"Smalls!" Smalls glanced up from the math equation that he had been working over for the past twenty minutes. It was Emma, his younger sister.
"What?" He replied.
"I think that father wants you." Smalls stood,
"Did he say what for?"
"Of course not." Emma replied, rolling her eyes. "He never does. Have you seen Heather?"
"No. Not since this morning, go ask Picket, I'm pretty sure that Helmer made him do an extra set for some backtalk he gave earlier today." Emma muttered something under her breath about annoying bucks and then sprinted off towards the training grounds. Picket and Heather were the son and daughter of one of Smalls' father's advisors, Whittel Longtreader. They had been raised alongside himself and Emma, and, though Picket was nearly two years younger than him, he was one of Smalls' closest friends. But they also argued. A lot. It partially had to do with Picket not letting anything go and Smalls not knowing when to stop talking. Smalls had to have the last word but Picket had to have the last laugh. Heather and Emma were both trained doctors, despite Emma's noble status. Everyone was involved in the war effort now, what with the birds of prey and wolves attacking every second tuesday. Picket and Smalls had been trained by Helmer-one of Jupiter's Lord Captains-since they were very young. Helmer made no distinction between the noble and the commoner. To him, they were all the same. His training methods were unorthodox to say the least, many of them involved ending up on your back covered in dirt and bruises, or up in a tree, which Picket despised and dreaded on a daily basis. Smalls didn't mind heights, it had never been a problem for him. But Picket? He was terrified. When they were younger he wouldn't even climb a tree to retrieve the kite tangled up in it, Emma had had to do it. And Picket had endured her teasing for the rest of the afternoon and after. Emma was the youngest Princess, and the youngest child period. She had perfected being annoying from a young age, and heavily enjoyed using her talents to weedle, bribe, and pester her way to her friends' and siblings' secrets. She was not a gossip, however, and once told a secret would never repeat it again. So she was trusted, but still considered irritating.
Heather was many things in Smalls' mind, a friend, a doctor, terrifying in anger and gentle in good spirits. A story spinner. For beyond all things she was loved for her stories since she was a tiny doe just beginning to tell tales. Picket and Emma would still occasionally ask to hear one, and Smalls knew she kept a portfolio of the most well received in her desk in her room, but she had never attempted to make them public. She had once said that she was too shy, which was startling because she was one of the boldest persons that Smalls had ever known, if you were wrong she would tell you so, nobility or not. And nine times out of ten, she herself was right. And when she was wrong she would own up, apologize, and move on. Something that Smalls admired because he often found it hard to own up to his faults and ask pardon, he seldom felt he was wrong, and struggled to admit it when he was. It was a fault that he knew of and battled against daily. But Heather was like many young does, and had her own bad marks, despite what Smalls might have thought. Her temper got the better of her frequently, and she repeatedly labored against it and sometimes had to go away quietly, so that she didn't forget herself. Smalls saw this, despite the fact that Heather thought no one did, and thought it was good of her. They both struggled with follies, like everyone else, Smalls' was admittance as much as Heather's was temper.
Smalls' mind turned to what his father could possibly want, he preferred to have his math work done sooner rather than later. Smalls wasn't good at math, and his poor tutors sometimes looked over the young prince's work and sighed. His understanding of positive and negative integers was loose and confused, and it was his torment when he was handed a long problem primarily consisting of them. His one strong point was fractions and decimals, he could at least understand the primary functions of a positive integer that held a fraction of the next. But Algebra? Where they threw in letters as well? It was like asking the impossible. Smalls tried, he really did, everyone knew it, but he simply didn't have a mind for math. Picket was good at it though. Even though he was younger, he had advanced faster than Smalls. Smalls turned the corner into the throne room and paused for a second when he heard voices. It was Garten Longtreader speaking.
"We must make peace, if only you would consider-"
"No Garten. Their only means is to devour us all, I will not make peace with liars and thieves!" Jupiter paused, "Smalls, I know you're there. Please come." Smalls walked towards his father.
"Emma said you wanted to see me, but you were busy." His father didn't address him at first, instead he said,
"Garten, I would like to speak with my son alone." Garten nodded curtly and exited. Jupiter sighed and sat down on his throne, he looked tired. He rubbed his forehead.
"Father, what's wrong?" Smalls finally asked after several long, slightly awkward moments.
"Many things son. Many things. You are old enough now that I do not have to sugar coat the world, you know what is happening, and I'm sorry to say you have seen fighting much sooner than I had wished." Smalls glanced around the room, looking anywhere but at his father. He was suddenly very aware of the sword at his side; when had he grabbed it? Not consciously. His father abruptly seemed to grow old before Smalls' eyes; his years catching up at an alarming rate. "I love you son, you know that, right?" Jupiter asked, his aged brown eyes penetrating Smalls. And Smalls realized that his father was old. That it had been a long time since he had led a battle; he had left that job to his sons, and his Captains.
"Of course father," Smalls replied, holding that gaze, though a little confused. "Of course I know." His father stood, and began to sort through the papers that were piled on the table in front of the thrones.
