Twist of the Heart

by James Val'Rose

  The fact remained that, although she had never considered their relationship serious, she had only been lying to herself. She could not, and had never been able to, for any second that they were together, help loving him. And now that he was gone, she felt punished to love him more; it was like an all-consuming illness, infecting every bit that it touched. To her, their brief time together had seemed a flight with the angels – a carefree vastness of pleasure – and now, it was the slow, painful descent back to the unwelcoming ground, a fall from grace, to live life as a mortal, after having been enwrapped in the folds of heaven.

  The time seemed to pass slowly, as she mulled over the endless questions rumbling through her mind, like a snowball rolling its inexorable course down a hill. Would she see him again? Did she want to see him again…?

  Of course she did, but admitting it only pained her more.

  It had been a long morning, a morning of triumph and promise, of wishful thinking and dreams. But in her mentally and physically weakened state, she made her retreat back home to her small house.

  Cradling the baby, rocking him slowly to slumber, she was ineffably stung by a myriad of feelings. Her body could not contain the tempest and she released her tears, varying streams and undercurrents immersed with thrill and torment.

  It was the start of a day she would never forget. All that was left was the child’s name. It was her finishing thought before the tears carried her to her own sleep.

  The idea blossomed within the stillness without any sign of warning. She would call him after his father; his name would be Jerome.

  Chapter I

  The Desire

  Driana was a lady of forbidden beauty. It was as though she had stolen her looks from Heaven’s angels, seized her radiance from Heaven’s celestial sphere and purloined the colour in her eyes from the depths of Heaven’s ocean.

  But she was no thief.

  That said though, if stealing the breaths and hearts of men were a crime then she would be the finest of all thieves.

  Gazing upon her red lips was like sailing on a carmine sea of roses, and her blue eyes, while they occasionally sang with green, hinted at something mystic. Her deep black hair and equally dark eyebrows gleamed with a solar essence.

  She was blessed with seraph splendour and it mirrored the soul beneath. Yes, rarely was she without attention, but rarely was it anything else, anything more – something to look at, to adore and go crazy over, but ultimately, only ever left for the imaginarium.

  There had only been one true love for her, and that was now over and she lived with that solemn acceptance.

  ***

  The years ticked by, as Driana watched Jerome grow. As she sat down each evening she enjoyed watching his life, and the events that marked it: the first time he stood up, the first step he succeeded in making, his first word.

  These were the moments that happiness was made of, that made everything so understandable, for as much as she loved Jerome, he could be a handful at times. But that phase soon passed as he grew to be a toddler, then a child and then a teenager.

  Fourteen years had raced on, but it left no one with any doubt that Driana had done a remarkable job in raising him.

  He was a helpful young soul, and never dithered at the chance to assist, or just be there should she ever ask.

  For the most part he didn’t take after his mother’s looks. His hair was brown, which when coupled with the sunlight often gleamed blond. And even though it lacked in length, Jerome was still able to find a way of making it messy – a talent only a boy could possess, Driana often mused. His eyebrows were very prominent and, like his mother, he also had wonderful, rich blue eyes. His face was well defined and his skin was tanned from the amount of hours spent outside.

  Jerome’s only knowledge of his father was through stories his mother had told, and they were few and far between. Although it had occurred to him that while his mother often wept at the stories, he could not find it in him to do the same.

  Of course he was sad that he had not known him, but to him, his father was just a story: a something that had never been, and therefore nothing that he could never lose.

  But the way she told those stories – a gifted storyteller – he was sure that he would have loved him.

  Sometimes he would sit and think about it. Painless as it was to him, to Driana it was obviously quite the reverse, and that did make him sad.

  To ease it though, he had a friend by the name of Peter, who always gave him time, mainly because they were the closest of friends, but also because of their shared situation.

  Peter had light fair hair – equally as messy as Jerome’s – and green eyes. He lived under the care of a quiet couple, Melissa, Driana’s closest friend, and her husband Dreyton.

  They had come into guardianship of him when he was just a baby. He had been abandoned outside their front door, with little more than a note nestled upon the cradle in which he lay. Nonetheless, they took him in and raised him as their own.

  Jerome and Peter had known each other for as long as they could remember. They had both been told the stories of their lineage, and how both were missing vital parts from each. It was a sour bitterness that they had both experienced, but to two young boys, that sour taste made the joy of company, the heat of the sun and the fresh cool breeze that much sweeter.

  In their early years, they accomplished much together. They had often taken walks into the woods of Banneth Fell, known to locals as The Fell, and within, found the most astonishing place to create their own haven of tranquillity.

  That was how they pictured it anyway, but they were boys, with the call of the wild – the call for adventure – limning their hearts. Dreams of grandeur, tinted by the glamorous hue of treading the hero’s path, halted any chance of tranquillity.

  More often than not, they could be found wielding sticks at each other, scrapping, scuffling, climbing trees and terrorising the wildlife.

