23   i'll watch our crown

The air is crisp outside Aglionby Academy and Mercy shivers slightly. It's a uniform free day to honour their win at a regional quiz bowl. Mercy's taken advantage of this fact: a Dickie's t-shirt tucked into the safety of her mother's overalls that Mercy has attempted to scrub free of paint and oil stains with little success pulled over her tall figure. She stands out amongst the brand names and plaid pants, distinctly more casual, more penurious as Tad would say. Shoving her hands into the denim pockets of the overalls, Mercy adjusts the strap of her messenger bag with hunched shoulders.

An arm is heavy on her shoulder, Ronan's pale skin pressed against her navy t-shirt. The second-oldest Lynch brother had stopped showing up to their first period at the beginning of the week. It's a blessing in the shrouded disguise of him potentially failing Latin; a blessing that Mercy is for once thankful for. Even if it means they are one man down in front of Greenmantle. Mercy remembers the night before like a blur: Mr. Gray leaned down to her and Ronan to ask about dreaming him a new Greywaren to give to Greenmantle. Something that she blatantly refused to participate in or be near vehemently. Therefore, leaving them at a distinct crossroads.

Ronan walks on her left and Adam on her right with purposefully placed space between them. Together, they all trail behind Gansey with lazy feet, Mercy's boots kicking at the concrete cracks of the sidewalk. Gansey looks to be in his element, American-boy features complemented by the golden sun as Autumn begins to set into the roots of the campus and the group of teens heads towards the school office.

          "Dick! Gansey!" A voice breaks through the breeze, vaguely familiar but the name ultimately escapes Mercy. "Gansey boy! Richard Campbell Gansey the Third."

Mercy doesn't look over her shoulder. She nudges Ronan with the elbow by his waist. He raises a brow without looking at her. She raises one back.

          "Ganseeeeeey!"

Gansey still doesn't hear them.

          "Gansey boy! Dick!"

Ronan whirls around, standing face to face with the voice, arms wide and mouth sneering. "Not now, Cheng. The king's a little busy."

Mercy furrows her nose, and says snidely, "Hey, I'm the King here."

Ronan shoots her a look.

          "I wasn't talking to you, Lynch." Henry snaps. "I need someone with a soul."

Scowling, Mercy jams a finger into his chest. "Watch your mouth, Cheng."

Gansey appears at her side, pristine as always, with a pleasant expression. Far more pleasant than the snarl-like curl that Mercy's lips have shifted into. She steps back at the hand on her arm.

          "What can I do for you, Mr. Cheng?" Gansey asks.

Henry throws a hand towards him. "Do you see, Ronan? That is the way you talk to a man. I'm. Glad. You. Asked, Gansey. Look, I need your help. Sign this."

The boy thrusts a clipboard into Gansey's arms. "You want me to vote for the right to vote?"

          "You've grasped the salient point of my position much faster than the rest of our peers. I see why you're always in the newsletter." Henry says. He offers him a pen, then a Sharpie and a pencil when Gansey doesn't immediately take them.

Gansey's expression is pinched, thoughtfully so as he studies the paper in front of him.

          "Gansey, come on," Henry says. "They'll listen to you. Your vote counts double because you're Caucasian with great hair. You're Aglionby's golden boy. The only way you could score more points is if your mom gets that seat."

There's nothing untrue about Henry's words, Mercy faintly thinks as she taps her foot against the concrete, growing significantly more bored by the second.

          "If you sign, we can get a move on." She says.

Gansey looks at her. Mercy shrugs.

Sighing, he accepts the pen from Henry's outstretched hand. "I'll sign, but I want to be exempt from nominations. My plate's full."

Henry rubs his hands together. "Sure thing, old man. Parrish?"

Adam shakes his head coolly.

Henry turns to Mercy.

          "Yeah, fuck off." Mercy says dismissively before he can ask. She's never had interest in the politics of Aglionby Academy, and she isn't planning to begin now.

          "Lynch?" Henry asks.

Ronan's dangerous gaze shifts between him and Gansey. "I thought you said I didn't have a soul."

          "It turns out politics have already eroded my principles." Henry replies.

Taking a larger marker from Henry's small pile, Ronan's mouth quirks viciously as he begins to press it to the paper. In enormous letters and his jagged handwriting, the word ANARCHY is spelt out with precision. Ronan, without much of a care, throws the marker back at Henry. It bounces off his chest, causing Mercy to smile slightly in amusement.

          "Hey!" Henry cries with indignance. "You thug."

          "You asked." Mercy says, slapping a hard hand down on his shoulder with a wicked smile. "Reap what you sow, Cheng." 

          "Democracy's a farce," Ronan adds.

Gansey gives Henry a pity glance. "Sorry, he didn't get enough exercise today. Or there's something wrong with his diet. I'll take him away now."

          "When I get elected president, I'm making your face illegal." Henry tells Ronan, glaring.

Ronan's smile is so inherently him that Mercy almost shivers, thin and wired hotly with darkness. "Litigation's a farce."

They pull away from Henry, leaving him and his petition to pester the rest of the student population. Trailing down the colonnade, it's shrouded in shadows that make the hairs on the back of Mercy's neck stand on end. She kicks a stone towards Ronan. He kicks it back with equal force, the beginnings of a small game between them.

          "Do you ever consider the possibility that you might be growing up to be an asshole?" Gansey asks Ronan within the darkness.

Ronan kicks their stone and it skitters across the bricks, hitting a corner hard enough that it takes off towards the courtyard and Mercy pouts.

          "Rumour has it that his father gave him a Fisker for his birthday and he's too afraid to drive it." Ronan says. "I want to see it if he has it. Rumour has it he biked here."

          "From Vancouver?" Adam asks.

          "Seems like a waste." Mercy comments.

