Gisaea LeClaire is a simple Woodland girl living a simple life. That is, until two strange Aysgarthians arrive in her village, and hope is accentuated by an unexpected dream. Suddenly, everything isn't so simple anymore, and Gisaea finds herself on...
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Cyprian Everdale stared at his reflection in the mirror. He slowly lifted his eyepatch, revealing the scar running vertically down the left side of his face, slicing through the middle of his once ordinary eye. He quickly covered it back up, ashamed at the sight, and turned away from the glass bearing his reflection. He couldn't bear the sight of his face, not after what his mother had done to him. She had given him this scar that was imprinted on his skin forever—a mark of disgrace. Cyprian yelled in rage, hurling a book at the mirror, shattering the glass to pieces.
Cyprian was going to run away. And he wouldn't be coming back. He would rather die than spend one more second in this hell.
He grabbed a rope hidden in the back of his wardrobe—then tossed it out of his window. He watched as the rope spiraled downwards until finally straightening, hitting the ground with a thud. Cyprian tightened his grip on the rope to ensure it didn't slip out of his hands, then tied the rope onto the sharp hook he had managed to dig into the stone walls of his window ledge. He pulled tightly on the rope, making sure the knot was perfect. It had to be perfect. One mistake, and he would fall to his death.
Yep. No pressure at all.
Cyprian took a deep breath, steadying his racing heartbeat. For this to work, he would have to ignore his terror of heights. The simple thought of the rope snapping made him shutter to his core. But he didn't have a choice. He had to get out of there.
Cyprian swung himself over the ledge of his window, grasping tightly onto the rope. Frigid rain splattered his face, and he wondered if there was ever a day when it wasn't raining in Aysgarth. The sky was always gray, and the streets were always damp. Cyprian couldn't remember the last time he had seen the sun. The fiery star would never dare show itself in Aysgarth, and if it did, its light would probably end up snuffed out by the darkness. But once he escaped, he would meet the sun for the first time. He hoped it would be warm and full of light like he'd heard of, and that it wasn't cold and damp like the home he'd been forced to tolerate for years. Though even if it was, anything was better than Aysgarth.
Cyprian trembled as he slowly climbed down the rope, using the stone walls of the palace as a foothold. The cold rain dripped down his back and through his hair, sending chills shivering down his spine. How close was the ground, now? He couldn't tell. How long had it been? It felt like hours already.
At one point, his foot slipped, and his heart leaped into his throat. He gasped for air, holding onto the rope for dear life. He then hung there---stunned---trembling from head to toe. How much longer was he to endure this horrid pain? Forever?
But soon, Cyprian finally felt his feet touch the ground, and he let out a shaky breath of relief. He fell to his hands and knees, closing his eyes as his heart finally started to slow. He took a deep breath. He had made it, and he wasn't dead. That was an accomplishment in and of itself.
Now for the next step.
Climbing over the gate.
Great. More heights. Just what Cyprian needed.
Cyprian used the darkening evening sky as an advantage, his escape pristinely timed. He pulled up the hood of his dark Aysgarthian cloak, shadowing his face, hoping he matched the darkness of the oncoming night. He couldn't afford to be caught. If the palace defenders found him, any chance of freedom would slip through his fingers, and he'd be heavily supervised for life.
After Cyprian had climbed the gate, he made his way along the streets of Aysgarth. He kept his head down as he made his way through the populace, making sure no stray defenders saw his face.
As Cyprian walked through Aysgarth, that familiar feeling came over him. He stared at the dark, rotting houses lining the damp, stone-paved streets, and tried to imagine what the kingdom would look like if it weren't Aysgarth. He tried to imagine the brilliant flowers blooming in the sunlight. The beaming faces as they opened the wooden windows of their houses, basking in the morning light. The chattering elves as they greeted one another in the village market. The green grass, the clear sky. It hurt Cyprian for how much he yearned for that. How much he desired it.
Yet, he took in his own surroundings, and that familiar dampness in his soul filled him up. The houses were dark and cold. The rain poured without mercy. There were no smiling faces. The windows were boarded up and unwelcoming. The trees were bare. The grass was dead. Cyprian had never seen a flower in years. And the streets were silent. Not one elf said a word. Nothing other than the sad whispers of the people slowly losing their spirits as they lived longer and longer in this wretched kingdom.
There's no place like home, right?
Thousands of dark elves lived in this place, thinking it was home. Thinking they had no other choice but to live in the dark realm, where they "belonged."
Well, Cyprian didn't belong. He didn't choose to live and breathe darkness in the way every other dark elf desired to implement into their lives. Hence why he was leaving.
