by Nik Korpon
“Can we do a funny one?”
“I do those all day long.”
“I mean an actually funny one.” Donael lifts up the edge of the cloth and eyes me, a small smirk dancing across his lips.
“Now who’s the comedian?”
Unlike the setup at Walleus’s place, our television only gets two channels – neither of which is interesting to near-teenagers – and we don’t have any kind of projection machines. And the last thing I’d want to do is show them memories, even if I hadn’t smashed my viewer after seeing the memory of Donael’s supposed-murder. I finally learned how to adapt various devices into portable memory players, but I keep them hidden beneath the floor under the couch next to the memory vials from Walleus. My son sleeping above them every night prevents me losing more of my life watching Walleus’s past, cataloging the moments with my son that he stole from me. I know in my heart what’s true, but that doesn’t stop his words about being Donael’s real father – or the shocked expression on his face as my needle pierced his temple – from ringing against my skull every time I close my eyes.
So, instead of watching movies, we tell movies to each other. Theirs are usually disjointed, with scores of non-sequiturs and ridiculous tangents that are funny only to them. Mine aren’t much more organized, mostly whitewashed accounts from the Struggle or the shenanigans Walleus and I used to get into, the names changed and profanity erased.
“All right,” I say as I settle into the couch. “A long time ago in a country far away…”
A rattle and scrape in the living room. My eyes bolt open, my hand instinctively going to the axe handle beneath our bed. Then there’s a hushed curse, then an apology for cursing. I let go of the axe handle.
Emeríann’s home. And fairly drunk from the sound of it.
Good for her. She deserves it. She’s put a ton of work into this, risking things larger than I think she realized. The last thing I wanted to do was put a damper on her celebration by having to come home and watch the boys. We’ve had enough to adjust to as it is already.
I spring up from the bed, hurry to the living room. She’s leaning against the wall, trying to muscle off a boot she hasn’t yet untied, still cursing quietly under her breath.
“Let me help you,” I whisper, leaning in and providing my back for support while I unlace her.
“Fascist-ass boots, the pricks,” she slurs. “Whoever made these?”
I don’t have any kind of answer for that, so I tell her to lean on my shoulder while I take her boots off. Her hands grip my back.
“You feel muscly. You been working out?”
I set her boots beside the door and take her hand. “Let’s get some water for you.”
“We can be quiet. Won’t wake them up.”
As I lead her across the bedroom, I swear a cloud of vapors follows us. After she passes out, I’m going to need to find some of that medicine she gets from a Brigu woman. Tomorrow is about the last day she’ll want to be hungover for.
In the bedroom, she climbs onto the bed in a manner that teeters between seduction and sleepwalking.
“I can’t get my pants off,” she slurs, then hiccups. “Can you help?”
The combination of her complete drunkenness and attempts at sex kitten are as adorable as they are hilarious.
“Sure, sweetheart, I can help.”
“Mmm,” she says, “my strong man.”
I come over to the bed, grab the bottom of her pants, and tug. “Em, you have to unbutton them first.”
No answer. I tug again.
“Em.”
A slight snore.
Yeah. Figured as much.
I take her pants off to avoid further contaminating our bed, then roll her on her side, and pull the covers up to her chin.
After setting out the packet of medicine and a glass of water for her, I check on the boys once more, lingering on Donael’s face.
In my head, I run through the hours of Walleus’s memory that I watched. Aside from a few awkward looks he and Aífe exchanged over the years, there’s never been anything to substantiate his claim that Donael is his son. Still I stand here nearly every night, looking at him, that jawline, the cheekbones. I was never one for identifying physical characteristics, could never say your baby’s got your eyes and his mother’s ears, but I know in the primal part of me that operates on instinct instead of logic that I am Donael’s father. I can just feel it.
Yet that hasn’t stopped me from questioning it every night.
