Locksley

“...the Royal Guard. The rebel leader Locksley is dead. Those found harboring his cohorts will be shot on sight...”

Click. Silence. Click. Static. Click.

“...bask in the glory of…”

Click. 

“...Long live the king! Long live the…”

It hasn’t been our night. It hasn’t even been our week. Good men lost, blood spilled in the name of freedom: all in vain. The rising sun which once promised a new era now mocks us for our failure.  

“Is it true?” someone whispers across the hall. “Is he dead?” I can barely make out the words but it’s an obvious question. If you pay even a little bit of attention, you are bound to pick up on public sentiment. 

“You know, in my youth, I fought for the crown,” says old Jose. “I never imagined I’d live to see it on the head of a traitor.”

He usually takes a cup of coffee with his bread, not that he has a choice in that. Funds are low. The bread has gone stale and the coffee is well past its expiration date, but that's all that we have to offer. 

Click. 

“...information, particularly those leading to arrests, will be rewarded…”

Should I surrender? The very thought is absurd yet seems to be the only way out. Most of the rebels I personally know are either dead or captured. If I can stall the king's men, feed them on useless crumbs of information, it might give us the time we need to evacuate. 

If help is coming, that is. 

Click.

“Would you guys quit fiddling with the radio?” I call out a couple of twenty-somethings by the window. They have been desperate since last week. Maybe someone survived. Maybe someone is sending a message waiting to be heard. Maybe there is still hope. A list of endless maybes.

I move along the tables serving old-timers and young mothers alike, victims of a war they didn't choose to be a part of, caught in the crosshairs. Someone has lost a child, a spouse, a father. A baby starts to cry when I reach their table. I wonder if I scared the little one or if it's just missing its father. I wonder whether I knew him. 

I wonder if it was all worth it. 

Click.

‘Oh for f--...’

“...the Royal Guards have seized the last rebel stronghold of Sagrada. We have official confirmation coming from the Office of Wartime Communications… ”

Denial washes over the breakfast tables. A soft murmur gives way to contradicting calls for how to operate the radio until a wail echoes in the hall. Able bodies rush to the comfort of those left behind. A teardrop here, a fall there, and everyone is consumed by irreversible grief. 

This is no place to raise a child.

I let go of my responsibilities and head for the door. I won’t wait for the mourning to subside. It’s their right, their last remaining link to the people they raised, fell in love with, gave birth to, and bid farewell not knowing whether they’ll ever see each other again. The answer to that uncertainty lay in one of the binary possibilities, and I have no moral grounds to expect anything from them when that uncertainty has devolved into one ugly reality.

No one tries to stop me. They are huddled over in a corner or two, processing what has just happened. The radio is still going on with the broadcast unattended. I switch it off before leaving the building.

Outside, the world is a calmer place. The kind of calm that stalks you in daylight and haunts you in your sleep. Even the morning birds are silent, afraid they might be incarcerated for sedition. The roads are deserted save for patrolling units and the occasional propaganda spouting from every other square and alley, assuring safety and peace in the reign of the new king. It’s as promising as the snow melting beneath my feet.

A guard glances at me from the corner of his eyes. I am dressed simply, an ordinary worker in a state-sanctioned facility. It sounds good on paper, and it was before the new administration took over. Now it is running on fumes. Which reminds me that I need to restock our supplies. 

His gaze linger for a few more seconds before his commander calls for the unit’s attention. I walk with my head down not daring to look them in the eyes. With their decorated uniforms and shining rifles, fighting for a tyrant who doesn’t even deserve a place in hell, it’s all I can do not to puke.

I walk for two miles before stopping before a ration center. There are a few people in line, waiting for the shutter to open. Am I early or is he dead too? I honestly can’t tell. I haven’t seen his face since last week before we assaulted the Palacio Real. 

It would be an understatement to say we were underprepared. I had protested against a direct assault, at least until help arrived. A man from across the sea -- who called himself al-Muktashif -- had promised to supply us with men and resources. He had also advised strongly against an offensive until his ships secured the docks. But we were desperate for a victory. 

Our plan was short and simple. The Guards would change for the night shift. Some of our men would take their place. While the rest of the king’s men would be busy fighting off a distraction, the rest of us would sneak in the palace. We’d secure each floor as peacefully as we could until we found the patricide. Locksley would then promptly assassinate the monarch.

