Archive of Our Own

Everyone wanted to make the world a better place, it seemed, but so few bothered to try. Roland figured that if he wanted to make a difference, he needed to start somewhere.

The first step in Senator Crane’s pipe dream of a presidential campaign was to get himself some sensible advice.

“You’re fairly a obscure candidate right now, Mr. Crane,” his campaign manager began. “But there are some strategies to get over that. The easiest would be to choose a fellow Senator from a large state outside of your own; assuming you don’t blow it, that would improve your reputation and give the two of you a fair amount of electoral votes between your states. I have a few in mind.”

He passed Roland a document with a list of state affiliations, their number of electors, and their designated Senators. Roland skimmed the recommendations. None of the names his advisor had picked appealed to him, much.

At the mere age of 40, Roland Crane was the youngest person in the country to hold a seat in the Senate; he did not consider this a disadvantage. His country seemed to hold to a pattern where, every several decades or so, a youthful Presidential candidate came along and offered a welcomed change of perspective - and it was due time for another. While his manager’s recommendations would certainly balance out his age and appeal to an older generation of voters, Roland knew that age did not necessarily correlate to competence.

There was one name on the manifest that Roland was surprised to recognize: an alumnus from the same School of Law that he attended, though she had graduated several years ahead of him. It surprised him even more to see that she had not caught his manager’s eye.

“Senator Horne was a prominent civil rights lawyer before she was elected as a state representative,” Roland said, sharing his thoughts.

“Like you, you mean? Have you two met before?”

Roland started to laugh. “I was hardly prominent-”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“-And not exactly, no. We sat in the same room, and I had the opportunity to hear her speak from time to time.”

“Then I’m sure you know that she’s a good liar. Famous for flopping around. Does that sort of neutral non-answer that won’t offend single-issue voters.”

Roland waited.

His manager’s eyebrow twitched before his mouth spread in a disbelieving grimace. “...You can’t be serious. That sort of thing might eventually get you a seat in the Senate, but it’s suicide for a presidential campaign. You need something to rally behind.”

“I think you’ve misunderstood my strategy,” Roland corrected gently.

“-Ah. I get it. I see. Okay...” A long, sustained groan filled the room as his manager covered his face in his hands. “You could take my advice, or you could just find someone you feel good about and lose the election. I don’t care. Just know that good intentions and happy thoughts don’t get you votes, Senator Crane.”

Roland thought he might be up to the challenge.

It was to be his first mistake in a long line of them.

—

The candidate felt himself drawn to the office as a puppet was pulled along a string.

“Senator Horne.” Roland approached the Senator alone at his own request, hands folded politely in front of him. Alexandra Horne did not rise to shake his hand, but gave him the courtesy of a nod.

“Senator Crane,” she answered flatly. “I suppose you are preparing to choose a running mate. I suppose you’ve made your way down the list as you’ve faced rejection, and came to my name.” She chuckled as though we were joking, but Roland did not believe her; her state held a mere three electoral votes and very few were bold enough to make such a risky choice. “I would hope a presidential candidate would use better judgment.”

“I apologize if it disappoints you to hear that you’re my first stop,” Roland answered humbly.

Senator Horne’s painted-on smile gave way to something more sincere. Finally, she stood to accept his handshake. “Alexandra is fine.”

Roland indicated that she could return the favour.

“Forgive me, Roland, I’ve met a lot of charlatans in my career.” The candidate nodded, acutely aware how some politicians preferred intimidation to conversation. “Take a seat. I’d like to hear your reasoning.”

Roland thought this might be the easiest part of his campaign. “A long time ago, a defense attorney from Stanford inspired me to believe in the things I do now,” Roland explained with a wistful inflection, settling into a fine oak chair. “I wanted to ask her what changed her mind.”

