sounded heavenly! Diantha would have liked nothing better! Except—
“Well, I’m of age now,” she said. “I’ll be expected to sit in on more of my family affairs—meetings with Wikstrom and Drasna to finalize the wedding—it’ll be in a year or two, you will attend, won’t you darling?—not to mention battle practice so that Freya and I can take over from Father in a few years’ time. Growing up is such a bother, it should really not be allowed.”
“You sound busy,” Jenna agreed. She continued holding Diantha’s hand. “I know those are things that are expected of you. But do you want to do them? Or do you want to come to Alola with me? Not for the whole convalescence, just a week or two, Di.”
Jenna’s girlhood nickname for Diantha took her back. Protests danced on the top of Diantha’s tongue: she had responsibilities, she couldn’t, there was so much to do—but Diantha found herself realizing that she didn’t really want to do all of those things if she could spend time with Jenna. After all, she would only get more busy from here on out, and Jenna had only recently left hospital. She had to seize the chance.
“I’ll speak with Father,” she said.
---
He wasn’t happy; now that Diantha was eighteen, she had duties. She had responsibilities to her family, to Montbril. They’d seized the Championship generations ago and had held it through talent and force of will and superior politicking. It must remain in their hands.
She’d argued that one week with a recovering friend wouldn’t kill the Championship, and mustn’t she make use of her opportunity to spend time for herself while it was still in his hands, not hers?
He’d grumbled at that, and had clearly still not wanted her to go, but in the end, he assented.
Oh, Alola had been a dream. Despite the jet lag—how unreal it was to think that the sun blazed overhead while Malva and Wikstrom and all the others slumbered under the stars—it was the happiest that Diantha had ever been. She splashed in the crystal waters, sunbathed on a towel, wheeled Jenna around Hau’oli City as they visited shops and boutiques and specialty cafes. Freya followed at a distance, always keeping watch, and Jenna’s partner, a Spritzee, perched on her chair, cooing happily and soothing them with perfumed scents. It was a beautiful moment.
At the end of their week, the two of them on the boardwalk outside Hano Grand Resort and watching the sun set behind the palms, Diantha realized that this was the happiest she’d ever been. She said as such to Jenna as she held a fruity tropical drink to her mouth. They served it in a hollowed-out coconut, just like in the movies.
Jenna took a moment to respond. “I like you when you’re like this,” she said after a moment.
Diantha scoffed. “Like what? Drunk?” She sipped again at the drink. She hadn’t caught its name but it was quite pleasant.
“You’re not drunk,” Jenna chided. “You’re not even tipsy yet, Di. I like you when you’re… this. The girl I knew, grown. Not ruthless or cutthroat or backstabbing. Not what they made you into. The real you.”
“The real me?” Diantha responded. “As if I’m fake around Malva and Wikstrom and them? Hardly, darling. It’s just… I can’t relax around them, is all. They’re tied in with it. The Championship, my family name…”
“The Championship,” Jenna repeated. Out on the surf, her Spritzee played in the salty spray. She kept her hands crossed over her lap. “Growing up, I thought you were so fortunate, inheriting that. That it was such a blessing.”
Diantha turned to her, eyebrow raised. Jenna was speaking as if it wasn’t a blessing.
“But I think I know better, now,” she said after a minute’s pause. “I see what it wants you to be, Di. A cold manipulator.”
“Every human being manipulates,” Diantha replied curtly. She swirled the little bent straw around the coconut-bowl. “That’s part of what separates us from pokemon, after all. We are not simple animals taking what we want by force. We apply pressure and leverage. To succeed, we get others to do what we want.”
“You didn’t use to talk about taking things, or about leverage and force,” Jenna sighed. “You talked about all the places you wanted to see. Do you remember that? The frosted mountains of the Crown Tundra. The old mosaics of Alfornada.”
“Alola,” Diantha said with a smile, gesturing with her hand to take in this. All of it.
“Alola,” Jenna agreed. She paused again before continuing. “Do you even like Wikstrom?”
“He’s a good match,” Diantha said. “Joining his house to mine removes potential rivals, and he’s clever. He knows who will hold the keys in our relationship, if that’s what you’re worried about. I should be quite safe. If he raises a hand to me, Father will kill him—if I don’t have Freya do it first.”
“That’s not what I asked,” said Jenna. “Do you like him.”
Diantha groused. What was she, some commoner? She had bigger considerations for her future than simple girlish flutterings in her heart.
(Even if, reading fairy tales or watching those historical dramas, she was brought in by the passions, the closeness that they showed. Sometimes she felt jealous in cafes or airports, seeing those from lesser classes sitting at tables, holding hands. Diantha couldn’t imagine enjoying sharing a bed with someone; she would, of course, with Wikstrom, because she had to. But she could imagine holding hands. Leaning a head on a shoulder. Little gestures of closeness.)