Instead, we were greeted by landmines buried in the South Garden. The moment the Fourth Company stepped in the lawn, they were blown to smithereens. For all the preparations we had made and all the security measures we had considered, landmines hadn’t even crossed our minds. It was supposed to be a coup de main. There was no way in hell anyone was expecting us. So why would they rig their own backyard?

The other potential entry point was the Northern Tower. That’s where I had followed Locksley in battle. We had crept in the dark of the night, ready to signal our people in the Tower to open the gates. We were drunk on hope, unshakable in our belief that the next morning would be one of liberation. If only we knew what fate had in store for us. 

I had barely taken out the transmitter when the mines exploded. We didn’t even have the time to process what had happened before the machine guns stationed on the tower lit us up. In the ensuing chaos, as we returned fire and struggled to hold our ground, it became apparent that something had gone terribly wrong. The company which was to replace the guards never reached their destination. As the failure of our plan grew into an inescapable demon, their whereabouts didn’t matter anymore. They were already dead.

In a few minutes, it became clear that we did not stand a chance. They had superior numbers, advanced weaponry, and a meter thick wall of concrete and granite. We were overwhelmed before we could even fire a single clip of our rifles. To retreat was our only option.

The horror, the red, fingers sliding over the trigger I managed to pull as we fled to safety. The mere thought of that fateful night makes me dizzy. 

A breeze passes me by. I close my eyes as if the gentle wind would carry me home if I don’t take a peek. I let the sun soak me in its warmth, wondering whether my friends in Sagrada lived to see this day. Whether they escaped the bunker while they still could.

The rattle of the opening shutter jolts me back to reality. I look around to find more people joining the line to buy their groceries. They look jaded, dragging themselves from one chore to the next, plagued with terror and scared for their families. Just because they haven’t taken up arms doesn’t mean they aren’t fighting.

In the crowd of unfamiliar faces, one piques my attention. He is one of the late customers. A man with a bandaged arm covered in tattered clothes. It takes me a moment to recognize him. It's him. 

I thought he was dead. A few men had stayed behind to give as much time as they could. I had thought all of them succumbed to their wounds. But there he is, right in front of me on the street, smiling at me. My feet stagger under the weight of the realization.

Locksley is still alive.

He motions me to meet him in the alley. It isn’t safe to talk here, especially due to the threat of a patrolling unit finding an escaped prisoner in broad daylight. At least that’s what I think he is right now. There is no other explanation for his survival.

“Thank god you are alive,” he says as he pulls me in an embrace. A muffled groan escapes his lips. I must have pressed a sore spot. He lets go of me and asks, “You moved our people, didn’t you?”

“The first thing I did when I got back. Some of us are in a community center two miles that way,” I say. They have tortured him, no doubt. One of his eyes is swollen shut. Cotton rolls stained with blood and ointment cover his many injuries. It’s taking him visible effort to stand still on his own. It’s a miracle he is even alive.

“I thought you died defending our passage. They have been relentlessly broadcasting the news of your death.”

“I almost did. When they realized we weren’t advancing any more, they came for us in the flesh. They… they took us…” he trails away. He pauses for a breath, recomposes himself, and continues, “They took everyone away. I don’t even know where they are keeping the others.”

“There are others?” a ray of hope cuts through the clouds. 

“Yes, four more. But I don’t know how long they’ll survive. We have to act quickly.”

“We’ll get them back, I promise. But first, we need to get you some medical attention,” I say and reach to support him.

“We can’t be seen together, Maya,” he says, rejecting my hand. “You need to relay a message to everyone out there to meet us at Sagrada. I’ll follow you to the community center and we’ll…”

He doesn’t know.

“... transport our people there… What’s wrong?”

“That’s not possible. There is no one at Sagrada,” I say. I do not even try to hide how defeated I sound.

“What do you mean?”

“The Guards destroyed the bunker this morning. It’s all over the radio.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. Your friend from across the sea, he said they are safe and ready for another assault.”

“He… he landed?” If he did, then he didn’t contact me. He was supposed to do that first hand. Did the boys at the radio miss his signal?

“Of course he did. How do you think I escaped? Muktashif and his men stormed the Forca Prisao a few hours ago. They are regrouping at Sagrada.”

