"I recommend we begin with two scouting missions to gather surveillance, then move in with a small force to build a base camp. After that we can steadily increase our troop concentration until we are ready for a proper attack."
Aspen's jaw twitches. His eyes stay glued to the strategy map as he twirls a pawn between two fingers.
"Commander?" The general speaks again, only to be silenced by Aspen's raised hand.
Seconds pass. I can see Aspen's eyes scanning, calculating. Finally, he drops the pawn.
"Yes, to the surveillance. We need a better idea of what their resources are, but no to the camp. Not near them, any way. They have held the upper hand for far too long simply through the element of surprise. We cannot give them the advantage of proximity as well. We don't know what they are capable of."
The general's eyebrows rose.
"You believe they are capable of taking out a fully-armed camp?"
"I think we are in no position to make assumptions," Was Aspen's curt reply.
I look around the room. Perplexed faces. Wrinkled foreheads lined with thought, with worry. My best leaders preparing for war.
It's noon, and I'm walking from one recovery room to the next. From what I've just seen, Hale's hands were indeed thoroughly broken. Every bone, just like his report had said. They were both wrapped in casts up to the elbow. Though he could not move them, he seemed to be optimistically finding new ways to use his feet to finish tasks. A staff member stayed in his rooms at all times to be of assistance and his family was staying in the palace until Dr. Hendrix released him from medical attention.
I visit Ean next. The first time I came to see him, it was simply to apologize for all that he'd been put through and assure him that every possible course of action would be taken to bring him to a full recovery. When I'd placed my hand on his shoulder, he'd leapt away from as if I'd burned him.
His room is at the end of the hall, but before I make it there, I see Dr. Hendrix step out of his door. It is not until I am passing beside him that he registers me, looking up from his files.
"Your Majesty!" He nearly shouts in surprise, slipping into a clumsy bow, papers falling from his clutch.
I smile, and bend down to pick them up.
"No, your Majesty! Please, do not bother yourself with such things. I will collect them." The doctor squats down beside me, hastily shuffling the papers into an uneven pile.
"Being king does not excuse me from being humane," I laugh, handing him the papers I had collected.
In a way, I find him amusing. His franticness charmingly matches his cluttered lifestyle, but he is kind. Always kind.
"I did not mean to insinuate‒‒" I laugh again, hoping to put him at ease.
"Truly, Doctor. I do not mind. I was just going to visit Sir Ean and check on his progress. Perhaps you could give me your findings before I head in?"
He nods quickly, and stands. "Of course, your Majesty. Sir Ean has gone through a few sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy, which has thus far provided no change, but it's still early. We are trying to identify all his triggers right now in hope of developing some strategies to combat his fear. We are planning to partner him with a service dog this week, and hope to see some improvements."
I nod. "Thank you for working so hard on this, Doctor. Your investments in these young men are what makes a difference."
He bows his head humbly. "I am doing my job, Your Majesty."
"You are doing it quite well. Please update me about the Elite as we move forward. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll stop in and say hello to Sir Ean." I move to step towards the last door.
"Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about a different patient."
I don't move, don't nod, don't speak. I've been avoiding this conversation for a month.
"I am not anxious to approach you about this, Your Highness, but I feel it is my duty. Queen America has been comatose for three months as of today." He holds a thick chart in his hands under the fallen papers. I had assumed it was Ean's, but now I suspect otherwise.
"I know."
He nods awkwardly, his thin hair flapping. "Yes, well…" He tugs on the collar of his lab coat. "As you also know, the passage of time means a smaller chance of awakening, so‒"
"I know."
He coughs over my interruption. "Right, of course. Under such circumstances, I thought it pertinent to share‒"
"The options, Dr. Hendrix. I am well aware of the options, and I will let you know if my opinion of the matter changes, but as of right now I am still standing by my former belief that the best course of action is to wait." I don't tell him that I had spent the night in a drunken haze a week ago. That the maids had to scrub out the stains of scotch in my office carpet, no questions asked. That I had admitted to myself she may nver come back to me.
