The Knight's Tale I: The End of A Dream

The Count was walking to and fro. To and fro. He had already created a few feet of severely flattened grass where he was pacing. His eyebrows were knotted. His fists were balled hard. Something seemed wrong. And nature was, once again, mocking him with its cheerfulness.

He looked up and saw that the sky was still bright even though dusk was approaching, and the red sunlight filtering through the forest canopy was pleasing to the eye. But there was nothing right in the world anymore. Nothing right. The hunter... His hunter... is dead.

He killed him. He had no choice. He was to revive him but things went wrong. Horribly wrong. And so the hunter died, in his arms. The one he loved, he killed. Those who love him, killed. Those associating themselves with him always get killed.

A cursed life not worth living. So he killed himself. Jumped off the cliff where he buried the hunter. But, somehow, with a cruel twist of fate, he lived through the fall. Whether he transformed into a crow at the last minute, or whether something else saved him, he didn't know. Only that he opened his eyes not to welcome the eternal darkness of death but to see the mild glow of fireflies playing on his face.

Why wasn't he allowed to die? Why did he have to suffer more? Why can't he just take the coward's exit and simply run away from it all? Why?

It has been three months since the fall.

Now everyone he saw around the corner of his eye was the hunter. Every turned back. Every sound of running footsteps was the hunter coming back to meet him. Be with him. Every sigh came out from the lips of his hunter.

He kept seeing the hunter in other men's eyes. Kept seeing them in other's hands, other's faces. He kept seeing him everywhere because deep in his heart, he was hoping that the hunter was still alive. Deep in his heart, he was hoping that the magic which was supposed to bring him back did work, even if it came too late. But if that was so, it would have been a more horrible fate for him and the hunter both - the person he loved the most, buried alive by his own hands.

It has been three months now. And he had already convinced himself before that, perhaps, this chance of a new life meant something. That perhaps, he wasn't supposed to die just yet. That there were more things which would happen to him. And if that was so, what was the use of carrying on with something which will only make him weaker? What was the use of remembrance? What was the use of hopes and dreams when they would only bring him down?

He knew and understood all this, and he did just what was right for him - to let go.

Just three months.

And suddenly, the answer hit him - what was wrong with the day. What was wrong with the sky, the forest, everything. He closed his eyes.

That the time for the truth has come. That the hunter is gone. That there's really no coming back.

That all his dreams of him being with the hunter - the hope that has sustained him for years was all for nothing now. That all the emotions he has spent for the hunter - they had nothing to go to now. The one he threw his heart at, its unwilling recipient, is dead.

So he had no choice but to make the hunter leave his heart for good. Pushed out of his mind. Eradicated completely. Every small thing. Every memory burned. For the good.

Three months gone, and now he was feeling something else. The hunter's leaving had left him with a vague sense of emptiness. Will that place in his heart ever be replaced?

Tears fell heedlessly.

"Is it really over?" he asked.

***

The man hiding behind a tree shifted his weight, making a branch snap with a faint crack. His eyes darted to the Count, alert in case of discovery. But the Count was absorbed with something else. He was standing still, staring at the sky. He was looking at nothing, yet tears were falling silently down his face.

The man behind the tree wondered about what he was thinking. He wondered about such displays of emotion. But there were more important things at hand... Matters of the heart were not of interest to him anyway. Not very much.

He raised his right hand, producing fireflies out of thin air, creating a soft glow in the slowly creeping twilight. With a gesture of his hand, the fireflies flew as one towards the Count, and still the Count didn't notice. They illuminated the Count's face, making him look softer and more vulnerable.

A shadow of a smile appeared on the wizard's own face, but it was soon gone, replaced by an intent look of purpose.

The Count opened his eyes.