Figurehead

twenty-seven

I sit on my pallet, sheet draped over my legs. I move my head slightly to glance at the king. No change. With a sigh, I turn back to the letters in my hands. It isn't as difficult to move my neck without it causing deep pain now.

I exhale, leaning back against the wall as I re-read the messages, written in familiar handwriting by the people who once knew me best. My firstkin.

From my afa:

Janf, my firstborn, I don't know how you are faring. I hope you are not as badly injured as some, according to rumours- but I don't know. I can't see you. I can't hear you. I can't speak to you or give you a hug. An adviser, apparently, sent messages to us telling us not to come to Anshakim. For safety, they claimed.

What happened, Janf? The message you sent was written in a messy scrawl. Your scrawl. It told me nothing. All I know is you were injured because you were involved in the battle that injured the king as well as the first and second heirs. What happened? Nobody in Huistef seems to know. I thought maybe you could explain, if you receive this message. (Sret mentioned you had a relationship with someone of Escatin blood. The next time I see you- hopefully soon- I expect an explanation. And I hope that whoever he is, he's alright too.)

I hope Dein will be alright too, I say silently.

I'm praying, Janf. Everyone is. Me, your ama, your sister, her friends, my friends, your friends, the people who knew you when you were young.

I can't say I expected this, Janf. When you said you wanted to be messenger, this is not what I anticipated ever happening. I had my worries, of course, but this was, I thought, not one of them. And then you were honoured a trusted messenger. Still, despite added concerns, I thought perhaps you'd be fine. The Lord is with you, after all.

And so I trust the Lord is with you still.

Whatever comes, trust Him.

I love you.

—Afa

From my ama:

Janf, you are my firstborn daughter, my blood and flesh, and I love you. So I will never stop worrying about you. Now is no exception. In fact, it is the opposite- a clear example, actually, of how I have to endure the trials you put me under as your ama. Why do you do these things? What has happened? All I know is you're involved in the chaos in Anshakim.

More than you and afa know, Ama. Probably more than you imagine.

I never expected this. Oh, I knew that the role of messenger would be dangerous for a girl as young as you were when you first began. And when you were honoured, I was proud and so scared at the same time. My daughter, a trusted messenger of empires. I began to expect the worst, especially when you went to Deritri. Deritri! What were you thinking?!

But the fact you were injured in Anshakim, the innermost province of the Escatin empire, shows me nowhere is safe. What can I do? You have never listened. You have been stubborn, you have made unwise decisions and you have been in situations where I can only remind you of the consequences of your actions.

What can I do now? I'm praying and praying i will see you again. Sret is praying, and she tells me that many others are as well. If this is anything to do with that boy of Escatin blood Sret mentioned, then I think you should halt your friendship at once. At the very least, distance yourself.

I glance over at Dein. There's no way I'll be distancing myself from him anytime soon.

I never want to see you hurt, and yet it seems you are injured. I hope to receive a response written by your hand- even if it is full of the stubbornness I know you possess. I hope I will see you again soon, and not at your parting ceremony.

— Miul, your ama

And finally, from Sret:

Janf, it seems that every time I send a message to you, I call you a fish trying to grow legs. But you must be one. We all received your scribbled messages; you are apparently injured. I'd better receive a reply with a message written by your own hand.

What else can I say? You make your choices, you face your own problems and consequences. All I can do, really, from Huistef so far away, is laugh at you, yell at you on parchment, and pray you'll be alright. And, of course, repeatedly call you a fish trying to grow legs. You really are one, most of the time.

Oh, yeah, and I told ama and afa a little about that 'friend' of yours- not that there was much to tell. You didn't say much about him. But I can perhaps assume that he's part of the reason you were dragged into the mess. I hear the Sirdiu are torn apart, and the palace is in chaos. I would like to hope you're far from it all, but obviously, you're not.

We don't know much about what's going on in Anshakim. I suspect that won't change, even thought it's been a few days now. We know the king is perhaps on his deathbed. And we hope that he's not. I hope you're not, either. This is all a mess, isn't it? And I suppose you're part of it.

Yes, Dein may be on his deathbed. And I'm much more a part of this mess than I could ever have imagined. I'm glad my firstkin don't know just how much of a mess it is, and how much I'm stuck in the middle of it. I can't imagine what they'd say.

Well, I'm praying. We are all praying. All my friends, all the people who knew you, we're praying. The Lord be with you.

Love,
Sret.

Six days now, Dein has slept. Lus has slept. I haven't replied to these messages, not yet. What am I to say? I'd really be a fish trying to grow legs if I wrote to them, telling them I'm second heir. Or if I told them who Dein was. Or if I told them about Dein at all.

Not to mention that "what's going on in Anshakim" is that everything is in pieces. But eventually, I will need to tell them. I'm second heir, after all. Just the thought makes me feel heavier, older, more tired.

I'm... Important to the empire now.

I put the messages away, trying to ignore my growing discomfort at the idea of being in such an important position in a time like this. I can't run from this, not like I could run from things as a child. No, there can be no running. I can't just leave. I have a responsibility now, to myself, to the Lord, to Dein, to the people and even the Sirdiu of this empire.

I stand at the sound of nearing shuffled footsteps and a mutter or two. Gri clears his throat before entering the room, Fiut and Juk behind him. "Bath," Fiut mutters with a roll of his golden eyes.

I press my lips into a line and don't comment, waiting for the two palace guards to take hold of the king and carry him out of the room. Once I can't hear their and Fiut's footsteps, I leave Dein's rooms.

High healer Ret is crouched beside a woman sitting upright on a pallet in one of the rooms of the healing. Her pale hair is braided intricately, framing pale golden eyes fixed on his dark blue, the both of them smiling as they talk, despite the thick cloths wrapped tightly around her right forearm. My heart aches a little to see their interaction. Dein had better wake up soon.

I enter the room quietly, my right leg still weaker than my other, although I no longer use the staff. Ret and the woman pause as I approach. "Janf, this is Miek," he smiles at her.

I manage what I hope is a smile. "Hey." I glance at the dark-haired man, hesitating. "He, ah, he's being washed," I murmur under my breath. I glance at Miek, then at the High healer.

He smiles. "I'm not needed there."

I furrow my eyebrows. "But-"

"You'll do just fine."

I gape. "What- you- what-" I splutter.

Miek grins. "He means you can do it."

Oh, no.