The Lost Raven Princess

Father says I should forget my dreams. But how can I when they haunt me as they do?They feel like memories to me. They feel like they are a part of me.

*The moon is high in the sky. Its silvery, earthy glow covering the branches in shadows and light. The forest floor comes alive at night. Flowers shed off colorful lights and bugs buzz around in flurries.

A twig snaps behind me, but I don’t flinch. I smile.

“I heard you!” I tease in a singsongy voice.

A deep chuckle comes from behind a tree and a tall man with hair as black as night steps out into the clearing.

“You’re getting better.” He smiles, resting his hands on his hips. His eyes are a combination of browns and coppers, warm and loving. Familiar and comforting.

“I have a good teacher.”

He paces around me, widening his smile. “She’s a tough one, huh?”

I shrug. “I like it.”

“Because you’re good.”

I smile, feeling that light and elated feeling in my chest.

He steps toward me, but before he can reach me, the earth trembles. His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Run to her!”

I nod vigorously, turning from him and running into the dark forest.

My heart hammers in my chest and my hands vibrate as the temperature lowers to a numbing state. Fear and anxiety engulf me and I run until I cannot feel my legs. *

I wake up in a puddle of my sweat, and my mind struggles to understand who I am.

Or where I am.

I inhale slowly and look to the window, noticing the dark night sky is cut into slices as the sun rises with its colorful crown. I close my eyes and roll my shoulders, trying to clear my mind from the dream. It felt so real, still feels so real.

A low, gurgling croak draws my attention and I snap my eyes open.

Shadow is perched on my window sill, her black beady eyes watching me as her neck tilts and twists.

I stand from my bed, make my way to her and scratch her neck beneath her obsidian feathers. She is my constant companion. My raven friend. I often find myself lost in the depths of her dark eyes, eyes that hold a wisdom beyond their avian nature. They are pools of mystery, portals into a world with whispered secrets only she and I can understand.

Of course, I can’t tell anyone that I feel such a connection to a bird.

Not that I have anyone to tell.

Not that I have anyone that will listen.

“Had another dream last night.” I tell her.

Shadow tilts her head as if she is listening intently.

“I saw that same man again.”

She twitches, burying her beak beneath her wing to scratch an itch.

I chuckle through my nostrils, “You don’t understand a thing I am saying, do you?”

She stands up straight, blinking.

I chew on my lip, “I wish I could live in my dreams.”

She lifts her wings as if she is about to set off in flight, but instead hops into my room and onto my bed.

I smile down at her, forgetting the heartbreak I face every morning. My dreams call to me. They feel like home and disappointment covers me every morning when I open my eyes and find myself in my room.

And that is a devastating thing to admit to your parents.

I made the mistake of asking my father about it one time and he shut the conversation down so fast I thougth he would give himself whiplash. So I keep them to myself now. It’s not as if we need any other reason to not get along.

The darkness of the night always gives way to the rise of dawn, but somehow it is the light that brings uneasiness to my soul.

I blow out a stream of air as I look at myself in the mirror. An angry red scar cuts through my right eyebrow and I press my finger against it and grimace. It always aches in the mornings when I wake.

“Do you remember how you got your scar?” I lift my brow, looking at Shadow through the reflection of the mirror.

She steps around, ruffling her feathers. The same scar that paints my face is mirrored on her face.

It is one of the reasons why I was so intrigued by her. She scared me that first night she showed up on my window on my nineteenth birthday, but her constant presence had turned comforting.

I tap my finger against her beak in a goodbye and leave.

I keep playing with my scar as I walk out of my room, relishing in the small waves of pain that pulse through my head. I shift and press my fingernail into it, feeling the raised thick skin and hiss when it shoots a particular zap of pain down the back of my neck. The smell of breakfast hits me when I pass the threshold into the kitchen.

“Quit touching that, child,” Mother waves her hand at me before wiping it on her apron.

I roll my eyes, dropping myself onto the chair at the dining table.

Mother is uneasy lately and watches me like a hawk. Everything I do is met with a complaint and for days I have tried to avoid her as much as possible. She has always been more paranoid than my father, but something tilted the scales lately and she is beyond her own sanity.

I watch her move across the kitchen and I am met with the odd sensation that I do not know who this woman is at all.

I do not recognize her. The man from my dreams is much more familiar to me.

If you are to ask me what her dreams are, I could not answer you. If you are to ask me what she looked like as a young woman, I could not describe her. If you are to ask me what we talk about, I would tell you we do not talk at all.

Her eyes are not dark like mine, and her hair is the same shade as father’s. Golden brown. Black, silky hair covers my head, and it is dark enough to make you lose yourself in it.

As I shift in my seat, my hair falls down over my shoulder and I play with the tips of it, feathering it against my finger.

“Quit playing with your hair and help me set the table.” She complains and demands.

Constantly complains and demands.

Her breathing picks up, her eyes oscillating between my fingers, playing with my hair and my determined glare. It sends an odd sensation of unease through my gut, but I give in to her demands.

I set the table, and we eat. Father shovels food into his mouth as if we didn’t have dinner last night and is soon out of the house and on his way to work. He is a man of little words.

I watch him from the window, wishing I could go with him.

The mountains sit before us, covering us in constant shadow, which I am grateful for since the sunlight often makes me ill. The ground is cold and hard, useless for growing food, useless for raising cattle. It is a burden and a curse that my parents have taken over and a blessing I silently thank the darkness for. A chilly wind passes through me and I shudder just as father looks at me over his shoulder.

He waves and salutes a goodbye like he always does. I force a smile on my face and wave back.

“Elysia, step away from the window,” Mother mutters.

She’s washing the dishes and looks at me with a frown and shakes her head as I walk over to her. She mutters underneath her breath and it tips my patience over the edge.

“Is there anything I can do?” I raise an eyebrow.

She clicks her tongue to dismiss my attitude and points to the table. I reach into the sink and grab a rag, wiping away the crumbs she points to, and tuck in the chairs.

“There is some laundry that needs to be done today, and do not forget to prepare the lamb for dinner.” Her voice shakes from how hard she scrubs the pot.

I bite my tongue to stop myself from replying brazenly and instead nod my head.

I finish my chores for the day and spend the evening locked in my room. My bed sits tightly fitted in the room’s corner, and I lay on it while I look through the last book my father brought me. It is addicting to read about love, adventures and mystery. Especially considering that all I have ever experienced has been within these walls.

Or at least from what I can remember.

As far as I know, my parents have always hidden me like a sour secret. I've never been allowed to step foot outside this house and it has been the worst, most devestating life.