Today They Remember
By: Amber Michelle

I like Minerva - but sadly, this is not a very creative tribute to her.

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Minerva takes the crown of Macedon when the war is over and holds it in her fist. She has yet to place it upon her head, though her advisers admonish her often - for leaving it in its case, for wearing armor to court instead of the traditional ermine-trimmed robe. Maria tells her it's only a symbol, and wearing it doesn't mean she has become their brother. Minerva tells her how ridiculous that idea is - as if she'd ever worry about being like him, never mind the years she followed in his shadow and clung to his coattails. Her sister lets the matter drop, but she insists, come naming day, that the useless piece of metal be worn to the party thrown in their honor, because it is Maria's birthday too and she wants to see it just once.

It takes two hours of fussing to fix the circlet so it doesn't make a hideous monster of her hair, more time than Minerva has spent on anything besides sharpening an axe or repairing her armor. She knows it for a mistake when she and Maria enter the ballroom arm-in-arm and she sees several faces darken, creased by frowning wrinkles and worried lines.

Michalis murdered their father, not Minerva - yet she cut her brother down, made of Macedon's crown a blood prize, a traitor's brand. Today they remember.

It doesn't matter what they think, sister, Maria whispers. He gave his blessing, and he did it freely.

Yes, freely-- with her axe to his throat. I would have the blessing of the court instead, Maria, though you would make a lovely queen.

The chancellor comes with his wife to greet them, and they must abandon their conversation to congratulate the two on their daughter's knighting, to sip pale golden wine, to nibble on flat crackers swirled on top with soft cheese in crowned with thin slices of green olive. Maria speaks to the curate who taught her the use of staves, pats the wings of his gray hair, and tells him of her plans to join Lena at her convent in the north, where orphans and those impoverished by the war are most numerous.

Minerva accepts compliments on her dress (you cut a striking figure in black, my queen and I have never seen such delicate gold embellishments - who is your seamstress?) and wonders if it was a mistake to let Michalis hide - if, perhaps, it would have been a wiser choice to pull him up by the scruff of his neck and tie him to the throne, to stand at his side and inspire the proper decisions with the prod of her axe between his shoulder blades. This is his fault. She is a warrior; her language is the clash of blades and the rush of air as her wyvern leaps into flight. She formulates plans based on terrain, troop reports, enemy reputation - not financial interests or property disputes, nor the tangle of prestige and ambition burying the old houses.

I must admit the rebellion on the eastern field worries us, comes a murmur from one of her elder courtiers, head of a house nearly as old as Lena's. What will you do?

Ride out to meet them, of course - Minerva was not one to ignore a challenge.

But your majesty, you are far too important--

It is the people that make a country, not the king-- not the queen. She believes Michalis understood this, at least, and the sacrifices he made, the mistakes, their father's murder, were all meant to preserve Macedon, no matter the cost to himself, to her, to Maria. Minerva must believe this. If she dies, if she goes astray, Macedon will live on in her sister's care. Famine runs rampant within her borders - that is important. Bandits prey on recovering farmers - they are important. She cannot fight hunger, but she can strike down the worst of the disease.

She cannot fight guilt, but she can make of Macedon the land it should be, succeed where her brother failed.

I am a warrior, my lord. I will fight. Minerva hands her glass to a passing servant and takes her brother's stance, feet shoulder-width apart, an arm folded to her back. He takes in her stance and appears ready to draw back, but she turns her gaze past his shoulder and beckons Maria with her eyes, a tilt of her head. Minerva moves to the dais, where she will make her speech, and her sister follows.

His absence at her right hand is conspicuous. Maria's place at her left is strange - this is the first time they've made a public address side-by-side. Every set of eyes notes their diminished presence in her imagination, though it is likely their audience is trying hard not to think about it.

Today they will remember what is important: her brother, his crimes, the suffering populace - and every day after, as long as Minerva wears this crown.

Today, she begins, pitching her voice to echo in the large chamber, Macedon is born anew.

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