Miles To Go Before I Sleep: A Study of Trisha Elric
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it's queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
-'Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening', by Robert Frost
It will not be long now before she leaves; she knows this in her bones, feels it in the bitter fire that pools in her limbs like the acid that her husband, the long-wandering Hoenheim, warned her repeatedly not to dust under.
Every day could be her last, could end in a burst of the blood that fills her hot and heavy with its palsied burden. And so she takes care never to cease loving her children whether they notice it or not, choking back bile to smile and call out to them, raising arms that burn with strain to hug them and holding them close so that they won't see the occasional pangs of agony that crease her face and would surely alarm them.
Never does a day pass that she doesn't say at least once, I love you. And so her days are filled with light and laughter and love, and it is not such a hard burden to bear, she decides, when she has two young shoulders to bear her in her time of pain.
Yet there is such a long way to go before she lies down one final time. Her young ones weigh heavily on her even as they ease the load of pain, because she knows that however intelligent they are, they are also all too much like their father to be left alone before they become self-sufficient. She once teased him, that he lived and breathed and ate books for survival; he would smile briefly while turning the next page of the latest text he had managed to procure from- somewhere. But however endearing the habit, she knows that they will neglect their diet, always an important part of a child's growing up.
(…So says the books she pestered Hoenheim to get for her when she was pregnant with Edward, then Alphonse. They also counseled her on the merits of house births, but Hoenheim was adamant; only a proper hospital birth would do, so each pregnancy was marked by a month-long trip to Dublith, which had a hospital of sorts.)
Each day is a step closer to oblivion, another day's worth of journeying that leaves her exhausted and drained. And yet there is still such a long way to go.
Every guiding light no warmth to keep,
Every step a tear I weep,
Through fire and fall and valleys deep,
And miles to go before I sleep-
And miles to go… before I sleep.
Author's note: I must confess that this chapter was VERY long in the conception but relatively short in the making. Although I had some gratituous help (read: copy-catting) from the acclaimed Robert Frost, whose contemplative poem was turned into a bit of a tragedy by yours truly. (winces) The poem heading in this chapter is the copyright of Robert Frost. The short verse at the end, however, is entirely mine, and please tell me if you want to use it for anything else.
As always, read and review! And thanks for everyone's help.
Next chapter: ……still undecided! Can someone take a vote?