Aylia Holmes

9. Traipsing Through the Wilderness

Aylia woke with a start, her eyes shooting open as her heart pounded in her chest. The fire had long since died and the night, which by the looks of it was a few hours from dawn, had turned cold and wet with dew. Aylia sat up, looking about her to see what could have woken her. Elwin was still fast asleep, his expression peaceful and undisturbed under those dark curls of his that fell over his forehead. Nothing seemed to be disturbed, but even so, Aylia still felt the suspicion that something, or someone, was watching her.

Her breathing had shallowed as she surveyed the forest around her, but there was not even a crackle of a leaf or twig. Nothing moved. Somehow, the lack of movement scared her even more. She felt her heart leap into her mouth as she curled her knees to her chest. The worn corner of her book pinched her thigh. Suddenly flung into a panic, she drew it from her still-damp pocket and strained her eyes to survey the damage. The binding of the book had somehow held for the most part, but the ink had warped and the pages stuck together in places. Holding back tears, she opened it to the page with the large, dark stain and gently touched it.

The stain had remained, even as the words around it had run and slithered down the page. Even so, great tears sprang to her eyes. Pressing her hand to her lips, she attempted to stifle the sound, but a weak sob still left her, sending a jolt through her shoulders. She hardly dared to touch the dear book, but still, she mourned, a single hand brushing the stain gently.

"Ayla?" a horse voice whispered.

She glanced over, seeing movement from where Elwin was laying. The horizon had begun to turn grey and she could only just see his face. She could not bring herself to speak as she looked back towards the book. Elwin sat up, following her stare and frowning at the sight of the old, battered book, but as Aylia let out another sob, pressing her other hand to her lips and leaning her upper body against her legs tucked under her, Elwin sat up and approached her.

"Ayla," he whispered, laying a hand on her shoulder.

With another shuttering sob, she lay her head on the ground, finally letting go of all restraint. In a rush of emotion, she sat up, gasping for breath as she stared at the book. Without a word, Elwin embraced her, holding her close as she buried her head in his shoulder, her hands clenched holding the lapels of his jacket. Her sobs turned to desperate gasps for air as her clenched fists tightened and heart-wrenching sobs lefts her lips.

She stayed like this for several minutes, but as the sun rose and the darkness was cast away, her breathing evened out and her tears stopped.

Elwin waited several minutes after she had calmed before he ventured to ask, "Are you all right?"

Aylia sniffled, looking up at him and partially detaching herself from him. Her eyes were red and her cheeks blotchy. Elwin's heart twisted at the sight.

"I-" she began before more tears sprang to her eyes.

"Sh, sh, it's all right," Elwin said softly, holding her tightly to him again as she began crying again.

As Aylia cried into his shoulder, he glanced down at the book curiously just as a harsh gust of wind whipped the beginning pages over, revealing the front page. There, written in warped, dark letters was the name Moreland Holmes.

"I-" Aylia sobbed. "I'm sorry, I just-"

In between gasps, she told him the whole story. She did not tell it so eloquently here, but it was something to this effect.

Moreland Holmes, her father, was, in some ways, a more absent father than most as he was often busy during the day, but the one thing he was always present for was Aylia's nightly story. He would read different books from Ferndell Hall's library each night, drawing her into worlds of magic and adventure, but her favourite was her father's little copy of short stories, each full of magic and light. Each night she would beg and plead to hear just one more of the stories she had heard a hundred times before, but although he was tired, Moreland Holmes never once refused his daughter another story. He read to her until she slept.

When she was older, however, he seemed to become busier and busier until finally she was left alone to her reading, but while it wasn't quite the same without her father's rumbling voice, she kept on the tradition of reading it each night. The dark stain, a mark from a particularly memorable night when her father had accidentally knocked the book into the lit candle, had always reminded her of him, even before he was gone.

When she had finished telling her story, Elwin continued holding her, rocking her back and forth slightly to soothe her as she rested peacefully in his arms.

The sun had just crossed the horizon when he spoke. "I'm sorry about your father, Ayla. I can't imagine."

Sitting up, she wiped her eyes, sniffling as she said, "No, I'm sorry. I'm just being silly. It's just...it's just a book."

She closed it with more tenderness than a woman comforting her dying mother.