Full Moon

Full Moon

… … … … … …

        It was early in the morning. The snow was melting. The leaves were growing back and the moon was fading into the sun. Connor rushed down the basement stairs, taking two stairs at a time. He had just received word from the local newspaper delivery boy of a special broadcast by the Premier. Shaking Anala awake and ignoring her groans and grumbles, he pulled out the battered radio from her closet and turned it on. Shivering in the early morning chill, Anala pulled on a sweatshirt and sat next to Connor on the couch, watching him fumble with the antennae. All she heard was static. She yawned.

        “Got it!” Connor said triumphantly and sat back. The two sat silently, listening to the quiet static until a voice came on.

        “Good morning my fellow countrymen,” blared the voice of Premier Helling, “I come to address you this February day to bring you an update about the war. It is going well. We have all of Scandinavia, my friends, and we continue to grow and prosper. Soldiers are returning to their homes as we speak—we need less of them now. Our economy is booming! God has blessed us, country men…”

        “Lies!” Anala exclaimed. She reached forward and changed the station, carefully adjusting the antennae as she did so.

        “War isn’t going that great for Premier Helling, is it?” an American voice now spoke from the radio, “We’re far from finishing the war but I would definitely say that the tide has turned in our favor. Norway continues to resist, despite what the Premier says and Denmark is going strong…”

        “How are we getting this station…?” Connor whispered to her.

        “I did something, now shh!” Anala turned up the volume.

        “…There are rumors of a French-American alliance,” the American voice said, “and these rumors are unconfirmed but let me tell you: the chances of that happening are looking pretty good. President Jowsky recently met with the French Prime Minister at Camp David…”

        But the radio was soon drowned out by a banging from upstairs. Both Anala and Connor looked at each other, fear and dread in their eyes. Connor moved quickly, closing and tightly locking the basement door.

        “It’s the Militia Men, isn’t it?” Anala asked.

        “Yes.”

        “That’s not going to stop them,” she said, nodding to the locked basement door.

        “I know. But it buys us time,” he said. They heard a boom; they were in the house.

        “So this is it, then?” Anala said. It was not a question. Connor stared at her, watching a hard resolve build itself within her eyes and without thinking, he closed the distance between them and embraced her. She hugged back tightly.

        “Anala” he began, his voice muffled by her curly hair, “I just want to tell you: I’m glad it was you the Lords chose to work with me on this project.” He spoke fast and he heard her inhale deeply.

        “I’ll miss you, Connor,” Anala whispered. Connor felt his heart skip a beat.

        “Me too,” he breathed back and pressed his lips to her hair.

        There was a final loud crash and as she felt Connor being ripped from her arms, the last thing Anala saw before the world went black was dozens of cleanly pressed, navy blue uniforms.

… … … … … …

Three months later, Anala found herself back in England. It was evening and near Christmas time, the streets filled with bright lights and people. As she walked, her dull brown eyes darted from person to person, taking in the cheery laughter, harried atmosphere, overstuffed shopping bags, frazzled and slightly annoyed mothers pouring over their Christmas lists. Anala shivered and tightened her scarf as she continued to walk down the streets of London. Unlike those surrounding her, she carried no shopping bags or a look of urgency on her face. Dressed plainly and clutching her purse, she walked a medium pace, fast enough to keep up with the general atmosphere of haste but slow enough to observe the world around her. Teenage girls laughing as they compared purchases. Couples kissing besides the fountain. Men in business suits rushing to buy last-minute presents. Children playing in the snow. Mothers lining up with their babies and toddlers to meet with Santa. Despite the observations her eyes were mechanically noting in her brain, however, Anala was lost in thought. It had been three months since she’d been in the country and in the biting chill and striking wind, she found herself longing for her cozy apartment in France. She had been reluctant to leave the apartment above the bakery to come here but once she received that letter, she knew she must come. If not obligated by her superiors, she was at least obligated to show up by her past…

Anala entered a friendly looking café and ordered a hot chocolate at the registrar. Thanking the waitress and taking the steaming hot cup of cocoa and whipped cream, she sat down at a table and looked at the TV directly in front of her. It was turned on to the news—BBC News, in fact. The announcer was a well-groomed woman in her late 30s. Blond hair, blue eyes. Undoubtedly a Party member during the war. Anala listened to the broadcast with one ear.

“…and speaking of war reparations, the United Nations council has finally released its decision regarding the son of former Premier Helling, Damian Helling. He has been granted a full pardon by the UN Human Rights Commission itself. Dave Glasdy has more information.”

