My love is not something I can turn off and on like a water tap. I can’t unlove overnight. My love is too genuine for that. But I certainly can unlove someone gradually. It’s the ones who take their chisel and hammer and chisel away at your heart, tearing off little pieces of your soul, until there is no heart left to love them with. The ones who never cherished your heart to keep it sacred. They don’t deserve it anymore.
This is a caption from a piece I wrote over a year ago that I’ve made into a post. Sometimes a heart broken in two can be mended. But a pulverised heart cannot. It’s too far gone.
He turned toward the eastern thunder, lip curled. Nothing.
The constant urging to “make something” of himself only made him feel ashamed. Valiant, artisan, merchant, banker, trader, soldier—these paths were all fine ones, he figured, but none of them were for him. It wasn’t a lack of ambition, he’d tried to explain; his drive was merely to be content. To enjoy his life the way he wanted. Few others would hear him, though. Why should it matter that I don’t want to do anything?
He crossed beneath the grey cloud cover and felt the cool autumnal rain pattering gently on his shoulders. It had been six months since he fell from his pod, and while all the saplings his age were off studying for this and practicing for that, he wasn’t happy unless he was daydreaming. He’d imagined entire worlds separate from this one, ones where he’d been on great adventures. He’d cracked open chests of glowing riches surrounded by motley bands of pirates. He’d conquered evil dragons with nothing but a mighty warhorse and a shining silver lance. He’d been blessed and cursed by dozens of strange, haggard witches found wandering the woods. Living inside his head suited him just fine.
By the time he returned to the dreaded present the marshy ground had yielded to sand and grass. After wandering beneath a small natural overpass he peered up into the drizzling rain and smiled at his discovery: a great magic tower. I could make a hut at the top, he decided. No one would bother me there. He couldn’t actually climb it, however; he could tell from there that some of the gaps between platforms were too long for him to jump. I’ll build bridges.
First, though, he wanted to sit and rest in view of the tower’s majesty. To the bridge he strolled then crossed to find a modicum of shelter beneath the nearby cliff face. Soon he was dozing peacefully in the shade.
He woke to a distant uproar. By straining his ears he could make sense of the sounds haunting the air: screaming, shouting, and the ring and scrape of steel. Gnarled roots of fear closed on his heart and for a moment rooted his person there in the safety of shadows.
Curiosity got the better of him, but not by much. Filled with dread, he dragged himself on his stomach across the ground to peer out over the beach. What he saw was one sylvari locked in combat with multiple others but winning, slaying them all indiscriminately. He jolted with excitement. He’d seen this before in his imagination, but this was real. That hero, that underdog, the outnumbered, would slay them all, he knew. After all, that’s how the story went.
Yet as the last one fell he landed a blow on the heroine. His sword bit deep into her stomach, sending her to her knees, clutching at the wound and groaning. Finn’s amber eyes widened. She’d pull through, right? She had to pull through. His fingers clutched in suspense at the sandy weeds.
From a cove opposite the tower strode a single dark figure. I have to help her, thought Finn, yet his body remained still as stone, petrified. He wasn’t armed. He’d never even handled a weapon. Instead of striking the heroine down, however, the man tenderly took her face in his hands. It seemed to Finn that he smiled at her, and after some seconds, her head bowed.
From the west came sprinting another sylvari, this one white. When he looked upon the field he crumpled to his knees and drew his despairing hands to his face. Soon he was folded on the shore, his face hidden against the sand. Finn glanced back to where the pair had been, but they were gone from his sight. When the sapling’s eyes returned to the lone figure he was drawing his blade deliberately across his chest, cutting through leather and skin alike. Sap bled quick and free from the wound. I have to help, he thought again, but still could not bring himself to move.
A detachment of Wardens was soon behind the bleeding man, thankfully. Most took to aiding him, some to peering grimly out over the corpse-littered shore. Finn crawled away unseen, and as soon as he was safe to rise, tore back to the Grove with frequent frightened glances shot over his shoulders.
That night he strode up to his mentor, stark and serious.
