Chapter Thirty-Seven: Crabs Walk Sideways, Lobsters Walk Straight

When your hands are bound and your baby is kicking in your stomach like never before and you see your husband and father of your child standing next to the man who was once your greatest love but is now your truest enemy, you might suspect that it will be a bad day. Perhaps it will even be a bad week. When you see your father, who has disowned you, and your former fiancee, the one you ran away from in the dead of night, standing next to them, representing a country that has washed its hands of you, it could even be a bad month. You might give up hope that anything could be saved, much less yourself.

When the tears begin to roll down your cheeks, but freeze before they slip off your chin because the wind that whips your hair into stinging your face is relentless, then certainly, you will not feel strong or capable or clever, not like you did before when you had such great ideas of brokering peace and bringing nations together. Oh, no, then you will break and capitulate and admit to just about anything.

But that was when Arielle appeared, my friend until the end. Wan, gaunt Arielle, sitting fiercely atop a destrier that pranced and danced about in the wind, rode to the forefront and demanded that the world bow down at her feet. “Give me Sera dy Relandrant.” Her voice arced across the field, reaching me with much needed strength. “She is a citizen of my city and I demand her return at once.” Oh dear, dear Arielle, sweet woman who would come after me no matter what I had gotten myself into.

“No.” Ascanius y Pergama's answer was simple, and he said no more. I was his prisoner and there was no flip side to this coin. I was not a chip to be bargained with, I was merely his because he liked to have things that other people wanted.

And there I stood, in the middle of it all, watching my life be bandied around by insubstantial words. I could do nothing but observe. I could feel the cold metal of two wedding rings biting into my fingers, the cold making them burn against my chapped skin. I remained still, my head bowed against the wind, watching the two sides battle for me. There was, of course, the third side, the side that held my attention most of all. Thom stood there, with Daryan and the rest of Tännon. His uncle stood there, tall and imposing and for once, serious, beside him and behind him, I could make out Livingston's familiar crop of hair. So there they were, all of them, my former allies, waiting to betray me. Only Arielle was left to me now, not Anselme, not Jasper, not Thom, but Arielle. The most powerful woman in Anselme, to be sure, but in comparison to the men who opposed me, she was nothing.

Another tear froze on my cheekbone.

I had wanted to help, wanted to run away so that the tension between Anselme and Tännon that was caused by my presence would cease, but I had been wrong. I had not helped whatsoever and in that respect, I was an utter failure. I sighed, my breath crystallizing before me.

In the end, there were no great speeches, no mighty shows of martial force. There was simply Arielle glaring across the field at Ascanius y Pergama, wind whipped and angry. The delegation from my former country had gone, seeking shelter from the cold. Arielle and Ascanius...and me. I stood yet on the field, the weight of my decisions bearing down upon my shoulders so heavily that I seemed to sink into the very earth itself. And so, in the end, as it were, nothing was accomplished. The end dragged on and on, reeking of stalemate and badly played chess.

That night, I was brought home to Ascanius' tent, warmed and scolded roundly by Morian, and put to bed. As I drifted between dreams and the waking world, I could hear Morian launching into a tirade against Ascanius, cursing him for treating me so poorly. With the sounds of arguments ringing in my ears, I slept.

Morning broke with harsh light over the field and found me wrapped tightly in blankets and wool as I watched the stalemate continue. I cared not, for why should I? The things that mattered to me most had left me, seemingly with no hope of recovery. Though Arielle stood forth, ever my truest friend, I longed for my husband, the man I loved. Still, his ring burned through the skin of my fingers, biting with cold and ice. Whenever I felt it brush along my raw skin, I remembered how I had failed him, but I still relished in the thought of him, hating myself for it, but loving him.

The third day of this farce opened its bright, brittle eyes upon a vastly changed scene. I stood atop a platform, Ascanius by my side, his hand tight around my arm. Arielle stood by my other side, her face drawn with worry and fury. “You will not go through with this, Ascanius y Pergama. I will not allow it!”

“You have no say in this, woman.” The General y Pergama shrugged. “It is not your place to speak on this matter.”

