The Queen of All that Dies
Page 62
This isn’t just a medical issue; it was simple of me to assume so. I’ll have to take a holistic approach: education, shelter, basic amenities, regional justice systems, health—they all need to be addressed if I want to do this right.
I thumb over the pages. “Who wrote up these reports?”
“The committees on health and wellness, environmental sustainability, regional economic …”
I tune him out after that. I’ve heard enough. These reports were all written in-house, which means they’re skewed to please the king.
Just to test my theory, I interrupt him. “Where are the WUN’s?”
He flips through the files still in the box and pulls several out. I open them up. The regions are strangely divided here. I realize why when I delve into the reports.
The Midwest is sectioned off from the surrounding land. The committees involved decided that it was the region in the most dire need of relief, and here measures will be taken to rid the earth and water of radiation, repair the economy, and get people back to health.
It’s laughable. The Midwest was one of the most unscathed areas of the WUN’s land. Our former representatives figured that the king had plans to make use of the miles and miles of farmable land. This analysis only seems to support our theory.
“Interesting,” I say, snapping the folder shut.
“What is?”
“The data gathered. It’s inaccurate.”
Nigel balks at my words. “Your Majesty, I assure you, these are the most comprehensive reports out there.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of that. They’re the only ones out there. But they’re still inaccurate. I will not be following your committees’ recommendations.”
Nigel looks scandalized.
“Has anyone gone into these communities and asked the people themselves what they need?” I ask.
“Your Majesty,” he says my title disparagingly, like how an adult might talk to a small child, “most of these areas are far too dangerous to enter.”
“All the more reason to find out how to change the situation. I want you to pull together a team and begin plans for us to visit these places.”
“‘Us’? No, no, no. I’m afraid that’s not possible. The king will have my head.”
“You’ll do this or I’ll have yours.”
“But the king—”
“I don’t give a shit about the king’s opinion on this.” I talk over him. “I vow on my life I will offer you protection from him, Nigel, but this will be done.” Montes owes the world that much.
Someone raps on the door. “Your Majesty.” It’s Marco. Abominable, douchelord Marco.
“I’m busy,” I say, staring down a panicked Nigel.
“Not for this,” he says. “The video has leaked.”
When I enter the king’s conference room, I find him pacing. Behind him, footage of my entrance into the WUN plays in loops across the screen. When Will had showed the tape for me, I couldn’t see all the meaningful details. Now I can. My face is alarmingly calm.
Marco shifts uncomfortably next to me as he catches sight of the footage. In fact, most of the king’s advisors sitting in on this meeting stare at me with a mixture of anger and horror.
“We’ve been deleting various uploads of the video all morning, but it keeps surfacing,” Montes says.
“Why now?” I ask, my eyes traveling over him.
Three days ago, this man admitted to me how he stayed ageless and how the war came to be. I still can’t wrap my mind around how he can look at himself in the mirror every day, or why my heart hasn’t stopped aching for him.
Montes turns to look back at the screen. “We’ve destroyed numerous cells over the last several days.”
The cells I’d told the king about. So this was a direct result of my efforts.
“How bad is it?”
That vein in Montes’s temple pulses.
“You haven’t been able to completely stop the leak, have you?” I say. He’d been so sure.
That’s how kings fall. Hubris.
Montes glances away from the screen, piercing me with his gaze. It’s an explosive look, one full of vicious protectiveness. For all his wicked deeds, he doesn’t just care about himself. No, he cares fiercely about me too.
“It’ll be taken care of,” the king says. The edge in his voice makes me think more people will die.
I back out of the room and leave the king to his collusions. This isn’t my battle. It once was, but no longer. I’ve already surrendered.
Over the next week, Bedlam breaks out across the globe. The king isn’t able to suppress the footage of me, and it’s done exactly what the Resistance intended: sparked rebellion.
Uprisings pop up across continents, some more organized than others. The Resistance spearheads many of them, and they’re the most destructive. Provincial governments are demolished, the king’s research labs burned, armories ambushed. Reports suggest the group’s numbers have nearly doubled since the video leaked, and membership was already in the hundreds of thousands.
I rub my forehead, trying to focus on the files Nigel gave me a week ago. I sit out in front of the palace soaking up the morning sun as I flip through them.
I’ve never been more unsure of myself than I am now. A year ago, I knew exactly who I was and what I stood for. The king was the enemy. He was evil and he wreaked death and destruction.
Now I’m married to that very man, and he’s no longer so easily compartmentalized. The Resistance, whom I’d sided with for so long, is now the one perpetuating violence when the world’s finally found peace. Right and wrong are lovers; I can’t have one without the other.
I lean back against my chair and try to discern fact from fiction in these reports. I could be sifting through this inside, in the fancy new office I’ve been given, but I haven’t had the luxury of lingering out in the sun for some time, and feeling the warm rays on my skin is better than even the king’s most luxurious rooms.
I glance up from the report when I hear the distant sound of a car coming up the drive.
I squint my eyes. Not one car. A battalion of them. And not just cars. Armored vehicles.
I stand, dropping the file on the stone bench beside me.
