Part 7 of the "Sign of the Timez" Series.

Now I was sent to Ireland in 1847. There was a famine and everyone was so hungry and sad. The people have given up hope and I knew it will be hard for me to have hope

Two worlds, placed in stark opposition with each other, placed intimately nestled close to each other. The world of hunger, thirst, sickness, and need. The world of the beggars. The world of luxury, comfort, pleasure, and contentment. The world of the shoppers. Two people look into each other’s faces. And they share a moment together. A small moment, mundane and abominable, in the flow of lives that take into account no justice, no mercy. Two people see each other. And nothing happens. And everything happens.

You were born dirt poor to a mother and father who loved you. You were orphaned at the age of eight because poverty is inherently precarious. Thankfully you grew up in a community that cared for you as best as they could. A community that raised you into the young woman you are today.

You live in a world that used to spark with life and hope and magic. Now there still might be magic but ... it's different.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place in a fictional fantasy world full of fictional fantasy people. Also my take on the magic elements of the world  is heavily inspired by my religion of Lokeanism. I recognize that the motifs (is that the right word?) I used in this piece are not necessarily universal.

———

This work is in the public domain and anyone can do whatever they want with it.

Azalia was child in a farming village that was hovering near poverty but getting by just fine. She had friends, family, peace, health, free time, and happiness though she never had what one would call a luxury. She was happy. Until the bombs started dropping. She didn't know why. No-one did. They just knew that there were many different ways to lose your loved ones.

Right now she's trying to provide for her loved ones, trying to survive. But to the soldiers anything is fair game. Anyone is fair game. For whatever their purposes are.

The seventeen-year old is Queen. She should be happy about that, right? She's not only married but she's married to the king.

She's not only married but she's married to the king. She's got a husband who has money and power and rank. Someone she can honour and obey and give herself to. Someone who will provide for her as long as she stays in line. As long as she stayed quiet, stays submissive, stays without an opinion, stays calm and ladylike and (of course) beautiful. As long as she stays worthy of love, worthy of belonging, worthy of what he gives to her.

The seventeen-year old is Queen.

That means she has giant, ornate palaces, crystal chandeliers, hundreds of dresses, and a bunch of food she can't actually eat but can indeed stare at (fat women aren't attractive after all).

The peasants, the people lower down on the hierarchy, don't have that. They don't have food, often, as the price of bread can soar too high for them to buy it. They don't have warmth in the winter, or medicine for when they're sick. What they do have is hard work. Hard work and calloused palms, calloused fingers, calloused feet.

And her heart reaches out to them. But what does her heart know? It's not her place to have opinions.

She has to be loyal. To her man. ... Unless... unless her loyalty truly belongs with someone else.

Maybe the thing she has to be is brave.