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P.o.V. by Willow-wode
Despair… Resolve… Quiescence… Gilt eyes have lost themselves in future visions; what once was dream has turned to nightmare—golden light gliding into roseate sunset then fading into shadowed night, spun upon a wheel of air and fire and darkness… Years of brilliant hope, of soft laughter and heated nights, passion tempered by the fealty of embrace, then wonder and awe morphing into uncertainty, and dark-eyed vigilance, and disquiet… Warm and fragrant breath of dreams, inklings of magic and mystery, fire and air and cool, sweet water to mirror stars singing behind rainwater eyes… She takes flight; she sees too much, she has changed too much, she tastes what shall be; her feeble attempts to halt it, defeat it, those have betrayed her so she runs, prey escaping into starry, still night broken, broken… He gives frantic, terrified chase; he has spent much in pursuit of what is gone, of what had been, of what they were, of her, and surely he shall be able to stay her for always has devotion given him wings, and will, and the power to banish what lurks in Shadow… Child stirs, dark straying into dreams, deeping knowing teasing, senses made too aware: fear and fire, air madly gasped, gleaming water beckoning, all commingling… River waits: shining-still, dispassionate, serene. It is a beacon, a haven, the last of all possibilities and of elegant necessity for only River can quench the flames, only stillness can quell the voices, only action can stave what has happened, what is happening, what will happen… He sees where she would go and quails—this is the one thing which could defeat him, thwart ransom from the darkness; he cannot do this, he does not know how, over this shall thew and will and determination have no mastery if unskilled fear holds prime… Not the River, not there, never there… River clear and cool to smooth-soothe skin, splashing copper-bright droplets in the sun and Mumma slippery against him, Dad chuckling from the bank, refusing to come in—no otter he, no foolhardy riverhobbit to bathe deep and taste silt… River laughs, and sparkles, and kisses small furry toes. She feels him behind her, clumsily thrashing where she has gently slipped, and bids him go, leave her, do not follow this path she must tread… The years have worn down upon him like a heavy and wet woollen cloak—if only he could spread that cloak across the water, use it as a skiff to breast the wild, copper current, if only he could save her… She is gone, Child somehow kens, but why must he also run for the water, why lurch against resisting wet, why go where never has he gone, why oh why oh why? She Sees innocence, spoiled and spun on that wheel of fire, of pain, of emptiness beyond death. He sees the extinguishing of hope, the breaking of life, the regret of what shall be left behind. Child Sees shadows sinking into darkness. Submersion… Surrender… Succumb, River sings. Cannot. Will not. Will not… go… under… Drowning not in River but in freedom, cold possibilities of memory sinking inward, time turning in on itself, doors shut, fate spun and set… She struggles… He holds her close, sinking like stone, taking her down into the depths; he is numb-cold, gone yet not; as always he does what he must, what is needed: Protect them, protect them both… Slumber and dreams spin oblivion once more, float Child up from Mother/Father, trail wet brine upon sleeping cheeks… Quiescence, folding close to Resolve, which turns away Despair, which sends darkling innocence into the jet brilliance of night as Peace descends within the copper-clear envelope about her, about them, for It is better this way, better to end the madness, better that the light gone dark no longer shadow their son… Son… My son, now, River croons, inscrutable, inexorable. Mine.
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