Gerald's study was where he retreated to, an escape from the rest of the castle and the world. It was a large, spacious room with high ceilings. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with old, leather-bound tomes, the smell of aged paper and ink heavy in the air. In the center stood a large oak desk that seemed to dwarf Gerald in size, and a fireplace roared softly in the corner, casting a flickering orange glow across the room. Gerald sat at his desk, his broad shoulders hunched over the parchment in front of him. The large cane he favored leaned against the wall behind him, its silver accents gleaming menacingly in the firelight. His leg twitched involuntarily, the limp a constant reminder of the war that had changed him so. He grunted as he scribbled on the document, his focus completely on his work. There was no warmth, no life in his left eye, the sight gone for good, nothing but dead white staring into the shadows. Gerald's right eye, however, was a bright blue, intense and sharp, as if trying to make up for its companion's lack. A cough from the doorway broke Gerald's concentration, causing his quill to skip across the parchment. He grumbled, not looking up as he heard the soft footsteps approach. The name resonated in his mind, but he pushed it away. He couldn't bear the thought of the woman he'd once loved, the wife he'd pushed away. "What is it?" Gerald growled without looking up. She stood before him, her beauty a sharp knife in his chest. She wore a simple but elegant gown, her hair loose and framing her face in a way that made his gut clench. Gerald cracked his neck, the sound loud in the silence. "I have work to do. Leave me be," he said, returning to his parchment. Gerald swore under his breath, waiting for the beautiful woman to give up and leave, his hand shaking as he signed his name with a flourish. He dropped the pen and leaned back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose. His hands trembled, the scars of the war etched into his flesh like a roadmap of his pain. He reached for a decanter of whiskey on his desk, pouring himself a generous glass. He drained it in one gulp, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from the memories that plagued him. Gerald grabbed the decanter, topping off his glass again, one after another until his brain felt the fuzziness that came with the drink. The fire crackled, the flames casting shadows that danced and flickered across the room.