alright ok i’ve finished digesting.
ruby wanted to stop being herself. she never wanted to die—even in the moment, when she drank the tea, she wanted to get away, to be done, but in her heart of hearts she wanted to change. nothing can happen to her in the tree that she doesn’t want. the tree cannot give her anything except what she asks it for; the tree can only hold a looking glass up to her face. the trick is that the looking glass sees in reverse—from the inside out—the heart of her, the truth of her.
the blacksmith knows ruby better than ruby knows herself because, in this time, in this place, in a manner of speaking, the blacksmith becomes ruby. reflects her. sees her in a way that nothing and no one else has ever done.
and this is what the blacksmith sees:
ruby rose does not know what she wants. ruby rose can feel herself dying for a destiny she did not choose, and she is scared, and she doesn’t feel like a person so the only way she can allow herself to voice this fear is by erasing herself from it; if ruby rose is afraid on behalf of someone else, then it’s allowed. then it’s okay. it is a way of hiding, a way of Being Good even when she’s secretly Being Bad.
the hero is not supposed to break.
the blacksmith does not accept this. she says the quiet part—the bad part—out loud. this, child, is for you and only you. the only thing that can happen now is what you want. your fear is for yourself, not these unknown souls. this is for you, and that is how it should be, how it must be, and how it is.
you don’t know what you want, do you?
so let’s find out. begin at the beginning; start with what you do know.
ruby says i wanted to be a hero. like the stories in the books my mother read to me. (i miss my mom. i want her back. i wanted to feel close to her again. somewhere along the way, somehow, that became another burden.) but it’s so hard. i don’t always know the right thing; i don’t even know if there IS a right thing. i tried so hard, and there’s nothing left of me now except pain. i don’t know what i’m supposed to be.
(do you see the jaws of the trap springing closed? do you see what the blacksmith sees, in this quiet place where nothing can happen except what ruby wants?)
the blacksmith says, here are a hundred other heroes. none of them are you. would you like to try them on? no, this one did not belong to anyone, but it might belong to you. can you feel the weight? the woman who carries this hammer, that sword, those daggers—is she you? is she what you’re supposed to be?
and ruby says, yes, i can feel their weight. it’s so heavy. it feels the same as mine. it’s all i can feel anymore. it doesn’t matter whether i pick up this hammer or that sword or those daggers, because no matter what i do the weight never, ever goes away.
and the weight is not being enough.
look how her expression changes, there. this is a revelation. this is what the blacksmith saw that ruby could not: ruby rose did not fall short because she isn’t enough; she is not enough because no one could ever be enough.
the fault does not originate in ruby rose.
she tried her best. she might have tried her best in a hundred different ways, as a thousand different people, and the burden would never change. it’s too heavy. it is inhumane to expect herself to carry it. would she ask this of anyone else? why, then, does she demand it of herself?
as this newfound truth settles around her shoulders—so much lighter than the weight she knew before—she turns to the blacksmith for guidance; she is beginning to understand, but only just. if this burden is too heavy for anyone to carry, then what can she do? how can she set it aside, knowing what the stakes are? how could she pass it onto someone else’s shoulders, knowing that it will break them as it broke her? when will it be enough?
how, asks the blacksmith, do you measure enough?
her mother broke beneath this weight before it passed onto ruby’s shoulders. she has spent her whole life aching for the mother she only just remembers—not the shining hero of her sister’s stories and her father’s memories, but the woman whose voice lulled her to sleep when she was very, very small. (i want to be like my mother’s stories. i want to remember her. i want her to keep her promise to come back. i want to know why she didn’t.)
the blacksmith isn’t inviting her to become summer rose. that isn’t what ruby wants—her mom was the best, and even she failed, even she was not enough—and so the tree cannot make it happen.
what ruby wants, and what the blacksmith offers, is an answer. what did her mother do, when she couldn’t shoulder this any longer? where did she go, when the weight became too much? no one can carry it. no one should be asked to try. when is it enough? what will it take? what’s the right answer? how do you save everyone from the monster on your shoulders?
show me now, ruby says to the tree, what happened to my mom.
