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Marco grew up to stories of the king. He would ask his mother for just one more as she tucked him in, pulling a thin blanket over her son. As she told him simple things, listing off names of the districts all under the king’s rule and naming his second, third, fourth in command, Marco drifted into peaceful sleep.
After a hot, long day in the fields they were all exhausted. Marco’s hands weren’t calloused enough to not blister, and his skin was red and burned with every touch. Still, he took his little brother up in his arms and told him every story he could remember, recited everything his parents told him countless times.
Marco announced over dinner one night that when he was old enough, he was going to join the Military Police Brigade. His father told him that it was very hard to get into; the training Marco would have to go through was far from easy, and he would have to work harder than he ever has. But nothing could be said to sway their eldest son.
When Marco got up late that night to go out to the outhouse, he heard his parents talking. “-forget about it by then” his mother said. “He’ll just stay here and work like the rest of us.”
“What if he doesn’t?” His father’s voice was harsh, and Marco stepped back into the bedroom slowly, lying down next to his brother and sister with care not to wake them. Sleep didn’t come quickly to Marco that night, his mind repeating his parent’s words.
Marco turned 12 with surreal excitement bubbling under his skin. His mother gave him a green sweater, far too large; his father gave him a pair of work boots.
He stayed at home for another year, working in the fields with the rest of his village. There was talk of how his mother was going to have another child; a girl, the rumors said. Marco thought that he might resent this new child who took away his chance to head off to the military, but when he saw his little sister for the first time all that anger blew out like it had never burned.
Just after his 13th birthday. Marco packed the green sweater in his trunk. He still wasn’t big enough to wear it; the shoulders were too wide, the sleeves too long, but it was softer than anything else his mother had woven.
There wasn’t any room in the trunk for his boots.
Marco brought them out to his father and told him to keep them for when his brother was big enough to wear them. His father nodded, then pulled his son into a hug.
His mother didn’t cry as Marco loaded his things onto the wagon with the other recruits. His brother and sister wailed, crying after him, and when Marco waved to them the cries only grew louder. As it pulled away, Marco thought he could hear his mother, but when he turned around once more they were turned around, backs to the moving wagon. Marco waved to them again anyways.
The road to Trost was long, bringing them through towns far outside of where Marco had ever been before. The recruits talked about what they wanted to do after training, how excited they were to make something of themselves. They were excited to be getting three meals a day, too, but that stayed unspoken between all of them.
None of them mentioned serving the people and aiding the king. Marco didn’t bring that up.
Laying down in his bunk after dinner, Marco could still feel the splash against his face, droplets that rolled down his face as Jean laughed at him.
He had wiped at the liquid with the sleeve of his sweater and listened as Jean accused him of being just like him, training hard and joining the Military Police for a chance at a safe life within the walls, like everyone else who joined the MP.
Jean’s accusation burned hot in his face, and Marco had wanted to shout back, to tell him he was wrong.
Marco touched the drying stain on his sleeve. He would prove Jean wrong; he had to.
When they graduated and both he and Jean were in the top 10, Marco couldn’t help the relief that overflowed from his every pore. He would finally be able to join the Military Police, and he would do it with Jean.
That made him happier than he thought he should be.
When it’s clear that none of them can stay within the walls with a clear conscience, the stories Marco still has memorized come to the front of his mind. The king, his people, all the regions and who they serve, he remembers all of it and it won’t leave him alone.
When Jean laid down and didn’t sleep, muscles tense and short breaths cutting through the night air, Marco told him these stories. After Jean’s breathing was regular and he relaxed, Marco laid down next to him. He never found sleep.
Marco wasn’t sure how it happened. Maybe he tripped, let himself get distracted, let the fatigue set in and make him lose his footing. Maybe he was never that fast to begin with.
He thinks of the king, of all his people, how he wouldn’t get to help them anymore. But he thought about his squad, too, about the real people that he knew he was letting down.
He thought about Jean and the Military Police.
He thought about his father and mother, his brother and his sister.
He didn’t think of anything when he felt the last tear.
Marco grew up with stories of the king. And he died without one on his lips.