Ah, an encore. The most obvious of gifts a performer can bestow upon his wanting audience.

Longing to know more about the fate of my fated, you’ve asked me: what of him? And your praise and love I deemed sufficient persuasion to divulge.

***

During the years that came after, there were various moments where I could have sworn to have spotted the blue gaze of the man I once thought my fated love. But through time that notion had faded. Not because I did not think that the connection we had was just a figment of my imagination, but because I no longer deemed it sacred, nor all-encompassing.

Still, my heart continued to skip a beat every time I caught a flicker of those mischievous sapphires. Over time it did not act as such out of love, but presumably out of habit. For the intense longing for the man that once stole my heart slowly but surely evaporated, and made way for other sensations.

Sometimes I was positive I had seen him, the eye contact lasting just long enough to confirm it was him. Other times it was merely the jolt of my heart that betrayed his presence, and as soon as I noticed, he would disappear. I admit I could have imagined those times, but I strongly believe that was not the case.

All these instances occurred whilst I was performing, never during leisurely times. Always in a time and place where I would be unable to reach him. I was confident he did that on purpose. Not wanting to meet me again, yet unable to completely stay away.

At first, it vexed me. For the longing I felt was clearly returned, though he plainly refused to give in to his heart’s yearning. Later, I realized that it did not matter. As enchanted as I may have been by this elusive but beautiful criminal, he could never bring me happiness, for our past would have always stood in the way. And my continued longing for him only obscured the path I had to take to find my own fortune.

So, I stopped pining over a man that clearly did not have my best interests at heart, and wrote a song about it. It became a classic overnight. This way Geni eventually made me at least a hundredfold the money that he once took.

Then one fated day, ten whole years after he last abandoned me, our destinies brought us together one last time.

I had just returned home from a tour, and decided to venture out to the market with my husband. Who, annoyingly, was pestering me with the obviously fabricated notion that he had found a grey hair on my head this morning.

“But you woke up and started yelling at me. You must acknowledge that supports the statement that I pulled it out of your head.” He reasoned.

“No, it does not. I always have the immediate urge to start yelling at you when I see your infuriating smirk first thing in the morning.” 

“Aw, Brian. Don’t you worry, I will still love you when you’re old.” he teased.

“Don’t call me that, we’re outside. And again, I am not turning grey. You are clearly mistaken, and mocking me because you cannot cope with your own receding hairline.”

“Is that so?” He smirked. "Unlike you, I don’t have problems with my age. I’ll always be younger than you anyway.” He mocked me in a sing-song voice.

I was about to argue back that he would stay forever young if I murdered him, when we reached the market square and I immediately noticed a huge commotion. Hundreds of people were gathered, screaming curses and chanting the hangman’s song.

I knew what that meant: a public execution.

I hated these things. I was a firm believer in second chances, so the death penalty was something I abhorred in almost all cases. The exception being that one man in Gresh that had slaughtered a whole bunch of kids to wear their skins. That man was definitely too sick to be allowed to live. Still, to execute someone publicly, however gratifying it may be to their victims, was in my opinion just bad taste.

My husband knew this, so I expected him to follow suit as I turned on my heel. But instead, he stopped dead in his tracks, gazing over the crowd up at the scaffold, squeezing my hand.

“It’s her.”

I wanted to ask what he meant, but he strode forward through the crowd, dragging me along. It took some time until we got to a place where I was able to actually see the wooden platform and its occupant. When I did, I froze.

There on the scaffold, hands bound behind her back, noose around her neck, stood Guinevere Pike.

She looked older than I remembered her, but not as aged as she should have in the ten years that passed. Her beauty was still evident, as was pointed out by the course language of my fellow townsmen. She wore a look of defiance as the charges were read.

“Guinevere Pike, you have been found guilty of multiple cases of petty theft, grand larceny, impersonation of a noble, and the murder of Lord Devon White of Ainsburough and two of his servants. You are hereby sentenced to death by decree of the magistrate.” The officer spoke.

Bile rose up in my throat. I wanted to protest the verdict, scream it wasn’t true. But what did I know about her capabilities? She was a thief. She had killed someone at a very young age, albeit in thoroughly distressing circumstances. I knew as much already. So in no way could I vouch for her character in the sense that she wouldn’t have killed another person, or three, for that matter. Yet, I wanted to believe. 

Aching for a straw to hold onto, I figured it must have been self-defense, she must have been in a predicament that would explain her deeds. Anything that could free her from her untimely demise…

But I was nailed to the ground, frozen in place as the hangman advanced to cut the rope.

“Stop!” I screamed, not knowing what words to follow up my command. But I would surely think of something, anything to prevent this tragedy.

Her eyes snapped to mine, widening as she appeared to recognize me.

Then, the most unexpected thing happened. An arrow flew, striking the hangman right between the eyes. As he keeled over, another arrow lodged itself in the throat of the officer in charge of the execution. And even before I, or any of the others had been able to turn their heads towards the source, a third arrow flew to narrowly miss the rope attached to Guinevere’s neck.

Immediately, two officers picked up their crossbows in defense. The magistrate dived behind them, his red robes trailing behind him like the blood on his hands. Crossbow bolts flew. And as I turned my head, I witnessed a scene so dramatic it will be etched on my retinas for years to come.

