incomplete work - two.

Most likely never finishing this.

The pain of battle is something we the people of this world, from youth whom no longer can live independently, their only power lying in others, to those truly trained for such hardships, know all too well. We grow and live fearing the loss of family members and friends, homes and careers, for we cannot control the shadow that seemingly forever looms over this dynasty, clawing mercilessly at the innocent, spreading a flame that gnaws at soles of our feet, tearing into raw bone, as we try to continue searching for the light at the end of the tunnel. The once powerful, faithful, and reliable king and queen, alongside their newborn daughter, forced from the throne, having not been seen since then.

The new ruler, one unbefitting the crown of the Holy Land, slowly covered those few glimpses of hope with a plaguing darkness that swept out even the slightest memory of happiness among the dwindling crowds. His gaze penetrates the souls that attempt to rebel for their homeland, striking them in there place as pain erupts from their heart, and their sight, everything about them still etched with defiance, slowly fades. A laugh, one so maniacal and drenched with malice, echoes throughout the castle walls and rides the wind the drifts unto the citizens, erupts from the mouth of the self-proclaimed sovereign. Even his warriors, chosen specifically to represent strength and power alone, could not help the horrified shiver that shook them to the bone.

For years, many have tried to overcome his ludicrous strength and regain peace; countless have fallen, unable to so much as scratch this man—his abilities otherworldly, much as the glint in his eyes. Soon, they withdrew all together, unable to withstand the overbearing presence of this man, succumbing to his will. The population fluctuated, their nation not once ever regaining their full beauty in this time. Supplies were scarce, jobs and careers so low the entire once prestigious society eroded to the ground alongside its well-cared for architecture, overwhelmed with the sudden influx of slums.

The tranquil times were over, and for fourteen years, Sarkatia was gradually celled in by order of the king. Those few whom actually were able to escape not once let their history in this isolated land leave through the sound of word, their symptoms of depression and fear not truly obliterated from their persona even with the bordering nations’ assistance. Those whom still thought of the former leaders prayed endlessly for their return, for they knew their spirits, although weak and not at all proud, could not have left the world—Sarkatia’s people—in such a time.

And, finally, the search for the refugee King, Midas Sarkatia of the Golden Ages, and his Queen, Marta-Elise Sarkatia, ended.