Once upon a time in Ventralli

Once upon a time...

Note: I write in Spanish, because I speak Spanish, so I translated but obviously it's not perfect. If you want to read it in Spanish, where is well written, you can find it on my profile ;)

I approached the window, leaning gently on it after a long day. The last rays of sun vanished from the horizon, giving way to a starry sky. However, the light seemed to radiate from the buildings themselves, bathing all around with its bright colors. Red as vibrant as the Autumn leaves, yellow as bright as some of the Summer's clothes, purples as serene as the lavender fields of Cordell, light blues as glittering as the winterians eyes.

I've always thought that the colors of Rintiero have their own life and all that energy projects, enters the soul of every one of its citizens, cheering their hearts. It is probably the reason why I haven't fallen apart.

I looked at the ornament hanging by the curtain. Small colored stones fell into a cascade of brilliance. When the light touched each of them, a rainbow lighted the whole room, as if it were magic. I smiled. The beauty of Ventralli wasn't the only thing keeping me alive and walking. I raised my hand to touch one of the delicate stones and admire it more closely. It was blue, but it had tiny spots of purple decorating its surface. My little girl had inherited my talent to make great things with discarded materials, perhaps even rejected by most artists. I shook my head. At least she had found her vocation, her talent at an early age. I couldn't say the same for myself. However, I wouldn't change for anything that endless indecision, because it brought me to the two people who I loved and I'll love the most in my entire life.

I looked back at the window. A lot of nights I felt really alone. I wished he were here with me, watching our child grew up, forming a new skill with each passing day and creating beautiful works of art. I knew one day she would do great things.

A tear slid down my cheek, but I couldn't tell if it was of sadness or happiness. My life was a set of emotions, both good and bad, and I could hardly distinguish most of the times what I was feeling. It was as if every feeling join another, forming a shapeless ball of chaos fighting inside of me. If you'd grant a color to each emotion -red for anger, green for hope, blue for sadness, pink for love-, my heart would look like a colorful stain, every hue mixed with each other so that it would be impossible to distinguish where one ends and the other one begins.

I watched the delicately carved wooden table, flowers and leaves drawn out, looking like they were going to come alive in every part of its surface. It was worthy of admiration. Above it, it was one of my favorite pieces. It was a sculpture made with pieces of broken glass, colors blending into a representation of all these feelings inside me. I wanted to think they were the remains of my broken heart. I did it when I thought I had lost everything, but then a seed of hope began to grow in my belly and my heart was rebuilt piece by piece with the birth of my daughter. She was now what kept me together in one piece.

Night had already fallen when I drew the curtains. Its fabric was one of the softest I've ever touched, slipping gently over my hands. It had roses and thorns, with a complex lace adorning its edges.

Everything was so quiet and peaceful. It hasn't always been that way, however. There was a time when war threatened our lives and none of us was safe. The chaos surrounded us in the streets of Rintiero, fear of what might happen. And the fight. Fight for our kingdom, fight for our people, fight for our loved ones. But there isn't a big fight without great losses.

I stepped away from the window, wanting to leave behind with it all those memories. At last we had recovered Ventralli's harmony, but at a great cost to many of us. I told myself to focus on positive things, because not all memories were tinged with sadness. Oh no, there were several happy memories, many of them actually. I looked at the ring on my hand, the more substantial proof of that. Two intertwined silver leaves forming a bright band containing in its center a cocoon sprayed by small purple stones, seeming to form a sphere with small drops of beauty. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

"Mom" I heard the product of that love represented on this ringcalling from her room, bringing me back to reality. Marianna was sitting on her bed, her huge hazel eyes shining on her round face. I positioned myself beside her, picking up one of her dark curls to put it behind her ear.

"Shouldn't you be asleep, Mar?"

"I can't sleep."

I sighed. This was nothing new. My child has always had a great imagination, which is great when it comes to creating art... but doesn't help with insomnia. Her head was spinning, imagining new things and generally she had me up until late at night.

"Read me a story," she asked me. That was the other reason why both were awake until late: she loved to hear stories and I read them to her until she finally fell asleep. All that creative mind absorbed each story as if it were the greatest feast. I could never say no to those eyes, especially when she had that lovely pout. She knew exactly how to manipulate, that had clearly taken from his father. However, this was my favorite part of the day.

I opened a drawer in the table next to her bed and pulled out a book so big that I could hardly lift it. Probably it would have been a good defensive weapon in the war. This beauty could kill someone from a hit on the head.

I put it on my lap and ran my hand on the inscription on the lid. It said: "Once upon a time in Ventralli". The cover was made of leather and it had embedded brilliant stones of different colors. I opened the book and stopped at the beginning. The Power of Things Concealed.

The pages were worn out after so much use, Marianna had read the same stories over and over again, but she was never tired of them. She even seemed to enjoy them more each day, finding new meanings. It didn't matter that the book included a lot of stories, she had heard them all. I wanted to look out for a new book, a different one, but Mar refused. She was fond of this storybook and she didn't accept another alternative. I, on the other hand, was beginning to remember every story by memory, word by word, and I was beginning to tire a bit. I even had dreams about the stories. But none of that mattered if my daughter liked them, and I had to admit it was also special for me, since I had chosen it with my husband.

As if she could read my thoughts, Marianna asked:

"Are you going to tell me the story of how you and Dad meet?"

I looked away from the book to focus on my daughter, smiling sadly to her.

"Not tonight, Mar."

That was my answer every day. Relive all those memories was very painful and even more if I was saying it aloud. Marianna's shoulders sagged a little and she lowered her head. I hated to disappoint her and knew I didn't speak enough about her father. I just told her the incredible person he was, the amazing artist whom I fell in love. And how she looked so much like him. But that was an open wound, despite having spent so many years, so I couldn't dwell too much.

Looking at her sad face, I hurry to say:

"But I'll read you one of your favorite stories."

The light returned to her eyes immediately and with an immense enthusiasm she bounced on the bed, extending a huge and beautiful smile.

"The one of the lost mask!" she asked me cheerfully.

I laughed out loud, shaking my head. She should be sleeping, but there was no hint of sleep in that little body.

I turned the pages of the book until the one she wanted to hear. The illustrations were beautiful, with a high level of detail that seemed so real, as if you could touch it. There was no doubt that was a work of a Ventrallian. And not just any Ventrallan. My husband. That's why he had recommended this book and we had brought it from Yakim so long ago. I had treasured it since then as one of my most precious possessions. Seeing these illustrations always moistened my eyes, but after a while -after I've read the same stories every night- I had learned to hold back my tears.

Marianna got comfortable in her bed, announcing not very subtlythat she was ready for the beginning of the story.

I cleared my throat and I swallowed the lump that always formed when I was thinking in my husband. Then I began the story.

"Once upon a time..."