Rise of the Unfavored Princess

Chapter 85: Ch. 85: It’s a Miracle!

“We... do, your highness?” Emma groggily blinked at me, the haze of sleep slowly fading from her eyes.

“Yes. You and I, we’re friends. We’re part of a sisterhood, right? But lately, you’re mad about something, probably something I did or said with my track record, and we need to talk it out.”

Our energies are on opposite ends of the spectrum, with Emma’s sluggishness sharply contrasting my bright-eyed and bushy-tailed energy. Somehow, even after spending the entire night burning through the adrenaline rush generated from hugging my dad, I’m feeling peppy enough to power through my high school cheer routine or run a mile.

Emma squints at me as my words register in her head. “What’s a track record?”

“Erm... it’s a recorded list of my past performance. But that’s beside the point. Emma, what did I do? Tell me how we fix us.”

Emma sat up, her bird’s nest hair only complimented by the bird’s song we can hear outside the tent. It seems like the pigeons and the crows are the only animals that haven’t been frightened out of the Dredgen Woods and the military warfront.

“Your highness, there is no us. We are just master and servant.”

.....

The words feel like a physical blow and my newly found confidence in resolving my problems is decimated by half.

“Emma. Emma, please don’t say that,” I plead.

Emma’s eyes turn red too, water glittering in them.

“But isn’t that what you want, your highness?” Emma whimpers.

“Huh?” As a soul from a modern era, hierarchy and status are archaic ideas that, although still present, are far less prominent than they were in the past. Heck, I was poor in my last life and poor at the beginning of this one. Standing on higher ground and drawing a line in the sand is not something I would feel comfortable doing.

“You left me behind in that town, your highness. You ran away and attracted the assassins away with you,” Emma explained slowly, her voice thick with tears.

I stand from the bed flabbergasted that my actions with good intentions could be so misinterpreted by Emma. “I did that to protect you!”

Emma shakes her head. “But we are part of a sisterhood! You said that we would go through fat and thin-“.

“-thick and thin-” I automatically correct.

“-thick and thin together. But you left me behind! Doesn’t that mean you see me as someone important? But I realize I overstepped my identity. T’was foolish of me to think we could be friends,” Emma says with a disappointed resolution. She hides her face in my covers.

“Nope. No, no, no. This is not how our friendship is going to end. Emma, I-” I pause, struggling on how I can word my perspective to her and help her understand that from the beginning, I have only acted this way because I care for her.

The difference between our eras and mentalities has never felt more prominent to me, even when I saw noblewoman gleefully talking about marriage and had to update my vocabulary in regards to underwear with new words such as “bloomers” and “garters” and “petticoats”.

“Emma, I- I’m not from here!” I exclaim. “I’m... I... I, gosh how do I say this!”

I grab my braids and spin around in frustration. Do I tell her that I’m from the modern era and risk Emma thinking I’m crazy or a witch? Or do I go for the lesser of two evils and just tell her where I was born and raised before I came to the palace?

“Emma,” I start quietly, my jumpiness deflating like a popped balloon. “I’m from the slums. I was raised by my aunt, who met with clients every night. Plain beans were a delicacy I rarely enjoyed and I went to sleep every night in a bed made of hay. I may technically be a princess now, but I’m just like you in a way.”

My words rush out in one breath and just like that, my past is out in the open, kind of. The one assurance I have about Emma is that I know the truth I’ve just divulged will never reach another’s ears. And I’ve read enough trashy romance s to know that withholding relevant information only breeds more dumb misunderstandings that needlessly stretch the plot.

“My point is, Emma, you are the person I am closest to. You are the person I care the most about. And that’s why I left you behind in the town. Not because you aren’t important to me. But because you are so important that even if I were to be killed, I wouldn’t want you to be harmed as well,” I look Emma dead in the eye as I tell her the truth in my heart.

In the end, our mini cold war turned out to be a minor misunderstanding. But I smile warmly at Emma anyways. Emma is the one, true person whose been by my side by choice since I’ve come to the palace. Learning that Emma, who has the personality of a gray stone, really cares for me is sweeter than any cake I’ve ever eaten.

So the two of us hug it out and I realize what a truly loving hug feels like because the rush of emotion in my heart is infinitely stronger than the one I had with my father. In the hug with Emperor Helio, I felt the emotions of what could’ve been. In my hug with Emma however, I feel the real love and friendship that we truly have.

Like a dream slipping away once you awaken, the last vestiges of any nostalgia I had for a relationship with Emperor Helio or any member of my family fly away from my soul and I breathe deeply for what feels like the first time since I got to the military camp. Even Emma seems to be sparkling in my eyes with this newfound, jolly mood.

“Emma, what have you been eating lately. You look stunning!” I exclaim, patting her cheek.

Emma looks slightly abashed, but she’s entirely on brand with herself as she franky replies, “Paan and jerky, your highness.”

I still await the day I can hear a joke voluntarily leave her lips other than dry sarcasm.

“Shall we go enjoy some more paan and jerky and maybe sneak a little bit of ale while we’re at it? I’m starving!” All my senses have resumed in full force after Emma and I have sorted our differences and now I’m in desperate need of a bath, food, and entertainment, although not necessarily in that order.