Arielle let loose a long sigh and I glanced at her briefly; she appeared as sharp as a knife blade, while I felt as dull as an unpolished spoon. She was the one who would save Anselme and bring peace about, not me. She had gone about things in the right manner, had thought things through and would fight it out to the bitter end. Anselme needed her and relied upon her in a way it never had me. The hopes that the minstrel had given me, the idea that I could be the one to halt the coming war, had been nothing more than a flight of fancy, briefly present, but soon gone. My head dropped lower.

This was a trial, this song and dance routine that Ascanius meant to put be through. He styled himself judge, but ruled with no opposition. He would not listen to Arielle, would not let me speak except for the words he placed delicately into my mouth. And I, ever obedient, ever subservient, opened my mouth wide and waited for each morsel to come.

Dusk found me that way, still standing atop the platform, though Ascanius had released my arm. I wasn't going anywhere. I was to die when my child was born, for even Ascanius could not stomach punishing an unborn child for the sins of the mother. Even he had a heart. And so, I prepared to wait for one month more, one month to let my unborn child make its way into the world.

I waited for three and a half weeks until, one sunny, brittle morning, my daughter fought her way into the world, screaming with her first breath and never seeming to cease. I took one look at her and knew whose child she was. There was no doubt whatsoever and there could never be. She was Thom's daughter, through and through, and her dark eyes so much like his stared at me curiously. I named her Seren. That night was the only night that I had with her and though dawn was nearly breaking already.

The feeling of your own heart breaking is one that will tear you apart from the inside to the outside, not allowing you to break down and cry at first, but merely to stand absolutely still, your breath shuddering through your body, the blood flowing through your veins. You might think that it is complete hopelessness, brought about by despair, but it isn't. It's the hope that makes it all the worse, the hope that perhaps someone will come and save you from your misery and knowing, rationally, that no one will, but hoping nonetheless. It is that conflict between the rational part of your being and the illogical, irrational abstract part of your being that rips your heart in twain.

And how it hurts! Oh, the agony of immobility, of standing frozen while your insides churn and crumble while you yet live. And you can do nothing.

The tears won't come until the bitter end, you see, for the tears mean that you are losing hope and then, there is nothing. No heartbreak, no despair, only numbness and salt water running down your cheeks and stinging your chapped, broken lips. At this point, the heart is broken, perhaps unable to be repaired. But it is a sort of release, when it all goes, slipping from your fingers like silt in the riverbed. Still, though, some of the silt catches under your fingernails, in the creases of your palm and then, when you notice that, you remember what it is to hurt, but you cannot quite name what it is.

You just cry, the tears running down your cheeks in rivulets, your eyes swollen from wind and water and salt, and your heart lies broken within you.

That is heartbreak, and that is what I felt, or perhaps didn't feel, as I stood that morning on the platform on which I was to die.

At that moment, I was told, Arielle was racing across the plains of Anselme, her destrier outfitted in nothing but a bridle and blanket. Anselme had gotten the word too late, it seemed, to come to my daring rescue, to snatch me from the hands of my captors (oh, the hands that I had run straight to, so foolishly) and whisk me away to safety. Thom, too, was with her, bareback and the clothing that he could find on a moment's notice, hastily thrown on in the dark. With him, he brought an extra horse and host of men, hoping desperately that he did not come too late.

My father watched, standing near Ascanius, his eyes never leaving mine. As hard and remorseless as ever, he shook his head. He had washed his hands of me, but held his granddaughter close, taunting me with it, as he had ever taunted me as a child.

Tears dripped down my face and I used them to absolve myself of him.

Ascanius wanted to make a show of it, a spectacle, to show his men and Daryan's men that they were winning this war. He wanted a demonstration of his power and so, he would kill a traitor to Tännon, a political prisoner from Anselme and an adulterous wife. They would kill not me, per se, but all the things they hated most, but my head would still be the thing to roll, in the end. It was the way of people, of societies, I supposed, to lay blame wherever it was easiest to place it.

And Arielle and Thom rode on, their horses' hooves striking a heartbeat against the hard earth.

The trumpets flared, bright swaths of sound carving across the morning. I, exhausted from the night's activities and a significant lack of sleep, wavered on my feet. Finally, when the trumpets were through crying their aching notes, Ascanius turned to me. He opened his mouth to condemn me, to speak the words that meant my death.

But I spoke first. “Ascanius y Pergama, what are you doing?”

He stared at first, his expression offended as if to ask, what is this woman speaking to me for? Then, he tried to yell.

