Sordid Empire

by Julie Johnson

  Owen clears his throat, drawing my attention back. “If you’d actually bothered to have a coronation instead of locking yourself away in this castle, it would’ve been a record turn-out, I’m sure.”

  I recoil slightly. “I was a bit busy attending the funerals of thirty-nine Germanians. Forty, if you include my father in that tally. It didn’t exactly feel appropriate to hold a big ceremony in honor of my new reign while I was burying my countrymen.”

  It also hadn’t felt appropriate to enjoy the holiday season as it came and went without fanfare. Or to celebrate my twenty-first birthday as it slipped by unmarked. Or do anything at all except cry and cry and cry until there were no tears left to fall.

  I’d spent Christmas curled up in a ball in my bed — unmoving, unwilling to see anyone. Not even the servants who showed up at my door bearing trays of food and bottles of water. My birthday and New Year’s Eve passed in much the same fashion.

  “That’s not fair,” Owen says, a thread of hurt in his voice. “I wasn’t suggesting a kingdom-wide round of JELL-O shots in your name, Ems. I’m just saying, the people would’ve rallied around you. Supported you. Comforted you.” He sighs. “If ever there was a time Germania has needed a fresh start… it’s now, when we’re at our absolute lowest.”

  “Why are you so sure they’d turn out in spades to support me? Last I checked, a large chunk of this country wasn’t too happy with the Lancaster line.”

  “There hasn’t been a single protest since the day that truck exploded in the square. But I’m sure you know that already. You must get security briefings.”

  I glance away, blowing out a sharp breath. I can’t refute him. It’s true — the anti-monarchist protests, led predominantly by a group called the Black Bandanas, have been noticeably absent in the wake of the terror attacks three months ago. The ringleaders, whose names I refuse to utter out of respect for the victims, were killed by their own hands — incinerated into mist by the homemade explosives that filled the back of their truck.

  Cowards, all four of them.

  I wish they’d lived, if only so they could be made to suffer like the families of those whose lives they stole. If only so I could punish them properly for the atrocities they committed in the name of nationalism.

  But I cannot say that in a press conference. My sense of stolen vengeance would be of no comfort to anyone — not me, not my subjects, not those directly affected by the attacks.

  Others can cry and scream and rage at the heavens. They can shake their fists at the sky and demand answers from a god they no longer believe in as tears of rage and grief streak down their reddened faces. They are free to be broken in a way I will never be.

  Not the queen.

  Never the queen.

  I alone must stand tall, a beacon of enduring strength and unshakeable Germanian pride. I alone must carry this burden on my shoulders, never faltering, never hesitating. And the weight of that — the unfathomable, excruciating weight of it — presses my heels so hard against the ground, some days it is difficult to keep my knees from buckling beneath me.

  Time and space offer some degree of solace. The slightest easing of immeasurable grief, like a corset loosened after an endless night — allowing your ribs to slide back into their rightful slots, letting life return to tight-cinched lungs. Those first few breaths feel so free, it’s jarring. As though your lungs have forgotten how to perform their only function after so long in confinement.

  Ah, there it is, you think, pulling in an aching gasp. Air.

  Inhale, exhale.

  I remember this, now.

  Riggs, who I promoted to Commander as soon as my reign began, has made it his personal mission to root out every radical even remotely connected to the attacks, vowing that nothing like this will ever happen on Germanian soil again. His predecessor, a foul man named Ramsey Bane, was far less disciplined. Not to mention highly displeased to find himself dismissed from a post he’d held for decades without so much as a fruit basket for his service.

  Owen’s eyes trap mine again. “If you don’t want to talk about this, I understand. But…”

  “I want to know. Everything.” I steady my shoulders. “The only thing worse than knowing why these attacks happened is not knowing.”

  He nods gravely. “Last time we spoke, I told you I was trying to infiltrate the Black Bandanas. It took some time, but eventually I succeeded in joining their group.”