"Come and help me with this." Jupiter said. Under his breath Smalls heard him mutter, "I've had enough war reports for a lifetime." After a while of the same old troop movements and such, Jupiter broke the silence. "I've been speaking with Heather lately, she is quite an intelligent doe."
"Mm." Came Smalls' unresponsive and unsatisfactory reply.
"I see more than you think, son," Jupiter said and Smalls looked up. "It has not escaped me how often your eyes are drawn to her, or how you have become somewhat distracted over the past few months, Nor has it escaped Helmer's notice that when she is around you lose your focus much quicker than normal." Smalls muttered a reply under his breath, annoyed with himself and with his irritatingly perceptive teacher. For the first time in a long time his father laughed. Not like he used to, not with the freedom he had once had, but it was a laugh all the same, and Smalls couldn't help smiling at it. "Heather herself is not oblivious to you," Jupiter said after he was done laughing. When he saw the absolutely mortified look on Smalls' face he said, "Don't worry, she doesn't know I know and she herself had no idea that she was showing me through her actions and your's."
"I like to think I'm not that obvious."
"Oh, you aren't. Only to the well trained eye is it visible, so to mine it is clear as water. From what I have seen Heather contains great foresight, but she is still young and inexperienced, as you are, and she sees both much and little at the same time."
"Another riddle father? This hardly seems like something to be made a puzzle of."
"Oh, but it is a puzzle, in a way. All of life is one, we have only to find the pieces that fit into our little section of it. But that can be a trying task, sifting through the billions of pieces in the world, trying to find the right ones, it can be like searching the sky on a clear night for a single star, it's impossible." He paused, waving a hand in the air, as if gesturing to invisible celestial bodies. "But sometimes we get lucky, and we find the exact piece we have been looking for. Now, I don't know if this is the right piece, but I can be relatively certain from what I've seen that Heather just might fit the puzzle, if you choose to let her." He paused again, turning his gaze to Smalls. "But it is your choice, and her's, and no one else's. I don't care about noble status, It doesn't matter if they are commoner or noble, It does matter that the piece fits into your puzzle, and perhaps makes the picture a little more complete."
Heather loved helping people. But she hated that there were so many to help. The wounded and dying, sick and injured. All were here, at the temporary set up of the palace hospital. A doe that couldn't have been more than six years old coughed blood in the bed nearby, a buck who had had a leg blown off in an explosion lay writhing in agony a room over waiting for emergency operation, which still hadn't come. An old doe shook with fever as she cried out in her sleep across the hall, waiting for death to claim her.
It was a place of the dying. Of the soldiers that constantly flooded in wounded and diseased, of the widows that had caught the pneumonia that had been passing around. Of the poor children whose parents were either dead or too sick to care for them. It made Heather sad. And angry. It made her wish that this horrible war would end, and everyone would be safe, and no one was dead or dying, and she didn't have to watch light fade from more eyes every day. The little doe in the bed next to Heather coughed again, and groaned. "Delilah?" Heather asked.
"I'm….still….here….Miss Heather." Poor Delilah wheezed out. She coughed again, "When….will…..momma come?" The poor doe was delusional. Her mother had died nearly six months back, in an attack on one of the outer citadels. Delilah had been brought in already sick enough to die.
"Take your medicine," Heather said, trying not to cry. Delilah pushed the spoon away with what little strength she could muster.
"Look…." She said, nearly choking. "Look Miss Heather." She was staring far away, and stars seemed to reflect in her eyes. "Momma's coming….." Suddenly Delilah went very still, and her hand felt cold in Heather's. The little doe had died, alone and abandoned. Heather hadn't been able to do anything for her. She turned away with tears in her eyes and went to tell the head doctor that Delilah had finally passed. "There wasn't anything you could do for her." The voice in her head said, "You knew that when she came." Perhaps. Heather thought. Perhaps.
"Mind if I come up?" Heather peered down from the tree she was perched in to find Smalls standing on the ground, staring up at her. She closed her worn leather notebook and nodded. Smalls scaled the tree relatively quickly and settled himself on a branch across from her. "Was it tough today?" He asked. Heather played with her pen, and sighed. "I'll take that as a yes." Smalls decided.
"I heard that Picket got a reprimand this morning." Heather said, deliberately changing the subject.
"That's true. I'm not even entirely sure what he did, whenever he comes up with some sort of insane scheme I try to stay out of it." Smalls was going along, something that Heather was grateful to him for. He knew when to push, and when to leave it be.
"Except for the time when you two decided to dump honey on some of the sailors. You're lucky Snowden pulled you out of that, Helmer was going to skin you alive and send you to Morbin on a golden platter."
He smirked, "That was different. That was my insane scheme." he paused, "And they filled the barracks with rotten pumpkin. How did you think we were going to react?"
"The words 'report it to the proper authorities' come to mind."
"Nothing fun would ever happen if we all followed the rules."
"You've been spending too much time with Picket."
