Inner struggle in ,ind and heart and soul. A anger fire possesssed at the injustice of authority. To set a match that would light a fire in the hearts of men. To destroy a corruption for a better future. Outer calm , emotions linger like tea brewing in hot water steam slowly rising .

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙾𝙽𝙴:

The teens in the beat up Silverado beside her truck beat on their windshield and laughed at her, they knew she wasn’t from this side of the tracks. Anyone would. She adjusted her hat and looked up at the place where the rearview mirror would be. She took it off long ago, after everything happened in her hometown. With doing this, she vowed to never look back, never searching through the dust to see her past ever again.

Her rough hands thudded the beat of an old country song as her worn tires took her as far away from home as she could go. She’d run the junk metal into the ground, drain every drop of gasoline in it. Hell, she’d push the thing across the county line before she even looked over her shoulder to see the mess she’d left back home— if she ever had a home. She didn’t think so.

For some reason, the kids beside her floor their petal, keeping up with her as they race down the lonely, abandoned highway. For the first time, she looks over at them and their tires slow. She brings her own to a halt, getting out of the jacked truck and slamming the door. The boys cut up, jumping and calling out to one another as her boots crunch on the gravel beneath her feet.

A sweaty, bucktoothed white boy leans out of the jammed window, his sticky tanned flesh pulled, tugged, squished and formed into the too-tight-tank top. “Hey, sweet cheeks, where you’s headed?” His reddened cheeks are stretched into a crooked grin, nearly sickening the girl as she nears, ducking into the shade cast by the packed truck. Funny enough, it reminds her of a clown car on oldie cartoons; there’s about twelve guys in the loaded metal coffin of a truck.

“I’m about to do what your daddy couldn’t,” the girl says, leaning into their window. “I’ll straighten your ass out faster than your mama put thread through a needle. You got that, buckwheat? Mind your mouth, before I tie you up and let the crows peck on your vacant noggin’.”

The other boys in the truck let their jaws hang. Slowly, one shifts, “You got a mouth like a firecracker, rattlesnake. You know how to drive that thing?” He nods a head towards the idle black Ford Fourth Generation. It’s been souped up and loaded like a gun.

She leans forward, grinning wildly. “Wanna see my baby roar? I can beat your trash-packer on any day, button.” She didn’t wait for his answer, walked back to her truck, hopped in the cab, threw it in drive and high-tailed it like a deer through the bushes. She didn’t turn around, she continued on her heart’s path, to GravelsTown Way, a small town with only one gas station and a farmer’s market another hour away.

           —— ✯✮✭✬✫ ——

Another two hours and she fills up on gas, grabbing jerky from the counter and paying 20¢. She hands him a quarter and tells him to keep the change. Five cents won’t get him very far. Her spurs click like nails on a table as she walks through the pale dust. Somewhere off in the sunset, a dog barks. She squints, shielding her eyes.

𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺, she thinks to herself as she finds her truck beside a squatty pump , 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯.

After pumping gas into her cans in the beating heat and finishing her jerky, she flies through the countryside, her hair billowing from the window, her black cowgirl hat lays in the passenger’s seat and an oldie blares on the radio. She watches cows and horses graze in green pastures, red and white barns shimmer in the distance, corn field after corn fields flash past. She even dodges a few free-range chickens that wandered onto the road for grit, unaware of the danger.

When the sun sets, she figures rest should come, doused in regret and sorrow, she pulls to the shoulder of the backroad. Just as she settles down in the seat, her hat resting over her face, a loud gunshot rings out down the countryside.

Cries fly up from the trees, it’s the sound of alarmed birds. The girl sits up in the seat, pushing the hat onto her head over messy braids. She slides out of the seat, grabbing a flashlight from the glovebox. She switches it on and bangs the side until it flickers on, casting a strong beam of light across sun-bleached paved road, one of the few modern things in these parts of the south.

Off in the distance, she sees a small, rundown farmhouse painted a faded, peeling grey. Her sharp eyes narrow as she slides into her truck. Maybe she’ll figure it out tomorrow. She locks the doors and lets her eyes close, drawing sleep close like a riding buddy.

