getting better for a long time, right up until about a week ago when the USF started attacking again. Just reading the reports and knowing what was going on triggered something again, something that gets me out of bed at one in the morning and won’t let me sleep again for an hour or two.
I cross my arms and look out. Military service is mandatory in Sveloria: everyone is required to do two years of service by the time they turn twenty-five. Most people do their two years stationed somewhere fairly pleasant and never have to fire a gun at another human, then get out and go on with their lives.
I joined at twenty-two, fresh out of college. My father tried to talk me into taking a cushy officer’s position, one where I could be in charge of people and wouldn’t have to do any of the dirty work, but I refused. When I insisted on going to basic training with everyone else, he tried to talk me out of it.
I didn’t tell him I was trying to join the Royal Guard until I’d already made it in, after the most grueling three months of my life. If I’d thought I could keep it hidden from him, I would have.
It’s hard to keep secrets from a former KGB agent.
He threatened to disown me if I didn’t leave the Guard. He told me he’d make my younger brother Mikhail, all of thirteen at the time, the crown prince. He threatened to exile me and make me a refugee from my own country.
I told him to go ahead. It was the first time I really ever stood up to him.
I can still remember the way he screamed at me. At one point I could hear my mother’s voice, asking what was wrong, and he called her a stupid cow and told her to leave.
But I won in the end. All along, I knew my father wasn’t stupid enough to disown me for serving my country. His country.
When my two years ended, I signed on for two more. This time, when I told my father, he didn’t say anything at all, just hung up the phone. We didn’t talk again until I finally left the military and took on duties at the palace.
My father’s never been a nice man. He’s never been a warm or loving man to either of his sons or his wife. I can’t imagine a tender moment with him; I can’t imagine him holding an infant or comforting a child.
I lean against the wall next to the window and look out at the sea. It’s childish, but I always wonder if there’s someone on the opposite coast, somewhere in Turkey, looking back at me.
I’m too hard on my father sometimes. He’s had a hard life. Everything he’s done, all the fighting, all the ruthlessness, all the iron-fisted ruling, I know he’s done because he thinks it’s right.
He grew up under communist rule and had to lie about who his family was just to survive, and he wants something different for me and Mikhail. For everyone in Sveloria.
I just don’t always think he’s going about it the right way.
I take a deep breath and exhale, the window pane fogging up for a moment. I’m not getting back to sleep any time soon, so I put on a pair of jeans, an undershirt, and shoes. I walk out of my suite and close the door softly behind myself.
Even in the dark, I know the way to the ramparts by heart. The wide stone walks stretch from tower to tower, and while they’re technically off-limits for safety reasons, everyone in the palace knows how to get up there.
The moment I push open the heavy wooden door, I get the faintest whiff of pot smoke, and I frown.
It’s not really uncommon for people, mostly the younger house and kitchen staff, to smoke. But they usually smoke out on the grounds, further away from the palace itself.
I’ve never seen them smoking up here. It’s surprisingly bold of them, almost reckless. I shut the door softly and walk out onto the rampart, ready to give some young idiot some strong advice about where they should be smoking.
Then, near the far end of the stone walkway, a figure shifts, backing away from the waist-high wall and scratching the back of one leg with the opposite
I cross my arms and look out. Military service is mandatory in Sveloria: everyone is required to do two years of service by the time they turn twenty-five. Most people do their two years stationed somewhere fairly pleasant and never have to fire a gun at another human, then get out and go on with their lives.
I joined at twenty-two, fresh out of college. My father tried to talk me into taking a cushy officer’s position, one where I could be in charge of people and wouldn’t have to do any of the dirty work, but I refused. When I insisted on going to basic training with everyone else, he tried to talk me out of it.
I didn’t tell him I was trying to join the Royal Guard until I’d already made it in, after the most grueling three months of my life. If I’d thought I could keep it hidden from him, I would have.
It’s hard to keep secrets from a former KGB agent.
He threatened to disown me if I didn’t leave the Guard. He told me he’d make my younger brother Mikhail, all of thirteen at the time, the crown prince. He threatened to exile me and make me a refugee from my own country.
I told him to go ahead. It was the first time I really ever stood up to him.
I can still remember the way he screamed at me. At one point I could hear my mother’s voice, asking what was wrong, and he called her a stupid cow and told her to leave.
But I won in the end. All along, I knew my father wasn’t stupid enough to disown me for serving my country. His country.
When my two years ended, I signed on for two more. This time, when I told my father, he didn’t say anything at all, just hung up the phone. We didn’t talk again until I finally left the military and took on duties at the palace.
My father’s never been a nice man. He’s never been a warm or loving man to either of his sons or his wife. I can’t imagine a tender moment with him; I can’t imagine him holding an infant or comforting a child.
I lean against the wall next to the window and look out at the sea. It’s childish, but I always wonder if there’s someone on the opposite coast, somewhere in Turkey, looking back at me.
I’m too hard on my father sometimes. He’s had a hard life. Everything he’s done, all the fighting, all the ruthlessness, all the iron-fisted ruling, I know he’s done because he thinks it’s right.
He grew up under communist rule and had to lie about who his family was just to survive, and he wants something different for me and Mikhail. For everyone in Sveloria.
I just don’t always think he’s going about it the right way.
I take a deep breath and exhale, the window pane fogging up for a moment. I’m not getting back to sleep any time soon, so I put on a pair of jeans, an undershirt, and shoes. I walk out of my suite and close the door softly behind myself.
Even in the dark, I know the way to the ramparts by heart. The wide stone walks stretch from tower to tower, and while they’re technically off-limits for safety reasons, everyone in the palace knows how to get up there.
The moment I push open the heavy wooden door, I get the faintest whiff of pot smoke, and I frown.
It’s not really uncommon for people, mostly the younger house and kitchen staff, to smoke. But they usually smoke out on the grounds, further away from the palace itself.
I’ve never seen them smoking up here. It’s surprisingly bold of them, almost reckless. I shut the door softly and walk out onto the rampart, ready to give some young idiot some strong advice about where they should be smoking.
Then, near the far end of the stone walkway, a figure shifts, backing away from the waist-high wall and scratching the back of one leg with the opposite
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