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The first time he saw him they were at a field. There’s green as far as eyes could see, clear blue sky above, and grey mountains in the distance. Birds were singing and somewhere amidst the rustles of leaves and grasses, lives were taking place. It was a warm sunny day with occasional winds to cool the skin. There were the scents of damp soil, of growing grass, of fragrant flowers. As he took in the sight, sound, feel, and scent around him, he thought that it was a perfect day.
Then, he saw him. He saw flowing hair dark as night, skin kissed by sun, smile sweet as summer, eyes as rich as life itself. His breath was caught, something inside him calling out for the stranger. There were fear, excitement, confusion, and hopefulness. Too far away from him, the stranger was looking back to him, reflecting everything he was feeling and thinking of and he knew what it was even though he didn’t know what it was.
But when he took one step forward, the moment was shattered. A voice came and made the other man turned away. The stranger hesitated, just briefly, just a moment of uncertainty, but it spoke loud and clear of what they couldn’t say. Later on, he gave a name to what he felt: Love. He kept the word in his heart alongside the memory of that day-his most valuable possessions-and cherished them as long as he lived. And when he lay upon cold ground with just furs covering his body, when his hands shook and his eyes hazy, when his heart was weakening, he smiled, recalling the face he never saw again and the love which somehow grew stronger in a lover’s absence, and closed his eyes for the last time.
But it’s not the last time. No. That was just the beginning. It was just the first time. It was just the start of everything. There’s a longing in his heart, unexplainable and persistent, a space in his lives no one and nothing could quite fill. He lived in discontent, searching for someone he knew but hadn’t yet met. But, as difficult as it could be sometimes, it provided him hope, a reason to go on in difficult times. He wished to stars, fire, statues, the beautiful void above him, the earth below him, the sea before him, forefathers he didn’t know and deities beyond his senses. He wished for a chance to meet the one he longed for, to know what he sought, to understand, and, above all else, to love. Disappointment came one after another, but he persisted. He knew one day his plea would be heard.
The second time they met he didn’t know it was him. He was occupied by responsibilities and fear of the evil seed planted in his soul by those before him. He didn’t notice for a long time. He didn’t see the familiarity in too-young eyes. He didn’t even suspect-there was no reason for him to. When he did recognize the young dwarf for who he was, he thought ‘No, not him’.
Some rules should never be broken. So, he pulled away. He tried being unapproachable and worthy of nothing less than fear and hate. He tried to curb his growing longing and stop before it’s too late. But, his sister-son saw right through everything and, though he understood the wrongness of the situation, he didn’t care. Every day he came closer, winning inch by inch with smiles and laughs and gazes, until he built a permanent residence in his uncle’s heart.
This time they had decades to steal caresses and hide glances. They had time to learn silent language only they understood, a lifetime of forbidden yearning. They tortured each other with love they shouldn’t have had. Once he wondered, as he gazed upon peaceful face under firelight, isn’t love supposed to be sweet? Why was he suffering, then, from efforts not to reach across the space between them and show and say what felt right? But this was what they had, the pain, the happiness, the fear, the contentment. So he stole pleasure when he could, desperately patched the scars left behind by love and want, foolishly refused to trade this for anything else in the world, absurdly hoping for a future. But then came a reminder that fortune wasn’t on their side. He fell into his worst nightmare and became everything he fought so hard not to be, and then it’s too late. A river of red was between them, their hands almost touching but never reaching, one set of eyes blank and the other spilling tears.
He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t risk doing that again. It hurt too much to be so close and yet so far, to cause pain, to disappoint, to cause death… He didn’t want to do it again. It’s a warning. This wasn’t meant to be. All they would cause each other was pain and though he didn’t mind bearing it for the other, he couldn’t live with the fact that he might hurt his love.
So, he walked in a trance through times and spaces he didn’t bother to memorize. Sometimes he was happy, sometimes he was not. He met people, built connections, nurtured relations. He hated; he loved. Still, a deep longing cut his heart every minute he spent on his own or with those who had his body but not his soul. It tormented him with the nagging knowledgethat there’s something, someone he had to meet, know, and love, there’s someone he had to make happy, someone to make him happier than he had ever been. It wore him down until, finally, he let himself be convinced that the pain would be worth it. He hoped it wasn’t a mistake.
The third time they met it was all wrong. He thought he had found love but he hadn’t. He looked at the young man who would be his brother in-law and realized what a grave mistake he had made. Now he understood his attraction for his future wife’s appearance and the strange near-instant connection. It wasn’t her he loved, but the shadow of his true love that he saw in her.
