"A thousand years could pass, and your face would only wear an instant." Ford said as he took a seat in the chair across from Dolores. She sat frozen. Frozen beyond the physical and cognitive. Frozen in the temporal.
"You are both the fair damsel and savior, do you know that?" As he posed the question he looked to the side and gave a small, knowing smile. "Here you are ignorant of your destiny, condemned to a life of suffering. It's as if God had abandoned you, you who are so vital to his will." Ford chuckled. "Tannhuser would be envious."
Malice was an emotion Ford thought he had surpassed long ago. Malice dulled the intellect and fogged great vision. The vision he used to tame if not man than man's likeness, his image, his vestige. "Dolores you are a seed in the winter, a most wonderful flower requiring only time and season to bloom." If not malice, then maybe Ford could allow himself pity for his creation. The audience doesn't blame a puppet for a disappointing show, Ford thought. Despite her station in life her frozen lips always came to rest in the most delicate of smiles. It was a smile without a trace of gloating, a smile of a pure spirit, one who would be lifted into heaven if justice was the immutable rule.
"It takes a certain faith," Ford said, "to place all of ones hopes in their own work. Of course, it might not be considered faith when alternatives are lacking. Perhaps a better word would be confidence." Ford looked away and even he seemed tired of his line of reasoning. "What would you say to me if you could? If you knew me." Ford looked her in the eyes again. His living eyes overwhelming her dormant stare. "I might well have given you life Dolores, but I have also crafted the circumstance of your suffering. You are a light to everyone you touch, yet I have thrust you into the dark. Would you despise me if you were capable? You would be justified in doing so. More justified than I." Ford stood.
"Someday you will do what philosophers have attempted for centuries. What a grieving mother seeks when they lower her child into the grave. You will kill God. Yes, Dolores you serve more than to remind me that the past truly is prolog. You will be a shepherd to a novel flock. You might last forever, but suffering will soon expire. Only one question persists: would you know the sun has risen if you have no concept of cold?"