A Debt to the Crown

"Mr. and Mrs. Dunmore, A due is still a due. A full year has passed since you first came into our territory. We have allowed you ample time to settle the required fees for making your home on our land." I see on my parents' faces that familiar look of desperation, while the collector places the settlement paper they signed a year earlier into their hands. We are still foreigners on this land. We came from Rivador, but its harsh climate and tyrant rulers drove us to search out a safer place to live. My mother and father entered into that contract so we could become citizens of this country. "You know what that means, don't you?" The collector goes on, but my father's eyes stay fixed on the line at the bottom of the page, printed in bold letters: Failure to honor the written agreement shall cause the indebted party to face Sorbea Perpetua. Sorbea Perpetua. That means the debtor must labor for the state for as long as he or she lives. And when I say serve the state, I mean you'll belong to Sunkeep Palace until your dying day. I can hardly believe this has reached my family so soon. We only just arrived here, for god's sake! The contract makes clear that if the tribute of 50,000 docents isn't paid, one of us has to serve the monarch under Sorbea Perpetua. It's absurd because we could never raise that kind of money, so how are we supposed to earn so much when we're barely holding on with whatever the crops bring in? "I'm sorry, sir, but we can offer only a thousand docents. If you'd accept it, we'll pay in annuities." My father bargained. The collector folds his arms and stares straight into my father's eyes. "The contract states plainly that payment is collected after a year. Refusing Sorbea Perpetua can result in prison, perhaps even death." The collector said it with an authoritative tone. I swallow hard at the idea of my parents being put to death. Looking at my father's face, I start to weep at the thought of him laboring away at the Sunkeep Palace. His right eye was ruined by the army in our old home after they accused him of joining the rebels, and they tortured him for information, but he had nothing useful to give them, no matter how much they believed otherwise. But that isn't all that troubles me now, because my father is getting old, he's sick more and more often, and stubborn as he is, he refuses to rest, saying that he'll be fine, which only leaves him more vulnerable. "But my husband is far too weak to work, maybe I should take over for him." My mother insisted. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the military only needs men." "When do I start?" I said on impulse, and I can hear my own pulse drumming in my skull. "I'm sorry, what?" The collector replied. "Sorbea Perpetua. I'll be the one working, right?" "I'm sorry, what?" The collector asks. "Sorbea Perpetua. I'll be the one working, right?" "Gareth!" My mother interrupts. She must've thought I was joking. "I'm sorry, but children aren't allowed to work." "I turn 18 this week." I reply in an even tone. "Oh, is that so?" He said, sounding newly interested in the idea. "Now where do I sign?"