           —— ✯✮✭✬✫ ——

“Ma’am? Ma’am?” She jolts awake, wiping drool from the side of her mouth. She sits up too quick, hitting her head on the roof of the car. The state trooper outside her window grins. She relaxes a small bit and pops the door open. “Mornin’, sunshine. We don’t see many travelers in this town. Not like your type.”

“And what exactly is my ‘type’?” She pulls her boots off and shakes them out while sitting in the truck. He watches her, then laughs.

“I can tell you this; this right here is the Baker’s Farmstead. You’re taking a tabby’s catnap on the man’s property which can get you a ticket,” the man straightens his hat and wipes sweat from his brow. “The man ain’t very friendly either, ma’am.”

“Well, your momma raised you right,” the girl says, smiling sheepishly and closing herself into the driver’s seat. “I’ll be on my way now.”

She cranks the truck and prays it catches. After a bit, it roars to life. The trooper beside her pops the top of the cab and winks. He waits in her dust and gives a small wave as she disappears down rows of corn. She stops when she’s sure he isn’t following her and does a sharp U-turn in the narrow road, running over a low corn stalk. She shoots down the long path, headed for the rundown farmhouse she saw before. Something about it draws her near, keeping her from wandering too far.

           —— ✯✮✭✬✫ ——

The drive winds up a small hill. The fields are barren, except for a few pastures to the west, holding livestock. Chickens cluck and scatter as she slowly follows the gravel road, keeping her tires in the grooves and off the strip of thriving grass in the middle. She pulls the sleepy truck to a halt, the wheels squeaking as the break struggles to keep itself from rattling loose.

She pops out and crunches up the drive, hopping the gate that keeps her truck from reaching the main property, where the rundown house sits, rotting on a spot of rich soil. She jumps another fence, landing in the pasture, and walks through it to avoid the sea of bear traps keeping anything alive from entering the driveway. She whistles as she goes, it’s nearly a cry for help in this neck of the woods.

A small creek runs through the pasture, her boots splash as she crosses the thinner puddles, venturing closer and closer to the house. Tadpoles dart within puddles underfoot, as if they’re ready to sprout legs and spring from the isolated puddle and onto the fuzzy green grass.

“The hell are you doing?”

She turns on the words, only the slightest bit of startled. A young man drops the two tires he’s carrying to a big red barn a few feet out, and wipes the motor oil residue from his hands onto his worn jeans. He crosses the traps as if it’s some country jig and hops the fence like a experienced hare.

“You see that?” He points to a lonely, black scarred horse grazing in the field. It’s apart from the others. Almost as if it knows they’re talking about it, it’s ears perk and turn, it’s gigantic head raises. “That thing would kill you in an instant. It’s the wildest horse we got. You understand? Untamable. You got that? Now if I’s you, I’d get my white ass off this property and go plant flowers around your mansion. Preferably before someone has to put them around your grave.”

He’s sweaty and dirty. Grime sticks to his tanned skin like sunscreen. His dangerous brown eyes hover over hers, questioning and a tad bit afraid of the strange girl. Before she can think, her mouth opens in reply.

“Well, you ain’t me, now is you? Your ass might just be whiter ‘n mine. Now is that any way to treat your visitors? Didn’t ya mama teach you anything?”

“How old are you? Tromping up here. What? You some insurance lady, comin’ to take away my farm? I done told y’all, it’s in the family’s name. Paid for and all. For generations. You can’t take this shit. And we ain’t going to no snobby court up in—“

“I see she ain’t tell you nothing,” the girl snaps. “You don’t go rattling on about your financial situation. And you for God sure don’t ask a lady her age.”

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” he hops the fence and tobbles over the traps again. “And I sure as hell ain’t gotta tell you to get off my property again, or I’ll just blow your brains out. That’s how it is here, missy. And I ain’t tellin’ you thrice.”

