The Autumn Queen No. 10 – If You Could See

This is #10 of The Autumn Queen.  To start at the beginning, go here.  

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Firelight played over the pieces on the maps, casting shadows across the battlefield. The logs were from the Deepwood, and gave off a reddish glow as they burned; both the light and shadow that fire cast left everything looking bloody.

“Forward,” my brother said definitively. “A direct assault. We’ll ride over them all.”

“It would invite nothing but direct retaliation, sir,” another officer began. “If you could but see–”

See?” Elias interrupted, lifting his chin. He tipped his head, thoughtful, and turned to look at the speaker, his hollowed gaze staring down the commander who had spoken.

The commander looked to me, startled, but I offered no reprieve; he was grey in the temples — he should have known better.

“If I could see, leftenant?” Elias asked, and his words were ice and fire as one. “With whose eyes would you have me see, sir? Those of my sister, the commander who is now your general, at whose behest I am here to discuss strategy? Yours? Should I pluck them from your empty head and use them better than you are?”

“I-I-I only m-meant–” the officer struggled.

“SILENCE!” Elias shouted, towering over the man. “I did not carve out my eyes, boy, so that you could make witless remarks!” The officer slunk down, shrinking away from my brother, who bared his teeth and looked fair furious. “I gave my eyes to the Unending Night. And now my vision is far, far better than yours. Is that clear?” he growled.

“Yes, Eminence, sir.” The officer looked as though he might swallow his own tongue.

“Good,” Elias spat. “Now get out.”

“Sir?”

“Out.”

The officer was gone without another word. As soon as we were alone in the tent, Elias made a show of looking around to make sure we were alone, and then began to laugh. I couldn’t help myself and laughed with him until I felt tears stinging my eyes.

“Oh, by the stars, I could smell his fear!” Elias crowed. “He sounded like he might piss himself! I swear upon Her nine faces I do not miss my eyes at all when I can rout a slip-tongued idiot like that one.”

“If you’re finished,” I said, calming my laughter enough to redirect our attention back to the field. “We really ought to come up with a better plan than ‘ride over them all’. They’re your countrymen, Elias.”

“No, Elodie, they’re not,” he said, and he looked up, and off into a distance only his ruined eyes could comprehend. “They’re hers, now.”

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The Autumn Queen No. 9 – Treason

This is #9 of The Autumn Queen.  To start at the beginning, go here.  

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I went to visit him, there in the dark, where those who have committed the worst crimes are kept. I walked down the dank halls where the ghosts of our nation’s birth lived — soldiers who had given everything to see the queen’s coronation, who ultimately failed, as she did. They had been down there so long, they were silent, simply waiting for time to die, as they would not, without some measure of violence.

I could see him huddled in the back of the cell, and I could smell the reek of him, blood and piss, sweat and shit. “Kellis,” I called, crooning to him as though he were a feral animal, sing-songing to him to see if he would come closer to me.

“Elodie?”

He was at the front in an instant, and hand my hand in his, through the bars. His grip was fierce, and the knives came faster than I could have imagined. “Kellis,” I pled. “This can’t be changed. What you did… it’s treason.”

“What we did, Elodie. What we did for Elias. That was treason,” he said. “What I did after? That was love.”

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What It Is About Christmas

“Dunno what it is about Christmas,” she said, looking down at her empty hands. Chipped nails fiddle with the fraying edges of her cheap fingerless gloves. “Sometimes I duck into the churches that stay open overnight. Around this time of year, the choirs are always practicing. I like to sneak in and sing with them,” she explains. Her hands move to pull out the near-empty pack of cigarettes, to move through the familiar ritual of lighting a cigarette, but she stops partway through to play with the rolled-up paper, frowning at it, at herself.

“I don’t write to Santa anymore,” she adds, struggling for the words, “but I like to pick a note off the giving tree they got over at the Food & Fun, n’get a present for a little kid what prob’ly ain’t gonna get one.”

“I watch ’em skate at Rockefeller. And. I watch them light up the tree. And. I feed the pigeons in Central Park n’scare ’em towards happy couples walkin in a winter wonderland,” she says, scuffing her booted foot on the sidewalk, kicking up a whirl of dry flakes, as though she were in a snow globe.

“I sneak into caroling groups that go around to the suburbs,” she adds. “Even got hot cocoa one year. And. I work the soup kitchens three times a week starting in November. And–”

She scrubs the back of her hand across her cheeks to dash away the tears that will only freeze there, and clears her throat.

Her expression shifts from one of calm recall to one of startled pain and then she clenches her teeth against it, biting it off, and trying to swallow. “–I l-lost the guitar,” she says, and her shoulders slump, and she hugs herself, forcing the words out. “I found a place to sleep — it was warm. I hadn’t had a good place in weeks. But someone took my backpack, and the guitar, n’all the money I had saved,” she explains. “Wasn’t much, but it was all I had. I’d’ve given ’em all the money, the backpack, the food, even my boots, if I coulda kept the guitar.”

She puts the cigarette between her lips and lights it, breathing in and exhaling clove, watching the blue plumes. “And,” she says, and draws a ragged breath.

“I miss you.”

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Flashback

“Fuck Christmas.”

“You’re like this every year.”

“I maintain: Fuck Christmas.”

“You love the lights.”

“They stop working every year. I have to take them all apart and try again.”

“You love the holiday dinners.”

“Just gimme Chinese.”

“You love presents.”

“Cheap shit I don’t need and I’ll prob’ly throw away as soon as no one’s looking.”

“You love Christmas carols.”

“F’I hear another chipmunk in the next twelve days, M’gonna kill everyone with a mall-Santa.”

“So, what you’re saying is–”

“Fuck Christmas.”

“Fuck Christmas it is.”

“Hey… what’s that?”

“Cheap shit you don’t need.”

“Looks like it wasn’t cheap.”

“Wasn’t.”

“…Maybe I can make an exception.”

“You sure?”

“Spill a drop and I will cut you like Olive.”

“…Olive?”

“Olive, the other reindeer. Never let Rudy join in any reindeer games. Bitch was cruel.”

“…”

“What?”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Give it here, daft bint. Merry Christmas.”

“Love you, too.”

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Haiku Story

I never knew what
you were asking for but I
still find me flailing

to give it even
when I’m certain I should just
be giving up.

Get past it. Get through
it. You’ve given me the kind
of advice that makes

me want to slit my
wrists. How hopeless can someone
get? Do you know how

hard I wished to be
good enough for you? Us? Or
how hard I had tried

to be someone else
for you, certain that you could
never love someone

like me. I came all
unwound, you know. I came all
undone. I’d taken

bits and pieces of
myself, uncertain as to
how they fit us then,

knowing only that
some of them fit with you. Please
wake up with me. Tell

me stories again.
Let me see those eyes, colors
I never thought I’d

love until they were
yours. What will it take to sweep
you off your feet? What

will it take now, to
make me greater than I am,
enough to deceive,

to trick you into
never leaving me, for it
must be a trick — no

one as beautiful
as you could ever stay with
me for too long. I

have loved you, darling,
ever since you showed me the
tenderness locked up

behind youthful eyes
that grew up far, far too soon.
What glitter we have,

glitter discovered. You’ve
made it easy to lose all
those I ever left

behind. If it’s true
you never forget those you’ve
loved, then until now,

until you, in my
life, I haven’t ever loved
anyone else.

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