The crowd gathered before Clodhna in the morning is so immense that I cannot even see the back of it as I look out from my elevated vantage point on the side of the stage. I initially balked at the idea of raising ourselves above the citizens, thinking it too reminiscent of the Tathadann’s pomp and circumstance. But Emeríann and Brighid convinced me otherwise. They said the people needed to see this was not a rag-tag rebellion that would dissolve into chaos within the year, but a proper citizen-centric government, one that could rebuild and allow us – every one of us – to prosper. With the amphitheater on the southern edge of the city damaged during the uprising, it was easier to build this platform. And the carpenters did a nice job, painting the salvaged plywood blue with a white trim to give the illusion of carpeting, angling the trusses to make it look more official.
Emeríann sits in the chair beside me, her skin slightly peaked beneath her radiant smile but otherwise ready to go. It’s not until I’m seeing us side-by-side that I realize these are the same clothes we wore to Forgall’s funeral, just before we took down the water distribution plant. Macabre, but appropriate. We look down to the crowd, and in the front row are the boys. Donael runs his finger inside the collar of his shirt, the expression on his face saying we tied a noose around his neck. Cobb just plays some type of game with his fingers.
In the center of the stage, sitting on a larger chair to support his shrunken form, is Daghda Morrigan. He wears the boar mask I first saw him in so many months ago, the tusks on it since chipped but polished to a high gleam. What most impresses me about him isn’t what covers his face, but what covers his body – normal clothes, the same as anyone in Eitan would wear. He is an exalted rebel, a myth of a myth, the savior of Eitan, yet he’s just one of us. His daughter stands to one side of him, in clothes similar to Emeríann’s. It’s a gesture big enough to tamp down my cynicism about the Morrigan lineage and temper my hurt in not being recognized as I feel I should’ve been.
Even more than with the Morrigans, I never really approved of Ragjarøn’s involvement in our rebellion. I thought the people of Eitan should take back the city on their own. Now Ødven, his severe clothing – a nicer version of the grey fatigues his troops wear – sits on Daghda’s other side. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, his body still unaccustomed to the heat and humidity down here. From what I’ve always heard about Vårgmannskjør being a land of savages, I’m half-surprised he’s not wearing a jacket made of human skin. Then again, he does have a ceremonial sword at his side, reminding me that we wouldn’t have been able to take down the Tathadann without Ragjarøn’s support – and their weapons.
This is the moment I’ve been looking forward to for almost all of my life. But there’s still something pulling at the back of my skull. Part of it is saying You did it. You defeated the Tathadann. But the other part is saying Are you actually ready for this?
When the time seems right, Emeríann stands up and walks to the middle of the stage. I try hard not to stare, but it’s damn tough because, even with a sizeable hangover, she still looks stunning.
She takes the microphone, then pulls hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ears, a few of her fingers sporting significant gashes. Somehow, I think that makes her even more attractive, which briefly causes me to question what’s wrong with me. She clears her throat twice, pushing down the nerves, then speaks.
“Thank you all for being here today. This is a very special day, a historic day, for Eitan City, for all people who have been oppressed, an
d I’m very glad you all are here to witness it.” She looks over at me, maybe for support, maybe for me to guide her. I’m not sure why, because she needs nothing from me. She was born for this. I motion with my hands, telling her she’s great, then wink once. When she looks back to the crowd, something settles inside her. “There are a lot of people who aren’t here today, people we lost along the way. Friends, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers. But I think they’re still watching, even if they aren’t here, looking down with pride on all we’ve accomplished.”
A breeze passes through the crowd and my arms turn to gooseflesh. I blink twice and feel tears involuntarily welling. I rub them away, smile at Emeríann, then glance down at the boys. They’ve stopped their fidgeting, both of their eyes on Emeríann, transfixed, and my chest swells.
Our life is not perfect. We have had to deal with many issues. We will have to navigate many more. We have lived under a constant threat of death for the last six months, and likely will for many more to come. Our food and water are never guaranteed, and all the sacrifice and blood expended during this uprising – and, for that matter, the Struggle that laid the blueprint – can easily be erased if the next few months of rebuilding go awry and the space between factions grows too large. Despite all that, I don’t know that I’ve ever been happier in my life.