"I probably have been." Smalls sighed. He looked tired, even though he was joking around. He bore too much weight. And he did it without complaint. Heather was one of the few people who knew that Jupiter had chosen Smalls as the Heir of Natalia; it hadn't been revealed publicly because it would hurt more than it would help. War was a nasty thing. Inspired traitors.
"Did you talk to your father today?" She asked.
"Yes." Smalls replied. He didn't say much for a while, and then he said,
"Somethings….off. About him, he seems more exhausted than he usually is, as if something's weighing him down." He sighed again. "It's been a long time since I've seen him happy."
"It's been a long time since I've seen you happy. When was the last time you even smiled?" Heather looked at him, her eyes meeting his, and for a second there was a warmth there, in his eyes, that caused Heather to suddenly look away.
"A long time." He said softly. "But you aren't much different. This is the latest of your hiding places, is it not?"
"I don't hide."
"But you do escape. Here, to your writing."
"Is there anything wrong with that?"
"No, of course not, but I wish I could see you smile again." Something about that sentence felt strange, as if it was coming from someone who was more than a friend, or wanted to be. Heather reached out and slipped her hand into his,
"I'll smile again when the war's over. I promise." Smalls smiled sadly at her, and Heather returned the same sad smile.
"And we'll dance," Smalls added, gently taking her other hand. "When the war's over."
"When the war's over." Heather echoed softly. "I promise."
Smalls left after that, mumbling about history homework. Heather sat up there in the tree, a long while, writing. The tree had been her safe haven for forever. Picket was too terrified of heights to climb up into its boughs to bother her, and Emma didn't usually care to climb trees. The only one who frequently pursued her when she was up in the maple, the only one who would climb up after her, was Smalls.
Ever since they were children he was climbing after her, making sure that she was alright. When they were little it was often petty things, like Picket doing or saying something mean, or a fight with Emma. But as they had grown older it had become more serious. Worries about the war, about the fighting and so many other things had taken over their lives, and the maple had become their safe place, together. It had hidden them both from the scrutinizing looks of the other nobles, and allowed them to hope and dream both privately and openly.
After a long while in the swaying breeze Heather slowly slipped down. The sun was setting, and night was falling. It was a warm summer evening. Heather was tired, and glad that she didn't meet anyone on her way to her parent's house. No one bothered her, and it seemed almost a dream. A dream that would soon be interrupted by worry and fear, wounded and sick, death and war.
Smalls hurried through his history homework, got lectured by Helmer for arriving late to afternoon training, argued with Picket, and was altogether out of sorts by the time Helmer finally let them go with a few more bruises than before. Picket realized he'd forgotten his science schooling for the day and dashed off to complete it before he was lectured by his father. Smalls sighed and turned down to his room. His father did not believe in luxury for his children, and, although Smalls was indeed a prince, his room would not have shown it. It was all well made, but not opulent in the way one would expect. There was a desk across the room and there Smalls headed, before a rap on the door halted him. It had better not be Whit…. Smalls thought irritably. He was tired, it had been a long day, and he wasn't really in the mood to deal with Whit. Too late, the two-year older buck entered without a second thought. "What do you want," Smalls sighed. His brother was not what one would call courteous when their father wasn't present. He could stand a re-do in the etiquette courses.
"What makes you think I want something?" Whit asked, lounging against the wall.
"You only come to me when you think that you need something."
"That's not quite a fair statement and, believe it or not, I'm actually here to tell you something."
"Why do you think I'd care?"
"It's about Garten Longtreader, and his niece and nephew." Smalls finally turned to actually look at his brother.
"What about Heather and Picket?"
"Garten's been doing things outside of the palace, I have a friend outside who's seen him meeting with a shady rabbit just outside of the city limits."
"Is your friend reliable, or the rough kind father doesn't like you hanging out with?" Whit waved his hand,
"He's reliable. And no, it isn't one of the rough crowd. You know I gave that up, don't patronize me, little brother, by reminding me of my faults."
You're patronizing me by calling me little brother. Smalls thought, annoyed.
"What does that have to do with Heather and Picket?" Smalls demanded.
"Some say Picket's been seen out there. I don't think it's true, it's just the word on the street. They do look quite alike, it's possible that Garten could have been mistaken for him."
"I don't see what this has to do with Heather." Smalls remarked.
"Blind little brother. Aren't you blind." Whit muttered under his breath. "I've seen her talking to father more than once, and father won't tell me what it's all about. You don't know what it is, do you?"
"No. And I wouldn't ask her. And even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you. Secrets stay in your pockets for about as long as peppermint sticks."
"Fine Fine." He paused, "You two were up in that old maple this afternoon." Smalls turned away from his older brother.
"Why do you care?"
"It's interesting."
"It's not your business."
"Oh I know, that's why I'm interested."
"Can't you, for once, mind yourself?"
"No. It is my sworn duty as your older brother to pry into your private business."
"I thought that was Emma's job." Whit laughed, and Smalls sighed. How, in all of Natalia, had he wound up with the two most irritating and sometimes infuriating siblings?
