Heart of Gold
[June 27, 1283]
Before I was even alive, I loved you. That is what I was made to do. I am, to be blunt, her replacement. I am more than a lucky token, like soldiers of the past would’ve received. I am her gift of sorrow and desperate wishes, her love brought to life. I am a handkerchief to soak your tears, a friend to give you the hugs she cannot. And though compared to other living things, I am sorely lacking, I wish upon my heart of gold that I could tell you the depths of my love. One needs not a beating heart for such emotion, and I hope that I can show this to you despite my limitations.
Tonight, I watch you scribble with an intensity you’ve never displayed before. It’s as if you’re possessed--knuckles white and the force of your fingers bending the cheap ballpoint. Your braids are wound around your free hand, and you tug at them absently, angrily. A thousand crumpled drafts form a mountain at your feet, and as your restless feet shuffle and bounce, you crush dozens of declarations of love, of hate, of secrets, and of lost dreams.
Dearest Sera,
Today is the 673rd day since the war began. The 500th day since I left. Do you count the days too?
Sending my love,
Dearest Sera,
There are rumors the warlock we’re fighting has the ability to twist people’s minds. His people call him the Prince of Dreams. People say he drove the late prime minister mad and that he’s behind the riots and coups. They say he only needs a person’s name to walk into their dreams. But don’t worry--no one knows me.
Sending my love,
Dearest Sera,
The war camps are a mess. People are disappearing left and right--desertion, assassination, and hundreds of unreported deaths. The old commanders have disappeared or died. The soldiers have disappeared or died. Our armies now consist of undead hordes and the few commanders callous enough to drive the rotten waves forward. Do they still send the fallen home? I feel like the mountain of corpses waiting to be revived just keeps growing.
Sending my love,
I tap your ankle, but you don’t seem to notice. So I climb the mountain of crumpled letters, slipping here, bracing as the pile collapses there, until I reach your knee. From there I grab the edge of the desk and haul myself up.
Dearest Sera,
I don’t know what to do. I can’t even send letters to you. You think I’m dead.
Sending my love,
You drop the pen and tear the words off your notebook--it was the last page. You exhale. Stare at the empty covers and the inkblots.
I tug on your sleeve.
You finally notice me and examine my animated body curiously: a round head, a handkerchief skirt, and four stubby limbs all cut from the same mahogany red muslin. “Oh. Hello.”You look so dumbfounded, it makes me wonder if you forgot you brought me to life mere hours ago.
I hold one of your fingers between the two ends of my arms, pulling you away from the pen. Stop writing.
There was a time when you lived for these letters. You wrote pages and pages each day and dreamed of her replies. But now you agonize over it. You think too much. You only hurt yourself.
I pull your finger with all my strength, but you don’t understand. You pick me up between two fingers, move me aside, and reach for the pen again.
I push away the pen, shake my head.
“You don’t want me to write? Why?”
I totter to the edge of the table, stretching out one arm to touch your heart.
“I know. It hurts. But...” You shove away from the table. The paper mountain beneath you collapses. “I can’t even send these. Why the hell am I writing this?”
I offer my arms, and you wrap me in a hug. “Thanks. I just really miss talking to Sera.” You reach for the notebook again and curse when you remember there are no pages left. “I need... paper. Newspaper.”
You find some rolled up in a drawer. The headline reads: CHURCH DEFILED BY ANTI-NECROMANCY GRAFFITI. Slowly, it dawns on you.
Dearest Sera,
If you see my name in the news, know this: I’m alive. I’ll be home soon.
Sending my love,
[June 28, 1283]
In the hour before dawn, you bring me to the ruin of a library. Before, those slabs of limestone shone brilliant white. The doorway held a beautiful frieze. Then, when the army still consisted of the living, hundreds of soldiers had chipped off bits of the frieze as souvenirs. Now, there is rubble and ash. You reach into a pocket and withdraw a handful of gold hearts--each 10 grams of pure gold--and toss it into the wreckage like one might feed bread to geese.
I know you haven’t forgotten the old dream. That one day, you and Sera would save enough to buy a storefront on Main Street. It would be a toy shop, but without shelves or glass cases. Instead, there would be dozens of little friends running on hearts of gold. Customers could greet the doorknocker as they entered. Sera would sew behind the counter. You’d take care of the toys. Some days, you’d buy fresh flowers and decorate the apartment above the shop and Sera would laugh at your silly antics. In your dreams, your whole world was encompassed by this little storefront and the apartment above it.
The day they realized your terrible power, they lined your friends up against a wall. Bang bang bang. They said you were one of them now: unknown, nameless—safe. And then they showed you all the gold the country had to offer. They said it was all yours—yours to raise a new army. They said that with you, they would quickly win the war. And you thought, I am the richest woman in the world.