Without meaning to, she reached over and took Jenna’s hand. Jenna squeezed it in response. She was warm, so very warm.
(It had taken a long time as a girl, longer than it should have, for Diantha to realize that society didn’t consider it ‘normal’ for girls to want to hug other girls for longer than was proper; to hold their hands. To rest in each other’s arms on a spread picnic blanket. Of course, she didn’t feel that way about most other girls. Just Jenna, really. Just Jenna.)
Diantha didn’t answer Jenna’s question; she just sat there, hand in hand, as the sun set.
“It’s repugnant, what they’re doing to you,” Jenna said after a moment. Arceus, her hand was warm. “They take away your ability to choose your future and act like you should be happy for the opportunity.”
“Father’s marriage was arranged as well,” Diantha bit back. Her voice was more venomous than she’d intended; Jenna was threatening to unearth something. Feelings that Diantha had worked very hard to keep sleeping. “He’s done nothing to me he hasn’t undergone himself.”
“And your parents were happy, were they?”
Diantha’s eyes widened. Mother hadn’t been here for years—Diantha still remembered finding her in the bathtub, garish red staining the white marble. They’d given her Freya’s egg that very day, told her it was her duty to train the creature that emerged. As if some part-human thing could replace her mother. Whenever she’d held the egg, or looked into the face of the fresh-hatched Ralts, the vision threatened to roar back. Garish red, white marble. Diantha had thought the psychic mon had been pushing the image into her head and had struck Freya to make it stop. She’d soon learned that Freya wasn’t putting the image in there. But why, then, did hitting her ease the nightmare?
Even now, all these years later?
Freya, of course, endured it—as she should. Besides, Diantha had explained to her how disgusting, how wrong it was that she’d lost a mother and gained a creature. And Freya agreed. She had never known anything else, after all.
Still. Jenna’s words caused Diantha’s breath to quicken, her eyes to dilate. She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t. She—
“I’m sorry,” Jenna said, withdrawing her hand. To her credit, her contrition sounded genuine. “That was… cruel of me. I am truly sorry, Di.”
Diantha thought to reply with a cutting remark of her own—perhaps you would fit in better with Malva than you expect—but it died on her lips. She could do that to others, perhaps, but not Jenna.
“It was,” Diantha agreed. “But I forgive you.” She reached her hand for Jenna again, and after a moment’s hesitation, Jenna took it. Diantha smiled—and then sighed. “I see your point, Jenna. I… would like to live as I wished. Seeing the world, enjoying life. Like this, perhaps.”
“Then why don’t you?” challenged Jenna. “Spirits above, is duty to your family that important?”
Diantha’s lips thinned. How to explain? It was more than just duty. She would get something out of it, a different sort of appreciation than the quiet serenity she got from trips like these. It was the way she could ruin careers with an eyebrow or a cutting laugh. The way that everyone in Kalos, everyone, knew who she was and what she represented. That was deference people would kill for.
Oh, here in Alola, she was wealthy and pretty and so she got accommodations and polite bows and turned heads. But any fool who bumbled into wealth or any woman blessed with the right smile and hair could earn the same meager rewards. She was pampered in Alola, but she owned Kalos.
“That party,” she said, “did you see how everyone looked at me?”
“I did,” Jenna said. “Like you were a Sharpedo and they were bleeding in the bay.”
Diantha smiled. How very apt. “You have always been adroit with metaphors, dearest. Yes, that exactly. Tell me, if one of the legends of old transformed you into a pokemon and gave you two choices, Sharpedo or Finneon, which would you rather be? Pretty little prey, flitting about always looking over your shoulder, or a predator?”
“I thought you said we didn’t have to live like pokemon.”
“It is a mere thought exercise,” Diantha said, waving. Oh, how could Jenna understand? Sickly, from a minor house, no one had ever expected anything of her, and so she had never been expected to bare her fangs. No, worse, she’d never had to develop fangs to begin with. To sharpen them. She had no idea of the enjoyment that came from sinking one’s metaphorical teeth into yielding flesh. To one who had only ever been a Finneon, perhaps that seemed like a life worth living. “I have power, Jenna, power that most of humanity, in all our history, could never dream of possessing.” She palmed a handful of sand and let it drift away in the wind. “You couldn’t imagine the thrill in seeing the way people bend over to cater to me and keep me satisfied. The way I chill hearts and threaten livelihoods just by existing. That feeling? That’s the ultimate euphoria. There is no feeling greater.”
“Not even love?” Jenna said softly.