  “I know. I actually saw you with them one day, when protestors surrounded my motorcade.”

  “You were inside that limo?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Ems. That must’ve been scary.”

  “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

  “Right.” He clears his throat with a touch of awkwardness. “These past few years, there’s been a resurgence of the anti-monarchist movement. There are several different protest groups, all with objectives of instituting a true democracy in Germania. The Black Bandanas are by far the most active. Not to mention the most aggressive.”

  Reaching up to my face, I wipe at an imaginary gob of spit on my cheek — a parting gift from a Black Bandana during one of my public appearances several months ago. I’ll never forget the look in that man’s eyes as my guards dragged him out of sight.

  Lancaster trash!

  Death to the monarchy!

  It’s strange to be hated so vehemently for something entirely out of your control. For the blood in your veins and the DNA that knits your molecules together.

  “I was hoping, if I got close enough, I could learn their plans before anything bad happened,” Owen continues, his face a mask of remorse. “Obviously, I failed in that measure. The truck attack… when I think about what happened to all those people… what very nearly happened to you… I’m so ashamed of myself for not being able to prevent it.”

  “No, Owen—”

  “I was so damn close to their operations! It was right under my fucking nose and, still, I missed it somehow.”

  “It’s not your fault, Owen. You couldn’t have known their plans. And, even if you did, it’s not like you could’ve stopped them without getting yourself killed in the process. They were determined to wage war on the Lancasters, no matter the collateral damage.”

  “I should’ve done more. Earned their trust, embedded myself deeper. Then I could’ve made a real difference. I could’ve actually been useful to you.”

  Heart panging, I reach out and lace my fingers through his. I squeeze as hard as I can. “You did everything you could. You tried. Most people wouldn’t even do half that much.”

  He returns my squeeze, his strong grip swallowing mine. “I wanted to come back right away, as soon as it happened. But I needed to be sure they didn’t have a secondary attack planned. I had to be certain you were safe before I dared show my face here.” He pauses. “And I thought maybe if I had viable intel to contribute… you’d be able to forgive me for fucking up so severely.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I’m just happy you’re safe. I worry about you, you know.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Too bad, Harding. We’re BFF. That second f stands for forever, you know. So you’re officially stuck with me until we’re both old and gray.”

  The laugh I expected never comes. Instead, he takes a deep breath, seeming to steady himself. “I stayed with the Black Bandanas after the bombing. What remains of them, anyway. Most disbanded after they heard about the truck attack. They may be unhappy with the monarchy, but the majority of them aren’t radicals. They’re just normal people. They want governmental changes, not carnage in the streets.” He shudders a little. “What happened that day… it drove a wedge through the entire antimonarchist movement. It may’ve been meant to spark disenchantment into full-scale rebellion, but from what I can see, it’s had the opposite effect. Members scattered to the winds, unwilling to be associated with such an extremist group. Suddenly, a few tax dollars going to fund the occasional royal affair seems a small price to pay for safet
y within the realm.”

  “For now,” I murmur. “They may have forgotten their anger momentarily, buried as it is beneath this national horror we are all facing… but once the haze of grief and shock has thawed, all those issues that made them radical in the first place will still remain. This surge of patriotism is just a stop-gap.” I shake my head, eyes fixed far beyond my friend, far beyond this room, to a future that has yet to be shaped. “I may not know much, but I do know we can’t just ignore the antimonarchists and hope they go away. We can’t continue to treat them as pests to be exterminated. We need to fix the root cause of their frustrations. We need to actually sit down and talk to them, person to person, until we’ve reached some kind of accord. Otherwise… I fear we’ll end up right back here again — in six months or six years. With more blue and gold flags flying at half-mast as the heartbreakingly small caskets of our country’s children are lowered into the earth. And I’m not willing to take that risk. Not as long as there’s a crown on my head and an opportunity to prevent more death.”

