My sister came home from the castle of the king. She came back from the many, many months she spent away from our village, from our little, tight-knit community. She came home two days ago. But she did not come home at all. So much of herself is still locked away in that castle with the king who took so much of her.

I couldn't get her to talk. I couldn't get her to smile. She only stared listlessly into the distance, eyes flooded over with the spectres of pain, looking for something that no longer existed. Looking for her lost innocence, perhaps. Or her missing sense of personhood. Or her security.

I couldn't get her to work alongside me in our fields. She was too listless for that. She was too listless to churn butter or bake bread or mend clothing. She was too listless to join in in to the conversations the neighbours would pass around sitting by the fire. She was too listless to play with the children, or talk to the elders, or do anything except stare out with those big, dark eyes of hers. Eyes that held nothing and everything both at the same time. Held things that I know I will never understand.

Her dark eyes are quite gorgeous. And that, really, was part of what sealed her doom. Her large eyes. Her straight nose. Her wide cheekbones. They caught the attention of the king. And he took her away. He took her away and he kept a piece of her to himself in his large castle. A piece that he ripped out of her soft heart with his rough, greedy hands that could never get enough, never get enough of anything to be satisfied.

So here she is. In a corner of our one-room hut in the village. Leaning against a wall. She is surrounded by friends and neighbours. But she can't really see us. Not really. And she can't really hear us either. But we are there for her anyways. We are there for her as much as we can.

"Do you want some bread, Amy?" Maybello asks her. Maybello is a teenager. They’re kindhearted and soft-spoken but stubborn as a rock. If anyone can get my sister to eat, it's them.

Amy doesn't reply.

"Come on, Amy," Maybello presses, "you need to eat. You know that you need to eat. If you don't, you will waste away."

Still no reply. It's like my friend's words aren't even getting through to her.

"You need to keep your strength up. You need to keep your strength up so that you can get through all the hurt and all the pain and come out on the other side. You need to keep your strength up so you can heal. You can heal. You will heal. Amy, please."

She still doesn't respond.

Maybello keeps pressing her, trying to make her eat or even at least acknowledge the rest of us. But you can tell that Amy is lost. That her soul is lost. That it is out there somewhere and nothing that Maybello does can get it back from the far reaches of its wandering. Still, they try. The sweet youth tries their very best. And for that I am beyond grateful.

———

Amy is eating now. It's good that she's eating. There isn't enough food. There never is. But she's eating what we give her. And for that I am beyond thankful. She can live. She might not be alive, not truly, not after what the king did. But still, she can live and I ... I won't have to lose my sister. I've already lost my sister but I won't have to lose her again.

The neighbours bring us food. A different neighbour brings each meal. They know that things are hard on my family right now. They know that things will be hard for who knows how much longer. So they try to do what they can to help. And I make sure to thank them deeply for everything that they are doing for us.

Amy sits listlessly as life moves on around her. My husband and I work the fields. We sweep the floors and mend the clothes and churn the butter. Neighbours come to visit. We go to visit them. Children play with us. They ask what's wrong with Amy. I don't have an answer. Not one that would make sense to them and not one that I know myself.

But we work as a community. We all work as a community. We're all here for each other and we all remain here for each other and because of the strength of our community we can get through this. Because of the strength we all give each other, the strength we all share between us, and grow, and nurture, we can get through this.

Right now I'm coaxing Amy to eat her breakfast. Simple rye bread and a small heap of berries from the forest on the outskirts of the village.

"Come on, Amy. You have to eat." I keep my voice gentle. She listens to me.

All of a sudden she leans over and throws up all over the floor. I exclaim in surprise and jump back. Some of it still gets on my clothes. I'l have to take us both to the river to bathe, after I get out of theses clothes.

———

She doesn't throw up for lunch or dinner thankfully. But for three days in a row, she throws up her breakfast. I think at first that it must just be her shaking nerves from all that she had been through. But eventually my instinct is telling me something else. And the elders of the village are telling me something else.

My sister is carrying life inside of her.

The king did this. It's his. It has to be. It could not be anyone else's.

I ask my sister if she wants to keep it. She puts one hand over her womb. And she looks off into the distance, as she always seems to these days.

"You don't have to keep it if you don't want to," I tell her, "we can get rid of it if you want to. It's up to you."

She sits in silence for a while. I don't know if she's thinking or feeling or of she's just existing. But I respect it. Whatever she is doing, I respect it.

"I'm keeping it," she finally responds to me, voice aching, words not all there. "The baby is not the king’s. It's mine."

I put a hand over Amy's hand over her womb.

"It's all of ours," I tell her. "I will love it. I promise."

———