The Last

He was a child, no younger than eight. Born into poverty, the son of a carter, he knew hardship at an early age. He was well versed in the hard lessons of life. Every crust of bread or strip of meat had to be earned. He would often help tend the stubborn old ox as they walked for miles and miles along the rickety roads from one province to the next under the hot sun. As he silently trudged alongside his somber father, he’d steal glances into the dark forest, among the darting shadows. Wishing he’d be the first among his friends to see her. He felt no fear or hesitation.

When all seems hopeless and feelings of desolation eat away at your soul, I will be there. Through hazy eyes, across the steaming mists of the eternal forest, so lush and green, that will always exist in the farthest recesses of your mind. I will be there. Across the dry, swirling sands of the empty desert that stretch on endlessly in your cavernous heart. I will be there.

He was a young man, no older than twenty, so strong and quick. He assumed an apprenticeship as a carpenter and wiled away long hours into the night cutting and whittling, mending and crafting. With a sweaty brow he would often see the idle lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, and the clumsy assortment of royal fools, who hoped to be seen, on parade in the cobbled streets. Sometimes he’d stand in the doorway, as the rain poured down, hoping to catch but a mere glimpse of her amidst the throng of dull eyes and bruised feet.

All I know, I can’t let go. Is it dark? Do we dream? Only yesterday we were endlessly trapped in a sad, sad song. You are a vision to me. A shimmering beautiful shadow I long to see when I close my eyes and search the sky, freeing my mind. There you are between the sparkling stars and the mournful moon smiling, always smiling, even when I cry.

He is an old man, fragile and broken, forsaken by family and friends, alone on his deathbed. A lifetime of toil and regret weigh heavily on his head and his heart, torn apart, seeks solace and rest. In between fluttering beats and raspy breaths, in between this plane and the next, among the flickering shadows of the nether regions where the dark seas meet, he finally catches but the briefest glimpse of black, wise eyes. A white mane and a single ancient horn, crafted of bone.

With a final passing smile and a sigh he can finally say goodbye to the fleeting, hard life he never knew.