by Daryl Banner
The bodyguard gone, no other guards or officials present … only her and her Chole … she finds herself suddenly lighter in all capacities. As if her bodyweight were cut in half and she were floating, she kicks off her sandals, throws off her regal robes and sits on the floor by the bars in just a silken slip. This strangely girlish action is the thing that catches Chole’s eye at last. He turns his face slightly, watches her as she plops on the ground. The Queen is, in this moment, just a girl from the slums … a girl from the slums in Queenly silk slip and finely decorated hair with gems that wink within its complex designs.
“Let’s pretend I’m not some queen, and you’re not heading some rebellion to kill me.” Somehow, the smell of the floor reminds her of home. They’re not by any means unkempt—even the cell bars are polished smooth as glass—but something about being seated on the floor, her hands not minding the grit of ground that is not mirror-bright tiles and pearl and glass … it makes her think of childhood.
“I don’t want to kill you,” he says quietly.
She watches the side of his face as his eyes are cast to the ground, picking at something near his feet.
“You can be real with me,” Atricia tells him. “Really. I’m … I’m not … Chole, you’re the only person in the world who knows me. I promise you, the girl you knew in the slums is not gone. And I know the boy isn’t either.”
“You didn’t even say goodbye to your parents.” Chole takes a deep breath, lets it go, yet his eyes still stay glued to the floor. “The last thing your mother said was how proud she was of you, and she was sure you’d visit her someday. Her and your dad, they kept believing and believing … even years later, believing you were just busy. Oh, how busy a Queen’s life must be, they can’t even fathom it. They likely still believe in you, the fools.”
“I wouldn’t call my mother and father fools …” She chuckles. “They may not be the brightest in the fourth ward, but … but I love them and—and I’m sure they …”
Even as she says it, the words die on her tongue and lose their meaning. Chole’s voice has cut her in half. Just the sound of it, his voice in this empty cell, this empty hall … The fragile boyishness of it that’s still there, even after their teen years have abandoned them both and left them in the bodies of twenty-somethings, that voice grips her by the soul and squeezes, squeezes, squeezes.
“I’m sure they understand,” Chole finishes for her.
I wish you’d look at me, those two black endless eyes. “They don’t. That’s probably the worst of it … that they don’t know how their daughter could become so … egomaniacal. I know you think it too. I ran away with the Queenship, left everything behind, and I’m just … I’m just enjoying the pretty dresses and the lavish meals and this tall metal thing I live in. Really, I’m surprised no one’s tried to poison me yet. I’m such an easy target, like a bird in a cage.”
“You’re not the bird. You’re the vulture.”
“I deserve that,” she says instantly, not giving any thought to how much she actually agrees or disagrees with his sentiment.
He scrapes at the ground, scowling. His adorable face, it always seems to be scowling even when it’s not … even when he’s happy as a bee. “Maybe. Maybe I deserve this.”
“Chole, my Legacy is a lie.”
She blurts it so suddenly, like she couldn’t confess it quick enough. Something about being in his presence, about being here on the floor … She’s a girl again, and he’s her childhood confidant, the person she can tell anything to.
“I know,” he whispers.
“Of course you do.” She smiles to herself, leans her head against the uncomfortable bars and says, “You always seem to know anything about me before I can confess it. You’re just … unshockable.”
“I know it isn’t truth you can make people see,” he goes on. “Otherwise, you would make me see the truth that I am, despite my anger, in love with you. You would make me see that I’m an idiot for loving you. You would make me see that I should never have come up here, that I am a boy of the slums, always, a kid with dust in his fingernails.”
“Fuck it,” she breathes, rips off the pins in her hair and chucks them across the room, one by one. Chole looks up at her, startled. “Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.” She unravels the pretty design of hair on her head, lets it fall in a cascade down her shoulders. “Out with you,” she says happily, drunk with her joys, and crosses to the keypads at the control module. A dance of her fingers and the cell door containing Chole clicks open.
