As I Remember, As It Was
The Autobiography of Rain Elyse Petrus
Chapter 12
Since Monarch’s Hill, I have had countless nights tossing and turning. My thoughts torture me, some sad and tearful, some angry and defiant. Regardless of the emotion that accompany them, all are fixated on what I could have done differently that might not have ended in father’s death. I’ve replayed the unending number of decisions I made that day, wondering which might have changed the outcome. And as my mind spins an alternate reality, the outcome of this brutal exercise always ends the same way – torment that I did not say or do whate’er the perfect thing to keep my father from leading that charge.
In the harsh light of day, I’ve come to realize that the truth is that I don’t know what would have happened had we arrived earlier. Father was resolute once he chose his path, and one had no indication whether he would accept or reject counsel except by offering it. It is more than likely he would have marched, regardless of anything I could have said or done, and it is equally as likely that I would have been right beside him if he did. But as much as I doubt and twist over my role in the death of my father, I had no such problems in the face of the news.
When we arrived to find that the march had erupted into outright war, and with our citizens retreating past us, my heart sank. I was finally able to stop one of the frightened rebels, who confirmed what I had feared.
“Petrus is fallen,” he said, his eyes wide with fear. “All is lost!”
I have read accounts where I physically assaulted the man. But in truth, he disappeared back into the retreating crowd before I had a chance to consider any such action. For a moment, I dealt with the insanity of a war I did not expect, and a death that I did not foresee. Perhaps foolishly on both accounts. Twenty thousand troops at my back certainly slowed the retreat, but I knew we needed every possible citizen to succeed.
I do not recall what I said or at what point the retreating citizens began to pay attention. It was nothing particularly novel or, in my mind, inspiring. It was simply that I continued. I have found that, when one seeks a response, one needs to only continue with consistent fervor until someone responds. There is no need, as has been said by some, to escalate. Escalation expends more energy and thus shortens the capable duration of the action. As one invariably pauses to refuel, listeners move on. Better to continue at equilibrium and have your voice be a constant, rather than alternatively shrill and silent.
That is why I say it was not important what I said. In truth, there was nothing different than what I usually said when rallying the citizens to protest and to march against the injustice of the government. The important thing is that I continued to speak until the crowd slowed, then halted their retreat, even as some previously in retreat made their way back.
When I had their attention, I refocused them and bid them to regroup instead of retreat. I knew my twenty would help get the rest into our live free or die frame of mind, but they would have to do so on limited time.
Soon, we had scouts back on watch, and my leaders and I talked strategy. Once we found that the King's Army had not come out of their trenches for nearly 24 hours, I saw my father's rationale. They were weak, and better to attack now, before hidden loyalists or hired mercenaries came in to even things up. It was a smart move, but it failed because my father did not think highly enough of his leadership. I would have likely made the same mistake.
With his example as a warning I decided to keep our leaders back. In fact, with the fragile psyche of the rebels, there was only one way to proceed - cautiously. Wait them out while slowly picking off targets of opportunity as they showed themselves. The chance for the loyalists or mercenaries was still there, but if the King's Army had not called for them after reports of fifteen or sixteen groups of ten and twenty thousand rebels days earlier, they would not call them now.
......
Chapter 14
General Phoster came out last, the coward. Even as his troops raised the surrender and filed neatly into rows -safely and securely, as promised - Phoster remained in the filth of the ditch rather than face his victorious enemy. And when he did climb out - oh, the drama, the drama - chest puffed out with a look of contemptuous on his face that we would not cast at a barn rat. He walked slowly across the battlefield, past his own men, and right up to me. He stood at attention and pulled out his cutlass. Holding it in two hands as if a priceless work of art, he tilted his head slightly and pushed it forward to me. This was a man notorious for killing men, women and children without a second thought, viewing them as numbers to be eliminated rather than lives connected to each other - yes, even to him - through the web of life.
It is often said of villain and hero alike in the Durlothic fairy tales - when all else is lost, they ask "only for their dignity." Heroes, and admittedly, even some villains are correct that civilized society owes them that. General Phoster was not one of those men. Yet as I was standing there, watching this wicked man do his best impression of humility; standing completely still in that pose, I could not see him as an object, a character, or even problem to be solved. He was still a human, and in that way connected to us all.
I reached out and took his cutlass and did a curtsy that would have made mother weep with joy - respectful and without flourish. The General looked up slightly with faux surprise on his face. "Ah," he said, "so true to your word. How delightful." He paused for a moment and placed his finger on his chin. "You know, it is a struggle to believe that you are the daughter of Philip Petrus."
"How so, citizen?" Oh, did his face turn red when I addressed him as such.
"Because a mongrel bitch seldom sires a single mongrel bitch, but rather..." And that is where I interrupted and shot him in the face.