"Alright little brother, I won't pry. But only this once, and you will have to suffer through my wheedling next time you have a secret I want to know, and, I swear that I won't say any of what little I do know. Fair?"
Smalls regarded him for a moment. "Fair. But stop calling me little brother, I don't know how many times I've told you to knock it off."
"But you are-"
"And if you make one more comment about my size, I'll chase you out of the palace myself. You know I can." Whit rolled his eyes. Smalls turned back to his desk. He didn't hear the bang of a door and realized that Whit was still in the room. "Are you planning on leaving anytime soon?" Smalls asked.
"I'm waiting to see if there are more ways I can bother you."
"Whit, it's been a long day. Helmer didn't go easy." This was, in fact, true. Helmer had apparently something extra special for them planned ever since the last time Picket had gotten into trouble. Another thing Smalls wondered about, Why was one of his best friends a trouble magnet?
"That I believe," Whit snorted, he as well, had once been trained by Helmer, and remembered the experience none too fondly. He left, apparently deciding to cut Smalls some slack, and the door slammed shut with a bang. Smalls winced, sighed, and turned back to his desk. But what Whit had said troubled him, however bluntly his brother had said it. The fact that Garten was out meeting with strange kind and rumors about Picket, and Heather discussing things privately with his father unsettled and set him to thinking.
He gave up on his studies and was exasperated with himself for the progress he had made that day, which was not great. He was distracted and couldn't focus, and he ended up just sitting there, staring into the lamp light. Smalls' mind slipped from one thought to another, and finally settled on Heather, as it was apt when he was inattentive. The time in the Maple had been the best part of the day, the….the softest part of the day. Every moment he spent with Heather was a comfort. From the time they were both very little they had simply….clicked. Understood each other the way no one else had, even their own parents.
Though Smalls didn't know it, no one was truly surprised when their friendship began to grow into something more. The older adults would often remark, especially when they were too little to understand, about how 'those two are the most likely children to marry I have seen in a long while.' But Smalls didn't know this and sat at his desk, tapping the pen, thinking on how deeply he was beginning to feel for Heather, and how much he wished she felt the same. And, like many before, he didn't see the obvious of how Heather felt, didn't see the heart that was being offered to him with open hands, and how he need only to reach out and take it.
Outside the palace, down a block, where some of the king's officials lived and worked, Heather was having thoughts of a somewhat different nature. Heather's parents were not rich. Despite the position her father held in the government they were roughly middle class when it came to money. There was enough to live comfortably, but not much besides. Heather and Picket had grown up knowing not to spread this fact around, as it might affect their father's social and political standing. Heather had come to love their home however, and she didn't mind not having heaps of money. It was like her mother said, "A good thing is a good thing until you have too much of it, then it's a bad thing, and needs to be restricted again." Picket had barely made it home in time for dinner, made some excuse about Helmer being on a warpath (as if it was news) and then apologized for forgetting his science text for the day. Heather herself had school to attend too, her medical studies, and then just regular school. She was currently glancing through king Lander's time before dinner, social studies came easy to her, but she still had to actually read the material. But the gruesome image of the temporary hospital replayed over, and over, and over again inside of her mind. She sighed, glancing out the window, where the sky had turned dark.
"Heather!" Her father called, Heather closed her book and set it away, meaning to go over it later. She then walked to the stairs and descended. Picket was chasing their six year old brother, Jacks, around the room. Jacks was holding aloft a toy wooden sword, and laughing. Heather restrained herself from wincing at the scene. Her eyes met Picket's for a second, and though he well concealed it, there was a hint of pain deep inside the brown.
"Put that away Jacks," There mother, Sween, scolded, She turned and nodded to the sword at Picket's side, "And that goes for you as well Picket, there will be no weapons at my table, real or otherwise."
"You'd have to deprive Heather of her mouth then," Picket said, unfastening his sword belt and setting the blade carefully against the wall, Jacks copied him. "That's the sharpest weapon in this house!"
"Hey!" Heather exclaimed, and swatted at him. Picket laughed and danced out of her reach, before moving to his chair. Heather sighed and sat down across from him.
"Long day?" Her father, Whittle, asked, looking at her over his papers which were, as usual, spread across his end of the table.
"It was….difficult."
"No politics." Sween said, setting down the bowls of soup. "I hear enough of it from your father to be hearing it from you as well, Heather."
"I wasn't going to say something political," Heather protested. "It was the work in the hospital that was tough today."
"I mean no talk of the king, or even his sons." Sween shot her daughter a significant glance. Heather blushed, looked down at her soup and didn't say any more. There was awkward silence at the table for a long time. Finally Whittle asked,
"Well, how was your day Picket?"
"I think that Helmer was trying to kill us." Picket said.
"Is that what Smalls thinks?" Whittle laughed.
"Well, if he doesn't, he'll feel it tomorrow."
"He looked tired when I saw him," Heather said. Sween sighed audibly. Jacks had been surprisingly patient for a six year old to say what he wanted to say, But finally he burst out.
