"Maxon?"

The slow hum of my name aroused me from a nightmare.

Slowly taking in the surrounding in where I slept, I peeked above at Mom from her lap, trying to run sleep our of eyes. The rub of her hands in my hair soothed the remnants of the nightmarish day that still clung to me like a ghost paw on my chest.

"What time is it?" I cleared my throat.

"After two in the noon, dumpling."

Ah. The sleepless night finally caught me.

Looking properly at her, I realised she looked ten years older than her age. With the softest wrinkles marring her forehead, the red rimming of her eyes that refused to go and her voice that was more throaty than yesterday.

Sitting up, I looked down at myself to see I was still dressed in my morning clothes. Just like her.

"You should've slept, too, Mom. You look older." I added.

It worked. She cracked a frowning smile. "Take that back, young man. You can never ever say that to a lady."

"Of course not. But to my Mom, sure."

She reflected my smile, but the wrinkles on her forehead deepened. "You should rest, sweetheart. You haven't got a good sleep in the previous few days."

I knew that. The constant preparations and interviews and excitement of America's approval had me rendered next to sleepless the past week. Even today, after the event, I had gone to America's room but her maids had refused to allow me in, saying she needed some time. Not knowing what to do, I had come here to look after Mom, but she wasn't crying. Instead she took my in her embrace and held me tight, allowing me to become the frightened, scared, five year old again who just wanted her mother, who slept just in her lap.

After many hours of crying and consoling each other, I'd finally slept when Mom denied for lunch and asked for privacy.

That meant I'd slept for hardly an hour.

Many hours of work and carrying out plan to success gone.

I shook my head. "I have work to do. Gavril wants to interview me, there's paperwork to see. There's a chance the Germans and Italians will come here—I need to come in contact with them. There's no time to stop, Mom." Not if I want to let my mind wander. Not if I want to think about what had happened.

Mom gave me a look—a look which meant she was analysing what I was saying and what I meant.

One of her hand cupped my cheek, the other holding my hand in hers. "I am proud of you, Maxon. Never forget that. Not after what you're doing to save and protect her." When she saw I was going to shake my head, she shushed me. "I know my children better than myself, dumpling. I know what you're planning. What you both are planning. Not the specifics, I'm afraid, but it's better that I'm in the dark. Someone should be there who doesn't know everything to distract Clarkson. I'll do that."

Before I could interrupt her she shushed me again. "My only payment would be a meeting with them. Not now. When they are fine. And well. Till then work whatever you want, Maxon. But remember one thing: you are working for one of the Elites—your Elite. A daughter of Illéa. Make sure she is well cared for."

"Mom..."

"I told you Maxon. I know you better than you know yourself."

A smile tugged on my lips despite the knowledge I was so transparent in my mother's eyes. "Do you have any idea how much I love you?"

"Shh. If any of the Elites' hear it, they'll come to me for so many questions and answers."

I kissed her forehead. "Thank you. For everything."

As I stood to go, she held my hand in hers. "What America did today was brave. Stupidity and idiocy, no doubt, but brave." I nodded, already knowing that. "Friendship is the base of every relationship, Maxon. And when a threat is rendered at the roots itself, there is a high chance everything will collapse." In other words, she was confirming my fears. "But that doesn't mean it has no chance of redemption. Just make sure it stands. That's the most you can do. Because if you fear it'll fall, you'll forget everything else. You'll lose your chance at redeeming it."

"But what if I'm scared as well?" I whispered, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Then at least take the comfort of knowing you had a base of friendship all along. For the whole structure can collapse, but not it's root. And I know my son. You aren't someone who builds things in haste."

Her smile was the assurance I needed the most.

"I love you." I whispered as I kissed the top of her head. "More than anyone."

"Now that's my boy. Always dripping honey with your sweet mouth." I chuckled, but it still sounded distant to me "Now go. And tell that idiot butler of yours to come in my room this instant. What did he think of himself refusing me? I'm going to thwart him back to his seven years old self."

This time my laugh was wholehearted. And so was my smile as I slipped out from her room.

.

.

.

There was enough amount of work left for me to attend to for today, but nothing would've prepared me to the sight of a letter on my bed.

Resting on my cream blanket was a letter in a striking silver envelope, with no name to greet me, just a stamp that could mean anything for the address "FROM THE NORTH" with an eight pointed star as the O in the North.

I glanced at Justin, who had just entered in with me, who was equally puzzled at the sight. "I'll check for any breaking through." he said the same time I murmured "I'll ask the guards who came in."