I spoke over him. “Ascanius y Pergama, what you plan to do today is a crime.” I didn't actually know what I would say, or perhaps even what I was saying, but my voice carried over his. It was low with anxiety and the last vestiges of resolve that I had within me, pulled from the tips of my toes up to my heart. It was all that I had left. “What you will do to me is a sin, Ascanius, and you know it.

He laughed at me, then, certainty coursing through every breath. “It is no sin, Sera. Or even if it is, it matters not. This is war, girl, not a crusade. There is no holy faith to cross, there is only death, or not, if you are lucky.” Ascanius laughed again and I felt hope slip through my fingers like river silt.

“Then I will die, Ascanius, but not for you.”

“It doesn't matter what you die for.” His voice was full of bitterness, the words sour upon his tongue. “It only matters that you do.”

Words failed at that point. I had never been eloquent and, when faced with my own demise, I was even less so. With nothing left to me but my corporeal form, I felt the shudder of surrender rippling through me for the final time. Seren cried in my father's arms, her infant sobs breaking my already broken heart further.

I sank to my knees and Ascanius placed his sword at my throat. Closing my eyes, I took one, last breath, feeling the cold steel nipping at the tender skin of my neck.

One last, single tear froze onto my cheek.

I waited patiently, as a woman should. At last, I knew my place.

The hoofbeats, the screams, the sounds of death all around me shook me from my surrender. The men set to kill me clustered around me now protectively, their steel turned outwards, trying to stave off the death that seemed to close in.

Anselme had come to claim me. Arielle was at the head of an army, a guerilla operation that seemed more haphazard that horrifying, but was effective nonetheless. They killed without mercy, carved a bloody path before them, left a trail of carnage behind them and all in an effort to get to me. Arielle, as fierce in war as she was in diplomacy, rode hard for me, and beside her...

Oh, my breath caught in my throat then, full of tears and anger.

Beside her rode Thom.

Involuntarily, I stepped towards them, reaching outwards, only to be pushed roughly back into the center of protection. I watched helplessly as the day was fought for me. Blood streamed across the field, veritable rivers of life, springing forth from violent founts of wretched human suffering. I cried dry tears, my heaving sobs pouring through me remorselessly. My father, holding my dear, sweet child was nowhere to be found and I prayed that he was keeping her safe. Even if he didn't love me, he could still love her.

Thom cut a path to me, hacking through bodies and arms and necks to get to me. Our eyes held when they could and I loved him more than ever. The men around me shifted me restively, searching for a way to remove me from the theatre of war, but there was no place to go. Death waited for us to spring his trap no matter which way we turned and so, I was held hostage at the very center of the carnage, watching as my best friend and my husband fought for my very life. Helpless, as was so often the case, I prayed my heart out, ignoring the blood that splattered across my skin, ignoring the screams of men dying, ignoring the pain that shot through every fiber of my being.

And finally, Thom reached me.

I threw myself towards him, flinging my entire weight against the restraints of the men surrounding me. I screamed, I cried, I yearned for Thom and he...he worked his way towards me, letting nothing stop him. To him, it seemed as if the soldiers around me were nothing, mere sheaves of wheat to be cut down at the harvest.

It was a plentiful harvest of life, of death, of blood, but in the end, Thom held me close, pressing me against him as he worked his way through the conflict. Our compatriots, those fighting for Anselme and for me, drove a path before us, sheltering us and sacrificing, at times, their lives for mine. Tears streamed across my cheeks the entire time that Thom dragged me through the melee and blindly, I followed him, placing my trust completely with him.

The violence finally ended as darkness fell and it found me curled tightly in Thom's arms, silently, motionlessly crying. He rocked me back and forth throughout the night, never saying a word. Arielle's scouts found us there the next morning, chilled and with blue-tinged lips, but alive and together. They brought us back to Anselme, to Arielle and to Jasper and to the city itself, which welcomed us with wide open arms. I paid little attention to that, though, so lost was I in Thom. He never let me go, promised he never would again, and told me he loved me.

The only thing left was to reclaim our daughter.

Note: I'm terribly sorry this has taken so long. Per usual, I will do my best to keep it coming, but who knows. I will finish it, though, have no fear. It just might take forever...

But really, enjoy!