Over the Hills and Far Away (Over The Hills: Part 1 of 3)

~This is the first story I've ever completed that was this... well, short. It's tightly based off of a set of dreams I've been having repeatedly over my lifetime. Recently, they started reaccuring more often and disrupting my ability to sleep, so my lovely psychologist friend recommended turning it into something I could manage: a story. It's rough around the edges, full of holes, and likely hard to understand, but it's helped me let go of a lot of hardships and inner stress. I'm hoping to improve it, because I can honestly thank this story for being able to write again--and like what I write--so soon. 

Thank you! :) ~

"Over the hills and far away,"

Though it was but a phrase, the words fell from her soft lips so often I had come to relate the words to her and her to the words; both of them bound in my mind so that I could not hear the phrase and not find my thought drift to her, and so that I could not think of her and keep the words from escaping my mouth in hushed whispers. I am sure it had once been a part of a song from times of old, but now it seemed as if her voice had claimed the phrase for her and her alone.

On the occasions I asked her questions, such as 'where did you come from', 'where are we going', 'where did you learn that', and 'where do you dream', I would find myself receiving the simple reply of

"Over the hills and far away,"

It was not a romantic sentiment, for certain, for did not believe it wise to love another. Such strong feelings, she had told me once, were a fool's game, for to love another living being was to accept a cause that was lost before it had even been born. If something lives than it, just the same as you, will one day die, and forming tight connections with that other being would only bring grief. I could not look her in the eye and tell her I agreed, for as cruel as it would be on my heart, I had come to love this woman who cared not for love itself.

Nor was it a phrase of remembrance, for she often told me she had no one to remember. Many amongst the crew thought this meant she had no love for those who had born and raised her, but I, as was usually the case, knew otherwise. Her opinions on death were just as brutally simple as her thoughts on love; those who were living simply were, and those who were not were simply gone. She did not believe in extended mourning, for leaving the task of remembering one's legacy after death, when the rememberer themselves would one day die as well, was foolish and illogical in her mind.

Neither was it a mantra of hatred and vengeance, for this woman held a wizened soul and foggy mystery about her that kept anyone from becoming capable of hating her. It was this same wiseness and mystery that did not allow her to hate others in turn; only to look upon them and see another human being. Though they could not hate her--for many had tried and failed before--men, women, and children alike could all come to fear her. What sort of human were you, if you bluntly discarded the depth of love and death, could not hate, and could not be hated. Purged of such basic emotions, could you be human at all? I knew her to be perfectly mortal, of course, but that personal observation did nothing to ease the fears of others.

"Over the hills and far away," Had never seemed to have any dual meaning, either. There had never been a case where it seemed a double-edged sword lurked within the words, reflecting smoky foreboding and thickly altered definition. Forever and always, the saying left her lips as a string of words and nothing more. Simply:

"Over the hills and far away,"

Many amongst us thought it to be what she sought after, or at least the home of it. They were sure--and even betted on the thought--that she hunted desperately for the unknown. Be it gold and silver, power and control, or knowledge and adventure, none could say in all honesty. All that was collectively agreed upon was that she lusted after the thrill of not knowing, all the while carrying herself as if she knew full and well.

I was not as ignorant.

For in the ways her eyes spoke, how her demeanor sang, how her hands howled in constant motion, how her smile whispered--but never how her words echoed, for that was all a clever ruse she maintained masterfully--I saw that she cared not for what came ahead, for she did indeed already know what she would find.

Alas, "Over the hills and far away," was not a place she had been or wished to go, but a place that she had rejected once and would never again reach. I knew not if this place even had a physical form, or if it made its home in our mortal plane. All I knew--and know, to this day--is the bitter taste of loss she leaves with me, and the vast sadness her voice brings into the air.

Though I was but a boy at the time--as my real birth date was unknown to even myself, many speculated I was somewhere along my fifteenth year, though most days I felt far older and infinitely wiser--I recognized the tragedy that was her history, and the mystery that was her soul. I clung to her side even as she wrapped me beneath her maternal wing, and cherished every second that blessed me with her presence.