She grabs his hands—the softness of them surprises her—and she says, “Up with you, Chole. Up and out with you.”
“What … What do you mean?” His bewilderment twists his face, wrinkles his button-nose. “Where are we going?”
“Up,” she says, giggling. It’s instantaneous: Chole’s face brightens like a storm cleared from the sky by a great wind, even the black pools of his eyes convey boyish astonishment. “I’m going to show you,” she giggles again, unable to contain herself. “I know a secret way … Over here, Chole.”
And the two of them burst from the Queen’s Keeping, Chole in tatters, Atricia in her slip, and push through a spot in the wall, shimmying up a compartment, then emerging in the twisted stair. “Hurry, hurry,” she says, a laugh bouncing its way through her chest as they run, hand-in-hand, up the seven flights to the landing of her private chambers. He keeps asking where they’re headed, and she hushes him—“The bodyguard’s going to catch on soon and he’ll be following us. We must be quick, quick, quick!” No longer are they held down by their adultness; in this waltzing whimsy, they both reclaim their roles as children, boy and girl sprinting as though through cityscapes, up dirty streets that at one time Atricia had lovingly called home. “Up here, just one more flight!” He laughs and shows his teeth, his black mess of hair going left and right, her messy hairdo undone and flipping about, curls and spikes and stray gems.
Slipping into her chambers at the very summit of Cloud Tower, top of the world, she closes the door behind her and watches gleefully as Chole takes in the room with awe. “This is your living quarter?” he breathes, running a hand along the surface of a table. “Not a speck of dust.”
“Hope that doesn’t disappoint,” she says, giggling, then throws herself at the balcony. “Oh look, the stars! Chole, have you ever seen so many?”
He comes up to her side. His jaw can’t find a way to close itself, the twinkling army above winking secrets at him, even the stars laughing in silence. “You … you can’t see these so well from the slums, don’t you remember? Through smog and light and … and …” He can’t speak anymore, taken by the view.
Sharing this with him is the greatest gift this night has given her, but as she becomes more and more aware of the heart jumping in her chest, she realizes there are other gifts. “Chole,” she whispers. “Chole, I haven’t changed. I swear it.”
He looks at her from the side of his face, only one of his black eyes visible, his button-nose, his lips parted, he says, “And yet we have.”
Her own lips part as her gaze drifts to his mouth. Yet we have. They are not boy and girl anymore. The night’s grip on them and the stars pay witness to the fact that the two of them never knew one another in the way of adults. His body, it was once a boy’s, and hers, once a girl’s. Yet we have … and she wonders how he’s changed beneath those clothes.
When she realizes his eyes have fallen to her lips, that’s when her heart gives in completely: the crown, the title, the worries, the city, everything, it’s gone like it were never there.
The cool winds of the balcony play a song in their hair, tickling them, lifting them with invisible fingers. He puts a hand under the left strap of her slip, the softness of his touch surprising her once more. Still, he only sees her through the side of his face, his eye pouring into her the way she pours into her men, the way she hungers …
She knows that hunger so intimately, but to finally be the recipient of that appetite … Is this how t
he men felt?
Is this what it feels like … to be …
He lets fall the left strap, turns to face her, and slides another soft hand under the right strap. No words are needed; it falls, the whole slip falls, and before him stands the smooth, supple body of a woman he’s never met.
The boy from the slums stands back, his eyes move from her legs to her breasts to her neck where, like a sudden snake, he comes in and dares his lips on them.
Atricia Sunsong gasps.
The balcony answers with another breeze. She at the same time clenches tightly at his touch, releases herself as loose as the wind itself.
As free as the wind.
There is no telling how, but suddenly she’s found herself across the bed of a thousand men, and Chole is on top of her. He brings the shirt over his head, flings it aside like a bothersome thing. Kicking, his pants find the floor and his lips hover over her, slowly from her belly to her chest to her face, unsure which beautiful part they want to meet first. She giggles, overcome. He’s maddened with lust and a burning in his eyes.