“Wake,” you command, and the marble figures--boars and dragons and knights on horseback--stir. Hearts fuse to marble. They break away from their stone setting.
“My name is Kata Merlo,” you say, brown eyes cast in frosted gold. “Spread the news.”
The creatures shamble away. Three knights take rough-hewn spears and hack away at the walls of the library. Limestone sparkles as it shatters. I see letters forming.
You leave the library. By the time you reach camp, the sun is shining, so you head straight for the morgue, where the undead have already begun bringing you wagons piled high with corpses. The day is spent sewing gold hearts into the cavities of where the old ones once beat.
A heart is more than ten grams of gold. A heart is will and passion. A heart calls forth the best in people. It carries dreams and tries its best to let one live long enough to achieve those dreams. It searches for other good hearts to keep one company. I wonder if those gold hearts rattle around in the hollow chests of the undead, bouncing off the walls and trying to escape. I wonder if they ever warm, or if they just stay cold.
Yet how can I say that? I am so small, I can’t hold an entire heart. You had to bite off a corner and feed it into my stuffing like I was a baby bird. If I am less than undead, and the undead cannot compare to a living being, then what am I worth? Do my hugs even give you warmth?
Today, you lean over these putrid corpses as they stir. Hands dripping gore, a distant look in your eyes, you whisper to each, “You shall fight for none but I.”
[February 12, 1282]
You ran home with your hand extended high, waving a piece of paper like a flag. “Sera, I’ve done it! I’ve got it!”
You slammed the paper on the table, then fussed over the crinkled edges. She almost laughed at your scrunched expression, the way you shoved your hair out of your face. But she held a piece of paper as well, hidden behind her. And the message it contained would ruin both of your lives.
Instead, she smoothed one hand over your back. She wanted to see you celebrate. To commit your smile to memory. “We have our shop?”
“Yes! City council approved!”
You paused to regain your breath as the triumph and adrenaline settled in your skin. It felt like fireworks. Then you noticed Sera’s half-hearted smile. “Sera?”
She embraced you, pressing her cheek into your neck. “Congratulations, Kata. This is incredible.” But something cold slipped down your back--tears.
You pulled away, frowning. “Sera? What’s wrong?” But before she could speak, you heard the rustling of paper behind her back.
172 days into the war. Everyone knew very well what happened when that white envelope landed on your doorstep. You’d never seen one before--an impossible record--but everyone knew the draft.
You wrapped Sera in a hug. You didn’t know what to say. That’s all you did, and the two of you stood in silence until your chests hurt from the pressure of each other’s arms.
You broached the subject at dinner. “We can wait until you get back to start the shop. It’ll be better if I graduate university first anyway--”
Sera set down her fork. “Kata--”
“To be honest, I was worried university and opening a business simultaneously would be too hard--”
“Kata... I wasn’t conscripted. You were.”
Your eyes darted to the letter laying on the corner of the table. “Wh-what?”
“They’re conscripting everyone with magic. Your university is shutting down because all the students are getting sent to the front lines.”
That night, you lay in bed alone, swaddled up to the chin in Sera’s hand-sewn quilts, glaring out at the unimpassioned moon. Sera’s half of the bed was cold--after a few hours of tossing and turning, she’d extracted herself from your arms. You heard the stairs creak on her way downstairs.
You remind me of you then, just over a year younger, but a child compared to you now. Staring out the window, swallowing your fears, wondering why you won’t just let your tears fall. Wishing Sera was beside you. Asking yourself, remember the toy shop?
[June 29, 1283]
You wake to find me sitting on the pillow and smile at my oversized button eyes. “Hi, you.”
I pat your cheek and it makes you smile some more.
The morning is overcast. You buy today’s newspaper. WHO IS KATA MERLO? Pictures plaster the page. A thousand times over, your name is etched on walls, drawn in ashes, painted on wagons. You walk through camp and survey the few living soldiers huddled around campfires with canned soup. You used to look at their faces and wonder if you would recognize them when it was time to give them gold hearts. You never would.
Today, you listen to their stories. You smile when you hear them say your name.
[February 13, 1282]
“Kata.”
You woke to the sound of your name on Sera’s lips. It was still dark out, and you squinted through the dim light of rose-scented candles.
Sera was in her nicest blouse and she’d brushed back her hair. A tray of steaming pancakes and fresh fruit lay at the foot of the bed.
“It’s four in the morning,” Sera said. “You leave at six.”
You smiled, pushing down your exhaustion. “Pancakes? Sera, did you sleep at all?”
She shrugged--a definitive no, then. “Enough. Come, try some.”
You shoveled a few bites into your mouth and grinned at her with your mouth full. Maybe it wasn’t that good, and maybe you acted a little bit exaggerated, but if this was the last memory she’d have of you, you wanted to be ridiculously in love. “I love you so much.”
