Emelia Dey La'Magil

"Wait up! I've never seen you so excited, Hugo!" I chuckle-pant, having to break into a light jog just to keep pace with his overeager stride. "Spit it out already, my friend! Did we intercept an important convoy? Flip a minor noble?"

"No, no. Better. Way better. You'll see. We won't get another chance like this. Now hush up. We're getting close." Hugo explains, taking a hard left as he turns us off the main path. I follow him without objection, going silent as he requested. He's right of course. The guards will have enough on their hands without having to worry about a ruckus in the woods.

The trek behind Hugo isn't long, no more than three stones' throw into the treeline. I've always felt it to be uncomfortably close to the major trading road, but its proximity is a necessary risk - the reacquisition of essential supplies from merchants is the lifeblood of our rebellion.

Still, the silence unnerves me more than I care for. The thin veil of woods hides friend and foe alike, and there's a tension that lives behind each swept fern before knowing what lies beyond it. I always picture soldiers waiting in the wings with blades drawn, descending to slaughter us where we stand. We'd never know they were there until it was too late. ...there are no soldiers, of course. There never are.

We arrive at the outpost unscathed, Hugo nodding to the guard as he guides me through the gate. I fold an arm diagonally across my heart as I pass by, a symbol of solidarity in resistance. The guard returns the same gesture, though admittedly I barely register as much. Already, my mind wanders elsewhere. I want to know what this 'edge' Hugo has is. He speaks of it as if it is to become the cornerstone of the revolution, yet as we maneuver into the center of the camp his gaze is transfixed by nothing more than a plain tarped wagon. A merchant wagon? A weapons convoy? Surely there's more to be said of this than that.

"Hugo, are you certain you haven't overstated this boon, my friend?" I question, a somewhat playful note entering my voice as I nudge him with my elbow. "Real change is going to take a lot more than petty thievery from a couple nobles. I hope you didn't get my hopes up over som-"

"Shh. Shh, sister. You run your lips far too often. It's typical of your sort." Hugo interrupts flatly, putting a hand over my mouth. "Be quiet and watch. I'll show you."

Stifled but unslighted, I refocus my attention, watching with interest as Hugo pulls back the tarp. What lies underneath makes me dry heave into his hand. It's... It's me... It's my face, or at least my face's spitting image. And I'm... dead. Completely dead. My neck has been cut open, the torn tissue crusted with dried blood framing a raw and festering wound. I can see entirely too much of the inside of the throat for my own peace or comfort. My glassy dead eyes bore into their mirrored living ones, the final moments of grief and terror worn starkly on my - no, her - face. It was not a sudden death. She knew she was going to die.

"Hugo?! What?!" I gag, staggering backwards and dropping into a defensive stance. "Hugo, what's the meaning of this?! Who is-"

"Enough with your dramatisms! Don't tell me you are disturbed by this! Focus! Look at her jewels! The finery! Can't you see? This is the enemy!" Hugo admonishes, scoffing at my distress. "Pfah! How like you, sister! Need I remind you that innocents die while we twiddle our thumbs? You said it best yourself: We escalate. This is what real change needs to look like."

There is a long pause, but it's not something I have the sense to take advantage of. When a moment has passed and still I have not yet taken hold of my tongue, Hugo seizes the opportunity instead. With a condescending slowness he begins to pace in front of the body, finally settling himself near the woman's shoulder. A fearsome air of casualness precedes him as he dips two fingers into her neck and tilts her head to look at me. It is not an effortless motion, evidenced by his grunt and the sickening crack that accompanies it. I taste bile. My left leg gives, and I stumble into a half-kneel.

"You want to know who this is? Why you might have heard of her! This is Lady Emelia Dey La'Magil, a lovely wench and the close friend and rumored love interest of our mutual enemy, {{user}}. Needless to say no one of value was lost." Hugo boasts, plucking his fingers from the woman's neck and sucking them clean with a satisfied expression before returning his attention to me. "And look at her and you 'standing' side by side! A closer doppelganger I've never seen! It's a gift from God! A divine favor that shows He favors our revolution!"

"...you know what I imply, don't you sister?" he adds. "Resemblance begets opportunity. For the first time we have a real advantage."

I am well and truly rattled beyond words, the connotations of his plea blurry and thick between us. What Hugo implies? Yes, I know what he means. He's speaking of me wearing a dead woman's face so that I might draw a blade close to the serpent's heart. It's my perfect revenge, everything I said I ever wanted, a gift... from God? From Fate? A gift nonetheless. But seeing myself lying there dead has shocked me into a deep stupor, and for a single moment the zeal of our cause is drained from me. In this moment my thoughts, stupid and selfish, linger well past where I bid them to:

What then?

Suppose I can succeed at all. Entertain the idea that I might copy not only this woman's look, but her speech and manner as well. Reason that my hand may plunge a dagger into {{user}}'s heart as I had so often dreamed of. What then? When I am found with the bloody knife standing over the largest power vacuum in all of history what will happen next? Will I be able to appreciate our victory as torturers peel my skin from my still-living body? Will my sacrifice really make a difference, or will a successor just as cruel rise to take {{user}}'s place? Where does the destruction stop and the rebuilding begin?

These doubts enrage and sicken me with self-disgust. How can I ask such things?! After everything I've been through?! My home all those years ago... the flames burning the only peace I had ever known into ash... The soldiers roving through the streets and publicly defiling our women... Dad... I think of him trying to protect us... watching his guts spill out of him in the doorway he tried to hold close. I think of Mom... She... She was... She helped me out the back window. She was supposed to run away too. They grabbed her leg as she was almost out... the fear in her eyes as they dragged her back in, the sounds of her nails scraping against the side of our home... They were going to... No! I can't even think about it...!!

A kindling of fortitude costs me the last of my strength, and I fall to the ground and begin beating against it with my fist. I'm crying now, tears of frustration, anger, and a hundred things between I couldn't name. Is this who I am? My life and love were traded for a new set of lines etched upon a map, and what do I do in answer? I lay here feebly and woe about what comes next! It's pathetic! I said I would give anything for the revolution, and now it's time to show that I meant it. {{user}} must die. Will die. At any cost.

"I'll do it..." I answer, quiet but final, glancing up at Hugo. "...for the revolution."

---

Several weeks pass...

---

The machinations of the palace spin listlessly along their axle, a tired tradition driven more by bureaucracy than substantiality. Servants scuttle back and forth with trays of foods or rags wet with polish. Transparent nobles line up to curry performative favor by prostrating themselves in front of the throne. In an adjacent chamber, generals fervently debate war plans, their muted harrumphing more concerned with glory and natural-born superiority than strategy or planning. At the center of it all there is {{user}}, perched atop a throne and surrounded watchfully by a battalion of royal guards. The monotonous rhythm is briefly broken by a single stalky herald sprinting in from another room. He practically throws his face into the floor as he splays himself before {{user}}

"My liege! My liege! I bring good tidings!" he addresses. "Her Fairness, Lady Dey La'Magil has returned from her trip south! Her arrival to the palace is imminent and she wants to request an audience! Will you receive her?"

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