Soli Deo gloria
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection. So I had actually started writing this fic before Valentine's Day with the thought of 'Hmmmm, I'll finish this by Valentine's Day and it'll be like three thousand words long and cute and adorable.' I HAVE A DOC OVER 12,000 WORDS LONG ON THIS AND IT ISN'T EVEN FINISHED. XP
First chapter. *gulpy*
IN THE MEANTIME CUTIENESS.
The months following the marriage of Prince Maxon and the Chosen among the Selected, the hot-tempered and brazen Lady American Singer, massive construction from the ground-up happened all around the nation. Besides teams of guards being sent to set up perimeters around the most trashed of the South, the wedding had given hope to the nation. Like King Clarkson marrying below himself a Four, Prince Maxon, now the reigning monarch of all of Illéa, climbed steadily up the public opinion ladder as he not only instituted laws of Illéa, but showed the public his own personal attentions to equality in their nation: He married, so willingly, a vibrant refreshing Five, and as a result the nation was recovering slowly but surely from the rebel attack on the royal palace. After all, the provinces' vote of confidence in the monarchy actually took a downturn following the devastating news of the murders of King Clarkson and sweet-tempered Queen Amberly; if the rebels, a constant thorn in the nation's side and a constant worry that sent many parents of all castes looking worriedly over their shoulders in paranoia that rebels were bounding around the corner to come slay their sons and daughters, could easily gain access into the royal palace, the one building in the entire nation with the utmost security protecting the nation's greatest treasures, how safe could they, common citizens, be?
Constant outpourings of mail flooded the palace everyday, taking over the entire postal office and forcing the operation to be extended into the next room over. Maxon's days after the rebel attack, besides recovering, were full of his dictations to his secretary of letters in reply. In between lessons in being a queen and plans for the greatest royal wedding Illéa had yet been subjected to, America joined him in writing letters of reassurance to the worried demanding citizens. Especial attention and tender care was paid to those written by lower castes. America, despite the reports of threats to the families of the higher Elite during the Selection, felt an almost indifferent spite to the castes of Three and up, considering how they were able to easily buy the protection of several ex-soldiers and such. They could buy their security, while everyone Four and under was vulnerable because of their slight bank accounts.
Between the letter writing and the rebuilding of broken-down, rebel-decimated districts in the lower provinces, the King and Lady were wedded, and the next year, that ethereal year following the union that is supposed to be light and loving, innocent and infinite, for the two newlyweds, became draining, time-managed and micro-planned days, which became weeks, which became months.
One late January night, enjoying the fresh breeze of a balmy Angeles winter night out on the King's Room's balcony, America's moment of refreshment was interrupted (gladly) by an anxious and sighing young king.
"America, it's winter," Maxon said worriedly as he joined her side. He appraised her silky nightdress and thick bathrobe and decided the combination was a sure-fire formula for pneumonia. "The last thing we need is for the young queen of Illéa to be fallen upon with a deadly disease."
"Maxon," America said, extending a hand to test the slight breeze blowing gently, almost tenderly, across the young couple. "It's sixty-five degrees out. It's pretty much fall in Carolina."
Maxon clasped this extended hand in his, sandwiching it between his two warm care-worn hands. Instantly they became warmer and hotter between his gesture of affection. "The last thing I need is for you to become ill, my dear," he said. He hastened to recover from this familiar blunder as he recognized his mistake via the obvious rolling of America's eyes. "My America," he said gently, craning his neck to look into her eyes, for they were cast from her steady gaze to the gardens below them, to the city-scape of Angeles displayed against the horizon that late night. The clock struck eleven and the young king sought her gaze.
America's eyes saw him and her hands immediately employed themselves in keeping busy. "It'd be horrible if I got sick. All the visits from relations and allies from foreign countries would have to be canceled or delayed; letters wouldn't be written, as my poor throat would be so hoarse from disease I could barely breathe, never mind assist in running an entire country. It'd be horrible; all I could do is lay in my huge comfy bed surrounded by warm quilts and adoring, attentive loyal servants, and be served hot tea and warm pastries and get warm baths and long, luxurious naps," she said, and groaned longingly. How nice it would be for a day to be ill, if just to relax and take it easy and have a clear mind.
