A Hero As Lover
DescriptionA tragedy originally submitted by james
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Note: This story was originally submitted by james. He requested that someone tell it in a different way. I felt it was a good, sensitive tale that just needed a ton of cleaning and formatting. So, james, here is what I did with it. Let james know what you think. His eyes danced with fire and light as he told me about the world he had come to know. He said that there was power, strength, and purpose in everything around us, and deities to shepherd and control them all. I almost saw those beautiful things too. But I couldn't see past his burning eyes. The brilliance blinded me. It was his last night before finally leaving to go to the monastery to begin his training. But you could see that part of him had already gone. It was silly of me to think that one night could change his passions. But, I wanted more than just another empty bed in the morning. I was selfish in thinking that I could take his gift away from the world. Stories drifted back to town about his training and the great deeds he had done. Some were so fantastic I couldn't tell what was true or what was legend. What was truth was that I was carrying his child. I would name her Madeira. My family cast me out, branding me a harlot when I denied knowledge of the father's true name. I would never tell; he would find out and leave the monastery to take care of us. His training and skills were needed by the world; that was more important. Eventually the town treated me as an outcast as well. I had to work hard, at low-paying jobs, just to keep a small hovel at the edge of the town and to feed the two of us. Finally, the strain was too much. I wrote him and asked for help. I begged him to come home and save us. My emotions raged; I slept but little. One night, unable to sleep, I heard screams coming from the village. But it was the loud crash in my daughter's bedroom that really jolted me. I ran to Madeira's room, finding a glowing eye glaring from the corner. The eye burned. I was too frightened to strike it, but I would not let it burn my daughter. I covered, and protected, my daughter. And the eye burnt me, scarring my face. Madeira grew up embarrassed to be seen with her disfigured mother. She came to hate me because of our poverty. And she blamed me because she had no father. At night, I would tell her of the great deeds of a stalwart monk. As she grew older, I told her that this monk was her father. My strength and will returned; the scar and the talks rebuilt my spirit. Those nights, I believe, were the only time we were truly happy. Madeira is now a grown woman, with the same fire in her eyes that her father has. She sees all of the power and purpose surrounding us, just as her father did. She sees me, however, as weak and frail in spirit. I stay in my humble home. I still think of the night I met and loved the monk. And I pray that he remembers, and thinks of me, at times.