“Then you’d best keep your mouth shut,” she spits back, hopping the fence and tromping behind him. “‘Cause I’ma stayin’.”

“No you ain’t.” “Why, yes I am.”

“Look here, you city slut,” he spins on her, the tires he’d just picked up bump against her stomach but she stays put, peering up at him through the sunshine, taking it as a challenge. “We don’t need no help. You’re like a stray bitch, if I feed you, you’ll keep comin’ back.”

They stand like that, facing each other and staring for awhile before he breaks away and goes inside, dropping the tires— again— at the screen door’s step. The girl hops the rotting fence, and searches for the horse the grumpy man pointed out earlier.

           —— ✯✮✭✬✫ ——

Should I continue? Be honest!

“I hope you don’t imagine,” he began soberly to the men seated before him, “that you will be able to save yourselves.” The armored men remained silent; if they had no helmets one might have thought they were exchanging glances. The whirring of the helicopter’s blade could be heard droning in the backgroud— pulsating. The helicopter itself, on the inside, was spacious with steel walls and black floors. There were boxes of ammo, boots, and guns arranged neatly on the walls. It appeared crammed, but that was only so because of the men inside. They all sat together in suits of plated black armor that made them look invisible on the floor, and in the darkness of the room. It reeked of sweat. Every soldier seemed to pick at his armour and twitch. Some began to cry, and they all sat with lowered heads. The man at the front swallowed. He had olive skin, and long black hair that he tied behind his head. He looked at the soldiers with an earnestnest that demanded their attention. “We are the dead; understand this.” He stated. “We cannot and will not save ourselves. But comrades, do not lose courage. This fight is not for ourselves, this is for our posterity; for our sons and daughter who deserve a better future!” The men lifted their heads. “We have no future. We have been starved, worked, and beaten beyond recompence; we cannot be saved. It is not for our future that we fight, it is theirs; it belongs to the young, and for the young we shall ride with strengh— for their freedom, for their health, for their land, food, and their prosperity. Every drop of bled we shed will be their drink; their clean and uninfected waters— every rotting body will fertilize the land they will inherit. I bid thee, men of the North, stand; fight— for our death! For their life!” With this he raised his fist. “Death! Death!” The men roared, their voices swelling in chant-like corollary with his. The helicopter’s door burst open, and the men flung on their parachutes and jumped.

“What are you doing here?” Alaster asked Davian.

“You know me. Just stopping by to see how my favorite brother and father were doing.” Davian said.

“Our father is dead! All thanks to you and your little servant!”

Ok. No one called me a servant. I wasn’t one. I was a killer, sure. Not a servant or a slave. I struggled against the prince’s grip, but he was too strong.

“Let her go. She had nothing to do with this. She was just another servant who got caught up in the mix. I put the poison in his wine, she took it out. Let her go.”

Why was he trying to save me? Wouldn’t he just let me die? Wasn’t he the cruel, heartless prince who killed his oldest brother? Wasn’t he the one who tried to completely ruin his entire family? He just killed his father, or had me do it for him.

“Oh really? Just another girl who got caught in the mix? Of course. Then, why don’t I remember ever meeting her to appoint her to our father?” Alaster made sure that the sword nicked me a little. I whimpered.

I felt so small and useless. The only thing I could do was hope that I didn’t die.

Hope. I was hope. That was my name. My mother named me it for because I brought so much hope to her and my father. If they could have a girl, they could have a boy. Then, I’d tried to give hope to the rebels. I’d tried to poison then king and get away with it.

I wasn’t hope. I was a terrible creature forced into hope. I failed.

“I impersonated you, brother. It’s not that hard to. You’ve got very little brains and a tendency to flirt with any pretty girl you see.” Davian said.

My heart shattered. It was all an act. He’d been acting as his brother, acting like he liked me. He’d made me fall for him, but it was all a lie. What a fool I was.

Alasted growled. “Why are you protecting her?”

“No one else needs to die tonight.”

“On the contrary, brother. You need to pay for your crimes.”

