Sara Larson - Defy

Sure now that there were no more assassins hiding in wait, I dropped to my knees beside Marcel. My fingers clenched the blood-soaked folds of his tunic. A prayer to beg God to somehow save my brother formed but didn’t leave my lips before his chest fell and did not rise again. A tear slipped off my chin and splashed on his motionless face. Already he looked different, now that he was really gone. Was this how I’d look when I died? His olive skin was beginning to turn ashen. Once-full lips were bloodless. I gently closed his eyelids, hiding his sightless hazel eyes. Stroking the thick, raven hair back, I pressed a kiss to his still-warm forehead. Tears ran down my cheeks now, hot and urgent on my skin.

Marcel couldn’t be gone. He was my twin, my other half.

“No, Marcel, no,” I sobbed, bending over and pressing my forehead to his, my fingers still clutching his bloody tunic. “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me here alone….”

“Alex! Where are you?”

“Here.” I forced myself to call out, belatedly remembering to lower my voice. Hopefully in the turmoil of the chase, no one noticed the higher pitch. Or maybe they’d attribute it to grief. “Over here,” I tried again, swallowing my tears. A member of Prince Damian’s guard didn’t cry. Not even for his own brother. “Marcel is dead.”

We were a somber group as we walked back through the gate, carrying Marcel’s body. The regular perimeter squadron parted for Prince Damian’s elite personal guard — the squadron that hadn’t been here at its normal post because of the king’s infernal party, and hadn’t joined us in pursuit of the men who’d done this. I forced my face to be blank, to hide the pain that was tearing through me, shredding me, threatening to pull me apart inside. Marcel was the one who’d kept me together when our parents were killed, convinced me to pretend I was his twin brother when the army came for us. He was the one who’d saved me again last night, taking my beating for me. He had saved me over and over, and now he was gone.

I had failed him.

With the loss of Marcel, there were only eight of us left. I looked into the familiar faces as we gently laid Marcel down on one of the many funeral pyres that always stood ready, awaiting their fuel. Another one was already in use — probably the king’s guard. There was never a shortage of bodies to burn, not for long. King Hector’s war on King Osgand’s kingdom ensured that. Our captain, Deron, met my gaze, his dark eyes sorrowful. Jerrod, next to him, stared forward, stone-faced.

Someone handed Rylan a torch. He stood on my left, so close that the fire burned hot by my face. He cleared his throat. “Marcel was one of the best of us. Brave, strong, loyal.” His voice broke and he paused, trying to regain control. Finally, he whispered, “Go in peace, brother.”

“Go in peace,” the others murmured.

I couldn’t speak. The words stuck to the tears in my throat, the sobs I desperately swallowed back down.

Rylan looked to me, and I realized they were waiting. Waiting for me to give the signal. As his brother, I was to either light the pyre or give Rylan the go-ahead. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so I gave the barest of nods and Rylan slowly lowered the torch. The dry wood of the pyre ignited instantly, spreading to encompass Marcel’s body in a bright orange grave of heat and smoke.

The firelight played across the faces of the other guards. Deron’s skin was so dark, he almost blended into the night, but the firelight revealed the grief on his face. Jerrod, Asher, Jude, Kai, Antonio, and Rylan next to me, all stared into the flames, watching as my brother was consumed.

Finally, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I turned and strode away from the last member of my family.

THE NEXT MORNING, I woke up in the same clothes I was wearing the night before. I’d collapsed onto my bed and cried for hours, smothering the sounds in my pillow until I finally fell asleep. I rolled over to see Marcel’s empty bed and the pain hit me all over again. I bent over double and clutched at my stomach, tried to push the agony away.

The smell of the fire was still in my hair, in my shirt, on my skin. The scent of Marcel’s death.

I tore the clothes from my body and threw them in the still-hot coals in the fireplace, then scoured my body with water and soap, trying to scrub away the smoke, the sweat, the tears, the guilt.

I was supposed to be the best. I was the fastest, the most skilled at archery, unparalleled at swordsmanship. And yet I let my brother get shot down right next to me. All my training, everything I’d learned and become were for naught.

My clothes finally caught fire. Thick, black billows of smoke chugged into the air, then were swallowed up into the chimney.

I heard noises from the other side of the wall, muted and indistinguishable from the rest of the palace sounds. My room was next door to Prince Damian’s. All of the guards’ rooms except Deron’s flanked the prince’s. Two guards per room, two rooms on either side of his chambers to keep us close, even in sleep. I knew I’d be summoned any moment if he was up. He’d want an accounting of our pursuit of the attackers last night — and he’d most likely want it from me, since I’d shot down the enemies. And since my brother had died.

I raked my hands through my short hair. Already, it was almost dry. That was one benefit of wearing it short. I’d mourned the loss of my hair for a year after Marcel cut it off. Now, after three years, I was used to it. But I still wished things could be different. I wished I could be a member of the guard and a girl.

Instead, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my traitorous body. We’d lied about our age when we joined the army, claiming we were seventeen, afraid of what would happen to us if they knew we were only fourteen. Now everyone on the guard believed me to be twenty, when I was actually only seventeen. But my body had really begun to change in the past year, since I’d won the position on the guard and left the regular army behind. Rather than feeling joy — planning a party with my mother and friends to celebrate my coming into womanhood — I glared at the breasts that had doubled in size in the last few months. They were still small by anyone’s standards, but anything was too big for a boy.

I took a long strip of cloth and bound it around myself, as tightly as I possibly could. It hurt, but there was no other choice. Now, more than ever, I couldn’t risk discovery.

I’d barely pulled a tunic over my head when there was a knock at the door, and it opened after a pause.

“Prince Damian wants to see you,” Rylan said.

I finished tucking the tunic into my long pants and turned to face him. I was tall for a girl, thankfully, but Rylan was taller. Almost everyone in the guard was taller than me. That often worked to my advantage, though; no one worried about the small guard taking him down — until it was too late.

I nodded and bent to quickly pull on my boots.

“Alex, are you okay?”

I stood up, grateful my tears had dried and the red blotches that would have given me away were gone. “I’m fine,” I answered, making my voice gruff. It had taken me a long time to gain the respect of these men. I couldn’t afford to show weakness, not even for my brother. I moved to storm out of the room, but Rylan grabbed my arm. I immediately tensed, jerked away.

“You know that no one would blame you for being upset. He was your brother. We get that.” I met his gaze, just long enough to notice again how much the color of his eyes resembled melted chocolate, with little flecks of gold in the morning light. That was something none of the other men would ever notice.