“Love you too.”
You offered her a bite, and when she declined, you insisted until she accepted it. After that, you two took turns eating until the stack was just crumbs and syrup.
“I’ve got one last surprise,” Sera said. She reached behind her to reveal me--a rag doll sewn together hastily with running stitches and cheap mahogany red muslin. “A little friend to keep you company while you’re away,” she explained. “It doesn’t have a name yet and I think we’re out of gold hearts, but...”
“She’s perfect,” you said. You laughed and threw your arms around Sera, kissing her and crying and laughing until the sun rose.
[May 8, 1282]
You weren’t good enough. You joined the regular foot soldiers while your friends from university were placed in elite units. But all you had were kindhearted toys.
In your trial, you said, “I can bring things to life.” But when the rubber duck only bounced and squeaked, you were deemed useless.
[September 29, 1282]
The war camps were already falling apart. So much ground had been lost that it was barely more than bedrolls in a field of soot. Then one day, after yet another rout, your platoon was chased off through the woods. When the captain finally collapsed, the rest of you realized you were far, far away from friendly territory.
The captain died. It could’ve been from any of his various wounds. One of the survivors was his brother, who watched the captain’s final moments mutely.
After a long silence, you brought up the inevitable “We can’t carry a dead body all the way back.”
“Do we bury him here, then?”
The captain’s brother was hesitant. “He would’ve wanted to be buried in our hometown. I want to bring back as much of him as possible.”
“What if...” You cleared your throat. “Does anybody have gold? Watches, jewelry?”
A few people nodded.
“I can use magic. I think I can make the body walk back on its own. If it works, we won’t need to carry anything.”
It was unheard of. But you melted together old keepsakes and formed a misshapen heart of gold. When the captain sat up, your platoon cheered.
[July 20, 1283]
Because I don’t sleep myself, I watch you sleep instead. You’ve been forcing yourself to sleep even when you can’t. You try dream journaling and curse when you can’t remember a dream or can’t remember details. Tonight, I nearly jump out of my stuffing when you speak:
“Who are you?” you say. On your pillow, I move closer. Your eyes dart around beneath closed lids. A smile curves your lips. “Prince of Dreams. You’ve seen my name in the news.”
You continue. “I’ve watched this war kill tens of thousands. I’ve seen your people razing my cities and my creations trampling your empire. I’m tired of this and I want an end. And here’s a promise: If it takes a month or ten dozen, I will claim all that fight in your name.” You laugh, but it’s more snarl. I try to smooth those twisted expressions off your face. “Surrender now, Prince of Dreams, or drown under the weight of the people you’ve killed.”
I imagine the killer you face within your dreams. Is he mad? Does he fear you? Come on, I plead, End this war now. For Sera. For you.
And then you pause. You become reflective. I wait for a long time. Finally, you say, “I’ll think about it.”
[December 2, 1282]
The captain’s heart gave out as you reached safety, ushered into the war camps by medics. You were pulled away from the group. Suddenly, you stood before the Nameless Council.
“They say you brought a dead man to life and he walked a hundred miles.”
“It’s not quite life--”
“With only a gold heart?”
“Yes--”
“Why aren’t you with the other mages?”
“My skills weren’t... useful enough, sir. I make toys.”
Laughter echoed. “And the undead, evidently. How many can you sustain?”
“I... don’t know..”
“Can you make them fight?”
You stopped yourself. You saw now the power you wielded. “My creations are harmless and friendly when they think for themselves, sir.”
“I daresay we’ll think well enough for them. Lieutenant, place an order for ten thousand gold hearts. Welcome to the ranks of the nameless, soldier.”
Dearest Sera,
I’ve been promoted. I won’t be fighting anymore and you’ll be receiving a huge paycheck soon!
Sending my love,
(They say I can’t use my name anymore)
[December 23, 1282]
Dearest Sera,
I haven’t heard from you in a while. Are you okay?
Sending my love,
[July 21, 1283]
You sit on the edge of your bed with your face in your hands. I wish I knew what was going on now. When you first brought me to life, I knew everything about you. But you don’t tell me things. I was supposed to be your friend, and now I am just a mute doll.
You throw yourself into bed. Shut your eyes. After hours, your breathing becomes even, and late, late into the night, you speak. “I accept.”
[June 27, 1283]
You forgot about me after months away. But one day, as you were planning to run away, you sorted through all your things to see what you could carry. And you happened upon me. A dusty relic from a happier time.
You held me in your hands and cried that night--ugly, shaky sobs. You reminded yourself of the toy shop, cursed how you couldn’t run away for Sera’s sake, for the toy shop. Your magic would be recognized instantly. This war would rage on, and you were lost within it, a thousand miles away.
