Ninety one.
The brush gently slided against the snowy locks which had long now been untangled. Its light caress, soothing, was guided to repeat itself under the moonlight leaking through the transparent drapes.
Ninety two.
Just ahead, a promising view of a small square was offered amidst the crowded houses of the Bazaar. One could perhaps name it a wide yard where several houses united through their kitchen doors. Two wooden benches had their back turned on a frail three that shed golden leaves in the artificial clearing. In the morning, doors would open for enchanted laundry to hang itself from the ropes bound to the tree. In a perfect world, children would perhaps be added to that carefree picture of normality as well, but those were now a rare sight.
Ninety three.
For the first time after a while, Celysiel moved. Her hand found nothing but glass when reaching out to the window, the measures taken by protective parents against the days that the winds were chilling. She took in the image of the view as it was showered by lunar light, silver and gentle. How bitter it was, to view something so close for years, but be unable to reach to it. She had never stepped out at that small, cozy backyard.
Ninety four.
Her hand dropped when the next stroke came, annoyed that she was still counting. Yet it was impossible to do otherwise. Those little things kept calling. Three knocks on each door. Step on top of the pavement slabs, not between them. Never leave an item at the edge of the table, or any other surface. Count each brush stroke, each breath even. Synchronize the two. Synchronize everything. Bring order in a small world of chaos.
But at that moment, she had no desire to count, as much as her mind subconsciously wished otherwise. Anger had to be nurtured within her, for was it not on her name to possess it? Yet why was all that she felt upset in the childish way that to her meant so much? Behind her, a tender hand weaved through her long mane, collecting the strands as yet another stroke was administered.
Ninety five.
Celysiel snorted and lowered her gaze with furrowed eyebrows. Behind her, a voice spoke.
"What is this?" the woman asked. "I never knew you to complain about having your hair brushed. I thought you loved it."
The light hint of sarcasm on the feminine voice was too gentle to aggrivate anyone, let alone someone unfamiliar with the concept of sarcasm in the first place. Celysiel only sighed and looked down at her hands, already eager to torment the pale silks of her night gown.
"It is not that." she mumbled. "You know what it is."
Ninety six. "Do I?" The same tone persisted on the voice of Dyandria Firetreader, who casually continued her task. Ninety seven. "What if you are wrong? Maybe you should tell me regardless."
Another sigh followed. Ninety eight. Celysiel raised her gaze to look outside the window for once more. "I truly wished to go in the woods today." It sounded childish even to admit it, but the truth of it could not be denied. "Alyera visits them frequently. And beyond. She has been to Sunsail and says there is nothing more beautiful than the salty smell of the sea. It is so close." Her heart skipped a heartbeat as she continued, pushed by buried determination. "Why can I not go as well? I am no child anymore. I have not been for years."
Dyandria's smile was small, yet kind, though her daughter could not see it at that moment. All she could do was count. Ninety nine. "It is neither a matter of age, nor trust, my sparrow." she replied. "Your health does not permit it. You may become ill, or weary. In here, there are no such risks."
"My health." Celysiel repeated bitterly, looking down at her pale hands for once more. There was little love for that frail body in which her soul bad been trapped since birth. A sickly child, often catching colds, or experiencing constant exhaustion in her youth. A frail sparrow.
A hundred. For one last time, the silver brush caressed the white strands, before it was set at the window, where it was constantly kept. The item itself was a work of art and a gift for Celysiel at her tenth birthday - so long ago. It carried her initials and the blessing of two loving parents. An item most dear to her.
"There is nothing too wonderful regarding the woods." Dyandria continued. "No maiden such as yourself ought to wonder there."
"But Alyera-"
"Alyera's parents are Farstriders and she is training to follow their example. It is different."
The young elf turned to face her mother. "What if I want to be a Farstrider too?"
Dyandria laughed and Celysiel caught herself just staring at her for a moment. She was beautiful when she laughed, with her orange locks lightly bouncing every time she flinched and her love for green dresses. A gentle shade of green, not like the vibrant one of the fel corruption they both carried. But just as that moment passed, she also felt her heart sink. No, to carry a bow had never been her dream, nor could her body take the rigorous training. But to be able to see the world? Who would not want that?
