78First of all, let me say how very very sorry I am that I am just now updating! I've been very busy learning so that I can become better at this. It's a process but I'll get there, eventually. Thank you to everyone who's still sticking with me! Thank you for all the critiques, praises, and suggestions! I love you all!
Special thanks to InChrist-Billios, for editing this chapter and to The Oblivious Seraph, who has been helping to guide me through this. You're both my heroes. Thank you so much!
One more note: this chapter contains Celia's reaction to Evan's revelation, only. It isn't terribly long and there isn't much action - that's coming soon, I promise. This chapter has been the bane of my existence. I've written it and rewritten it, and lost it on , and cried, then rewrote it again... I can honestly say that I'm thrilled to be getting this chapter behind me. I'm sure one day I'll have to revisit it again and make it better, but for now, I'm finished with it. Enjoy! *laughs*
She used to love fairy tales: stories of beautiful princesses and handsome knights who came to their rescue. They usually involved tall towers, or evil witches who cast evil spells on their lovely captors, and no matter what the peril the two lovers faced, the story would always end happily.
But Celia's life was not a fairy tale. There was no tower – just a plain, dull, drizzly town. It wasn't interesting or romantic- there was no beauty to be found in Eldon; the flowers had long ago died, and the trees that still stood were withered. Eldon's people were much the same; a withered, dying lot of humanity that went about day after day performing tasks that they cared nothing for and living each day filled with anger and hatred. At least, that's what she saw when she awoke every morning and was forced to live amongst them and endure their ridicule.
There was no evil ugly old witch, but a horrible, faceless, nameless storm that only wanted one thing: her death. She could feel it. Every memory of the horrible voices that screamed her name in unison reminded her of that fact; every memory of the words that Evan had whispered into her ear. He'd saved her twice from the horror of those screaming voices, and in each instance, she could hear his voice, repeating those foreign words as if in prayer: words that she knew - and yet, didn't know.
And even if when she scrunched up her eyes in the mirror and turned her head to the side, she was still just as plain as she'd always been. Her nose was too big, her lips too small; her eyes weren't quite symmetrical, and her hair tended to frizz in the endless barrage of rain. The only beauty that she could see was the color of her hair; it reflected the shades of Autumn: browns, reds and occasionally oranges, when the uncommon ray of sun would shine on it. Even with that one characteristic, she was still very plain.
And yet, there he stood: with the most sincere expression she had ever seen on another face, telling her that her life was in fact, a fairy tale.
Fairy.
At first, she took it as a joke: an awful, ill-timed joke. It wouldn't be very hard to believe; the very first impression she had had of Evan had been nothing but jokes.
Fairy.
That was it, then. The boy had obviously lost his mind, and hers was quickly following. She looked away from his face and occupied herself with the wet blades of grass beneath her fingertips, desperately beating down the panic she could feel rising within her. Her face was hot and her eyes stung; the backs of them being pricked mercilessly by unshed tears.
Fairy.
It was the most ridiculous... preposterous...
Images of the past few weeks came to the forefront of her thoughts, and as much as she wished them to leave her be, she could not ignore them. She could not ignore the strange events that had led to this astonishing revelation: the rose that mysteriously appeared on her pillow from her dream, the bizarre way Evan seemed to be in tune with her emotions, the vivid nightmare that had haunted her long after she'd woken - the horrifying voice in the storm that continually called out her name.
She swallowed back the tears that were inevitable – she never could hold them back, even when she'd wanted to – and stared at those sincere blue eyes, eyes that she knew were the wrong color.
She had never been very clever. Even with all his prodding and persistence, Phillip had never been able to teach her very much. He'd given up years ago, after her very final refusal to read poems. It seemed his favorite poet's dismissal was the final straw. He'd sighed heavily, his mouth twitching in anger, and turned away from her with a calm demeanor that seemed to belie his true feelings. She thought it strange that he'd be angry about something as silly as poetry - who wanted to read verse upon verse of nonsense, anyway? None of it made sense; it was just a bunch of words strung together by a person who was, clearly, out of his mind. What did the sun and moon shining in someone's eyes have to do with life? Pots and pans and disgusting dishwater - those were what she knew of life. The sun and moon were things that were hardly ever seen, here. But she could speak each word that had come from Evan's lips, as easily as if she were reading it from a page. She knew those words. They made her feel something. Not just words jumbled on a page, but more...
Fairy.
It was so far away from the reality that she knew. She had resigned herself to this life. This dull, lonely life with all its hardships. She was built for work. It was what Faye was constantly reminding her. "Celia, you can lug those around. You've the right build for hard labor." And then she'd cackle and continue standing at the stove and pretend that she was doing something important, other than just watching carrots boil in the great big cast iron pot above the fire.
