The Fall

I am a hard worker, that I can say with confidence. Since I was seventeen years old, I had spent the next decade carving a life for myself inside these palace walls, painting myself with deceit to blend in with the royalty that walk these halls. It had been just over ten years—I spent it as the queen, ensnaring the greedy king's attention and ensuring that I would live a good and labour-less life until my death. I did all my duties as the king's wife; I bore an heir and a few more children, I won the people's love, I avoided making any political enemies—all this just so I can have a stable and painless life.

So why am I now kneeling on the ground, my children and my husband beside me as he begs for mercy?

It's unfair. It's so unfair. The man who invaded our country and brought us own to our knees like this stands before us, his executioner with their axe ready to give us at least a quick death. While my husband talks, I stare at the tiled floors, the very same ones I would walk on without shoes when no one was around, dancing along the cool marble that felt smooth along the soles of my bare feet. I notice the tiles are so clear that I can see my blurred reflection just barely—I've never been this close to these floors before—and I curse the look on my face. I will not cry. I will not die a pathetic death like the blubbering fool beside me, begging for my life, not when anger at my future taken away from me courses through my veins. I will not show any weakness, for I have never shown my true face to the world, not even before I walked these marble halls, when I was an urchin digging for scraps to survive and appealing to the desires of men just to eat another meal. I can't help being irritated at everything around me, at the sorry excuse for a king who never worked a day in his life; the man looked distraught as if he wasn't just handed everything he has up until now with a golden spoon on the day he was born. I'm allowed to be mad, aren't I? I'm allowed to hate this bastard, aren't I?

The man, our killer, holds up a hand and the king shuts up immediately. I'm impressed he knows how to take commands considering he has always had the highest position in this country.

"What would you give for me to spare you?" the man asks, tilting his head to the side inquiringly.

"Anything," the king answers, "anything of value, please just let me and my family live."

At that, my children crawl closer to me, my two beautiful daughters and my son barely breaking nine summers. I slowly, very slowly to show the soldiers we mean no harm, put my hand on Andrei's nape, a comforting gesture I share with him. Once again I curse the cruelty and unfairness of the world—my children don't deserve to go through this horrible experience, of wondering if each breath would be their last because some empire decided we were ample prey.

The man, a general I presume, sighs. "We were planning on taking anything we want anyways. And then we're going to redistribute the rest of the wealth you don't deserve to your people."

"You..." Indignity colours the king's voice. I silently scoff. In that moment, I wish I hadn't been so ambitious as to take my place as queen, but rather just stayed on the street where I was born. If only I had done that, then maybe I would've received the kindness of this invading nation. However I'm not so sure I would still be alive if I stayed there; it's more likely I would've been found dead and violated in some street corner, no funeral and no one to mourn me. I doubt anyone but my children would mourn me even today. In any other circumstance I would've looked to these people as my saviours, but in the situation I'm in right now I can only despise them for stripping away all my hard work.

"Sir," a soldier speaks up as they tread into the room, holding a tray of something I can't see. I crane my neck to get a glimpse of the objects, only for the cold edge of a blade to be pressed against my throat. I gasp, and the indicating breaths beside me tell me the same is happening to the rest of the royal family.

"Do not move."

Fear—an emotion I know all too well—clouds my mind. These people, the aristocracy and the royal family, they would never be able to understand the true fear that follows a homeless urchin on the street, without family and running from the horrors of the world. I keep that feeling close to my heart and in this moment fear grabs my hand like an old friend and tells me to survive. It tells me don't you forget where you came from, don't you forget who kept you alive all these year, your good old friend fear. Fear makes people sensible, fear is an instinct honed from the moment we are born and the weak child I had been took ahold of that fear and never let it go since then, intent on surviving with the expense of my dignity and pride. The blade presses against my skin and I squeeze my eyes shut for a second before blowing them wide open, taking in every detail of the floor below me over and over again, the last thing I'd probably see before my breath bleeds out of me.

"Ah," the general turns to look at the objects on the trays, surveying them like jewellery. He picks one up and looks at it closely, studying it on all sides before placing it down and making to pick up another one. He's interrupted when another soldier clears their throat, indicating towards the hostages on the floor. At that, the general sighs and turns back to them, not before waving the first soldier off. "Those are good," he says, "just put them with my spoils."

In a bout of bravery—or stupidity, I can't tell—the king on the ground shouts out suddenly, "My wife! You can marry my wife!"

Silence falls on the whole room. My mind goes blank. What the fuck is this bastard saying?

The general stares for a moment, an expression of disgust crossing his face and he laughs. "What was that?" he asks.

