Hearthswarming Eve
by Silver Brony
The crimson glow of the embers suffused the room with a weary warmth, chasing shadows from the brick hearth to the lip of the rug, where they became lost amid exotic patterns. The flames snapped once, crackling with a burst as wood shifted, then slipping back into silence.
The silence pressed upon the room like a thick quilt, softening sounds and smothering echos. A clock ticked away somewhere along the walls, hidden high in the shadows of a shelf. Elsewhere, boards creaked, the cabin groaning with age. Shadows stalked up and down narrow, starlit hallways, between the legs of antique chairs and table, along corners and counters beneath cabinets worn with use. A single bead of water built upon the faucet, then dropped without a sound. Dishes rested in folds of shadow on the counter, just outside what little moonlight filtered through the whirlwind of snow outside.
Collectively, the house held its breath. It waited for the snowstorm to subside. It waited with the still, heavy patience of walls that had seen many a generation born, birth, then die. Sure as its foundation in the mountain rock, it waited.
Back near the hearth, a dark shape shifted on the rug, snuffling once … twice. The embers made him warm. The body pressed against his back, hoof draped across his withers, made him warmer. Groggy with the effects of the warmth and a large supper, he tucked his snout to his chest, curling and pressing further back into the embrace.
“Smith. You awake?”
The whisper came as though from a dream, nearly too quiet to hear. It lifted him, drawing him back from the brink of slumber. He shifted again, twisting his head.
“Mm … am now,” he murmured in kind. It seemed almost a sin, to speak any louder.
“Oh.” A pause, then, “Sorry if I woke you. Couldn’t sleep.”
“No, ‘tsalright.”
Smith twisted his head further, pressing back. Bushy, under-chin scruff rested upon the side of his neck and he stopped. Turning his head completely to the side, he felt a soft nose meet his cheek, warm with breath. He nickered softly in response.
“Has it stopped snowing yet?” He continued in the same murmured tone.
“Don’t know.”
A pause rested between them. The clock ticked. Tic, tic–
“How long was I out?”
“Don’t know.”
Smith shifted his bulk, turning onto his back with a few grunts, then cuddling his side against soft belly fur. He tilted his snout down in order to meet eyes bright as a cloudless midnight sky. Their noses touched.
“Guess?”
The eyes looked away for a moment, a heavy breath being drawn in, then slowly escaping.
“Oh, I dunno. An hour, maybe? Two?”
As the eyes returned, Smith let out a quiet huff.
“Garrison, you should have woken me,” he admonished.
Garrison smiled coyly, creases bunching beneath lazy eyes.
“It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. I had a delightfully warm pillow to hug.”
Smith flickered his gaze away, finding the grin infectious. The hoof draped across his belly suddenly drew him into an embrace, crushing the air from his lungs in a furry vice. The other hoof slipped under his neck while a scruffy chin pressed against the top of his head, right behind his horn. The pressure made it difficult to speak, but … it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Like being hugged by a delightfully warm pillow.
Eventually, Garrison released him, scooting back to gather his hooves under him. Smith rolled to his stomach, standing while Garrison remained sitting, watching him like an overgrown cat. Shadows undulated along Garrison’s thick coat, making him appear like a statue in the darkness, if not for the shine of his eyes. Stepping past him, Smith walked to a curtained window, lifting a corner with the pale orange glow of his horn.
“It’s stopped,” he called quietly behind him.
Sweeping the curtain to one side, he jerked his head back, squinting into the snowglare. Harsh, clear light swept into the room, commanding the shadows into sharp lines and crisp formation behind furniture. Inky pools cut distinct shapes above the high shelves, books, table clocks and old trinkets making a jagged skyline on wooden paneled walls.
Once his eyes adjusted, he could see shapes in the night. Silver-white moonlight reflecting off a sea of rolling, crystalline powder lit tree trunks and branches from every which way, nearly cleaning the trees naked of shadow. Each line, each curve, rivet and dip in the wood was clear, making the forest appear petrified, as if it were instead stone splintering from the earth like lightning.
Between the cabin and the forest, flurries of snow swirled beneath the vestiges of storm clouds as they traveled northwest over the mountains, swept away to reveal an obsidian sky. Stars shone like light through pinpricks in a black canvas, promises of glory beyond the night.
“It’s beautiful …” Smith breathed. As Garrison sat down beside him, he turned to smile at his friend. The grin spread giddily across his face and he practically glowed with joy. Turning back toward the view, he let out a laugh, then another. “Isn’t it glorious?” He said, turning once again to his friend.
Garrison just smiled, wrapping a hoof around his friend’s side and pulling him close.
Long minutes passed in silence, neither of them willing to break the scene. Together, they simply stared, sharing the experience.
Gingerly, Smith raised a hoof to the pane. It felt like a sheet of ice. The moment stretched until, finally, he let the hoof fall. Garrison shifted his head, looking down at the unicorn, then further as he noticed Smith slowly grinding the hoof into the floor. He leaned against Smith. The unicorn pressed back hard against his side.
“Why?” Smith whispered, voice strained. “Why does it hurt so much …?”
The loud swallow Smith made before he spoke again sounded loud in Garrison’s ears.