"Oh, don't tempt me," Maxon said, sighing. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
"A day to do nothing but enjoy doing nothing," America purred imploringly. Her fingers pulled the sleeves of His Majesty's long-sleeve white polo into doubled-over folds at his elbows; they'd been unbuttoned and flapping before her masterful tidying righted them. She fixed the King's deliciously crooked collar but left the first two buttons to his polo open, allowing her to see his chest deepening as he exhaled and strengthening with ease as he breathed in. Her fingers traced along the top of the almost-see-through clothing the puncture wound of the penetrating bullet Maxon had taken for her. It was an admirable scar she couldn't get off her mind sometimes. He wore that as a badge of honor for only her to see, for he attained it only for her sake.
"My lovely little wife is a charming temptress," Maxon said, amused but half caught in her spell anyway.
America sighed and threw the idea away. Too idealistic for it to do more than entertain and hold the fancies of the exhausted king and queen.
"Speaking of it being winter, you're severely undressed, Your Highness," America informed him seriously. She buttoned his top close, and his nimble fingers caught hers. She raised her eyebrows and said sternly, "Your life is in danger, Your Majesty. It is my royal duty to protect the monarchy."
"Why do you like to use my arguments against me?" Maxon wondered mournfully.
"Because you allow me to, you hypocrite," America smirked. She pulled back down his shirt sleeves and straightening her back, said, "No pneumonia for you, Maxon."
"Oh, but if I get sick I can lay around all day in bed—" Maxon started dramatically.
America glared at him.
Maxon exploded into a wide-open white smile, almost giggling. Yes; the king of Illéa, giggling. The absolute horror. If their enemies saw this, they'd run in pure terror.
"Your Highness," she intoned in a warning voice.
Maxon immediately sucked back in any hysterical laughing that would set his queen into a dramatic temper rage, causing her to flounce her way away from the balcony and enjoy the company of her ladies' maid rather than that of her husband. He clasped her hands in his and said, craning his head and looking into her sharp grey eyes with his warm, imploring brown ones, "How am I to tell you our task for tomorrow if this is the reception I shall receive?"
"I can take it," America said firmly, even as she inwardly dreaded the inescapable duties of a reigning monarch. What would they do? Settle a dispute between land ownership between rebels down South and the provinces? Reorganize an effort to bring up the status of an Eight, completely wiping it out and merging all those low-life, scum-of-the-earth, the dirt-on-the-bottom-of-Illéa's shoe with the next lowest caste on the totem pole, the hardworking, poverty-stricken Sevens?
Being a revolutionary breath of fresh air to the constrained, stilted Illéan monarchy was, needless to say, draining.
Maxon could tell she was ready for matters of state, so he found himself smiling a little as he said, "We're going to engage in a little spring cleaning."
America's eyebrows wrinkled and her entire demeanor spoke of curiosity and confusion rather than resignation to a higher purpose. Didn't they have mountains of palace-born-and-bred maids, butlers, porters, assistants, and cooks to take care of the cleaning of the palace? Scullery maids scrubbed toilets, maids swept and wiped down the greasy banisters slick from dozens of people sliding their hand down the supports as they descended down the tall, exercise-inducing staircases, and ladies' maids waited upon the distinguished ladies of the palace they'd been assigned to, keeping them fresh and clean via the wonderful installation of the state-of-the-art bathrooms and vanities. What on earth was in the palace that needed hands-on cleaning by the highest people in the land, the Ones—the king and queen?
"Are we cleaning our way through your office? You and your secretary are horrible at filing," America ventured.
Maxon shook his head.
"Do you have some clothes in your drawers you've realized are out of fashion this season, and want my eye to help you pick-and-choose your new sleeker, less-is-more closet?" America wondered.
Maxon withheld his laughter excellently; only his beautiful eyes shone with amusement and mirth.
America felt the answer was on the tip of her tongue; Maxon's reaction to her questions told her that much. She asked several more times several plausible things all to do with the monarchy, from letters to foreign relations to addressing slacking employees of the palace. Each time he shook his head, not daring to open his mouth lest he reveal the truth before his thoroughly exasperated wife.
He was able to keep his lips sealed to get his desired effect; America blustered and blushed and was thoroughly annoyed with her childish husband. "I give up," she finally smacked against him. Her usually pale cheeks were aflame with splotches of harsh red coloring, like a drop of scarlet paint dropped on a white piece of paper and allowed to spread every which way. She dropped her hands and threw them up in a surrendering gesture; her eyes never left his; his never lost their charm and brightness, to her furious discovery. "What are we, the Ones of the land, doing tomorrow, Maxon?" she demanded.