The next night you brought back a corner of a gold heart. You split my seams with a pocket knife and tucked it into my stuffing, using a thread pulled from an old shirt to sew me back up. You wondered if you even remembered how to imbue creations with love--I very well could end up another one of your undead soldiers.
I remember staring up at you from your fist, my head lolling back against your fingers. You brought me up close to your face to examine me, and when I leaned forward and hugged your nose with my little muslin arms, you laughed so hard I fell from your face. Childlike, you watched me for the rest of the night, trying with all six inches of me to tidy your room and make you smile.
[July 22, 1283]
You don’t go to the morgue today--instead you sit down and write a letter. You pull out a newspaper--the one about your name--and cram your message into the margins. You read it over, sign it--and that’s when the door bursts open.
The Nameless Council charges in. You crumple the newspaper and throw it under the desk, then grab me from your shoulder and throw me into the shadows as well. I bounce on the grimy floor until I hit the crumpled newspaper. From the shadows, I watch as two of them force you to your knees.
“Kata Merlo, is it?”
You smile up at the men surrounding you. “Took you long enough.”
A pair of large boots pace before you. I tremble with every step. “We... took the time to plan carefully.”
“Then surely you haven’t forgotten that while you command my armies in battle...”
The walls shudder. The door collapses inwards. Outside loom thousands of undead. I press myself into the shadows.
“... I am master to all the dead.”
Men scream and undead charge. You wrest yourself free and throw yourself across the room, extending one hand to grab me and the newspaper. The ground shudders, the walls collapse inwards, and I just barely cling onto your fingers as you break out of the room. You run and run until you’re free of the war camps.
Atop a dark hill, you watch putrid masses swarming the camp. Lights go out. Bushfires ignite. You see a few scrambling figures escaping. One young man--practically a boy--runs up your hill, but when he sees you, he turns tail and flees.
“I’ve got a job for you.”
I turn and look up at you. From this angle, your dark face is framed by blades of grass and moonlight. You crouch down and place the crumpled newspaper before me.
“Deliver this to Sera.”
It’s an insane request. Sera is hundreds of miles away.
“Please. Do it for...”
I wasn’t made to take orders. I was made in a time when your creations were meant to be friends. Staring up at you, I remember my lingering question--what am I worth if I’m only a rag and a scrap of gold? I cannot give you warmth. I cannot speak. I cannot replace the love you miss.
I take the newspaper in my arms.
Because you are my friend, and I’ll do anything you ask of me.
You smile. “Thanks.”
We set off in opposite directions. You walk towards the border. I walk home. I shuffle through crowded cities with this balled-up letter. When I lose hold of it on windy peaks, I chase it for hours and hours. I gather grass stains. I stuff myself with dandelion seeds when my muslin splits and my stuffing dissolves.
[January 2, 1284]
I reach home only to find Sera has moved out of your old apartment. Defeated, I wander the snowy city. Something pulls me to the storefront you were planning to buy. White trims and a large display window. A doorknocker of the crescent moon kissing her shadow.
A sign is painted in pink: Little Friends for Children.
I run to the door and heave it open with all my strength, but the door slams shut before I can drag in the newspaper. As the bell on the door tinkles, I stare at my newspaper trapped on the other side of the glass.
“Good morning!”
I hear Sera’s voice for the first time in my life. Gentle and soft. Exactly like you remember.
She hurries into view in her shop uniform--an embroidered dress with a denim apron full of sewing supplies. She pauses when she doesn’t see a customer.
I run towards her and she gasps when she sees me. “Are you--?”
She kneels down and offers a hand for me to climb on. I do, and she brings me close to her face. “What happened to you, little one? You’re falling apart!”
When she says it, I realize how I must look. Fraying hems, loose stitches. A head full of gashes and stuffed with dandelions. Distantly, I recognize that my heart is finally slowing after all these months of wear and tear. I want to melt into the warmth of her palm, but there is one last thing I must do. I raise one leaden arm and point towards the door.
Sera misunderstands. She thinks you’re waiting outside and her eyes light up. She all but runs--and finds no one.
I point to the newspaper. She picks it up--it’s wrinkled and stained. But she smooths it out and reads it.
Dearest Sera,
I was the necromancer. When this country was on the brink of collapse, the dead I brought back allowed the war to go on. And it’s gone on for far too long. I’m so sorry. I could’ve won this war. But I’m so tired, Sera. I made a deal with the Prince of Dreams. I’m safe, and you’ll be safe too if you come and find me.
