Skylight

Chapter 17: Imposter

For the thousandth time this morning, I dried the sweat from my hands onto my cloak, which was draped around my shoulders elegantly. According to the new plan we'd formed (mostly thanks to Val's surprisingly brillinat mind), My timing would need to be perfect- we'd mapped out every aspect of the Icarian Army from above, and planned every offense of the attack. If I missed a single beat, even a single second, it might just fall apart. 
 
Essential to my plan, however, was Pumpkin. After a certain conversation, I'd found that he had previous relations with the pirates; the same pirates we'd infiltrated for information. Through Pumpkin, we'd acquired half their fleet of ships to, shall we say, borrow for war time needs. In exchange for this, however, I'd been forced to grant them citizenship within my kingdom. Whether a bad decision or not, I wasn't certain, but my gains had outweighed the loss. For now, at least.  
 
With so many things running through my head, the footsteps of my thoughts block out his voice until the third time he calls me. "Atlas."  
 
"What?" Pumpkin crosses his arms sternly, offended that I'd been ignoring him.  
 
He sighs, falling into a crouch in the ground, his blood red coat blooming around him on the floor. "You sure you want me manning the ships?" I frown. "May I remind you, I'm the best archer and warrior you got."  
 
"Yes, you've reminded me several times now, Pumpkin." 
 
 I can nearly hear the pout in his voice through the armoured helmet covering his face. "Then why aren't I going with you?" 
 
"You're the best sailor I've got, too," I remind him. "And may I remind you that none of my soldiers have experience in sailing whatsoever." 
 
Pumpkin groans, crossing his arms over his chest. Despite the annoyed facade, I'm sure he understands his role. I'd explained it to him in only every word I could possibly imagine. 
 
The clatter of heeled sandal shoes behind me turns our attention away to Delphine, her armour just as catching. Her hair is done up into a simple, tight bun of locks, and hanging from her ghostly white horns are silver chains. Even in a time like this she made the effort to look beautiful.  
 
"Your Majesty," she begins firmly, the hand around her shield clutching tighter. "Our fleet is…” She trails off, her eyes landing upon Pumpkin for a crucial second before he scrambles to fix the armoured helmet back over his face.  
 
“What?” My voice came out irritated, and I crossed my arms sternly over my chest.  
 
Delphine shook her head swiftly at me, raising a graceful, tanned hand to press against her temple, “Our fleet is ready, Captain.” Turning to address me, she added, “Your men are waiting, Your Majesty. May I take a moment before leaving with you?” 
 
“If you please.” 
 
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” All her previous refinedness vanishes as she stumbles out of the room in the same manner a drunkard does after one too many drinks. I bit my lower lip anxiously, wondering what had prompted her to act in such a way, but there’s not much time left for me to think.  
 
Pumpkin touches my arm. “I’ll be on the ships. Will you be ready soon?” 
 
“In a moment,” I mumbled, massaging my temples with my fingers. I began to pace the room before changing my mind and instead sinking into the tall, velvet red throne, exhausted. Pumpkin slumps onto the arm of the chair beside me. 

I break our awkward silence with the question that, no doubt, was lingering on all our minds. "Do you think we'll make it, Phoenix?"

His green eyes, dull from lack of sleep, catch mine at the use of his real name before snapping away. "Believe it or not, I do, my king."

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. "Why?"

Now, he hesitates before answering with an unwavering confidence. "Because," he starts. "Because we have a plan. We have strength and the upper hand." His feet slide onto the floor with a soft thump. "Thanks to Lydia, our army is trained, right? We have a perfect plan thanks to Valentine and Delphine." His hand lands on my shoulders. "And thanks to you, we'll win this war." 

I considered his points doubtfully. It must show, because he then adds, "And if you can't bring yourself  to believe me, then trust my gut." I laugh, and he smiles softly, aiming a gentle poke to my head. It's a familiar gesture, a comforting one that reminded me of something an older brother would do. The thought of such a thing tugs at the corners of my lips. 

Pumpkin's smile, however, dims slightly, and he heaves a sigh. "I'll go. You sure you'll be fine?"

"Positive." I can't figure out if it's a lie. He seems to believe me anyway, curtly nodding before leaving the room. 

As soon as the door shuts behind him, I double over, fingers combing through my disheveled, dark blond hair, the dye already beginning to fade. My thumb catches on the decorative links of metal and rubies connecting my black horns together, and the gold chains tumble to the floor. Until the formal coronation my royal council had been recently planning, I'd worn this in replacement of a proper crown, like my father's. 

My eyes lock onto their glimmer, crumbled dully on the stone ground. "Never allow your crown to fall. Not even once," My father had explained in a stern, deep voice. "It is but the most well known sign of surrenderance, and we will not let this crown so much as brush the floor." How would he respond now, I wonder, to find me like this? Would he yell?

Or would he respond kindly, like he used to, placing the crown back onto my head with a reassuring smile?

Although I vaguely remember the lesson, my father and my mother themselves were a vivid, living memory, still flickering and flitting around in my mind. My father had begun to become frustrated with my inability to balance the crown upon my head with horns, but my mother leaned forward and tucked her hand into his, and I watched, mesmerized, as the muscles in his face relaxed. 

She removed the crown from his hands and turned to me. "Watch closely, pumpkin," she spoke gently, placing the crown with an angelic delicacy upon her head. My mother walks a few paces, one hand beneath her chin, before she slides the crown off and places it on me. "Your turn."

Despite my parents' efforts, I'd repeatedly failed the practice, and eventually my father called it a day. "A slow learner," he'd called me politely, ruffling my curly hair. But I'd detected the hidden disappointment in his voice with ease. 

My mother came to tuck me in that night, having sensed my discomfort. "He's just like that, Mirtri," she said in a low hum, stroking back the thick mess of hair on my head. "You aren't disappointing anyone, pumpkin."

With a sweep of a kiss to my temple, she folded the covers tightly up to my chin. "You could never possibly do anything to disappoint us."

I squeeze my eyes shut and reach down to retrieve the crown with reluctance. Nestle it into my hair, the same way my mother did. 

The nostalgia doesn't last long before the slam of the throne room door hitting the wall breaks my concentration. A young, tall man, in his early thirties maybe, barges into the room urgently. "Your Majesty, I have the list."

"List?" I recognize his voice and identify him. Roland, Calix's best friend. 

"Of the guests coming into your room," he replies quickly, scrambling to unfold the scroll. It's not nearly as long as I'd thought it would be when he reads it aloud. "Among them are Valentine, one of our war strategists. Delphine Finlord, a member of the royal council, and Phoenix, Commander Lydia's acquaintance and assistant in the army."

I leap off the throne to take a look at the paper, but barely make it halfway to Roland before the echoes of a scream bounce into our room. Our eyes lock for a split second before the wall to my right explodes and my vision blurs as the throne room erupts with chaos.