The Suitor (The Selection Fanfiction)

Amberly

    I couldn’t remember much when I woke up. I was on my bed, the white silk sheets covered me, and the nice and fluffy pillow laid under my head. I had a nasty headache, to the point where it hurt to look at the dimly lit room.

    I laid there for a while. There wasn’t much noise around me, except for the scuffing of boots from the guards outside the bedroom doors. I couldn’t feel any warmth next to me, so I could only assume he had left early and not bothered to wake me up.

    There was nothing but the sounds of guards changing positions for a while, and during that time my headache seemed to have slipped away to the point where there was a slight dizziness if I tried to get off the bed.

    To pass the time, I sang myself songs in my head, and tried to just for once have time to think of something other than duties I usually have to perform as Queen. I ran my hands up and down the silk sheet softly and slowly, short and sweet strokes to help keep me at peace for a little bit of time. It felt nice to have time to myself, even though I couldn’t remember much of the past few days.

    I tried opening my eyes and let them adjust to the lighting in the room. The lamps were turned off, however the white silk curtains in the room let the sunlight in, and made it a little harder for my brown eyes to see properly for a little bit. I could make out the hardwood brown flooring, and the white sheets I laid under.

    The brown cabinet across the room was, at first, harder to make a steady shape out of, especially the tiny flowers carved into the bottom of the doors, but I eventually was able to manage getting their unique shapes into vision. The large oak desk next to it was a little easier to make out, especially since the shapes were so prominent, unlike the smooth curves and delicate designs of the dresser.

    After being able to see, I tried to lift myself off my bed and finally get on with the day. There is never time to rest when you have a country to help run. Unfortunately, my first few times ended with me barely getting past sitting up fully.

    I tried hundreds of times, all unsuccessful tests. It started to get a little darker, and my stomach growled at me a few times, obviously claiming it was hungry, but I kept pushing myself until finally my feet hit the floor and I was able to stand with the support of a bar supporting the headboard of the bed.

    Black creeped into my vision, and I could barely see for quite a bit of time, but I was patient and waited it out before letting my hands slowly lose their tight grip on the bar supporting my upper body weight. I managed one step forward, but when my knee gave out after putting some of my weight on it I gripped the bar tightly again.

    My breathing started to become harsher and shorter, and my heartbeat started to be the only thing I could hear in my ears. I pulled myself up slightly and tried it again, only to get the same result as the first time. But this was no time to give up. I needed to at least walk, the rest I could manage later.

    For the third time I tried, I got a better result, and was successful in putting all my weight into one foot before falling to the floor. My hands slammed down hard on the dark flooring, and I tilted my head so that the left side of my face took the fall so my nose wouldn’t bleed or break.

    It took a while to get off the floor, some of my muscles screaming in pain, but I ignored it and managed to get up and start from square one, hands gripping the bar tightly, weight shifted so that most of it was being supported on the bar itself.

    I huffed out a breath of air. “Okay, I can do this.” I encouraged myself, watching my leg take a step forward, before testing my weight limits on it. When it seemed fine, I released the grip on the bar and let all my weight fall into the hands of my foot instead. And I didn’t fall.

    A small relieved laugh escaped my lips, and I took another step forward. Both times worked. So I kept going. Ignoring my screaming muscles, I walked around the edge of the room. For the first half I had my hand lightly brush the wall or edge of the desk, prepared to shift my weight if needed, but felt more confident when I was next to the dresser and I let my hand fall to my side.

    When I arrived back at the side of the bed I woke up on, I sat down, exhausted, and tried to breathe normally to slow down my heart rate. I didn’t know why it took so much strength just to walk a simple lap around the room, but I let it slide and tried to focus on calming myself down.

It was getting darker by the minute, and after it started to get dark enough to the point where I needed to turn on the lights, I pushed myself off the bed and went to turn them on. When I returned to my bed I was tempted to lay down and rest again, until I heard a knock on the door that snapped me out of my haze.

“Come in,” I called out, subconsciously playing with a small section of one of the white silk sheets, anxiously waiting for the person to turn out to be Clarkson or Maxon to tell me it was time for dinner, or needing something from me.

Instead, I was surprised to see a familiar redhead walk through the door. Her arms were covered with cuts and bandages, her hair was a matted mess, and the hem of her dress was unevenly cut to her knees. I opened my mouth to ask her what happened, but she spoke before I got the chance. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty!”

“Whatever do you mean, Lady America?” I asked, gesturing for her to sit beside me.

“Y-you mean you don’t remember the rebel attack?”

“What --” Suddenly the events from yesterday flood into my mind. I remember Natalie getting shot in the back of the head. I remember a guard escorting Clarkson and I from the room. I remember Clarkson getting shot. I remember getting shoved against the wall and hitting my head as the guard protecting me fired at the rebels. I remember wrestling with the guard as he dragged me to a safe room. I remember passing out from shock minutes after the guard locked me in the safe room. I knew Clarkson was dead, but that was about it, I didn’t know what happened to anybody else. “I-is Maxon…” I started to ask, but one look into America’s grief filled eyes and I knew the answer.

My eyes filled with tears as I realized that Maxon, my only son, is dead. America opened her arms, offering a shoulder to cry on. I accepted the offer, and we spent the next hour grieving together.

“You should probably start packing your bags,” I said eventually. I didn’t want her to go, but she had people waiting for her back home. “Your family is probably worried sick.”

America simply shook her head. “My family’s dead, the rebels killed them. A guard told me the news when I was on my way to your room.”

I sat in shock. Her entire family had been killed, leaving her with nowhere to go. There was the house that Maxon had bought her for her family, but the house was big and she would be alone there. The palace was bigger than that house, but at least I wouldn’t be alone since the palace staff lived here. Still, I would feel lonely with no one to confide in. 

Suddenly, an idea popped into my head. America and I had both lost loved ones, and she was someone I felt I could always talk to. Illéa needed a new heir, and while one of my nieces or nephews could step up to become the next king or queen, the people loved America and had been cheering for her. The idea was a win-win for both parties; the people would get America as their next queen, and America and I would have a new family with each other. “America,” I started. “How would you like to become my daughter and the crown princess of Illéa?”

She stared at me in disbelief before crushing me in a hug. “I would be honored to be your daughter, Your Majesty.”

“Please, call me mom,” I said, hugging her back.

“Thank you, Mom,” she replied, testing out the title. 

It was then that I knew that everything was going to be alright. The two most important people in my life might be dead, but at least I still had America.

Yay! Another chapter complete!

Just a reminder, we do not own anything but the upcoming suitors and their backstories.