There was a heavy pause between them; Alexandra fidgeted uncomfortably with her ballpoint. She collected her thoughts as her chair spun on its cylinder towards the window, giving her a perfect view of Burlington through the wooden slats. “The way I see it,” Alexandra shifted her weight to cross her legs, “there are two types of politicians. Evil people, and fools.”

Roland kept his silence, watching as she bounced her leg on her knee anxiously. When Alexandra didn’t receive an acknowledgment, she turned to gesture her pen in his direction.

“Which are you, Senator Crane?”

“I might be the least qualified to tell you,” he answered honestly. “I find it unlikely that an evil man would have the sense to know it. But it sounds to me as though you’ve considered yourself in your assessment.”

Satisfied, Alexandra put on a self-deprecating grin, spinning quickly to face him. “I was a fool, once,” she laughed coldly. “Now, well. Our country is not kind to utopian ideals. That’s why I’m sitting here, now.”

Roland gave a casual sort of shrug. “We all do as much as we can.”

“What do you mean?”

“It wears you down when you can’t save everyone.”

She bit the inside of her cheek pensively, eyes narrowing.

Roland slid her a card with his personal line. Alexandra picked it up, spinning it over in her hand as he got up to leave. “For the record-“ her eyes flicked towards him without raising her head- “I think you might actually pull it off.”

Roland stopped at the door and waited for her to continue.

“You’re too good, Mr. Crane,” she said flatly. “You don’t see that in our ranks, anymore.”

The candidate shook his head, gesturing back at her. “Clearly, that’s not true.”

For the briefest of moments the smile on Alexandra’s face clouded over with shame. The next Roland blinked it was gone, and her expression had stiffened. “...Good night, Senator Crane,” she sighed.

—

Roland Crane and Alexandra Horne meant to meet privately to discuss their campaign strategy before any formal announcement. This had absolutely been their intention when they met at his residence - and Roland considered himself a man of great self control, never once concerned that a fleeting fancy or bad decision might jeopardize his career.

Indeed, they were both stone cold sober and fully occupied with policy when Roland planted his lips on hers.

He hadn’t realized he’d done it; he’d even had the thought that he never expected such unprofessional behaviour from his colleague before he saw the shock that lit up her face. Immediately his sense returned to him and he scrambled to take back the reins; Roland leaned backwards to apologize-

-And found himself pulled forward by the lapels, his weight hoisted over top of her. Whatever it was that possessed him to do that, the same hex had overtaken her.

-Had they only met face-to-face three weeks ago? Sometimes a memory would stir beneath the surface before slipping away, like a word on the tip of the tongue that couldn’t be remembered. If it were the sex he was after, Roland thought he had the better sense than to choose his running mate - but when the two of them shared an intimate moment together, neither could force themself to feel as though they were doing something wrong.

-In retrospect, it should have been obvious that they were cursed.

The Senators met in this way for months, pretending they had the interests of the campaign at heart... but inevitably moving from a boardroom to the bedroom, forced to scramble to make sure they departed the hotel looking the same way that they’d entered it.

Hot off the heels of one such encounter, Roland’s manager was briefing him on the details of the upcoming campaign trail when he stopped dead in his tracks and met his gaze with a frown.

“Think you missed a spot, boss.”

Roland’s hand shot to his neck just above his collar and came away with the faintest pink smear.

His manager shook his head. “Somehow, I thought you were above hiring escorts. We’re supposed to be running a scandal-free campaign, here. If there’s some sick reason you’re not married, I’d prefer to know before the press does.”

-Was that all he suspected?! Roland answered with a long sigh of relief.

—

The subtlety that worked well for the straight-laced Roland was much harder on Alexandra. The dark blinds Roland had installed in his home seemed to offend her, and more than once she’d made a point of refusing to draw them down.

“I wish we didn’t have to live like this,” Alexandra said into her coffee one morning, more morose than usual.

Though he secretly agreed, Roland kept his silence.

It proved to be a bad answer.