  And as the years saw them grow, so, too, did everything else. The trees they climbed got higher, the animals they chased got bigger, the fights they had became rougher and picking swords became more of a deadly science. But it was their freedom, and they had no incentive of exploring anything else. Moreover, they had never been exposed to anything beyond that life. Their parents, for similar reasons, blanketed them. And consequently, even at the ages of sixteen and fourteen, Peter and Jerome behaved like that of younger boys, but life was about to shatter down upon them faster than they would have liked…

  …And it all stemmed from the simplest of things.

  Their haven of tranquillity really was a remarkable place. Although, ostensibly just a clearing within The Fell, it had all the right ingredients to make it perfect. Just inside the treeline was a big, turfed heath, excellent for hiding behind, spying from, or lazing on… On the other side was a small lake that shrivelled into a stream, which eventually would run its course into the depths of The Fell and onwards to the sea. Over the years, they had both learnt the mastery of staying afloat and even to swim, but from incidents – where play had gone too far – they had also learnt the necessary veneration for it, as well.

  ***

  Jerome had his back to a tree, while Peter perched, looking over the heath. Jerome had spied the rabbit, and the game was to catch it. They had never actually succeeded in doing that, so the game had become a whoever-gets-nearest-to-it-wins sort of game. And, from the rareness of seeing a rabbit, so ready for the taking, this game took precedence over all others.

  The only real rule was no sabotage. If the other were to make a noise, throw something, or scare the prey away then the other would automatically win. But this rule was never broken, not anymore at least, since they were now both aching to catch one.

  Jerome went first, as was his right being the one who spotted it – spotter’s honour. He slowly crept out, controlling the placement of his feet on the springy woodland floor.

  It was close, maybe closer than one had ever been – maybe it just see
med that way, maybe it always did – and he took each step with deadly seriousness. He could virtually hear it nibbling, its snappy movements and completely ridiculous, stigmatic, fluffy-tail bobbling.

  He felt close, but he reassessed and, at the current rate of his approach, the rabbit would die of old age before it would be in catching distance. He was about to take another step and then … gone.

  He and Peter had learnt not to try and sprint after them, make a last-ditch dive to nab it. Not only because it was futile, but also because it would surely scare it away for good, and it was important that the other got a turn.

  His head dropped and then he looked over to Peter, who was smug, ducked behind the heath, with only his eyes peeping over the top.

  His turn now…

  A defiant and churlish part of Jerome hoped that the rabbit was gone … but it wasn’t, and Peter crept out from behind the grassy cover.

  Jerome watched as he sneaked up with determination, and he was quiet.

  And he was close … really close.

  He was actually going to do it.

  And then, as if some sort of mystic, leporine spirit was watching over and protecting its kith, like a fluffy-floppy-eared guardian angel, a hopping messenger of truth, the rabbit got wind of it and scarpered.

  Of course, it was inevitable. And besides, that wasn’t the game. It was whoever was closest, and to the frustrating truth, it was Peter.

  “Fine,” Jerome accepted. “Anyway, it’s not like sneaking up on rabbits is a valuable life skill.”

  “No one ever said it was, and besides, you were the one who spotted it!” Peter scoffed.

  “Well I’ve had enough of this whole rabbit chasing nonsense. We’re never going to catch one, you know.”

  Peter chuckled. “You’re probably right, but you know we’ll always keep trying.”

  “Not me,” Jerome said. “No more. I’m done with all that.”

  “All right… What do you want to do then?” Peter said, after a moment of consideration.

  Jerome thought. It was a hard truth, but there was very little that he could do better than Peter, and the things he could do better unfortunately weren’t the games they played: more the tailoring he had picked up from his mother. A cross-stitch, a chain stitch, a darning stitch, Jerome could list them all and recognise them as well. Give them a competition about that and Jerome would win, hands down.

  However, it wasn’t about stitching or hemming or darning or embroidering. It never was, and, in a way, Jerome was fine about that. But the time for thinking was over, and then the words simply spilled out. “Sword fight?”

  Why, in the name of God and all His angels, did he say that?

  And he knew Peter was better than him. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Of course, he couldn’t back down now.

  Peter sounded a little snigger, as he picked up two similar-length pieces of wood. One he kept in his hand and the other he threw with disdain upon the floor in front of Jerome.

  Tapping his lightly on the floor in a cordial manner, he said, “Your sword.”

  To add to this jocular formality, a subtle grin marked his face, which he made absolutely sure Jerome could see.

  Bending down to pick up that stick took what felt like an age, as he churned over the thought of Peter beating him. But he wouldn’t let it happen, he thought. He couldn’t. He mustn’t.

  The weapon was in place and Peter, poised and composed, readied his stance to match.

  There was a pause. All became still and quiet for a short period of time… Then the attacks started flying. Wood chip flew left, right and centre, as miscalculated hits from both landed on bare flesh, but the fight continued on and Jerome didn’t surrender either. On the contrary the more times Peter landed a successful attack, the more Jerome kept swinging his sword until he felt nothing but determination. However, what made this occasion unlike any of its predecessors was that Jerome’s attacks became more precise and accurate, despite his anger and frustration.

