I've been burying a mountain
I've been running uphill
I've been pushing up a big weight
His mother had been a runner. Maybe a different kind from him. She had left her responsibilities by the way-side. He fled from his weaknesses. He’d been running for as long as he could remember, but never fast enough. He had yet to escape from himself.
This time, it had been ill-tidings from the mouth of one he loved that had started him off – sending him into the sea that had once been so large a thorn in his side he never thought he’d be rid of it. Nephilim was dead, that’s what Mariael had said. And Dances believed her, because she had never given him reason to doubt her. She had never let him down, despite all of his shortcomings, or maybe because of them. She wouldn’t lie, not to him. And it broke him someplace inside, so that his grief seemed to double. He had looked back only to find her standing on the shore, left to deal with her grief alone because he had abandoned her yet again. It wasn’t fair that she had to be so strong, so that cowards like him could be weak.
She deserved so much more than Dances could ever be, ever give. This realisation burned within him, spurred him onwards, and not even the frigid seawater could quench the flames of his self-hatred.
He returned to the mainland, and saw a figure waiting for him on the shore. Once upon a time, the heart of Dances With Wolves would have leapt with joy upon seeing her pale figure, but not this day, nor any day to come. Once upon a time, Sai had been all that Dances had wanted. But he would never look at her the same, not now that Nephilim was lost. A dark seed had planted itself in his core long ago, enticing him to greed. If Nephilim never came back, then the pale mare he loved would be his and his alone. He thought he’d torn this darkness from him long ago, but perhaps the roots had remained.
“It’s my fault,” he’d whispered brokenly in her ear. “He’s dead, Sai, and I think I killed him.”
They had wept then, each one wetting the other’s coat with tears of grief, and the sounds of one another’s pain only made it worse. Then, when no more tears could come, they stood close, exhausted emotionally, and found comfort in one another. Dances With Wolves said nothing further that night, and when Sai gently stirred him from a fitful sleep, and said it was time for them to come home, he nodded stiffly, and followed.
He felt empty inside, carved out and hollow. Standing in the surf as the sun rose, he squinted as he tried to make out the islands. Tinuvel was there, somewhere. His heart was a compass that didn’t point north. Inwardly he dreaded returning to the Bay. Couldn’t bear the thought of stumbling across Nephilim’s splintered bones. Didn’t think he’d survive letting Mariael down again. And yet…
He had promised her he would come back, so that was what he would do. His heart was a compass, and it would always be drawn to those who held a charge.
------
Sai had returned to the Bay already, eager – no that wasn’t the right word for the energy that had been driving her…. Desperation. She had parted ways with him, hastening towards the Bay, and quietly frustrated with him for lingering. Their place was with Mariael, Maziel and Zevulun. They were a family, and they belonged together, especially now, with their shared loss that very few would understand.
Sai had called him a scared little colt when he had turned away, and Dances had done nothing to push back against her sudden outburst, said nothing to defend himself. She had been right, after all. It was better this way. Sai could do more for their Queen than he could. Perhaps she’d even help Mariael realise that they were all better off without him. He hadn’t been there when Nephilim, when his brother had needed him most. He had failed them all.
Naturally, he sought solace in a place that brought him peace. Memories of walking through the woods and stepping over streams with Pan and Remus eased the ache in his heart, but did nothing to lessen his jumbled emotions. The painted stallion wandered, content to watch others, but moving on if any approached. Eventually he figured that the gnawing in his stomach might be hunger, and fell to grazing.
This didn’t last long. The scent of salt, faint but still recognisable, came to him on the wind, and he raised his head, only to find a mare nearby. Which island had she come from, he wondered. His curiosity was not so great that he would approach and ask, but something about her had him doing a double-take, and the second time, he scrutinised her with his eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. She was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her.
“You,” he blurted the word, clumsy in his approach for his mind was half-elsewhere. “I know you from somewhere. From which Island have you come to be here?” There was a strained urgency to his voice, which, along with his unsure footing and his poorly disguised inner turmoil, made him appear to be halfway to madness. He wasn’t aware of this, however, and only made matters worse when he pointed his ears and fixed her with a stare that was almost hungering.
Truth was, he was falling to pieces, and the only one who could properly put him back together was far, far away from him.
that I’m carrying still
DANCES WITH WOLVES |