Alexandra kept her distance after that, filling their meetings with short sentences, halfheartedly returning his calls, and standing him up on occasion.

So when Alexandra approached him after a speech he’d made, not a trace of humour on her face, Roland knew that things had run their course.

“Senator Crane. A word.”

The two of them ascended the stairs towards the rooftop, confident they would not be overheard. Beneath a heavy hand of concealer Alexandra looked very tired, and there was a tremble in her step as she wandered aimlessly out of the stairwell. Roland caught her by the shoulder before she was out of his reach. “Are you alright?”

Alexandra wouldn’t look at him.

Roland reached out to caress her chin with the tips of his fingers, coaxing her to face him. “Alyssa.”

Alexandra flinched, and finally, her eyes turned very slowly to lock her gaze with his.

“You look exhausted,” Roland observed plainly. “You should get some rest. You’re not yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Alexandra answered, her voice hardly above a whisper.

Roland shook his head. “It’s alright. I understand.” He smiled sadly. “You don’t have to worry about breaking my heart.”

As though struck, Alexandra shirked away from his touch; a muffled sob squeaked through her hands as she covered her face. Roland let her go, but could no longer keep up a smile. There was already a black hole in his life, and he knew, for as long as he lived, no one else could fill it.

“Alyssa. It’s okay.”

“You-“ Alexandra wiped her face. “You don’t have to be so goddamn- reasonable- all of the time,” she said between gasps.

“Would you rather I was angry?”

”Yes.”

Running his hands through his hair in exasperation, Roland sighed and looked about the rooftop. Scenic as it was, there was no place to sit but the ground. “Come here,” he asked gently, directing her back towards the door. Roland placed his wool jacket on the floor and made her lay upright against the wall. But Alexandra could not be consoled, and she stubbornly held her hands above her face, staring into her lap. When he realized that she would not continue, Roland filled the silence:

“If you want to end things, I respect your decision. Hiding from the world is no way to live.” There was not much that could get under the unflappable Senator Crane’s skin, but Roland felt his heart break as he admitted to himself: “It was selfish of me to let this go as long as it did. Forgive me, Alyssa.”

By the time he had finished, his lover was no longer crying; an eerie resolve had seized her, and she met his gaze again blankly, arms at her sides. When she spoke, she was uncomfortably calm.

“No matter what happens, you were the love of my life, Roland.”

“I know, Alyssa. I feel the same.”

“I’m pregnant.”

Roland blinked. The entire world around them had stopped.

“Not many couples have children at our age, do they?” Alexandra laughed desperately, hugging herself. She bit her lip until it turned white. “But if I can, I want to have your child.”

A moment of silence passed between them before Roland finally spoke, a casual hand on his hip as though he weren’t screaming inside.

“I understand. I’ll support whomever you choose.”

It was Alexandra’s turn to stare blankly as Roland continued.

“Get married to someone else as soon as possible; I’ll send along whatever it takes to keep him quiet. Eventually, the public will forget that we’d considered running a campaign together. You can raise the child in peace and continue serving as Senator without scandal. I know you have been trying to avoid one.”

Alexandra’s eyes widened and she began to shake her head.

“Roland, no-“

“It will be alright, Alyssa.”

“I want to have your child,” Alexandra repeated, “with you.”

Roland’s heart swelled, but he forced himself to shake his head.

“I know how the press works. I’ll be fine, but the media could turn on you. They’ll smear you in any way they can-” Roland cautioned.

“-I don’t care-”

“-and you would lose everything you worked towards. Alyssa, as long as you are happy, I will be-”

“Listen to me!” She spoke over him again. “I want to be with you. I don’t care how that makes me look. My mind is made up.”

A silence passed between them, longer than they had ever spent in it. A sudden clarity passed over Roland and he bridged the space between them as he did when they’d become a couple, pressing his lips firmly over hers. She let him kiss her as long as she could stand before pushing him to arm’s length, staring into his eyes with a hungry curiosity. The words came very easily:

“Then my mind is made up, too. Be my wife, Alyssa.”