  Peter was only just managing to defend himself, let alone trying to take the offensive. He could see that Jerome wasn’t going to stop. It was too late for that. Peter had to stop the fight the only way he knew how, dropping his sword and taking a few steps back.

  For a few moments after the fight was over, Jerome was still flinging his piece of wood around. When he realised it was all over – he’d won! – he quickly composed himself and, as he did, looked over to Peter with confusion upon his face.

  “What was that?” Peter muttered.

  “What was what?”

  “That style of fighting? It was deadly.”

  “I didn’t know it was different to anything before. I was just … swinging a piece of wood around.”

  “Well, if you say so. Anyway it’s getting late and I have to get home. And you should, too.”

  Peter beckoned his friend to come and they started the long trip home.

  Idly they chatted, as they walked, talking of things they had done, of things to come and many other topics, and it was during such a conversation that Peter mentioned to Jerome about training in Cearan.

  Jerome dismissed the idea initially, but a seed had been planted in his mind. It was something he had thought of before, but no one had ever recommended it.

  His mother had always wanted him to be a tailor, but that was never something that had interested him. Yet she still talked to him about it as though it were absolute, and no degree of argument was ever enough to persuade her otherwise.

  He wanted to be something his father would be proud of, even though he had no idea of what that might be. He had great visions of himself running through a war-torn, blood-stained battlefield, slaying men to his left and right, blood flying in all directions, shouts of pain and death, as one man would fall after another, until finally reaching his nemesis.

  In his thoughts, his final foe would be dressed in bulky, black armour; and there he would stand face to face with him before bringing him down. Cheers would be heard all over; shouting his name aloud, for Jerome would be the victor!

  But these, among others, were only thoughts of a boy lost in his swaying imagination.

  They couldn’t have been more than ten minutes from home, and they had already been travelling for a good while, when Jerome suddenly stopped and flushed a whiter shade of unwell.

  Turning quickly to Peter, he said, “My bag! I left it behind. Peter, I have to go back and get it.”

  “Jerome, it’s almost dark. You can’t.”

  “I have to. It’s got my mother’s medallion in it. She’ll kill me.”

  “What are you doing with her medallion?”

  Completely caught up in the plume of worry, he ignored Peter and resaid, “I have to go back and get it.”

  “She’ll never let you go out again if you get home much later than this.”

  “And she’ll never let me out if she finds out I’ve taken her medallion, so either way it doesn’t matter … but I’d rather be alive.”

  Peter, torn between helping his friend and being told off himself, thought for a second, and then said, “…Look, do you want me to go back with you?”

  “No point the both of us being late. You head back, I’ll be fine.”

  “Suit yourself, but you’d better run.”

  Which Jerome did.

  “What shall I say if your mother calls round and asks where you are?” Peter shouted back to his friend.

  “Anything!”

  Peter shrugged his shoulders and continued the last leg of the journey on his own.

  ***

  That night, Banneth Fell was not the only wood to have a lone figure rattling through. Far on the other side of Aramyth, in Dewdrop Wood, out-skirting the south of Toryn, was a young girl. She had been in those woods for just over a day now.

  Slung over her shoulder was a bag, which contained food, water and a rumpled blanket. Her clothes were shabby, complete with tears and rips. Most, if all, of the colour that they had originally possessed had long
since faded from age and lack of care. Moreover, any colour that may still have lingered on was coated in a layer of mud and grime, and undetectable either way.

  Her hair was wild and frayed, held up and together by dead leaves and some very fine bits of kindling, all this adding to its frizzy and dishevelled look.

  Her face was also not without additions. It was mostly just filth and grime, but hiding beneath that were a couple of cuts and grazes where she had tripped and fallen into the bracken.

  She was in a very sorry state. But she had been on the run for more than just a day and wasn’t about to give up now.

  She stopped moving, looked around and, seeing that the night was well in session, unhooked her shoulder bag and placed it on the ground next to her.

  It had been a long day, she reflected, as she bit off a chunk of stale bread and took a swig of water.

  It wasn’t quite the evening meal she was used to, but it was enough to keep her in health until she got to safety.

  Finally, she removed her blanket from the bag and placed it next to her. Curling up inside it as well as she could, she took one last bite of bread and one final swig of water before putting them away and closing her eyes for the night.

  ***

  Just shy of the treeline, in a clearing at the south of Dewdrop Wood, was a rundown, wooden shack. The world around it seemed huge in comparison, as if a small breeze might cause it to come tumbling down. It was a shack most would feel totally useless on a howling night like this, but some were finding use for it.

  Dull candlelight poured out over the wooden table, at which two places had been taken. Both the men were sitting just outside the glow of the candle and were engaged in a low conversation.

  From an adjoining room there came mutters and whimpers. Occasionally, the wind picked up outside and howled, pushing the odd draught through the cracks in the shabby framework, thus rippling the gentle constancy of the candle’s flame.

  Tension arose between the two men until one finally slammed his fist down hard on the table, almost extinguishing the candle, but it bubbled back to stability.