returning, pt. i

When she returned from her exile, she had changed. It wasn't just her physical appearance, though there was that, too. The dark circles under her eyes, the sickly, wan complexion. She was gaunter than she had been, too; a better friend might have tried to find a moment alone, a moment when she didn't need to project strength and confidence to a world that had stolen everything from her, and asked if she was all right. Asked what had happened to her up at the edge of the world.

(Sometimes I like to imagine the conversation we should have had. Whatever she endured, she should not have had to endure it alone, as she did, and when she returned, all of us simply let her continue to endure. We all thought she could endure, I suppose. But I knew better.)

She had always been . . . composed, I suppose is the word. She bore the weight of the future on her shoulders, after all. She was always reticent, careful with her words, and carried herself with a gravity that could be overwhelming at times. But she also always had such energy, such conviction, that no carefully constructed demeanor could conceal. And when she came back, that energy was different. Darker.

At first I thought that it was just me; previously, when she held court, her presence was inspiring. Now I found myself feeling uneasy. We had built this army . . . not for her, exactly, but we had always known that if she returned, when she returned, it would be hers. Before she had always been so careful to listen, never allowing her thoughts to be known until she had heard every option and formed a final opinion. Now, she seemed to have lost her taste for guiding our discussions with any form of subtlety; she would swiftly silence those who seemed to be straying from the topic, or whose contribution to the conversation was not to her liking. It no longer felt, as it once had, like an open forum where she was the first among equals, the one who would voice the opinion that our discussion had constructed. Now, we were dancing to her tune.

A better friend might have wondered if something was wrong. She was always so careful not to make anyone feel as if she was trying to sway their thoughts or influence their opinion. Instead, I wondered: was it always like this? Perhaps, I thought, she had merely lost subtlety in her exile, or perhaps I had grown wiser, more perceptive. Perhaps she had always been manipulating us and it had only now become apparent.

She returned from exile to find a changed world. A broken world. And perhaps if I had made the effort to take her aside and remind her that I am her friend and I care about her, things could have been different. It doesn't matter now, but sometimes I still miss the way she would smile when we were alone, and I will always wonder if she brought that smile back with her.