A Search for the King
As a little girl, I had always dreamed of touching Jupiter's flaming orange colors or soaring through the grey-tinted sky above my home. My mother, Isla, always told me stories of a time hundreds of years ago, when the people would cross mountains on foot and drink from wicker baskets. They had rags for clothes and farmed by hand, but their months and days were always the same as ours. My father, who has since passed away, told me stories about wars from the past. He told me about long battles that lasted for long years between angry nations. Between these stories, my parents always claimed that the old times were better than my time here. They never lived in those eras; first the prehistoric, then the ancient, then the medieval, then the industrial, and then the rise of technology. From the looks of it, history never quite repeated itself. Now, a thousand years later, our earth has grown and aged with its lasting human population. We have passed many eras, including a newly finished era. The time of the Paxmaia was a peaceful time, just after a great war that affected more than the innocent. My grandfather, Jilharar, served his time in the Battle of the Missiles, but most of him was lost within the grasp of the war. It was genocide that killed him. Not quite literally, but figuratively. He was a good man, someone who wouldn't wish to bring such harm upon a race of people who so innocently wanted the war to end. It was this period of war that spurred my parent's thinking. They said the Paxmaia will end and I will never have peace again. They believed superstitiously, but I didn't. Isla was an architect, and designed her projects according to natural disasters and the fear of another war breaking out. Her designs worried her superiors, and because she was such a well-trained designer, they took her away from the buildings and put her in Home Designing, hoping her fear of war would brush off with lovely designs of octagonal condominiums. She made money, quite a bit of it, and I was a spoiled little rich girl. But being rich didn't stop her from being fired. She looked towards my father for help financially, and all he had to do was create plans for our wealth, until he died. My father wasn't a very cautious man. He took risks, despite the thought of war deep in his mind. However, he wasn't risky enough. He was the right hand man to our nation's Monarch. King Idail Aveto was dearly loved by a lot of his people. He was the right king for our growing Callahana. Callahana sprouted from the tip of a forgotten country called Canada. It is now called Bulmini, from the Bulminites that invaded, and it was broken down into several providences. Callahana broke away from the barbaric people of Bulmini for greedy reasons, like money and estate. However, it transformed into a beautiful country with a powerful King. Kind Idail Aveto, however, was disliked by many, including the Bulminites. My father was killed in an uprising of barbarians who had crossed Callahana's borders. They meant for the king, but got my father instead. Isla talked to me that night. She told me my father was gone, and that we were on our own. What I hadn't realized though, was that the very night, Idail Aveto was killed in his sleep, and his long royal line was brutally severed. I knew for a fact that it wasn't the Bulminites that did it.