I sit at the desk in the room I'm occupying for now, opening a drawer and pulling out a bundle of papers all bound together to make a sort of notebook. A makeshift journal the doctor gave me. I've never kept a journal before, but he says writing is therapeutic so I'm willing to give it a shot. So far all I've done is write "Journal" in bold letters on the front page, but after mulling everything over slowly, I feel like I can finally start to put down some of my feelings. Nina showed me how to use this kind of pen (a quill and ink pot, which is actually kind of cool, or messy is another word I could use), so... I'm ready.
Day 6 10:00 P.N.
It's been six days since I first woke up here. My wrist is completely healed and my head doesn't hurt anymore. But what I've learned about what's happened to me since I got here, nearly two months ago...even three days after Doctor Hetu told me everything, it's still so hard to believe. I didn't think I could be so careless. How could I let this happen? What am I going to do? I need to get home, I need someone who can help me with this.
...I want Mom. I force myself to write those words, and just as I knew would happen, tears begin to fill my eyes. I wipe them away quickly, though more well up. So I ignore the rest and just keep writing.
Why did she have to die, anyway? Why is it always the good people who leave, the ones who actually care about others. Why couldn't he have been the one to get that stupid disease? I feel a little guilty, practically wishing death on my own father, but the words are flowing now. It's not like he ever shows that he cares about me. No, everything revolves around Anton, and I mean nothing, just because I wasn't a boy! That was hardly my fault. Suddenly I feel angry, and I write furiously, if haltingly, for having to dip the pen in the ink often. If he wants to blame someone for that twist of fate, try the goddesses, not Mom or me. I don't even know how she could have married someone like that, arranged or not. She could have run away. I would. I know she didn't want to disappoint her parents, but you have to draw the line somewhere! And now I'm stuck here, and I'm not ready for this. I'm sixteen! I don't want to be a- I jump as there's a knock on the door. Quickly, I shove the journal back in its drawer and turn in my chair before telling whoever is at the door to come in. It opens and of course, it's just Nina, but I wouldn't have wanted what's-his-face, the butler guy to know that I'm writing. From what I hear he's been with my captor for a long time and is very loyal to him. Even if he can't read this language, he might think I'm trying to plan a way out again, which, yeah, I am, but better none of the bad guys know.
"It's getting kind of late, Miss Ella," she says. She walks over to me and I stand to meet her. She's a few inches taller than I am, no shock there (my height has always been a sore point with me. I might be average, but I'm surrounded by people taller than me), and actually, having gotten to know her a little more these past few days, she reminds me of my mother. Gentle and smiling and kind. "Shouldn't you be getting some rest?"
"Not much I need to rest from," I mumble. Really, all I've done in the time I've been here is sleep, eat, walk around the house, which qualifies as my exercise for the day, and read. That's something, at least, there are a lot of books here. And I've never been more thankful in my life that I learned Ancient Hylian, or else not only would I not know what's going on (it's mind blowing anyway, but you know), but I would be extremely bored. Plus reading helps take my mind off of everything that's happened.
"You look tired," Nina notes. I frown, stepping over to the mirror which hangs just beside the desk. I guess I look a little tired, the bags under my eyes being exaggerated by my natural paleness. They're kind of red too, but that's from a few minutes ago. My eyes always get red when I cry, no matter how quickly the tears pass. "I haven't been sleeping very well," is my response. "I really don't feel that tired though." At any rate, I'm not sleepy. And I can't sleep when I'm not sleepy, no matter how tired I am.
"Well, I brought you this." She sets a cup of what appears to be milk on the desk. "Maybe it will help. You have to take care of yourself now."
If not for the fact that I have to be very careful of what I say in this house, I might have exploded then. But I settle for gritting my teeth, looking down with a shake of my head. I can feel tears forming again, but then Nina is in front of me and she gives me hug. "Don't worry," she whispers, barely audible even though she's speaking right into my ear. "Everything will be all right. We'll get you home." I just nod, since I don't think I can speak, and she lets me go, heading for the door. She opens it, turns to give me a smile and say good night, then is gone.
With a sigh, I sit back at the desk and take out the journal. I feel suddenly exhausted, so decide against writing more. I'm only going to finish the last sentence I started. I pick up the pen, and forming each letter carefully, write the word 'mother.' Then I put the pen down, put the journal away and blow out the desk's two candles before making my way to the bed, sipping the milk as I go. It's warm, and I'm again reminded of Mom. When I was little and had trouble sleeping, she would always bring me warm milk, sitting with me as I drank it and finally fell asleep. A memory like that would likely have set me bawling again, but I'm just too tired right now. At least Nina found me more comfortable clothes to sleep in. I don't know why I can't stand sleeping in normal pyjamas, but that's how it's been since I was little. I need the least amount of material possible or I feel like I'm suffocating. It's pretty much always been tank tops and shorts for me, even in the dead of winter. I guess the first night I woke up here I was too focused on the fact that I had no idea where I was to notice being uncomfortable.
I climb into bed (the curtains are all pulled back, so I can still see around the room in the light of the fire in the fireplace), blow out the candle on the side table before pulling the heavy quilt up to my chin, and am out like a light, troubled mind or not.
A noise wakes me again. I open my eyes slowly, reluctant to wake up, and look around, groggy. When I look to my left side, I see something. Strange flashes of light on the wall, like flames flickering, but the light of the fireplace doesn't reach that far corner. A fire in the village? I'm wide awake in an instant, sliding out to the right and pulling back the curtain blocking the window beside the bed. But past those stupid bars, I see only the darkness in the trees and the glow of the moon on the snow. The few visible houses look fine. No flames. That's weird. Then there's another noise, sounding like metal scraping metal. It's faint, but it sounds close. I can feel my heart begin pounding a little faster as I hurry around the bed, peering around the post at the bottom right corner. The light still flashes on the wall, coming in through the crack between the fabric and the window frame. And through the curtain, I can see the light's source, sparks flying as someone, somehow, holds a flame to one of the bars. Trying to weaken it. Trying to get in.