The light faded slowly, colors shifting through the dusty windows. Hale stared into the waning glow of the day as he rocked in his old wicker chair, back and forth. Each creak seemed an old friend, his constant companion in the silence of the small cottage. Hale had lived there for almost a decade, alone in the tiny stone structure provided by the king after his strength had begun to fade like the sun through the windows.
Hale had been the hero of the kingdom for most of his life, beloved of the people and the king.
As a youth, chance had led him to rescue a girl from a sudden fire in the forest, thinking only of her safety from the flames. That girl had been Almira, daughter of the king.
From then on, Hale had been trained by the best knights of the kingdom, given the best schooling, then sent to the most dangerous areas to prove himself. He had triumphed in the face of the greatest evils to attack the kingdom for over thirty years, until one spring morning Hale had found himself barely able to lift his sword on the training grounds.
More quickly than Hale could think, he had been bundled together with his things and rushed off to an ancient, burnt out cottage - the same cottage Hale had rescued Almira from. The kingdom had no need of an imperfect hero. He was less than a day’s journey from the city, but Hale was a world apart. He rebuilt his new home before settling in to live the rest of his days alone.
As the last light dwindled into night, Hale abandoned his rememberings to drift off into the sweet peace of sleep, his only solace from his loneliness.
Mists swirled as Hale walked through the forest, searching but never finding. He heard voices around him, whispering, murmuring. Hale knew he should be able to understand their distant calls, but the meaning seemed to be just beyond his grasp. He could not think to understand anything, only to keep going.
As he walked, a dark figure appeared ahead of him in the mists, seeming to be the mist.
“Hale,” her whisper filled his ears.
Still distant, the shadow began to sharpen, the mists solidifying into a woman’s form.
“Hale,” she whispered into his soul.
Her face was beautiful, soft, ageless, a thing of pure light above a swirling cloak of darkness.
Hale should have known her, he knew, but he could not focus.
“Hale I need you,” her voice like chimes through the murmuring.
“Come back to me!” she cried as she faded away into the black.
Hale bolted forward in the dark of his home, his chair squealing in pain.
“Mirella,” he whispered.
Memories poured into him in a torrent, overflowing into the tears rolling down his face. Mirella, the girl in the tower, locked away from the world by a jealous queen. Mirella’s sister’s pride was injured by Mirella’s very existence, but could not afford to lose the favor of her people by murdering Mirella. The queen kept her far away, hoping Mirella would die alone, forgotten by the world.
The people had heard the glories of Hale, and sent messengers to plead with him to save her. They could offer nothing but their devotion, but their deep love of Mirella moved Hale to action.
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