Maxon's fingers played along the railing encircling the balcony and he turned his head to view the gardens. Obviously he took his time, and enraged America more by the next move he made: he whistled.
Of all the infuriating, enraging, stupid, stalling, casual, aggravating, insulting, instigating, manly things he could've done—!
"You're teasing me," America huffed.
Maxon smiled sweetly at her. "You're so adorable when you're angry."
"Well, I'm about to be the cutest girl in the entire kingdom at this rate if you don't tell me!"
Maxon's air grew solemn, then, and America knew she was finally going to get an answer out of him. He looked off to the landscape on the horizon, of beautiful Angeles disappearing into a spray of lights, looking like a pale dark pasture with only sweet wild peonies sticking out on it. "You and I, and only you and I, are going to search through Gregory Illéa's diaries tomorrow. Gather them all together and collect important information. Anything to help us find a way of bringing down the caste system. He made the system; we'll just reverse what he did."
America's mouth dropped open; finally, after months of marriage and only a sneak peek into that library during her Selection, the two of them, hand-in-hand, would dive deep into the depths of that wicked manipulative man's soul, to find some strange logical reasoning behind the creation of Illéa's caste system, and use it against him to tear the entire structure down.
So the only question left on her lips after the rest had fled from sheer shock was "Why?"
Maxon's face became enrobed in a mask of confusion. Eyebrows raised curiously, he asked, "Why? Is that what you're asking me, America?"
"Yes," America said. She gulped and continued in a calmer, less stark-struck voice. "We've been incredibly caught up in dealing with the country's immediate issues now. Why this sudden dive into its rich, painful, unknown history?"
"Because I thought of the idea a few nights ago, when I was thinking of the process of disassembling the caste system, and how hard it will be to take down something so instilled in our society. I thought then 'There must be a time before the caste system was made. After all, something like this needs time for its roots to set.' Then I thought of the library and the innermost thoughts of Gregory Illéa. Surely if we investigate, we can find the ways he implemented the castes and reverse their effects. I thought, in order to take down something that's been around our entire lives, we must go to its beginning, where it was at its weakest, and bring it down to that again."
He smiled a weak, almost bitter smile. "Why not now? Letter-writing can wait. We've probably clogged up the postal offices and sprained our wrists, we've written so many."
America gave him a wry little smile. Neither spoke of what they both were thinking, so impulsive, now-honest America blurted out, "We might not like what we find."
"Oh, I don't count this as a pleasure day, America, darling," Maxon said quietly.
Neither knew what horrors they might find in there. America knew that the country for which she'd been named, the predecessor of this land now called Illéa, had its own ruling documents. One of its documents called for the equality of all, meaning that one man could not be subjected under the rulership of another man, like a slave to a master. That specifically wasn't written out in determined, clear, honest terms, but it was exactly the opposite of what Gregory Illéa had made his kingdom do. Now there was a caste system, a system that didn't allow for the equal right for all, and America thought of the quote, 'Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness' endowed to them by their Creator.
Gregory Illéa didn't believe that, and he formed an entire kingdom representing his mindset.
Maxon was right. In order for the new generation of rulers in Illéa to fix the mistakes of the past, they needed to get down to the root of the problem and eradicate it from the soul of the country.
America nodded, her eyes and focused face relaying to her husband how she knew the seriousness of the situation.
Both king and queen walked quietly, heads bowed in serious thought, back into the Queen's room. America, as usual, couldn't help the tears that would come at such a time. She sat on the edge of the bed after not meeting Maxon's imploring eyes, and stared at her hands clasped in her lap. He knelt in front of her and enclosed her hands securely in his, and if his eyes didn't speak of devotion, he was an unreadable statue. He looked silently into her face and if he hadn't any tact developed by the long testing duration of the Selection, he would've indelicately dove into curious inquiries as to the cause of her crying state. But the newlyweds could read each other's thoughts as easily as words upon a page, and he knew why she cried. They were finally unraveling the bandage around the country's gaping wound and addressing a problem that'd been a problem throughout her life. The castes were well known to America, and now diving a step forward into removing them moved her to tears.
Thanks for reading!