Wide eyes looked up at Dyandria as she finished the story and she in return looked back at her daughter's cheeks, dry and untouched by any tears. Yet the curiosity could not be dismissed. The mother caressed her confused daughter, who seemed to be waiting for more.
"The end." she spoke softly, tilting her head to the side.
Celysiel still seemed puzzled. "No. It cannot be." she mumbled in disbelief, as if expecting her mother to surprise her soon enough.
Dyandria arched an eyebrow. "But what if it is?"
"It cannot be." Celysiel repeated. "There are no unhappy stories, for they are fables. They must always end well. Surely a naaru descends along the line to revive An'ton. Surely the people of the city find him and nurse him back to life. Surely..."
"You asked for a story about the outside world." Dyandria reminded her, shaking her head. "And there, my sweet sparrow, there are no happy endings. The invisible pen of an unknown writer is not shaping the strings of fate. Miracles are too scarce to rely on and they should not be wished for." Her fingers stroked the snow-white mane of the young elf as she lay on the bed. "The outside world is a place neither for the frail, nor the naive. Not all are heroes, Celysiel. Not all possess the suberb power to save the world. Not all are safe from its dangers. We are not all meant to live lives of adventure and triumph. I want you to remember that."
"Is the outside world my City of Lights?" Celysiel asked, her gaze drifting to the ceiling.
"No." Dyandria replied. "It is a lot more vague than that. Anyone can be An'ton and their absolute happiness the City of Lights. Some, like him, do not have it. They are born without it, thus their entire lives are built with the aim of finding it. It is rare that they do, because real life is no bedtime story, little sparrow. And then there are those who desire to obtain what they have never experienced, those ignorant of the fact that they were born in the very City of Lights."
She rose, straightening her green dress, and headed towards the door, her digits lingering against the wood. Every pattern could be felt beneath the finger tips, every gentle crease, the layer of polish by the artisan's hand. Yes. For some, that was happiness. Simplicity. Life. The little things.
Yet when she turned to face her daughter, Dyandria found the girl clutching the blanket tightly against her chest, her shoulders shivering, eyes thin. It was not grief - after all, what did that sheltered creature know of sorrow? Merely a stubborn nature, a certain mind eager to learn, yet not so eager to accept what did not satisfy.
"Why?" Celysiel whispered, her nails digging into the sheets that she was holding against her body. "Why did the boy not reach the City of Lights?"
Dyandria did not smile as she tilted her head. "Not all do, my sparrow." she uttered softly.
The door closed behind her shortly after, clicking gently. And so the room surrendered to silence and moonlight alike. And that last question would remain, for the mother's answer could never suffice.
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