Gentle Spirit

Love was like a diamond; sensuous and gleaming. But it pierced through flesh, bringing pain through the body and melting the soul into a flaming heap.

Carol had lived at Beaconsfield her whole life. She was happy here, up until a point. As youth diminished, the fiery essence that once defined her became a shrinking flame - a pitiful, downtrodden ember that was a shadow of its former self.

It came sometimes in the night; voices of doubt whispering in her ear. Society pecking away at her sense of stability like crows at a feast: ‘Why aren’t you good enough?’, ‘Why aren’t you beautiful enough?’. Those doubts consumed her from the inside out, and she held the tears at bay, toiling away at her work, distracting herself, avoiding her inner psyche....

Brandon had consistently ignored her advances. Men did fancy her, but it was always the ones she wasn’t interested in. She couldn’t care less for those. Perhaps she held an impossibly high standard, which always came to bite her in the back. So she had become rejected; alone, as she rejected others.

Like the only person in the world; a body without a soul. Eating and drinking, but not living.

Until that boy appeared in her backyard.

He was dressed like a knight from the War of Ages, a man of old. The outfit looked too realistic to be an imitation. The edged embroidery of silver flowers that decorated his shirt looked too intricate.

He was handsome-looking, tall but not overly muscular, with well defined facial features. However, his eyes were wells of sorrow and anxiety, as if the young man had seen too much for his age. She wondered what he did, where he was from, what kind of thoughts he was thinking. Perhaps he was a distant traveller, a descendant of noble lineage. Fealdarian royalty, perhaps. He didn’t pay her any attention; he looked deep in mourning. But she also detected fear from his eyes.

“Are you good, sir?”

He only stared into the void, lost.

“Where am I?” The young man, on closer inspection, had the eyes of a boy.

“Beaconsfield, Fealdar. You’re not from around here, are you?” She felt a mixture of pity and intrigue.

“No....”

“Well, come. You could use a rest. We have a spare room, if you’d like.”

“The infernals, the krakens, the monsters of metal, they’re coming....” The boy gripped his head, starting to lose his composure. He was deeply troubled, as if he had seen the face of darkness itself. Out of instinct, she rubbed his back, and somehow, her gentle spirit came out.

“It’s okay. I’ll look after you. Don’t worry about the beasts. I’ll fix you up, and you’ll be good as new.” Out of instinct, she gave him a kiss on the forehead.

Suddenly, he held her and began to cry.

“There, there…” she spoke, soothingly. Women of Fealdar were known for being tender, but truly she felt sorry for this man. What had he seen? The piercing howl that came out of him catalysed her feelings, and she felt like crying as well, for what, she thought, was life but a journey of pain with brief respite?

And so there the two of them were, surrounded by grassy fields, a victim of their own emotions. Carol wondered what her father would think of her, holding a man so intimately that she had never met before. But deep down, she needed this; she felt a burden lift from her shoulders as she embraced this stranger from a distant land. There was something about him that brought her a wave of curiosity, as if something would change in her monotonous life if she stayed with him.

Eventually, they walked together back to Carol’s cottage. It was a humble home in the middle of a farm, fashioned of stone with an arched stairwell. She was worried if the man could walk, but once he wiped his tears, he seemed competent - as if he’d aged a few years after his moment of weakness. Now he exuded calm and confidence, and in the morning light he looked handsome.

“I must thank you, lady. I am so sorry for burdening you with my presence..” His voice was on the cusp of manhood, but didn’t quite sound mature.

“What is your name, sire?”

“Hah, I’m no sire. Just an upjumped soldier with fancy armour. I’m Jereas. Jereas Al’Silkheart. But Jereas is fine. I’m so sorry for my moment just now....I am just so lost, lady, so directionless…”

She thought he might break down again, but he steadied himself and continued on. They walked inside Carol’s cottage, chairs surrounding a fiery hearth in the living room, with multiple other rooms adjacent to the stone corridor. She grabbed his hand.

“My name is Caroline Besken. Or just Carol. Come, Jereas, we must put you to rest. There’s nothing a good sleep can’t solve.”

“But…”

“No buts!” She put her hands on her waist angrily. “You have been through much, knight Jereas, and I won’t ask you how or why. Not yet. For now, rest. We will talk more later.”

The boy seemed to listen to reason, at least. He climbed out of his armour and Carol left the room.