Page 10 of Between Despair and Hope

I fell. The ground was soft, and his hands caught me. “Elora, I’m sorry.”

No, you’re not. I screamed it, but he couldn’t hear me. I cried for my mother, but she didn’t hear me either. No one could hear me. Everything went black, and I was weightless. I floated, but I could feel their hands. Someone’s hands. Mama’s hands? They couldn’t be Cyran’s hands; his hands would only burn.

He was my ruin.

I saw a pinprick of light on the horizon and moved toward it. Was I floating or swimming? Was I running? I wasn’t sure—but I was moving, and it was growing. It was getting brighter, bigger.

“Elora, please wake up. It’s me. Please wake up and yell at me. I deserve it. I deserve your hatred. I deserve everything you want to throw at me. Just wake up. Just wake up and hate me. You can kill me if you want to; I won’t even move. I’ll hand you the knife.”

Cyran.

He was crying again. He stood in the light. No, he was the light. I stayed back, safe in the dark. Safe from him. Part of me wanted to run to him, to run and hit him. To kill him. But that wouldn’t help, would it? I’d still be dead. Did I want to kill him, anyway? Would he be stuck here with me? Part of me wanted that. Why did I want that?

“Elora? I’m here too, honey. You’re sleeping. I miss you so much, baby girl. Can you try to wake up, Elora? We’re waiting for you.”

Was Mama the light, too? Was it a trick? Would she disappear? Would I see her face?

I stopped and sat just on the edge of the light. I could see them, as if looking through water. Mama looked tired. Her hair was a tangly mess. Had she even brushed it? She had circles under her eyes, and she was wringing her hands. Cy looked tired too.

Not Cy. Cyran.

He wasn’t Cy anymore. Cy was my friend. Cy was kind and sad. He held me when I cried about Papa. My friend had made illusions out of my nightmares and used his shadows to protect me in my dreams. I knew they weren’t real, but he did it to make me feel better. But he wasn’t Cy anymore. He was Prince Cyran, the monster his brother had made him into.

I turned and ran.

I fell down, skinning my knees, and cried. Papa came running, like always. He looked mad until he saw my tears, and his face softened, his brown eyes holding patience for his little girl.

“Elora, you’re alright. Go see your mama; she’ll fix it right up.” When I stood though, he smacked me. “You are her daughter, never mine.” I stood there with my hand on my cheek and tears streaming down my face. “You are nothing, just like her.”

I wanted to tell Cy. He’d know what to do. But then I remembered I couldn’t trust him, though I couldn’t remember why.

I was walking down the stairs, heading into a cozy dining room. Recognizing it from Evenmoor, I slowed my steps.

“Good morning,min viltasma.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s something my mother used to say.”

Wait, that’s not right.

He never told me before. I asked him every time he called me that, but he never answered. Looking at him, I tried to understand. He sat at the table, calm, his hands clasped in front of him on the table. He didn’t wear any of his jewelry. I’d only seen him without it once before, when I crawled into his bed. It was the night Papa said what he did, and I didn’t want to be alone. Cy had held me when I cried. But he looked so different. Older. His rich brown hair hung down into his eyes, not pushed back away from his face like he normally had it, and his hazel eyes were bloodshot. It looked as if he’d been crying.

“Is this real?” I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and watched him, wary.

“It is in your mind, but it is real, all the same. I’m using my divinity. Would you like some tea?” He nodded toward the table in front of him, where two teacups now sat.

I hesitated. Everything else had felt so familiar, but this was different. It felt more…real.

“We can talk from this distance, if you’d like.” He nodded toward the sideboard on the wall next to me, and I found a full teacup sitting there. I grabbed it before sitting on the bottom step behind me. He watched me, and I noticed a slight frown before he shook his head, wiping his face of expression. “What do you want to talk about, Elora?”

I stared at him. Why would I want to talk to him? I didn’t trust him. But he looked so sad, and it made my chest hurt.

“Am I dreaming? Why are you using an illusion?”

“I know I asked what you want to talk about, but usually talking about that upsets you, and I can’t hold the illusion.” He wiped his face, long fingers pushing his hair back. He had red rashes around his wrists like I had when I first arrived in Evenmoor.

“What happened to your wrists?”

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