I’m looking at you through the glass,
Wondering how much time has passed,
And all I know is that it feels like forever,
But no one ever tells you that forever feels like home,
Sitting all alone inside your head.
‘Through the Glass’, Stone Sour

I am staring at a blank page. There was a time when words would come easily to fill it, but writing’s not so simple now. Why? Why draw when there’s nothing to say? Nothing to say how I feel, no entrapment in drawing. It’s like I’m screaming to get out and no one’s there to hear my voice.

It’s me who’s trapped me.

Prologue

This story starts, as so many stories do, on a hill in the rain. There is a woman whose cloak is wrapped tightly around her, although it does nothing to keep out the wind and the rain. Imagine for me, if you will, her face hidden in shadow by the hood that hangs low over her eyes. A horse stands beside her, of indeterminate colour, so dense is the darkness of the storm. A normal person would not be able to see beyond the length of their arm in this weather, yet the woman seems to look through it, down into the valley below.

This is not her story.

It seems that she is waiting – for what, we do not know. She has been waiting for hours, in the rain, biding her time.

Overhead, lightening crackles and the storm darkens against it. She glances upward, but her face briefly lit by the flash above shows no concern, just strangely light eyes – yellow, like a wolf’s – and a dark shadow of lips. It seems she decides she has waited long enough, for suddenly she moves, swiftly through the shadows like a cat. The horse follows tentatively, hooves silent in the thick mud, a few paces behind. The woman does not falter as she makes her way down the hill, and in the dark no one sees as she makes her way through the streets of the village below. She steals through the streets with a purposeful gait, yellow eyes seeking out only she knows what. The houses here are simple fare – not the homes of the wealthy, but a far cry from those of the peasant villages further south. At the end of the high street she takes a left, sticking to the shadows despite the lack of visibility through the rain. There are other eyes than those of humans that watch in the dark. Turning away from the market square she walks, gathering pace, past cottages and the stores of merchants, to the far edge of the village. Her eyes rove the darkness, lit up on occasion by a flash of lightening from above. They fall upon a cottage, smaller than the rest, the horseshoe of a blacksmith hanging by the door. No emotion is betrayed on her face as she moves, slower again now, towards the low building. She does not head for the door, but instead towards the back, to windows with their shutters closed. Upon reaching the smallest one she stops, and without looking around unhooks the latch. Opening the window a crack, she peers inside. Apparently satisfied with what she finds, she pulls it open further and then, with a surprising grace, climbs inside. The horse, whinnying slightly in fear, edges closer to the window, but stays clear.

She lands lightly, cat-like on the earthen floor, and freezes. When no movement is heard from further within, she steals across to a rough-hewn wooden cot on the far side of the room. The suddenly, unexpectedly, she stops.

This is not what she expected. Peering through the bars of the cot, rolled onto its side, is a child. It is not asleep. It is, very definitely, awake. Its eyes, a bright emerald green, are fixed upon the stranger. Its hair is thick, and dark, its skin glowing with a pale opalescence. Moving cautiously, the woman approaches the cot. As she does so the infant rolls onto its back, its eyes never leaving hers. Beside it, she sees now, lies another, fair this time, eyes closed, fast asleep. Brow furrowed, the woman meets the child’s gaze, and with a tremendous crash and a burst of flame, the ceiling behind them collapses. The lightening bolt ignites the thatched roof, and the beams below, spreading with an impossible swiftness in the children’s bedroom. A man shouts in the room beyond – a woman screams. Fighting the fast spreading flames, he bursts through the door and across the room to the wails of distress that are coming from within.

Across the valley, a horse gallops away from the village, bearing its rider to a destination unknown. The rider’s cloak flutters in the wind, weighed down and sodden from hours in the rain. In the crook of one arm, a bundle is cradled. The child within in silent, unaware of whatever fate may await it in the dark. Green eyes stare up at the woman’s face, still hidden in shadow. She does not cry. Still she stares.

This is her story.