Love comes in many forms.
Speaking about it, imagining it, and melting at the mere prospect of it can leave you giddy with its richness.
But defining it, expressing or experiencing it - that's a different game.
Elijah - the heir to the throne of...
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She had escaped.
The darkness absorbed our shadows, as I walked in with the soldiers, into the enormous construction that only allowed two windows stretching to the whole length of the building vertically.
"How did this happen? We've never had a case of an escape in our entire history of criminal protection and now we get to bear the proud mark of a female leading that to ruins?!" The soldiers were scattered everywhere, screaming at each other in anger and frustration, and firing the "you know it was your fault" insults at each other.
"Ahem. I suggest everyone stop speaking immediately before I cut off your tongues on the training grounds with my own sword." My mother, only slightly shorter than my tall frame that stretched to six feet and an inch, stood there with seething rage, visibly shrinking the confidence of every soldier and prison guard there.
I chose to walk through the passage that had been enveloped with sudden silence, every guard appearing like a stone statue with a perfect masquerade of bravery.
As I passed every prison cell, I swiftly avoided the curious gazes of the criminals dressed in nothing but a long mustard cloth, only sparing the visibility of their hands and feet. They openly probed the appearance of their new visitor, some smiling in a way that could only be considered a symbol of mockery and others that just scoffed and turned away.
The only difference in the pattern was the one empty cell, permeated with the still present scent of the alluring dancer.
It was airy and cool, almost bringing in the feeling of the sea's waves crashing against the rocks, fighting against the repugnant aromas in the cell trying to seal itself over its original purity.
I carefully opened the creaky gates, stepping inside with utmost concentration.
That's when I saw it.
"The stains are there to stay."
Water. She had written the message with the one glass of water the prisoners are supplied with every day, the letters elegantly dripping down and prancing their way across the dirty and ironically sunless mustard walls.
It was fresh. She hadn't escaped too long ago.
The guards stood behind me, their posture indicating their incomplete befuddlement as they were yet to have any answers as to how this had occurred.
The first female to be prisoned. The same had escaped.
It should take its place in history but I was sure that once the news had reached my father's ears, it would be already buried even before the assisting dirt could acknowledge its entrance.
"What sort of child's play is this? Not only does she break out from the palace, but leaves an 'eerie little message' in her wake? Who exactly does this female think she is?" The guards a few feet behind me were anxiously whispering to each other, gesturing to the watermarks.
