Once Upon a Time
Chapter One
Clary P.O.V
My prison consists of one, very large, circular room. The walls are a pale blue, almost the exact color of the sky in springtime, and the floor is a light sand-colored wood. My prison has one door, which opens out onto a small balcony, and exactly 6 pieces of furniture: A bed, a dresser, a mirror, a reed basket, a bathtub and a rosewood screen. My prison is a tower, approximately 5 stories high, in a clearing in a green forest. The pond about double the size of my one and only room is my one and only neighbor.
My prison has no exit.
No, I'm not a criminal. I grew up here. This is the only home I have ever known.
I open my eyes again to what feels has been hours, but what has probably only been moments, and swing myself off the bed. It is night and a chill has settled in the air. I stand up from my bed and walk towards the balcony, my thin night gown no match against the crisp wind. The air whips against my skin and pushes my bedraggled red hair out of my face.
Behind me, my room is dark and silent, the only illumination the pale moonlight coming in from the balcony door. My silhouette stands alone in the light of the doorway.
I stare up at the moon, at the stars, at the dark expanse of the sky and take in a deep breath, the icy air sharp in my lungs.
In the distance, I can make out pin points of light, not pretty enough to be stars. The lights of the town. When I was younger, I had tried to wave to the village, to give them some sign that I was here, trapped. But I know now that there was no point in my efforts. I am simply too far away, too far out of reach, too far away in every aspect.
I know I do not live a normal life. I do not know how I know it, but I do. I feel as if a part of myself is missing, has been missing since the morning I woke up here, 13 years ago.
It must be sometime after midnight, but I cannot sleep, just as I can't every year at this time. I feel that this day, this night perhaps, holds some significance in my subconscious.
I rest both of my hands on the cold marble of the railing and close my eyes. Perhaps in another world, I have a family. Maybe my father is a blacksmith, maybe my mother sews by candlelight, and maybe I have siblings, cousins, grandparents, great-grandparents even, that I know nothing of. Or maybe there is no chance of that and it is just me. Whoever that is.
.o.O.o.
Sunlight streams through the doorway and into the room, filling it with a golden light. The day looks cheery, bright. A perfect day for a walk in the town square or park. For someone else of course. Not me.
I pull myself out of bed and sit on the floor in the middle of the room, where my reed basket sits, empty of anything but dust. I close my eyes for a few moments, as routine, and open them again.
Now, the basket is filled with fresh fruit, all in color coordinated layers. On the top sits a muffin with creamy colored icing and atop that, a note written in spidery, elegant handwriting. I thought you might need a pick-me-up, it said.
I smiled as I picked up the basket and placed it on my dresser beside my many clay pots of paint, also sent by the same person who sends me my meals every day. I have become fond of my messenger, and have affectionately named him Oliver.
Taking a bite out of the muffin and savoring the thick icing and the still warm insides, I begin to write a reply on the back of the parchment. Thank you. Might I ask for some more paint? I tip the fruit onto my bed and replace it with the paper and return to my breakfast. When I look next, a different note has taken the place of mine. Any special requests?
After looking through my collection and checking my painting on the wall, I write back: Bottle green.
The reply is almost immediate. In moments, a small pot, no bigger than my fist, has taken the place of the parchment.
This is a regular occurrence. On my first day here, I had found the basket, filled with various treats that day, and had made myself almost sick eating them. Then later that afternoon, after spending most of the day trying to catch the attention of the villagers in the far off town, I'd found the basket full again, not with treats that time, but a glass of milk along with a note. You might want to wash that down with this, it had read.
Now, I speak to Oliver every day and he supplies me with meals. I may be wrong, but I believe what we have may be friendship.
I write a quick reply of thanks, get dressed in a simple, pale blue dress and hurry to my project: A mountain range freckled with lush pines and dusted with snow that resembles the icing sugar on a cake that Oliver once sent me. The sky in the painting is blue and is only partially hidden by a bank of clouds that hover over the mountains peak.
I spend the next hour, maybe two, on the painting, adding the color I asked Oliver for to highlight the shadowed side of the forest. I'm so immersed in the project that I almost drop the paint pot when a loud noise cuts through the silence of the clearing.
A voice, no, two.
I creep to the balcony doorway, making sure not to bump anything, and peek over the railing.
Down below, two figures, men, knock each other playfully on the shoulders. One, whose hair is black as ink, has a satchel thrown over his shoulder, which thumps against his hip. The other, with hair that shines in the sun like glass, has a hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. He is also looking right at me.
I duck away from the doorway as quick as I can and hold my breath as their voices echo through the quiet.
"Jace, what are you doing?" One says.
"I-uh, nothing. I just though I saw something up there." In my mind, I imagine them climbing up the tower, taking me hostage, killing me.
Oh dear God.
"If you want, we can stay here for a while. Maybe there's some food up there."
I hear a thump, like someone kicked the bottom of the tower. I go stiff all over.
"Not a bad idea Alexander."
Now there is a sound like whirring wind, then a clunk as a 3 sided hook latches onto the marble railing, and then another.
I back away from the doorway, my heart pounding in my chest so hard, I fear it might just burst through my ribs. I look around hastily, I can hear their footsteps as they climb the face of the tower and I spot the rosewood screen. As fast as my feet will carry me, I run to the screen, almost tripping over the hem of my dress as I did so, and hide behind it, just in time.
They climb over the railing, grunting and panting, and stumble into the room.
This close up, I can see that the dark haired boy is shorter than the other and more wiry, though he has the same broad shoulders as the blonde boy, who is examining my project with odd intensity. I wince as he slides his finger across one of the freshly painted trees, smudging my hard work. He rubs the finger and his thumb together.
"It's still wet," The dark haired boy observed, glancing at the blonde's damp fingers. He picks up my half eaten muffin and tosses it to the blonde, who takes a large bite.
"Anwar." He says through a mouthful.
"What?"
"And warm." He repeats after swallowing the bite.
The dark haired boy has his back to me, looking through my art supplies: My brushes, paint pots, old works I did on canvas' Oliver sent me. This is my chance.
Behind me is the bathtub, and on the bathtub ledge, an iron backed mirror.
Quietly, I pick up the mirror by the stem. Both boys have their backs to me, mumbling about who knows what, I'm focusing so hard on keeping quiet I barely hear their chatter. I'm behind the dark haired boy now and I raise the mirror high over my head before bringing it down with all my strength on the boys head.
With a yell of pain, the boy crumbles to the ground unconscious.
The blonde boy hears and whirls around and sees me standing over his companion, breathing heavily with the mirror tight in my grip.
All shock drains from his features and my mouth opens into a startled O. I never saw his face clearly from behind the screen, but know I have a perfect view. His cheekbones are high and his face is all angles and planes and his eyes are a luminous gold, I think absently how I would paint him if I had the chance, mostly black and white with gold on his eyes and hair. "Well," He says, "That was unexpected."