"Safe camps were established in Diladia shortly after the Great War began, encouraging citizens to flee inward, rather than to be refugees in surrounding regions. Safe camps provided shelter for those fleeing from border skirmishes, or those that had been displaced by natural disasters such as the increasing number of wildfires and drought. As the war waged on, the practice of having safe camps continued to be both a respite and a political conundrum for royal families." - Excerpt from A History of the Great War, Volume One, page 76.
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"Come on Vencia," I say, reaching for her hand.
We have been running for days, only stopping to catch our breath and, when we felt safe enough, to sleep. Rest had not come often. We were just a few miles from the safe camp, previous paths of travelers through the forest pointing us in the right direction, the paths growing wider as we got closer. We have avoided the main roads, fearful of Iburnian soldiers coming after any survivors. Without access to the newspapers, it was hard to know the state of things, or what exactly had happened in the days after the attack on our village.
With Vencia's shaking hand in mine, her small frame leaning against a tree, I have never known such a tired as the tired I feel in my bones now.
"I can't," she takes a deep breath as tears fall down her face.
I kneel in front of her, take her face in my hands. Her hazel eyes, identical to mine, stare back at me, pleading. "We are almost to safety."
"Nowhere is safe," she sobs. "Mom and dad-"
"We can mourn them later."
"And those things falling from the sky... Val, how can anywhere be safe?"
I close my eyes, trying to stop the memory of the projectile falling from the sky, landing with an explosion across the only place we had ever called home.
Iburn had taken the war to the skies, something I had not realized was possible.
A nightmare I was not creative enough to imagine.
"We must get to the safe camp in Dalonige, or the head start mom and dad gave us will be for nothing. I'll get us to safety from there."
I do not say the words 'I promise', worried still about our vulnerability in the wilderness we had been running through. Realizing that most of our village would be destroyed, we took to the trees, hoping they would shelter us. I didn't know if even the dense forest would be enough protection, or how long we could survive on our own.
The fear is crippling, but Vencia's oval eyes, full of tears, blink back at me, just like when she was a baby. For her, I know I must keep the fear at bay. I do not tell her how uncertain I feel, about our precarious safety.
I do not tell her what our father had whispered to me as he lay dying, begging for us to run, to get to safety, to speak the truth. I did not tell her of the necklace that he had slipped into my hand, that now lay heavy around my neck. His words and the necklace had turned an already upside down world inside out, and I could not face what they meant. Until I knew we could be safe, I refused to process his words.
"Valarie?" Vencia wipes the tears from her cheeks with her trembling, thin fingers, more adept for sewing and craftsmanship than my thick fingers had ever been. "How? How can you get us to safety?"
"I'm going to ask a favor from an old friend. But to do that, we need to get to the camp, so I can send a letter. We're so close Vencia." I reach into the backpack, another surprise - this one welcome - from our mother and father, and pull out a bottle full of water from the river near our farm. They had put rations of dried meat and fruit in the pack as well.
I remembered drying the fruit with our mom the summer before. There were enough rations for four people. Our parents identification papers were bound along with ours.
They never intended for us to run alone, though it had been a shock to me that they thought we might ever need to run at all. They had let Vencia and I exist in a blissful ignorance. With the growing tensions of the war, I should have known better, and should have faced the fears that I turned away from everytime I picked up a newspaper.
"Thanks," Vencia says, swallowing the water and a piece of fruit graciously. She takes a shaky breath. A moment, and then she nods.
"That's my girl."
***
Together, we keep pace for another day, moving through the forest, avoiding the rocks where we can, keeping an eye out for snakes as we must. The last mile before the camp is pure agony on my body, but when the lights come into view, I feel a new surge of energy. I had never been so excited to hear the hum of generators and see the less than aesthetically pleasing chain-link fence and tops of white tents. It takes us a moment, but we eventually find an opening in the fence, where a Royal Army soldier is standing.