The corner of Alexandra’s lips trembled; several weeks of shame and sickness had taken their toll. Roland caught Alexandra before she collapsed to the floor, her forehead hitting his chest as she crumpled. She clung to his chest and wept gratefully as he ran his fingers through her hair, thinking, all the while, that he was the luckiest man in the world.

The next morning, after a few strings had been well and truly pulled, Roland announced he would run alongside the senator his manager had suggested.

___

The PR mess they’d predicted was surprisingly benign. While the marriage of two influential Senators was not greeted well by everyone, there were few who could begrudge a man for stepping up to raise his child. Tabloids changed their tone from outrage to neutrality, and then to admiration - one of the presidential candidates was a deeply dependable father capable of doing the right thing in a difficult time. Alexandra, too, had been lauded for her transparency, and kept her seat in the senate as long as her health allowed.

And it was her health that had been the breaking point.

As though Roland had jinxed her, Alexandra was ill for the entirety of her pregnancy. In the last trimester, the Doctor committed her to strict bed rest - but with the rapid-fire campaign trail ahead, Roland could not stay.

“Go on,” she’d insisted, sitting up long enough to embrace her husband. Roland watched with a deep guilt as she struggled to get comfortable again, running her hands over a stomach too heavy for her frame. When she saw him pitying her, Alexandra clicked her tongue. “I’ll be fine, my love. I’d be upset if you stayed home. You made your people a promise.”

And he, unwilling to disappoint so many, reluctantly listened.

—

Roland knew something was wrong when two stern-faced servicemen signalled him to wind down early.

Roland wore a confident smile so far as the stadium exit, but was so rattled that he never could remember what he’d said before he left the rally.

From the safety of his car, his guards briefed him on the situation before a doctor was put on the line over the speaker. Roland sat in rapt attention as words he had certainly understood once, but no longer made sense to him, settled over his reality. Advanced maternal age. Uterine atony. Next of kin.

After labouring two days, Alexandra had given birth to a sickly baby boy and neither were recovering well. He would be needed at home to make decisions on their behalf.

“In spite of the circumstances, congratulations on your son, Senator Crane. I wish all of you the best. We will speak further when you arrive.”

When the teleconference cut, Roland looked around the car in a daze; as though he would find Alyssa reassuring him, as she always did when he was at the end of his confidence. Instead, he learned what it meant to go into the dark alone.

Roland arrived at the hospital as fast as he could be taken there, though, to him, the flight had been unreasonably long (“Senator Crane?! How is your wife, sir?” Roland dropped the coffee the flight attendant had handed him, unable to feel how badly his knee had been burned). Roland stripped down to a white dress shirt and covered his face in dark glasses before leaving his car, but being recognized in his own state was unavoidable - people gawked at him as he pushed his way through the the heart of the hospital, knowing full well that Roland Crane was not the sort of man who panicked.

By the time he arrived, Alexandra was unresponsive, her life sustained by a host of lines that fed into her arm. The recovery room was littered with gifts from everyone and anyone in the know - except him, he realized quickly. Roland struggled to remember what had he would have been doing when Alyssa went into labour. What promises, exactly, had been so important that he’d been willing to leave his wife alone? Try as he might, he couldn’t recall.

“-Mr. Crane?” A nurse was trying to get his attention, placing a gentle hand on his arm after several attempts. She seemed calmer than what the situation warranted. “Hello, Mr. Crane. Would you like to meet your son?”

His heart squeezed tightly in his chest and he found he could not speak; only for this did he allow himself to be led away from Alyssa’s bedside.