We briefly ready ourselves to step out, which is far less time consuming than it is in the imperial palace and step out of the curtains. But Emma murmurs one thing to me just before we go.

“Please, don’t go and die without me, your highness. Keep me as your blade. I do not mind as long as I am by your side. As your friend. As your... sister.”

“Ya, I promise Emma.” I answer with a reassuring smile. But I know it’s a promise I cannot keep.

“Let me see if your fingers are crossed then, your highness,” She and I both know that one does not need to cross their fingers to renege on their word, life has beaten that into us already. But I humor her and she humors herself as she inspects my fingers, tongue, and toes.

“Dammit, I shouldn’t have told you about this!” I wail as Emma lifts my braids to see if I’ve somehow managed to twist my ears.

Outside of my tent, the military camp is infected by a nervous hustle and bustle. In the beginning, the camp was full of soldiers who hadn’t yet been tested in the field of battle and nervous individuals who were excited to aid the always victorious Empire and earn a little glory for themselves. Then, it thinned out, to the point that I could only run into a few individuals in the main camp, all of them being cooks, aids, and nurses. But now, it looks like we have returned to the first, hopeful days of battle, before the explosives and losses of territory.

“What do you think is going on?” I ask Emma as we slowly meander towards the outdoor mess hall, the soft grass and pebbles crunching underfoot. Princess or not, I still eat with everyone else every day, although I’ve been allotted my own table whenever I arrive.

Emma is keen as usual, noticing discrepancies that I do not. “Seems like something occurred near the front of the military camp.

I screw my forehead in concentration as I mentally sort through the vague map I have in my head. Through process of elimination, I come to a startling conclusion.

“Isn’t that where are the military slaves are?” I finally realize.

“Yes, your highness. Near the front of the camp and closest to the warzone.”

“Wow! That’s so messed up!” I scoff, completely pausing in my path. “So if there were to be an ambush, they would be the first casualties?”

Equal rights are but a joke in this era, as I’ve long known and experienced. But I can’t stop the frown on my face as I stare at the commotion.

“So what do you think has happened? Were we ambushed and some people were harmed?” I don’t know why I’m still talking. The numerous stretchers being brought over by harried nurses and loud cries that can be heard all the way to where I am tell me the whole story. My appetite, along with my good mood, is slowly chipped away with each panicked nurse who runs by.

“I’d imagine, your highness,” Emma answers dryly. She is unfazed by the thought of death for those who aren’t us.

“More blasted eruptions,” someone groans behind us.

I look back to see two soldiers dragging an injured comrade behind them, the strips of white cloth wrapped around his midsection dyed a stark red. Emma and I quickly step out of their path and out of sight, content to let the trio pass us by.

“Pipe down, good fellow. You’ll tear your wound open again.”

“No, I’m not so badly hurt. Just leave me be. More people were hurt back there,” the injured man groans. With every word, more red dies the cloth, proving the lies in his words that he hides behind a brave smile. He looks quite familiar, like I’ve seen him around here before.

“But you’re a soldier. They’re just-” One soldier scoffs in disgust, spitting on the floor to add further effect.

“-Just what?” I cut in from where we had inconspicuously stood, my arms crossed in an unfriendly manner.

I don’t block their path, as they are carrying an injured comrade, but my posture and expression properly display my displeasure. I know from the web that my birth isn’t common knowledge, but thinking of how my mother was a military slave keeps me from staying silent at the incoming insult.

“Your highness,” They all stutter, ready to do the full salute.

“No need to bow,” I quickly order before the injured man is forced to move anymore. Surprisingly, the wounded soldier is the very same foot soldier who carried me to my brother’s tent, John, his face similarly blanching at the realization.

Emma tugs at my arm, alerting me not to make a scene. “Breakfast, your highness,” she reminds me.

“Ya, ya in a second,” I hastily assure her, so eager am I to give the trash-talking soldier a piece of my mind. But right when she lets go of me, we all hear a loud groan as John turns paler than Casper and collapses to the ground.

“Oh my god!” I squeal like a valley girl despite my best attempts. John went from throwing comforting his buddies to dropping like a dead man so quickly, it bewilders us all.

“John? John! What is happening?” Crimson spreads alarmingly over the bandaids, to the point that anyone seeing them now would have difficultly believing they’d originally been pure white. His buddies shake his frame, which doesn’t look very helpful, and yell louder, drawing eyes to the scene.

The one who’d been speaking ill of military slaves takes a chance to throw an angry glare my way full of blame, which baffles me slightly. I hadn’t even begun speaking to the trio before John had folded like a deck of cards.

A nurse drawn by the commotion runs over, a flurry of blue skirts and carrying a cute, little crate that rattled with every step.

“Everyone step away!” she commands, taking control of the scene with ease. She rolls up her sleeves, revealing stocky arms that have seen some labor, and begins to cut away at John’s shirt and bandaids with a pair of scissors.

