Flame That Came For Me
The sun shines through the grey clouds, despite the time of year. The seasons never seem to affect Driftford Kingdom, a thick layer always hanging over the sky. However this is the warmest day of the year, and all the children from around the village are out to play.
Jemilla steps out of the gates to the palace, hand-in-hand with her Mother, Molag. Molag is the Queen, ruling the Kingdom through its battles and wars, leads her down the pathway down to the town. They like to go down once a week, to see how the people were doing, and let Jemilla make friends.
Her tiny heart pounds excitedly as she skips down the dirt track, kicking at the pebbles that get stuck in her sandals. The town is big, many exciting experiences and knowledge waiting for her. She has always wondered why they walk instead using horses and carriages like her old Kingdom. Molag says it’s to gain the trust of the people, but Jemilla is yet to see a horse anywhere, so she’s not so sure that’s the only reason.
Ignoring the gravel in her shoe, Jemilla pulls Molag along, almost in the town. They head past the stalls and onto the rocky pavement. Two-story buildings line the streets, covered in colourful flowers, vines crawling up the walls.
So she doesn’t get lost, her grip tightens on Molag’s hand, darting through crowds of people, who bow before them. That’s another thing Jemilla doesn’t understand, something that never happened back then.
They eventually stop at a run-down store on the edge, stones falling off the side. There is a rather concerned-looking man and woman standing outside, a little girl hiding behind her. She has hair the colour of chestnuts, held in ponytails by black ribbons tied in bows. She gives a shy smile and Jemilla waves in reply and immediately assumes they are the same age.
The little girl tugs on the woman’s dress and whispers something to her, then shuffles over to Jemilla, and holds her hand out. Jemilla looks up at Molag, who nods and nudges her off. So she takes her hand, and she is off with the girl, into an open field, with a large oak tree.
“I’m Zazzalil,” The little girl says once they arrive. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Jemilla,” She replies confidently, like how Molag taught her.
“Jemilla? The princess?” Zazzalil’s jaw drops.
“Yeah.” She plops down under the tree, spreading her fingers through the prickly grass, crossing her legs under her cream-coloured dress.
“Are you even allowed to play with me?” The sound of her voice is enough to make Jemilla pout. Why wouldn’t they be allowed?
“Of course you are. I don’t see why you wouldn’t be.”
“Because my parents are merchants, and your mother is the queen. Are you sure she wants you around me?” Zazzalil eases herself down in front of Jemilla, imitating her stance.
“Molag thinks it’s good for me to make friends, because I wasn’t allowed in my old Kingdom.” She explains, Zazzalil tilts her head.
“Old Kingdom?”
“I was taken away because it was a very bad one.”
Her old Kingdom, The Kingdom of Reseth, had fallen to ruins. The folk no longer respected the royals, scheming to take over. Violent riots were led, fires blazed from the outskirts and into the town. They had called upon Driftford to help regain control, but they were too late. The King and Queen were already dead, killed by their own people.
Only four years old at the time, Jemilla had hidden herself in her closet. She hid behind the dresses and cried, asking herself what she was going to do. If she showed herself, she would be killed as well.
At some point, she was found by Molag, who was doing a sweep of the palace. She told her kind words and reassurance, wiped the tears off her cheeks, and took her in. It was a long journey, Jemilla didn’t know where they were going. All she was told was that she is still a princess, now of another land.
“I have been here for four years.”
“Hm.” Zazzalil mumbles, biting her lip. A moment of silence passes, then she jumps up to her feet. “Do you want to play warriors with me?”
“Warriors?”
“Me and Keeri play it sometimes. We pretend to fight!” Zazzalil beams, holding out her hand. “Want to play?”
Jemilla squints, then takes her hand. “Sure.”
“Then wield your sword.” Zazzalil mimes drawing her sword dramatically.
“Okay,” Jemilla copies her, remembering the army training she has witnessed. She imagines the sword in her hand to be beautiful, bedazzled with jewels, swirly patterns engraved on the handle.
She swings the imaginary sword around, Zazzalil giggles loudly as she swings back. They repeat their motions, stepping further away from the tree. Jemilla can see her getting tired, seizing her opportunity to strike.
“Hah!” Jemilla fake-stabs her, Zazzalil bringing her hand to her forehead, and charismatically falling down. “I win!”
“You’re good.” Zazzalil says, out of breath. Jemilla drops to her knees next to her, her dress becoming dirtier.
“Thank you.” Jemilla says politely, her hands clasped together. “You did well too. How old are you?”
“I’m eight!”
“Same!” All of the children Jemilla had met had either been much older or younger than her. The two bask in the comfortable quiet, until Jemilla can hear her name being called.
“Jemilla! Time to go home!”
“Coming!” Jemilla calls back, then whispering a quick “No!”
“You have to leave?” Zazzalil sits up and frowns, when Jemilla nods. “Oh.”
“Come on! Be quick!” Molag yells, Jemilla panics.
“Here.” She fumbles with the clasp of her gold necklace, removing it and placing it gently in Zazzalil’s palm. It has a heart shape hanging from the small chain. “Have this. I hope we meet again someday.”
“I hope so too.” Zazzalil smiles, closing her fist around the gift. “Goodbye, Jemilla.”
“Goodbye, Zazzalil.” Jemilla whips around, and runs back to Molag, who stands alone.
Jemilla chats the entire way back to the palace, Molag listening contentedly. She adores how she always has something to say, even if in other Kingdoms think otherwise.
Molag prides herself on running the Kingdom fairly, given everyone equal opportunities and listening to the people. Even with the raging wars, she isn’t worried for the future, because Jemilla is already showing potential to be a great Queen one day.
The night is dark, and Jemilla is sleeping, When Molag gets a letter. It’s from the opposing Kingdom, this sends chills down her spine.
Dear Queen Molag of Driftford Kingdom.
I regret to inform you that this is our turning point. You have failed to keep up trades, among other aspects, as you are too busy training for battles. We will now see how great you are, because we are declaring war. We will be taking you down with your lousy Kingdom.
Signed,
King Rowan, Kingdom of Cleves
This is bad.
Very, very bad.
The next morning, Molag gave Jemilla her first sword, much like how Jemilla had given her necklace to Zazzalil. She kisses her forehead and whispers:
“I will do everything I can to keep you safe, and you will learn how to use this. This land is worth fighting for, and one day, you might.”
“When I’m the Queen, there will be no wars.” Jemilla declares with tears in her eyes, gripping the handle of the real sword.
“Always the peacemaker.” Molag chuckles. “Farewell, Jemilla. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
When Jemilla is allowed, she rushes down the town to find Zazzalil. She finds everyone standing on the streets, filling them to the brim. So much noise, too many people shouting.
She wraps her arms around herself, shrinking so she can fit through the gaps between strangers. The ground is hard against her tired feet.
“Jemilla? What are you doing here?” Zazzalil’s mother asks her once she gets to the run-down shop. “Shouldn’t you be at the palace?”
“I want to talk to Zazzalil.” She mumbles, feeling a tap on her shoulder.
“I’m here.” She says, her face is blotchy, likely from crying.
“There’s going to be a war.”
“I know. My Mummy never did the training, but my daddy did and now he’s going.” Zazzalil trembles. “I don’t want him to go.”
“Molag is going too. I’m learning how to real-sword fight, maybe I can teach you.” Jemilla offers, Zazzalil nods eagerly.
“Then we can protect each other.”
“And everyone else too.”