"Smalls likes Heather." The young buck said matter of factly, and then took a spoonful of soup. Heather dropped her spoon, startled, and the stew splashed out of the bowl. She was glad however for the excuse to get up, because she knew that her face had suddenly turned very red.
"Now, whoever put that idea into your head?" Her father was questioning her youngest brother as she returned to the table.
"Prince Whit. He found me outside yesterday and was very nice." He paused, "More?" He asked, holding out his soup bowl. Heather took her place,
"Sorry," She muttered. Of course it was Whit. That buck lived to terrorize his siblings and there friends.
"It's alright Heather dear," her mother assured her.
"Jacks," Whittle said, and Jacks looked up, "Whit told you a rumor, and rumors are not to be repeated to anybody but Mother and Father, understand?" Jacks blinked up at him.
"Yes Father. I know that."
"Don't repeat this to anyone again, do you understand me son?"
"Yes Father."
"Good. Now, off to bed with you." Jacks jumped up, and ran upstairs without clearing his plate. Again. Picket, who, for once had been silent, said,
"I won't repeat it Heather. I promise. But why does it bother you so much?"
"Can I be excused Father?" Heather requested, turning her pleading eyes on her father.
"Yes, Yes. You are excused." Heather cleared her plate and then hurried up the stairs.
Heather tried not to think about it. All the time. It didn't work well. It didn't work because no matter how hard she tried she couldn't help seeing things, gestures that Smalls made, gestures that seemed to show that he cared for her more than as a friend. And how did Heather feel about that? All of this time we've been discussing Smalls' feelings, but what of Heather's own? She cared for Smalls. She did, and, she cared for him more than she realized. The heart was a funny thing, it feels things that the head doesn't alway understand, or control. But there was always a choice in it, a choice to continue walking the path the heart set you on, and Heather was going through one of those times. She had always cared for Smalls. It had seemed he'd always been there, since they were both very little. Like said before, they understood each other in ways that their own families didn't. The outcome of this could be predicted in multiple ways, but Heather didn't waste her time on those. And Heather had other worries besides just Smalls, a war and sick children and wounded soldiers and medics from the front lines, and as it was she did not realize her love yet. Although she did feel something welling up inside of her, she did not understand it anymore then Smalls did. They both seemed older then they were. War did that to people, changed them and their perspective, and both Smalls and Heather had seen horrible things and felt horrible things to the point where many praised them for their maturity when they were really just traumatized. For Smalls it had helped to begin to prepare him for the throne he would one day inherit, giving him the worldly experience he needed beyond the teaching and training he was receiving behind the safety of First Warren's walls. For Heather it had intensified her love for life, made her bold enough to stand up for it, and helped her realize how being gentle when the world was so cruel was not a weakness but a gift. For both of them it had made them comprehend what a precious gift love was in a world full of hatred and death, where rabbits were killed day in and day out, and death counts rose higher and higher each day. A world where kings grew old and weary over sending soldiers to their deaths, Where children played soldier in preparation for becoming real ones, Where orphans were common and young widows even more so. Where children remained children for such short periods of time it hardly seemed that there were any youths left in the world. This was what war did; stole into homes making widows early and children orphans, deforming young soldiers who were never whole afterwards, and making it achingly clear too late that hate never answered the question anyways. All of this was going through Heather's mind as she sat at her desk, staring down at the blank piece of paper as the candle flickered steadily. A rap on the door broke through her dark thoughts and Heather called, "Come in." Her father entered, and Heather squeezed her eyes shut, not ready for the conversation her father was sure to be having with her.
"I know what Jacks said was most likely a rumor, and I know that you don't want to talk about it, but something this important needs to be discussed." Heather sighed. She didn't make any excuses about what a long day it had been, her father believed in 'not putting off until tomorrow what could be done today.' "But I also know that you aren't the kind of doe to make these decisions lightly, Especially with what the war has done to age you. I am proud of you Heather, but you are also my daughter and I wish to know what would make such rumors spread."
"Father, you know that Smalls and I have been friends for a long time."
"And that hasn't begun to change lately? You're distant Heather. I am not so blind to my own daughter that I cannot see when she is plainly holding feelings she doesn't understand, no matter how much you think I am. You've pulled back from others, from Picket and….from Smalls." Her father paused, "Heather, is there something you wish to tell me?" Heather paused, and looked down at the worn leather book that was her journal that sat open on her desk. As her eyes glanced over it, she realized how blatant her own feelings were, and she lifted it, handing it to her father.
"You tell me."
Little Deillah died today. She had no one, and she cried out for her 'Mama' inconsolably. It was horrible to watch, I've cared for her for so long but it all meant nothing in the end, she was too sick. Perhaps she is with her Mama now. It's sad to think of how many children must die daily in this terrible war, it almost makes me sick. The effect this war has had on everyone is awful, I've seen it first hand. Smalls doesn't smile so much these days, nor does he laugh. I don't think he realizes how much like his father he has grown. He's quieter now, more subdued. I sometimes think he's the only one keeping Picket from doing something he'd regret, I'm thankful for that. Smalls does so many things that I am grateful for….He's always been there for me, and I hope that I've always been there for him. Right now we all need a friend.