I was flung into a wall. Instantly, blinding pain shot up my back and into my head. I saw stars, but I could hear the voices and sounds. It was out of focus, but I could hear it.

Clashing swords. Screams of terror and calling for guards. Threats and yells. All of it seemed so pointless.

I could just fall asleep. I was so tired. So exhausted-

“Stay with me, Hope.” A voice. It was like an angel. It reassured me. Everything… Everything was going to be alright.

Blood leaked from my head down to my neck. It stained my clothes even more. It was warm. So much pain.

“Help!” Someone screamed. “She needs help!”

“She’s a rebel!”

“No. She is not. She’s a bystander! You heard Davian. We cannot let her become another casualty of his cruelty.”

Agreement.

That’s when the world went dark around me and the voices all faded out.

He’s weary. Everything in his life, he’s devoted to the cause. Anger, frustration, indignation define him. He can’t move forward unless his goal is accomplished, and his goal can’t be accomplished until the state is crushed. He’s been married three times, and his children don’t speak to him. His clothes are dirty and don’t fit him properly. His arrest record prevents him from getting most jobs, so he earns money by working for other members of the movement. At night, he reads theory, texts as thick as phone books. He longs to discuss them with compatriots, but even staunch members of his movement avoid him when he brings up the literature. He longs for the founders of the movement, the long since departed visionaries, to sit at their feet and be instructed. Violence is always with him. He doesn’t believe in mercy; the old order would never be defeated without force, and they would always return until they were crushed and buried forever. He thought of what he would do to the overseers constantly, how he would show them his strength, his unrelenting purpose. Speeches are his entertainment. He walks for miles, or hitches rides, just to hear leaders speak. He recites their words back to himself, everything that he can remember. When he talks to himself, he sparks their words, so that he can become like them. If he could tattoo all their speeches over every inch of his skin, he would. The meetings he attends make him furious. He seethes and twists his hands during the petty bickering and the endless motions and non-actions which are taken. He wants to crush the state, and these functionaries are content to play their little games and hold their tiny offices. They haven’t the vision the leaders have, they haven’t the faith. He wishes he could crush them and their weak spirits and replace them. In his quiet moments, he remembers his past, how minuscule the State had made him feel. In his military service, then his years in prison, he had learned what it cost to follow orders. He had met the victims of the state, witnessed the injustice, fought for the right, and been slapped down, hard. He bears the scars of what they did to him, and he waits to inflict the same on them, with vengeance. Once he was soft, he was good and pure. Now he had been transformed into something stronger, crueler than anything he could have imagined. He wants to be a martyr, to strap a weapon to himself and burn up as a glorious sacrifice. He wants war, he wants to see the faces of his enemies and step on them. Yet with each day that passes, he grows older, and he despairs more and more that he will see the new Republic in his lifetime. He thinks he will be forgotten, that history will move on, and that no one will remember his name. Still he hopes; he breathes fire; his purpose will be accomplished.

