Why, hello my dear readers. I'm so delighted to be reunited with you again as I have quite missed our wonderful evenings together. You have been light in my heart and have filled a void I thought could not possibly be filled. I have immense love for you all and wish you dear and sweet blessings.

What's different: well you'll have to see! This first chapter is shorter, more concise, and summarizes exactly what I want it to summarize. You don't know too much about what's going on, but you'll certainly meet interesting themes.

A few communication changes: each chapter now has a name, as you can see, which is nice. At the top of the page I will tell you who has reviewed it and who helped edit the storyboard as well as how many words are in it. I will also answer reviews from the previous chapter at the bottom of the page to make sure I get back to you all. For instance; this chapter is 2013 words long, the story was edited by MarsArrow, and the text was reviewed by my lovely friends Vanderspektacular and In-Christ, Billios. You ladies were wonderful (kisses them respectively on the cheek), thank you for being so marvelous. Billi is also available for beta-services by the way, so get her while ya can!

This chapter is dedicated to everyone who believed in my ability and encouraged me even when my friends and family did not.

With love,

Peter William (Celestial Seraphim)

Every now and then I hear the sounds of screaming in my mind: the horrible shouts of a father who did not love, of a brother who could not protect, of a sister who would not care. And then, just like that, they're gone- vanished into thin air. But still, all the same, there is the memory of what was left behind in the bleakness of those woods and the pain that swamped the grey stone mansion. But now they exist only in my nightmares, or the occasional fleeting thought. It will never be behind me, but rather beside me; and that is the only way I would have it. For the past stays with you, to remind you of what you have left. That reminder is what helps you to build your future.

But the past is still there, just as the memories are, and even if you want them to leave, they stay. You cannot escape them, for where you go, they will follow. Yet, sometimes it is only their ghost that helps you to start the day anew. That is where my story begins.

The childhood of my memories was rather like the gentle rumbling of a distant thunder: I knew that sooner or later a storm would emerge and there would be no escape. I do not recall whether I heard its stirring in the sepulchral silence of the mansion or in the joyless pallor of the residents; I suppose it was both. The servants seldom spoke, or even smiled, and my siblings were never heard laughing as they played in the meadow. It was almost as if there was a supernatural stillness to our home.

Father visited rarely and never to see me. His duty was to the war and the struggle against the invading armies of the north. I knew little of the matter and even less of the details. My thoughts were solely of the fact that it took him away. I don't know why I didn't feel deprived. I suppose I might have if I had known him before he left, but I had not even been born when the war began. Mother must have been pregnant at the time, or perhaps a little bit later, and Kat and James were barely more than infants.

Mother was very beautiful: a wife any man would have been proud of. I didn't know how or when she died; I assumed perhaps during childbirth or from a disease. The subject was not one to be mentioned by the servants, nor did they give straight answers when I asked. She was, from what I gather, a very rich noble from a highly educated family when she met my Father, who was a common merchant at that time. The tale always seemed romantic to me; they met, fell in love, defied social norms, and married. Or at least that is how I pictured it. I didn't know if that really happened at all.

There was no picture of her amongst those mounted in our gallery. I assumed it was because she was too young, or perhaps, if she did have a portrait, it had been lost. For the most part I had to imagine her in my mind: tall, fair, slim figure, wonderfully elegant poise; her face framed by the famous long red locks about which I had heard visitors reminisce. They came every so often to pay their respects to Kat and James, and to inquire about the doings of Father. Few, if any, ever spoke to me, though I was quite content to exist in the shadows. Kat and James were excellent hosts and I had no desire to intervene.

In our youth, our interaction was limited to an occasional meal with each other. Normally the servants allowed me to survive on the wild berries of the forest and an occasional treat amongst an assortment for Kat and James. However, in the case of a special event, such as Christmas, I was invited to dine with them.

It is a wonder that I learned to speak at all with such few interactions with people. I am told my first attempt at speech came out as birdsong. I assume it was something I learned from my favorite dwelling: the deep forest beyond the meadow.

I spent hours there every day: singing with the birds, dancing with the fairy-flies, climbing the trees with the squirrels. The animals taught me many things I would never have been able to learn in human society. For example, I understood exactly how I was to put my feet on the rough bark and what kinds of branches were the best to perch on. There was a very elaborate secret to the squeezing of your knees and the pulling of your arms that, if done well, ensured you would be accepted among the tree folk immediately. The badgers taught me excellent mechanisms of digging that were extraordinarily useful when I would look for buried things or plant flowers. The beavers taught me expert diving skills and how best to stay under water with limited breathing ability. I was a fast learner and steadily became capable of adapting to this new culture.

It wasn't until a year or two before Father came back that I began to speak to the animals. At first I thought that they were only making noises: small grunts and retorts if you will. But as I began to listen I slowly began to understand them. Not only did they call to each other, but they also spoke with words and signals. I grew to understand the tail slapping of a beaver not only indicated an alert of danger, but was also a reaction to a joke or comical situation. Beavers have a marvelous sense of humor.