The question was like an anvil dropped through a plate of glass. Diantha was suddenly, intimately aware that their hands were still locked together. Still warm, and soft, and ever so gentle.
She remembered laughing with Jenna, laughing with her in a way more freeing than she had ever felt. A simple, beautiful joy that was devoid of worry, of responsibility.
She rarely ever thought of her mother around Jenna.
Garish red, white marble…
Diantha knew she ought to withdraw her hand from Jenna’s but found she didn’t want to.
“I’m betrothed,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“You can cancel it.”
“I’m heir to Montbril. Without Wikstrom’s family’s support, my family’s hold over the Championship is…”
“Then forgo the Championship. What is it other than a weight that bends you into something you’re not? I don’t like the person you are when you talk about the Championship or about your family duty. But the Di I’ve seen these past seven days? She is the loveliest, happiest, most beautiful woman I could ever imagine.”
“My family will disown me.”
“Mine won’t. We have wealth enough. Besides, you can’t tell me that you don’t have investment accounts and specialty funds squared away. You’re of age, now. Your father can’t do anything to them.” Jenna turned and her hazel eyes were wide and earnest. She was frail, sickly, and yet so strong, so determined. Diantha had never gone for ‘beauty’, in either men or women, but if she had to append such a moniker to someone, Jenna would be the first she’d choose. “We can live as you’ve always wanted. We can see the Crown Tundra, Alfornada, Eterna Forest, the sun glittering off Vermilion Bay. You can lean your head on my shoulder and I can stroke my fingers through your hair.”
They’d done that as girls. It had been the closest thing to intimacy Diantha had ever experienced. She wanted it again so, so badly.
“Di, you are the only person who looks at me and doesn’t see an embarrassment or a poor little rich girl or some wheelchair-bound waif with a foot in the grave. You look at me and see me, in all my complexities. And I am the only one who knows the real you: the Di who laughs at bad puns and puts extra honey on her scones, not this cold shark poised for the Championship.” She squeezed her hand tight against Diantha’s. “Di, I worry for you, but more than that I… I love you.”
The word made Diantha want to weep. Love. Love. How long had it been since another person told her that? Not Wikstrom. Not her father. Her nana, perhaps.
No. The most recent hadn’t been Nana. It had been Mother. Garish red.
Diantha, sweetie, I can’t take this anymore. Look after her for me. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m so sorry…
White marble…
“Do you love me too?” Jenna pressed. “If you don’t, say so. Go live your life as Champion and I’ll cheer from afar. But if you do… please, tell me you feel the same way. We can live together. We can laugh and cry and tell bad jokes and comfort each other. We can grow old together, Di. We can!”
So many emotions, a maelstrom of emotions, whirlwinding inside of her. Diantha unclasped Jenna’s hand and rose shakily from the chair. “I… I need to go for a walk. I need to think.”
“Di, I’m sorry, I—”
“I’ll meet you back at the hotel tonight. Please, I just need to think.” Calling Freya to her side, Diantha staggered back along the boardwalk. Nearby, resort workers were lighting paper lanterns to hoist on stands for visibility. The sun had set.
Diantha’s heart raced. Around her, happy couples strolled hand-in-hand, pointing at the pretty lights or sipping out of shared drinks. How many passers-by had thought she and Jenna had been just another set of honeymooners? And how wrong had they been, truly? Because Jenna wasn’t just a friend. No, Malva was a friend. Jenna was something more.
Not a lover, perhaps. Not yet. But she could be.
I do love you, Jenna.
The realization was like a thunderclap. It struck Diantha so readily. She had tried so hard to run from it, and yet here it was. Love. Such a simple, pure thing to live for. Like in fairy tales.
Diantha wasn’t sure their life would be so easy as Jenna thought, but they could make it work. Diantha’s family might disown her, but they wouldn’t kill her or let her come to harm. In fact, Wikstrom’s family might relish the breaking of the arrangement. Her house’s fall from grace could easily precipitate their rise.
She didn’t even have to elope. She could go behind father’s back, to Drasna, arrange a mutual breaking-off. She and Wikstrom would appreciate the chance to seize power at her father’s expense. What had he ever done for Diantha, anyway? He hadn’t saved Mother. Far from it.
She would be happy with Jenna. The sort of happiness you couldn’t buy, no matter your status. But what of the other euphoria? What of power? She liked being powerful. Not just rich, not just well-connected—powerful. She liked being a Sharpedo. She liked having fangs. Sharks didn’t mate for life; it was too dangerous. Too risky. Did Finneon mate for life? She didn’t know. Perhaps they did. They seemed a happy species. Small, weak, forgettable. But happy.
