Chapter Five- Heavy Burdens

Xanthe lay silently, staring hopelessly at the wall.  Unbidden tears filled her eyes.  They hadn’t yet enough force to make there way down her cheek, so they stayed there, filling her eyes with a deep cover of water.  The old textured plaster on the wall began to look like a shiny yellow lake.  Soon enough the tears spilt over her tired eyelids where the blue covering of her pillow absorbed them.  I’m not crying, she told herself calmly.  Her muscles were relaxed.  No sound came from her throat.  My eyes just do this sometimes. 

At the thought of her absurd rationalities Xanthe began laughing, though it was no joyful sound.  There was a horribly pained intake of breath after each laugh.  Soon each laugh began to sound more like a sob.  And then her throat would not allow air to pass; only awful gasping sounds could come or go.  Her whole body shook-- she fought this by rocking back and forth in a repetitive motion.  Her eyes were shut tightly now, her hands, clenched into fists, covering them lightly.  She fought the urge to bite into her knuckles. 

Xanthe struggled this way for a few minutes, and then, as quickly as it had started, the episode died.  She now lay curled into a ball, her hands still clenched in front of her eyes, but her body lay limp.  Her breath came again, although quite labored.  Xanthe’s mind raced.  She was torn.  Her analytical side wanted to seek out every cause for her pain and find a cure for it, but in her weakness, she wanted to push it all away, not to think about it.  She knew that the answers were not easy.   

Rolling over onto her back, Xanthe stared up at the vaulted ceiling.  “Why?” She said aloud, though soft enough that the word sounded more like a sigh than a plea.  “Why can’t I be strong enough?”  Xanthe pulled the pillow out from under her head and hugged it tightly to her chest.  She closed her eyes and saw the face of her father.  He was smiling, though she saw worry in his eyes.  Xanthe knew that the worry was for her, and the guilt cut deeply into her heart. 

Olihre had been a splendid child.  He was born strong and mild-mannered.  He always made his parents proud and won respect from all who knew him.  Xanthe had tried to do the same.  She was also easy to get along with, though it didn’t seem to do much good.  She had lived a lonely life back in Gondor. 

Xanthe suffered from a childhood disease that had left her bed-ridden for almost four years.  While most girls of 11 would have been helping their mothers around the house, Xanthe was in bed, on doctor’s orders.  She knew that she had been a strain on her mother and father.  At times she would attempt to hide her pain, hoping to spare them from worry and stress.  When they would ask her how she felt she would smile right through the torment and lie.  These acts seldom worked however, her pain was much too obvious. 

Xanthe smiled as she remembered her only real joy during those years.  Olihre would spend hours in her room, often forsaking his friends and studies just to comfort her.  She felt selfish for keeping him there so much, but as she looked back on it, she felt in her heart that had he not been there, she would not have survived.  She wouldn’t have wanted to live, and in the end, her will, and her family’s love were the only thing that saved her. 

And saved she was.  She slowly began to beat the disease.  In time she was allowed to get up and move around the house.  Later she was allowed to go out into the yard, though only for short periods of time.  She would watch other children playing, and she would excitedly plan her return.  She imagined a group of children standing around her in a circle, smiling and telling her how brave she was, and how happy they were to see her again.  Xanthe felt bitterness in her heart now.  ‘What a fool I was.  I had few friends before my illness, I had no visitors during it, and I certainly hadn’t any admirers after it.’             

Five years after her illness had first shown itself, she was completely recovered.  Her limbs were no longer useless, her lungs devoured the fresh air, and her heart beat strongly.  She was the model of a healthy young woman, and yet those stormy green eyes never did fully regain their shine.  They were dull and sad.  Many noticed this, though nobody mentioned it.  It was a wonder that Xanthe was alive, and they dared not dwell upon darker things.

Xanthe sat up in bed.  Outside the sun was making its way west, and the first hues of orange were appearing against the darkening sky.  She had always been able to find beauty in simple things.  Being confined to a bed as a child and having nothing but a window as a connection to the outside world, she had learned to see things very differently than some. 

She sat now, looking out the window, admiring the solace that the land held.  She felt ashamed for having allowed her self-pity to take over.  She knew that she was luckier than most who had contracted the disease during its peak of power.  Most had died.   

And yet, throughout all of these factual realizations, Xanthe still felt uneasy.  Buried deep inside of her was an almost frantic need for friendship.  Before her illness, she had been a quiet, shy little girl.  She preferred to stay in with her mother rather than go out with Oli and play.  Her mother had always hoped that as she matured she would break away from her doubts and make friends more easily. 

But then she fell sick.  During those years Xanthe knew none but her family and their closest friends.  When Xanthe became well again, she would go out into the yard and stand there, hoping to be approached by the others.  Olihre would often be the mediator who involved her in things, but it was never the way it should have been.  She was different, and everybody knew it.  Her disease may as well have covered her in scars, for that is how she was treated.  People tiptoed around her, taking care not to stare, but never intentionally including her in any conversation or activity. 

Xanthe had not been very diligent in pursuing friends.  At the first sign of rejection, she had returned to her mother’s side.  Olihre had tried to get her involved, but even all these years after her initial attempt at socializing, Xanthe was terrified at the thought of being dismissed.  She instead became complacent and dealt with her solitary life.  She spent a great deal of time with her mother and father, and her demeanor reflected it.  Slowly but surely however, her life began to seem normal, happy even. 

And then tragedy struck.  When Xanthe’s father had died, her world, which was finally beginning to settle, was melted into a mess of tears, blood, anger and fear.  She could no longer be strong for her family.  She retreated into her mind where not one living soul knew her thoughts.  Slowly, over the past few years, her family began to recover.  Oli resumed his usual activities, though his confidence seemed shaken.  Ysenia stopped going to the door every night, waiting for her husband to come home.  Xanthe had regained her outer shell and was the strength of her family once more, but inside she never healed.  Olihre was able to comfort her some, but he didn’t understand the depth of her need. 

Xanthe’s longing to be loved was outweighed only by her fear of being unwanted.  She was ashamed to admit it, but in the past day, as she thought more about the man at the river, she was actually more intrigued than upset.  He, unlike any other being in the world, had seen her with her guard down.  He had stayed and watched her.  That was the closest Xanthe had come to being admired in her entire life, and she was strangely excited by it.

“Maybe I should always bath in public,” Xanthe said wryly, turning back to look out the window. 

“What in the world are you talking about?” Olihre had just poked his head around the doorframe.  Before waiting for an answer he continued, “Mum has dinner ready…but if you’d rather I draw you a bath…”

“You’re hilarious.” Xanthe said dryly, getting up off the bed and trying not to make eye contact.  She was not worried about being overheard.  Oli was used to her strange moods by now.  He would not guess her guilty secret.  Not in another age of a world.