Treason

I don’t have much time. There is nothing left to do. The war is over. And we lost. I lost. My lieutenants are gone, dead, or driven into hiding. I have been captured, and I will die soon.

I told them I would lead. That I would win back what has

been taken from them so many times. I told them that I would give them a ruler who would truly help them. It wasn’t just talk, either. Our country needs freedom, and I tried my best to give it to them.

I really thought we would win this time. I’ve seen several failed uprisings over the span of my nineteen years. I’ve known men who have seen more than a dozen. I thought this one would be it. The last one. The one that would free us, give us the liberty we haven’t seen in almost a century.

Throughout my life, I’ve seen many people die for this cause. My father, for one. My brother, too. Men who would rather be killed than surrender. Good men, and bad ones. Brave women who fought for their sons and daughters. Children who didn’t even understand what their parents were fighting for, but who refused to give them up for anything.

Our country has been in turmoil for decades, under a line of tyrants. On the day my father and brother were hanged for high treason, I made an oath. An oath that would end when my people were free. I regret not being able to fulfill it before my death. Nothing would have made me happier than to dethrone the man who has killed thousands of my countrymen without mercy, in the name of the kingdom’s safety.

My cell is as cramped and disgusting as it could possibly be. The hands that have killed ten of the most influential lords

and nobles in the kingdom are finally in chains. They are shackled above my head, the metal cutting into my wrists. My feet barely touch the ground, putting all of my weight on my shoulders and wrists. A form of torture in itself. I guess they couldn’t wait to make me suffer.

I didn’t get a trial. Leading a full-scale rebellion seemed to be enough to convict me. That, and stating on multiple occasions that I’d rather be drowned in sewer water and eaten by fish than live any longer under our current king. I could have thought of several things much more offensive to say but, because I’m so nice, I decided to keep my contempt in check. I thought it would be worth the wait, and that I’d be able to finally let it out through a sword.

Through the thick bars of the window, I can see the sun coming up. Not much longer to live. At nine a.m.- sharp, I will be publicly beaten, then hung. Quite a painful way to die. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.

the killing of my men, but to something I’d almost completely forgotten about. Apple trees. We had an orchard many years ago, before my father’s lands were taken. I haven’t eaten in what I guess to be almost two days, but as I think about those trees, I can taste the crisp fruits as perfectly as if I had just bitten into one. I remember picking them for hours with my brother, Henry. He would lift me onto his shoulders, where I could reach deep into the branches, where the ripest apples would be. I can picture the sunny days, when the breeze would lift my skirts around me, whipping my hair into my face and rustling the branches.

The image in my mind shifts to the faces of my family. Henry and I looked so much alike. Our looks alone identified us as

O’Connors. We both had the same tan skin and our parents’ big eyes. I had my father’s clear blue irises, and Henry had my mother’s gray-green ones. We had the same tall build, although he was much bigger and stronger than me. He had the same spun-gold colored hair as our mother, who died when Henry was ten and I was barely six, old enough to remember her, young enough to not be much affected by her loss. I have the same deep brown hair as my father did, a woodsy and rather uninteresting brown.

As I wade through the faded memories of my family, a humbling question appears in my head.

Will I be forgotten? Not by history, of course. I will be painted as either a martyred hero or a murderous rebel. I do not doubt my fame, which might be better described as infamy. I’m sure I’ll have a page in some book, somewhere. But that isn’t what I worry about now. I worry about being forgotten as a person. I have no idea if there is anyone left alive who remembers me.

Not the stories, or the legends, although there are quite a lot of those.

I hope someone out there will remember me as all I really am. A girl, a friend, someone who simply wanted her neighbors to be safe and happy, who didn’t want war and suffering, but had to fight anyway. As a citizen who wanted what was best for her country, but who got a little lost trying to find it.

I wonder if my father would be proud of me. My father, before his downfall, had actually been a nobleman. His lands were taken away after he took the wrong side of an important political issue, going against the king and his lackeys. This put him in the king’s disgrace and sent our whole family down with him. My father had always tried to represent the people, and the king’s obvious shunning of their well-being showed him that a change was desperately needed.

And so, the family business began. My father, along with Henry, who was twenty at the time, started again one of the most dangerous games in history. They led an underground movement, trying at first a more peaceful strategy, by attempting to win over influential nobles and spreading stories of the king’s selfishness and clear disinterest in the good of the kingdom.

The plan almost seemed to work, until a betrayal left their efforts completely devastated and left many of the participators for dead. The dead included my father and brother, and several of my closest friends. The traitor was one of the king’s counselors, someone we thought for sure was on our side. He had realized that leaking our plan to the king would bring him more wealth and would put him in the king’s spotlight. He wasn’t wrong. He’s now the king’s right hand, and my father and his friends are dead.

To be clear, I didn’t do all of this for revenge. I would never stoop that low. Although I would certainly have enjoyed making the men who ordered so many deaths suffer. I didn’t pick up my father’s sword simply to avenge him. Believe me, many more people would have died by my hands if that were the

reason.

I did it for my people. But not just for the tens of thousands who have been killed for the same cause over the years. I did it for the people who still live in my country and for the ones who will live here in the years to come. I did it because I didn’t want any more people to suffer as I did. To have to watch their friends and family die uselessly for simply trying to make their towns better places to live in. I did it because I wanted to help. And even though it didn’t work out for me, I don’t regret it. I gave my life for something I believed in. That’s all anyone can ever do.

So, as the sun rises and my death inches closer, my fear melts away. My death will be painful and bloody, like the many I’ve seen before. I will not leave this earth peacefully, with kids and a loving husband, with the life I had tried to give to others. I always knew, somewhere deep down, that I would not have a serene life. And as I fell deeper into what I knew to be treason, I prepared myself for all kinds of pain. The pain of losing more friends, people close to me. The pain of war, of rebellion. The pain of death.

But I’m not afraid. As I walk to death, I will look my king in the eyes and see what I was fighting for. I hope that my death will show him his faults. I hope it shows him that something must change if teenagers have turned into killers and people are willing to sacrifice everything they had for this.

I have made mistakes, strewn farther from the path than I had ever intended. But as the door to my cell whines open, and as my shackles are unlocked, I know that I am ready.