Revolutions

165 - Inuxeq

Even out here, where all I should be hearing is the shuffling of my boots against the loose gravel scattered everywhere around Qapauma, the rumblings from the council meeting still flood my ears. The cold, indifferent gazes cling to me like smoke after standing around a fire. I clench my fists, forcing my breath to steady, but my pulse drums louder and louder and louder in my ears with every step through the palace corridors.

How do they sit there so calmly? Debating, repeating the same words, the same ideas, over and over, as if they'll mean something different this time. I wanted to slam my hand on that polished map and shout, Do you think Taqsame is waiting for a debate? Okay, maybe I did one time. But watching Maqochi flinch, and the rest of them scrambling for their composure, was pretty thrilling, I must admit.

But Haesan's glance stopped me. That calm, measured glance of hers, like she thought she could hold it all together just by looking at it hard enough. That is what hurts the most. I can tell she was disappointed, that I had let her down in some way. But it was Xelhua's fault, goading me on like that! Insufferable fool. We should've left him on that solitary cliffside.

I kick at a loose stone on the pathway, sending it clattering against the crumbling palace walls. This place feels more like a tomb than a revered capital. What's left of Qapauma isn't worth fighting over—scarred and blackened stone, shattered gates, and people too tired or broken to rebuild it all. Yet here we are, talking about rebuilding it anyway. Like that's going to stop Taqsame, or anyone else with ambition, from taking it again.

Fighting makes sense. You see the enemy, you aim, you strike. It's simple. You win or you die. The Eleven will sort it out, whomever they deem worthy of victory. But this? Sitting around a table, arguing over whose warriors should do what, who gets to lead this or defend that... it's maddening. They want me to lead? Fine. I'll lead. I'll lead an army. I already have. I'll take the fight to Taqsame's door myself if I have to.

Except... no one wants to be fighting wars forever. Not even me. Or, so I think. It's difficult to determine.

Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.

The courtyard is empty except for a few stragglers, Aimue farmers-turned-warriors who linger near the broken fountain like it's some kind of meeting place. They glance up with wary gazes as I pass. One of them mutters something too low for me to catch, and the others nod. I keep walking. Let them talk. I've got nothing to say to them right now.

I find Yachaman waiting for me near the edge of the garden. Her arms are crossed, and she slightly shifts her weight onto one leg like she's been standing there too long. She doesn't flinch at my approach, doesn't so much as blink when I stop a few paces away. She just watches me walk over to her, staring at me stoically.

"What, are you just going to stand there?" I demand.

She tilts her head, unimpressed. "I wasn't aware I needed to speak first."

We fall into silence. Her eyebrow arches, like she's waiting for me to realize how ridiculous I sound. When I don't, she lets out a small, exasperated breath.

"Well, that behavior is certainly not going to help," she remarks.

"I'm not here to help," I snap. "I'm here to—" I stop, biting down on whatever half-formed excuse was about to spill out.

"To what?" she asks.

I wave her off. "To... not make things worse."

"And how's that going?"

"What do you want from me, Yachaman? To act like they're all going to suddenly fall in line because I ask nicely? I've got to tell people they're not going to go home just yet. Your people, who've already given up everything to be here. And now I'm supposed to tell them to stay? How do I do that without disappointing them?"