There was no evidence of anyone coming in my room: the guards standing on my door told me so—no one other than myself entered the room or left it, just my butler and my mother. No sight of breaking in through the window or bathroom; or through anything else for that matter.

I've received such letter once. Father received it, actually. I'd suspected that was from South, but now...

Cautiously, checking my room for anyone hiding in, I took the letter and unfolded it. Justin sat beside me as I unsealed it.

Under the silver envelope was nestled a striking gold page. A colour so exquisite, especially in the sunlight glittering through the windows, one would expect the paper's material to be rich. But it wasn't. It was, in fact, something that is easier to find in the streets of with the lower classes.

Written on it with blank ink and impressive calligraphy was a message just for me.

The son of the dark king, you wear your golden heart on your sleeve.

The king may have punished a girl to find her love—stripped her of her status, given her a punishment worse than death—but we know you had, or rather will, save your friend from the dark fate.

Alas, the people of your country don't. They just see the cruelty shining on the surface, refusing to see the silver light that is you. This ignorance is what fuels the others. The arrogance of appearance is what troubles the most.

Help us save what is ours. Give us a passageway to take what we must to save the country that is ours, too. For we are the armour that will protect you against your demise.

The knowledge you protect will be the source that will bring you to your knees, but in our hands it'll be the protection you'll seek the most.

Consider it. We do not seek any harm to you, or your line, neither your Elites nor your country. We just desire to right a wrong.

As a show of support, I advice you to seek assistance from the one who had always resisted the king. For she only plans to stand with the prince, as a friend and an ally.

From a rebel to the future the country needs.

From a brother to another.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? A riddle with no answer, just clues scattered all along. And from whom? Why?

Justin and I tried to decode the meaning but couldn't find any.

Reading and rereading the letter a dozen times, there were a few things I was sure of. These were rebels. Northern rebels. They are totally standing by my theory: they wish no harm upon us. They just want something, and for that they need a passageway to enter the palace.

And they know what I had planned for Marlee. Where I'll hide her. What I was planning. This means they have spies in the palace—around me.

But how could they know? I was quite specific when I was planning the whole thing—no more than a half dozen people have a slight idea of what is happening. Only Justin and I know the specifics. But then I recalled Mom also got an idea of what I was planning. Which explained the line that I wore my heart on my sleeve.

Maybe they'd just guessed and it worked.

But even thinking that I know how wrong I am.

And what could be the knowledge they are so desperate about? What could they want that they haven't stopped since the dawn of Illéa to get it? Why were they being so desperate now? And why seek help from me? How could they be so sure I'll help?

Internal connection? With whom?

And what could they mean by she? There were many people who refused to form alliance with Illéa. They have been maintaining distance even before Dad was crowned, so what makes them think I'll be able to do that?

And how?

What about the country people? I knew they'd rage, but no such reports of riots or protest have been heard about. Unless, someone doesn't want us to hear it.

Or more horrifying, someone else is using their anger for their own purposes. Fuelling the others. But whom?

That is one question I know the answer of. Southern rebels. The ones who want to crush our family and monarchy.

Which arouses the most important question of all: why seek help from me?

I quickly shook my head. With so much going on, I couldn't concentrate on this, yet. I need a clear kind for this.

Memorising the whole letter by my heart, I fed the letter and its very essence to the fire, watching as the red lashes of fire engulfed it whole and swallowed it down. But before that Justin suggested me to copy it down so that we may have something for a future reference. Agreeing, I copied it down in my personal journal, a book that was always kept hidden under a safe locker beneath my bed. Justin made a copy for himself, saying "just in case" and kept it away from everyone's sight by hiding it beneath the photos I had on my wall beside the door.

We both looked at the paper burning to ashes along with everything in it. Not a trace left of a request or a question. Nothing but riddles and questions and puzzles.

.

.

.

The autumn winds slowly chilled as the noon passed, yet it felt like days passed considering the amount of work I'd been doing in the past three hours. Controlling my emotions, was no doubt, still first on my list. Making myself appear like a prince took the second place. The other work soon fell in line. And so did Gavril's questions as he took my interview and my opinion. It was another havoc to control as Gavril told me all the statements my father made—meaning: my statements shouldn't falter from them. Just like the paperwork the king demanded of me and so did the me.

Too much work, too much burden, too many secrets. And yet no one with whom I could share them.

No. I had someone. Only I was wasn't sure if she wanted me too or not.