Sending my love,
Kata Merlo
Before I was even alive, I loved you. That is what I was made to do. I am, to be blunt, her replacement. I am more than a lucky token, like soldiers of the past would’ve received. I am her gift of sorrow and desperate wishes, her love brought to life. I am a handkerchief to soak your tears, a friend to give you the hugs she cannot. And though compared to other living things, I am sorely lacking, I wish upon my heart of gold that I could tell you the depths of my love. One needs not a beating heart for such emotion, and I hope that I can show this to you despite my limitations.
Tonight, I watch you scribble with an intensity you’ve never displayed before. It’s as if you’re possessed--knuckles white and the force of your fingers bending the cheap ballpoint. Your braids are wound around your free hand, and you tug at them absently, angrily. A thousand crumpled drafts form a mountain at your feet, and as your restless feet shuffle and bounce, you crush dozens of declarations of love, of hate, of secrets, and of lost dreams.
Dearest Sera,
Today is the 673rd day since the war began. The 500th day since I left. Do you count the days too?
Sending my love,
Dearest Sera,
There are rumors the warlock we’re fighting has the ability to twist people’s minds. His people call him the Prince of Dreams. People say he drove the late prime minister mad and that he’s behind the riots and coups. They say he only needs a person’s name to walk into their dreams. But don’t worry--no one knows me.
Sending my love,
Dearest Sera,
The war camps are a mess. People are disappearing left and right--desertion, assassination, and hundreds of unreported deaths. The old commanders have disappeared or died. The soldiers have disappeared or died. Our armies now consist of undead hordes and the few commanders callous enough to drive the rotten waves forward. Do they still send the fallen home? I feel like the mountain of corpses waiting to be revived just keeps growing.
Sending my love,
I tap your ankle, but you don’t seem to notice. So I climb the mountain of crumpled letters, slipping here, bracing as the pile collapses there, until I reach your knee. From there I grab the edge of the desk and haul myself up.
Dearest Sera,
I don’t know what to do. I can’t even send letters to you. You think I’m dead.
Sending my love,
You drop the pen and tear the words off your notebook--it was the last page. You exhale. Stare at the empty covers and the inkblots.
I tug on your sleeve.
You finally notice me and examine my animated body curiously: a round head, a handkerchief skirt, and four stubby limbs all cut from the same mahogany red muslin. “Oh. Hello.”You look so dumbfounded, it makes me wonder if you forgot you brought me to life mere hours ago.
I hold one of your fingers between the two ends of my arms, pulling you away from the pen. Stop writing.
There was a time when you lived for these letters. You wrote pages and pages each day and dreamed of her replies. But now you agonize over it. You think too much. You only hurt yourself.
I pull your finger with all my strength, but you don’t understand. You pick me up between two fingers, move me aside, and reach for the pen again.
I push away the pen, shake my head.
“You don’t want me to write? Why?”
I totter to the edge of the table, stretching out one arm to touch your heart.
“I know. It hurts. But...” You shove away from the table. The paper mountain beneath you collapses. “I can’t even send these. Why the hell am I writing this?”
I offer my arms, and you wrap me in a hug. “Thanks. I just really miss talking to Sera.” You reach for the notebook again and curse when you remember there are no pages left. “I need... paper. Newspaper.”
You find some rolled up in a drawer. The headline reads: CHURCH DEFILED BY ANTI-NECROMANCY GRAFFITI. Slowly, it dawns on you.
Dearest Sera,
If you see my name in the news, know this: I’m alive. I’ll be home soon.
Sending my love,
[June 28, 1283]
In the hour before dawn, you bring me to the ruin of a library. Before, those slabs of limestone shone brilliant white. The doorway held a beautiful frieze. Then, when the army still consisted of the living, hundreds of soldiers had chipped off bits of the frieze as souvenirs. Now, there is rubble and ash. You reach into a pocket and withdraw a handful of gold hearts--each 10 grams of pure gold--and toss it into the wreckage like one might feed bread to geese.
I know you haven’t forgotten the old dream. That one day, you and Sera would save enough to buy a storefront on Main Street. It would be a toy shop, but without shelves or glass cases. Instead, there would be dozens of little friends running on hearts of gold. Customers could greet the doorknocker as they entered. Sera would sew behind the counter. You’d take care of the toys. Some days, you’d buy fresh flowers and decorate the apartment above the shop and Sera would laugh at your silly antics. In your dreams, your whole world was encompassed by this little storefront and the apartment above it.
The day they realized your terrible power, they lined your friends up against a wall. Bang bang bang. They said you were one of them now: unknown, nameless—safe. And then they showed you all the gold the country had to offer. They said it was all yours—yours to raise a new army. They said that with you, they would quickly win the war. And you thought, I am the richest woman in the world.
“Wake,” you command, and the marble figures--boars and dragons and knights on horseback--stir. Hearts fuse to marble. They break away from their stone setting.
“My name is Kata Merlo,” you say, brown eyes cast in frosted gold. “Spread the news.”
