Disclaimer: I don't own Jane Eyre. All belongs to Charlotte Bronte.

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The Wild Moor

By: A. Dobhran

I will never forget that fateful day on the moor. I must have seemed a ghastly sight to her; an ill vision on a black demon thundering out of the mist, heralded by the devil's own hound baying and snapping at its hooves. Of course in actuality, the black demon has a great affection for carrots and the devil's hound is not above laying his head in your lap, hoping for a scratch behind the ear. Such are the misconceptions a first impression can inflict. Unfortunately, I myself proved to be an ill vision of equal ill temper, and I will never forget the way her gentle eyes regarded me as though I were an unpredictable stray, ready to strike at any moment with all manner of bared teeth and sharp claws. As it happens, I did too. My words lashed out viciously at her gentle countenance, even as my very soul was roused; and being so neglected, it responded to her as a child seeks a loving touch and kind words.

Say you'll have me, keep me, love me...

Now, dear reader you may be under the misconception that this serendipitous meeting of two enigmatic strangers thrust together by circumstance is quite in keeping with all things passionate and romantic in taste; I therefore feel it my duty, being a man who values honesty and has been described by the best of people as being a malevolent old codger, to disillusion your delicate sensibilities. Let the record forever state thusly: as for the languid atmosphere that would so induce a passionate convergence it was cold enough to cause a man to turn to stone in the saddle, and the mist was so thick one could barely see a pace before the hoof. As to the prospective lover, he entered the scene in all manner of charm and gallantry (and reckless speed) as he nearly trampled our noble heroine into the muddy knolls, leaving her but a water mark on the moor's grassy face. He then, being chivalrous in nature proceeded to berate the lady on matters of her unnatural appearance, insulted her character, questioned her intelligence and accused her of conspiring with the dark arts in order that his horse being so bewitched, might throw him and cause him to land unceremoniously on his arse.

Not quite the enchanting substance of fairytales, wouldn't you agree?

Yet of all the many things my beautiful lady has taught me, one of the most important is this: that it is not the outward trappings of circumstance that define the outcome of how and when you will be loved in your lifetime. No; such a bond is an unseen hand which guides you along a path that reflects the choices one has made. Some paths are beautifully kept, with gardens of vivid memory which inspire hope and recollect joy or sadness. Some are a tangle of brambles and untamed brush, overgrown and filled with dark shadows from which no recognizable sentiment can be glimpsed.

My lady, an unearthly creature who wore compassion instead of fine jewels and kindness instead of silks was such a gentle hand to me. Enduringly and patiently she guided me through the vicious snares of my own making and lead me without falter.

And to this very day, her hand remains in mine; a tender softness I cannot live without.

You must forgive me, dear reader--- for I am a changeable man as my lady, with a great amount of delighted teasing describes me:

"Edward, you are full of nettles one moment, and poetry the next."

Indeed, every time I hear her speak my name I would dare anger the very spirits of poetic art and try my hand at such a fancy. Perhaps then for a moment I would be the very model of a fashionable hero, worthy of the love of such a lady. Or perhaps she loves that ill vision that thundered out of the mists for all the reasons he believed himself to be unworthy. Yes; with an ear that could hear the slightest, most broken prayer of a soul divided from all things true and vital, she heard.

I loved her beyond reason that fateful day, as I do now; for even having traveled to the four lonely corners of the globe, I did not expect to find my heart where I had thought it gone forever; yet there it was gazing up at me with gentle eyes out of the mist. I did not regard her as a man regards what he can capture and keep as his own. I loved her as one who has seen a vision of beauty, and knows beyond any doubt or previous disappointment that she will stay of her own free will--- of her own and equal love.

It is more than I could have ever hoped for, and it occurred appropriately enough in a place where the harsh, forbidding climate was tempered by a slight figure who patiently waded through the chilled damp.

My Jane; tamer of the wild moor.