I hear a familiar whine; my mind sharpens at the sound. That ransacked warehouse, those missing weapons. I’m now facing them down.
I thumb over the pages. “Who wrote up these reports?”
“The committees on health and wellness, environmental sustainability, regional economic …”
I tune him out after that. I’ve heard enough. These reports were all written in-house, which means they’re skewed to please the king.
Just to test my theory, I interrupt him. “Where are the WUN’s?”
He flips through the files still in the box and pulls several out. I open them up. The regions are strangely divided here. I realize why when I delve into the reports.
The Midwest is sectioned off from the surrounding land. The committees involved decided that it was the region in the most dire need of relief, and here measures will be taken to rid the earth and water of radiation, repair the economy, and get people back to health.
It’s laughable. The Midwest was one of the most unscathed areas of the WUN’s land. Our former representatives figured that the king had plans to make use of the miles and miles of farmable land. This analysis only seems to support our theory.
“Interesting,” I say, snapping the folder shut.
“What is?”
“The data gathered. It’s inaccurate.”
Nigel balks at my words. “Your Majesty, I assure you, these are the most comprehensive reports out there.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of that. They’re the only ones out there. But they’re still inaccurate. I will not be following your committees’ recommendations.”
Nigel looks scandalized.
“Has anyone gone into these communities and asked the people themselves what they need?” I ask.
“Your Majesty,” he says my title disparagingly, like how an adult might talk to a small child, “most of these areas are far too dangerous to enter.”
“All the more reason to find out how to change the situation. I want you to pull together a team and begin plans for us to visit these places.”
“‘Us’? No, no, no. I’m afraid that’s not possible. The king will have my head.”
“You’ll do this or I’ll have yours.”
“But the king—”
“I don’t give a shit about the king’s opinion on this.” I talk over him. “I vow on my life I will offer you protection from him, Nigel, but this will be done.” Montes owes the world that much.
Someone raps on the door. “Your Majesty.” It’s Marco. Abominable, douchelord Marco.
“I’m busy,” I say, staring down a panicked Nigel.
“Not for this,” he says. “The video has leaked.”
When I enter the king’s conference room, I find him pacing. Behind him, footage of my entrance into the WUN plays in loops across the screen. When Will had showed the tape for me, I couldn’t see all the meaningful details. Now I can. My face is alarmingly calm.
Marco shifts uncomfortably next to me as he catches sight of the footage. In fact, most of the king’s advisors sitting in on this meeting stare at me with a mixture of anger and horror.
“We’ve been deleting various uploads of the video all morning, but it keeps surfacing,” Montes says.
“Why now?” I ask, my eyes traveling over him.
Three days ago, this man admitted to me how he stayed ageless and how the war came to be. I still can’t wrap my mind around how he can look at himself in the mirror every day, or why my heart hasn’t stopped aching for him.
Montes turns to look back at the screen. “We’ve destroyed numerous cells over the last several days.”
The cells I’d told the king about. So this was a direct result of my efforts.
“How bad is it?”
That vein in Montes’s temple pulses.
“You haven’t been able to completely stop the leak, have you?” I say. He’d been so sure.
That’s how kings fall. Hubris.
Montes glances away from the screen, piercing me with his gaze. It’s an explosive look, one full of vicious protectiveness. For all his wicked deeds, he doesn’t just care about himself. No, he cares fiercely about me too.
“It’ll be taken care of,” the king says. The edge in his voice makes me think more people will die.
I back out of the room and leave the king to his collusions. This isn’t my battle. It once was, but no longer. I’ve already surrendered.
Over the next week, Bedlam breaks out across the globe. The king isn’t able to suppress the footage of me, and it’s done exactly what the Resistance intended: sparked rebellion.
Uprisings pop up across continents, some more organized than others. The Resistance spearheads many of them, and they’re the most destructive. Provincial governments are demolished, the king’s research labs burned, armories ambushed. Reports suggest the group’s numbers have nearly doubled since the video leaked, and membership was already in the hundreds of thousands.
I rub my forehead, trying to focus on the files Nigel gave me a week ago. I sit out in front of the palace soaking up the morning sun as I flip through them.
I’ve never been more unsure of myself than I am now. A year ago, I knew exactly who I was and what I stood for. The king was the enemy. He was evil and he wreaked death and destruction.
Now I’m married to that very man, and he’s no longer so easily compartmentalized. The Resistance, whom I’d sided with for so long, is now the one perpetuating violence when the world’s finally found peace. Right and wrong are lovers; I can’t have one without the other.
I lean back against my chair and try to discern fact from fiction in these reports. I could be sifting through this inside, in the fancy new office I’ve been given, but I haven’t had the luxury of lingering out in the sun for some time, and feeling the warm rays on my skin is better than even the king’s most luxurious rooms.
I glance up from the report when I hear the distant sound of a car coming up the drive.
I squint my eyes. Not one car. A battalion of them. And not just cars. Armored vehicles.
I stand, dropping the file on the stone bench beside me.
I hear a familiar whine; my mind sharpens at the sound. That ransacked warehouse, those missing weapons. I’m now facing them down.