Since yesterday night, when the news broke out—it still amazes me how much time had passed in comparison to how horrible things have happened—I haven't let myself think about it. The whole training of my life as a prince was put into today to keep my mind clear.

This was the damned reason why. Once I started thinking about her, there was no way I couldn't not think about her. As if my mind had pulled a mirage out of my mind's deepest desires, I could see—imagine—America sitting on the desk, making comments on how she hates work and how she loathes all these paperwork and instead of that we should wander in the garden. Yet I knew these were the things America would say just to appease me and crack a smile rather out of me. She will help me in these work, while keeping the irking comments slip out. She would've helped me share the burden. Not slumping against it but standing strong with straight shoulders, just like a queen should.

And just like I know this all is a dream—my dream, my desire to keep her with me, nothing but a wishful thinking—the mirage sitting on my desk with a huge smile disappeared. Leaving not even the smallest remnants of her presence behind.

I have to see her. Make sure she is alright.

The image of her struggling against the guards' hold while screaming Marlee's name is an image I haven't been able to keep off my mind.

Checking my clock once again, I stood up. Now that I know what I have to do, what I must do, I can't not do it.

Slipping out of room, I went one floor down.

The whole floor was silent, as if there was never anyone living here. Not a trace of sobs or laughter or questions or rage. Nothing. As if Marlee never stayed here.

The maids of every Elite were gossiping in the main hall, talking so quietly that the truths of their words stuck like a sword to a chest.

"—just thinking about Marlee... And that guard was always so nice. Always helping me. How could one think he was up to something."

"It wasn't her fault either."

"What do you mean?"

"Den, as if you don't know anything. The whole palace knows Miss America is going to win the whole contest."

"I don't think so. Just a few weeks ago he spent an hour with Kriss. And then after with everyone. You weren't there yesterday when he danced thrice and more with everyone at the festival."

"And yet you failed to see how he held America for the last half dozen dances or how he wished her a good night last night. Or how he is always busy spending informal time with her in the late nights."

"We are distracting ourselves. What did you mean with it wasn't Marlee's fault?"

"I mean, if I'd been in Marlee's place, I would've done the same thing. She knew from starting that the prince was never his or was ever going to be. So she went for a hunt herself. Even found one: Woodwork is a good lad, always helped me with my chores. But alas! All her sacrifices and wishful thinking for naught."

"That makes sense. The other day Elise—the one who never yells, Elise—was yelling at me to make her the most appropriate and lovable outfit that everyone just sees her. Poor lady. Her family is forcing her to play head in the game. And she is nothing but a pawn. For both, the king and her parents."

"And my always horrible lady Celeste, you should've seen her when she barged in here. She clearly tried to stay aloof, but it is clear she cared for Marlee. She is so upset she ordered me to not disturb her till dinner."

"I heard something same from Lucy. America is almost numb, she said when I caught her taking lunch in."

"I know. She and Marlee were thick. I don't know why I missed it, but yesterday Marlee said, 'I wish I could say bye to you all more thoroughly, but I can't bring it in myself.' Now I understood it. She was going to ask the prince to eliminate her, but still keep her here because she wanted to stay as America's lady-in-waiting."

"I know. Kriss and Natalie were talking about being bridesmaid for the festival. I mean, they both were totally telling the other to be their lady-in-waiting. And—Oh, yes, Sky. We were just leaving."

The guard named Sky motioned for them to go, but before they stood, he said, "They aren't precise orders, but for tonight the guards will be standing outside each door. If you all wish to sleep in your quarters, you can."

Each maid nodded in turn and left, no one noticing me hiding behind a plant, crouched so low my knees started to pain. Neither did the guard who turned and stood outside Celeste's door.

Trying my best to not let my mind linger on the gossip I'd just heard, I turned the corner to reach America's quarters. Outside it, her maids were talking among themselves, whispering with worries stretched over their foreheads. Seeing me, they bowed, but for the first time I didn't feel like I deserve their support.

"Is America asleep?" I asked.

The one with dark hair, their leader perhaps, shook her head. "Not asleep, no. But she isn't talking either. She hasn't eaten her lunch, refuses to talk to us, and mourns the lost of a dear friend." The last part came as a taunt—for me.

"Okay." Instead of trying to quell their questions and pointed looks, it is a better way to overlook them for their time being and answer then when they are in a better check of their temper. "I'll talk to her." Followed by a knock on the door. Her maids shrugged and left me, and apparently, so did America, as she refused to open the gate.

