Chapter 14: Diogo

I study the woman as she sits drooping in her chair, exhaustion creeping up to claim her. Long, dark eyelashes fan the tops of her delicate cheeks. Now that her hair has dried, it shines a beautiful auburn colour, falling down her back and shoulders in waves. She shifts to prop an elbow on the table and slumps into her hand, then winces as her chin touches the palm. She jerks her hand away and straightens, dropping the hand into her lap and cradling it with her other hand.

I frown and reach for her. "Let me see."

She automatically pulls her arm away, but I catch the hand. I flip it palm side up and use my fingers to uncurl hers so I can see the entire hand. The cut is clean now, her makeshift bandage missing. It's not terribly deep but it should still be cleaned with antiseptic and re-bandaged. Not left to catch an infection.

"Did this happen while you were climbing the wall?" I demand, tugging her to her feet. I walk her through my place, back into the bedroom.

She glares at me. "It's a little cut, Diogo. Why does it matter?"

I shove her back and point at the bed. "Sit." I command. She complies, though hesitantly, staring at the big bed before sitting gingerly on the edge. "I need to know about the injury so I can take care of it properly."

She stares up at me. "I cut myself on a piece of metal."

"When was your last tetanus shot?" Tetanus shots are still available, though not as plentiful as they once were.

"About five months ago."

It's not surprising she would stay up to date given her habit of climbing the wall. I grunt my acknowledgment as I head for the washroom, returning with the First Aid kit. I kneel at her feet and take her hand in mine. "You need to be more careful, Taran. This city is filled with scrap metal. You could be badly injured."

I swab the wound and wrap a gauze bandage around it. She sits silently, never once flinching as I prod the small wound. She's a tough girl. I feel a swell of pride that the Desert Wren has, in many ways, turned out to be just as I thought she would be, a good adversary.

When I'm done, she cradles the injured hand in her lap. "Why do you care?" she demands.

I consider her question. Consider not answering her. But she'll soon find out my intentions. Even if they haven't completely solidified, I have an excellent idea of the direction I want my relationship with this woman to take.

"You will stay with me here, keep me company until I decide otherwise." My voice is gruff and my answer unsatisfactory if the look on her face is anything to go by.

"I don't understand you," she says softly, frowning. "Why do you want me here? I'm a terrible roommate. I leave my stuff laying around, I snore, I eat all the food." She attempts humour to mitigate the tension that constantly swirls around us. Even though I won't reciprocate her humour, I do appreciate her sharp wit.

I stand, towering over her. She recoils on the bed, pulling her legs up protectively. I catch a glimpse of a strong, narrow thigh before she tugs the shirt down.

"You don't have to understand, just obey."

She scoots backwards and glares up at me. "And if I don't obey?"

"It's better that you do. I'd rather you not become injured or taken into custody when I'm not around." I shove a hand through my short hair, rubbing at my scalp and feeling the exhaustion of the day. I'd like to climb onto the bed with her, but suspect she'd lose her mind if I tried. I'm not quite ready to engage in that type of battle yet. "I've no wish to hurt you, Taran."

Her face flushes red and she bites her lip. It's clear to me that she wants to say something but is probably holding back because she feels vulnerable sitting on my bed, with nothing on but my shirt. She doesn't know yet that I've brought her here because I value her opinion. Her goals and her ethics. Though also attracted to her body, I want her voice, her words.

"Speak your mind," I say as gently as I can.

Words burst from her, like having permission is all the impetus she needs. "Why don't you want to hurt me?" she demands. "I'm nothing to you. I'm the exact sort of bug you keep squashing so you can preserve your precious order through the city. I'm a troublemaker, a constant thorn in your side. Worse, I've actively broken many of your laws. I've flaunted your Authority at every turn and taken advantage of every hole in your security. You should want me dead."

She's shaking with the passion of her little speech, caught somewhere between fear and anger. I watch her silently as the fight drains from her and she once more looks small and vulnerable against the heavy hide-stitched quilt of my bed.

"And yet I don't want you dead." I cross my arms over my chest and study her. The urge to take her in my arms and hold her as she rails at the world is strong. "I want to keep you close and protect you."

"But why?" she bursts out. "It makes no sense. You've executed people I consider friends on lesser charges than I've been sentenced for. Why do you want to protect me and not them?"

I sigh heavily. I understand her point of view. She sees me as nothing more than a brutal dictator. And I don't suppose she'll understand me any time soon. Not until she gets to know my character. The reasons behind my convictions.

"There must be sacrifices during war. The rebels that I've had executed are martyrs in a war that's bigger than all of us. They stand for idealism, democracy, values, but they don't stand for an organized, flourishing society. Without sacrifice, there can't be prosperity."

Tears sparkle in her eyes.

I understand her feeling of helplessness. "I'm sorry that you've lost friends, but I can't protect everyone, Taran. I wish that I could."

"Fuck you!" she hisses, her frustration bubbling over. "We aren't at war, there's no reason for these so-called sacrifices."

"You're wrong, girl. Look around you. The world of humans has fallen. We'll never recover what we've lost. The only thing to do is look forward and build on the ashes of our mistakes. Create a stronger race, rather than seek to recover what has died."