Dr. Hendrix bows his head. "I understand that, Your Highness. It is not my wish to dissuade you. Your hope is quite phenomenal and I commend you for it."
Guilt sinks me like the capsized bow of a ship.
"I just do not wish for your hopes to be unfounded. That is all. My job is to ensure that you have all the facts you can. That being said, most patients under America's condition do not awaken at this stage."
I step away from him. It's one thing to know it in the back of my head, to have the thought feed on my nightmares at night. It's another thing completely to hear it out loud, my hidden monster coming to life.
"I thought it might bring you some peace of mind to consider what she would do if the circumstances were reversed. If you were the one unresponsive. And also, Your Majesty, what would you want her to do?"
"Yes, well thank you for your insight. I really should go speak with Sir Ean before I get behind schedule, so if you will excuse me." I slip around him and turn the corner before he has time to bow.
Dr. Hendrix' words haunt me for days. Sleep becomes even more elusive than before. I sit in America's room, staring at her passive face, and whisper, "What would you have me do, dearest?"
I suppose it's crazy that I hope for her mouth fall open and the answer to pour over me. It doesn't and I am left just as lost.
Three days pass with monotony. I am sitting in on strategy meetings, meeting individually with each of our recovering Elite, checking on the emotional stability of my own children despite the wavering of my own, and always, always, falling asleep in the chair beside America's bed. Sometimes the sleep does not actually come until around three in the morning. Sometimes it is broken up into fitful tossing that barely resembles sleep at all. Tonight, I simply sit.
The staff has brought in a much more comfortable chair as of late. I think they were trying to be kind at first by pretending I still slept in my own bed, ignoring my helplessness. Apparently my lost nights in the infirmary room had become inevitably clear to the whole palace, and they'd given up the ruse of pretending by accommodating me with a cushioned lounge chair, complete with a footrest. I sit in it now, my bare feet on America's bed, resting warmly against her sheet-covered thigh.
The question Dr. Hendrix posed has mercilessly gnawed me through. Devoured me. I feel raw and strangely small, like the world has grown ten times. Like I'm a child again who can't see over the bodies in front of me.
My toes curl around America's leg. I wish she'd swat them away with a wrinkled nose and tell me my feet are too sweaty.
It's two in the morning and I'm still wearing my suit, though the tie is a rumpled mess where it hangs loosely against my chest. I've been sitting here for an hour, silently, sometimes wishing the machines would hush so I could just hear her breathe.
But that's a terrible wish, I remind myself. If the machines stop, the breathing stops too.
I unravel the knot of my tie and drop it to the floor where the jacket soon joins it.
"Well, Ames," I whisper even though we're alone. "You're not missing much as far as the weather's concerned. It started raining at noon and hasn't stopped."
My fingers unlatch the watch around my wrist and drop it gently on top of the jacket.
"Eadlyn seems to holding up quite well, though maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part. She's been great though, a real trooper. I think she will be an excellent queen, America. I really do. She goes to Kile's therapy sessions whenever Dr. Bree will allow it. It's quite amusing actually, seeing our independent little girl doting on someone."
The buttons of my stiffly pressed shirt are next and I slip each one through its hole with precision honed over many years. "I called Ahren during my lunch. He's doing okay. I think being with Camille is good for him, and his new position as prince consort of France will certainly help distract him from painful thoughts of home." Shirt gone, belt next. I stand up.
"He's going to a gala tonight. He sounded pretty excited. I think he's loving the food there." I laugh to myself, tossing my belt into the forming pile of discarded clothes, unbuttoning my slacks, and kicking them to join the rest.
There's something relieving in the simpleness of my white cotton shirt and the loose grey boxers. I don't feel like a king. I feel like a man returning from a long day at work to find that his wife has already fallen asleep.
