ano....another story! though technically this one is older than Eboella, as well as much longer. I'm actually not sure why i never put it up here. oh well. the summary really sucked for this story i apologize. Also the title is only a working title. I've been working on the story for a number of years but have yet to give it a real title.

Chapter 1

Everyone knows the best place to start a story is at the beginning, the real question is trying to decide exactly when said beginning is. There are many beginnings throughout your life, and endings too. And sometimes an ending is a beginning. Many beginnings are births, while others are death. It's all one large circle; beginnings and endings, fresh starts and finales, and so I have decided my beginning will be neither a birth nor a death, but instead my first contact with faerie in itself.

I was six years of age, and of course—as many were at that age—naïve, innocent, and selfish. Though I knew nothing of what these words meant, I knew what it was I wanted. I wanted to be just like all the other girls I saw through my window; having fun outside, giggling together and rolling in the grass, whispering nothing into each others ears and innocently stalking boys of the same age, running and giggling whenever they were caught. Why, I wondered, could I not be just like them? Why did I have to sit patiently, quietly, well dressed and clean, and polite—everything that was proper and expected of a princess. I glanced once again out the window of my classroom where I was the only student—I wasn't allowed to attend school with all the other little girls—and watched some girls braid each others’ hair while others did cartwheels and laughed high shrill laughs.

"Miss Ciara!" The voice of my tutor for mathematics, Miss Tenor, interrupted my observations. I winced; I hated it when she yelled at me like that, it not only hurt my ears but reminded me of everything they expected of me, much more than anyone could logically expect of a six-year-old-girl, and one thing expected was that you never, ever, stare longingly out a class window when you are being taught mathematics.

"I apologize Miss Tenor." I carefully responded, making sure I was sitting strait-backed, eyes forward as I was supposed to during lessons.

"Thank you. Now please, stay focused! What would the Queen say if she knew you were neglecting your teachings! I shutter to think!" I inwardly sighed, knowing if I actually did I'd get in more trouble. It was always ‘the Queen would this', ‘the Queen would that', ‘What would the Queen do?' with Miss Tenor. Quite honestly it made me sick. I know what the Queen would do, and simply I didn't really care. But she wasn't just the Queen, she was my mother, and it's what my mother did that kept me in line. She gave me that disappointed look, you know the one, where they look at you like they just can't believe all their hopes are being shattered into tiny little painful pieces, and I shape-up…usually. And so, once again, I sighed inwardly and turned back to my mathematics tables.

Finally finished with lessons, I was allowed outside to get some fresh air and sunshine- though that was a bit of a laugh considering the sun-umbrella the maid carried over my head as if I would simply crumble if a ray of sun were to actually touch my skin.

The little girls from earlier ran giggling across the path before us and noticed me; each instantly dropped down into a curtsy then hurried away as fast as possible. Likely each of their mother's had taught them carefully to just stay out of my way, least they accidentally do something to anger me or harm me, causing trouble to fall onto their families.

I frowned at their retreating backs and my maid asked, "Miss? Is their something wrong? Would you like to go back in now?" I shook my head.

"No, no, there's nothing wrong. No, I don't want to go in yet, just... walk through the garden."

"As you wish," replied the maid as we headed toward the garden maze. It was beautiful: encased by tall hedges, carefully kept, that extended into the garden creating a maze. I had memorized the way to the center by the time I was four years old. I quickly made my way there—it was my favourite part of the garden. When you reach the center it suddenly opens into a large clearing. A small black gazebo sits in the center, and around it in circling rows with paths breaking it into sections, are roses; bushes and bushes of roses. Closest to the gazebo are deep, dark, red roses, heavily thorned; I had injured myself many a time on them. Then there were lighter more pinkish roses, followed by purplish ones, and several other colour variations I'm not sure I could name. There was only one bush different from the rest and it is in the middle of many other bushes, without any paths leading by it—it was a bush of stark white roses. My parents thought it was a mistake, accidentally planted, and were going to have it removed, but I liked it. It broke up the uniformity of the rose garden and it stood out in its own beauty—and so it stayed. In the night the roses were so white the bush seemed to glow—I had snuck out many a night just to come and sit in this garden, staring at the white glowing roses, fragrances heavy in the warm air, fireflies drifting past the roses and flickering in the darkness. I had never attempted to touch it though—there were to many other rose bushes blocking my path—but I made sure that it was well cared for just the same. If I noticed that another bush seemed to be strangling it, I had a quick chat with the head gardener and he would fix it. It was well watered, and never seemed to need to be trimmed it's self—it stayed neatly shaped, not reaching out with straggly branches that needed to be shorn, no dying leaves in need of pruning. I almost loved the bush as a kind of pet, visiting it whenever possible. When alone—when I had snuck out—I would talk to it; tell it my hopes, my dreams, the minor tragedies and overwhelming horrors of a 6 year old's life. I came to it when I needed a shoulder to cry on, despite the fact that I could not actually get close to it. I went there when I needed to be alone, or when something exciting or new happened. And the bush was always there for me, it never moved from its place. It always sat there, white and beautiful, making a stand against all the vibrant colours around it.

It was where I went that particular day after I had been frustrated once again by the fact that I couldn't be like the other girls, that I had to be clean and proper and aloft—and worst of all—quiet. Ms. Ockt, my sewing tutor, had yelled at me that day for singing while I was stitching, telling me that singing was for my voice lessons and performances, not for my pleasure or knitting, or sewing, or cooking, or any other such lady-like activity. I fell silent immediately of course, but rage and the urge to cry built up inside of my small frame, invisible to all those around me.