"We're not dead though, we're a species in recovery! Now is a time for us to band together, approach the world with kindness and acceptance, not this survival of the fittest atmosphere you've fostered."

"The age of civilization has passed," I tell her gently. "Without strong leadership and the ability to make hard decisions those few pockets of humanity that are left will collapse and die out. The world of our grandparents is long dead and I have no wish to cede what's left over to the Primitives. I will maintain order in this Sanctuary until I'm either dead or the city has been overrun and is no longer capable of sustaining itself."

"But who chose you to be our leader!" she snaps. "You make decisions for thousands of people without stopping to ask what the majority of us want."

"The majority of humans are cattle," I tell her coldly. "They have proven that their decisions will lead to death and destruction. The human race was given the opportunity in the late 20th century to thrive, but they chose self-interest over survival. Even once they were given the news of their inevitable destruction, they still buried their heads and plowed forward into the abyss of death. I've been left in charge of what's left. I won't make the same mistake, won't allow majority decisions to rule. My word is law and it has kept this city alive."

"But that isn't fair!" she cries out, twisting her hand in a pillow. "You judge us based on the mistakes of our ancestors. You don't give us the opportunity to rise again, better and stronger."

"You're wrong, Taran, that's exactly what I'm doing."

"We aren't better if we're a vicious, destructive people, run by a man that only understands war."

"We're alive, and that is the ultimate goal."

"I don't want to be alive in a world that looks like this!" she shouts passionately, now sitting up on her knees.

I envy her idealism. This is what attracts me to her. She's everything I can't be but want desperately to hold on to. She represents beauty, hope, passion. Perhaps I've set her up as a symbol. It doesn't matter. I want her and now, after spending time with her, I can't let her go. She's my perfect conscience.

I decide to back down. She's giving me exactly what I want. An argument for idealism. I find that I'd rather not crush that idealism or upset her while she's in desperate need of care. There's plenty of time for us to fight through our beliefs and for her to explain her way of living. It can wait until she's back on her feet with several complete meals in her belly. "Go to sleep, Taran."

As I turn to leave, she says, "I can't sleep in here. This is your bed."

I turn in the doorway to look at her. "I will allow certain rebellions from you. But when I give you a direct order, you'd better learn to obey." When she opens her mouth to argue I shake my head. "Just sleep. Gather your strength for another day. Another fight. I've no doubt you will treat me to many more of your opinions. For now, I give you my word that I won't touch you. You'll sleep safely."

I don't give her the opportunity to speak again. I leave the room, closing the door behind me. Should I put a lock on it? I'd rather not have a man in here full-time, watching her every move, but I'll have to leave her alone sometimes.

For now, I decide to just leave her to sleep. Until her guard arrives I won't go far. Won't risk losing her. I'm under no illusion that she couldn't disappear just as effectively as she hid from my forces these past several years.

I sit in one of the few comfortable chairs I own and pull my radio out. When civilization fell, we were left to pick up the pieces without the technology we'd come to rely on. Cell phones no longer work, the network being one of the first things to go down. Internet went down shortly after. The wealthier cities were able to repair and maintain radio towers. We also use leftover satellites from the few that still work to maintain communication with other Sanctuaries in other countries across the world.

I turn the radio signal to our private security network and call Jorje with a request. "Get someone to go back through our records, about twelve years ago. Find the girls brought in for Sanctuary, around 14 years old. Possibly given a husband. Possibly named Taran. When you find the information, have it brought to me."

In less than an hour the file is in my hands. I almost can't believe that we finally have something solid on the illusive Desert Wren. I glance toward the bedroom before opening the file. It seems almost too private. This is information she refused to give me willingly. I should wait until she's ready to tell me, or until I can get it from her myself. But I won't. Putting the puzzle of this woman together has become priority.

I open to the first page and am gratified to find that she gave me her correct name. Her last name is Langlois. French. Her place of origin is North, where Canada once stood. Her grandparents and a sister are listed as her only living relatives. Yet she was the only one brought into the city. Her grandparents were likely turned away at the gates. But where is the sister?

Reading her file is leaving me with more questions than it's answering. I flip to the last page. Her active residence status. I scan the page until I reach her house of residence. Residence: Sanctuary, New Tucson West. Placed under the care of the family Gunther. I flip to the next page, blood pumping through my veins. The answer is right there, burning like an accusation. The 14-year-old Taran Langlois was wedded to the twenty-seven-year old Xavier Gunther.

The name hits me like a punch to the gut. I know exactly who Gunther is and now I have his estranged wife. The Desert Wren is married to the leader of the rebellion. This is why she was reluctant to give me any information. I stand, anger coursing through me. I'm not sure if I'm angry that she's married to a man who will be executed on sight if he's caught or that she's married to a man I've met. A man I both admire and despise. I want to strangle her. I want to fuck her. I want to make sure she never sees Xavier Gunther again.

I stride to the bedroom and throw the door open, banging it against the wall. I expect to confront a sleep-mussed woman. To lay down her new law and demand her capitulation. Instead I'm faced with an empty room. She's gone.