The TV cut to a man, Anala surmised in his early 30s, dressed plainly but neatly. With already balding brown hair and startling green eyes, he had the look of someone who had spent a lot of time outside the country. Anala smiled to herself. He had resisted the Party and had been deported because of it.

“Thank you Gloria. I am here in front of Parliament where war crimes court has just adjourned regarding the case of Damian Helling. Indeed because of his sudden switch-over to the Allies and providing essential information about former Premier Helling’s Party that brought about a quick end to the war, Damian Helling has been granted a full pardon—I repeat, full pardon—by the United Nations Human Rights Commission, who had him on trial for war crimes and crimes against humanity. Head of Committee Nathaniel Lewsky—”

Anala sipped the last drop of hot chocolate and threw it in the trash. She winced at the chilling wind that struck her face as she stepped outside the warm café and tightened the scarf around her neck once again. She continued to walk down the streets of busy London, only stopping once to ask for directions.

“Excuse me,” she said to an old man walking with a cane. He stopped, looked at her distastefully and continued to walk. Clearly a Party supporter.

“A*s,” she muttered under her breath and turned to a Muslim woman with a small girl in her arms standing next to Anala at the intersection.

“Excuse me,” Anala repeated. The woman looked at her and smiled.

“Yes?” She spoke with a slight Eastern accent.

“Do you know how to get to that war memorial at the park? I know I’m close but I forgot what street…” Anala didn’t need to say anymore as the woman began to give her detailed and clear instructions. Thanking the woman kindly, Anala began to walk faster now. She didn’t want to be late. Soon, she reached the great throng of people waiting to enter the park. Flashing her French ID to the police, Anala entered and was immediately greeted with noise, bustle and excited chattering. There were news crews talking animatedly amongst themselves and several gave her strange looks as she passed but she ignored them. She looked at the stage that had been set up. Decorated with the British flag, pictures of war victims, names of soldiers who had died fighting and other things people considered worth remembering, the stage was a monument to everything she hated about war. Glorification. Feigned patriotism. It almost made her sick. A man dressed smartly in a plain black suit walked on to the stage and a great hush fell over the crowd, which pressed in. Anala soon found herself dead center of the crowd. By the time she looked back at the stage, she found that there were many people there. Most she didn’t recognize but several she knew as those with high positions within the Lords of Ithil. Still, she could not see some of the faces for both the crowd and others on stage obstructed her view.

“My dear fellow citizens and visitors alike!” a booming voice from the podium spoke, “We have gathered here today to remember the great service the men and women of this country—and the world—have done for us in the war. Let us first take a moment of silence to remember their lives.”

Amid the heavy breathing and shuffling of the people around her, Anala silently wished for the moment to pass quickly.

The man began to speak again but Anala hardly listened. He was saying something about national duty, bravery, courage, resistance to Party propaganda and valor.

“No one has come here today to disagree about the heroism of those whom we honor. But the only way we can really honor their memory is to resolve to live and serve today and tomorrow as best we can and to make England the best that she can be. Surely that is what we owe to all those whose names are etched in this beautiful memorial...” the man was saying. Anala scoffed and rolled her eyes, ignoring the annoyed looks she was getting from those around her. She turned to leave, not being able to stand anymore.

The crowd then shifted and for a second, Anala could see a man behind the speaker whose face had been previously hidden. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pumped wildly as their eyes met. Damian’s cold dark eyes bore into hers for a fraction of a second and Anala was suddenly reminded of the first moment she saw him in that sickeningly clean room the day of her arrest, of the cold stare he had given her then…

The crowd shifted again and he was gone. Anala stood still for a moment and then made her way out from the crowd. So he was another government suit, now? Or at least, a friend to another government suit? Anala shook her head frantically, trying to clear her head of him. He had spent enough of her thoughts. She had spent enough nights lying alone on her bed at night, listening to the soft patter of rain on the window, and thinking about him and what he had done. He had left her with questions, enough questions to mull over for a lifetime and not enough explanations. Most of the time, when the long speculations in her head ended up in circles with no finality, she would punch her pillow in frustration and stare at the moon to calm her down. Her thoughts would wander but the moonlight would wash over her like a warm and soft blanket and it would whisper words in her ear, meaningless words of dreams and visions, until sleep took her. But the ideas were still there, he had still been there until one night, Anala had had enough and closing her curtains so that no light could sneak in, she promised herself that she would no more waste her thoughts on him.

So what was she doing now? That wretched heart of hers was trying to break the barriers Anala constructed when she shut it down upon her arrival to England.

