Equilibrium

There is something very awful about waiting. Sitting alone in a dark room with shadows flickering on the walls and waiting. Shapes form and break apart like my tangled thoughts, forming and growing and shattering. I wait. Everyone in the kingdom, everyone that is left, we are all waiting. Breath held, heart pounding, waiting. One hundred different scenarios pass through my mind, each one worse than the next. And when the first torch light appears in the distance, it gets worse. Because now I can track the progress of news, good and bad, as it makes its way through the villages. Through the marketplace. Through the portcullis and outer gates. There is something very awful about hope. I turn from the windows to watch my door. I’ve already memorized the oak resin and the cracks. The ornate carving near the worn metal handle. Shadows pass under the door as soldiers pace and servants scurry to and fro. The knob rattles for a second and pauses and my heart sinks. And I know. I know, the very second Danny comes into my room that my father is already dead or he is dying. It is my father who always tells me when the battles are over. The fact that Danny is standing in my doorway feels like a punch to the gut. It was my father who always assured me, immediately, before Danny came in to see me, that enough was okay. Maybe not everything was okay, but enough. He made it his first priority. He did not stop to see my mother, the doctors, or to tell anyone what happened for documentation, destined for the history books, because of all of his children I am the empathetic one. I am the one that feels too much, who cannot always turn off my emotions. I am the fragile one. I am the one that shakes and shivers. I am the one that has not yet turned to stone. And maybe that is what always kept me close to my father, the king, because he is--was--just like me. Neither of us could ever stop caring. “Just tell me.” I beg, because I cannot bear the waiting. I cannot bear to get my hopes up only to have them cut down, like a stampede trodding on grass. We are the grass. Eventually, there will be no grass left to trample. Eventually, there will be no one left to fight the war. Soon there will be only one soldier left and I think that at this point, that it is our goal. To cut everyone on their side down, whether they are innocent or not. I do not condone the war, but I am helpless to stop it. “He is dead, Em. I’m sorry.” He whispers and he immediately opens his strong arms for an embrace. Because there is no one to disapprove of the affectionate gesture, no one to gossip about it behind our backs, I accept it. I am too old to be coddled now. Too old to be protected from the gruesome reality my country faces. Too old for hugs, but I don't care. I don't care. "I saw it happen. There was nothing I could do." His voice cracks and I squeeze him back, hard, trying to squeeze the pain right out of him. I do care. Too much. I blink back the tears before he can see them. I need to be poised and calm. No emotions involved. It is always harder for me than it is for him. He will be the perfect king. He won’t crack under the pressure. “One of the princes of Chautin was injured. We presume mortally. I heard the message being rallied that he was stabbed and went down. I assume he’s back in his homeland by now. The next few days will be hard. For now, we have to go back to pick up the bodies. We came back for the carts.” He whispers to my hair and I pull away from him. He knows the look in my eyes and he immediately stiffens, ready to shut me down. I stand and turn away from him. I can't look at him. If I do he will convince me not to go. If I do, I will cry. He reaches for my arm, but I hug my middle tighter and he is too noble to touch anyone who doesn't wish to be touched. He knows better--especially with me. “You cannot go, Emmaline. It is too dangerous.” He protests, but we both know that, as my twin, he has no power over me because technically I was born five minutes before him. Of course he is a boy so he gets the throne. I am not complaining about that--just about the fact that I have to learn how to run a country when it isn’t mine to run. Not officially, at least. I have to learn because of the morbid fact that he might not survive another week of war...especially not now. “The Chautin have their prince to worry about. Let him rot and let them fawn over him. I am going to help our people.” I braid my long hair deftly, and the golden locks catch in the light of the candle in my window. Daniel sighs, but he says nothing more of the subject. Instead he turns to wait for me outside the door. I grab a bag, formerly hurriedly stuffed under my bed. As I turn to leave I hesitate, then stop altogether. I turn back toward the flickering light in my window, watch a droplet of wax roll down the stick and fall to the floor, and then I blow it out. The puff of smoke melts into the night. *** The battlefields are by far my least favorite place to be. Not only are they far away from the Palace, but the grass is all dead and decaying. It is an ugly, barren wasteland. All I can see, or smell, or hear is death. The groans of dying men grate against my spine and I cannot bear it. My hands start to shake a half-mile out, so I tuck them into the mare’s mane. She takes it as a sight to push on faster. The metallic scent of blood makes me nauseous, but no one would be able to tell...save Daniel. One of the first rules of being a princess is hiding emotions. Smothering weaknesses. And besides--I come every time to help with what I can. The soldiers assume I am used