Foeslayer

Arctic doesn't sleep beside me anymore. He's piled up blankets from the guest room by my window instead. It makes me nervous–like he could run away in the middle of the night, and I'd never know.

But I don't risk upsetting him. He's already going through enough. I bite my tongue, and I bring him tea in the morning, gently waking him up.

"Arctic?" I say softly. "I have tea." I want to say sweetheart or honey or anything to soften the blow. I don't.

He either sleeps in too late or doesn't sleep at all. (Usually, he stays up all day for about four nights, then crashes on the fifth and sleeps through most of the day and the night.)

He blinks. "Oh. You again," he mutters, rolling over.

I try not to show it, but his sleeping habits are starting to drive me around the bend. He stays up all day, pacing and muttering, so I never end up getting a proper sleep. When he finally crashes out it almost feels like a relief to get some time to myself, that's not spent trying to appease his every whim. (That is, until he wakes up and keeps me up all day again.)

But he wouldn't be like this if it weren't for me. So the least I can do is take care of him. So I've been reminded, about a billion times over.

"How long was I asleep?" he says blearily.

"Almost eighteen hours."

He doesn't look very rested.

"You said you were going to—go to the palace. With your mother. What happened?" The only thing he seems interested in is the war; any other conversation topic I attempt to introduce immediately brushed aside.

"We've pushed Snowfox's troops back," I say, brushing my talon against his cheek. "Into the desert, and not too many dragons died in that attack on Silver Valley. They're already starting to rebuild, she's got soldiers assigned to help with that." If I could, I'd be with them–there's not much of a barrier to enlisting in the army. I'd start guarding the border and work my way up the ranks. I'm strong, I'm ready to fight–I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Arctic has nobody to look after him. I can't leave him alone.

Besides. If I leave... he might not be there when I get home.

He furrows his brow. "Oh. That's... good. That's something at least."

"And," I say, risking a smile, "She said that she'd seen me fight, and she was impressed with my abilities."

"Oh." It's not exactly the response I was hoping for, and I deflate a little.

"Here, um–have your tea," I say,  passing him the mug so my talons are free to root around in my bag and pull out the scroll Vigilance gave me. I almost don't want to give the letter to him–but I'm not going to keep secrets from him, even if it's the easier thing to do.

He makes a face, taking a tiny sip. (He likes his tea cold, and seems most able to tolerate peppermint.) I laugh to myself, then fight it back as he gives me an odd look.

"This came from Diamond," I say, handing him the scroll. "I haven't read it." I fidget with my bracelet, twisting it back and forth on my wrist.

He takes the scroll as though it's poisoned. It's just paper. Just words. How much harm can it do?

He scans over the lines of text. I fight off the urge to read over his shoulder. (I don't really need to; Diamond's letters are more or less the same every time. Or, that's what I tell myself anyways.)

"Dear Arctic," he says blankly. "Over four hundred IceWings have died in this war in its first two weeks. They are your teachers, your friends, your family. What are you going to say to them when you come home? How are you ever going to explain your mistakes? I raised you to be smart, Arctic–a dutiful son who does as he's told. This is all your father's doing; he taught you this. That it's okay to shirk your duty, that who you're supposed to be with means absolutely nothing. I didn't raise you to follow in his footsteps; I raised you to follow in mine, Arctic. And when you come home, there will be no forgiveness from me. You are no son of mine. I hope you die in this war, and I hope that wretched Foeslayer goes down with you. You think you can run around and use your magic for your new queen however you like–I know what she wants from you. She told your cousin everything at negotiations." He hesitates, seeming to tense up more and more with every word. I can't tell if he's about to start screaming, or crying, and I brace myself for the worst.

I'm tough. This is what I do.

It's nothing I haven't dealt with before.

He sets the letter down. Gets out of bed, clears his throat, shakes out his wings.

"What's, um... what's going on?" I ask, laughing nervously. "Look, she's awful. I get it, Arctic. It sucks. But what are you gonna do–let her win?"

"You were the one who wanted to get your tribe involved in this," he spits. "You. This was your idea, not mine. If you had just listened to me–"

"Then my mother would be dead!" I retort. "Is that what you want? Because if that's what you want–"

"So now both our tribes are going to die for us?"

"We didn't ask them to go to war," I start.

"And your queen is only doing this because she thinks she can either use me or our non-existent future dragonets for her own gain," he adds. "You've taken me from one prison and moved me to another. So thanks a lot for that, Foeslayer."

"The queen doesn't want that," I say on instinct. "She's–she's just–she wouldn't make you–"

"How much longer do you think I can say no?" he retorts.

Fine. If he wants a fight, I'll give him a fight.

"I didn't know she was going to do that, Arctic! I didn't think—"

"No. You didn't," he says coldly.

I throw my wings up in the air. "I don't know, Arctic. If you hate it here so much, why don't you go back to the stupid Ice Kingdom already?"

I can't say it with half the force I wanted to. I don't mean that, I want to add. Don't go. Please, please stay with me.

But I'm too prideful to apologize, at least for now. He needs to know he can't just walk all over me.

I storm out of the room.

***

"I'm fine," I mutter, as my mother pulls me into her room. It's perfectly neat and tidy; it always is.

"I know my daughter," she says, clicking her tongue. "I know when something's wrong with my little one, come on dear. Sit."