“Muktashif?”

“Yes, him. The radio has been lying to you. They are most probably getting ahead of themselves.”

I can feel the rug being pulled from under my feet.

“Maya. Listen to me carefully. There is still hope. The foreigner you so raved about is here and he is helping us retake our land. All we need to do is show him his efforts are not in vain.”

“That we still have a fight left in us.”

“Exactly. So what do you say?”

I take a step in the alley. I wonder when the next patrolling unit would pass us by. 

“Maya?”

“I never mentioned his name.”

“What?”

“I never told anyone who he is. I always called him Marujo, never Muktashif. That was supposed to be his name this side of the water. We agreed upon that."

An air of silence persists between us. An eerie quiet that clears everything beyond a sliver of doubt.

“Two miles, you say?” he asks with a smirk on his face. Then he lunges at me.

He pushes me against the wall and comes for my face. I block his hook with the back of my forearm but the impact shakes me to my bone. He withdraws his arm to reveal a cylindrical metal plate, with spikes poking out of it, wrapped around his hand. The bandages hid it well.

“I am sorry I have to do this,” he says and lands a blow right below my ribs, but not before I hit him in his swollen eye. He yells in pain and covers his eye as he staggers backward. I bend over in my own agony, the pain in my abdomen compounding the one coursing through in my hand, where an old wound has reopened.

“You are one of the only people who knew about Sagrada. They didn’t torture the information out of you, you gave it to them.”

“They promised they’d seek a ceasefire,” he says. There is a tinge of guilt in his voice. But it's too late now. Only one of us is walking out of here alive.

I try my best to defend myself, blocking his advances and venturing a few of my own, but the metal plating carries a weight that I can’t endure. In one of our relentless exchanges, he cuts me across the face with a knife I neither saw coming nor anticipated he had in the first place. I fall back against the wall and he thrusts it toward me. He manages to secure a few slashes before I step sideways to hit him in the armpit, prompting him to drop the knife. I don’t let go of the momentary lead and double down on him.

It soon becomes clear that neither one of us is in our prime shape to put up a decent fight. So gradually, the fight becomes a grabbing match, both of us pulling the other in and bashing them against the walls. A few minutes later, when we are both out of breath and covered in each other’s blood, he makes his first mistake.

He jumps at me from behind and I jam an elbow in his face. He falls on his back groaning in pain as his palms cover his bleeding nose. I don’t waste another second in overpowering him and straddle his chest. With all the strength left in my body, I let go of my saner self.

I don’t know how long it took me to render him motionless. I don't even know how far I wanted to go. It is only when his chest doesn’t rise and he makes no sound do I understand the gravity of my actions. I get to my feet, trembling with exhaustion, my heart hammering in my head. I search for a feeling, perhaps one of remorse, but none come. In the end, relief washes over me. I do not have to bother anymore. In my feet lies the shattered corpse of a traitor.

As I turn to leave, a bizarre detail beckons me to look back.

I realize his mouth is moving. Soon a sound registers in my consciousness. 

“You are all so blinded by your fantasy that you don’t even see this is a lost cause.”

Is this my head or is he still alive?

“It always has been,” he continues. His frozen eyes are staring at me as if looking into my soul. 

“No, Isaac. You lost faith. You sold us out.”

“You think I dishonored the old man.” A maniacal laughter echoes in the alleyway. “I didn’t sell you out. I bargained for your lives, you moron! The king was willing to hear for a peace offering,” he says.

 “I wonder," he continues, "if you’d hate yourself in your last moments as much as you hated me in mine.”

I walk over to his head so that I am directly staring in his eyes. I wonder momentarily whether I should say something. A drop of crimson spatters over his throat. I promptly crush it with my heel. 

I hear the marching of boots approaching me.

Lockesley was supposed to be a symbol. Incorruptible. Unshakable. It's imperative that no one finds out about Isaac's betrayal.

I look around for the knife and hold it firmly in my grasp. Home is two miles away, and wolves hunt in broad daylight. 

It isn't a face they need. It's a mask they follow. As long as Lockesley is alive, it doesn't matter who walks in his shoes. The revolution lives on. 

The Guards reach the alley and are taken aback with what they see. One of them orders me to lay down the weapon and surrender. When I don't comply, they file in the alley ready to take me down.

And I intend to see this through.