How could Jenna know what she was asking Diantha to forsake? Did she really understand the Championship? What it meant? The prestige? To guide a people, a nation. To bend millions to your will. That was a legacy that would outlast anything. How many people would burn the world just to live a day with the opportunities Diantha had at her fingertips? Next to that, what was life with Jenna?
Jenna, with her quick wit and honest smile. Jenna, with an earnestness that refused to fade. Jenna, who rose above adversity. Jenna, who knew a part of her she had never shared with anyone else.
Perhaps she could keep Jenna as a mistress? The best of both worlds. No, Diantha dismissed that out of hand. Jenna would never consent to life like that, and Diantha was not one for half-measures. She loved Jenna. If she kept her in her life, she would commit. She would have to end her path to the Champion. Go to Drasna, engineer a breaking off of the marriage and her father’s fall, and then—
Diantha stopped dead, realizing that she was considering this. She was honestly considering just throwing it all away. Burning her family’s legacy to the ground. Casting aside power. She would live as a relatively normal woman—anonymous, powerless, uncaring, happy. Mew above, how she ached for it.
“This is dangerous,” she breathed to herself. “Oh, this is dangerous.”
---
That night, she returned to the hotel room. Jenna had made her way there already. When Diantha entered, she was in her wheelchair near the window, shutters open to let the night breeze enter. Her hands were crossed on her lap. Her Spritzee was already in its ball; the little thing tired easily and slept the night away, without fail.
“Have you come to a decision?” Jenna asked bravely. She did not turn from the window.
“I have.” Diantha crossed the bedroom and bussed her lips against Jenna’s hair. “I thought long and hard about it, and… I love you too, Jenna.”
Jenna wheeled herself around, her eyes wide and brimming with happy tears. “Di—Di, you’re serious? Oh—oh, thank you! Thank you!”
For the rest of the night, Jenna happily talked about their future together, mentioning all the places they should visit, all the sights to see. They didn’t touch much on how Diantha would break the news to her father, or to Wikstrom, or anyone else. Diantha didn’t push. Those were things to figure out later.
Finally, close to midnight, Jenna finally grew tired. Laying in her bed, she smiled warmly to Diantha, whose bed was on the other end of the nightstand. “Di, thank you,” she said. “I hoped—I hoped so desperately you would choose me. I love you…”
And slowly, she drifted off to sleep.
Diantha dimmed the lamp, though light from outside still spilled through the window. She laid back, counting the minutes in the form of breaths, until Jenna’s breathing deepened and she was sure her friend was in deep sleep.
Then, she cleared her throat three times—the signal she’d arranged for Freya.
The Gardevoir, to her credit, did not hesitate. A pale glow, so faint as to be nearly undetectable even in the dark, manifested around her hand. A similar glow crowned Jenna’s head.
“I made my decision,” Diantha monologued slowly to the darkness. “I told the truth. I do love you, Jenna. That makes you a risk. So long as you’re around, I’ll be tempted to be a different woman. A smaller woman. The Finneon, not the Sharpedo…”
In the bed across from hers, Jenna’s breathing grew choppy. She stirred weakly but did not wake. Good. A bit of psychic pressure on the blood vessels to force an aneurysm in her sleep. Clean; painless. With her medical history, no one would suspect anything. In fact, it would be expected to some degree. No one had expected her to live this long.
“You’re wrong about one thing, Jenna,” Diantha continued. “The me you dislike? The one who exults in power? She’s the real me too. And she won’t give up. You can’t imagine the way power sank its hooks in her. The way she craves it.” The thought of losing power, of becoming like any other person—lesser, normal—had been too frightening even for the thought of a life with the one she loved to overcome. “Perhaps it’s good you never realized how strong she was. How much more of her is in me than the girl you fell in love with…”
Nearby, Jenna’s breath rattled one final time—and then she fell still. Blessedly, quietly, agonizingly still. Freya’s faint psychic glow ceased and she let herself back into her ball, leaving Diantha all alone.
Her hands shook and her throat was tight, but she didn’t cry. She’d lost her mother, messily, in a way out of her control. Now the only other person she’d ever truly loved was also gone—but it was quiet, painless, clean, and on Diantha’s own terms.
Because that’s what power meant: dictating the lives of those around you.
As Diantha laid back in bed and took the soporific (for she needed to sleep, but didn’t trust her guilt to allow her to do so) she readied herself for what would happen after. In the morning, when she woke, she would ‘discover’ her friend’s body and, sobbing, raise holy hell. It wouldn’t be too difficult to act out. Her grief would relish the outlet.
As the soporific kicked in, Diantha closed her eyes, still in some ways the same girl that Jenna had fallen in love with. But when she rose the following morning, it was not as that girl any longer.
It was as the Champion.