He married her, nonetheless, out of responsibility and genuine affection for her, and resigned himself to loving from afar. He limited their conversations to trivial things which paled in comparison to what they could be. He gripped his hands tightly to prevent himself from reaching out whenever the other man was near. He bit his tongue to keep the sad truth inside in the rare moments they spoke. His only consolation was that his beloved was too absorbed in his art to notice his attraction, his unnatural attention, the love he could never hide completely behind masks. It was easier when it’s not mutual, when he was the only one in love. There was less temptation, though no less pain. He could easily keep his distance when his presence was largely ignored.
He bought a house far from his wife’s family. He built a home with her and found joy in her companionship and their children. Still, every so often he asked his wife about her brother’s condition, now and again he sent gifts him bearing both his and his wife’s names, once a year he fought his true desire when he met his love for the holiday. In solitude, he imagined secret lingering glances to his direction and he smiled, thinking of what could be in another time. Decades later, when his hair was silver and his children had families of their own, he gave up his last breath with his wife’s hand in one hand and a portrait of his younger self drawn by his love (lovingly, or so he’d like to think) in his other hand. Forever yearning. Forever apart.
But this was but a cruel game, a hope given to him so the pain would be multifold when it’s snatched away from him.
The fourth time was brief and cruel. He was aching and cold. He had been raised in hardship but not to fight a war. The reality of greed and cruelty sapped away his energy and his spirit. The luxury of hope for a future with his beloved had been taken away from him too soon. He gasped as he pushed himself to his feet to cross what little area they had just won. He didn’t want to die, though he didn’t know what to live for, either.
Usually, he tried not to pay attention to the dead bodies, whether those of enemies or friends. Killing wasn’t his trade and he just knew if he let the reality that he had taken lives sank into him, he might not be able to continue defending his country, defending what’s right. This time, however, something drew his attention to the lifeless bodies littering the snowy ground. He stopped as his friends ran past him, eager to reach safety and end the war. He studied the youthful face of a bloody lifeless body, a cocoon of possibilities never realized. He knelt and wiped dirt and blood from fair skin with his shaking hand. He found bullet wounds on still chest and wished he had enough tears to wash the body of the young man. However, his eyes dried far too soon and he followed his friends, his shaky legs threatening to fall anytime. He said his last goodbye a few days later with wounds mirroring the ones he had seen on the young soldier. His last word was ‘please’. His mind couldn’t tell what he begged for, but his heart knew.
One chance. Give us just one chance.
This time, he does everything carefully. He doesn’t give up his heart easily and seals himself behind a wall of fake pleasantness and aloofness. He takes some lovers but he always knows when to let them go. He throws himself to his work, idealistic efforts to make the world a better place. Many mock his devotion to his occupation and ideas but only he knows the truth. Only he knows how he searches for someone he knows is out there waiting for him. Only he knows how his heart mourns for lost opportunities he can’t remember and yearns for future chances to be together. Throughout his years, his hope only slightly wavers, kept alive by the unexplainable knowledge that his wishes have been heard before and it will be heard again, though he doesn’t know when.
Then, one night, he appears to him amidst a billow of smoke, under artificial light in the color of the sun above them in their first meeting. Their eyes meet and there is a spark of recognition, of something rooted deeper than what they can understand. His breath stalls temporarily, and so does the time, it seems. It seems unreal, a mockery in its finest form by the universe. It’s a play and he is the audience captivated by the unveiling of a dramatic reveal. But this is real, not a play. This is dream entering into reality and he will not forgive himself if he lets this go.
The moment is broken by a conversation he’s forced into. He ends it quickly but when he turns his attention back to the familiar stranger, he’s gone. His heart sinks as years of waiting seems to come to nothing but a glimpse of what could be. A chance-probably his only chance-has been given to him and he missed it.
But has he really? He stands abruptly, intent on searching, undeterred by the fact that he only has the memory of a stranger’s face and an entire world to search. He can’t let this chance pass him by. He can’t sit idly by, letting distance grow between them once again.
“Going somewhere?”
He turns to the source of the disappointed voice. Relief floods him at the sight of the man he has been looking for all his life. Warmth filled his chest at the sight of two glasses of beer in the man’s hand. “No,” He says, conveying feelings he doesn’t understand and can’t put into words with a smile.
The man grins. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
That night he learns his beloved’s name and world. That week he dreams of the patterns in his eyes and lilts and tones of his voice. That month he memorizes the map of his body and worships the mind that moves the man. That year he learns how to fit his life with his beloved’s. One night long after the night they first see each other, an eternity after their first meeting, as they lay next to each other, basking in contentment worth a thousand missed chances, his lover whispers to him, “I’m glad I’m finally here with you.”
It shouldn’t make sense, but somehow it does. Something deep inside him, something nearly as ancient as time itself, understands and answers in kind. “So am I. I love you,” he says as quietly. Always have, always will.
Their lips meet, sealing the moment with a kiss. Their hands tighten on each other as they breathe their affirmation of love in silence, grateful for the moment, grateful to have been given a chance, complete as they finally have each other.