[Deiter Leafblade]

Perspiration was pouring down the side of Gerald’s face as the minutes, then hours worn on. Above, the skies were transiting from a gloomy black to an orangish yellow, and this brightening of day, as well as the retreat of the storm, emboldened him, even as he felt his shoulders aching terribly and legs slowly giving way to the sheer strain that the battle was placing on him and his fellowmen.

Grunting as he swung his prized blade round and tore it across the throat of a leaping puma, he was about to head towards a guard nearby who was struggling to fend off another ferocious leopard when a deafening roar stopped him in his tracks. And it seemed that everywhere, man and beast froze in response to the roar, which lingered and surprisingly, sentiments.

The intent to terrorise had been obvious, and fury was easy to detect. But nothing had quite prepared Gerald to feel the sense of loss. To his distress, he found himself beginning to feel sorry for the dead, whether these were his allies or foes. Was this witchcraft, or delusion? How could he be on the enemy’s side? Yet this was an unstoppable emotion that rooted him to the ground, as if someone were telling him: all life is precious, and one murder does not bring back the life of another.

Gradually, the roar died off and he thought he caught the glimpse of a magnificent lion, its mane flowing freely in the cool shafts of wind. There was wink of light in those bright, humane eyes and he briefly contemplated if a film of water covered their surfaces. It could not be, though, surely; animals could not cry.

Before long, and to his complete astonishment, the creatures began to withdraw in deadly silence and Gerald hurriedly motioned for his men to back off. There was no honour in attacking when the enemies’ backs were turned, and besides, an inner voice told him that a greater sorrow awaited them. Perhaps something untoward had happened to their mistress… yes, that was most likely. Now that he was out of danger, he could even afford to be magnanimous and wish her well; and it was not difficult, for despite her earlier cruelty to him, she had kept his entire family intact.

Speaking of which, he now had to deal with Yasmine.

Wearily, he trudged on, his tired eyes skimming the carcasses and corpses even as he instructed his men to help the wounded immediately to the infirmary. In the background, he sensed slow movement, but it was movement nevertheless; everyone was exhausted, and as long as they could hold on, medical aid was on hand to nurse them back to health.

Pausing in his tracks, he stooped down as he saw the glaring garment before him. There had been enough patches of the garish colour amid the mud stains and films of blood. Holding up her back, he gazed upon the face of the woman he had married nineteen years ago.

This was the woman whom he had been smitten by in her coming-out ball, for she had been simultaneously vivacious and elegant; her family wealth had sealed their match but he would have chosen her even if she had been penniless and his parents had objected.

This was the woman who had captivated their guests as much as she had fascinated him, the woman who had given birth to the apple of his eye. She had been an outstanding hostess, a supportive companion and a reasonably caring mother.

This was also the woman who had abandoned him at the first sign of his imperfection. And it was not just abandonment; she had urged him to take his life.

How was such a turnabout possible? It did not make sense, and in hopeless puzzlement, he searched her lifeless body, hunting for a clue. Success was his reward, when he chanced upon a letter, tucked away so snugly that had he not taken extra pains, the find would never have been made. The note’s scented perfume still lingered in the air, and her handwriting had never been fairer:

”You will be surprised and even jubilant at your victory, my dear Karl. To that, I have nothing to say, because this triumph comes so unexpectedly and you have not worked for it the way I had hoped.

Be that as it may, time is short, so listen carefully, my darling. The years of torment are over; we will shortly be reunited. In fact, you are to make haste here to Alesbridge in the swiftest mode possible. Gerald lies at death’s door, and I have given him the key to unlock it. The details, I will give you later, as soon as I am in your arms again and drawing strength from you.

You may blame me then, for so heartlessly leaving you back then. I had no choice then; you know how these obsessions with family wealth and traditions are like. The frequency and length of my past letters are surely sufficient proof about my feelings for you.

Enough said; you must make haste, and forget the packing. There is enough here to last us a lifetime. Come to me, I say.

Yours,
Y.

So fair a hand, and so treacherous a heart. He lowered the letter, not quite crushing it, as if he knew that he would reread it in time to come. I hate you, Yasmine. Hate could not even do what he was feeling, justice. Have our happier days not moved you at all? Fool that he was, thinking that he would be able to touch her heart with time, even as she had told him frankly one night before their wedding that she could not return his love the way he deserved it. No, I deserve it. She had been honest enough, though she had not mentioned her secret lover.

He could not tell whether his heart was burning or bleeding, but pain gripped him all the same, and in such circumstances, did it really matter what the symptoms were? You feel this because you love her, Gerald. Sighing, he folded the letter and slid it into his inner pockets. You’ve given your heart to a woman who could not return it, and the hatred only shows the extent of how you felt for her. He remained squatted, his hand tracing her cold fingers slightly. You can erase neither those memories nor that passion you bestowed upon her. As if in an afterthought, he lifted her left hand and removed her wedding ring; it had meant nothing to her, and she would certainly not miss it now.

Slowly, he got up, his gaze lingering upon her face. One day, I will feel sorry for your side of the story, Yasmine. But not today. I need time. Turning aside, he called for the manservants to carry his dead wife to the family tomb, ignoring their wonder at his lack of grief. The day is dark, Gerald, but you will survive. You always have.

Holding his head up, he nodded to himself and walked towards the manor.