Here it suddenly broke off, as if something or someone had interrupted the writing. A long black mark scored the rest of the page, as if something had startled the writer. On the next page it continued.
Smalls is even more tired today than usual, I know this because I just saw him. He seems to need something desperately, and I feel as if I have it, but won't give it. Smalls is the kind of person who is really quite good at hiding their emotions, but I can always read him. First he joked about Picket's various pranks, and I reminded him of his scheme with the sailors, but then he grew serious, and he told me that his father seemed very tired, as if his years had caught up with him all at once. And then he said how much he wished he could see me smile again. His words felt different then, as if they meant something more….I promised him I would after the war was over. I can't promise him now, I wish I could, but I can't. It would be a lie. I can't smile while the world is so wrong and there are so many dying and I just watched a little doe breathe her last when she'd barely begun to live. But that promise gave me something, hope. I didn't realize how the day had treaded on mine, so Smalls gladly leant me some of his own. I wish I could give him something in return, but what could repay this?
Her father stopped where the page ended.
"Do you only write about Smalls?" He asked after a while.
"No Father, you are fully aware that I do not." Heather replied somewhat dryly.
"He's kind to you." Whittle said, sighing and leaning against the wall.
"Of course he is. You know we haven't changed that much since we were children."
"You'd be surprised. Your temper is much better under your control than when you were that age, and I've noticed that Smalls has broken his habit of interrupting. I remember how bad it was when he was a child."
"Smalls doesn't interrupt now." Heather said softly. Whittle saw something in his daughter's face then, the way her voice softened when she said Smalls' name, and he glanced over her journal again. No. Not yet. It has begun, but has not finished. He thought, giving a sigh that was heard by no one but himself. He resolved to let his wife handle this, It would be easier for Heather to discuss it with her mother then her father. So he handed her journal to her, and left her to her own thoughts.
"How is she?" Sween asked, Whittle sighed.
"Unsure is what I would say. It is clear she cares for him, but in what way remains to be seen."
"I think that it is more obvious than she thinks. More than Smalls thinks as well, I would say." Whittle chuckled.
"Do you remember the ball a few months ago? The king even mentioned something about it to me, and asked if I had any notion of any kind of relationship between the two of them."
"I remember that too. Do you think that he cares that she isn't noble?"
"No." Whittel said firmly. "He isn't the kind of king that cares about that. I think he was mostly worried about how Smalls would react. He isn't exactly one to face such things head-on. He was also, possibly, thinking of the future. Though a little farther ahead than Smalls is, I would guess. Smalls is, one would say, a little awkward when it comes to these things."
"I don't think that's uncommon."
"Yes, well, I think that awkwardness is better than cockyness, such as Joe Shanks and Picket seem to have taken up. He does not, at the very least, lack manners."
"He's a prince, Whittel."
"And I seem to remember a certain prince spreading rumors about his younger brother and his closest friend, so I think that princes are just as capable of rude qualities as any other rabbit." Sween shook her head.
"Someone needs to give that princling a job to do. He's bored, that's the most of it, I think."
"Yes, well, spreading rumors shouldn't be a way to satiate your boredom, no matter how strong it is."
"I agree. I will try to talk to Heather tomorrow, after she comes back from the palace."
Smalls' day didn't start out well. He overslept, something he berated himself for all the way down to the training pitch as he dodged servants, officials, and soldiers.
"Do you have an excuse, Princeling?" Helmer questioned gruffly. Picket mouthed,
"You dug this grave." Smalls restrained himself from snapping back with a sarcastic comment.
"I'm sorry, I overslept." Smalls said,
"No excuse," Helmer replied. "If it happens again I'll talk to your father." Well, that wasn't as bad as usual. Perhaps he was feeling a little bad about the day before. "Up the tree," Helmer ordered. "No back talk." Apparently not. Picket groaned audibly and Helmer shot him a reproving look.
"It won't kill you," Smalls whispered to him.
"It might." Picket muttered.
"If anyone's in danger of dying today it's me." Smalls paused, "Just don't look down."
"How can I not," Picket moaned. "He's going to be throwing rocks at us." Smalls shrugged, there wasn't a way he could help him.
After training Smalls and Picket walked down to the study areas. Fall was coming to a close, the weather becoming colder and colder. Smalls wondered if the clouds in the sky hinted at snow.
"What did you do after drills yesterday?" Picket asked.
"Tried to get some work done. But Whit wouldn't stop bothering me." Smalls didn't give the real reason he'd been distracted. "How about you? Did you manage to get those history studies done?"
"Yeah. Something weird happened at dinner though."
"What?"
"I promised Heather I wouldn't tell." Picket mumbled. "I shouldn't have even said that."
"...It's a rumor isn't it."
"Uh…."
"If you don't tell me, I'll just guess. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad."
"You'd be surprised…" Picket muttered.