I walk alone too much, and I really shouldn’t considering the reputation I’ve dragged with my name. Calypso Alston: the tragic poet and the person responsible for the uproar of the century; the one and only revolutionary. Though I don’t have much time to write poetry anymore, I am very passionate about the subject and I have taken the time to teach my nephew the ways of words when we find ourselves bored. I was speaking to myself and in my head reciting a poem probably comparing human nature to a bird or maybe a flower. There was another person ahead of me which was ardently unexpected. They were standing so still as if they were waiting for me. I approached with not even an ounce of caution to see. Afterall, it does feel nice to be needed. “Ms. Alston?” The person’s face was shaded by a black hat that most likely proactively hindered their vision. “To what do I owe the pleasure, dear stranger?” I reached out my hand and the person shook it with hesitation. “You are not as tenative as I would have thought. Do you know who I am?” They seemed almost disappointed by my answer. “I don’t know you whatsoever, but if you were trying to make you’re appearance seem like a bad omen, then you’ve definitely done well enough.” I lied and laughed. “So you are not afraid that I could be here to kill you?” The person shifted their weight uncomfortably. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever been afraid, more like paranoid or terrified in a melancholy way, and yes it’s extremely synonymous but not if you think about it for a bit.” I grinned in a candid way, “And if you wanted to kill me, you wouldn’t have confronted me like this. So,” I paused and stepped closer to them, “why have you come to look for me when you know I’m supposed to be dangerous and such things. You’ve obviously been warned not to come here, so you hide you’re identity.” The person paused to consider their response, “I guess,” they cleared their throat, “I wanted to see if you were real, if you were what they said you were.” “Do I meet your expectations?” I grinned. “Yes.” The person smiled back, “Can I ask you something?” “Of course.” I replied. “Why aren’t you the actual leader of the rebellion turmoil? You were the one who made up the idea and took the undergoud movement into a bigger thing. Why stay in the shadows when the people owe you so much.” The person questioned intently. “Since I’ve decided you are not here to hurt me I shall tell you.” I replied. “Do you know what they do to revolutionaries, to innovators who challenge the mundane that was horrible in the first place?” I didn’t wait for thier reply, “They silcence them, kill them, I mean. I’m not the face of the revolution because I’m the one who was fierce enough to say that things needed to change. My people would miss me, I came up with all of the plans and what not. I would like to be there to finish what I started instead of rolling in an untimely grave wishing I could have fought alongside the people that I inspired.” I finished, “That’s why.” The person remained speechless for an uncountable amount of seconds, and we stood trying to read each other’s expressions like the pages of a complex novel, but I was unequivocally the better reader. “Can I join?” The person spoke as if they were a child asking to play a game of tag with kids they’d never met. “I’m not going to tell you no.” I replied, smiling satisfied, “I’m sure you know the risks you’re taking. You’re leaving a lot behing by doing this, you know?” “Yes, I know.” The person responded. “When you phrase it like that, you make it seem like you’ve lost everything.” Ther person looked at me, almost sad. “Well, I wouldn’t say everything, but it’s pretty damn close.” I sighed. “Oh… I’m sorry.” The person said, unsure.” I didn’t say anything but instead smiled slightly because I couldn’t ever show anything else but that cockyness. “I guess it’s just the price of being a revolutionary.” I said. I turned on my heels and gestured for the person to follow after me. I would take them where the other rebels hid and they would become one of them, and I would probably never talk to them afterwards.

I'm tired. That girl is obsessed with me. She's barely looking at me and she's watching someone else's every move but she's obsessed with me and won't leave me a my girlfriend alone. She told me so, because she's a telepath and reads other people's thoughts.

The path to revolution is not an easy one, but I'm fighting evil. And that evil is... my own self-obsessive projections, and my girlfriend's. She gets off on persecuting people online and posting idiotic books about how I rejected a woman who wasn't even interested in me in the first place. She was, at some point, crazy in love with me, before I became the monster I am today. Or was I a monster already? My intelligent pretty girlfriend had the idea, mostly due to her own jealousy. She's so obsessed with women stealing her from me and doing the same thing she did to them, that she can't sleep at night.

Once she poisoned an entire bookshop just to get back at a woman who doesn't even care about us, or think we're relevant anymore. But because my girlfriend is pathologically self-obsessed, and I have a gigantic ego that my abuse of a woman who used to love me didn't calm, we burn libraries just to see them burn, not because we actually think someone did something bad to us. We attempted at her life more than once, but we're not the only ones, as you can imagine. Her own family too, especially her father and greedy mother and sister.

But my girlfriend, what an intelligent brilliant psychopath. She is so smart, and instead of using her brain to finish her degree, she uses it to abuse another woman. Brilliant woman. She not only devises evil plans for me but for her father too. She could sell evil ideas to people and get rich, that's how smart and limitlessly cruel she is. And I love it, makes my penis hard. It's difficult to make it so, but evil does.

She once invaded a florist, or advised a plan to that woman's sister, not quite sure, and poisoned the water on all the plants so they wouldn't grow. My blonde-haired, frame-glassed, evil genius.