For all the trouble Alyssa had gone through in carrying him, Roland never expected his son to be so small. When the nurse removed his baby from the incubator, monitor and oxygen lines pulled taught behind him, like a circuitboard being worked from its shell. Roland gasped, fearful that even a small strain could break him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Crane,” the nurse reassured, “it’s better he doesn’t stay in there too long. Contact is good for sick babies, and he hasn’t had the chance to meet his mother, yet...” She arranged the bundle of blankets, baby and wires in Roland’s arms, resting the child’s tiny head high against his chest.

There had never been any question that the child was his, and there would never have been, with his head full of black hair (and, as Roland would learn, amber eyes) - with Alyssa’s light features, the idea he’d had to pass the child off as someone else’s would not have held under scrutiny. When the baby squirmed beneath the blankets, settling his weight more comfortably on his father, it pained him deeply to think that he almost missed being here at all. Roland wept, furious with himself.

There would have been no rush to fill out the paperwork under normal circumstances, but with his child as frail as he was and Alyssa incapacitated, it sickened Roland to think that his son could slip away having not been named, having never been given a mark that he was loved. It was the only thing he could think to do, having been a perfectly useless parent until now.

So useless was he that he could not remember the name Alyssa had decided on.

Somehow, still, he was sure she would understand.

After signing the birth certificate, he waited, their child sleeping in his arms the whole while, for his wife to recover.

——

Roland couldn’t help but be overprotective of Owen; at eight years old, the boy was almost a head shorter than his peers and lacked their resilience. The novelty of the President dropping off his son for first grade wore off quickly for the children once he’d done so enough times, and, just as quickly, some took notice of the way the man fussed over his bruising - the President’s boy was a weak little thing. It was the perfect storm for an easy target.

“W-We try to keep him separated from the bigger kids in his year,” his teacher told him stiffly over the video call, horrified to find herself in a parent-teacher conference with the President. “But, he keeps trying to make friends with everyone. I’m afraid we may have no choice but to have him change classes.”

From somewhere offscreen Roland heard Alexandra sigh, and he could imagine her shaking her head, the tips of her blonde bob bouncing at her chin. “That’s no good. Changing his class every time there’s an incident isn’t a solution.”

“I know,” the teacher replied, eyes darting uncertainly between his wife and the screen, “but I can’t keep the class segregated all the time. With his condition, perhaps a private education would be better for him...?”

The idea of isolating his child even further to save him from a few bullies made Roland’s stomach churn, and for the first time in the conversation, he cleared his throat and interrupted. “I’ll talk to Owen,” Roland found himself saying. “Please allow us to work it out. I can promise it won’t be a liability for you. May I speak with my wife?”

The teacher shoved the tablet in Alexandra’s hands. She darted out of the classroom to refill her mug and allow them as much time they were willing to take.

Owen’s frail constitution had aged the both of them considerably, and the woman who appeared on Roland’s laptop would not have been recognizable as the firecracker of Stanford U. Roland’s own hair had taken on a grey sheen, and the fringes of his bangs had lost their color completely. They looked for all the world like an old couple, not a pair in their late forties.

Alexandra closed her eyes to think, the corners of her eyes wrinkling in the effort.

“I don’t know what to do, Roland. What, exactly, are you going to say to him to fix this?”

“That we don’t tolerate bullies,” he said flatly, shrugging. “If he’s going to be their target, he needs to learn to defend himself.”

“He’s eight,” she said with exasperation.

“So was I, once upon a time. It worked for me.”

Alexandra shook her head, but didn’t argue further. “Some days I wonder if you were born with a head full of answers.”

Roland laughed. “I think Owen might set a better example than me in that regard.”

“No, it’s because of you,” Alexandra corrected. “His father is his hero and you’re an admirable President. Roland, you should see his homework.” Distracted from the subject at hand, a weak smile spread across her face.

“Oh?”

Alexandra made her way to the wall of the classroom and held the tablet up to a collage of assignments. Where Owen failed in athletics he made up for in language arts; in surprisingly tidy print were the words When I grow up, I want to be president with Daddy!

-Dated two weeks ago. Roland sucked in a breath and held it a moment.

