The Throne

Chapter Two: The Death of the Ambassador

Even after eight years, my father still blames me for my mother's death. He's never outwardly said it, but I can see the signs. I can't remember the last time he looked my in the eye, showed any sign of affection or any sign at all that I am his daughter. He wasn't always like this. He was softer, kinder, lighthearted even. But ever since this day eight years ago, his heart has grown cold and his mind has darkened. Taking my mother's former position as Ambassador of Pink had taken a toll on my father.

Ten years ago today, I turned eight years old. I don't recall much about that day before the murder, only that the Leader, who had taken a liking to me, had invited all the other Ambassadors and their children to a tea party in my honor. I was ecstatic. The long flight to Gold felt eternal to me; I was so excited to arrive that seconds turned to minutes, and minutes to hours. Trips to Gold for my mother and father were typical, but this was a first for me.

There were attacks at the time, contrary to public knowledge. They were discreet and quick, usually occurring in the poor and underdeveloped areas of the New World. No one ever expected an attack to take place at the Palace.

I don't remember the tea party at all. The only thing I remember was the shattering of glass as bullets broke through all the windows in the ballroom.

The frenzied screams as people ran to escape from the room,

the strange shouts and the firing of bullets.

My mother, shouting my name as everyone else fled the room...

a slight gasp escaping her lips as she saw the gun pointing at my head...

rushing in front of me...

My mother, falling to the ground as a bullet entered the side of her head, killing her instantly.

My father's deadly grip on my arm, rushing me out of the room,

The gunshots of the palace guard, killing the remaining shooters,

The sobs echoing through the palace walls as the guards delivered the news that the beloved Ambassador Lilia of Pink was dead.

The way my father couldn't look at me.

I knew then, even at my young age, that he believed it was my fault. If I'd never been born, or if I'd ran, or if we'd never been in the palace in the first place, his beloved wife would be alive today. Some days I wish that it was me instead of her.

Deep in my heart, I know that it was my fault.

My fault that my father can't say my name or look at me.

My fault that he is broken.

My fault that my father is the Ambassador of Pink, slowly destroying our continent and our world.

My fault that my mother is dead.

Most of the time I wish that it was me.