“Why do I always want … more? As if … as if just experiencing it isn’t enough?” He turned to press his snout into Garrison’s fur. The earth pony doubted he could breath and, sure enough, Smith soon leaned back to take a long, steadying breath.
“This isn’t home, Garrison,” he continued with a whimper. “I want to be home, to experience more, to be … part of the beauty, to be–” He cut himself off, glancing down. “At times, Garrison, I …” His voice trailed away.
Garrison nudged him with his nose, prompting him to continue. Smith didn’t look up, instead turning his head to the side, further away, watching the floor. He sat, tense in the earth pony’s embrace, but seemed reluctant to let go.
“At times I … want more of you, Garrison. More than I’ve been given.” His voice was small, quiet between them, smothered by the weight of stillness in the house. “But we both know, even that wouldn’t be enough. All these desires, these longings, they’re just …”
His gaze drifted toward the wall, taking in the shadows crouching behind a rocking chair and couch, sitting atop the shelves. His face fell into darkness, so that Garrison was unable to see his expression.
“Shadows,” Smith suddenly finished. “They’re just shadows. Flat images promising fulfillment, yet unable to provide it themselves.” He pulled his gaze away, back toward Garrison. Light spilled upon his face. A sad smile pulled at his cheeks, tugging at the corners of eyes glistening wetly in the silver light.
An emptiness in Garrison’s chest yawned, reaching for the unicorn to draw him closer. Looking into his friend’s eyes, he understood, but couldn’t find words to explain. Instead, he wrapped his other hoof around the unicorns shoulders, drawing him close to his heart and resting a cheek against his mane.
“When is he coming back?”
Garrison simply held him all the tighter.
“Soon,” he eventually said. Pulling back, he held his friend at a hoofs distance, then scuffed a hoof gently against Smith’s cheek. “C’mon. Let’s get to sleep.”
As the two ponies made their way through the hallway to the stairs, the last embers began to fade. The warm glow subsided into a soft touch of red, then, as the minutes passed, they turned dark and cold.
Yet still, the shadows remained trapped by the moonlight. Trapped, yet crisp in the strength of the light. The sharp, dim clarity of the frozen room held a sense of somber beauty within it, a reminder that something was missing. A reminder that there was something more, not yet fully known, but real, just as the moon reflected the light of the sun. An incomplete image.
Of course, such was the way of shadows.
Author's Note
The opposite of an object is not its shadow. A shadow is merely an incomplete representation, a dimension away from the object. It hints at the fullness of a substance though it in itself is incapable of being full.
Neither is a shadow a substance in itself. It is made by light cast upon the object it represents. The brighter the light, the better the shadow is defined.
A shadow is proof that something exists, given to us by the light shining on that something. For example, the presence of thirst is the proof that humankind is made to be sustained by some form of liquid. It would not make any sense for thirst to exist in a creature that does not need to drink. Thirst is the shadow which proves we were made to drink.
The measure of grief felt in longing, the awareness of our lack of joy, is the shadow that proves we were made for joy. We are creatures made for more, yet we currently live in the shadow of heaven thrown by God's light. Even the fullness of this statement, as an analogy, is but a shadow, cast by the light of the knowledge of Christ within me. It only serves to more clearly define your longing for the fullness of heaven: existence within the presence of God.
Our every experience points to the reality of our home being with God, though none but Jesus (being God) have experienced it. The best we can taste in our earthly existence is but the shadow of true pleasure, true joy, true love, true life.
Awareness of this has turned my every longing into a burning desire for Jesus' return. It can manifest as a horrible sorrow — and to a degree it is — yet it spawns from a life filled with indescribable joy found in loving Jesus as Lord. As an artist, though I can never fully succeed, I try to describe this beautiful madness we call love that has swallowed me whole. And if the power of this love, which transcends dimensions, is still but a shadow of what is to come ...?
Love is the shadow which proves that we were made to be in love with God; the love of parent for child, of friend for friend, of dog for master, of a man or woman for their lover. It leads to the assurance of the fullness of the love yet to come, still unseen. This is why my story cannot be sad to me. For the indescribable sorrow found in this longing results from the indescribable joy found in this love, and is tempered by the assurance of Jesus' return, founded in the reality of his resurrection.
Jesus, in the account of his life by John (an eyewitness to his life, death and resurrection), says the following: "So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you. In that day you will ask nothing of me. Truly, truly, I say to you, whatever you ask of the Father in my name, he will give it to you. Until now you have asked nothing in my name. Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full." (John 16:22-24)
We were made to be filled completely with joy. We were made to have life, and have it abundantly (John 10:10). We were made to delight in God (Psalm 37:4). This is the core of what Jesus preached. Yet we do not have what we were made for, because we instead choose to live in the shadows, rather than come into his light (John 3:19-21). And one day, even the shadows we enjoy will be taken away.
Because of our choice, we are now unable to come into his light (John 3:18). We cannot escape this knowledge, which so wounds us when we are alone, or when silence creeps up on us. It's why we keep doing doing doing, in order to ignore the pain which points us to the home we have forsaken.
I offer you this pain, so that you might ask Jesus for the healing he's offered all along. Ask for it. Ask for the fullness of joy you were made for, which only comes through loving Him. Ask to know Him and be known by Him, that you would find life. Ask for the truth.
He will provide.
