They’d told her, that quiet morning in the hallowed alcove, that she would soon hold the world in her hands.
She’d known it was coming. She’d dreamed of that moment for as long as she took breath, but the moment was so different as she lived it. For one, it was dark outside. The birds hadn’t taken flight yet to sing their morning song, but she stood in the alcove of the Forest Church with Commander Samuels all the same, hearing the words she’d anticipated for all her days.
For two, she didn’t feel ready. In fact, the clams from the previous evening’s meal churned in her stomach and had threatened to find their own way out more than once already since waking. At this point she couldn’t tell if the urge to retch now came from Madame Twillman’s clams, or the news she had just received.
The result was the same.
“Commander,” she interrupted him. The gurgle had begun deep in her stomach, but she could barely get the word out as she doubled over. His hands immediately latched onto her like he’d known it was coming. The bile was in her throat. Samuels ushered her to the door, and no sooner had he thrown open the door that the vomit had made its escape.
It was the clams. She spewed forcibly through the doorway, just beyond the threshold. The bile narrowly cleared Samuels’ shoes to land on the outside stoop. Gasping for air, she fought to breathe and contain the sickness in her belly. She sank to her knees next to the Commander, and dimly focused on the contents of her stomach on the stoop. Just the sight of it sickened her more, and like a punch to the gut, she heaved again in pain. Samuels hopped out of her trajectory and the plops of her upchucking seemed to momentarily sicken him as well. Through her hair from where she stayed doubled over, she could see him quickly turn away, fist to his mouth as if to ward off an ejection of his own.
Sympathy puker, she thought. In any other situation this would have been hilarious to her considering his usual stiff demeanor, but she could taste the spittle mixed with bile on her lips, and the only thing she knew was she felt miserable.
The fresh air from the outside wafted in the smell of half digested clams. She groaned in revulsion, and pinched her nose. “Samuels.” She spit through the doorway. “Grab me the whiskey. And a cold towel.” That should at least give him a moment of relief. The last thing she needed was a feedback loop of sympathy vomiting. Her eyes closed as his footsteps fell away quickly down the hall.
She gathered her hair away from her face and breathed deeply. Big mistake. Her stomach protested again. How could I have anything left to vomit? She gagged over the doorstep again and emptied onto the pocked concrete. The pain of her middle constricting and heaving replaced her initial nausea, but she found the edge of the door with her fingers. She pivoted away to lean her back against the wall beside the doorjamb, and softly pulled the door closed. The air quality slightly improved. A small mercy.
The footsteps that grew louder with each beat was Commander Samuels returning.
“Sir,” he bent to her. She took the cool towel from him and brought it to her face. She could feel the embroidered shape of her own emblem against her cheek. The silk threads of her hawk’s outstretched wings wiped her leftovers from her lips.
“Whiskey”, she instructed hoarsely. He handed her a glass that had seen cleaner days, but it held the warm amber she asked for, and that’s all that mattered.
Her throat felt raw as the liquid slid down. She swallowed and coughed weakly. At least the burn of alcohol distracted from the roiling she felt. Samuels took the glass from her and outstretched his hand. She accepted, pulling herself up with a grunt.
“The convoy will be here momentarily.” Samuels resumed his briefing as if nothing had ever interrupted it. She liked that about the Commander. She liked a lot of things about him, even if he did not return the sentiment.
Commander Jacob Samuels was fair bit older than Hera but she couldn’t deny he must have been striking in his youth. He still was, though now his decades at war had left him with a brow that was permanently stoic above gray blue eyes. He kept a full chesnut beard closely trimmed and the weathered lines around his mouth seemed to be etched from granite. Hera couldn’t recall a time she’d ever seen him smile or look at her with any measure of softness– he’d always made clear that he did not think she was deserving of the role she’d been groomed for. She hoped the time would be coming soon that he’d be of a different mind. It’s not that he was entirely wrong… he just didn’t know the whole truth of her yet. There would be time enough in the days to come for that.
She looked back down at the wash towel in her hand, appreciating the damp cloth but keeping her fingers clear of the bile-covered insignia that barely could be made out in the dark. She didn’t need to see it to know the words:
THE ANOINTED BE WITH YOU, HERA REGINA.
The Hawk of the Anointed with it’s golden eyes and full mighty span was stitched underneath. In its talons it carried the sprig of sempervivum, the sign of strength and wisdom, the same sempervivum in which this chapel was surrounded. It was an ancient forest, with a long history. The trees had witnessed many Anointings, even before the ceremony carried the weight that it did now. There was a time when there were many more, but Hera’s would be the last and only one left to see.
Hera took another swig of the whiskey. It tasted like turpentine but it did the job. Anything tasted better than the aftermath of Twillman’s clams. She looked out the alcove window again into the starless night.
“Marshal Fletcher will be among the honorifics in attendance, but it will be Chaplain Essling performing your Benediction.” She nodded. She was disappointed to hear that Fletcher would not be the one to Anoint her, but Essling would do. He would certainly give her Anointing the gravity most Commanders would be needing in order to legitimize her and fall in line. Fletcher’s blessing by being among the convoy would be enough for her to feel secure. She was sure he would be coming fresh from her predecessor, giving the benediction may have been too much to hope for from him. Essling, on the other hand, would be coming from Outpost 9 and have all the conviction needed to make the Benediction stick.
“Your father’s Anointing robes were recovered from the chapel cellar. They will be ready for you after you clean yourself up.” She looked down at her own night robes in half embarrassment, half misery. Rolling out of bed and puking uncontrollably was not her best look. Her hair, which had come unbraided at some point during her tossing and turning in the night, was a mess of mahogany tangles, though thankfully hadn’t caught any debris. Hera stood and scrubbed her face with a clean corner of the cloth. Her eyes caught the twilight coming through the window, seeing the boughs towering above the chapel in a detail the night had shrouded.
Hera had only been here once before, at the last Anointing, but seeing the high-reaching trees brought back a flood of memories to her senses. The damp earth took her to a place in time with visceral clarity. In her mind’s eye she could see her father kneeling before her, gripping her shoulders and promising that this moment would come for her. He’d told her that one day she too would wear the robes he wore, and she would hear the Benediction blessing meant for her. She hadn’t understood it then, but she could still see her father’s brow wrinkled in earnestness and fierce pride, and she understood it now. Being Anointed was everything she’d ever meant to be, and even if it meant she’d be hunted like her father into extinction, the sense of duty that pushed her to don her father’s Benediction robes was the one constant she’d ever known.