The creatures shamble away. Three knights take rough-hewn spears and hack away at the walls of the library. Limestone sparkles as it shatters. I see letters forming.
You leave the library. By the time you reach camp, the sun is shining, so you head straight for the morgue, where the undead have already begun bringing you wagons piled high with corpses. The day is spent sewing gold hearts into the cavities of where the old ones once beat.
A heart is more than ten grams of gold. A heart is will and passion. A heart calls forth the best in people. It carries dreams and tries its best to let one live long enough to achieve those dreams. It searches for other good hearts to keep one company. I wonder if those gold hearts rattle around in the hollow chests of the undead, bouncing off the walls and trying to escape. I wonder if they ever warm, or if they just stay cold.
Yet how can I say that? I am so small, I can’t hold an entire heart. You had to bite off a corner and feed it into my stuffing like I was a baby bird. If I am less than undead, and the undead cannot compare to a living being, then what am I worth? Do my hugs even give you warmth?
Today, you lean over these putrid corpses as they stir. Hands dripping gore, a distant look in your eyes, you whisper to each, “You shall fight for none but I.”
[February 12, 1282]
You ran home with your hand extended high, waving a piece of paper like a flag. “Sera, I’ve done it! I’ve got it!”
You slammed the paper on the table, then fussed over the crinkled edges. She almost laughed at your scrunched expression, the way you shoved your hair out of your face. But she held a piece of paper as well, hidden behind her. And the message it contained would ruin both of your lives.
Instead, she smoothed one hand over your back. She wanted to see you celebrate. To commit your smile to memory. “We have our shop?”
“Yes! City council approved!”
You paused to regain your breath as the triumph and adrenaline settled in your skin. It felt like fireworks. Then you noticed Sera’s half-hearted smile. “Sera?”
She embraced you, pressing her cheek into your neck. “Congratulations, Kata. This is incredible.” But something cold slipped down your back--tears.
You pulled away, frowning. “Sera? What’s wrong?” But before she could speak, you heard the rustling of paper behind her back.
172 days into the war. Everyone knew very well what happened when that white envelope landed on your doorstep. You’d never seen one before--an impossible record--but everyone knew the draft.
You wrapped Sera in a hug. You didn’t know what to say. That’s all you did, and the two of you stood in silence until your chests hurt from the pressure of each other’s arms.
You broached the subject at dinner. “We can wait until you get back to start the shop. It’ll be better if I graduate university first anyway--”
Sera set down her fork. “Kata--”
“To be honest, I was worried university and opening a business simultaneously would be too hard--”
“Kata... I wasn’t conscripted. You were.”
Your eyes darted to the letter laying on the corner of the table. “Wh-what?”
“They’re conscripting everyone with magic. Your university is shutting down because all the students are getting sent to the front lines.”
That night, you lay in bed alone, swaddled up to the chin in Sera’s hand-sewn quilts, glaring out at the unimpassioned moon. Sera’s half of the bed was cold--after a few hours of tossing and turning, she’d extracted herself from your arms. You heard the stairs creak on her way downstairs.
You remind me of you then, just over a year younger, but a child compared to you now. Staring out the window, swallowing your fears, wondering why you won’t just let your tears fall. Wishing Sera was beside you. Asking yourself, remember the toy shop?
[June 29, 1283]
You wake to find me sitting on the pillow and smile at my oversized button eyes. “Hi, you.”
I pat your cheek and it makes you smile some more.
The morning is overcast. You buy today’s newspaper. WHO IS KATA MERLO? Pictures plaster the page. A thousand times over, your name is etched on walls, drawn in ashes, painted on wagons. You walk through camp and survey the few living soldiers huddled around campfires with canned soup. You used to look at their faces and wonder if you would recognize them when it was time to give them gold hearts. You never would.
Today, you listen to their stories. You smile when you hear them say your name.
[February 13, 1282]
“Kata.”
You woke to the sound of your name on Sera’s lips. It was still dark out, and you squinted through the dim light of rose-scented candles.
Sera was in her nicest blouse and she’d brushed back her hair. A tray of steaming pancakes and fresh fruit lay at the foot of the bed.
“It’s four in the morning,” Sera said. “You leave at six.”
You smiled, pushing down your exhaustion. “Pancakes? Sera, did you sleep at all?”
She shrugged--a definitive no, then. “Enough. Come, try some.”
You shoveled a few bites into your mouth and grinned at her with your mouth full. Maybe it wasn’t that good, and maybe you acted a little bit exaggerated, but if this was the last memory she’d have of you, you wanted to be ridiculously in love. “I love you so much.”
“Love you too.”
You offered her a bite, and when she declined, you insisted until she accepted it. After that, you two took turns eating until the stack was just crumbs and syrup.