"I'll guess," Smalls persisted, "You know I will."
"Why do you care so much? Why do both of you care so much?" Picket wondered.
"Heather cares too?"
"Uh-"
"I'll ask her,"
"No-" Picket said rapidly. "Heather doesn't want-" But exactly what Heather wanted Smalls never found out, as a large, loud boom interrupted their conversation. A long pause followed it, and then several smaller, but louder booms. "That doesn't sound good." Picket muttered. Another boom,
"It's coming from the west wing." Smalls said.
"Maybe it's, uh, construction?" Picket suggested. He didn't sound like he believed it.
"I don't think so." Smalls said slowly. Screams echoed. "I definitely don't think so!" He shouted as he jumped up.
"We need to get across!" Picket shouted. "The hospital's down there!" Smalls felt a pang. Heather. More screams. They both turned and raced down the hall. Emma's down there too, Smalls realized. This isn't going to go well.
"Wait," Smalls said, halting at the end of the passage. There were voices, cruel and hard. Smalls had fought against wolves before, it wasn't news to him that they were evil creatures, but they had never tried to attack the palace, how had they even gotten in? It was too heavily fortified.
"It was just a bunch of does, Commander. Does and wounded rabbits that can't fight back." The first wolf laughed.
"There will be soldiers coming soon." The commander said gruffly,
"Soldiers that in pairs could become a problem. A problem I want you to deal with, Redeye will have our hides if we let even one rabbit escape."
"Who are we looking for again?"
"The fool they call their king and anyone associated with him."
"What about the rabbits in the hospital?"
"Kill them. Eat them. I don't care, just save some of the spoils for home." A wrench in Smalls' stomach made him realize how truly awful these wolves were.
"My pleasure," The second said, and the sound of snapping teeth filled their ears. "I will enjoy it heavily."
"We need to get to the hospital, now." Picket hissed in his ear. "Before it's too late."
The hospital was a wash with blood. Children whimpered in corners, either dead or dying, and bodies of all shapes and sizes were littered among the debris of shattered beds, glass, wood, and fabric. There were no wolves among the dead. Murderous creatures. Smalls thought furiously. Attacking the elderly and children, the wounded and the does. It was disgusting. These wolves had no honor, no moral code. No one was screaming now. It was silent. Except for the occasional ragged breath, gasp of pain, or a long sigh from the finally dead. Smalls and Picket did not linger long. They couldn't even do anything.
Adrenaline sharpened Smalls's senses. Battle wasn't strange to him, It wasn't unusual, wasn't odd, it was part of the life he lived. But this was different. Battles were meant to take place outside of home, far away, somewhere where there weren't innocents for the wolves to hurt. Like Heather. He thought. A jolt of fear shot through him. Smalls could fight, he could fight well, but none of his training, none of his studying, could prepare him for the loss he would feel if Heather died. Nor could it prepare him for the gorey scene he saw when he turned the corner. Blood was everywhere, and Picket had paled as a stream of it slowly snaked its way past them.
"Smalls?" A voice coughed. A figure moved among the mess of the hospital room, Heather was leaning against a wall in a corner, her white fur stained with blood and her eyes slightly glazed from the horror she had witnessed. She coughed again, but no blood came, and Smalls guessed that the red on her clothes was other's blood, and not her's. Heather looked exhausted. Crouching beside her, Smalls gently reached out and touched her face, and she looked at him, her eyes clearing as if coming out of a daze.
"Heather, do you know where Emma is?" Smalls asked.
"No," Heather said. "She went to work in another part of the hospital, I stayed here with the children." Tears filled her eyes, "There all dead Smalls, every single one. They thought I was dead too." Smalls wanted to tell her that it would be okay, but he knew that it wouldn't. So instead he said,
"We need to leave, Can you walk?"
"Yes. Yes, I think so. I'm not hurt." Heather shakily stood, and Smalls fought the temptation to wrap an arm around her and hold her up. "She left to help in the area where the wounded soldiers were being treated, it was down here…" Heather said. The fire in her eyes had returned, and she scanned the area as she led them down the hall. Picket leaned in and whispered,
"You're staring. Look somewhere else."
"I'd rather look at her than the blood stains on the walls." Smalls muttered in reply. But he did look away, and he did stare at the blood stains, and it made him sick.
"Emma!" Smalls called.
"I'm here!" Came the distant reply. They found Emma huddled underneath the ruins of a destroyed medicine cabinet. There was no one alive in that room, either. "What are we going to do?" Emma asked, "We can't stay here."
"We need to find Father." Smalls said grimly. Emma looked at him in shock and grief.
"Of course, you don't know…." She paused, and tears began to streak her face. "He's gone Smalls." She said, her voice breaking. "He's gone. They're all gone. Father, Mother, Winslow. And I don't know what happened to Whit. he ran off to the fighting the second he was told. They took them Smalls, we're the last ones left."
