Percival was ill. His maid fussed about him, insisting he stay in bed to rest, but Percival always said the same thing. ”The world is forever changing. I won’t let sickness forbade me from witnessing that.” Percival was adventurous. Every day he ventured somewhere new. To the boggiest swamps, the purest waterfalls, the busiest towns. He coughed. He stumbled. He wheezed. But he kept walking. It was another day for Percival—another new adventure. He’d treked into a forest, the floor thick with dense grass and groundcover. He breathed in the smell of crisp dew and thicket, and listened to the faint melody of the trees sighing. He approached a particularly broad tree—it’s stump about twice the size of him—and reached out to brush his gaunt hand against it. He felt the solid hardwood beneath his palm, the sturdiness pressing back into his skin. His thoughts turned melancholic for a moment. For this was the stability that Percival once had. The strength he’d possessed before he’d caught the same deathly ailment that ran in his family. Percival was pulled out of his mind when he caught movement in his peripheral. A swift flutter of copper. He peered around the stump and his eyes widened. A girl sat perched on the branch of a nearby oak. Auburn hair cascaded down her back, and a scatter of freckles framed the emerald eyes that held his gaze. “Are you lost?” She asked, her pale fingers brushing a lock of hair from her face. Percival blinked, clearing his throat—which turned into a brief coughing fit. Composing himself, he exclaimed, “why, I feel I should be asking you that!” His attention caught on her attire—the deep green of her kirtle, the gold pendant glinting softly at her collarbone. “Where are you from?” The girl seemed to ponder his question for a moment. “Not around here,” she began, “but I’m right where I need to be now.” She smiled at him, the kind that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. Percival caught himself noticing this and shoved the strange feeling down, though it remained—folded neatly and tucked under his ribs. He wasn’t given time to dwell on her words before she leapt from the branch. For a brief, jarring moment, Percival thought she might injure herself—and nearly keeled over at the thought. “My name is Faeleen. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Percival.” “How do you know my name? I don’t believe we’ve met before now.” Percival raised his handkerchief to his lips and coughed softly. “Unless I’ve built a name for myself as ‘the foolish, sick man who refuses to rest’?” Faeleen laughed airily—a sound that Percival found himself wanting to hear again. “I suppose you could say that.” She approached him with effortless grace. “You’ve piqued my interest, Percival. Would you object to me accompanying you back to town?” Her gown brushed against the weeds sprouting from the forest floor, and only then did he notice she wore no shoes. “Well, of course!” Percival said. “I couldn’t very well leave a beautiful woman like you alone in these woods.” He offered Faeleen his frail arm, and she took it. Together, they made their way back toward town, passing the time with idle conversation—mundane things like the weather and latest town gossip. Unbeknownst to him, Faeleen’s grip tightened—almost instinctively—as though she alone sensed the quiet toll his illness had taken on his strength. By the time they reached his front door, Percival had grown weak with exhaustion. He pulled away from Faeleen, bracing himself against the patio post. As she turned to leave, he reached for her in his delirium, fingers catching weakly at her dress. “Please… don’t leave me, Faeleen…” he murmured, the words barely coherent. The girl watched him intently, her hand coming to rest over his. “I can’t.” That was all she said before retreating into the early evening. A moment later, Percival’s maid opened the door and ushered him inside with quiet urgency, but his thoughts lingered on Faeleen’s parting words. Day after day, Percival found Faeleen waiting outside his door, ready to accompany him on his walks. He never objected; he had grown rather fond of the strange girl. He delighted in their conversations—about everything and nothing—though he could not ignore the curious looks cast his way by passing townspeople, especially when he laughed aloud at her sharper remarks. For all the joy Faeleen brought him, Percival’s illness continued its slow advance. It followed him relentlessly, seizing him in the midst of their walks—robbing him of balance or leaving him coughing blood into his handkerchief. In time, it grew so dire that Percival had no strength left to give. He no longer ventured outside; all his energy was spent holding back the crimson rising in his throat.
He had become a hollow of his former self, his adventures now distant echoes, fading slowly into the darkness of his ailing mind. Through it all, Faeleen rarely left his side. Worry carved itself into her features with every shallow breath Percival drew. She slept little—yet showed no sign of wear. The fateful day came when Percival sank to his lowest point. He lay almost entirely still, the weak rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life. His skin had dulled to grey; his lips were chapped and dry. His gaze drifted somewhere distant, as if he had already begun to slip beyond the present moment. Faeleen held his fragile hand gently, afraid she might snap a bone if she gripped too tightly. She had been staring out the window, her thoughts elsewhere, when she felt a faint tap against the back of her hand. Turning, she found Percival watching her. His eyes were no longer that striking sapphire that had once seemed to hypnotize her. At the sight of them now, dulled and distant, something in her faltered. She felt a quiet ache at the loss of the charming, adventurous man who had once drawn her in like a moth to flame. “Faeleen?” he croaked, his voice hoarse with strain. “Why are you still here?” Faeleen tore her gaze from his gaunt face, lowering it instead to their interlaced hands. “I cannot leave you, Percival.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You’re a strange girl.” He paused, drawing a shallow breath—now finding even a few words an effort. “Though… that’s what I like most about you.” Faeleen’s heart clenched at his words. She never had the chance to reply. She watched as Percival’s chest fell still, the rise of breath fading into nothing. His eyes grew vacant, the remaining light within them quietly slipping away. --- Somewhere far away, engulfed in fog and nothingness, Percival sat upon a lone bench. All was still. All was at peace. He was dead—and waiting. Waiting for the one who would guide him onward. But when he lifted his gaze, it was not a stranger who stood before him, but the same emerald eyes he had come to cherish. “Why are you here, Faeleen?” he asked, the question a faint echo of his final words. She smiled, warmth softening her features, her eyes crinkling just as they had the day they met. “I’m here to accompany you on your final venture.” She extended her hand. He took it—and paused, realizing his own was no longer frail, but strong and whole once more. Rising with newfound strength, Percival stepped into the fog with Faeleen, his hand clasped tightly in hers. Together, they moved onward into the unknown—where Percival could finally rest, and Faeleen could fulfill her duty. In time, Percival knew no more of her. Her presence faded, dissolving into a faint hum at the back of his mind. Faeleen did not mind. She had long since grown accustomed to guiding souls to their end. There was comfort in it—in bringing others the peace they could no longer find on their own. And though he forgot her, she would remember him—just as she remembered them all.
