The dew of the early spring air filled the cracks of the windows as Giselle awoke to her daughter crying from the baby from a makeshift cradle beside her. 

Her short, curly falls slick against her forehead, and her deep, hazel eyes squint. She's alone in an old cot in a small cottage in the countryside. It's summer, and the cool air of spring weather covers her body, she stares at the ceiling, her belly feels empty, and her body is particularly groggy. 

Eventually, the young woman quietly got out of bed. 

She slowly makes her way from her bed, next door to where your little one sleeps. Her daughter, Eira cries up a fit until she comes into view--then she's babbling, spitting up bubbles, and with tears staining her little face. Giselle smells the comfort of milk and the faintest hint of rose from her daughter as she picks her up.

The baby reached for her mother's face and Giselle couldn't help but indulge her, taking her little hand and covering it with smooches.

"My baby, why are you crying? Are you hungry?" She coos softly holding the little person to whom she somehow gave birth into her arms. As she began to nurse, she was alone with her thoughts.

It had been nearly two months since she gave birth to her daughter Eira two months ago. The day she woke up this body, it had been frigid. She was huddled up, feet bare, terrified. Her body was covered from head to toe in bruises, her hair cut unevenly, as if from a punishment.

A huge question was on her mind—who she was, and why was she here? Not who does this body belong to, at least not at that moment, but she had she been before?

Everything was blank.

She could remember basic things like the knowledge that would be taught as one grew but not personal details. Nothing. Not even her name or her age.

Giselle Moreau was a name she picked from the book. She was a housekeeper working for the duke's mansion, only mentioned in passing, noting her death at the hands of a scheme left her without a grave. Nearly perfect for someone who couldn't even remember who she was.

There she was, heavily pregnant, six months—and alone. Who was this child's father? Was she a disgruntled noble's lover who ran away, or was she someone much more unfortunate?

With her bruises, she could imagine it was the latter. Even when noble women are hit, their faces are spared. Yet what stared back at her that day was a bruise under her eye and soreness from possibly biting down her cheek and tongue. 

How much did this girl suffer?

She didn't want to think of it, for the time being, survival was her focus.

The aging cottage Giselle made her home was shabby, filled with overgrown vines and windows that barely kept shut while the winter howled at night. After being in the body for two months, with the firewood almost used up, she bundled up and did her best to gather wood to burn. It started snowing while she was about a couple of steps into the woods.

This body's face was quite plain. Dark skin, dark hair—the only remarkable thing on her face was a pair of hazel eyes that glowed golden in sunlight. The early morning sun covers her round face and chubby, petite body.

The chilling weather caused her nose to turn runny; she trudged through the snow with stubby, thick legs. She felt incredibly slow—she looked at the few pieces in her hand, throwing them in the sack she hung on her back. Snow crunched under her good and her short, little breaths formed clouds of smoke around her. Giselle almost decides to go home for the morning until she hears the low, panting groan of a man.

Giselle looks over at a man, who is more bear than human, slumped again with a huge gaping bite on his side. He has doubled her height, with sliver-blonde peaking from his hood. A man attacked in these woods—she wondered how he ended in such an abandoned patch of woods.

She wondered who attacked such a big, burly man…or what. She didn't want to know, nor did her baby want to.

"W-Wait…"

'Shit!'

The man's large, calloused hand grasps the ankle of her boot—his deep voice stops her in her tracks, his deep-set crimson eyes glance at her…almost like a puppy. 

Gave her goosebumps.

"Don't…leave…you…weren't… leaving me…were you?"

Giselle blinked before pouting her full lips. 'Well, yes…' she thought before awkward shuffling back.

"Mister, why are you in this overgrown forest?"

"I should…ask you…the same thing."

'To be fair, I don't know why I'm here either…'

"My home's close. I'll drag you back and treat your wounds."