The king stutters through his next sentence, "You c-can take my wife, the queen of Novenia and said to b-be the most beautiful woman on this continent. I assure you of her q-quality. Please. I beg of you, merciful Devil of the Wastes."

The general's face hardens. "Her quality, your majesty? You speak as if she's some cattle to be sold and not your beloved wife."

For the first time since the soldiers dragged me and my children out of our drawing room, I open my mouth. For a second only a croaking noise comes from my dry throat before I can utter another sound—suddenly the attention is on me. I've learned to be quiet as a woman, as a wife should that for so long I forget what it feels like to speak to a crowd of men.

"Please—" and oh, does it hurt to beg, "—as long as my children are safe, you can do anything to my body. I will not resist." I word the promise carefully—only my body because my life is mine and I'll be damned if I give control of my death over to anyone. And my children are my first priority—my beautiful Daniela, my lively Cristina, and my gentle Andrei. This would all be for nothing if us four do not survive.

From where I'm knelt I can see the general clench his jaw. At the moment, he's an unreadable statue so different from the carefree figure before who just seemed exasperated with the king as if talking to a child throwing a tantrum, and looks as if he wanted to get the execution over and done with. I hold my breath as he looks over to the soldier beside him who meets his gaze in turn. They seem to communicate without words for a few seconds, gesturing and furrowing their eyebrows, until the soldier shrugs, rolling their eyes, and the general looks back over to the royal family.

"Fine," he sighs, tension still set in his shoulders. "We'll have a proper diplomatic discussion—at a proper diplomatic table and everything!—and discuss how we'll abolish your monarchy, take away the aristocracy's power, and completely reform the way this government is run. But that's not my job right now."

The world pauses as he ends his sentence, leaving no room for anyone to add anything on to that. He looks around with a frown and claps his hand once, the sound echoing through the hall.

"Well, hurry up," he says, "get to work."

A chorus of "Yes, sir" hurts my ear and I let go of my held breath as the blade withdraws from my neck. Immediately I wrap my arms around my crying children, comforting them with soft words of, "it's ok, you're safe, everything will be alright now, mama's here".

A shadow falls over me and I look up amidst the commotion of soldiers escorting the royals to where they need to be. A soldier, the very same one that stood beside the general, stands before me and holds out their hand, introducing themself, "My name is sir Valerian, ma'am."

I stand up without taking the hand, gently lifting my children up with me.

Valerian pulls their hand away, but continues with no change in their expression, "I am tasked with escorting you to where you need to be to gather your belongings."

I swallow, hand rising to wipe gathered sweat from the hollow of my throat. "So it is settled," I confirm, holding my voice as stable as I can, "I will be your general's wife?"

Valerian blinks, surprised, and smiles gently. They look too welcoming, their pale wispy chin-length hair framing their face and I almost let my guard down for just one second—almost. Their smile is so disarming that I immediately hold onto my kids tighter in defence.

"That is yet to be decided, ma'am," they answer. "But do not worry. Sir Adonis is a good person."

Lies. This soldier is merely trying to get me relaxed so they can trick me easier. They feed me with gilded words too good to be true and when the time comes I'll be taken advantage of. But I play along because that is, for the foreseeable future, the only option I have come up with that won't result in me nor my kin getting beheaded. I plaster on a faux smile I've spent my whole life perfecting and Valerian buys it hook, line, and sinker.

As I walk with my children by my side and the soldier at my heels, I feel a squeeze from where Daniela holds my hand tight, her sister's hand held in her other. I look down as she asks, "Mama?"

"Yes, my petal?"

"Where are you going?"

I falter in my steps, but a look back at Valerian has me going again. I hesitate, sorting out the words in my head before I tell her, "I'm not going anywhere, petal. I'm staying right here."

"Liar," Cristina huffs, her pout wobbling with the threat of tears. "You always lie."

"Hey," this time I completely stop in the hallway, not caring about the soldier with very sharp and very real weapons behind me as I kneel down to be eye level with my daughter. I let go of both Andrei and Daniela to cup Cristina's face with my palms, asking her softly, "When have I ever lied to you guys?"

Cristina sniffs as the tears burst forth and she starts bawling, "All the time!"

I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her neck as she screams, repeating it over and over again and grabbing fists-full of my hair as if I would disappear if she let go. Andrei starts whimpering as well and Daniela cries silently, ever the quiet one. A few steps away Valerian averts their gaze while I open my arms and welcome the children into my embrace, their tiny fists holding onto me like a lifeline.

I don't cry. I never cry.