Been a long time since I posted anything. I'm a writing major in college now, so I guess the act of writing things outside of class has become kind of difficult/time-consuming. Sorry it's kinda short.
Rover and Blanca aren't quite as relevant as they were 10 years ago, are they?
Enjoy.
-Zirconin
"I really can't," he said softly.
She seemed to understand that now wasn't the time to broach the subject, and so she looked away. Those red eyes—piercing, scrutinizing—never left her mind, no matter how far she went. She traveled all over the world, yet something always brought her back to this train. Always back to this line, where he swapped cars and rode the rails endlessly, as if searching for something.
It always felt like the thing he wanted to find was too far away. The valor of the hunt had faded away in ten years, and he wasn't getting any younger, but watching him lose sight was heartbreaking. After all these years, she had found a new purpose. She had to.
No longer did people tell her who to be, like the way she'd stumble into town, desperate for help, or approach a stranger on the train. The embarrassment faded. She was the only one out there that she knew who lived like this, and he knew that. He'd ridden with her to countless villages and towns, to the city and shore and back, but he would never really understand. It didn't matter; she came to terms with it eventually.
It was his turn now. He wasn't the dauntless young cat he had always been. She could see the sadness in his eyes as he watched the floor of the train car. He was lost.
"I don't want to do this anymore." He lifted his head to watch her. Red eyes. Not just the irises now, but a bloodshot spread on the whites. "I'm so tired."
She hesitantly nodded at him. "It gets hard, but you'll be okay," she said, not really believing it. "You'll find a way."
"Will I?"
"Of course. You always have. This is what you've always done."
"Things have to change. Things have to change or…"
"Or what?"
"I don't…" He seemed unable to continue. Turning away again, he watched out the window. She watched with him. Yellow birds sat on telephone lines and posts, blurs in the wake of the train car. They never worry as much as we do, do they? They're always there. Waiting. The thought hurt. All they had ever wanted was to be able to settle down, but the boundaries set on them by the world they lived in made that an impossibility. They were forever wanderers. Not like these birds, sitting on wooden fences and fluttering away when the wind was too strong.
"Blanca?" he said to her, eyes suddenly alight.
"Yes?"
"Why don't we just go? Go far away, find somewhere, never come back?"
She didn't want to hurt him. She didn't want to break the enthusiasm that shone in his eyes like the way it did back then. She couldn't say it.
"We could do it. Leave, right now, say goodbye. We could, if we wanted to."
Softly, she said, "Could we?"
"We—yes, we could. We could. Right?" His voice wavered, and with it, his momentary hope was gone. He sat down in the seat next to her and buried his head in his hands. "Please, Blanca. Please."
"I'm sorry, Rover." She shook her head.
They'd see him once, then perhaps never again, if the world was unkind. She got once a year at best, but she otherwise didn't exist.
They were wanderers, but not by choice.