After a while, Giselle made it back to her own, trudging through the snow as she dragged the man's heavy body by the collar of his coat. To the door, huffing before telling him to limp his way and take a seat—which he does, unceremoniously on the chair she often sits at and reads. 

She needed to start a fire first, warm both of them up.

"Does…your husband beat you?" Giselle, who had her back turned, trying to start a fire, looks over her shoulder to the man.

"I don't have a husband."

"Well…your partner, do they beat you?"

Giselle thought for a moment, staring at her hands that were covered with scars and bruises. They won't meet again, so she decides to be honest with this strange man.

"Except for my baby, I don't have anyone or anything, Sir—not even a name, but I saw one that was in a book that sounded pretty," She raises her hand to shake his, "Giselle."

Slumped against her creaking wicker chair, the man looked at her hands before enveloping his bigger hand into hers; it was surprisingly warm.

"Silas." He says, "How far along are you?" Giselle blushes.

"I'm not exactly sure…but it feels like I'll give birth any minute." She watches as Silas nods—when she finally gets a fire going, she starts the process of healing him. She discards his torn shirt, noticing all the pink, fleshy scars on his body. An old man was a knight. starts with the large wound on his side, she closes her eyes, focusing until the room is dressed in a soft glow.

It was only after she cut her hands cutting down wood that she realized she had the power of light, or in other words, she could heal others—although it was not if she were on the level of a saint. She could not heal her own self much, but the gash in her hand seemed to disappear as she concentrated her power on it.

Whenever she goes into the village, cloaked and hooded, she heals the inhabitants for coins or anything she can get directly—food, cloth, animal furs to keep her warm. She felt a bit dizzy, but it was in the initial stages of healing. Healing his wounds would take a few weeks to get everything done.

The older man raises his sliver, bushy eyebrows, staring at the healed wound on his above his hip, on his right side.

"You're a healer?"

Giselle nods sheepishly.

"An all right one, not like the saint or anything. You have a lot of wounds, so I took care of the one that's the most concerning. I'll do the rest gradually while you rest up."

"I can't just do nothing. Let me do something for you, Lady Giselle."

"Firstly, I'm no Lady. Secondly, you don't need to do anything for me." The older man looks…dismayed. He was sitting there with rippling muscles and a towering height with such a pathetic look on his face while sulking.

'Ah, there's that puppy dog look again. Isn't he ashamed as a grown man?'

"Ah! I'll tell you what, I'll stick around and help you give birth."

Giselle squinted at Silas, crossing her arms as the glow of the fire illuminated their faces.

"I'll let you know I helped my wife give birth to three of our children!" His jovial laugh almost made Giselle giggle as well. Almost.

She presses her lips together before holding her hand out once again.

"Then I'll be your care, Sir Silas."

As she rocks her fussy daughter, Giselle stares at the book at her desk.

The Beast of Aethelstan.

Giselle found the book among her body's possessions. The story she got her namesake from—she had not finished it since it was quite a thick book, but the novel centered around a man named Silas Aethelstan.

His whole bloodline was beings that wore human skin but were much stronger and more capable than an average person—what set them apart besides their extraordinary abilities, was their platinum-blond hair and eyes that looked like priceless gems. Even family members detached from the main branch possessed one or the other—like a calling card. 

Still, she was surprised the who can the story was never married—nor did he have children. Even the most ambitious of women marry the cruelest men. The man known as The Beast of Aethelstan was as cold as he was on the outside and inside.

Reading the novel made her suddenly think of Silas.

"Eira, my little Eira. That man… do you think he's ok?"

Her baby's gummy smile made Giselle smile too.

"You're right, he is probably well." A knock at her door interrupted her playtime with Eira. In her nightgown with an infant in her hands, she cautiously—she was hoping it was Silas…even if he were married, she felt like she could be friends with such a strange man.

But at the door was not the big burly man whom she spent the winter with, but a gaggle of men in silver armor.

"Is Lady Giselle here?"