"Identification," the soldier says as we approach the opening. I reach into the backpack and pull out our identification papers. Though our parents had kept her preparations from me, I am, at this moment, thankful.
The army lets just about anyone into the safe camps, but without proper papers, it can be hard to get out. I was thankful for the respite this place could offer, military guards and all, but I had no intention of being here permanently. The safe camps, originally holding a reputation of generosity and peace, were now rumored to be places of hunger and pain, as the war and natural disasters had put stresses on supply chains and available resources.
We never had to worry about the droughts, the lack of food that faced the southern portion of our country. With the rivers and the fertile soil our farm occupied, our lives had been simple, but full of abundance.
"Valarie Yona of Uweya," I say as the burly soldier scans over our papers, "and my sister, Vencia."
"You've come a long way," he remarks. "Is it true? What they're saying about the bombs?"
I swallow and nod.
The soldier shakes his head and whistles low. "You may enter. Take a right and follow the path to processing."
"Thank you," I sigh, ushering Vencia ahead of me. Before we enter the tent I glance behind us, to a sky that looks as if it is on fire. Thankfully, we are far enough away from the attack that it is not literal fire, but rather the end of the day. I am glad we made it to the camp before dark. One more night in the wilderness would have frayed my nerves to their end.
Escaping death should have made me patient with the necessities of life but waiting in line after the hell of the last few days pissed me off a great deal.
Vencia leans her head on my arm and whispers, "We're almost to the front, sister. Don't be rude."
It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes.
When we make it to the front of the line, a short, round woman greets us. She looks like the people from our village – olive skinned and hair as black as night. Hair as dark as mine.
"Do you have papers?" she asks.
"Yes," I nod. Vencia and I hold up our papers while she scribbles something in a notebook. "You will receive one blanket, one pillow, toiletries, a change of clothes, and three days of rations each. You will be placed in tent..." she references another piece of paper, "thirteen. Head straight this way," she points out the back of the processing tent while sliding two government issued boxes towards us, "and take the first left. All the tents are numbered, so it's easy to figure out. Do you have family in another part of the country that you will be able to claim you from this camp?"
I stare at her blankly. "No."
"Then I suggest you fill out these." The woman hands me a stack of papers without looking up, still scribbling something on her paper.
"What?"
"An application for the palace-initiated refugee program. Most people apply. Slim chance of getting in. Still, helps them to know just how many people have been displaced." The woman finally looks up, and something like pity crosses her features, and I wonder how many versions of me she has seen come through this safe camp. Eventually, she says, "You will need to mail it - from tent fifty-five. Things move slowly around here. The sooner you drop it off the better."
"Thank you," I manage, overwhelmed by the responsibility.
Vencia and I grab our rations and head for the back of the tent, where another soldier demands to look through everyone's personal belongings.
"Is this your only personal item?" He asks, going through the backpack.
"Yeah," I reply, a bit defeated and in shock that this is all that remains of our lives.
The backpack had our water bottle, a few pictures, our papers, the dried fruit and meat, extra paper and a pencil, and mom's jewelry box. I'd thrown in the jewelry box at the last minute as we ran out the door. It's funny, the things you try to hold on to as your life is falling apart.
The contents of this backpack were all that were left of our former lives.
The soldier hands it back, a woeful smile on his face. "Welcome."
We leave one tent only to try and find another. The tents are labeled with black painted numbers in the front, just as the woman had described, so it's easy enough to maneuver. We thankfully only have to walk a few minutes before finding the tent labeled with a thirteen in front. The exhaustion was weighing on my bones, but I knew I couldn't relax just yet.
In the tent, there are dozens of little cots, perfectly fitted to cram as many people as possible in this small space. We find two cots side by side and, for the time being, fairly separate from the mass of people. Nearby, there are other women and children. It stinks of unwashed skin and dying hopes, and I try not to look any of them in the eye for too long.
"Here," I had the application to Vencia. "Start filling these out."
"What are you going to write?" Vencia questions as I pull out a pencil and paper.