As a pale chest streaked with blood is revealed underneath, Emma moves in front of me to block my view but I wave her away. If only she knew I’ve seen it all and more courtesy of midnight internet explorations from curious high school me in my past life.

“What happened, nurse?” The trash-talker asks, throwing another hateful look in my direction and confirming that the first one was most definitely intentional.

“Get me his name later, Emma.” I mutter under my breath, not allowing my new beef with this fellow to cut into John’s treatment.

“Aye, your highness.”

The nurse takes her time in giving a response, fully inspecting the fallen John and toweling away at the blood that just won’t stop falling. Her face is grave as she turns around and says one thing simply. “Start saying your prayers. The blood loss caused his heart to start beating irregularly. Perhaps if you had an imperial physician... no. No, even then, I’m afraid he can’t be saved.”

The nurse heaved a heavy sigh, taking on the burden of yet another death. “Does he have a family?” she asked simply.

“A son,” one soldier croaks out, tears already falling down his face.

I inhale sharply, my hand curling into a fist as I tame my burgeoning emotions. John’s lips are practically blue, the same one that had been grinning chummily with his peers just a minute before. Despite hauling me around like a sack of potatoes, I can tell he had a good heart, which makes it so jarring to watch his life get snuffed out like a cheap, lard candle. All because a goddamn, crazy transmigrator thought bringing explosives to this world would be fun, or give him or her recognition, or some other dumb reason that could never be worth the life fading away before my eyes.

Consequences.

Before me, right this very moment, I learn about the consequences of being too reckless and callous. Because this world is real, so real. Not a fun game, like Sims, that I can just log out of afterward.

“W- We bring our hands together to send off one of our own...” the kneeling soldier warbles, those around him quickly joining in.

The Helionic prayer of the deceased is as beautiful as it is sorrowful. When someone begins, no matter what, those who are near must join in. The rude soldier helps his crying comrade up and holds his hand before the nurse takes hold of the other one. A nearby porter drops his boxes and takes hold, then the two guards who were posted before my tent come join. It grows like a flame, a reminder of the flame from which the phoenix, the Erudian Empire’s crest animal, rises after death.

Emma and I step forward to join in, my hand held by a servant who works in the mess hall. My hands feel uncomfortably warm in the servant’s grip, initially leading me to believe that the servant was dealing with warm good before he came. But my other palm, held firmly by Emma, similarly burns as well. Have I fallen ill?

I ignore the boiling discomfort, which to my dismay only further grows with the prayer. It’s the worst possible time for me to break out in a strange illness. My breath begins to shudder out as the heat accumulates in my center, right underneath my lungs as if someone were holding a lighter under them.

I can’t help it. A shudder runs through my arms from the sudden warmth circulating inside me. The mess servant is polite enough not to react to my movement, but Emma throws a concerned glance my way when I squeeze her palm.

“Your highness?” she inquires in a voice so low even I struggle to hear it. I don’t answer.

The prayer is reaching its tail end and the circle begins to close around John’s frame. I look at the dead man in the middle, my words barely mouthing the prayer at this point. And then I feel it. Instant relief. The moment I set eyes on John’s figure, my insides are doused in cool water.

.....

I look away briefly when someone nearby steps on a stick as we properly encircle John and the fire returns even stronger. Thus, it becomes immediately apparent that the solution to this awful burning sensation within me must lie in the newest member of Hades’ underworld before me. Except... he’s dead.

I try to close my eyes and emulate those around me who have their eyes closed respectfully. But the second they snap shut and John disappears, the fire resumes. I cannot escape it without John.

The prayer ends. Everyone brings their hands together and bows towards John’s body before somberly drifting away. Two of the servants meant to carry off the deceased approach and I’m struck with a sense of crisis. They can’t take John. I still need him to figure out why I am burning up inside.

But if I want answers, I need him awake and alive. The nurse has pronounced John dead, she’s in the midst of packing up her kit. However, the scalding heat in my fingers tips sends pulsations running through them, bringing me to bite my lip to keep from whimpering. To others, it just looks like I’m immensely moved by John’s sudden death and Emma pats my shoulder woodenly.

I recall a little tidbit from my biology class, that the brain can still function for 10 minutes after death. It’s a desperate, stupid gamble, but what if I try to get John to talk in his last minutes?

So I decide to do my second stupid decision in the last 24 hours.

“John, wake up!” I yell right where I stand, my eyes red from sorrow and great pain.

The entire vicinity freeze.

“Your highness, the man is dead,” Emma murmurs as she wraps an arm around my shoulder and tries to haul me away from making a scene. She looks calm but I’d bet 1000 gold coins she’s dying of embarrassment inside. But John is still on the ground and when Emma jerks me away, my eye contact breaks once more and causes searing agony that nearly brings me to my knees.

Take two. I split from Emma, ignoring the way she calls my name, and dive to my knees in front of John. The closest soldier reflexively jumps to stop me, but both of my hands have already grabbed hold of John and shake his corpse for dear life.

“John, WAKE UP!” I bellow down at him with all my strength. But when I make contact with a bit of exposed skin on his wrist, all the pain goes away as if it were never there before.

Oh ya. And he wakes up this time.