Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 7: Cling to hope

When Ella had left the cabin, she had half expected it to disappear in a cloud of smoke.

It wouldn't have surprised her to find that she'd imaged the quaint little home. It had come to her as if by magic. Warm, waiting and becoming, in the middle of a storm. In more than one sense, it had saved her. It had given her the quiet comfort she so desperately needed, a refuge away from the world, a moment to stop and think.

For the days the storm had lasted, the world outside had stopped existing. Her world had been reduced to those four walls, the warm crackle of the fire, and the howling wind. But then, she'd stepped outside, and it had all come rushing back.

The world hadn't stopped spinning, and neither had the people in it stopped moving. Ella had been lost in her grief, but all too quickly, she'd learned that much had happened since she'd taken a step back. War, for one.

She'd known it was going to happen. King Ironspear's death marked the beginning of the end. It was only a matter of time before something set off both realms, posed to attack. She just hadn't expected it to be so quickly.

It had taken Ardowen no more than a couple of days to pounce, marching their troops across the realm, straight to Rhothomir. Straight into a trap, as Callan had so fervently warned them all those months ago.

There was a reason the lands of Rhothomir had been left so unguarded. Why Ardowen failed to see it was a blatant set-up was anyone's guess. Blinded by vengeance, they were about to launch Faerie into a deathly, bloody war.

And Callan... Ella's stomach twisted with harsh, sudden guilt. Underneath all her mixed emotions regarding him, she knew Callan was surely worried sick. Gerrathea was a bordering Kingdom, the one that stood between Ardowen's marching troops and Rhothomir, and they would undoubtedly be caught in the middle. To make matters worse, she was out here, alone.

She'd been gone for several days, telling no one of her whereabouts. Not for the first time, she wondered if Callan was worried. If he would look for her, even if she'd been so insistent that she wanted nothing more to do with him. She'd certainly been cruel. 

It was absurd, but Ella hoped that he did care. Was that an intrinsic part of being a child? Having whims and wants and spoilt tantrums, and still hoping so desperately to be loved and forgiven. Was it the reassuring knowledge that no matter how poorly she behaved, no matter how many times she was mistaken, her parents would still love her? She hoped he did. She hoped that even if she'd been rash and insecure and terrible, he still loved her and looked for her, because she was his daughter, because he was her father.

Ella sat cross-legged in front of the fire, with a sheath of paper in front of her. She nibbled on her quill and stared blankly at it, even as ink drooled onto her hand. She went to pose her quill and stopped, hesitated, and went back to biting the edge of her thumb.

After an eternity, finally scrounging up enough courage, in quick strokes, she wrote;

Hello,

It is me. I am sorry for not having written earlier. I was caught up with some things. I hope you are all well. I am sorry for leaving so hastily, I needed some time to think. Is everyone alright?

- E

She looked at the letter and winced. Good grief, she was a poor writer. It was short, dry and to the point. It read more like a shopping list than a heartfelt letter to her father. She had half the mind to crumple it up and chuck it into the fire, but she knew that if she did, she would write a thousand letters and bin them all until she was left with no more paper and no more courage to actually send the message.