I close my eyes. This is the last thing I need right now. My world is falling apart, my boyfriend is a mess. The least you could do is–

"So," she asks, smiling. "Tell me what the fight was all about."

I narrow my eyes. I'd rather the cold shoulder to this. I want to let down my guard so badly--I want to do whatever normal mothers and daughters do. But I can't let myself; I've been down this road before. It only makes it hurt more when the next day, I'll wake up to find that kinder dragon gone. 

"It's none of your business," I mutter.

"I heard most of it through the floor, she says with a shrug. "These walls are thin. He's loyal to his tribe, and you're loyal to yours. You know, you have to actually work for your relationships. It's not all fireworks and starlight. You've never been good at that, though."

The remark stings. "That's not true."

"Oh, so what–you can fight," she says, rolling her eyes. "So can I, sweetheart. Don't be too harsh on yourself. Some of us are meant for big things, and some of us... aren't."

"Fine! Let's fight! I'd like to see you try! I don't see you flying laps every morning!" I retort. "I don't see you winning medals! Last year, I got–"

"I know what you got. Don't boast, Foeslayer. It's not becoming," she says tightly. "When I was your age, I was taking classes at university. The queen had me over–"

"Once every week, to discuss your studies," I say with a heavy sigh. "I've only heard this story every day since I hatched."

"Don't talk to your mother that way," she snaps. "You know, before I had you, I had potential.  I won every scholarship; I was the smartest dragon in that school. I could have had Allknowing's job; then we wouldn't be living in this veritable dump. But then you came along. And I gave up everything for you; I let my reputation crumble because of your stupid adolescent rebellions. I turned down opportunities so I could supervise your academics, because moons knows you wouldn't have graduated otherwise. I brought you into this wretched world, Foeslayer, And this is what I get for it."

"I'm sorry," I whimper.

I hate myself for saying it; for letting her win.

"It's all right--we can't all be gifted, Foeslayer. At least you have your... flying. And your perfect, star-crossed love. Come here."

She folds me into her wings; I'm too tired to fight her.

"I'm sorry--I'm sorry--I'm so sorry," I say, gritting my teeth. I won't let her see me cry. I won't, I won't, I won't--

"Stop with the whimpering, and cut to the chase. What's happening? He's losing his soul?" she asks. "I knew it. It was too good to be true. You know, when I was your age–"

"He's not losing his soul," I snap, pulling myself out of the gravity of her embrace. "He's–just–" I bury my face in my talons. "Look, when we escaped, he had to kill these guards with his magic, and he didn't mean to. And he ended up hurting Snowflake–who he didn't really like, but still. He burned her wings, so she'll never fly again, if she even survived it. And–and he's been acting so weird, ever since. He's not sleeping, he's barely eating anything, and I feel like we never have any fun anymore–all he ever does is just mope around and drive me crazy." I shouldn't be telling her this–but I don't have anyone else to turn to.

Mother blinks. "Well, sweetheart, what did you think would happen?"

"What do you mean?" Her face goes blurry through the sharp sting of tears.

"He doesn't really want you. You could have been any other NightWing and he would have fallen head over tail for you. He just liked the idea of you. You've never caught the eye of any other suitor, why would you now?"

"That's–" I try to counter her argument, but I can't think of what to say. "No. That's not–"

"I'm your mother. I know these things. This is how relationships are. My best advice is to figure out how to spend as much time apart as you can. You'll grow into it. Although you really are a terrible actress."

I collapse into her, unable to help myself anymore.

"I'm scared, Mother." I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

"Now you get scared? There's a war on, Foeslayer." She clicks her tongue. "How daft could you be?"

I cry silently into her shoulder.

"I don't know, Mother," I say, clenching my talons into fists. "I don't know anything. I feel so young, and, like, last month I was hanging out with my friends and wasting time by the river, and now–"

Now I'm responsible for the deaths of hundreds.

"Three moons, you're spoiled," she says sharply. "Grow up, Foeslayer. If you want to serve your tribe, then get your act together and act like an adult. At your age, I was taking classes at the university."

***

I walk down the hall, floorboards creaking beneath my talons. This house holds all my memories, good and bad. I remember being one year old and climbing up on top of the banister railing, then promptly falling off the edge and down three floors. Remember carving my name into the wood, two years old, and hiding in the cupboard when I didn't want to talk to my mother.

It always smells faintly musty, and every hinge squeaks horribly. The drafts are terrible, and it's always cold, except for in the summer, when it gets suffocatingly hot.

My whole life is here.

This is what's breaking us apart. Being in this house–eating dinner with my mother every night, while she pokes holes in our relationship. Not being allowed to leave to go anywhere but the palace, the guards at every exit.

But I'm seven. (Seven and a half, I guess.) Mother was probably going to get me somewhere smaller to live by myself, maybe a suite at the palace–once I got a good position in the army. I wasn't supposed to move out for years. And Mother is perfectly happy to keep us under her watch at every hour of the day.

I'm barely an adult. I don't have anything to my name.

And it's not like Arctic's going to be any help.

I've never had to so much as cook a meal myself! Mother never taught me any of this, and I never had reason to need to know.

Maybe she's right. Maybe I have been a little bit spoiled. I'm lucky! I know I'm lucky. And now... I either give it all up, or I lose Arctic.

It's not much of a choice.