I wonder at the strings that stretch from the gods’ unseen fingers to the depths of the hearts of Men. I wonder if they delight in playing games with us, casting fates hither and to, without much regard for the joys or sufferings that result. Or do they watch us diligently, do they feel some measure of sympathy with our happiness and our grief, and do they seek to tweak the strings in a manner that might bring some kind of fulfillment and satisfaction at life’s end?
I have always regarded Love as a force outside of myself. It took hold of me when I met Conrob, and I was its prisoner - it’s oh, so willing prisoner - from beginning to terrible end. I am its prisoner still, as anytime I so much as think of him beyond a fleeting notion, my heart is instantly transported to his arms, his voice, his smile, the quaint, warm comfort of being a wife in Bree. Somehow I go on, I yet live, and my heart seems to not be dead.
Do the gods dare play this game with me again? Such merciless audacity, to take my hand and lead me towards the dance floor a second time. I would beg them to spare me, to send me to the farthest-flung corners of the world, to live and die alone, as I cannot seem to stop myself from loving people. But it is too late for me now. Yes, it is too late. Already I feel the sweet tendrils creeping into my flesh, worming their way to my heart. How subtle they are! How cunning! They do their work when one is not looking. They work in passing thoughts, in dreams, in brushed-aside notions and hopes.
And here I am, living in that bold, weightless space where I behave as though all is peaceful and well and normal. Knowing that he is close by, that he thinks of me as I think of him when we aren’t together, and that when we meet, the idyllic yearnings are mutual between us. How came we to this place? From stiff politeness to leering glances, then from boorish overtures to desperate rages. Does he understand now, why I had to go away? Does he forgive all the months of resisting his carnal advances? I want so much for him to understand why it had to be this way.
He is a softer person now. Oh, not without the scattered flashes of the posturing bull; that will always be a part of him. But I think that now, he does not see the pretty young woman that he wishes to bed. I think he finally sees Brynleigh, and perhaps understands her a little, and dare I believe that perhaps he even appreciates the bewildered soul within. For now he does not grope and slaver and grow angry when his efforts are reluctantly resisted. Now, he holds my hand. He speaks softly. His eyes are filled with the same longing, but now there is something else there as well. Something I don’t think I can put into words on parchment.
Does he know that he has helped me find the freedom to respond? When I lay near death in a far-off place, frightened and incoherent in the bed of a hospitable stranger, it was the breaking point. And when I came to myself again, I had made my decision. How does one embark towards something they do not know how to do? For I do not know how to love the husband I once had, and another soul at the same time. It is not something one person can advise another about. It is something that I must either attempt or not attempt. There is no way for me to “not love Conrob anymore”. It simply is not possible, it will never be. But now I think that a heart can perhaps keep its love for a departed soul, and still make room for another to grow.
I do not know what I am doing. Nor do I know how to do it. I am guided only by my heart and my convictions. And I pray that they are guiding satellites of the truest kind. I pray the gods are merciful, lest they destroy me utterly.