Testing the door, I found it was unlocked. Giving way to fear, I went in.

Laying on the bed with tears strained cheeks, dry yet red eyes, dishevelled hair and her wrinkled black dress, was America.

I whispered her name just as hesitantly as I knocked on the door, and still there was no response. Like she wasn't even in her body to answer me. I realise I liked the angry, thrashing, crying America more than the silent one.

Walking felt funny, yet I found myself standing beside her bed, looking down at her almost wrenched form. And I finally know what I already knew was about to happen, even when I let myself not believe it.

Still..."I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice." Again no response. Was she unconscious? "It was that or kill them. The cameras found them last night and circulated the footage without us knowing."

Please talk to me!

A whole damned minute past while I waited for a signal, a response...yet nothing happened. Distinctly I thought about taking her to my personal doctors. For her eyes were looking at me, but she wasn't.

Without even thinking about it, without even knowing it thinking about the circumstances or the end results, I was on my knees, kneeling beside her, wishing against hope she'll listen to me—understand me.

"America? Look at me, darling?"

No response.

"I had to. I had to."

Funny how I sounded like a child assuring his mother he wasn't the one who broke the cookie jar and not a prince who was trying to make his beloved see his perspective.

Finally— finally!—her eyes took me in. "How could you just stand there? How could you not do anything?"

A rational question. "I told you once before that part of this job is looking calm, even when you aren't. It's something I've had to master. You will, too."

Even I could here the last part as a question rather than a statement. For her expression—the absolute shock and fear and unwillingness that made her blue eyes look cold, not like the sky but the deepest ocean, where you'd drown to never resurface—broke me.

I knew this was the price for helping my friend. To save a friend, I had to lose my love. And foolishly I thought I was prepared for this, thinking against and beyond hope that it wouldn't come to this. How foolish of me! Just one look from her and my whole heart—which she'd already broken once by admitting she didn't feel the same for me, and stitched it back by admitting she like me enough to think about herself as my wife—shattered. Broken into million pieces.

"America, I know you're upset, but please? I told you; you're the only one. Please don't do this."

A barest shake of head. "Maxon, I'm sorry, but I don't think I can do this. I could never stand by and watch someone get hurt like that," a shudder, "knowing it was my judgment that sent them there. I can't be a princess."

My insides clenched. My heart screamed against the violence done to him. My mind turned on me, not thinking rationally, instead reliving all those moments shared with her, locking them in a far away corner. My back hurt, all the scars running over it intensifying my pain.

Even when my body was reeling, I could only take a deep breath. God, I never knew breathing hurts!

"America, you're basing the rest of your life on five minutes of someone else's. Things like that rarely happen. You wouldn't have to do that."

Good. Negotiating was good. Nothing desperate. Just the prince.

When she turned to sit, all I could do was stare at the once dream that I saw the last night. Just there, within eyesight, yet untouchable. I thought if only I could reach out with my hand I'll get a hold on it. But with every word America said, the dream scattered into nothingness. "I just...I can't even think right now."

"Then don't! Don't let this make a decision for the both of us when you're so upset." Why wasn't she responding! Clutching at her hands, I whispered a "Please?" Her eyes took me in. "You promised you'd stay with me. Don't give up, not like this. Please!"

Her response—an angry yet soft exhale and a brief nod—only made it clear that she couldn't find in herself to do that.

Still... "Thank you." I didn't let go of her hand. If I did, I knew I would lost it. She let me hold it, but her lack of response, of words, of the fiery burn in her eyes and the glow of her cheek, didn't indulge me in wishing or hoping. "I know...I know that you're hesitant about the job. I always knew that would be hard for you to embrace. And I'm sure this makes it harder. But...what about me? Do you still feel sure about me?"

Please say yes! Please say yes!

"I told you I couldn't think."

"Oh. Right." I didn't even feel my desperation or sarcasm. "I'll let you be for now. We'll talk soon though." Again it sounded more like a question.

When she didn't say anything, I thought of a thing Mom always did.

Leaning up, I almost kissed her forehead. Mom always says, Just a forehead kiss can right all the wrongs. Can stable a mind and slow the pounding heart. A kiss of promise that everything will be fine. A kiss of promise that you aren't alone. She looked down. Uncertain. Vary of me. That made me stop in my tracks.

"Good-bye, America."

And when I closed the gate, I even closed the gate of my dreams, leaving the last night's wishes and hopes and dreams just like that. Dreams. Hopes. Something that would never be right again.