Of Gears and Humanity

23.2

[ELENA]

The realization of my father putting children in harm's way didn't sit well with me. I felt sick to my stomach. And as I rush through the castle's hall, I kept my hand over my mouth, hoping to keep myself calm.

But I couldn't. Tears burned in my eyes the dream I had replayed in my head; the memories long forgotten. Kieron had pleaded with my father as if he were a mad man. And in a way, he was willingly sacrificing children to save my mother. Were the costs worth it?

I understood the need to do all you could for a person you loved, but nothing came from it; she died. We lost her. Years ago.

Pushing through the next batch of frantic servants, I followed the silence. I knew wherever my father was, he wasn't alone. And if someone was with him, it would be Kieron. If the two were continuing to plot this mayhem, I had to stop them. If there was anything Homestead needed to survive this, to outlive the possible onslaught from the Attributions, they needed calm. They needed peace. Putting fear in their hearts did nothing for them.

Or me.

I can't be afraid anymore.

As I turned towards my mother's garden, I slowed. The silence that fell over the farthest hall was replaced by my father's voice. Stepping under the open archway, I saw him standing beside the tree that he said always gave him hope; the one tree my mother never let him remove. His hands were pushed up into his hair, frustration on every inch of his face. The moon hit his eyes and, in their glow, I saw their fury. One Kieron saw head-on.

The old man pleaded with him, shaking his head as my father growled. "My lord, listen to me," he said, following my father as he paced around the tree, "you are right to prepare for war. It is best to be ready and prepare our defenses. But we cannot prepare to attack. Don't you understand the Attributions will know when movements are made and—"

My father sharply turned. His large hand pushed against the delicate tree and I watched as it bent under pressure. Shaking my head, I frowned, wanting to intervene. But a part of me told me to listen.

"We need to!" my father shouted. "What was the purpose of teaching our guards and soldiers the technique—"

"It is their technique!" Kieron shouted in return.

I froze. Their technique? Is that how Damien knew to fight like us?

"It was the Attributions who taught us it! Did you forget what your father taught you? Those moves are how they move!"

I took a step forward. The sound of my shoe echoing against the stone step was drowned out by the hard, night wind. Neither of the older men in the garden turned to look at me. Their focus was on each other; anger bouncing off one another.

"We can use it against them, Kieron," my father hissed. "With the strength of our men and women, we can win. With our skill—"

"Our skill, Rodrigo—" The way Kieron said my father's name, with such disbelief, such anger and rage, I believe the shock on his face when he stepped back. Kieron had never spoken to my father in such a way; not even in my dream.

Kieron placed his hand on my father's chest. "Our skill, you must realize, is for show! A façade, all of it, and you know it. We are nothing compared to the Attributions. It was written in the treaty that way, taught down to every King-to-be, except you."

He pushed my father against the tree. "You are the only King to forget his place. Our place." 

How many lies were told to keep me in this perfect bubble my father called life? My entire upbringing was fake—a show, as Kieron said. And according to the argument unfolding in front of me, humans were nothing more than tools for the Attributions. We did not fight, we bore no skill. We pretended to be great while sacrificing our own to the machines we were taught to hate.