Alaric sat by the window of his small ivy-covered cottage, staring out at the gently rolling hills beyond Brackenwood. An autumnal wind whipped through the trees, tugging at the golden leaves and sending them swirling through the air like the pages of some half-forgotten tale. Alaric, of course, was not thinking about any leaves, or winds, or anything so banal as the weather.
Yet his mind was far afield, wrestling with the kind of thoughts that would bewilder most of the town's denizens. Deep in contemplation, he pondered that one of the ancients, Euphues, had held an inkling of this many centuries ago when he wrote of love being a sort of madness, a force blinding men to all reason. Alaric found the idea of this strangely intriguing in his present setting.
Smitten, in fact-struck down by love, as dramatically as if Cupid himself had aimed an arrow straight into his heart. But Alaric was just that sort of man, and to declare his love, he couldn't say it in simple terms. No, he wrote his object of desire-letters: Eleanor. Letters full of poetic flourishes, convoluted analogies, and metaphors so dense that he often had to stop and rethink them himself to make sure they made sense.
His oldest friend from childhood, Rosalind, had been a witness as he wrote these letters. She knew him well enough to realize he completely failed to grasp the regard of his friend for him: her years-long admiration for his wit, his intelligence, his boundless curiosity about the world. But to her dismay, he seemed more in love with his own thoughts than he was with anyone in Brackenwood—at least, until Eleanor arrived.
He had fallen for Eleanor almost immediately after her arrival in town. She was new, mysterious, and-perhaps most importantly-unimpressed by his intellectual flourishes. Where Rosalind would laugh at his obscure jokes, Eleanor would raise an eyebrow, challenging him to explain himself.
And explain he did.
Day in and day out, Alaric plunged into letters with the zeal of a man who seemed to believe that some correct permutation and combination of words would give away the secrets of the universe. Thus far, he had written at least a dozen letters to Eleanor, each one more elaborately worded than the last.
"Alaric," Rosalind said with a softness, standing in his cottage door. She had come over for tea, as she often did, but found him once again lost in his writing. "You're writing to her again, aren't you?"
Alaric looked up from his parchment, quill still in hand. "Ah, Rosalind! You've caught me in the act. Yes, another letter. But this one-this one is truly the culmination of my thoughts on love and the human condition.".
Rosalind smiled, but it was a sad one. She loved Alaric's mind, but sometimes she wished he'd spend just a little less time in his head. "What are you telling her this time?
"Ah, well, I have been thinking a great deal about Euphues, you see," he said, hands gesturing as he spoke. "He wrote how love is a sort of madness, a thing that deflects one from the search for truth and wisdom. But I think that love can be a path to wisdom, if one approaches it correctly. And that is what I am trying to tell Eleanor-"
He turned and regarded Rosalind with sudden intentness. "Do you think she understands me? I've yet to receive an answer, at any rate."
Rosalind stammered over her words. "Maybe. maybe she's just not quite as fascinated by philosophy as you are, Alaric. Not everyone thinks of love the same way as you.
Alaric frowned, the thought apparently never having struck him before. "Not interested in philosophy? Whatever do you mean? It's the root of all scholarship, the basis of our knowledge of the world!"
Rosalind stifled a laugh. "You're right, naturally. But maybe Eleanor thinks of love in. simpler terms.".
Alaric shook his head. "Love is never simple, Rosalind. It's the most complicated thing in the world. Why, last night, I dreamt of Eleanor standing at a crossroads of the mind and the heart, torn between reason and passion. And I realized-
Rosalind let out a soft sigh, sinking into the chair across from him. She'd heard it all before - his grand theories on love and destiny, his endless musings on the meaning of life. Yet, despite her affection for him, every time the name Eleanor cropped up, Rosalind couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy.
She had been in love with Alaric since forever, somehow never finding the courage to tell him so. She had always hoped that one day he would wake up and realize that all along, the perfect partner had been right before his eyes. Now, though, that hope was beginning to fade with Eleanor in the picture.
"Alaric," Rosalind said quietly, "do you really think that Eleanor is the one for you? I mean. do you know her well enough to say that?"
Alaric turned to her, his brow furrowed. "Know her? Why, of course I know her. She's intelligent, independent, and-most importantly-she challenges me. She doesn't let me get away with half-baked ideas."
Rosalind smiled wanly. "And that's what you want? Someone who challenges you?
"Absolutely," he exclaimed with fervor. "There can't be growth without challenge, and without growth, what's the point of it all?"
Rosalind bit her lip as her heart fell further and further. She had always encouraged Alaric in his intellectual explorations, even pushed him. But now she wondered whether she had done the wrong thing. He would never find her more than a friend-a sounding board for his thoughts.
She watched him turn back to his letter, oblivious to the turmoil in her heart.
Outside, the wind began to gust, sending a whirl of golden leaves dancing across the hills. Rosalind's gaze followed them, and for a moment, she wished she might just as easily float away-like those leaves-far from the ache of unrequited love.
But no. She wouldn't give up. Not yet.