Estella lay deathly still upon a plush scarlet bed. Her rosy lips remained faintly parted as if awaiting the fairytale kiss that would return breath to her chest and the flush of life to her pale skin. Yet, a faint whisper of air escaped her lips, an indicator that the girl was very much alive, even though she appeared the very image of death.
Unlike the girl, who appeared to rest easily, Kheelan’s mind was filled with trepidation, a foreign feeling. In fact, any feeling whatsoever was an abstract concept in itself. The way his breath constricted and his fists clutched at his sides, was unnatural at best. His steps matched the dull rhythm of the girl’s heartbeat- a slow steady beat followed by the clunk of footsteps.
She should awake by now. Kheelan was much aware of the unpredictable nature his magic held over mortal souls; even still, the effects should have since worn off. Yet, the logical side of Kheelan’s mind noted his betraying concern; it should not matter to the immortal whether the girl died, but somehow it did. Kheelan attributed this to lust. Yes, he thought to himself, surely that was the source of his sentiments.
During the long hours the girl slept, he could not help but appraise the girl's fair features- noting the light scattering of freckles, the dark, downcast lashes, and of course how frail and petite she appeared. She seemed so very small, cast in his shadow- so small, and so helpless.
The inner strength that burned from her fiery gaze was temporarily gone, and he longed for it's return. It was what drew him to her. He longed to discover the mystery those silvery eyes help, longed to see them glisten with tears as he broke her will. Despite such malicious thoughts, to his own surprise, Kheelan lifted the silky sheets about the girls’ slim frame, pulling the sheets until only her head rested above. The gesture was almost tender, though he, was anything but that. The faint brush of his fingers against her warm skin caused Kheelan to shutter with desire. Soon, he promised the monster within.
Instead he focused his mind upon the subtle changes. Her once tidy hair had fallen loose from the pins that struggled to maintain the semblance of beauty from before. Still, even with the untidy scattering of white feathers within the girl’s wildly curling mahogany hair, she appeared utterly and irrevocably beautiful. In fact, Kheelan preferred the unruly state of the girl. A betraying hand brushed against the girl’s white collarbone, and wound a strand of the girl’s hair about his finger, before pushing it back.
His touch remained unfelt by Estella. In fact, she was blissfully unaware of the company that appraised the unconscious girl. Had she know, the gentle easiness of peace and serenity would flee and her mind would be a flutter with fear.
For days she remained in this peaceful state of ignorance. Estella was unaware of the company she kept, unaware of her foreign surroundings, and most importantly unaware that she had been stolen from the world she knew and had grown to love. And most importantly, she remained unaware of the dark figure that paced at the foot of her bed. Her senses might as well have been turned off, for she remained oblivious to it all.
Instead, the darkness help promise of her hopes and dreams, offering promises and possibilities that could never be. She lived in a world of memories. A little girl danced beneath her closed eyes. The girl’s head tilted back, as silver eyes met Estella’s own. The girl appeared a miniature version of the fair dancer, but unlike her older sister, young Emilie lacked grace, and most importantly patience.
“Elle, someday, I’m going to be a famous dancer, just like you,” Emilie proudly declared. The child firmly planted her arms upon her hips, just above the extension of tulle, as she stamped her foot with fierce determination. Estelle’s lips rose naturally in response. She both humored and admired her sister’s spirit and carefree nature. Perhaps had Estelle been dealt different cards, she too might be free-spirited, with a fiery temper, rambunctious playfulness, and constant energy. That’s not to say that Estelle never was, because Emilie sure did draw out those characteristics of her sister’s personality.
Estelle laughed as Emilie spun wildly out of control. The small girls arms wrapped about her chest and her dark ringlets flung about her. Even with the rapid movement, Estelle could distinguish the toothy grin and how the Emilie’s eyes glimmered merrily. The whirlwind ceased as the small girl plopped gently to the ground. Her little tutu gathered about her waist, fanning in all directions. The costume was much too large for the small child, and her head barely perched from beneath the small mess. Yet, Estelle could see the frown settle on her sister’s lips, deepening as she heard the laughter of her role model.
“There now,” Estelle said gently as she scooped her small sister within her arms. Emilie’s legs wrapped around her waist and flung her arms about her neck. As Emilie nuzzled her head into Estelle, she smiled happily. Rising onto her toes, Estelle spun and Emilie laughed joyfully as they both turned.
“Someday,” the little girl began again, her voice softer this time, “I’m going to graceful and beautiful like you.”
Estelle’s heart broke at her sister’s declaration. Surely she did not mean the words she spoke, but they tugged at the insecurities Estelle had been raised with- a fierce mother constantly training her, finessing her dance skills. Such diligence involved the constant focus on maintaining Estelle’s already slim and dainty frame, excessive hours of practice, and no childhood whatsoever. Estelle could recall the countless hours of practice, the festering frustration at her mother’s dissatisfaction. Estelle never could please mother.
Even were she was alive to see Estelle’s success, she would probably still find fault in her eldest daughter. In fact, Estelle could not recall a single instance she had seen her mother genuinely smile. Yet, she could so clearly recall the same silver eyes, much as Emilie’s and Estelle’s, but mother’s seemed to lack the same glint and gleam that made the girls’ eyes sparkle brilliantly and beautifully. For her own happiness, Estelle had to believe that love was the motivator that caused her mother to push Estelle in her younger years. With age and maturity, the true reality settled. Had her mother felt anything, she had shut off her emotions long ago. Instead she lived vicariously through her eldest daughter. And then her life ended. The disease ended her life so abruptly; Estelle never knew when she had been diagnosed, only that one day she was there, and the next receiving a call from the hospital.
All her mother left Estelle was a set of impeccable dance skills, a distant father whose only involvement was a meager monthly check, and a young girl to raise and care for. Yet, Estelle never resented her mother. Yes, her mother’s constant standards destroyed her chance at a childhood. Yes, Estelle would never hear her mother say she loved her. But still Estelle loved her mother as only a daughter could love her mother. In childhood, Estelle could see no fault in her mother. In her later years, she maintained a more realistic view. Her mother had her faults, but she was still her mother- even if she never gave Estelle what she yearned for most- love. Instead, she gave her the ability to perform, and that would have to suffice for the young dancer. Her mother gave her a career, but never a passion.
Even still, her mother’s dream gradually became her own. She did not love ballet, but rather ambitiously desired the rewards of a promising career. She would tend for Emilie’s every whim, provide for her every need and desire. Most importantly though, she would provide her young sister the love Estelle was gifted by no one, and in turn, a beautiful relationship formed between the girls. The bond was not comparable to that of sisters, a mother-daughter relationship, or friends, but some stronger combination of the three.
Emilie had given Estelle the ability to love and chance to be loved. Unlike her mother’s attempt to force a love for dance upon Estelle, Emilie had nurtured a passion for ballet. When Estelle danced, it was for her sister. Somehow, she believed she could live Emilie’s dreams for her- since little Emilie never would.
Her heart ached as the joyous image of the girl faded before her eyes with the gradual return of her senses. Her breathing slowed as painful memories fled, leaving a residue of pleasant thoughts of long ago.