Chapter 4: Beneath the Ash Tree
from Have You Someone to Protect?
by ©Amer
After the night of the attack, a strange calm settled over Lhady's days. The shattered flowerpots were swept, bruises faded into memory, and though townsfolk whispered less of the incident, they had a new subject to discuss: the man who now stayed close by her side.
It didn't help that her closest friends were particularly nosy.
One morning, while Lhady was sweeping the shop's front when three familiar girls—Mira, Sian, and little Alen—rushed in like a gust of gossip and giggles,—each wearing that same smirk that spelled trouble.
"So," Mira began, arms crossed, "is there something between you and the man who fixed Hamin's gate and returned Sari's goat and carried your basket last market day?"
Sian grinned. "He's always by your side, Lhady. That's not just neighborly."
It became a topic of amusement among her friends.
"Lhady," Mira nudged her with a mischievous grin, "how long have you known that man?"
"Caelum, right?" Sian chimed in, leaning on the counter. "He's polite and quiet, but when he looks at you—gods, I nearly fainted."
Alen, the youngest of the three, nodded with wide eyes. "He helped me carry sacks from the mill. I think I want to marry him."
Lhady entered the shop swiftly and flushed, ducking behind the counter to hide her face. As her friends followed her instantly, waiting for her answer
"He's just helping out around the house."
"You mean your house?" Mira teased.
Sian chimed in, barely holding in her giggle. "We saw the way you looked at him when he handed you that teacup like it was sacred!"
"I almost saw a blush," Mira added with a teasing grin. "Come on, we're your sisters in everything except blood."
Lhady rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. "He's my protector. Not my—"
"Protector of the peace or your sanity?" Sian quipped.
"Protector of my patience, which you three are trying right now."
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Caelum had become somewhat of a quiet fixture in the town. His dark, earth-toned hair was often tousled by the wind, and his sleeves rolled up from labor. He didn't draw attention by words—but by presence. Firm, respectful, gentle in movement but strong in posture. A man who always seemed to be listening, even when silent.
Caelum had made himself useful in the village. Not because anyone asked him to—but because he wanted to understand the rhythm of her life.
He fixed the shop's broken stool. Helped the elderly gather firewood. Bowed to everyone—elders, children, merchants—with the same steady warmth. Women in the village noticed, of course. Some offered him sweetbread, others dared a whispered confession of admiration.
Caelum always accepted the gestures with grace, but never lingered. He seemed to float above flattery, his gaze never once straying from where it wanted to land.
Lhady noticed it all. The way the women would shyly try to offer him apples or bread, some even daring to confess quietly as they handed it over. Caelum always accepted the gifts with soft eyes and a thank you—but he never lingered. Never entertained.
The villagers took to calling him The Quiet Knight.
Lhady noticed. She saw the way he always stood a bit behind, never imposing. Always watching—but never overbearing.
Caelum, oblivious to the chaos he caused, continued to move through the village with grace and quiet strength. The elders adored him.
"Strong back. Good hands," one elderly woman whispered to another as he fixed the squeaky fence outside the temple. "Bet he can lift two sacks of rice and a pig."
"And polite, too," said the baker's wife. "Called me 'madam' even though I'm old enough to be his grandmother."
"Someone better snatch him up," a man added, "or the whole town will."
Over the next few days, Caelum had unknowingly charmed more than Lhady's inner circle.
He was seen politely helping elders carry baskets from the market, offering his coat to a child who had fallen into a puddle, and—most notably—being confessed to by a particularly forward florist named Mireille.
"I just thought," Mireille said, nervously brushing petals off her apron, "that someone like you… maybe you'd like violets. And dinner. With me?"
Caelum, ever composed, offered a respectful bow. "You are kind, but my time belongs elsewhere for now."
It didn't take long for the gossip to reach Lhady.
Alen nearly tripped over herself getting to her. "You won't believe it—he got confessed to! In broad daylight! Outside the market!"
"She even brought a bouquet!" Mira whispered like it was a scandal. "A violet bouquet, Lhady. Your color."
Lhady raised a brow. "And what did he say?"
Sian puffed her cheeks. "He rejected her like a gentleman. Said something about his time 'belonging elsewhere'—which we all know means you."
"You three need hobbies," Lhady muttered, turning away with a flicker of heat on her cheeks.
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One rainy afternoon, while alone at home, Lhady took to cleaning the old study—more out of habit than necessity. Dust clung to the corners, the air filled with the scent of time. She opened a drawer and paused.
There, behind a stack of aged letters and pressed flowers, was a picture.
The image of her guardian Amer, smiling faintly, and beside him—Silas.
He was younger in the photograph, but still held that quiet, melancholic steadiness. Her throat tightened as memories stormed back—his voice, his presence at the window, the way he lingered when he thought she wasn't watching.
His familiar eyes, the way he held his stance—so familiar yet so far.
The memory rose like a tide.
He was everywhere in this house once. His boots by the door. His jacket always draped across the chair, no matter how many times she scolded him. The clink of his tea cup as he stirred, even though he always drank it plain.
"Did you see where I placed my knife?"
"In the basket, under your shirt, where you always hide it, Silas."
"Oh. Right. You really do know me too well, my Lady."
Then one day… silence. No jacket. No cup. No Silas.
No goodbye.
She clutched the photo to her chest, blinking back the haze of memory. She still didn't know why he left.
Then she wiped a tear quickly before anyone would burst in and see, slipping the photo back in a book.
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Later that day, Caelum appeared at the doorway, a carved clay pot in his hands. Slightly lopsided, a thumbprint still drying on the edge. Inside it bloomed a single violet.
"For the ones that survived," he said.
Lhady blinked back another emotion. She took the pot carefully.
"Come with me," she said. "I want to show you something."
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They walked past the fields, up a slope of golden grass, until the sea came into view.
The ash tree.
It stood tall atop a cliff, its branches like arms reaching over the sea. The waves whispered stories below. The bark of the tree bore faint carvings of initials long forgotten. Beneath its shade, Lhady sat, her violet shawl fluttering in the breeze.
"This was my favorite spot growing up," she said. "Whenever things got too heavy, I'd come here and pretend I was just… a character in a story. Someone braver, someone who didn't feel too much."
Caelum sat beside her, close but not too close.
"I hid in books too," she continued. "And dreams. They made me feel less… broken."
She looked at him then, her voice barely above a whisper. "Do you think people like us—bent out of shape by everything we've been through—still get to find something that feels whole?"
He didn't answer immediately. He watched the sea, then her friends in the distance, laughing. His gaze softened when it returned to her.
"I was trained to guard crowns and kings… but I never feared losing any of them like I'd fear losing you."
He didn't say it aloud. Not yet.
But something in the way he looked at her told her he meant it.
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As the sun sank lower on the horizon, Lhady and Caelum still settled beneath the tree, lulled by the cold but gentle wind that brushed against Lhady's face. From the softness of her quiet cries alone, it was clear the old photographs had stirred memories too heavy to name.
Sleep found her slowly. Somewhere between remembering and forgetting, she drifted off—unknowingly leaning her head against Caelum's shoulder.
He remained where he was, solid and still, letting the sea and silence bear quiet witness to them both. He never flinched. He simply stayed still, as if the slightest gesture might shatter the quiet spell between them. Everything changed in that silence.
Far down the road, beyond the tree line, a lone figure on horseback came to a halt. As if sensing something in the air, he turned his gaze toward the cliffs. Silas sat motionless, the reins clenched tightly in his hand, while the last of the violet light danced along the horizon.