Anala shook her head again and kicked the snow in annoyance. One glance was enough to bring the thoughts back? Ridiculous. Sighing, Anala sunk into a park bench and stared at the full moon, shining brilliantly. Home. She wanted to go back home. She had known returning to England was a bad idea, that it would bring back to life certain memories and thoughts she preferred remained dead. Angrily kicking the snow once again, she stood up and began to walk towards the park’s exit.

 

Several hours later—for it was now nearly eleven at night—Anala found herself at the war memorial once again. She couldn’t resist; she needed a closer look. She was only in London for three days and with her early flight tomorrow, Anala knew it was her only chance. Her eyes passed over the letters, flowers, and photographs in dull interest until she saw a name that made her heart stop. Numbly, she placed her fingers on Connor’s engraved name in stone.

“You were right, you know,” she whispered to the stone, “You know, what you said to me when this whole thing started. My life wasn’t enough, was it? I had to give up so much more…”

To her dismay, a tear dripped onto her cheek. Shivering, she wiped it, stared at her wet finger in contempt and disgust and wiped it on her jeans. She sniffed in the cold air and as she continued to stare at the name, a scene of her and him singing together by a decorated Christmas tree flashed in her mind. She smiled. That had been less than a year ago. How fast things change!

“I’ve come back to spend Christmas with you,” she murmured and choking back a sob, placed a freshly bought Christmas wreath underneath the name. Shivering again, she turned and began to walk away when she heard a shuffle behind her. Someone spoke.

“I come here almost every night, you know.” She’d recognize that voice anywhere. She stopped and turned to look at Damian.

“Hello to you, too,” she said dully.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said quietly.

“Well isn’t that a comfort.” Anala didn’t mean for it to be an insult.

“What were you doing at the service today?”

“I was on special invite—some government members used to be in the Lords.”

“Of course. You left early, though.”

“It was too sugar-coated. Life isn’t that pretty.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed.

There was a small pause.

“You’ve hardened,” he said.

“Yeah, imprisonment tends to do that,” Anala said emotionlessly. There was another pause.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you have, like, bodyguards or something?” Anala asked. She wasn’t really interested in his safety but for some reason, she felt that the conversation was not over.

“This place is protected for the next several days. In American terms, think of it like the backyard to the White House.”

“Oh,” remarked Anala. She bit her lip. She didn’t know what else to say. Damian scrutinized her closely. She averted her gaze. She couldn’t look him in the eyes. Not now.

“How have you been, then?” he asked her, slightly awkwardly.

Anala shrugged and said, “Okay. You?”

“Okay as well,” he replied. Anala chuckled humorlessly.

“Of course you have,” she said, “I saw you on TV today. I mean, I heard about you. Congratulations.”

Damian’s eyes furrowed and he frowned.

“For what?” he inquired.

“Full pardon by the UN,” she quoted, “You must have been happy.”

“I didn’t expect it,” he said honestly.

“I expected nothing less” Anala said simply. He looked at her curiously.

“Why?”

“I thought what you did was, um, brave,” she swallowed hard, “it isn’t easy going against your family. It’s harder to stand up to your family and friends than your enemies.”

Damian smiled.

“You’re the first person to say so, you know that? Everyone else, well, those who aren’t in government, looks at me as if I’m sort of reformed monster. Which I guess I am,” he added as an afterthought. Anala shrugged.

“People need to learn how to forgive,” she said. Damian suddenly looked at her, an intense but unreadable expression on his face.

“I need to ask you something,” he said bluntly.

“Ask away,” Anala replied lifelessly, staring down at the ground and tracing patterns in the snow with her feet. She wasn’t the least bit curious about what he was going to ask. Her mind told her that soon, she was going to wake up from this dream and in several hours, she would be on a flight back to Caen, France. Damian would be old news. She would get her answers here, in this dream on this snowy night and go. The thought brought her unspeakable comfort.

“I’ve—I’ve come to offer you a job,” he said. Anala glanced up in surprise and shock. She had not been expecting this.

“What?”

“A job as personal advisor to the Minister of Security. You were highly recommended by several former-Lords members.”

Anala looked at him closely to see if he was joking. When she determined that the serious and somewhat grim look on his face was genuine, she frowned and spoke.

“Shouldn’t the new Minister of Security be offering me this position himself?” she asked, almost rhetorically.

“He is.”

Anala nearly did a double-take.

“What!” she exclaimed incredulously. She laughed hollowly. “Of all the people the new Prime Minister could appoint his Minister of Security, he chose you?”

Damian nearly smiled.

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

Anala looked at him, some of her humorless laughter still embedded in her face.