Is this what it’s been like, all those times, all those men? Is this what I’ve missed? Is this …
And then their lips touch for the first time, and it tastes the way it was always meant to taste. Atricia feels a joyous queasiness, an agony that’s something between sadness and running for her life, and her hands clasp the hips of her boy from the slums, her boy that was always hers, and she pulls him in, ready.
This one, she begs, will never, ever leave.
Atricia
There are distant cries in the Lifted City, even before morning can find its way to the sky. What are they? Birds? The sound is alien, warped by the rough, thrashing air at her balcony.
The cries swirl and fly and tumble, lost in the streets below.
Atricia enjoys the warm embrace of Chole’s arms. They had spent the last countless hours alternating between sharing words and stories, and sharing hands and mouths. The sunlight has barely stained the horizon yet, a blanket of darkness still holding it hostage. Her body pressed into Chole’s, she feels him stirring in his silent, wordless brooding … lost in thoughts. The night was nothing else short of a dream in a world where dreaming is not possible after the age of two … Sleep may not find the likes of adults, but after sex, she longs for the closeness of two people gripping, idle conversation finding them and every little simple thing seeming deeper and more meaningful, their hearts and minds teleported to a world beyond the waking and the aware.
The night is at its last breath, she sees, and Chole is still hers to hold, for how long, better that no soul says.
She knows his thoughts without having to ask him. The passion and the memories pulled them together in the night, but the cold morning’s impending sense of duty and truth are sobering indeed. There is maybe-love in this bed, but there is also an uprising down below. There is warm breath at her ear from the boy she’s lifelong-craved, but warmer fires burn in the eyes of people who want her dead. His hand feels soft, even his arm, soft where it meets the skin of her naked breast and belly, but sharp and very unsoft weapons also look forward to meeting her skin.
“I can hear my bodyguard outside the door,” she whispers.
“I know.” Chole clears his throat, pulls her in tighter. “I heard him approach and knock once or twice while we were … um. Seems likely that he knows what you’ve done. And if he’s any piece of smart, he found my cell empty and knows who you’ve done it with.”
“I’m in big trouble, aren’t I?” She feels him smile against the back of her neck. Keep him here, keep him here forever and ever.
A soft knock at the door. Chole sits up instantly, the magic of their moment broken like a snapped necklace. Atricia can even hear the bouncing of imaginary pearls along the cold floor.
“They can wait,” she assures him in vain. He’s already pulling his tattered clothes onto his body with clumsy urgency. A boot tumbles from his grip, he curses. “Chole … They can wait, please …”
He moves to the balcony where he’d kicked his pants, stabs a leg each through them and pulls up, his arms flexing in the effort. She realizes that perhaps it is her who needs better awareness of their dire circumstance … Come now, Atricia … Recognize the danger you are in, fool woman, no matter which side of the battle you stand! But … for which side does Chole?
“Queen,” calls the voice from outside the secured door. It is Janlord, the only man in the whole Cloud Keep with whom she’d trust her life and her everything. “We must get you to safety. Now. Your life is in danger. They have breached the Keep, Attie … They’ve breached the Keep!”
Janlord’s voice always brought her comfort, but his words this morning carve a hollow spot of her chest.
“No,” she says, disbelieving. “No, no … I pardoned them! I sent them back, and all of them loved me. The people love their Queen. They—”
“Come, Attie! Now!” cries Janlord.
He has never spoken so rudely to the Queen … and hearing it, neither does Atricia feel insult nor hurt; she only knows fear.
“Chole, you have to hide,” she begs, quickly drawing a hooded robe over her shoulders and nervously tying it about the waist. “They will fight them off. I will keep my Queenship and my throne. They can’t get in, they simply can’t—Listen to me.”
She’s annoyed—Chole won’t look at her, fussing with his shirt and staring off the balcony in a stupor.
“You’re in as much danger as I,” she presses on, “with this threat on its way.”
“The threat is already here,” he mumbles.
