Strength

They're presenting the results of the vaccine trial, discussing the margin of error, side effects, p-values, success rates. Marie is taking notes, paying attention, reviewing the printed results before her. By all accounts, she is paying attention. Taking into consideration every word of the scientists who ran this trial.

In reality, her mind is elsewhere. She skimmed the notes at the beginning of the meaning. She can review them later. Oddly, knowing she does not have to be fully attentive gives her a strange sort of comfort--a pass, in a way, to let her mind wander.

"There were no significant adverse effects observed at any stage in the trials," drones Dr. Buhler, the nation's chief--and only--immunologist. He rattles off statistics about percentages of patients who experienced soreness at the injection site, fatigue, body aches, respiratory symptoms. Again, Marie has the results right in front of her. She does not have to pay attention, not really. This presentation, which was likely given earlier to an exclusively scientific community, is redundant; 'tis not delivering more than what she could read on her own time.

She clenches her fist, draws a sharp intake of breath. You are the Queen. You have to pay attention. This is your job.

"--experienced nausea after the second dose. Your Majesty?"

Marie, who has lifted her hand, lowers it. "Did any of the trials test immunocompromised individuals to any extent?" She swallows, feeling heat rush to her cheeks.

"There was a very limited sample size for the vulnerable population. Based on the results from trials abroad and the discretion of several physicians, we can approve the vaccine for certain high-risk citizens on a case-to-case basis." Buhler is being intentionally vague, Marie suspects, as though he believes she does not understand the complexities of pathology.

"How are we to protect the most vulnerable if they cannot receive the very thing that would protect them?" Marie contends. She is probing Buhler now, testing how much she knows.

"It depends on the comorbidity, Your Majesty. For instance, a patient with an extremely compromised immune system would--"

"Answer the question, Doctor."

"People with HIV and autoimmune disorders are eligible to receive the vaccine as was stated by the American Center for Disease Control." Buhler truly looks bored now.

Marie chews on her lip as distress dawns on her visage. She feels her pulse thudding in her wrists, heat rising to her face. Her palms are sweaty, and the room is too heated, too cramped. She's seeing Alastair's face in her mind's eye, the reasoning behind her questions only occurring to her now. She cannot seem to go one moment without thinking of him, without somehow bringing his illness into relevance regardless of the matter at hand.

She is supposed to be concentrating on her people, not her husband. The time to think about him will come later, when she's visiting him. When she'll hold him in her arms and give him comfort.

"How about people with other diseases?" Now Marie is being vague, careful not to make her intentions obvious. Why must they all sit through this dull meeting when the outcome is already known?

She turns to Secretary Leistner, who sits to her right. Hoping he will carry this deliberation where she cannot. Why did she ever think she was capable of this? Of running a nation? She was a fool, a rash fool, to accept the yoke of the monarchy. She lets her personal problems get the best of her, and they guide her in every decision she makes. Always, always, she is thinking of Alastair, fretting over him, pacing, panicking, losing sleep. Feeling cold and empty without him at her side.

And to think she believed herself an independent person. But she is dependent on her feelings, on the actions of others. She relies too heavily on Cabinet to formulate her decisions.

There is utilizing the Cabinet as a resource, and there is using it as a substitute for Alastair, whom she would have bounced ideas off of were he here. She needs to take more responsibility for her choices. Do more things by and for herself.

She does not want to listen to Buhler anymore. Or listen to anyone, for that matter. She needs to be alone to collect her thoughts.

Marie cuts off Buhler ere he can finish answering her question. "Pardon me, Dr. Buhler," she interjects. "I am afraid I need to take a brief recess. I am going to adjourn this deliberation for a few minutes and leave the room." She stands, not waiting for his answer; after all, she is the Queen, and she does not need anyone telling her what to do.

Without providing further explanation, she swiftly exits the boardroom they are occupying and hastens down the corridor. Her feet and calves burn, her eyes are stinging, she needs to put as much distance between her and that boardroom as possible.

They say he's making progress almost every time she visits. He's coming out of his shell, talking more, interacting with other patients, working hard in therapy--they always talk for him because he cannot articulate these things himself. He'd be so mortified to see her like this, breaking down and fleeing a pivotal meeting because of him. Because she cannot get him out of her mind. She will not tell him, perhaps ever, about this. About how much she is truly struggling.

She soon finds herself bursting through the doors of her office, her arm in her face, tears being absorbed by her sleeve. Pressing herself against the window, sobbing, her body shaking as she pictures his pallid face and vacant eyes, knowing he will never be there for her again the way he once was. He'll never stand in this office with her, rubbing her shoulders and offering advice as they work through a complicated issue together. He will not attend Cabinet meetings, will not give orations. He will never rule.

Alastair is the last person on this planet who deserves such a fate. To have his body turning against him as his organs fail. Life has been so cruel to him, even when it appeared to be overly generous, because none of this has brought him an inkling of happiness. Wealth and power are not what give him joy. All he wanted was to be the best version of himself, and his failures, he--how can he make up for them? How will she and everyone else around him show him that he is enough? He does not think he is enough. He's been so miserable for years, and instead of getting relief, he gets this. Brain damage and a terminal diagnosis. Cirrhosis, something they all should have spotted years ago, destroying his liver, and the slim hope of a transplant that would save his life.

There is nothing she can do to save him. She cannot be a living donor because they have different blood types; she cannot magically summon a viable liver for him; she cannot do anything to reverse his disease. She feels responsible for what happened to him, feels a significant portion of this is her fault, and she feels guilty, so guilty, that she let it happen. She should have--should have checked him into rehab, or--taken him to the doctor--asked for help--done something other than watch him--

She's hugging herself, rocking back and forth on her feet. Pulling herself together. Thinking of him, of how he'd react knowing she's upset because of him. He needs her to be strong for him, but here she is, incapable of being strong even for herself.

"I'm trying," she whispers to herself. "I'm trying to be strong." Nobody is around to hear. She finds solace in that, in knowing nobody will overhear. She's terrified of anyone thinking she is insane or weak. Even if she is, she must conceal 't. There is no one else to rule the nation at this point.

No one other than her.