A man sitting on the ledge below a windowsill of the great clock tower overlooking the square was struck by a well-aimed bolt, lost his balance, and fell. His black cape fluttered behind him as he, airborne, shot his bow once again in a last ditch attempt, striking only the scaffold.

I recognized him instantly, even without Guinevere screaming his name. Time slowed as I watched the man I once thought would hold my heart soul captive forever fall to his death.

I ran, pushing myself though the crowd. As if there was any chance I could possibly catch him.  

“Brian!” A high-pitched, anguished cry startled me. The source of which distinctly not my spouse, which prompted me to turn my head to the sound.

I met the panicked gaze of the criminal sentenced to death. Her radiant blue eyes were wide in terror, tears spilling from them like a broken dam.

“Find him! Save him! You’re the only one he has left!” She screamed.

I did as she asked and kept running, even though her plea only added on to the urgency already present, to find my former lover.

Finally arriving myself at the foot of the tower, I came upon a circle of people surrounding the fallen man. Regardless of the fact my feelings for him had faded, and that I had found a new love that had given my heart so much more sustenance than I could have ever imagined, it broke when I saw the mangled body on the cobblestones.

His skull was smashed, leaving only one side of his face even remotely recognizable. But that one blue eye, devoid of any emotion, stilled in an empty gaze at the sky, broke my heart.

I registered the agonized screams even before I realized they were my own. There was no doubt that my elusive former love was dead. If the crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest wasn’t enough proof, then the scattered pieces of brain and skull that painted the pavement red were.

Incongruent, but widely spread gasps of awe and horror notified me that his sister’s life had ended as well.

Seconds later, my husband found me, cradling me in his arms as I shook in anguish.

“Brian, my love, we’ve got to go.” He told me.

“No!” I cried. “Your jealousy has no place in this! He’s dead, and I’m grieving!” I briskly shook him off.  

“She told you to find him.” He spoke, not heeding my need for a private moment as he clasped my shoulders.

“Well, I’ve found him and he’s dead. I can’t do anything about it! I’m powerless!” I yelled at him as tears streaked my visage and I was swallowed by hopeless agony.

“I don’t think that’s what she meant, love.”

He pointed to a row of buildings. “I think he’s there somewhere. She was looking over there right before she started shouting.”

“What are you talking about?!” I bit.

“I think she has a son.”

“What?”

“Come on, let’s go find him. He just lost his family, and he’s probably all alone.” He tugged at my hand, leading me in the direction where he had pointed.

My man scanned the buildings that sat at the west side of the square, then moved into an alleyway in between the buildings, where he put his back against the wall and cupped his hands in front of him.

“Get up.” He told me, indicating his hands.

It took me a confused second to grasp his meaning, then took his shoulders, put my foot in his hands and pulled myself up. Using his pointy shoulders as a steppingstone, I was able to reach a ledge with my hands. Gripping it tightly, I pulled myself up, running up the wall with my feet to aid my upward motion. When I finally landed my chest on the roof, I let out a shaky sigh.

My husband was up on the roof before I could even stand up. He had used the two walls and his long legs to maneuver himself upward in no time, like the nimble alley cat he was.

At first, the roof seemed empty, as a roof is supposed to be, but looking closely in all the nooks and crannies, we finally found him.

A black-haired boy, rolled into a ball, silently sobbing in the shelter of a broken chimney.

“Hey.” I carefully said not to startle him.

However cautious I had been, it was not received as I hoped. The boy jumped and twisted in panic, backing even further into the corner and clutching a knife.

I immediately retracted my hand, and held them both up, palms out, to show him I was not intent on hurting him. “Please, I won’t hurt you.” I added, verbally supporting my gesture.

He stilled, my eyes registering his familiar features for the first time. His big blue eyes mirrors of his mother’s and uncle’s. There was no mistaking his identity, this was indeed Guinevere’s child. Yet his skin was darker than theirs, his raven hair unruly and tangled, but clearly familiar. The boy seemed about nine years old.

As his mother’s words clicked into place, the realization finally landed.

I had always thought that I’d be at least shocked to find out about something so life changing. However, I felt nothing but warmth. It strengthened me from my core out, instilled me with endless bravery.

I was even brave enough to turn and look at my husband, who surely must have noticed the same thing I did. But the devotion in his eyes only mirrored my own. I did not know I could love him more, but I did. Even though I had just mustered up an entire new level of affection for this soot-stained child in front of me.  

“You’re Prince Vivace.” The boy finally spoke.

I nodded. “Yes, I am. But you can call me Brian.”

“I’ve been at your show.” The boy spoke. “Uncle Geni took me.”

I smiled at him, trying my best to make friendly conversation now that he seemed unafraid. “Did you like the show?”

“Yes. But uncle Geni said you shouldn’t see us. Did you see us?”

“No. You did good.”

In spite of his tears, the boy gave me a slight smile, signaling pride. “Do I have to call you Brian?”

“No, of course not. You may call me whatever you want.” I told him.

“Uncle Geni said that if I ever met you, I should call you dad.”

I smiled at the boy and nodded. “You can call me dad, if that is what you want. But what should I call you?”

“Elijah.” The boy said, invoking all kinds of emotions stirring my soul. But none of them of any significance to the love I felt at the hopeful look in his eyes.

“I'm glad to finally meet you, Elijah.”