Of course she would be nothing but a meek book-stealing nerd without me and my death-granting magic. But she'll do anything for my twisted love, including burning libraries with innocent people inside. But she has the aid and support of another blonde, because blondes help blondes and that one is another evil genius who is dating none other than that girl's father. How fate collides! My girlfriend even lent one of her weapons to the girl, one of her precious poisonous books. To say I'm proud would be an understatement.

But my girlfriend's poisonous book recommendations and lying books of records are just one of her many charms. Imagine how sexy it is to see a woman's weapon being throwing a poisoned "My Year of Rest and Relaxation" book against her imaginary opponent who doesn't give a crap about her or her petty invented dramas but instead is trying to defend herself from another opponent, the same exact woman my girlfriend lent her poison book powers to. Thinking back, might not be a coincidence and they're joining forces of evil. That girl did post a picture of herself with my girlfriend's powerful poison book, I was so proud! But I'm licking my lips just imagining them. Now. Later, I will be licking her lips, with any luck.

And oh, she will do anything for a fix, when others want nothing of the drugs I have to offer, but I still try to convince myself they do, because I'm irresistible, like Gaston. Well, one of them did, and would still maybe, if I wasn't such an asshole, but unfortunately it's a family-inherited trait. Granted, I'm not the Dorian Gray kind of irresistible asshole, but serial killer Beatles type, or Charles Manson, if you will.

Self-awareness is truly revolutionary, isn't it?

She stood facing the battle field, staring down a massive army, her sword in her hand. She was perched on the back of her dragon, scales glowing saffron and crimson and gold and silver. Her black hair blew in the wind, brushing her cheek. At her side, the sword in her hand glowed scarlet red and fiery orange in the light of the rising sun.

She knew this battle would be hard, and that it would cost her greatly. But did the cost matter when you had nothing left to lose? When everything and everyone you loved was gone? When all you had were the clothes on your back, the sword at your side, and the dragon fighting alongside you?

Of course she cared about her dragon, but they both knew this would be their last battle. They had met not so long ago, and had forged an unbreakable bond throughout this war, but their time had come. This would be the end, their final battle, and the last moments they had together in this world. Perhaps they would be together in the next world, and perhaps she would be reunited with everyone she had lost to this war, but there was no guarantee of that. She didn’t even know if anything awaited her on the other side. If there was a life beyond this one, it probably wouldn’t be pretty considering all she had done in this war, all the people she’d killed, the monster this long fight had turned her into.

But she had hope. Hope that whoever survived would see a better world, a new world. Hope that those left would rebuild and thrive. Hope that in this battle, she would take as many to the depths of the afterlife with her as she could. Hope. That was what had kept her going all this time. That was what had sparked this revolution. That was what would keep the survivors going. Hope.

She knew this would be a long and hard battle. She knew many lives would be lost. But she knew that either way, she would fight until the bitter end, fight so that others could keep fighting, fight for a better world for those who would come after her. Maybe they would remember her name, her sacrifice. Maybe they would help create her legacy.

Whatever came next, it would be a nightmare, but she would face it on two feet, a sword in her hand, her black hair billowing out behind her, on the back of her mighty dragon. Yes, she would go down fighting. And it would be a glorious death. They would not soon forget her name.

As she plunged into battle, she carried that feeling in her heart, the great idea that had started this whole revolution, the spark that had fanned into a flame. The feeling that could move mountains and change minds. That feeling rang through her heart, rang true in the depths of her soul. That one word.

Hope.

The tri-horn cap I normally favor seems to sit more heavily on my head than usual. I resist the urge to fiddle with it, forcing my hands to clench together in my lap, reverting my focus to the report my admiral was rattling off before me.

"..and the troops are, overall, in well enough spirits, but we think it would be useful for morale if you were to perhaps do a few laps and talk to some of the men." He finishes with a bit of a flourishing motion, checking something off his list with fervor. A small crease mars his brow, and he chews on his lip distractedly as he stares down at the list.

