The Queen of All that Dies
Page 45
I can’t stand that my ethics might be more corrupt than the king’s.
The doctor comes over to us. “Have you experienced any unusual symptoms up until now?”
I give him a long look. “I’ve lived most of my life in wartime conditions. I have no idea what ‘unusual symptoms’ might be.”
The doctor’s eyebrows dart up. “Were you exposed to radiation during that time?”
“Of course.” It was everywhere—in the soil, the drinking water, the crops. No one living in the western hemisphere could totally avoid it, but especially not me, who lived so close to D.C.
The king’s hand squeezes mine, and I glance at him. His expression is carefully blank, but that vein is pulsing in his temple.
War tears down everything. Morals, loyalties, lives. Its aftershocks can ripple long after it ends. This is merely one more way that it’s ripped my life apart. And now, maybe for the first time, it’s affecting the king’s life on a personal level.
“We will fix this,” the king says in that commanding voice of his, like this is just another minor obstacle.
Suddenly, I pity him, because some things simply cannot be conquered, and this might be one of them.
The next evening we sit on a jet flying to what was once Austria. Next to me, Montes drums his fingers on his armrest, his leg jiggling. His eyes keep returning to my stomach.
“Cancer,” he murmurs. He’s said that word several times today. Stomach cancer, to be precise. It’s one of several types of cancer caused by radiation.
I can’t help my next words. “Ironic that you caused the cancer you’re now trying to stop from killing me.” There’s poetic justice in that, though only the king gets the luxury of justice. The rest of us just pointlessly suffer.
He rubs his eyes. “We—we are trying to stop it from killing you.” I notice that he doesn’t address the other part of my statement. I guess he has to pretend it all away, otherwise he might actually realize what a despicable human being he’s been.
“Have you taken your medication?” he asks.
I shake my head. It’s the same mystery drug the king takes. Neither he nor the doctor told me what it does, but it leaves me wondering what exactly an undying king would need a prescription for.
Montes digs through a bag at his feet and pulls out water and a bottle of pills.
I take them with me into the small restroom and shake one of the small white pills into my hand. Staring down at it, I try to divine its use. Perhaps I’ll turn into the same douchey prick the king is. The thought makes me smirk, despite my circumstances. I unscrew the bottle of water and toss the medication into my mouth before taking a long drink.
Almost immediately my stomach clenches. I’m sure even a healthy stomach might rebel against this medication if it were as empty as mine.
I lean against the counter and take slow, steady breaths. The jet chooses that moment to hit a patch of turbulence. I barely have time to turn my body to the toilet before I start to retch. Hot tears roll down my cheeks as my stomach tries to force its contents out of me.
I’m still bent over the toilet when the bathroom door bangs open, and the king strides in. He pulls back my hair while I dry heave, and once I’m done, he gathers me to him and strokes my face as I shake.
“How did you manage to hide this from everyone?” he asks, his voice soft.
I’m still too nauseous to answer. I curl up into him and bury my face in his shirt. “Don’t leave me,” I whisper. I don’t know why I say it; I don’t know why I’m giving or receiving compassion from this man. But I do know this: only compassion can redeem someone. Even the king. Even me.
The king carries me out of the bathroom and lays me out on one of the jet’s couches. I won’t let him go, and the feeling seems to be mutual by the way he cradles my torso in his arms.
He pulls one of his arms out from under me and brushes my hair away from my face. “You’re okay,” he whispers over and over again. His eyes look frightened, like I might die right here and now.
Gradually my stomach settles, and I feel a bit better. The king kisses the skin along my hairline, and I continue to cling to him. “I’m supposed to hate you,” I whisper.
He laughs humorlessly. “Are you finally admitting that you don’t?” he asks, his throat catching.
“Never,” I whisper.
“Liar.”
I curl up against him, forgetting for a while that he’s the culprit behind every bad memory I possess, and eventually I fall asleep in his arms.
Over the next two days, a biopsy is taken, and it’s confirmed that I have cancer. Then come the X-rays. By the end of my second day, I’m scheduled for surgery.
The hospital allows me to stay with the king for the evening. As soon as I see the fluffy bed in our room, I collapse onto it. The mattress dips as the king joins me.
We’re in yet another one of his estates. I’m no longer surprised at the excess of it all.
I feel Montes tug off one of my shoes, then the other. Next he rolls me over and begins removing my pants. I raise my eyebrows but say nothing; I’m not completely opposed to sex.
But the king doesn’t try to seduce me. Once I’m undressed, he strips down and joins me on the bed, gathering me to him. Our exposed skin presses together and it feels exquisite. Never in a million years did I think I’d enjoy casual intimacy with the king.
Since finding out that I have cancer, Montes has revealed this other side of him, one that’s inexplicably compassionate. It’s made me realize something else: the king is lonelier than even me, and he desperately doesn’t want to be.
“Don’t make me go in for surgery tomorrow,” I whisper. I’d kept quiet about the cancer because everything about illness frightens me. Declining health, doctors, medications, surgery.
The king doesn’t answer for a long time. So long, in fact, that I assume he won’t.
“My father killed himself,” the king finally says. “Died at the hand of his own gun. And like you, he was the last family I had.”
I stiffen in the king’s arms.
“Why are you telling me this?”
The king touches my temple. “You have that same look in your eyes he had. It’s been there from the first moment I saw you. And I fear both he and you know a secret I don’t.”