“I’ve got one last surprise,” Sera said. She reached behind her to reveal me--a rag doll sewn together hastily with running stitches and cheap mahogany red muslin. “A little friend to keep you company while you’re away,” she explained. “It doesn’t have a name yet and I think we’re out of gold hearts, but...”
“She’s perfect,” you said. You laughed and threw your arms around Sera, kissing her and crying and laughing until the sun rose.
[May 8, 1282]
You weren’t good enough. You joined the regular foot soldiers while your friends from university were placed in elite units. But all you had were kindhearted toys.
In your trial, you said, “I can bring things to life.” But when the rubber duck only bounced and squeaked, you were deemed useless.
[September 29, 1282]
The war camps were already falling apart. So much ground had been lost that it was barely more than bedrolls in a field of soot. Then one day, after yet another rout, your platoon was chased off through the woods. When the captain finally collapsed, the rest of you realized you were far, far away from friendly territory.
The captain died. It could’ve been from any of his various wounds. One of the survivors was his brother, who watched the captain’s final moments mutely.
After a long silence, you brought up the inevitable “We can’t carry a dead body all the way back.”
“Do we bury him here, then?”
The captain’s brother was hesitant. “He would’ve wanted to be buried in our hometown. I want to bring back as much of him as possible.”
“What if...” You cleared your throat. “Does anybody have gold? Watches, jewelry?”
A few people nodded.
“I can use magic. I think I can make the body walk back on its own. If it works, we won’t need to carry anything.”
It was unheard of. But you melted together old keepsakes and formed a misshapen heart of gold. When the captain sat up, your platoon cheered.
[July 20, 1283]
Because I don’t sleep myself, I watch you sleep instead. You’ve been forcing yourself to sleep even when you can’t. You try dream journaling and curse when you can’t remember a dream or can’t remember details. Tonight, I nearly jump out of my stuffing when you speak:
“Who are you?” you say. On your pillow, I move closer. Your eyes dart around beneath closed lids. A smile curves your lips. “Prince of Dreams. You’ve seen my name in the news.”
You continue. “I’ve watched this war kill tens of thousands. I’ve seen your people razing my cities and my creations trampling your empire. I’m tired of this and I want an end. And here’s a promise: If it takes a month or ten dozen, I will claim all that fight in your name.” You laugh, but it’s more snarl. I try to smooth those twisted expressions off your face. “Surrender now, Prince of Dreams, or drown under the weight of the people you’ve killed.”
I imagine the killer you face within your dreams. Is he mad? Does he fear you? Come on, I plead, End this war now. For Sera. For you.
And then you pause. You become reflective. I wait for a long time. Finally, you say, “I’ll think about it.”
[December 2, 1282]
The captain’s heart gave out as you reached safety, ushered into the war camps by medics. You were pulled away from the group. Suddenly, you stood before the Nameless Council.
“They say you brought a dead man to life and he walked a hundred miles.”
“It’s not quite life--”
“With only a gold heart?”
“Yes--”
“Why aren’t you with the other mages?”
“My skills weren’t... useful enough, sir. I make toys.”
Laughter echoed. “And the undead, evidently. How many can you sustain?”
“I... don’t know..”
“Can you make them fight?”
You stopped yourself. You saw now the power you wielded. “My creations are harmless and friendly when they think for themselves, sir.”
“I daresay we’ll think well enough for them. Lieutenant, place an order for ten thousand gold hearts. Welcome to the ranks of the nameless, soldier.”
Dearest Sera,
I’ve been promoted. I won’t be fighting anymore and you’ll be receiving a huge paycheck soon!
Sending my love,
(They say I can’t use my name anymore)
[December 23, 1282]
Dearest Sera,
I haven’t heard from you in a while. Are you okay?
Sending my love,
[July 21, 1283]
You sit on the edge of your bed with your face in your hands. I wish I knew what was going on now. When you first brought me to life, I knew everything about you. But you don’t tell me things. I was supposed to be your friend, and now I am just a mute doll.
You throw yourself into bed. Shut your eyes. After hours, your breathing becomes even, and late, late into the night, you speak. “I accept.”
[June 27, 1283]
You forgot about me after months away. But one day, as you were planning to run away, you sorted through all your things to see what you could carry. And you happened upon me. A dusty relic from a happier time.
You held me in your hands and cried that night--ugly, shaky sobs. You reminded yourself of the toy shop, cursed how you couldn’t run away for Sera’s sake, for the toy shop. Your magic would be recognized instantly. This war would rage on, and you were lost within it, a thousand miles away.
The next night you brought back a corner of a gold heart. You split my seams with a pocket knife and tucked it into my stuffing, using a thread pulled from an old shirt to sew me back up. You wondered if you even remembered how to imbue creations with love--I very well could end up another one of your undead soldiers.