I lay down next to her carefully, on my side so I can still see her as I talk, and let my head drop against the pillow. The weight of my body causes the mattress to dip and America slips toward me, her shoulder bumping with the lightest touch against my chest. I can almost pretend she's leaning into me, except her arm does not wrap around my waist and the machines continue to beep beep. I kiss her shoulder nonetheless.
"I'm still thinking about it." I whisper against her sleeve. "Still thinking about what you would do, what I would want. But I think I made a breakthrough today. I think I might have figured something out at least." I let out a deep breath and it blows against her hair like a gust of wind. "I realized how selfish I am."
It takes me a minute to work through the sudden dryness of my throat. I swallow before saying, "Even though I know how much you'd be hurting, even though I'm feeling that pain myself right now and have found it unbearable, I wouldn't want you to give up on me."
I let my face drop against her neck. She still smells like America. The maids use the same soap she's always used, and I let the scent wash over me.
"Because I know I'd be fighting with all I had to get back to you. Maybe I'd just need a little time. Maybe you need a little more time. But I know I'd never give up, I'd never leave you." I close my eyes. "I have to believe that. I have to believe you'd never leave me."
I don't say anything after that. There is nothing left in my mind except those words, and they repeat themselves over and over.
In my dream, water is everywhere. Waves are swallowing me up and a current tugs me down like a tangible hand wrapped tightly around my feet. I kick it away, kick, to stay above the surface, kick to catch a gulp of salt-sprayed air.
America is in my arms. We bob through the waves like wrecked buoy barely held together. She paddles her legs weakly, but her eyes are closed and she looks too pale. Her fingers cling to my middle, twisted into a shirt that I imagine would never dry. We gasp for air. Her red hair looks darker, almost brown, when it's this wet. It sticks to her face, and fans out in the water.
We keep kicking. My legs burn, and I stop, hoping that perhaps we can float over some smaller waves, but then we begin to sink like stones. America clings tighter, the only sign she's alive besides the harsh gasp of breath she takes before we're submerged completely.
I want to sink. I want to fall to the floor of the ocean and lay there with her in my arms. I want to find rest beneath the tumultuous waves and never face them again, joining the soft sand and resting on a bed of algae
But then my lungs scream for air. I feel the need for it, biting through me ferociously, burning up my chest. I can't do it. I can't endure the pain knowing my cure lies within reach, right above the waves.
My legs ache to continue the bliss of falling deeper and letting gravity take its course, but my anguished lungs win out. I break into the air sucking down oxygen as if I could eat it, as if it could be devoured. America follows suit in my arms.
Then, I see the impossible.
Land.
There's a sandy strip of earth shining in the distance. Light reflects off of it, as if I am staring at the sun itself.
I gasp for a whole different reason. For hope.
That's when it starts. America's voice. I see her chapped lips moving, and her soft voice speaks as my suffering legs try to sail us towards the refuge.
"Don't give up on me."
"Never." I murmur, pushing onward. "Never."
When I awake, I can see that my dream took over during the night.
My arms have drawn America close, huddling her against me. I carefully adjust some tubes, glad I didn't do anything stupid in my sleep like cut off her oxygen. I know better. I need to be more cautious, but it's hard to regret anything when I wake up with America so close. I kiss her forehead lightly, lingering, whispering.
"Never."
Guys. Guys, SYMBOLISM. Just saying. *wink* Okay, I know I have a lot of explaining to do, so let me start with what I believe to be a very valid excuse for this very late update: My laptop broke. I've been having problems with my cooling fan for quite a while now, and it finally pooped out on me. But now I'm up and running! So we are back in business. To make up for the delay, this chapter was longer than normal with extra Maxamerica. We can call it a Christmas present. :)
I hope you all have had a wonderful holiday! Please let me know what you thought with a review! You all have been so kind and I wish I could thank you by name, especially the guests I am unable to PM. I will keep writing and I hope you keep reading! God bless.
~SpaceNut