I was discharged against medical advice. Mom argued with me, the nurses, and with God. The real Ollie, what a shit show that all was, had threatened legal action. But even so, I’d sat in the stands, wrapped in a blanket, every bruise screaming in protest with the roar of the crowd. I didn’t see the intricate plays or the strategy. I only saw her.
Skye.
A blur of fury on the ice. Every shift was a declaration, and every check was a promise. When the final buzzer sounded, and the team swarmed Paige, Skye hadsimply stood center line, head bowed for a moment, before being swallowed by her weeping teammates. She looked up, once, scanning the crowd.
Our eyes met across the distance, but she hadn’t smiled. She gave a single, slow nod. The weight of it held me upright more than the painkillers.
Now, the hushed anticipation of the closing ceremony crowd is a physical hum in the air. The stage is dark, waiting for the light.
My name is announced, a smooth roll in Italian, then English.
“Solace eseguirà l’inno nazionale degli Stati Uniti.”
“Solace will now perform the United States of America’s National Anthem.”
I walk to the center microphone, and the distance feels longer than any runway. The spotlight hits me, blinding. Sixty thousand faces blur into a sea of darkness. The silence is respectful and terrifying.
I find the first camera lens, take a breath that still hurts, and begin.
“Oh, say can you see…”
My voice, weaker than I want, carries clearly and true on the perfect acoustics. It’s technique and muscle memory, pushing past the tightness in my chest. I don’t think about the words, about bombs or ramparts. I think about the cold black water. I think about the pull of the blocks. I think about the desperate hands that hauled me back up from all of it.
“…the twilight’s last gleaming…”
My gaze sweeps the sections where the athletes sit, a riot of colors and flags. And there, in front of the USA block, a figure in her white-and-blue team jacket. Skye. The gold medal, heavy and bright, hangs from her neck.
She isn’t watching the flag; she’s watching me. Her expression is unreadable from a distance, but her posture is rigid. She’s the only one who didn’t fight me on being here on this stage. She knew it was a lost cause.
Just like I didn’t fight her when she wanted to stay in the hospital with me and miss her last practice before the big game.
Thankfully, Rissa and Paige went with her and worked on a few things at the practice arena the morning before the game. I still can’t believe the stick I threw in Skye’s spokes while she was here in Milan for the Olympics.
What a crazy thing to say.
The song builds, climbing toward its difficult peak. The fear of failing the country, as Cassie had mentioned, is nothing compared to what we have already faced. This is just a song. I have already survived the silence.
“O’er the land of the free…”
My left hand, which has been resting at my side, lifts into the air. Not a dramatic gesture, but a deliberate one. My fingers trace the neckline of my bodysuit, finding the sturdy leather beneath it.
Skye’s collar.
I’d asked for it this morning, and she put it on me without a word, her knuckles brushing my throat; the lock clicking shut with a sound more final than any contract.
Now, my fingers find the delicate clasp of the ornate, jeweled half-mask that covers my face. Half of my face. The half Aethelgard had owned.
A final concession to the old brand, and the old fear.
“…and the home of the brave.”
As I hold the last, long note, I undo the clasp.
I let the mask fall.
It drops silently to the stage floor, a glittering piece of my discarded armor.
The final note ends on my lips, and the final chord from the hidden orchestra hangs in the air.