I remember staring up at you from your fist, my head lolling back against your fingers. You brought me up close to your face to examine me, and when I leaned forward and hugged your nose with my little muslin arms, you laughed so hard I fell from your face. Childlike, you watched me for the rest of the night, trying with all six inches of me to tidy your room and make you smile.
[July 22, 1283]
You don’t go to the morgue today--instead you sit down and write a letter. You pull out a newspaper--the one about your name--and cram your message into the margins. You read it over, sign it--and that’s when the door bursts open.
The Nameless Council charges in. You crumple the newspaper and throw it under the desk, then grab me from your shoulder and throw me into the shadows as well. I bounce on the grimy floor until I hit the crumpled newspaper. From the shadows, I watch as two of them force you to your knees.
“Kata Merlo, is it?”
You smile up at the men surrounding you. “Took you long enough.”
A pair of large boots pace before you. I tremble with every step. “We... took the time to plan carefully.”
“Then surely you haven’t forgotten that while you command my armies in battle...”
The walls shudder. The door collapses inwards. Outside loom thousands of undead. I press myself into the shadows.
“... I am master to all the dead.”
Men scream and undead charge. You wrest yourself free and throw yourself across the room, extending one hand to grab me and the newspaper. The ground shudders, the walls collapse inwards, and I just barely cling onto your fingers as you break out of the room. You run and run until you’re free of the war camps.
Atop a dark hill, you watch putrid masses swarming the camp. Lights go out. Bushfires ignite. You see a few scrambling figures escaping. One young man--practically a boy--runs up your hill, but when he sees you, he turns tail and flees.
“I’ve got a job for you.”
I turn and look up at you. From this angle, your dark face is framed by blades of grass and moonlight. You crouch down and place the crumpled newspaper before me.
“Deliver this to Sera.”
It’s an insane request. Sera is hundreds of miles away.
“Please. Do it for...”
I wasn’t made to take orders. I was made in a time when your creations were meant to be friends. Staring up at you, I remember my lingering question--what am I worth if I’m only a rag and a scrap of gold? I cannot give you warmth. I cannot speak. I cannot replace the love you miss.
I take the newspaper in my arms.
Because you are my friend, and I’ll do anything you ask of me.
You smile. “Thanks.”
We set off in opposite directions. You walk towards the border. I walk home. I shuffle through crowded cities with this balled-up letter. When I lose hold of it on windy peaks, I chase it for hours and hours. I gather grass stains. I stuff myself with dandelion seeds when my muslin splits and my stuffing dissolves.
[January 2, 1284]
I reach home only to find Sera has moved out of your old apartment. Defeated, I wander the snowy city. Something pulls me to the storefront you were planning to buy. White trims and a large display window. A doorknocker of the crescent moon kissing her shadow.
A sign is painted in pink: Little Friends for Children.
I run to the door and heave it open with all my strength, but the door slams shut before I can drag in the newspaper. As the bell on the door tinkles, I stare at my newspaper trapped on the other side of the glass.
“Good morning!”
I hear Sera’s voice for the first time in my life. Gentle and soft. Exactly like you remember.
She hurries into view in her shop uniform--an embroidered dress with a denim apron full of sewing supplies. She pauses when she doesn’t see a customer.
I run towards her and she gasps when she sees me. “Are you--?”
She kneels down and offers a hand for me to climb on. I do, and she brings me close to her face. “What happened to you, little one? You’re falling apart!”
When she says it, I realize how I must look. Fraying hems, loose stitches. A head full of gashes and stuffed with dandelions. Distantly, I recognize that my heart is finally slowing after all these months of wear and tear. I want to melt into the warmth of her palm, but there is one last thing I must do. I raise one leaden arm and point towards the door.
Sera misunderstands. She thinks you’re waiting outside and her eyes light up. She all but runs--and finds no one.
I point to the newspaper. She picks it up--it’s wrinkled and stained. But she smooths it out and reads it.
Dearest Sera,
I was the necromancer. When this country was on the brink of collapse, the dead I brought back allowed the war to go on. And it’s gone on for far too long. I’m so sorry. I could’ve won this war. But I’m so tired, Sera. I made a deal with the Prince of Dreams. I’m safe, and you’ll be safe too if you come and find me.
Sending my love,
Kata Merlo
About the Author
Alyssa Wong (she/her) identifies as Hoa Cantonese and aroace. She is 17 and is a junior in the Bay Area, California. Her writing and art has appeared in Scholastic Arts & Writing, Bluefire 2021, the Zoetic Tapestry Project "Reconnect" Gallery, and more. Outside of writing and art, she loves cooking breakfasts worth waking up for. You can find more of her work @dragonfruitworlds on Instagram or alyssaportfolio.com.