to it by now, but I do not think I will ever get used to this. It is the epitome of fear and despair. I do not do the heavy lifting, so to speak, but I help save who I can and help others pass on comfortably. The sight of blood does not make me as squeamish as the smell does. Before the horses stop, I reach into my saddlebag and pull out a tiny vial of peppermint oil. I dab a drop on my upper lip, take a deep breath as we pull into the battlefield (now lit by a ring of torches, used both for light and to ward away animals), and dismount as gracefully as I can muster. The peppermint burns. I hold onto the horn for a second longer than necessary before I hear someone cry out for help and I move. I tuck my emotions away messily and settle into my familiar pace. There is no time to be slow. The surviving soldiers from this battle, those not too injured, help out as best they can. Half of the battle-weary are here, either lying on the field or picking through it. They are a mere fourth of the living army. The rest of our soldiers stay near the palace. We made the mistake of sending too many soldiers away once, when I was little, and I have the scar to remind everyone of the consequences. It is so close to my jaw that under the right lighting--the sun, for example--it is nearly invisible. I still tend to keep my hair braided to that side, just to avoid the uncomfortable stares. That day I lost a sister and a potential niece at the same time. Maybe the baby would have been a nephew. I do not know. The child was buried in my sister's womb, where it had been for its entire life, where it died. She was eight months pregnant. The first soldier I stop at is farther away from the guards, although a few wander this way to keep me in their sights. There are implicit rules about what happens after a battle. Both sides can agree on one thing--no one attacks when we come to remove our dead. But sometimes rules are broken, and therefore my people will not leave me unattended. I remove the armor from the wounded boy's head and examine the wound. Experience (from my own learning--I have never been taught any medical training) tells me that it is not too fatal. I flag down a lesser experienced nurse and leave him in her care. I move on. I am stepping over a body when it sucks in a deep, painful breath. He is struggling to remain quiet and I know why immediately. He is a Chautin soldier. I recognize the emblem on his shield, which lies halved next to his body, hacked open by a massive axe that is soaked in congealed blood. His eyes flutter open and instead of the unforgiving, hostile brown gaze I associate with the Chautin, his eyes are full of pain, fear, and remorse, bluer than anything I have ever seen. His pupils dilate and focus on me and he shuts his eyes tightly again as he waits for a blow. A killing blow, I realize. He expects me to finish him off. I pull my dagger from my sheath, but know that I won't use it against him. I could never take the life of another living creature. I study the boy for a moment, unsure of what to do. He is maybe three years older than me at the very most--that is pushing it, too. He is young. A new recruit, probably. This field is closer to the Chautin palace than my own and I can count on three fingers the amount of times I have seen wounded Chautin that are still breathing on the fields. “Stay still.” I whisper, and then kneel beside the dead man next to him. I pause when a thought crosses my mind--did the Chautin soldier kill him?--but then I decide that it does not matter. A person is a person. I take the armor from the dead man and also his sword, because it has my family’s crest, and then I turn back to the living. He is watching me, and this time I recognize the reserve he has tapped into. All humans have the capability, but the Chautin are very skilled at hiding their emotions. Now I can gather nothing from him. Not when I cut his armor away to reveal a long, diagonal s***h across his abdomen, oozing blood at an alarming rate. Not when I hastily pack the wound, and not when I force the armor of my nation onto him. I erase all evidence of his being a Chautin, and the color of his eyes only helps me in the matter. No one pays enough mind to me. There are too many wounded for the guards to approach to see what is taking me so long with this one. This is not the first time I have done this, guiltily, but still my hands shake, and every step that my guards take makes me flinch. If they knew what I was doing, they would despise me. They could do nothing of it. It may even reflect well on me later. But I’d rather have them protecting me faithfully than merely dutifully. “When they come for you, tell them that you are an orphaned farm boy that just wanted to help. They will believe it. When you are able, ask them to see me and they will allow it. I will get you out. Just...be terse.” I whisper, and a flicker of something crosses through his eyes, too quick for me to decipher, and then I am flagging down the guard nearest to me. To the young man’s left a few yards, there is a dying man--also Chautin. He watched our brief exchange in disbelief. I approach him warily, but he does not dare try to harm me. I do not think he has the strength to, whether he wanted to or not. I sit on my legs beside him and take his hand. He holds mine tightly, and I sit and wait. I sing, I talk, and I tell stories. Other dying men are brought to me and I hold hands and continue until the sun rises, and by then none of them are breathing anymore and my throat feels raw. I couldn't bring forth anymore words if I had tried, anyway.