"A letter," I mumble, trying to write as quickly but as legibly as I can, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay. How do I find the words to describe the last few days? For Vencia, I have to try. I lean into her as she rests her head on my shoulder, straining to see what I'm writing.
"Goran?" She shrieks. "You seriously think-"
"Shh." I glance around the tent, but no one seems to pay us any attention. "He is our only chance of getting us out of here."
Vencia shakes her head and pulls away from me, rubbing her eyes with a tired hand. Under her breath she mumbles, "Goran Regus," and laughs an exhausted, delirious laugh.
Goran Regus.
Crown Prince in line to become King of Diladia.
And one of my closest childhood friends.
"What's your plan exactly?" Vencia huffs. "Ask him if he's got a spare room in the palace that he wouldn't mind a couple of River Tribe women crashing in?"
If we hadn't just barely escaped death or worse, I might have laughed at her. Still, to know her sassiness was persistent, despite the horrors we had endured, caused my lip to turn slightly upward.
I shake my head. "I planned on writing to him anyway. Now, with that application, I can see if he can expedite us getting into the program. Now, get to work," I nod to the stack of papers in her hand.
"I can't imagine living close to Nivaria." Vencia lets out a sigh and runs a hand through her tangled hair.
Nivaria, in the southeastern desert portion of our continent, was home to the top tier royals. It was rumored to be extravagant, but had not been immune to the stresses of the war. Queen Abelia Yarrow lives there in the palace with her family - husband Victor Regus and Goran - and other royals live in villas close to the palace. The lavish lifestyles and luxury of the royals had been maintained, but the outskirts of Nivaria had deteriorated. As the war waged on, there were many buildings that became abandoned - old universities, shops, and more. It was a stroke of genius for the royal family to transform these buildings into housing for those of us that had lost our homes.
It almost made people forget why they had lost their homes in the first place. Who had started this war. To be so close to the lives of the royals, to their luxury, was enough to make anyone forget the horrors they had run from.
If trying to get into the program didn't work, I would try something else, once I could understand the words my father had said and the last gift he had given me.
After a while, Vencia lets out a huff.
"What?" I ask, looking at the application. "Are you done?"
"Yeah," she hands me the papers and again tries to peer over my shoulder to see what I am writing.
"Want me to tell him hi from you?"
Vencia rolls her eyes. "You think Goran will, what, answer you? Get you into the program ahead of all the other families waiting? The royals stopped coming to their luxurious summer homes on the border years ago."
It was true. It had been three years since I had seen Goran. The royal family made trips to all of the military bases - one of which was near Uweya. Uweya, with its unnatural beauty and rivers, was a favorite vacation spot for the Queen.
Vencia's next question stings. "What makes you think he even remembers us?"
I glare at Vencia, begging her to believe in this. "He will remember us." I didn't admit to her the pain it would bring me if he did not remember me. "I'm hoping our friendship will come in handy. Even if I am some meager girl from Uweya."
"What makes you think you're so special? Families wait months to get into that program, and many aren't so lucky."
"I don't think we're special," I snap. "We come from dirt and I know that." Our parents were literally farmers. "But this is the only thing I can think to do right now, so either shut up and let me write or think of a better idea."
"Geeze," Vencia mumbles. "Sorry."
I take a breath. "Me too. I'm just doing my best, okay? I'm serious though, if you think of something else I'm all ears. We're in this together."
I finish the letter in silence, scribbling the words that I hope will save our lives, or at least save us from this place. When I am done, I fold the letter along with our application papers, checking over them to make sure Vencia didn't miss anything, and shove them in the envelope provided.
"Wait here?" I ask Vencia.
She nods. "I'll protect our stuff with my life."
"Good girl." I kiss her forehead and leave her on the cot, clutching the backpack to her chest.
When I am just outside the tent, I bend over and place my hands on my knees, begging for more oxygen so my brain can process the day.
"Not yet," I tell my shaking hands. "You can't break down yet."
Inhale.