“There are hundreds more qualified than me to be in government,” she told him.

“But I want you.”

Anala blinked. “Is that supposed to have a double meaning?” she asked uncertainly.

“If you want it to,” Damian said, shrugging. He stepped closer and Anala found herself unwittingly taking a step back.

“I can’t, Damian,” she said, shaking her head.

“Why not?”

“I—this is ridiculous. I’m hardly qualified for such a position and even if I were, to be your personal advisor? It’s—” She stopped herself.

“It’s what?” Damian asked. There was a hint of frustration in his voice now, “I think you’re perfect. For the job. And it’s not just me—my coworkers, your superiors at the Lords who know you think so too. You know the issues, you know the way this government works. You’ve got good ideas in that head of yours and you know me, Anala.”

“So you want me to work for you?”

“Not for me,” he corrected, “with me.”

        Anala shook her head again.

        “Damian—I…you’re not just saying this because you saw me today, are you? You shouldn’t rush decisions like these…”

        “I didn’t. The minute I was told I needed a personal advisor, I immediately thought of you. I had no way to get in touch with you, of course, but people I knew did. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. Trust me,” he said, and without warning, he grabbed her hand and stared straight into her eyes, which, to his satisfaction, glimmered in the moonlight.

        “There’s no one else I’d rather have for this position,” he finished quietly.

        Anala’s heart pounded wildly against her chest as she felt his thumb brush over hers and withdrew her hand from his grip.

        “I see nothing I can do that others can’t,” she spoke stubbornly.

        “You make me listen, Anala,” he said softly.

        “Oh? How?” she sarcastically challenged, “Is it my great American eloquence? Or the completely undeniable logic of my brilliant and progressive ideas? Or maybe my unnaturally clear and persuasive tone?”

        “Or maybe your voice is sweeter than the rest.” Anala’s breath caught in her throat and Damian made use of her silence.

        “Think about it,” he said, “Why’d you stay in France after the war? Why didn’t you go back to America?”

        Grateful for the change in subject, Anala was quick to answer.

        “My family moved,” she responded, “During the war, they went back to India. I didn’t want to follow them there so I stayed.”

        Damian raised an eyebrow skeptically.

        “And that’s it? That’s the only reason?” Anala looked at him, confused.

        “No,” she admitted, “I wanted to help with the Reconstruction.”

“Exactly!” Damian exclaimed and gazed at her intently, “you wanted to help! Think about it: how better can you help by working in government itself? You’d have a front-row seat to the Reconstruction. Think about that.”  Anala frowned.

“Yes,” she spoke slowly, “but I’d be working with you. And I don’t think that’s such a great idea. There’s…you bring up unpleasant memories.” She flinched as she watched a shadow pass over Damian’s face. This was exactly the sort of thing she wanted to desperately avoid but now that her heart had somehow, without her consent, awoken from its slumber, the only thing she could do was to fight the growing sensation of indescribable emotion inside her with her mind. She turned away from him, back towards the memorial and her eyes automatically rested on the name engraved in stone.

“Would it help if I said I was sorry?” he questioned quietly from behind her.

“I’ve forgiven you. But I can’t forget,” she said, her voice shaking from emotion and registered that her mind was losing its battle. She heard him move and he was in her line of vision once again. The look on his face was too familiar. Anala shuddered. He was looking at her the same way he looked at her the night he helped her escape. For a moment, the moonlight disappeared behind fast-moving clouds and Damian’s face was partially covered in darkness but when the clouds shifted, Anala saw to her relief that the expression on his face had disappeared.

“I know it would be hard for you,” he said understandingly, “but I’ll try. I promise. What if we were to start over, then?”

Anala lifted her eyebrows.

“That’s stupid,” she said bluntly, “we can’t ignore the past.”

“We don’t have to. But we can dim it with new memories, can’t we?”

Anala stared at him long and hard, her mind pouring over his words and considering possibilities.

“Fine” she said so quietly that it was barely audible. Damian’s face broke into a smile and somewhere deep down, Anala’s mind took the final blow.

“Then I’ll give you a month to move,” he said happily and stuck out his arm. Anala stared at it for a moment before taking his hand in hers. As they shook his hands, she watched with confusion and slight bemusement as something unrecognizable passed over Damian’s face but it was gone before she could analyze it further. Ignoring her own pounding heart and the tingling sensation in her hand, she nodded to him and he began to walk away. Shivering in the nighttime chill, Anala turned to the war memorial one last time and fingered that name. Smiling sadly, she traced out a heart by the name and turned to leave.