That night I had snuck out to my comfort, the rose bush, and cried, head in my arms, sitting on the floor of the gazebo, confessing all my pains to the ever-attentive bush and blooms. Now before I continue I must bring up something we all should already know, whether young or old, bright or dim, about faerie tales: and that is to watch everything you say out loud, because you don't know what it is that could be listening. I, in my frustration, disregarded this warning, crying to my rosebush, "I wish I was just like all the other girls, that I wasn't a Princess, but normal, able to run and play and not care about duties or lessons, or manners!"

A cackle soon followed my bold statement from the shadows, "Silly, silly girl, you want your wish? Do you know what other little girls feel in the dark? Terror." The creature leaned into the moonlight, face grotesque and twisted, maniacal grin slashed at a slant across its face; a crooked black, taloned hand also reached toward me. I screamed at the sight and ran from my thought-to-be haven, not watching or caring where it was I was headed. Thorns clutched my clothing and scratching my skin, pulled my hair and snapped, refusing to let go and sacrificing themselves before my panicked figure, running although I felt I could not breathe. It took a long time before I realized I was no longer in the garden, but was surrounded by trees, somewhere in what appeared to be a forest.

"Lost," the word fell from my lips; I looked down at my bleeding, scratched hands. I found myself sitting on a log, though I didn't recall moving to sit, but I didn't really care. I curled up on the log and sobbed myself into slumber.

I woke the next morning abruptly to the sound of a stick snapping, and bolted upright, just catching a glimpse of the red tail of a fox as it continued on its way. I slowly stood, then began to wander, tears all used up form the night before. After what seemed not too long, I came across the sound of moving water, and with new hope, hurried to find the source of the sound. After tripping through a good amount of brush and ferns, I finally came across a small river, and realized how thirsty I was. I drank the cold water until I couldn't fit anymore into my stomach, then I washed my hands and face, wiping the blood and dirt away. I was hungry but foraging wasn't something they had deemed a worth-while task for a princess, so I didn't know what I could possibly eat—and I couldn't even guess, considering by the time I got my food it no longer looked anything like it had in its natural state. So with nothing else to do but try to ignore hunger as it gnawed at my belly, I lay down next the river and drifted back to sleep once more, hoping when I woke things would be better.

I woke to the rustling of leaves, and a soft shuffling noise, almost like breathing, but not quite. I quickly scrambled to my feet in case it was something dangerous; I grabbed the nearest thing I could as a weapon, a large stick—not particularly effective, even if I had known what I could use it for, but comforting to have none-the-less—and stood in wait for whatever beast might try me. The rustling of the leaves stopped suddenly leaving an eerie quiet in its wake. I gripped my stick tighter in apprehension, and suddenly a lean gray face poked out of the bushes, brown eyes staring strait at me. I lowered my stick as the graceful beast extracted itself from the bush and walked placidly toward me and sat patiently next to my feet. I stared at the leggy dog, and tilted my head to the side, not quite able to believe it was there. Suddenly a sharp whistle broke through the air and the dog's ears perked up. I shifted instantly into a defensive stance, holding the stick before me like a sword, eyes trained in the direction of the sound. The sound came again, and the dog barked, making me jump, then turn to it.

"Hush!" I pleaded, then was distracted by movement in the bushes. I stared at the spot, frightened, and suddenly a tall man stepped out. I felt so relieved I almost broke down into tears; I did drop the stick, and slide to the ground, breathing deeply. The dog nudged my face and I wrapped my arm's around her thin neck. The man stared in surprise at me, then stepped up, and knelt next to me.

"Where did you come from? What is your name?"

"I-I- my name--Ciar." I said in broken English, too relieved to string the words together properly.

The man nodded reassuringly, "I am Conchuir. I live near here with my wife. Are you lost?" I simply nodded, feeling tears begin to trickle down my cheeks.

"I-I...lost...I- am hungry and....thirsty. Very tired." I said, still struggling to string together coherent thoughts. "I was afraid."

Conchuir leaned closer, wiping tears off my face, "It's alright, come, I'll take you back to my house, and then Aylen—my wife—can make you some food, and a bed." I nodded, sniffling, and he smiled sincerely, pulled me up, then lifted me as I was now having trouble standing.

"It's not far," he said, smiling again, "Come on Amvea, we're going home early today." The dog barked in response and leapt to its feet, following its master obediently.

It was not a long walk back to the hunter's house, as he had promised, and soon I found myself before a strong oaken door. Conchuir opened the door and called into the house, "Aylen, I'm home!"

A rich female voice responded, getting louder as if the source were getting closer, "So soon? Were you successful then? The game seems to be so scarce of late and..." the woman trailed off as she came into view and took in the sight of her husband and the young child in his arms. "Conchuir...what...?"

"Her name is Ciar. Amvea found her in the woods. I don't know where she came from but she's here now."

"She looks exhausted! Oh dear, can you stand?" Aylen asked me, warmth radiating from her person like light from the sun. I nodded numbly and Conchuir set me down. Aylen took my hand.

"Come with me dear, we'll get you some warm food and a washing then a soft bed. Everything will be alright." I nodded once more and allowed her to lead me further into the house, tightly grasping her hand. Everything will be all right. I repeated to myself.