Unrequited
I should have known, had known, in some part of my mind, that there was never any true hope that I could win her. Even if she came willingly to my arms, it would not be the choice she longed to make. Yet I allowed myself to believe her when she said that my decision would not influence her choice . . .tricked myself into accepting the lie, suspending disbelief through sheer will to have it be truth.
It's hardly the first time I've done so.
I was still a child, a very young child, the first time that I forced myself to believe for love. Then, though, it wasn't love a woman, but love of a concept, an ideal, that clouded my mind.
Honor.
The thought that men could live, side by side, in harmony, following a code that clearly differentiated right from wrong, good from bad . . .it was quite an enticing dream, and one I pursued wholeheartedly. Live or die, I was convinced that life would be meaningless without that intangible path to guide my steps.
It was hardly a stretch to move from honor to patriotism, to move from loving an ideal to loving the country that I believed embodied that ideal, the country that would spread that ideal across the world.
Once again this love lead me to yet a stronger one, a love that has been known to capture far too many a soul, good, bad, or lost in the miasma between that I tried for so long to deny existence to. The sea, mistress of so many, called to me, and I came to her happily and willingly, combining my love of my country with my love of her in what people would remark as 'an astounding career'.
An astounding career.
The sum of my wholehearted devotion to my loves is 'an astounding career', and the yearning of my heart for a woman who can never love me.
The Dauntless rolls gently beneath my feet as I watch her pull young Turner closer, giving him the goading that he needs to break the bonds of society. I should stop them, should interrupt, should demand from her the rights that, as her fiancé, are mine . . .
But I can't.
I can see that she is happy as he kisses her, can see the pain of loss in her face as he pulls away.
"Will . . .I love you."
Those are the only words spoken loud enough to filter over to me where I stand concealed by the darkness.
I turn from the scene before the blacksmith can respond, not wanting to know what he will say. Even if she comes back to me after this, I know now where her heart lies. She may find peace with me, eventually, but I will not be the one she calls for in her hour of need; I will not be the one her heart reaches for; I will not be the one she longs for in the dark hours of lonely nights when my earlier loves take me from her side.
I have loved the intangible, the corruptible, and the fickle.
How in heaven did I imagine I could escape love unrequited?
