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Unrequited

by EstelWolfe
February 16, 2004

I should have known, had known, in some part of my mind, that there was never any true hope that I could win her. Even if she came willingly to my arms, it would not be the choice she longed to make. Yet I allowed myself to believe her when she said that my decision would not influence her choice . . .tricked myself into accepting the lie, suspending disbelief through sheer will to have it be truth.

It's hardly the first time I've done so.

I was still a child, a very young child, the first time that I forced myself to believe for love. Then, though, it wasn't love of a woman, but love of a concept, an ideal, that clouded my mind.

Honor.

The thought that men could live, side by side, in harmony, following a code that clearly differentiated right from wrong, good from bad . . .it was quite an enticing dream, and one I pursued wholeheartedly. Live or die, I was convinced that life would be meaningless without that intangible path to guide my steps.

It was hardly a stretch to move from honor to patriotism, to move from loving an ideal to loving the country that I believed embodied that ideal, the country that would spread that ideal across the world.

Once again this love lead me to yet a stronger one, a love that has been known to capture far too many a soul, good, bad, or lost in the miasma between that I tried for so long to deny existence to. The sea, mistress of so many, called to me, and I came to her happily and willingly, combining my love of my country with my love of her in
what people would remark as `an astounding career'.

An astounding career.

The sum of my wholehearted devotion to my loves is `an astounding career', and the yearning of my heart for a woman who can never love me.

The Dauntless rolls gently beneath my feet as I watch her pull young Turner closer, giving him the goading that he needs to break the bonds of society. I should stop them, should interrupt, should demand from her the rights that, as her fiancé, are mine . . .

But I can't.

I can see that she is happy as he kisses her, can see the pain of loss in her face as he pulls away.

"Will . . .I love you."

Those are the only words spoken loud enough to filter over to me where I stand concealed by the darkness.

I turn from the scene before the blacksmith can respond, not wanting to know what he will say. Even if she comes back to me after this, I know now where her heart lies. She may find peace with me, eventually, but I will not be the one she calls for in her hour of need; I will not be the one her heart reaches for; I will not be the
one she longs for in the dark hours of lonely nights when my earlier loves take me from her side.

I have loved the intangible, the corruptible, and the fickle.

How in heaven did I imagine I could escape love unrequited?

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