THE SKY IS grey; silver streams of crystals cascade from above. There is an endless mantra in her mind. It streams down as fluidly as the falling rain. It seeps into her feelings, subtle but shining.
Her husband’s love could easily be her destiny. It is warm and it is happy; it lights her soul like a candle’s flame, spreading a gentle glow through her feelings. It felt, right before she married him, that all her past sensations, all her childhood passions were reviving, alive in a newer way – love, for the first time, could be the story she was meant to live. She could be magically, powerfully, beautifully in love. It could be the purpose of her story.
Their love has become a legend in some way.
It is admired by some and loved by others; the strength of her devotion to him and his deep love for her has become locked in the minds of the people. It matters to them because it proves why he is king and why he is stronger than almost everyone else.
It is a story of a love that has never been separated but simply needed to acknowledge its undeniable urge to be together. It is a love that affirms his power and authority. It is a love that is warm and bright and gave her a reason to believe she could finish the stories she started.
Even without the world’s view, their love is sweet. The love has become a testament to their ability to weave themselves together. They have learned how to grow their differences into a functioning whole. She has come to see herself as solely, dutifully devoted to him; she suspects he sees himself as singularly, dedicatedly devoted to her. They light each others’ lives; in the dead of winter, when the world is sleeping, the light she sees in him renews the world.
But that may not…
He is perfect sweetness. She has, over the years since she married him, come to carry her conviction that she may live a story of love and that that story necessarily involves him. He is the choice she has made; he is the love she has chosen to devote herself to. She is his wife; she will look after him.
Once, when they were first married, her stories were the closest things they had to babies. They were the creations she breathed life into and he – he – would be the one to support them in the world. But he always struggled with it. It seemed he could never figure out how to let her stories breath once she had written them. He tried, but he was always frustrated by how little he felt he did for her. He wanted to be in her life, helping her, doing what he could to encourage her dreams, but for him it never felt like enough.
As time went by, she slowly began to rely more on him than on the others for they had always been part of a larger group – their companions, their friends, their family, their crew. And then, suddenly, if he was not with her, helping her with her studies in particular, what was she to do?
Additionally, her love of ancient things – stories, cultures, people – had come back to her and he had no strong part it in. But how could that be? How could her life purpose of loving him disconnect her from him? Unless, of course, she had taken the wrong turn, and it was not those splendid ancient things, those magical and revived stories, those enchanting and archival things that mattered.
And now, they had actual babies, three sons that were their own. Did that mean he would not support her stories anymore? But how could that be? For he still asked for her to tell stories – sort of. She had started telling stories at a few of the islands they visited, but it hadn’t been for her husband that she told them. But then, none of her stories had been for her husband, being with him had merely let them flourish better.
But that had never been part of the conviction. No, it was that her life story was to love him; it was to live in perfect devotion to him; it was to give him strength and support and love. It was to guard him and protect the light in him. It was to love him.
So then, could it be that the tensions drawing lines through her mind were only whether her life story was to tell stories or was it to love her husband? If it was the former, couldn’t she still love him? But so much of what had made the love so wonderful was because she was so involved in the crew’s life, in that amazing sea and all the islands and adventures they had. She felt there was something meaningful there…
Something in the depths and the secret stones and the dark, soul-eating blackness; it was soft and strong. It was meaningful. It was the will of men who refused to forsake their dreams and ambitions. It was the irritating, irresistible pull toward those men of will.
Except for one, they mostly seemed unable to resist her, just as she had a hard time getting away from the entangled and material essence of their wills. What had they wanted – what had that one had wanted – from her, she had never learned. She had always wanted someone to give her answers, to tell her why she couldn’t seem to get away from them. What did she have that fate seemed to dangle in front of them like a treasure?
But there was something else that was meaningful in that sea – it was all about memories and history and legends. It was the stories ancient people wove that they were still weaving by living. It was the condensation of all that, which seemed to have sparks of value in her life now.
But none of that mattered! She wanted to shout it to the world. Couldn’t it understand? Her life purpose is to love her husband. The stories are a part of that; the ancient will is part of it, but not all of it. It is only to love him. Isn’t it?
If only she had never told one of her crewmates the story of the lady who traveled to the moon. If only she had never felt such love for her husband that they had read one of the ancient stories. If only…then…
Word Count: 1,122
Written: 13 October 2011
Inspired: wondering and life