  Owen’s gaze moves over my face, studying it with near-clinical intensity.

  “What?” I ask, defensive. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You’re…”

  My brows lift.

  “You’re different,” he informs me. “You’ve changed so much since I last saw you. It’s making my head spin.”

  “I’m still the same old Emilia you grew up with.”

  “Don’t be defensive. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it’s pretty damn amazing. The little girl with lopsided pigtails and ripped overalls who lived next door is now…”

  “A not-so-little girl with a lopsided ponytail and ripped skinny jeans?”

  “I was going to say a compassionate, contemplative leader. But yes, that too.”

  A half-smile twists at my mouth when he reaches out and tugs on an errant lock of hair. “I’m proud of you, Ems. Have I told you that?”

  “Don’t be cheesy.”

  He holds his hands up in surrender. “No cheddar here. I’m being honest. I know you’ve had a tough few months. I know stepping into this new role hasn’t been easy. But I’d be a pretty shitty person if I didn’t tell you I think you’ve handled it better than anyone else could’ve. You… I think you were always meant to wind up here.”

  “Who are you and what have you done with Owen?” I tease, trying to deflect some of the ache his words have set off inside my chest. “Are you the same man who ordered me to walk out of this life and never look back? When I first told you I was planning to take on the role of heir, you practically bit my head off. Hell, you nearly came to blows with—” I pull up short before the name Carter pops out of my mouth.

  Owen’s lips part to retort, but he must think better of whatever he’s about to say because they shut again without uttering a single syllable.

  “I guess I’m just surprised to have your support,” I murmur softly. “You’ve been adamantly against this from the start. Me, becoming a Lancaster. Becoming royal.”

  “Don’t have much choice, do I?” He shrugs, a casual move that fails to mask the stiffness of his shoulders. “This is your life. If I want to be a part of it, I guess I just have to accept certain things.” His voice goes rough around the edges. “The girl I knew is gone. Emilia Lennox is gone. And as much as I fucking hate that… as much as it fucking kills me… This is who you are now.”

  I flinch at the unmistakable needle of disdain threaded through his words. The word hate crashes around my head like a wrecking ball, smashing a foundation of friendship I thought impervious to structural damage after all this time.

  This is who you are now.

  Owen must see the look on my face and realize the pain he’s just inadvertently caused.

  “Sorry. That came out harsher than I intended.”

  “No,” I whisper, swallowing hard. “I think it came out exactly as you intended.”

  “Ems…”

  “It’s fine. I know how you feel about the monarchy. I won’t take it personally.”

  A lie, of course.

  How could I not take it personally that my best friend doesn’t like the person I’ve become? That he wishes I was still Emilia Lennox, rather than Emilia Lancaster?

  I try to fight off the tears, but quickly fail. Owen sees them glossing over my eyes and his expression crumbles.

  “Fuck, Ems, I shouldn’t have...” He runs a hand through his mop of hair. “I’m sorry. I’m a prick. I take it back. Okay?”

  I shake my head, unable to respond. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, all that will come out is a sob.

  The girl I knew is gone.

  With a pained sigh, Owen reaches out and gathers me into his arms. I don’t fight him. My face hits his chest, my hands ball in the fabric of his shirt. For a long while, he just holds me close, his heart thumping steadily beneath my cheek. I absorb his strength like a fortifying elixir, a balm to wounds so deep, it’s hard to see any possible course of treatment that might heal them. With my eyes buried in the crook of his shoulder, I allow a few tears to leak out, chastising myself all the while for falling apart in front of him.

  “Oh, Ems.” His hand strokes down my hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Okay?”

  “Mmm.”

  “I feel awful.”

  “It’s fine.” I sniff. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “So you forgive me?”

  “Of course I do.” My voice is clogged with unshed tears. “You’re my best friend.”

  There’s a marked pause. I wait for him to volley back, to return the sentiment, but it simply hangs there in the air — a baton passed between two runners with entirely different finish lines in mind.