Gansey frowns, eyes following two younger students across the courtyard. He purses his lips, knocking on the headmaster's door. He turns back around to face his friends.

          "Are you waiting out here for me?" Gansey asks.

          "No," Ronan says. "Parrish and I are going for a drive."

          "We are?" Adam asks, confused.

          "You are." Mercy replies.

          "Good." Gansey says, ignoring Mercy's words. "I'll see you later."

As Gansey lets himself into the headmaster's office and shuts the door behind him, Ronan lingers a moment. Mercy collapses into a chair outside the office, leg hanging over the armrests. She looks like a lazing lion as she waits, strikingly poised but carefree. She flashes him a smile and he raises a brow. Adam, unsure of what to do with himself, stands behind Ronan like a ghostly presence.

          "Go," Mercy says. "I'll watch our crown."

Ronan nods, him and Adam disappearing from her sight. 

A sinking feeling lingers in the pit of Mercy's stomach as Gansey pushes through the open door of the headmaster's office and looks at her lazing in one of the waiting chairs with a slight frown. Still, she grins, wriggling her fingers in the air as a greeting. There's a beat where Gansey says nothing. He just stands, watching her quietly. Mercy's back straightens at Gansey's furrowed expression, eyeing the worry tensing the boy's shoulders.

          "Headmaster Child wants to see you." Gansey says. He takes the seat beside Mercy, his hands interlocking and resting on his knees. "I'll wait."

Mercy nods slowly, eyebrows pinching. "Okay."

With silent footsteps, she rises from her seat and carefully pries open the door to the headmaster's office. Gansey is still staring at his hands as Mercy closes the wooden door behind her, hearing the lock mechanisms quietly click. She sucks in a breath. As Mercy turns, the headmaster's leather chair is empty, void of weight and presence. She turns back around, hands on the cool door knob but as Mercy begins to turn it, a voice echoes throughout the office.

          "Hello, Little Spider."

Mercy is spinning on her heel before a breath can leave her faint lungs. Boyish and aquamarine eyes shining over a snub nose, the body of Colin Greenmantle stands before her, lacking the distinctly Boston accent and instead has the lilting tone of something else familiar.

The pale flawless skin and dark tousled hair mean that it should be Colin Greenmantle. But the hairs on the back of Mercy's neck stand on end.

          "A rather boring location," Colin's body brushes invisible lint from their pants. "No other places you wish to be?"

          "How—"

          "We're beyond the act of asking stupid questions, Miss King." They say, nose in the air. "You wouldn't come to me so I had to come to you."

          "How are you him?" Mercy asks, nails pressing into the skin of her palms as she clenches her hands in fists.

          "I am whatever you want me to be."

Mercy scoffs. "I wouldn't want this. I don't want this."

          "Clearly, you don't know yourself as well as you thought." Berlin replies.

They move forward, stepping into the girl's space and hooking a finger underneath her jaw. Something shakes in their other hand. The rattle is familiar and leaves an aching feeling within the pit of her stomach. In defiance, Mercy glares, biting down on the thumb that pushes against her mouth.

Stepping away, unbothered, Berlin jerks their chin. "Fix your tie."

          "What tie?" Mercy replies, confused.

They jerk their chin again.

The redhead looks down, eyes widening at the Aglionby uniform adorning her body. Plaid, pleated skirt, crisp white collared shirt and Aglionby's matching tie. She doesn't remember changing. She doesn't know what compels her to move, but with shaking hands, Mercy pulls at the knot and centres the fabric.

          "Aglionby students must maintain their status." Berlin says, an echo of Colin Greenmantle's voice sifting amongst the space between words. "And this is achieved by ensuring a complete and tidy outward appearance."

          "You don't care about that." Mercy replies.

          "You are right," Berlin says. "I care about you. I just want to fix your problems. You can't do this without me, Mercy. No King ever has."

A flare of anger curls around the flesh of her heart and lungs, warming Mercy's chest with a flourish. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she's remembering. This is her existence. Berlin means nothing without her and that is the curse of their existence—to bear arms with a girl who holds a knife to the back of the black suit. Hands steady, Mercy rips at the tie and feels it loosen around her neck.

          "Every King has ended up dead." She snarls. 

          "A detail that has nothing to do with you," Berlin says. "And therefore, nothing to do with me. I am you after all."

Mercy frowns. The rattle starts again, resounding in her eardrums. How could a piece of her be so wretched yet so fulfilling? How can she possibly argue with herself? Her chin cocks to the side, studying them with narrowed eyes. Mercy lets out a harsh sigh through her nose. In the corner of her eye, she sees Berlin's hand moving and the rattle only grows louder as they come closer. They press the white bottle into her hand.

          "Save us both," Berlin utters into her ear. "Save us all."

Shaking her head, the frown doesn't leave Mercy's face. Berlin presses closer, a daunting presence over her figure. She stumbles backwards, back colliding with the door behind her. The pill bottle pops as Berlin's thumbs it open single-handedly and extracts a pink pill. It's with force they press it to the equal pink of her lips and into her mouth.

Mercy struggles, snarling underneath their iron thumb. But this isn't her dream anymore. The pill is down her throat before she can blink and the feeling of something expanding pounds against the beat of her heart. It's everything and nothing at once, leaving a particularly sour taste in her mouth. Involuntarily, Mercy's memories linger: the press of warmth against her stomach; the smell of smoke and gasoline. She coughs violently.

When Berlin steps back, the pill gone and swallowed, Mercy spits at their feet.

           "Don't," she says darkly, "ever do that again. Or I will do everything in my power to make sure we both die."

Mockingly, Berlin bows and the world folds at their waistline.

It's the rattling that follows Mercy when she wakes up, pill bottle in hand.