“And I want to make sure you heard that,” Emeríann says. “We. There is no longer an us and a them. We are all one people, we are all Eitan, and we are all reclaiming the city as ours.”
The crowd erupts into a sustained cheer, some shouting and some fireworks and, in a few pockets that quickly spread across the crowd, our song.
Down near the river where our brothers bled...
But it’s different this time.
We knelt on the banks and our fathers said, “This is our land, all that we can touch, and we’ve watered our crops with Tathadann blood.”
Emeríann senses the shift in the crowd and gestures for Daghda to come forward, to say the words we’ve been waiting to hear for countless years. He pushes himself up slowly, but as he walks, there’s a sense of purpose. His general countenance is like a giant boulder: impenetrable, indecipherable, indestructible. Hard to budge at first but impossible to stop once he gets moving. Brighid and Ødven stiffly stand and join in the applause.
Daghda lumbers up to Emeríann, seemingly riding in on the current of cheers and hollers and supplications. The prodigal son – once cast out by his own wife and brother – has returned a prophet. Of war. Of violence. Of freedom.
Emeríann gives him an awkward hug – because how do you hug someone who is as much a god as he is a ghost story – and hands him the microphone before retreating to the opposite side of the stage. Behind Daghda, Brighid and Ødven step forward, creeping toward the front of the stage, trying to absorb some of the adulation. I can’t blame them, wanting some credit for their efforts. As much as Daghda is an inspiration and an omen to cast upon people, he is also an old man. He gave the rebels a reason to fight – which was priceless – but in all the times I saw him on the battlefield, I rarely saw him leave his transport vehicle.
Daghda holds the microphone for a long pause, waiting for the crowd to quiet down.
“Much has changed in Eitan since I left my home in the mountains to come here, to fight the resource companies. But one thing has never changed…” He pauses, expecting applause, which he gets, “… and that is the heart of its people.”
The crowd screams itself hoarse and Brighid and Ødven are now only a few feet behind Daghda, as close to the limelight as they can be without knocking the old man over.
Eventually, the people fall quiet.
“And so, many years later, it is my utmost pleasure to say that Eitan City is no longer beholden to the tyrannical rule of the Tathadann.”
As the crowd erupts in shouts and song, the swell of energy is palpable, especially from up here, the nexus of the revolution. I want to close my eyes, to soak it all in, to imprint this on my memory because I will never have sensations such as this for as long as I live, but I can’t. Something deep in my reptile brain prevents me. I scan the crowd, looking for rogue Tathadann members, ones we haven’t yet executed. But I see none.
“And now I present,” Daghda says, but the cheering is too loud and he can barely be heard.
The line of Ragjarøn troops behind us shifts, and my skin prickles. There is a threat. I know it. I feel it. I scan the crowd surrounding the boys, then the space behind Emeríann, but still see nothing. Then, six rows back, two men shuffle to the side. My arms tighten. These men are about to rush the stage, weapons concealed beneath their clothing. But then they stop, shout something to a woman beside them, and start clapping and cheering. I’ve been at war for too many years. Looking for threats for too long, seeing them where there are none.
Eventually the crowd quiets enough for Daghda to audibly clear his throat. “And now I present, the people who will usher in a new era of equality and self-sufficiency into Eitan–”
But as he says the last words, Brighid gives a quick nod to Ødven, who turns to me and flicks his wrist.
“What?” I say, completely confused. Then I realize he was not gesturing to me but instead to the troops behind me. A rifle stock confirms this as it smashes into the back of my head. I tumble forward, catching myself before my face hits the ground only for a soldier to yoke up my elbows and cinch them together with a metal restraint, then yank them high above my head. I glance up and see Emeríann in a similar position, a soldier’s thick forearm wrapped around her neck, her legs flailing. My head snaps to the crowd, but blessedly, no one has touched the boys.
