Workshop 12/8

The Tale of Evindayle

The road to Evindayle Castle is a long and winding one. It begins as a dirt road on the outskirts of Aurelia (causing a considerable amount of trouble for the merchants who make their way into town every so often) and goes on like that for a few miles until you reach the heart of the town itself. Pass the closed up shops and the humble cottages occupied by men, women, and children deep in slumber, and even pass a little girl who has dozed off for the night in the stable to the sound of the rain pounding furiously against the thankfully stable roof that her papa had repaired early this past summer, and the road moves into the forest that surrounds the castle.
Evergreen leaves almost seem to point straight to the ground as the rain starts to fall harder, and a flash of lightning illuminates the town to reveal dust from the road flying up when disturbed by the downpour. Further down the path, the forest clears to reveal Evindayle in its entire stunning silver splendor, its high turrets stretching to the dark clouds above it. Inside, a dark figure restlessly roams the halls, gazing ever so often at the paintings that stare down at him. A nightly ritual, he walks slowly, deliberately, his bare feet meeting the cold marble of the castle, causing him to shudder with delight that he could feel something.
All is well, he thinks to himself, a detached smile playing on his lips as he reaches the unlit foyer. The walls of the hallway open up to the entrance hall of the castle, a large circular room – at one end, the doors to Aurelia; at the other, two blue and silver thrones under a large painting of a family.
Two eyes, the color of the sky on a rainy day, turn up to gaze at the grand painting above the thrones, and the figure stops, facing it, his last stop for the night, as it is every night, before he turns and heads to his bedroom. Four figures rest within the golden frames; one, a woman with gentle features, dark, soulful eyes, and a soft smile; another, a man beside her, turned slightly to the side and gazing sternly at his viewer; yet another, a child standing proudly to the right of the man, whose right hand rests gently on the child’s shoulder; and lastly, a younger child to the left of the woman, gently tugging at her skirt.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, a wave of emotions washes over him, and he closes his eyes, the smile fading from the corners of his lips as incomprehensible thoughts fill his mind.
And yet something is different; another dark shape moves in Aurelia tonight. Deep in Elyria Forest, the mud on the road muffles the footsteps of a cloaked creature approaching Evindayle. The rain is falling faster now, and harder, but the being does not seem disturbed. It is small and thin, its robes cloaking everything but two hands. Suddenly, a gust of wind howls through the trees and haunting cry emanates from the heart of the forest, and the figure silently reaches up with one hand to draw its robes closer while clutching in its other hand an object that almost seems to emit its own light –
A single, red rose.
The young prince suddenly turns his head, almost convinced that he had seen a quick movement by the great windows, and lightning once again casts a brief flash of light on the land. To the west, the shadow of another castle stands black against the horizon, its black stone glistening in the darkness.
Tap, tap, tap.
The prince whips around to face the closed doors to Aurelia, startled. ‘They’re not supposed to be home for another two hours,’ he thinks to himself.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
“Christoff?” he calls out.
BANG, BANG, BANG!
He starts for the door, his feet moving across the cold, marble floor until his hands press against the door handles and pull them open to reveal a hunched over, hooded woman. Upon seeing her, the prince’s eyes narrow in suspicion.
“Can I help you?” he asks coolly, his voice barely above a growl.
The woman peers at him from beneath her hood, a toothless grin spreading across her face, causing the prince to frown in disgust.
“Your Highness,” she says, “it is raining terribly hard outside, and I seem to have lost my way.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” he asks coldly.
“Please, sir, I have nothing to offer but a rose for room and board,” she whimpers softly.
“My apologies, but the castle will not be used as a shelter for peasants,” the prince replies dismissively, looking the old woman square in the eyes, the corners of his lips spreading into a dark grin as he moved to shut the door.
BANG!
The prince was thrown back into the lobby as the door flew open on him. Startled by the force and hurt by the fall, he cried out, and suddenly realized that the old woman was gone. In her place was a dark-haired maiden with bright green eyes that were overcome with disappointment.
“They were right about you,” she said softly, taking a step towards him.
“Who do you speak of?” he demanded, and yet his usually strong voice was shaky.
“I have great plans for you,” the lady replied, not answering his question. She began to glide to him, and he realized that she was floating; her toes were barely grazing the marble.
“Stop!” he commanded as he held up his hand, still sounding afraid.
“You will be great if you allow yourself to be,” she told him.
“I said stop!”
She pointed a slim finger at him, a mysterious smile playing upon her lips, and in a single moment a huge flash brought the dark prince to his feet as he tried to run, but to no avail.
A cry went up in Evindayle that night. And its echo continues to this day.

Chapter One

The clap of sixteen-year-old Annabelle Durand’s book as she closed it echoed through the stable, and a tiny brown dog covered in short curls let out a sharp yelp as he was startled out of his sleep.
“That ending was perfect,” she said with a smile, reaching out a hand to ruffle his coat. “It’s a shame you didn’t read it with me, Faris.”

(work in progress...)