Donhelm sat in front of the fireplace in the corridor of the Prancing pony inn. The late evening sun shone through the heavy glass, painting pools of pink light on to the wooden floor. In the next room a group of people were celebrating someones birthday, snatches of conversation drifted to him in between the songs of a minstrel. He heard one man saying to another that they should invite the stranger at the fire to join them since he looked so melancholy, His companions reply was heard by all in the room. “Never invite the whoremaster! He will charm the undergarments of your woman from under your nose!” followed by laughter both male and female.
Donhelm let out a heavy sigh not caring if it was heard. He was weary of this kind of talk within his earshot, it showed a lack of respect, but on consideration, he probably deserved it.
He had a certain ..reputation. A reputation other men envied, and yet he bore it like a lodestone around his neck. “Charmer”, “weaver of beautiful lines to ensnare even the most cautious woman”. And yet he had never tried to be like this, he was not even considered good looking when he had been younger, and the loss of an eye didn’t improve matters on that score.
But still, when he met a woman, he could never be rude or uncouth,For his father had taught him to love and respect all women as he himself had done with Donhelms Mother. And when Donhelm behaved towards women in this polite manner, it would seem to soften their hearts to him, when he followed polite greetings with compliments, more often than not, he would be on the receiving end of a murmured invitation without having to try particularly hard. And after all, who would blame him for accepting? Certainly not the Rogues from the forsaken inn, who would collar him on any night begging for tales of his latest conquests. Nor indeed the stablehands at hengstacre who winked and whispered to each other when he arrived bringing fresh horses from the south.
Certainly Donhelm always told himself that this was what these women wanted, he was doing them a favour offering love without entanglement, and as for the married ones or those already in a relationship, he was filling some void in their lives which their husbands or partners could not wasn’t he?
Only Cymaru seemed to see partly into his heart and yet, she like the others still had a mistrust of him. He had tried on numerous occasions to allay her fears and show her what he was like inside, but every time he opened his mouth, out came a bawdy remark which would effectively disguise the meaning of any following compliment. No wonder she didnt know what to make of him... She too had heard all the rumours which hung around his name like flies round a stable. He had professed his love to her on more than one occasion..and she, either through disbelief, embarrasment or a mixture of both, had gently turned him down. The names of former conquests still floated around him like ghosts.
He watched her now, serving ale to a rough looking man, avoiding his foul beer stained breath and laughing politely while extricating herself from the drunken grasps. He felt his hands tighten on the arms of the chair. She turned and gave him a wink, and was gone. The voices in the next room grew louder and more boisterous. He stared into the fireplace and thought of Love..the thing which throughout his life had touched him only too briefly, like a butterfly gently caressing his hand before flying off again. He smiled at his own thoughts. the people passing by his seat would never guess at the poets heart buried inside the scar faced ogre sitting there. The butterfly in his mind returned and he recalled the first time he had fallen in love...
when he was but seventeen He had courted, and married a beautiful and willowy merchants daughter from the Aldburg and fathered two children by her. Alirae she was called, raven haired and white skinned, she had broken many hearts when she chose Donhelm. Those days had been blissful and carefree. Two young lovers with the best gifts from the gods, a beautiful son and daughter, no man could have asked for more, and Donhelm never did, he was content in his life watching his son take his first faltering steps and let his daughter gurgle with glee when she grabbed his beard. Two years of happiness had flown by in an instant.
Then he had woken one spring morning to find Alirae cold and still beside him.
He had stood at the graveside clutching the hands of his children, feeling the hot tears pour down his cheeks and trying..trying with all his strength not to jump in to the grave and draw a dagger across his own throat. Only the small hands held him back as if they were a line binding him to this world. They had turned in silence and walked away through the afternoon rain.
The bond between father and children had strengthened,Donhelm took delight in watching his son grow as tall mas the summer corn and his daughter shame the very stars with her beauty.Although he received offers, Donhelm had never married again. On the anniversary of Aliraes death, all three of them would visit her graveside and tell her of the latest news, His son Aeradin would show how tall he was growing and tell her of his prowess with the sword, knowing she would be proud, and his sister Killandra would sing soft melodies and speak of the love she had for her missing mother. Donhelm would always place a tender kiss on the earth and try to hold back his tears.
The years stretched on, Aearadin and Killandra grew to be fine young people, a monument to their parents love and a constant source of pride to Donhelm. They had both volunteered to join the service of the lord of the mark, and it was with a heavy heart that Donhelm at last released his fatherly grasp and watching them ride off into their future, he turned inside to his empty house and closed the door..he had never felt so alone.
