Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
ELLA
Four Years Later
I drink in the shifting scenery as the train cuts into the thick forests of Northandria.
Across the aisle, a baby cries. In the row behind me, the two grandmothers who have been talking incrementally louder throughout the whole train ride try to shout over the humming of the train as it pulls uphill.
No one really wants to hear about how Grandma A got rid of her hemorrhoids, or how Grandma B puts pork bone broth not just in her food but on her face too. But, hey, at least they’re having fun.
After all, meeting interesting people and only ever knowing that small snippet of them for that tiny sliver of time is part of the charm of traveling. It might be hemorrhoids and pork bone facial masks. But who am I to judge?
“Are we there yet?” a young boy asks two rows ahead of me. The train is packed, probably a seasonal thing. I can’t imagine too many people wanting to squeeze their way into tiny train compartments to visit even tinier countries, even if their GDPs are impressive for their size.
But it’s Carvarell Games season. And even if this is my American self’s first time attending the festivities in person, I remember enough from my dad’s Northandrian stories to know it’s supposed to be a big deal.
For the span of two weeks, Northandria becomes the focal point of Europe.
Sure, maybe just the six countries who share the Carvarell Compact are competing in something even smaller than the European Games, but it’s still pretty glamorous.
And I can’t deny being a tiny bit excited at the prospect of potentially running into a foreign dignitary or two.
Not that I’ll recognize most of them. I may be something of a European history nerd among my peers, but faces aren’t my forte. It’s probably partly why this trip feels important to me.
As anyone who has lost family to sudden tragedies might tell you, no matter the amount of prayers or therapy or counseling you go through, no matter how much you learn to pick up the pieces and move on—there’s always going to be a part of you that wants to hang onto anything that remotely tethers you to your lost loved ones.
I might need to look at old photos to keep my memories of my parents fresh, and I know I’ll always carry their pseudo-noble DNA in my unassuming veins, but there are times when I wish for something tangible, something big.
And it doesn’t get bigger than visiting a foreign country just to find that sense of connection.
“We’ll be there soon, okay? Soon.” The young mom in front of me pulls a small flag out of her purse and waves it in front of her impatient son.
The boy sighs before grabbing it, barely placated.
I chuckle. The flag is white and sky blue—Northandrian.
Like most travel buddies, we might never see each other again, but at least we’ll be rooting for the same team.
Across the narrow aisle from them, a small family wears an entire merch store’s worth of red and silver. Beside them, a tall man with an athletic build tries to keep to himself, but his ocean blue sports kit indicates an athlete that’s been left behind by his team.
Everywhere, there are people. Young people, old people. First-time visitors and what sounds to be veteran Carvarell Games supporters. The cacophony of languages around me soothes me. It’s like a reminder that everyone is just a little bit different here, so it’s okay for me to be too.
Beside me, an Asian young lady nods off in her professional attire, her press badge askew. I turn back towards the window, poke my glasses up my nose, and I smile.
It’s smelly, and it’s noisy. And I can imagine half of the people on the train think of this leg of their trip more as a necessary evil than anything.
But for me, this is a pilgrimage.
It may be my first time in this part of the world. In fact, some people might argue that it’s not the smartest idea to do a splurge like this immediately after college. This is, after all, the life stage of low-paying internships and looming student loans.
But I just know, intangibly, that I can’t move on with my life if I don’t at least make peace with where I’ve come from first. Maybe, after I get to know my true fatherland a little bit better, then I can start figuring out my murky, intimidating future.
Before I can move forward, I need to revisit the past.
And whatever Ground Springs, Virginia and a fancy New Jersey university can’t give me, maybe Northandria can.
I cast another look at the towering evergreens filing by. And if all else fails, at least the photos will look pretty darn good.