The collective shock is audible.
The shouting only gets louder when a massive soldier restrains Daghda, pushing his head downward.
Daghda lashes out with his foot, trying to break free, but he is no match. I try to throw myself backward, knock the soldier off-guard, but two more have appeared from nowhere and my arms are cinched so far back that any movement unleashes a shower of hot knives in my shoulders.
Ødven strides forward, unsheathing his sword, which I now see is not in the least bit ceremonial. It appears so sharp it could slice the air before it. He extends his arm, giving Brighid the hilt. She takes it as if she has been preparing for this moment her entire life, and in a flash, I see what’s happening.
I turn toward the crowd, scream as loud as I can at Donael and Cobb, “Close your eyes!”
Then I hear the blade split the air before slicing through Daghda’s neck. His head hits the stage with a dull thump and rolls to the edge, twirling around before falling over the edge like an olive dropped from the dinner table.
The crowd displays a mixture of horror and disbelief. Some are screaming, some yelling. I hear people inhale sharply and even titter.
Emeríann’s face is beyond pale, as if her body is trying to implode but just can’t summon the willpower to do it.
Brighid stabs the sword into the stage, right in the middle of the blood squirting from her father’s torso, then picks up the microphone and hands it to Ødven.
“I, Ødven Äsyr, leader of Ragjarøn, hereby declare this land be called Sjålvastand from this point on. You are now a satellite of Vårgmannskjør, under the command of your new Befälhavare.” He gestures to Brighid. “All who do not comply will be dealt with thusly.”
He drops the microphone into Daghda’s blood and walks off stage.
The last thing I see before they pull a black hood over my head is Donael and Cobb in the front row, tears streaming down their faces, mouths open in a horrified scream, and then there’s nothing at all.
They drag me off stage and across the ground. A soldier throws me forward, and I lose my feet under me, my face slamming against a hard, metallic surface. The smell of my own breath inside the hood mingles with something like dirt and old sweat. With my hands restrained behind my back, it’s hard to push myself up. I press my forehead into the ground to get my torso up, then work my knees ben
eath my chest. Then the soldier’s foot in my ribs flips me over on my side.
I hear his breathing, which means his face is close to mine, and I’m about to swing my head forward, slam my forehead against his ear or face and stun him, when he yanks the hood away and light stabs my eyes. Then it goes dark again as he slams a door.
After a moment, things come into focus, light seeping in through the small oval windows. I glance around. Grooved metal floor spotted with dirt and rust. Formed metal benches attached to the walls, restraining belts every few feet. Three vertical storage units with metal grates covering them, used for housing weapons. This is some variation of a transport vehicle.
Outside I can hear the chaos of the crowd, shouting and crying and screaming, a few gunshots, the crack of batons crushing bones. I must not be far from the stage, which means I’m not far from the boys. I have to get out of here and find them, regardless of what it costs me. Something slams against the side of the vehicle, followed by an agonizing howl.
Our uprising did this. We overthrew one dictator only to be colonized by another. Removed one tyrant and replaced her with someone even worse. I knew a Morrigan could not be trusted.
I should have known this would happen. My life has been a warzone for the last fifteen years. As a father I’m supposed to protect Donael from all of this, and now I’ve dragged him into the middle with the landmines all around us. And the thought arises before I can squash it, Would Walleus have done this?
There’s a squealing near the doors, the sound of the bolt lock sliding. I shift my head down to keep the light from blinding me so that I can see when I spring out and away from this truck.
The doors fly open, the soldier standing at the rear with a rifle trained on me. This is it, Henraek. This is what you’ve been preparing yourself for. Can you fight him off with your hands tied behind your back, or will you sit placidly and accept your fate? Is there any point in going on without Donael? Again?
Rifle still trained on me, the soldier steps aside, making room for one of his compatriots, a soldier with skin so pale it’s nearly blue. Then the pale one shoves someone forward, and as he tumbles forward and curses, “Damn sonofabitchamadan,” my heart liquefies.
