Passing out seems to have become the new normal. This has to stop. But before I can think of a flippant remark to save face in front of the others, I realize I’m no longer in the cellar. Through my still-blurred vision, I make out a blazing yellow sun against a painfully blue sky. The heat is overwhelming. I’m outside.
A warm breeze caresses my face; it would have been soothing if it weren’t saturated with the smell of smoke, burnt flesh, and… blood? Adrenaline immediately pumps through my veins, and as my vision sharpens, I can barely comprehend what I’m seeing. I’m standing on a small hilltop, looking down at a forest of swords, lances, and banners. An army—or what’s left of it. A thousand pairs of eyes stare up at me in anticipation, as if expecting me to do or say something. Reflexively, I take a step back.
“Your highness?”
Next to me a small, scrawny man with cunning eyes, set in a sharp long narrow face, looks at me and gestures to the right.
“If you would be so kind as to do the honors. They await your sword of mercy.”
I follow the direction of his arm and see four low wooden blocks placed side by side, barely ten meters away. But it’s not the blocks that take my breath away—it’s the heads resting on top of them. Each one is still attached to a body, forced to its knees, with arms and legs bound tightly.
“Your sword, Your Majesty?” whispers the voice in my ear, laced with a hint of impatience. I try to respond, but my mouth is too dry and when I finally manage to speak, I hardly recognize my own voice. It sounds similar, yet darker—more mature.
“Sword… yes… of course… I have a sword.”
“Of course your majesty, we can all see it.” The cynicism is more than a hint now. "The rebels are ready." Midway through his sentence, it finally dawns on me what he’s asking of me. Still, I don’t move. "Majesty." The word is not more than a sharp hiss, close to my ear. "The whole army is watching. They were prepared to give their lives to win this battle for you. They need their reward. We need their heads."
I clear my throat, stalling for time.
"Of course, but in my time, not yours," I say, with all the authority I can muster. I’m the queen, right? I tell myself. He has to listen to me.
My words come out with such unexpected force that he actually takes a step back, with the expression on his face of someone who discovers that the candy he just got offered is actually dog shit. Only for a second. He recovers with disturbing ease, bowing even deeper, all slithering smiles.
“Of course, Your Majesty, of course. Your wish is our command. You are the law.” Though his words are servile enough, it’s clear that my wish is anything but, at least not for him.
My gaze sweeps over the crowd, stretching nearly a mile back. Men, boys –children almost– and women, all clad in harnesses, chain mail, and other reinforced clothing. All armed to the teeth. Some of their swords are shattered, every fabric is torn or frayed, most metal battered and dented. A few outfits are charred remnants, scorched away by some blazing fire. I swallow. All the faces look up at me, fatigued but exhilarated. They radiate an energy like... they love me? I swallow. What will happen if I disappoint them? Will they turn against me? The deepest adoration can, instantly, transform into bloodthirsty rage. History is littered with the corpses of once-adored leaders, slain by the very people who once worshiped them. I need to think of a way out of this mess—something clever——but nothing comes to mind.
"Your Majesty," the voice insists, now simmering with anger. “Your sword.” I look down at my sword. The blood on the blade hasn’t even dried.
Because I don’t know what else to do, I take a first tentative step and another. Slowly, I approach the four heads resting on the wooden blocks. Desperation claws at me, a silent prayer forming on my lips. I hope for a miracle to save me, for God to intervene with a booming voice from the heavens. It’s the Middle Ages, for Christ’s sake—things like that are supposed to happen. But no. No voice of God. No miracle. Nothing.
The head on the nearest woodblock looks up at me. There’s no hate or anger, only resignation in his eyes. He’s young—so very young. Not older than myself. I want to tell him that he can go home to his mother and father, that he can play with his sisters and brothers. But I resist. It’s clear that this is what needs to happen to keep the peace—a savage protocol, a ritual I’m not allowed to deviate from. These are the rules of war; this is the only way everyone can go home and carry on with their lives.
Half of my brain commands my arms to raise my sword. The other half resists. As a result, the sword hovers somewhere in the middle. Every second I hesitate, the soldiers grow more restless and confused. It feels like an eternity, but then, with an uncontrolled and wild motion of my arm, I fling the sword away from me. A collective gasp escapes the troops.
“Treason!” shrieks the little weasel of a man standing beside me. “High treason by our own queen!” A deafening noise swells from the crowd. I look around in bewilderment. Everyone is talking, everyone is moving. Two camps begin to form—one poised to storm the hill, the other assembling a line to protect me. Swords are drawn, axes raised.
“No!” I think desperately. “There has been enough bloodshed.” My knees buckle, and I sink to the ground. The man beside me leans down and hisses like a snake into my ear.
“Max, Max... you have to wake up! Max, we have to move on.” He has Gnat’s voice. The little shit—hahaha—even here, he won’t leave me alone. It’s an unexpectedly soothing thought, and when I finally summon the strength to open my eyes, something is different. I still see the battle scene, but it takes me a moment to realize that the army isn’t real anymore. It’s a goblin, with the image of the battleground woven into it. I’m back in the cellar of the science classroom. I see Slug and Shadow, and to my immense relief, Gnat—battered, shaken, pale, but alive—wearing his signature malicious smile. Beside him stands Mr. Kwant, observing me with keen interest.
“So, that was quite enlightening. We’ve got a lot to talk about, young lady.”