Page 245 of Mother of Death and Dawn

I thought Max might protest. But he drew himself up, looked out over the balcony to the people gathering beneath, and said, quietly, “Alright,” as if to himself.

Iya opened the glass doors leading to the balcony. Max approached them, but did not go through. He cast me an uncertain glance. “Should I be embarrassed by…” He gestured to himself, and his disheveled appearance. “All of this?”

“No,” I said. “Never. You got that way because you’ve been out there helping them.”

“Not alone.” His knuckles brushed my cheek. “Come out there with me.”

I started to shake my head, but he said, “You are my partner. I don’t care about traditions.”

I wanted to argue with him—this wasn’t my country, it wasn’t my place—but how could I, when he was looking at me like that?

We walked out onto the balcony hand-in-hand, and as we crossed through the doors I stole a single look at him—just one glance. He was a mess, dirty, sweaty, bloody. I could feel his hand shaking around mine, which he clutched the way one clutched a life raft out at sea. But the sun outlined his profile, and his chin was lifted, and his gaze strong and clear. He was beautiful. So different than the man I had discovered drunk in his garden so long ago. And yet…

He glanced at me and gave me a little, nervous smile. Left side first.

…And yet the same. In all the best ways.

He went to the rail and a hush fell over those below. He still did not relinquish my hand, so we stood side by side, equal before a sea of people who were not mine—before Ara. This country had saved me and damned me. Used me and freed me. When I first came here, I thought everything about it seemed so different from my homeland. But the way those below us looked at Max was the same way my people looked at me.

Perhaps people everywhere, in some ways, were the same.

“I don’t know what to say,” Max said, beneath his breath.

It’s nothing,I could have said.You just have to sound strong but also relatable, proud but also humble, aggrandizing but also honest, hopeful but also realistic, and all without sounding rehearsed. Easy!

Instead I said, “Just tell them the truth. What would you say to soldiers under your care who needed your encouragement?”

He swallowed. I released his hand, and he stepped to the railing.

“I’m not good with words,” he said.

Of course that was how he started.

“And maybe right now that’s a good thing. We all, after all, have bigger things to do than this. By now I’m sure that you are all acutely aware of what we face in the days ahead: an onslaught from an enemy that isn’t even human. I could tell you something encouraging. I could make you promises of victory. But I don’t like to make promises unless I know, beyond a doubt, that I can keep them. The only one I feel comfortable making now is that I will never lie to you.

“I know how greedy tragedy is. It consumes everything. It consumes hope; it consumes faith. And in the absence of hope, the only thing that seems worth doing is nothing. The only perfect action. The only path forward. But I met someone who once told me that it is a privilege to do nothing. Many people never get that choice.”

His eyes flicked to me, just for a moment. “She was right. And it pains me to say this to you, but we have lost our ability to do nothing. We are facing a power that can rip apart everything that we know.

“I have fought in many wars by now, and— maybe I’m supposed to tell you about the glory of it. Maybe I’m supposed to tell you that there’s something sacred or patriotic about it. But the truth is that I have hated all of them. Nothing will ever convince me that the world would not be better off without the bloodshed. And that’s why…”

He drew in a deep breath and let it out.

“That’s why I do not say it lightly when I ask you to fight with me. Not to destroy something, but to protect what we love. I’m asking you to fight for tomorrow. For those we lost yesterday and those we will lose in the morning. For those we lost in every war past. For those who deserved more.”

His voice had risen, his words growing stronger. He believed in this, in every word of it. And that fact alone meant more to me than any poetry ever could.

My eyes stung.

“I might be a fool for saying it,” he said. “But I believe we can be better than where we have been. I believe we can survive this, and survive it better, and give ourselves and our children a better version of ourselves. And that’s what we are fighting for, today. For a better, imperfect dawn after a long, imperfect night. I want to see that sunrise with you. Meet me there.”

Maybe in another life, one might have expected this speech to be met with a roar of applause. But instead, there was utter silence.

Uncertainty clenched in my chest as the seconds passed.

But then, in the crowd below, something sparked. The setting sun bounced off something shiny, bright enough that it took me a moment to discern what I was looking at. A group of young soldiers, gathered near the front of the pack, had raised their swords up above their heads.

Even from this distance, I could have sworn that Moth grinned as we met his eyes.

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