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My heart squeezes again at the thought of Day being killed in action, and settles in relief at the news that he has survived unscathed. “What if we persuade the Antarcticans to take Day in for his treatment? It might be his only chance at surviving his illness, and it might at least make him consider the risk of letting Eden undergo experimentation.”
Anden shakes his head. “We have nothing to bargain with. Antarctica has offered as much help to us as they’re willing. They won’t trouble themselves with taking in one of our patients.”
Deep down, I know this too. It’s just a final, desperate idea from me. I understand, as well as he does, that Day would never hand over his brother in exchange for saving his own life. My eyes wander back to the display of light outside.
“I don’t blame him, not at all,” Anden says after a pause. “I should have stopped those bioweapons the instant they named me Elector. The very same day my father died. If I were smart, that’s what I would’ve done. But it’s too late to dwell on that now. Day has every right to refuse.”
I feel a swell of sympathy for him. If he forcefully takes Eden into custody, Day will no doubt call the people to rise up in revolt. If he respects Day’s decision, he risks not finding a cure in time and allowing the Colonies to take over our capital—and our country. If he hands over a piece of our land to Antarctica, the people may see him as a traitor. And if our ports are sealed, we won’t be receiving any imports or supplies at all.
And yet, I can’t blame Day either. I try to put myself in his shoes. The Republic tries to kill me as a ten-year-old; they experiment on me before I escape. I live the next few years in the harshest slums of Los Angeles. I watch the Republic poison my family, kill my mother and older brother, and blind my younger brother with their engineered plagues. Because of the Republic’s experiments, I’m slowly dying. And now, after all the lies and cruelty, the Republic approaches me, begging for my help. Begging for me to allow them to experiment once again on my younger brother, experiments that can’t guarantee his absolute safety. What would I say? I would probably refuse, just as he did. It’s true that my own family suffered horrible fates at the hands of the Republic . . . but Day had been on the front lines, watching everything unfold from the time he was small. It’s a miracle that Day had given his support to Anden in the first place.
Anden and I sip wine for four more minutes, watching the city lights in silence.
“I envy Day, you know,” he says, his voice as soft as ever. “I’m jealous that he gets to make decisions with his heart. Every choice he makes is honest, and the people love him for it. He can afford to use his heart.” His face darkens. “But the world outside of the Republic is so much more complicated. There’s just no room for emotion, is there? All of our countries’ relations are held together with a fragile web of diplomatic threads, and these threads are what prevent us from helping one another.”
Something’s broken in his voice. “There’s no room for emotion on the political stage,” I reply, putting my wineglass down. I’m not sure if I’m helping, but the words come out anyway. I don’t even know if I believe them. “When emotion fails, logic will save you. You might envy Day, but you’ll never be him and he’ll never be you. He isn’t the Republic’s Elector. He’s a boy protecting his brother. You are a politician. You have to make decisions that break your heart, that hurt and deceive, that no one else will understand. It’s your duty.” Even as I say this, though, I feel the doubt in the back of my mind, the seeds that Day has planted.
Without emotion, what’s the point of being human?
Anden’s eyes are heavy with sadness. He slouches, and for a moment I can see him as he really is, a young ruler standing alone against a tide of opposition and attempting to bear the burden of his country on his own shoulders, with a Senate cooperating only out of fear. “I miss my father sometimes,” he says. “I know I shouldn’t admit that, but it’s true. I know the rest of the world sees him as a monster.” He puts his wineglass down on the side table, then buries his head in his hands and rubs his face once.
My heart aches for him. At least I can grieve for my brother without fear of others’ hatred. What must it be like to know that the parent you once loved was responsible for such evil acts?
“Don’t feel guilty for your grief,” I say softly. “He was still your father.”
His gaze comes to rest on me, and as if pulled by some invisible hand, he leans forward. He wavers there, hovering precariously between desire and reason. He is so close now, close enough that if I were to move even a little, our lips might brush against each other. I feel his breath faintly against my skin, the warmth of his nearness, the quiet gentleness of his love. In this moment, I feel myself drawn to him.
“June . . . ,” he whispers. His eyes dance across my face.
Then he touches my chin with one hand, coaxes me forward, and kisses me.
I close my eyes. I should stop him, but I don’t want to. There is something electrifying about the bare passion in the young Elector of the Republic, the way he leans into me, his desire exposed even beneath his unfailing politeness. How he opens his heart for no one but me. How in spite of everything working against him, he still has the strength to step out every day with his chin up and his back straight. How he soldiers on, for the sake of his country. As do we all. I let myself succumb. He breaks away from my lips to kiss my cheek. Then the soft line of my jaw, right under my ear. Then my neck, just the softest whisper of a touch. A shiver sweeps through me. I can feel him holding back, and I know that what he really wants to do is to lace his fingers through my hair and drown himself in me.
