Lessons For Brutus
In the heart of Dunlowe, near the edge of the old Cherokee trail and the quiet stones of a forgotten Celtic shrine, there lived a woman named Mysti and a man named Brutus. Their love was forged in fire and moonlight—passionate, real, and scarred by silence. Mysti had once danced like the wind—free and wild—but time had wrapped her in a hush. Not because her voice was unworthy, but because she feared the thunder in Brutus’ voice when his anger rose like summer storms.
Brutus, for all his strength and scars, never struck her—but his words sometimes did. His silence when she needed comfort, his sharp tone when she asked for tenderness, the way he dismissed her fears as foolish—they became invisible bruises on her soul. She held back her dreams, her longings, even her questions, all to avoid waking that storm.
One evening, after a tense silence had lingered too long between them, Mysti walked to the cedar grove where Cherokee women once prayed for guidance. There, she remembered the teaching of her grandmother: “Speak truth like water, not fire. Even the stone is shaped by the river, not by flame.” So she returned home with a story in her heart.
She found Brutus sitting alone, gazing at the fading sun. She knelt beside him—not in submission, but in peace—and began her parable:
“Once, in the days of the Ancients, the Hawk and the Doe lived side by side. The Hawk soared in freedom, fierce and watchful. The Doe walked quietly, sensing danger in the air. One day, the Hawk grew weary of the sky, longing for something real, something grounded. He came to the Doe and said, ‘Let me walk with you awhile. I do not seek to capture you, only to be near.’ But the Doe trembled. ‘If your shadow falls hard upon me,’ she said, ‘my legs will falter. I must trust that you will not fly into fury when the wind shifts.’”
Brutus said nothing. But his eyes softened.
Mysti continued, “You ask not for my body alone, Brutus—not for sin or thrill, as I once feared. You ask for time, for something that anchors you when your wings grow tired. And I... I can give you that. But not if I am afraid. You must tend your temper as the Celts tended their fires—contained, not extinguished, but honored and watched. Speak not with storm but with soul. Let me matter to you—not as a mirror, or a fantasy—but as your equal. I do not want dominance. I want balance.”
Brutus turned to her slowly. “I never meant to make you afraid.” His voice was low, rough. “I only wanted to feel wanted. Not for a moment, but always.”
Mysti reached for his hand. “Then let us both be heard. Let no voice rise above the other. I will dance your dreams with you—yes, even the bold ones—but you must walk my fears with me, gently. I am not your enemy. I am your Doe, and you are my Hawk. Together, we are the Grove.”
And so, under the witness of ancestors both Celtic and Cherokee, Hawk and Doe agreed to walk and fly in tandem—not in silence, but in song.
Life Lesson: When voices clash, it is not volume that decides truth. True love listens—not to control, not to conquer, but to connect. Equality is not sameness; it is mutual sacredness.
Lessons From the Fire
The neon glow flickered above the bar as bass pulsed low through the floor. Brutus sat alone in the corner booth of the club where Mysti once danced, back when she wore pain like perfume and moved like she was trying to outrun every ghost in her past. And now, here he was, haunted by his own. He took a slow drink and spoke—not just to himself, but to the universe. To Mysti, if she ever chose to hear it.
“I wasn’t angry, Mysti. Not really. Not like you thought. I was scared. Scared that if I didn’t hold you close and tight, I’d lose you. Scared of how free you were, how much light you carried in a world that tried to snuff both of us out since we were kids.”
His jaw clenched as he remembered the voices of old men in suits and sweat, preaching hellfire from wooden pulpits. “They told me I was born broken. That I needed a Savior. That men were the leaders and women should submit. They taught me control wasn’t abuse—it was godliness. My own daddy said, ‘Keep your woman in check, son, or the devil will take her.’”
Brutus chuckled bitterly. “Turns out, the devil they warned me about was freedom. Your freedom. The way you danced, the way you spoke truth with no shame. You were never the one who needed saving, Mysti. I was. From all that noise. From the lie that a man’s worth was in dominance, not devotion.”
He looked toward the stage, not with lust but with longing—for a different kind of intimacy. “And I pushed you away. Not because I didn’t want you, but because I couldn’t handle you seeing the broken boy underneath the man I pretended to be. I thought if I could control you, maybe I wouldn’t feel so damn useless. But you saw through it all, didn’t you?”
He let out a breath, heavy like a confession. “You were my rock. You were always my rock. But I treated you like a stone in my shoe—something to silence instead of treasure. I thought a good man provided, protected, controlled. But all you ever needed was to be heard. To be safe. To be seen.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the sticky table. “Your story in the cedar grove? It broke me open. Hawk and Doe? You’re right. I came to you grounded and unsure, but still with talons. I’m not in the clear yet. I’ve got work to do. I see that now.”
“I can’t take back the times I made you feel small. But I can promise to stand beside you now—no longer above you. No longer scared of your power or mine. I want to unlearn the lies and listen for real this time. Not to reply. Not to defend. But to change.”
He closed his eyes and whispered, “Forgive me, Mysti. For all the times I silenced the very voice that was sent to heal me.”
Life Lesson: True strength is not in control, but in confession. Love is not earned through dominance—it is proven through humility. And sometimes, the loudest deliverance comes from finally hearing the whisper you once tried to silence.