"Your tutor would be quite amused to hear this." she said as she pulled back, allowing Celysiel to reach the bed. Her daughter did so, pulling the sheets up to her chin. "How are your lessons progressing?"
"Fine." she lied effortlessly. For as brilliant as the arcane was, to be limited at the minor enchanting taught by an old, uninspiring teacher could not come anywhere near the deepest desires Celysiel harboured in regards to knowledge. Those born every time she looked up at the sky. Those she could never confess to the likes of her fel-fearing parents.
And yet to lie was no easy feat. Her mother was no fool to believe that nothing was wrong. She set her hand on the sheets, her smile becoming compassionate. "Come now, my sparrow. It is not all so bad. Did you not enjoy the festival tonight? You love Midsummer."
It was true, she did. To wear a crown of amber flowers and observe the skilled fire dancers was always the highlight of the year. But not this one. Letting the sheets fall on her legs, she reached for a tuft of her hair, bringing it in front of her eyes.
"One of Alyera's friends was a fire dancer." she mumbled. "She laughed when I said I had to go home and claimed I know nothing of life, nor will I ever. She said that I look like a banshee."
For once more, Dyandria's first instinct was to laugh, but when she saw that Celysiel was truly saddened by the words spoken earlier in the day, the laughted faded awkwardly. The mother set her hand on the other's shoulder. "My sweet, beautiful sparrow, that is not true."
"It is though." Celysiel whispered lowly. "She had beautiful hair, just like yours. Her skin was sunkissed. And even look at Alyera, with her caramel-like hair. Why could my hair not be like yours?"
"Hey now." Dyandria uttered gently. "Do not let your dad-"
"But dad does not look bad at all!" Celysiel protested. "He is not that pale, no one would tell him that he looks like a banshee!"
"Celysiel." her mother uttered softly. "It was one foolish comment. You should know better than to take those to heart. After all, have you ever seen a banshee?"
"I have not." she admitted, though the answer was never a great mystery. "How could I? I have not been anywhere beyond Silvermoon since we came back. You have never allowed it."
Dyandria furrowed her eyebrows and let her hand fall from her daughter's shoulder. "Is this what it all boils down to? You wish to step out in the world?"
Celysiel nodded.
"After the defeat that it is said this world's forces suffered in the Broken Shore only days ago?"
"You will head out next month, even if the Legion has returned." She was expecting that argument from her mother and was ready to debate. "All I am asking is that you take me with you."
"Your father and I go out there so that you will not have to." Dyandria raised her chin a little. "The outside world... It is not as wonderful as you think. It is easy to desire what you have never experienced, but the world is dangerous, my sparrow, especially for someone like you. To be able to live sheltered so far in the north, in this beautiful city our gracious king used to rule is a blessing. Never forget that."
In spite of all the tenacity possessed, Celysiel knew when to insist was vain. She merely sat back, her head soon colliding against the pillow. "I just want to see what it is like. Even if just for one time." She let that be her swan song, knowing very well that nothing would come out of it.
For a moment, Dyandria sat on the bed silent, her lips pressed together as if she was troubled by her daughter's dream. "Do you want to see it so much?" she asked.
Celysiel nodded.
"Then how about we make tonight's story about the outside world instead?" she proposed. In spite of Celysiel now being a maiden with her carefree youth left behind, the tradition of a bedtime story remained. No matter how repetitive at times. "About what it really is like. Would you like that?"
The young elf nodded several times. Her mother smiled.
"Before we begin though, I will ask you not to interrupt me once, nor be troubled if the story begins with 'in a world far, far away'. It is how all proper stories should be. Yet the essence of it will speak about our world, all worlds, what the world truly is like. Do we have a deal?"
For once more, Celysiel nodded. "What is the story about?" she asked.
"It is about a boy named An'ton." Dyandria replied. "A boy whose dream was to reach the City of Lights."
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