She moves to his side, and the alien cries she heard only a moment ago find an entirely new and disturbing context. Strewn across the Crystal Court below, visible plainly from her balcony, there are, upon tall spikes of wood, the slain and mutilated bodies of the countless rebels she saw in her throne room. Each of the ones she had charmed with her Legacy and pardoned, now dead. The men and women—even the children she’d twisted with her love—the ones who were to return to the slums with deep and permanent love for their Queen … now hanging corpses for the birds.
For the vultures.
“Chole,” she breathes, gripping his arm and squeezing as she watches the bodies sway and teeter in the caustic air. She feels so sick, fear boiling inside her with such discomfort she forgets her post as Queen for one moment. She’s become just a scared little girl, a child with no friend or comfort to turn to but the boy at her side. Make it go away, she begs stupidly. Make it go away and protect me … I am Queen of Atlas, everyone loves the Queen …
“You could concede, Atricia. Surrender to them.” He’s decided it, turning her so their noses face, inches apart, breath and breath he says, “I won’t let that throne kill you. Please, Atricia … I am one of them. They will spare your life if you let go the throne and—”
“No!” she cries angrily, gripped at the throat by rage. “I will not scurry away like a scared kitten and hand them my throne. They don’t deserve my throne. It’s mine, Chole! I’m the one with the Legacy, I earned my throne. They’re just greedy and want it all for themselves. They’ll see what having it all does to a person … They’ll see, eating each other up after I’m gone, clawing at one another in a race for dominion and for gold and … and … Oh, Chole, I can see the blood in their teeth … You don’t need to be Queen of Truths to see the blood in their teeth.”
The darkness of Chole’s eyes cuts deeper than any sword could hope to, and that brings Atricia to stunned silence. How can he not agree? How is Chole so stubborn, so blind to the savagery that brought him here?
In the voice of a little boy from the slums, he quietly asks, “Where did the girl go?”
She feels her lip quivering, so she bites it into submission. Stop it. Already his face is blurring, her eyes betraying her and letting go. Stop it, stop it, stop it. His deep black pools surging into her like friends, imploring her, begging, searching the recesses of her soul for something … something … What
is it you hope to see? She’s gone.
And without a trace of warning, Chole pushes his big lips into Atricia’s, breathing her in like a collapsing star. Their warm bodies press into each other as close as two creatures possibly can, crushingly close … the strangling embrace that brings ache to her tender arms, throbbing to her swollen lips, and leaves her chest swimming with the flight of birds.
Their lips disconnect, he lowers his eyes to meet hers. There is a flash outside, a flickering of light, and for one tiny instant she sees a reflection of herself in Chole’s bottomless pits for eyes: a girl in a queen’s robe, a girl in love, a girl scared to death, a girl with a wish locked in her heart, a girl begging forgiveness, a girl laughing and running in the rain, a girl with dirt in her hair and pride in her eyes.
Then the girl is gone.
“Janlord,” she calls out, madness stirring her to action, whipping away from her boy and angrily thrashing open the chamber door. There, the panicked Marshal stands with two frightened guards at his side and the bodyguard Tauron brooding against the opposite wall. “Janlord, the Queen gives her commands. Find the Marshal of Order and tell him that the Queen—”
“The Marshal of Order is dead,” he says simply, voice trembling like a little boy.
Not even death stands in the way of a Queen and her orders. “Then you are Marshal of Order and Peace now, and I command you to send your best men, all your men to the base floors. You—bodyguard, Tauron—to my side!” The man-thing obeys, face thickened with the stuff of dark determination, and he saunters past her into her chambers, the man like a nest of black metal beasts. “And you, Janlord … Eradicate all the rebels, keep them from me, protect your Queen as is your duty.”
“Our guards, many of them have turned sides,” he whimpers. She has never heard him like this, acting a baby. He’s going to cry before his guards!—I can’t believe this!—Why, Janlord? Why? “They are letting the rebels through … Many are surrendering, my Queen, they’re joining them. It is lost … it is lost … the Lifted City is lost.”