“...I’ll fly home tomorrow. Keep it a surprise.”

Alexandra turned the camera back to her. “I know you’re busy-“

“It’s alright. I’ll be there, Alyssa.”

Her shoulders dropped in relief. “...We can’t wait to see you, my love.”

“Daddy!”

Black hair bounced playfully above Owen Crane’s shoulders as he launched himself from the dining table, latching himself around his father’s knees with a bubbling laugh. Like a young prince, the White House had been the only home he could remember, and he had no qualms with treating historic antiques with abandon. Roland couldn’t bring himself to scold him.

“Hey, kiddo. Looks like I made in just in time for dessert.” Ever cognizant of his child’s brittle health, Roland preferred to ruffle his son’s hair than to pick him up; Owen squealed in delight nonetheless. “Your mother showed me your schoolwork. I’m very proud, son.”

Alexandra, who would never normally tolerate horseplay from her son, was happy to watch the scene unfold from her place at the head of the table. “He saw what you want to be when you grow up,” she offered helpfully. Roland had missed several school projects since his trip to the east coast.

“Yeah! I want to help!” Owen grabbed the hem of his father’s suit jacket and bounced up and down.

“Oh? Maybe you can help me talk to North Korea. Tell everyone to get along, okay?”

In his innocence, Owen nodded enthusiastically. Alexandra rolled her eyes. “Roland, please.”

After the meal, the three of them sat on the family room sofa while Roland gave his son a present he’d brought back New York; a dulled toy sword that used to be his own, one that had once empowered him to stand up for himself. Owen accepted it gratefully, throwing his arms around his father’s neck with a cheerful laugh. Roland held his son in a firm hug, wondering how long it’d been since they’d done this.

They would not have the opportunity to see if Roland’s gift would help.

—

Both Roland and Alexandra were working when Owen collapsed in the school gym. His parents begged his guards to take him to his specialist, and sent ahead their consent for a blood count. Roland and Alexandra arrived at paediatric oncology in a white-hot panic, breathless at their son’s beside.

“Daddy?” Owen’s voice sounded like the mewl of a sick cat; his arm was bruised where they had drawn blood and his skin had taken on a near-white pallor.

Roland brushed the bangs away from his son’s face tenderly, noticing that they had become heavy with sweat. “Yes, kiddo?”

“Do I have to do the medicine this time?”

Roland’s mouth went dry as his mind railed against the thought of declining treatment. “That depends,” he managed weakly. “Do you want to be president someday?”

Owen whined, burying himself deeper in the blankets. Beside them, Alexandra hugged herself to stop herself from screaming.

After a few hours, the paediatrician arrived with the results; she did not have to speak before Roland understood.

“Owen’s out of remission,” he said in a daze, not realizing he had spoken.

The paediatrician nodded. “We’ll do everything we can for him. It would be best to have him as an inpatient until we can decide on the best course of treatment, but before we begin, there are a few things I want to discuss.”

Roland turned to look at his wife’s expression. Seated beside him, her mouth hung open as though she had something to say, but had gone mute from shock - Roland put his arm around her waist, supporting her should she faint.

“Mr. and Mrs. Crane,” the Doctor knew well who she was dealing with, and did not mince her words, “we aren’t seeing the hallmarks of improvement that are typically found in survivors around his age.”

Alexandra squeaked, her fists balled into white knuckles on her knees. Even Roland struggled to answer, and could only manage a pitiful, “I don’t understand.”

The Doctor paused to collect her thoughts, trying to balance pessimism and realistic expectation. “You are a busy man, President Crane. I’m certain the next few weeks are as critical to you as they are to your son. In the event that you cannot be reached,” she cautioned, and Roland remembered that he had set a precedent, “I think that you and your wife should work out an end-of-life care plan.”

Alexandra collapsed onto Roland’s lap and her grief swallowed him whole. Roland turned to look at his son, sleeping soundly behind them - the boy was only eight years old.