The servants have always described the birds as gossipers. However, the opposite couldn't be truer. Birds are wonderful informants of other places and new ideas and stories. They sing, with beautiful song, of doomed love affairs and impending wars. Many are kind and sweet tempered, if not a bit shy as well. A bluebird friend of mine often told me of the going-on's in the war Father was in, so that I was never misinformed. He learned these things from a hawk friend of his, who was employed in it.

The deer are delightful running partners and are experts in amusement and gaiety. The doe are mild mannered, whereas the bucks seem to be more dramatic- if not Quixotic in their own way. I have always been fascinated by their elegance and graceful dance. If I were any sort of animal, I would wish to be a deer.

I began to become more infatuated by the day with this new and exciting world of the wild. It was dangerous- that it true, for not every bear is kindly, and no wolf desires friendship by natural means, but at the same time it was mesmerizing and liberating. No longer was I confined to the walls of dreary stone, for now I had the stars and the trees as my tapestries.

With the use of my animal-trained skills I was able to create a haven in which I stayed when I could not bear to be in the house. The servants found my behavior erratic and treated me as though I were wild creature from the woods, though I suppose in many ways I was. They made sure that, at all possible moments, they were not alone with me. I could have hardly cared. At five years of age I barely noticed them, and they had showed no less contempt for me when I was "tame". It almost seemed their nature to avoid me.

When I would be home I would often spend time in the gallery, looking at all the pictures Father and Mother had collected of their various relatives. Father's portrait had been added a few years ago and as I looked up at him I found a sense of pride dwelling in my heart. He was, indeed, very handsome, with curly blond hair and deep set green eyes. His smile was reassuring: soft, gentle, and yet confident. His square jaw was held regally into the air as if he, too, were a noble. Marriage can often change a manner.

I was examining it one day when a maid came in and, seeing me, cried out. "Oh, miss, you mustn't touch anything, you'll ruin the Master's picture!"

"I-I'm sorry," I said stammering.

She called down a butler who took the portrait off the wall and inspected it for marks. My older brother, James, stood in the hallway, glaring at me through his book.

"I'm sorry, I-I didn't know!" I said to him.

He didn't answer.

I looked back to the barren space on the wall. A large frame mark marred where the portrait had been placed, but to my surprise another frame mark lied within it.

"Was there another portrait here before Father's?" I asked James.

He looked up from his book with a blank expression.

I blushed at the uncomfortable silence before finally managing, "Whose was it?"

He closed his book and turned round to leave.

"Wait, please!" I called out to him.

He turned back around.

"Please, tell me," I pleaded.

He shrugged, then murmured, "Mother's" after which he proceeded to leave.

I glanced back to the mark on the wall. Mother's? Was it true? Did she really have a portrait created? My heart bled. I was desperate to see it.

I confronted my forest friends the next day about the matter. "Do you really think there could be a portrait?"

Henry tapped his paw. "Maybe. I still say it's a bizarre custom, keeping pictures."

"It's to remember what people look like," I told him.

He tapped his foot again indicating indifference.

Henry is a beaver, although he really isn't called Henry. I have only given them names so that you may differentiate them as I do. The truth is, if you haven't guessed, that animals don't have names. Their system of communication is so much more efficient than ours that they don't need to refer to each other; they always know who they are talking to. Your name is your voice and your strength and your spirit. When I first explained to the animals the concept of names they were appalled. Antoine, my flying troubadour friend exclaimed, "You mean humans actually label each other?"

I nodded, finding amusement in their bewildered responses. Names were second nature to me; I didn't see how you could get by without one. The animals went on:

"That's terrible! What if you don't like it? You're stuck with an ugly label for the rest of your life! No one should ever decide for you what you are."

I smiled. I had never thought of it that way. Antoine was so clever. Berry, his brother, peeped up from beside him. "Can you change your name? What do they mean?"

I laughed, "No, you can't change it. It's just attached to you. It's what separates you from a crowd. I think they mean things: mine does."

Irene, the doe, stopped eating grass and gazed up at me. "What does yours mean?"

"Mine means a rose."

The animals paused. "What's that?"

"I think it's a flower."

They nodded and went back to their duties.

Animals are very emotionally perceptive. They are very keen on making sure everyone's opinions are voiced and that no one is left unhappy. They were wonderful confidants in my youth.

We were going to finish Henry's dam the day I left them forever. I had just walked into the kitchen when I heard a commotion from upstairs. Suddenly the kitchen door slammed open. "Child, quick! Upstairs immediately; you're getting a bath."

"What?" I said dumbly, confused by the commotion.

"Quick, child!"

I made my way up the stairs for the first time in three months, back to my room.

What I didn't know was that the war was over and Father was expected back home.

Today.