I watch the king for a long time, my throat working.
The doctor comes over to us. “Have you experienced any unusual symptoms up until now?”
I give him a long look. “I’ve lived most of my life in wartime conditions. I have no idea what ‘unusual symptoms’ might be.”
The doctor’s eyebrows dart up. “Were you exposed to radiation during that time?”
“Of course.” It was everywhere—in the soil, the drinking water, the crops. No one living in the western hemisphere could totally avoid it, but especially not me, who lived so close to D.C.
The king’s hand squeezes mine, and I glance at him. His expression is carefully blank, but that vein is pulsing in his temple.
War tears down everything. Morals, loyalties, lives. Its aftershocks can ripple long after it ends. This is merely one more way that it’s ripped my life apart. And now, maybe for the first time, it’s affecting the king’s life on a personal level.
“We will fix this,” the king says in that commanding voice of his, like this is just another minor obstacle.
Suddenly, I pity him, because some things simply cannot be conquered, and this might be one of them.
The next evening we sit on a jet flying to what was once Austria. Next to me, Montes drums his fingers on his armrest, his leg jiggling. His eyes keep returning to my stomach.
“Cancer,” he murmurs. He’s said that word several times today. Stomach cancer, to be precise. It’s one of several types of cancer caused by radiation.
I can’t help my next words. “Ironic that you caused the cancer you’re now trying to stop from killing me.” There’s poetic justice in that, though only the king gets the luxury of justice. The rest of us just pointlessly suffer.
He rubs his eyes. “We—we are trying to stop it from killing you.” I notice that he doesn’t address the other part of my statement. I guess he has to pretend it all away, otherwise he might actually realize what a despicable human being he’s been.
“Have you taken your medication?” he asks.
I shake my head. It’s the same mystery drug the king takes. Neither he nor the doctor told me what it does, but it leaves me wondering what exactly an undying king would need a prescription for.
Montes digs through a bag at his feet and pulls out water and a bottle of pills.
I take them with me into the small restroom and shake one of the small white pills into my hand. Staring down at it, I try to divine its use. Perhaps I’ll turn into the same douchey prick the king is. The thought makes me smirk, despite my circumstances. I unscrew the bottle of water and toss the medication into my mouth before taking a long drink.
Almost immediately my stomach clenches. I’m sure even a healthy stomach might rebel against this medication if it were as empty as mine.
I lean against the counter and take slow, steady breaths. The jet chooses that moment to hit a patch of turbulence. I barely have time to turn my body to the toilet before I start to retch. Hot tears roll down my cheeks as my stomach tries to force its contents out of me.
I’m still bent over the toilet when the bathroom door bangs open, and the king strides in. He pulls back my hair while I dry heave, and once I’m done, he gathers me to him and strokes my face as I shake.
“How did you manage to hide this from everyone?” he asks, his voice soft.
I’m still too nauseous to answer. I curl up into him and bury my face in his shirt. “Don’t leave me,” I whisper. I don’t know why I say it; I don’t know why I’m giving or receiving compassion from this man. But I do know this: only compassion can redeem someone. Even the king. Even me.
The king carries me out of the bathroom and lays me out on one of the jet’s couches. I won’t let him go, and the feeling seems to be mutual by the way he cradles my torso in his arms.
He pulls one of his arms out from under me and brushes my hair away from my face. “You’re okay,” he whispers over and over again. His eyes look frightened, like I might die right here and now.
Gradually my stomach settles, and I feel a bit better. The king kisses the skin along my hairline, and I continue to cling to him. “I’m supposed to hate you,” I whisper.
He laughs humorlessly. “Are you finally admitting that you don’t?” he asks, his throat catching.
“Never,” I whisper.
“Liar.”
I curl up against him, forgetting for a while that he’s the culprit behind every bad memory I possess, and eventually I fall asleep in his arms.
Over the next two days, a biopsy is taken, and it’s confirmed that I have cancer. Then come the X-rays. By the end of my second day, I’m scheduled for surgery.
The hospital allows me to stay with the king for the evening. As soon as I see the fluffy bed in our room, I collapse onto it. The mattress dips as the king joins me.
We’re in yet another one of his estates. I’m no longer surprised at the excess of it all.
I feel Montes tug off one of my shoes, then the other. Next he rolls me over and begins removing my pants. I raise my eyebrows but say nothing; I’m not completely opposed to sex.
But the king doesn’t try to seduce me. Once I’m undressed, he strips down and joins me on the bed, gathering me to him. Our exposed skin presses together and it feels exquisite. Never in a million years did I think I’d enjoy casual intimacy with the king.
Since finding out that I have cancer, Montes has revealed this other side of him, one that’s inexplicably compassionate. It’s made me realize something else: the king is lonelier than even me, and he desperately doesn’t want to be.
“Don’t make me go in for surgery tomorrow,” I whisper. I’d kept quiet about the cancer because everything about illness frightens me. Declining health, doctors, medications, surgery.
The king doesn’t answer for a long time. So long, in fact, that I assume he won’t.
“My father killed himself,” the king finally says. “Died at the hand of his own gun. And like you, he was the last family I had.”
I stiffen in the king’s arms.
“Why are you telling me this?”
The king touches my temple. “You have that same look in your eyes he had. It’s been there from the first moment I saw you. And I fear both he and you know a secret I don’t.”
I watch the king for a long time, my throat working.