The tears continued to stream down her cheeks, as she watched Evan's expression constantly switch between sincerity and concern. What was he feeling from her now? Could he tell that she was in disbelief? In shock? Panicked? Did he know that instead of feeling relieved at finally knowing the reason that she had been hated, scorned, and ridiculed her whole life, she actually felt betrayed? With that knowledge of who she was and why they hated her so much also came a whole slew of new questions: if they knew how she would be treated, why had they brought her here? Why would her mother and father put her in danger, put themselves in danger, to live in this horrible place with all its ugliness and despair. Why had they let her live her entire life surrounded by people who hated her, just to leave her here alone?
It wasn't fair to them, or their memory, but the feelings of betrayal came, nonetheless. Every day they'd had an opportunity to tell her the truth, yet they woke up each morning and lived their lives as if they belonged here – as if they were part of these people. Each night, they kissed her and told her they loved her, but never once mentioned what she was. She had to hear it from a boy, whom she had never even met prior to two weeks ago. A beautiful boy who gave her vivid dreams and spoke magical words and saved her life.
All the vivid images of her dreams played out behind her tear-filled eyes as she fought to regain control over here rampant emotions, and for one long moment, as she looked into Evans' eyes, she could no longer see sky blue – instead she saw the brilliant jade green eyes of the friend who had cared for her, taken care of her. And for the first time in a very long time, she didn't feel so alone.
He held her small calloused hands in his large, curiously soft ones, and she felt safe. She had no way of knowing whether these feelings were real, or manufactured by the young man who held her hands, but at that moment, she didn't care. Apart from his mild teasing, he had shown her in every action, word and deed that he cared. He cared whether she lived or died. He cared enough to shield her from the torrent of wind and rain, enough to put himself in danger for her own safety. Everything about him was telling her she could trust him.
She looked up to his eyes once more, and the slight flutter of her heart caused her breath to hitch in her throat and her sobs to stop momentarily. She hadn't even realized she was blubbering until then, and as she looked into his eyes, she wished once more that she could tell what he was feeling. His expression seemed to be frozen.
And even in all her emotional turmoil – the doubt, fear, loss, betrayal, and hope – the evil nuisance of self-doubt crept in, making her wonder if he would soon be tired of her never-ending sobbing.
Her question seemed to be answered quickly, and she was lost in her own self-admonishment as he gently picked her up and and began walking away from the sodden grass and the arch of trees. It appeared he had had enough of her crying for one day, as he handed her off to Phillip. She barely heard the angry words that were exchanged between them. She barely knew it when she was laid on the large bed that stood in the center of the her cold, borrowed room.
She cried for so long, eventually Phillip and Emma also tired of her and left her alone.
As she cried out the last of her tears, she remembered the way that her Papa would always brush her tears away when she cried. She always cried. Whether she was happy sad, afraid, lonely, or nervous, the tears would always fall. And Mama and Papa would always be there to dry them, with their rough, calloused hands, before they swept her up in their strong arms and did their best to put the pieces back together. She was a mess - and they'd loved her, anyway. They'd made it a point to tell her every second of every day they were on this earth. They showed it in their final actions when they sacrificed themselves for her safety.
She stared at her own calloused hands and the tears streamed down her face anew as she remembered that day. And for the first time, she made peace with it. She missed them - would always miss them - but she was here, now. They had died so she could live, but she had been going around day after day as if she were dead; going through the motions of her daily life, spending every other moment with her face awash with tears, and living each moment with so much guilt. They wouldn't be happy knowing that she was living a defeated life.
But that realization brought a new truth: every day that she stayed here, she was putting everyone else who inhabited this dreary town at risk. It was after her. A shiver ran down her spine, and she quickly wiped her face with her hands and walked over to the lone window in the tiny room. The moon which had shone uncharacteristically bright earlier in the night was now covered. Only a small sliver of light illuminated the ground, making it barely visible. The darkness was somehow comforting.
Exhausted and spent, she fell asleep on the floor beside the window frame, with her head lying on her folded arms. Her last waking thought carried a determination that she hadn't felt in so long: this would be her last night in Eldon.
As she slept a new dream formed, hazy at first. In it, she was lying in her old straw mattress, a well-worn quilt laying over her small frame. She looked over at the large figure beside her and watched as he read from a book that looked to be very old. The pages were no longer white, but a dingy yellowish-brown. Small holes and tears covered the binding, and it smelled of dust. He coughed every now and then while he read it. She watched, bewildered, as his lips formed words, but no sounds. When he was finished, he closed the book - a light spray of dust hovered above them both - and looked down into her face amid coughs and asked,
"What did you think of the story, Celia?"
She looked up at him and squinted her eyes as she tried very hard to remember what he had said.
"What story, Papa?"
Her father smiled slightly, but the sight confused her; was he supposed to be frowning after he smiled? Had she done something wrong?
The giant of a man gently patted her shoulder, kissed her forehead and said, "Goodnight, Celie. Have sweet dreams." He turned to blow out the candle.
And left her in the dark.