Shock, grief, and then blinding anger filled Smalls. But he clamped down on it, knowing the one thing his Father would not want was for him to lose his temper and do something reckless. The chain around his neck suddenly became a hundred times heavier. His father was dead, or would be. He was the heir, he couldn't die. Emma was sobbing, and Picket's face was angry and tense, and barely controlled. But Heather was looking at him, and, though her eyes were sad and grief-stricken, concern was deeply evident in them. Smalls stepped forward and pulled her into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder,
"I'm sorry." She said softly, only for him to hear. That was when the tears began to come, spilling over against Smalls' will. Heather didn't say anything, Just stayed close, the only thing she could do. But grieving would have to wait, wolves were prowling and they needed to get out. Smalls instinctively slipped into the leadership position.
"We need to find a way out. Picket, didn't Helmer have you memorize the tunnels under the city?"
"Yeah," Picket said, shaking himself. "But we'd have to get out of the palace first, there's an entrance just outside."
"That might be a problem," Emma said, "Wolves are guarding every entrance."
"I know one." Smalls said grimly. "Father showed me several years ago, as a precaution." He paused, "We need to get to the library."
"Tell me this isn't a 'pull a book' kind of secret passage," Emma groaned, her coping technique. If she cracked a joke, she could forget what went wrong. Smalls didn't condemn her for it, but he did shoot a look at her.
"No. But we need to get somewhere secure."
"Try this path," Heather said, pointing to an untouched door. "No one uses it….Some say it's haunted." She glanced at Emma.
"Which I doubt," Emma said.
"You were terrified of it when we were little," Picket argued.
"Not now." Smalls ordered. The door opened, and a rush of cold air blasted them. Noises, ugly and horrid, the sound of the enemy, came from far down the corridor, and Smalls hastily shoved Emma in and hurried after her, and then grabbed Heather's hand and pulled her in, and then Picket dove into the tunnel while the door slammed shut behind them.
Heather tripped over something in the dark, an old rusted lantern. She picked it up and struck a match from the pack in her satchel and lit the lamp. It illuminated the ground for about six feet in front of them, then, an impenetrable wall of darkness. "They trained us to use this path, in case we were ever attacked and needed to get the injured out." Heather said. She looked away,
"Obviously it didn't work." Emma added. "It connects to more tunnels, but that's the extent of my knowledge."
"That makes sense," Picket said slowly. "The palace was built on top of the tunnels Lander first hollowed out when they came here." He paused, "But I don't know this path. I'm sorry, I don't think Helmer was aware of it. Or he just didn't tell me."
It was cold. Silence consumed them as they walked, and in the dim light Heather saw Smalls' dejected form. After a while of hesitating, she reached out and took his hand. He finally glanced up from the ground, and gave her a sad smile, before looking away again. Heather wanted to do more, but this wasn't a wound she could heal on the outside, this was on the inside, on Smalls' heart, mind, and soul. They reached a fork in the road, and Picket scratched his head and held the lantern up higher.
"I think that this is the right path," He said, gesturing to the left. "But I'm not sure."
"Well-" Smalls started to say, but loud noises from behind stopped them. Suddenly the world dissolved into light, red, fiery light that was. And shaking. Endless, mind-breaking shaking. Heather was thrown backwards, and somewhere her mind connected the light with an explosion. Instincts drove her, and she managed to cover her head. More loud explosions, more shaking, and crumbling rock. Will this day never end? Silence reigned around her, and echoed in her ears. Slowly she sat up, and dust fell off of her. Smalls was out a few feet away from her. A rock appeared to have struck him in the head. She quickly moved over to him. He didn't look good, but, then again, he hadn't all day. Yet there was almost something peaceful about him, it was strange. A rock must have cut him-and deeply, because his arm was bleeding. Heather tended to his wounds, and after a while began to sing an old folk song. Heather never sang, never. But she did so now, and only for Smalls.
"An Ember in the fire,
An Ember in the fern.
The Ember is burning,
Stronger than before.
The fire might be gone,
The fern might have died,
But glows still the Ember,
The kingdom's pride.
Green glows the Ember,
Unlike any before,
Seed of the nation,
Beauty in the dark.
The forest might burn,
The Citadels might fall,
But still the Ember burns,
Hope in the thrall.
Hope the Ember brings,
As long as it still glows.
Faintly it might be,
But still the hope will grow.
Smalls shifted in his sleep, as if the song had leaked into his fevered dreams. Heather knew she needed to rest, while she could. Smalls couldn't be moved yet-the gash in his arm was deep-and the crushed rock broke them off from Emma and Picket-but also from their enemies, so Heather hoped they were safe for at least a little while. But she couldn't relax, nightmares and blood and gore filled her mind, and she knew that she would be realizing that horrible day for the rest of her life. Why? Why did this happen? Why did she have to watch children slaughtered and elderly murdered? Why? It hurt. So much. Heather struggled not to become angry, and she looked down at Smalls' sleeping form, tears starting in her eyes. "You promised Smalls." She said softly. "Promised me…."
Hope the Ember brings,
As long as it still glows,
Faintly it might be,
But still the hope grows.
