Behind The Sun

NOTE: some things are not explained in this segment because it is the last chapter of the (hopefully first book of the) story I’m writing. The tragedy is that Milcah’s sister, Bry, who is four years older than Milcah, was killed a year before this happened. Bry was set to take the throne when she turned 25 so that their parents could rest, due to their mother’s bad health. So as not to put the country in chaos, since their parents aren’t really functioning right now, Milcah needed to be crowned as soon as possible, around the time Bry would have been, when Milcah is 21. I know all that leads up to this moment in my head, I just haven’t written all of it yet. 

Milcah stands before the throne, covered in red. She can feel the weight of her dress pressing down on her, willing her to sink to the floor. Can hear the quiet and shallow breaths of her companions on either side – Asra to her left, tall and lanky, bones still awkward and growing inside of him; her father to her right, broad and sunken, clenched fists by his side. 

The moment she takes her rightful seat, the decree will have to be made; fight, or sleep? It’s been merely a year since Milcah’s life was ripped apart by tragedy, and the urge to slip deep under the waves of it beside her father still beckons her with sultry hands. She still doesn’t know whether she’ll listen to it, or to the starlight boy beside her, but now the minister is asking her to repeat his words as her vows to a country she barely knows, and she hears herself repeating them. It’s time now. 

As Milcah turns, slowly sinking into the soft cushions of the throne, she  looks at Asra. She knows what will come of drowning. She knows the peace and blessed numbness that comes with reveling in her grief. Doing anything else (doing what you know you should, a part of her argues) is a leap into the unknown, a spread of wings she has never even seen before. 

“Your majesty,” Milcah’s aunt smiles at her, whispering softly, “it’s time.”

Milcah clears her throat. 

“I take my place as leader of this valiant and beautiful land, and must make a decision you all have been waiting for,” a pause, “I know –” her breath stops for a moment, eyes going hazy. Starlight or ocean? Fight or freeze? Asra or Father? 

A soft hand lands on her wrist, and she looks up to see her aunt Emily. “The decision is yours, my child.”

Milcah looks out at the hall full of people – diplomats and merchants, wives and daughters, warriors and poets. This kingdom is hers, and it is theirs. She does not look at her father, or her boy. She finds her eyes drawn to the crest on the ring on her newly-crowned hand. Hers. The decision is hers.

“I know we are all scared of what it means to fight an enemy we once loved,” she looks into the crowd, touches her eyes upon person after person as she speaks about what must be done. “But we cannot let oppression stand. If we do not fight, we become a part of the villainy.”

Murmurs made up equally of discontent and excitement fill the hall.

“As your queen,” Milcah’s voice rises above the sea of murmurs, silencing every sound in the area but the birds and her own heartbeat. “I decree Tassoph at war against the tyranny of Konbia.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees her father stiffen. Sees her mother, back against the far wall, turn her head away from Milcah. She sees Asra, expression solemn and something warm in his eyes, something that looks a lot like pride. Pride in her. But this wasn’t for him, even though it was, in part, because of him. This was her decision. 

Aunt Emily squeezes her arm, looks at her with that same look of pride.

A war has begun, but Milcah will not fight alone. She will kick and scream and claw her way into the light. She will let herself be pulled out from under the waves. 

Her father has vacated the area, but her mother is still there, crying. Milcah almost goes to her, almost tries once more to lift her from the hollow and fearful depths of despair. But she doesn’t. Instead, she stands, embraced by light. 

She only has a moment to bask in the sun before she’s engulfed in an embrace from Asra, quickly followed by her toddler cousin throwing herself forward to wrap around Milcah’s legs. The weight of her pushes into the muscles of Milcah’s shins, forcing her to hold her body stiff and still to keep from toppling over. Chuckling, Milcah pulls back from Asra to pick Lily up from the ground and anchor her in a hold at Milcah’s waist.

“You did it,” Asra smiles at her softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks tingle with the fleeting feeling of his touch. There is such pride in his eyes, then, and she feels the sudden need to remind him of who she is. 

“I didn’t do it for you,” she blurts, breath holding itself inside her throat as she awaits his response. His smile grows even sweeter, eyes trained on hers as if she holds the universe between her teeth. 

“I know you didn’t,” he pauses, clearly debating whether or not to say something. “That’s – that’s the part I’m so proud of.”

Before she can find a reply in the mess he has just made of her mind, Milcah’s aunt is coming up beside her as the last of the large croud disperses and moves in their own directions, towards homes or haunts. Aunt Emily smooths a hand over her daughter’s head, who is still nestled against Milcah. 

“You did well today, my child.”

“Thank you,” Milcah says softly, “I’m not so sure though. My parents won’t – I’ve made life harder for them.”

“No,” her aunt pauses to appraise her, like she used to do in the early days of her stay at the castle, “that is much too easy to think. And easy is rarely true.” 

“I-”

“Give us a moment?” Aunt Emily gives Asra a look which he seems to catch onto quickly. Plucking Lily out of Milcah’s arms, he leaves Milcah with squeeze of her hand.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” is the soft reassurance he offers before weaving his way out of the hall. 

Aunt Emily is quiet for a moment, eyes glassy and heated. Then, she softly takes Milcah’s hands in hers and rests the full weight of her gaze on her queen’s face. 

“You may have made them unhappy, but in choosing your own power, you made them very proud. I think they are merely still learning how to hold that beside their grief.”

“I can only wish that you’re right,” Milcah grimaces, eyes downcast. 

“Well,” Aunt Emily releases one of Milcah’s hand in favor of using it to tilt Milcah’s chin up. Milcah finds herself longing to nuzzle into the warm palm, and for once, she allows herself the comfort of doing what she craves. Her aunt smiles. “No matter what they are, what they think, I am proud of you, little love.”

The nickname from Milcah’s childhood makes her breath catch, tears forming in her eyes. 

“I am always proud of you, my child.”