Had it already been eight years since he first held him?

...What had he been doing all this time?

__

The National Security Council was less than pleased with the President’s absence from congress during his son’s treatment. No sooner had Roland returned to the White House did the Secretary of Defense practically jump him, holding him up in his office until he could be forced to take a side.

“North Korea has made an offer of nuclear disarmament,” he summarized quickly, certain Roland had already been briefed, “only if we are also willing to comply. They plan to offer proof of the destruction of their nuclear weapons, but it must be done simultaneously to ours.”

Roland did not respond. In spite of the family’s relocation near the best hospital in the country, Owen was not improving, and Roland couldn’t summon the energy to ignore it.

“Mr. President, we need your answer. Your decision on the matter is not subject to congressional approval.” A beat. “The whole country has, quite literally, waited on you.” He cast a glance at the Vice President, who looked as though he had a few words to say on the subject.

It was a sick sort of Prisoner’s Dilemma, Roland thought, with their leaders of the countries in place of the prisoners. Through the static in his head, he worked out the basics.

If both countries destroyed their weapons, it would be the first steps to world peace. This would be the ideal choice, if only it were so simple.

If one country kept their weapons and the other did not, that left one of them powerless to hold back the tide.

If both countries kept their weapons... what happened, then?

The Vice President grew sick of the silence. “This decision does not require further discussion; we accept, and stage the destruction of fakes.”

Roland opened his mouth to argue, but had the thought that he was wasting time.

“Are you in agreement, Mr. President? Or are you too distracted to work, again?”

Unable to believe what he had heard, Roland stared. “Excuse me, Secretary-”

“I concur. One can’t help but wonder where President Crane’s priorities lie.” As though Roland’s grief were an amusement, the Vice President made a show of unlocking the door and holding it open. “If you cannot chair this meeting, we will gladly make the decision for you. You are welcome to come back when you are ready to run this country, Mr. Crane.”

Roland’s shot a glare towards his Vice President, who held his gaze fiercely. His second-in-command slammed the door and waited.

After a minute, the Roland had cleared the fog long enough to made up his mind. “You’re right.” Roland collapsed onto his elbows, face in his hands. “This country is not ready for disarmament. We can’t trust our enemies to tell the truth, and their lie would mean we are defenseless.” The tension in the room seemed to drop, and it was enough of a positive response that Roland felt they might leave him alone. He felt emboldened to add: “But, do not make a game of pretending we are complying. Tell them outright that we refuse. To be caught lying would be worse than the alternative.”

Nobody could say that they thought he was making a bad choice.

Still, for an instant, the President thought that if everything were to end for him, he’d deserve it for convincing himself that he could make things better.

____

The passengers crumpled against steel as their vehicle flipped over the bridge; Roland braced himself for the drop, but his car slammed down hard on its back and skidded down the asphalt. The shattered windows let in an unbearable heat - when Roland tried to breathe, his lungs sucked in a sludge-like smoke and ash. He could not move himself to get away.

In the death throes of his country, the President got to live their last moments in excruciating detail.

After enough time pain stopped - his consciousness did not. When Roland blinked, he was on all fours on the floor, not a scrape or broken bone on his body to keep him pinned. He groaned, a memory of trauma still hot in his bones.

“What... Happened?”

A few feet in front of him, a boy with golden hair fell backwards, scrambling to keep his distance. There was the harsh sound of metal scraping against metal, and the blade of a silver dagger caught the light between them - Roland looked up. This child was not his son, but Roland thought he could have been- had Owen taken after his Alyssa, instead. Had things gone to plan.

“My name is Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum,” the child announced with a quaver to his voice, “King of Ding Dong Dell!”

A knife pointed straight towards Roland’s heart, but the young king made no move to close the distance.

Somehow, Roland knew the child was too good to follow through; and too good, in any world, to be a king.

“Who are you?!”

—

END