Exhale.
Feet moving forward.
The mail tent is easy enough to find. Surprisingly, there aren't many people here, though there is a sense of crowdedness in the tent. Soldiers chat with the men and women working behind the tables, while peasants, people like me, hand off their letters only to watch them be tossed into a pile. Judging by the stacks of mail, I'm not sure if there are just that many people here, or if the mail hasn't been sent out in weeks.
"Hello," I say to the man working the table. He barely glances at me as he continues his conversation with a soldier. The soldier looks important, dozens of medals decorating his jacket.
"Excuse me." I say. Then louder, "Sir."
"Miss?" He looks indignant, arching an eyebrow at me and then glancing at the soldier.
"How long is my letter going to sit there? It is a matter of urgency."
He scoffs. "Yours and everyone else's letters too. It'll get sent when it gets sent."
"When will that be?" I push.
The man sighs, rubbing his bushy eyebrows. "Someone picks up the mail every eight weeks. Last pick up was," he thinks for a moment, "four weeks ago. So, it'll be at least four weeks before it is picked up, and as you can tell," he gestures around the tent, "it will take some time to process and distribute all of this."
Something that sounds like a whimper escapes my lips and I bite my lip to stop from crying. I look at the letter sitting on the pile and try not to feel the crushing weight of hopelessness. The man follows my gaze, his eyes lingering on Goran's name. He starts to speak, but I cannot bear to stand in my own foolish hopefulness any longer.
"Thanks for your time," I whisper through a shaking lip, turning away quickly.
I am barely two steps out of the tent, when a soldier appears at my shoulder, startling me as he says, "Are you okay, miss?"
I look up at him. It's the important looking one that had been talking with the man working in the mail tent. With his blonde hair, blue eyes, and crisp navy blue uniform, he looks too clean for this place, especially compared to my mud splattered, sweat drenched clothes.
"Is anyone in this camp really okay?" I snap, then regret it for the pity that washes over his face. "It's just been a long day, and my letter is urgent."
"I understand," he nods, though I'm sure he couldn't possibly. The soldier reaches into his jacket pocket and holds up my letter. "What business do you have writing to Prince Goran?"
I swallow hard, my heart racing as he holds my precious words. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me," the soldier laughs. His laugh is more threatening, than inviting, so I tell him.
"I'm from Uweya. Prince Goran and his family used to vacation there. We were friends as children and... into adulthood. I haven't seen him in a few years, but... it's foolish, I know, but I'm hoping he still considers me a friend too, and will help get my sister and I into the refugee program. Our application is in there," I gesture to the letter he holds, "I'm just worried how long we might have to wait."
"Ah, I see." Understanding crosses the soldier's features. He's likely judging me as one of Goran's whores - just one of the many girls he had seduced near his family's vacation homes.
I scan his medals, one of them the crest of the Yarrow family. "Are you a Yarrow, or do you serve them?" I ask, nodding to his pin.
The soldier knits his eyebrows for a moment, then follows my gaze to his chest. "Oh," he smiles. "I belong to the Yarrow family. John Yarrow," he extends a hand, "the Second. My dad is General John Yarrow."
General John Yarrow, brother to the Queen. Which made John the Second one of Goran's first cousins.
My hand almost moves to touch the necklace hidden under my shirt, but I stop myself, and return John's handshake instead.
"Valarie Yona." I stare at my letter in his hand. "What's an important royal like you doing here?"
"I have to earn my keep," John smirks. "My father sent me on a mission to evaluate the safe camps. They offer respite, but... are not perfect."
"Sounds like a shitty job."
"Not as terrible as some," he laughs. "You said you have a sister with you? Anyone else?"
I shake my head. "We're on our own. Our parents..." I haven't said the words yet. Haven't had to. Though I know it should, my tongue cannot speak reality into existence. "Goran seems like our only hope to get into the program. I don't know how long we can survive here."
"I see. How old is your sister?"
"Fifteen."
"And you?" He arches an eyebrow.