I hide my smile. Jennings can be quite anxious, to the point of over doing it, but in part, that is what makes him an excellent assistant.

“Of course. I’ll start tonight. Any particular areas of unrest in the camp I should tackle?”

“Perhaps the lower folk? The cooks, the errand boys, that kind of thing.”

So that is how it came to be that I strolled through the camp at twilight, not at all reluctant for the opportunity to stretch my legs and stop here and there to talk to the men. War was a brutal master, and the camaraderie was one of its few perks.

I was just rounding a bend of the narrow, muddy path that wound its ways between several tents when the sight of a young woman, hands balled up at her sides, brought me to a dead halt. A pile of laundry lay in the path, which seemed the likely cause of the young lady’s colorful curses.

From where I stood, her side profile was enchantingly illuminated by the trail’s lanterns. A small, sloping nose, sat above a sinfully luscious mouth. Tendrils of curling brown hair had escaped the high bun atop her head, coming to rest along her face and down the length of her slender neck.

I cleared my throat nervously. Women in war camps were uncommon. How had she come to be here?

The mystery woman whirled to face me at once. Her dark eyes seemed to spark in the dim light. She was clearly spitting mad.

“What?” The tone she asked this in was so casually dismissive I wondered if I would do best to walk away. But I found myself entranced, captured by the endless depths of her eyes.

“May I be of assistance? You seem distressed.” In truth, distressed seemed too light a word to describe her ire filled expletives, creative enough to make a sailor blush.

“I think the only way you would be of assistance is if you were to take all this,” she gestured brutally at the pile of linens, “and rewash it before Madam Bufort sees it.”

She sank down gracefully onto a nearby rock and craddled her head in her hands. “Took me forever to do it in the first place and I’d only just finished.”

Her despair wrenched my heart, and before I could think on it further, I heard myself say, “By all means I can help wash it. I’m sure the task will go by much quicker with more hands.”

Her head snapped up, and instead of the relief I thought would grace her elegant features, it was distrust etched upon them.

“Why would you do that? You must have your own camp duties to attend to.“

“None that can’t wait,” my lips curving into a half smile at the thought of spending several hours with her, getting to know this intriguing woman over laundry buckets and suds. “I’m Benedict.”

She looked appraisingly at me for several long moments before saying, “Josephine.”

Arthur of the royal Queen Lamire’s guard, pulled the dagger from the old man's chest, dripping blood. It hit the floor with a thud as his hands trembled. It was his first time taking a man's life. But this wasn’t any ordinary man.

Vego Vespucci was the world's most well-known painter, and masses came to see his work. He traveled from the nearby village to share his enthusiasm for painting. In his paintings of buildings and landscapes, he primarily used vivid and violet colors. Now, his body was drained of color, leaving it chilly and limp. Oh, if the people discovered he had been slain by the Queen's royal guard, there would undoubtedly be an uprising.

Arthur detested himself for the merciless killing of a man he himself admired, but he had no choice. He did it because the Queen had given him the command, not because he was envious or angry with the painter.

Without Her Majesty's awareness, no art, and especially painters, dared to represent the establishment of an unjustified monarchy or to invent new ideas.

Yet, Arthur would spend his evenings writing poetry while sitting by a candle. He fantasized of distant places and even imagined what Vego Vespucci's idea of his future home may entail. Why was this any different? His verses or the artwork of Vespucci? Freedom of expression, was that not the case?

Naturally, he cast a downward glance. It felt heavy, the blood on his hands. A feeling of dread washed over him.

He knew Queen Lamire would be curious with how his mission went and she would want an immediate report on the status of Vego Vespucci. You see the Queen detested art with all of her being. Not even the world's best colors could be applied to any canvas without her explicit permission. So, it was of the utmost importance he alone do the job. After all, he was her royal guard first and foremost.

He crossed the body gingerly and headed for the sink. Even if he was a murderer now, he was still human. He cleaned his bloody dagger and hands.

“An uprising…huh?” Arthur thought to himself.