  “Owen?”

  A tremble moves through him as he inhales sharply, then retreats a step — his arms falling away, his hands fisting at his sides. As I meet his eyes across the sudden gulf between us, the strangest sensation comes over me; that this is the last embrace we will ever share, the last time I will ever find myself crushed against that familiar chest, crying my eyes out the way you only can in front of someone you trust completely.

  “Emilia.” I know he’s serious when he uses my full name. “I am your best friend. I will always be your best friend. But in spite of that… and maybe because of that… I have to tell you the truth.” His brown eyes are more sincere than I’ve ever seen them, stripped bare of all posturing and pretense. “I haven’t seen you as just my friend in a long, long time.”

  I go still — my body, mind, and heart all ceasing their functions at once, like I’ve been thrown in a vat of icy water. I am frozen on the spot.

  “I’m not sure when it started,” he continues ruefully. “Years ago. Probably before I even realized it was happening. I always figured, if I just waited long enough, it would work itself out. That if I was patient, if I didn’t push matters, we’d end up together someday. Like we were always supposed to. Like we would’ve if not for… all of this.”

  My mouth gapes — a yawning cavern of stunned disbelief. I try to recover, but it’s too late. He’s already seen the shock twisting my features.

  “Owen—”

  He cuts me off before I have a chance to get his name past my lips. “Don’t. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to console me over this. I know I’m an idiot.”

  “You are not an idiot!”

  “I am, though. Because I had the thing I wanted most in the world, and I let it slip through my fingers.” He gives a heartbreaking laugh that catches in his throat, one hand reaching up to thread through that thick head of blond hair — his trademark nervous habit. “I mean, how fucking stupid is that? Waiting for the right time? Assuming the universe would align just because I wanted it to?”

  “Owen…”

  “Don’t. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I have no one to blame except myself.” His head shakes. “For the rest of my life, I will regret waiting to make you mine. I just needed you to know
how I feel. Just once. Because if I could go back… if I could do things differently… God, Ems, I would break every fucking clock in the world if it meant fixing our shitty timing.”

  I’m doing my best to keep my emotions tightly in check, to keep my expression empty, but it’s a struggle. I don’t know what to say to comfort him. If this were any other moment, I’d reach out and pull his tall frame into an embrace. Scruff his hair and say, Hey now, don’t beat yourself up, we’ll fix this together. But this is no normal moment. The thing that’s hurting him here is…

  Me.

  We fall into a stilted silence that lingers a little too long, neither of us sure how to navigate back to safer waters. It’s strange — feeling uncomfortable in Owen’s presence. For as long as I can remember, he has been my default. My comfort zone. My safe place to land. With him, I’ve always let my walls fall away and been my most authentic self.

  But this new tension in the air between us tells me things are different now. That, through no fault of our own, we have found ourselves on opposite sides of an emotional blockade, unable to break through to each other without damaging ourselves beyond repair. As I look up into brown eyes as familiar as my own in the mirror, I wonder if I could ever scale this new wall between us.

  Or if I’d even want to.

  That girl who crawled into his bedroom window during thunderstorms, who climbed the ladder of his treehouse, who needed him to soothe away every bout of social anxiety and public humiliation at the hands of the popular kids in secondary school…

  She no longer exists. Not anywhere except in memory.

  And that woman I likely would’ve become… Not Emilia Lancaster or Emilia Lennox but Emilia Harding, a wife who’d walk down the aisle in a ball of white, a mother who’d raise three towheaded boys in the exact image of their father, a psychologist who’d laugh lightly over the blind luck of meeting her soulmate in the backyard treehouse…

  She’s slipped out of reach, as well.

  I cannot reclaim her. I cannot go backwards to a fate that no longer fits, a favorite jacket outgrown after an unexpected growth spurt. And I cannot tailor my new self into a shape that bears any resemblance to the life I might’ve fashioned with Owen.