"Twenty-three." I sigh. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink hard and take a breath to keep them suppressed.
After a moment John Yarrow says, "I will take your letter to Goran. I can try to send its contents to him via telegraph, or over a phone call if one becomes available to me on my journey back to Nivaria. Communications may be sparse between here and there, I will at least hand deliver your letter."
My breath comes fast as he speaks, and I almost fall to my knees, relief and insidious hope washing over me.
The only thing I can manage to say is, "Why?"
John Yarrow frowns. "After what happened at Uweya, giving you any amount of peace is the least I can do."
A fraction of the weight on my shoulders, lifts, and I am afraid I will forget how to stand without the heaviness of it all.
"If you are able to get my letter to Goran, I would greatly appreciate it, and I would be deeply indebted to you."
"I'll get it to him," he assures me. He takes a breath. "This camp is not an easy place to exist - for anyone. Especially a woman. Try to keep your head down, and try to get some rest, okay?"
"I understand," I nod, a pit forming in my stomach. "Thank you, again."
***
When I get back to our tent, Vencia is fast asleep, her head resting on the backpack. I shake my head and laugh at her version of guard duty. As I take a seat on the cot next to hers, I take my first deep breath since running from our home. I don't know how to face what our lives are now, but John Yarrow has given me the slightest glimmer of hope.
A young woman who also looks to be in her mid to late twenties passes by, a young child trailing behind her. She catches my eye and offers a slight smile. I smile back, and she stops.
"You must be new."
"Valarie, actually," I extend a hand.
She laughs, though her eyes do not. "I'm Hailey. This is Hunter," she motions to the boy behind her, "my son."
I motion to Vencia. "This is my sister, Vencia."
"Did you just arrive today? I heard there were a few new arrivals from attacks on the border."
"Yeah."
"What village?" She knits her dark eyebrows together.
"Uweya," I reply.
"I see," she sucks in a breath. "Most of us here were displaced by the wildfires. I think most of us forgot the war was going on, since all they do is talk about fighting. To think it's escalated to this..." She shakes her head, then looks over me again. "Are you River Tribe?"
I nod. Though the River Tribe had mostly fallen apart, they had managed to hold on to some of their centers of worship and culture, if not their own governance. Uweya had been one of the places where River Tribe people reassembled in the ways we could, even as people from the eastern continent pushed in on our lives. Even as they forced our grandparents into schools in hopes they would forget the old ways of living. Some of them did, if only to survive.
"Our mother was."
"Us too. From Ada." A hint of a smile crosses Hailey's lips as she must be thinking of her homelands, as I am too. "I wish we could get out of here, but we've lost everyone we know."
"So have we." It's not entirely true. At least, I hope it's not entirely true. A few people from Uweya had to have survived, but where they were now, it was hard to say. I feel a tear – the first of many that are sure to come – slip down my cheek. I wipe it away quickly, angry at the emotion.
Hailey reaches into her bag and offers me a loaf of bread. I shake my head and try to push it back to her, but she insists.
"Take it. River woman to River woman. They say they give you three days of rations but it's more like a day and half. The soldiers hoard most of the food for themselves."
"That's horrible."
Hailey shrugs, her hand mindlessly combing through her son's hair as he clings to her leg. "We only get rations every four days and if you're not first in line you might not get any. I have an... agreement... with one of the guards and he gets me extras. Take the help while you can before you have to resort to other measures."
I take the loaf of bread. In my hands, it feels heavy with her words and what it must have taken to get it.
"Thank you."
"I'm around, so don't hesitate to say hi."
"Thanks Hailey."
She leaves, her son trailing behind her. I stuff the bread in the box with the other rations, which, I agree, look sparse.
With a heavy heart and mind, I lay down and try to fall asleep. The weight of the necklace my father had handed to me feels crushing, but I ignore it for the time being, making sure it stays hidden beneath my shirt as I close my eyes, unsure if a peaceful sleep will ever find me again.