Archive of Our Own

You don’t really know where you’re going.

You’re kind of hoping you figure that out along the way, but in the meantime, you have to keep moving.

The gravel crunches under your feet with each step. It’s not much of a path, but it is a path, so you figure you’ll follow it for a little bit. You readjust your bag on your shoulders and it rustles and clinks against your back. It’s a clear day, rather beautiful if anyone asked you, not a cloud in the sunny sky. It is a bit warm, however, and you’ve been walking a while now. Your feet are starting to hurt. You look at the plains around you and decide this is as nice a spot as any for a quick break.

You drop, sitting down criss-cross. You pause for a moment and take a deep breath or two, walking stick settled near your side. You sling your bag around and dig through it for your canteen, quickly finding it. You drink a bit of water, then sigh. 

You close your eyes. The breeze rustles your hair. Somewhere in the distance, a bird twitters. You take another sip of water. It’s nice.

You start to itch. That old restless itch, the itch that worms it’s way through your blood and bones if you let it. You have to keep moving, you know you do. It itches through you, crawling under your skin like so many ants. You’ve been still too long.

Your knee starts to bounce and you figure that’s the end of that, it’s time to move on. You open your eyes and use your stick to lever yourself up. You bend down to store your canteen away and sling your bag back on your back, then you’re back to walking.

The signpost would probably be more helpful if you knew where you were going.

It’s an old thing, a bit ramshackle, but it hasn’t fallen apart yet. It’s placed in the center of the crossroads, pointing out where each path takes you.

Or, at least, you assume it is. It isn’t written in any language you know, you can’t even recognise the alphabet on it. You spend a few minutes trying to decipher it, but it’s a lost cause. Maybe if you knew where you were going, you could recognise your destination on one of the arrows, but. 

You scratch your head and look at the various paths around you. The dirt path to your right seems to head into the woods, and you should find some sort of cover before those clouds get any darker, so you decide to head that way. You start walking, leaving the signpost behind you.

You’re sort of hoping you recognise your destination whenever you find it.

You set your bag down and kneel next to the water. The stream is clean and clear, you can see the smooth stones that cover the bottom. Colorful minnows dart here and there, the smaller ones struggling against the weak current. There’s wildflowers around your knees, hidden in the grass.

You don’t need to be stopping. You don’t need a rest, or to sleep. You aren’t doing anything, you have no task, no chore or hobby. You’re just stopping to stop.

It doesn’t take long before the itch starts. A feeling like a spider crawling on you works its way across your leg. It’s not too bad yet, you can ignore it for another moment.

You lean forward, your palms pressing into the grass at the edge of the water. A little orange fish swims towards where your fingers hang over the water, then darts away when your shadow moves too quickly. You watch the fish go, curious. You smile.

The itch gets worse. Of course it does. What was a single spider becomes lines of ants marching across your skin. You have to keep moving, but you’ve stopped. You can’t stay stopped, not forever. If you can move, then you have to keep moving. Otherwise, the itch will just get worse and worse and worse.

You almost wish you could stop. Right here, right in this moment.

There’s sunlight warm on your shoulders and glittering on the water. There’s flowers under your knees and grass between your fingers. You watch a fish take a nibble from another one’s tail, then swim away when it gets upset. A dragonfly hovers between the reeds on the other bank. You dip your hand in the water, and it’s cool against your skin. The minnows scatter away from your hand. 

This isn’t your destination, but it’s nice.

You can’t stop, though. You’re tense, now. The itch is bad, it just builds and builds. It feels like there’s electricity in your bones, energy in your muscles. It feels like a spring that’s been coiled too tight, all potential and tension.

You aren’t injured. You aren’t stopping to rest. You aren’t done for the day, you have further you can go. You aren’t doing anything, you aren’t exploring or investigating or working. You don’t have any reason to stop, so the itch just gets worse and worse, pressure building with no release.

You grab a rock from the bottom of the stream. It’s a dull red, rounded by the water. You’re jittery, your fingers keep twitching. You dry the rock with your shirt, your movements quick and jerky. You’re shifting in place; it feels like you could run a marathon, like you could climb a mountain, anything to get rid of this energy. You need to move .

You lurch to your feet. The rock isn’t dry yet, that’s okay. You hold it in one hand and quickly throw your bag back on with the other. You start walking, wrestling down the impulse to run and run and run. You still end up walking faster than you need to.

Slowly, step by step, the itch fades. You gradually relax as the tension unravels, your legs stop feeling like they’re going to run off without you, and the unnatural energy quietly leaves, like a guilty guest who isn’t brave enough to apologize. You sigh as the frantic need drips away, the pressure releasing. 

You run a slightly shaky hand over your face, then take stock of your surroundings. You’re still by the stream. It looks like you were following it. You’re walking by a mess of tall reeds, and dragonflies dart between the stalks. You’re still holding the rock. You’d put it in your bag, but you aren’t willing to stop yet, not so soon. 

You watch the stream as you walk by, but you have to keep moving.

The fire crackles between you two as you laugh. Company is a bit of a rare joy, so you take advantage when you can.

She’s dressed in green and has a floppy sort of hat on. Her smile is a touch sharp, but you learn to overlook a few things when company’s in such short supply. You never really know where they’ve been. She probably picked it up somewhere along the way and never learned to soften it. You aren’t one to judge, not when your voice lilts just a touch odd.

 It’s dark, and you two should probably sleep soon, but you’ve just started telling stories and neither of you wants to stop yet. You talk about the hidden little cracks in the desert where flowers bloom, and she talks of a forest where the trees grow close enough to lean on each other. You point out the constellations you know and the myths they told you, and she whispers the stories the creek beds whispered to her.

Somehow, the conversation turns to where you’re going. She’s trying to find the lakes she dreams of, three big ones all in a row with fish and frogs. Her mother told her about them, and her mother says that in spring the lakes are absolutely covered in lilypads and lilies. She’s got directions and she’s excited to finally find them.

You think they sound beautiful. You ask where she’ll go after them.

She laughs, like you’ve told a grand joke, and your smile turns a little crooked.

She asks where you’re going, and you tell her you don’t know. She smiles that slightly sharp smile at you and says that you’ll figure it out. You shrug.

In the morning, you both go your separate ways. Her lakes might sound gorgeous, but they aren’t your destination.

As you’re saying goodbye, you can recognise the itch in her eyes and the fidget in her stance. You wonder if she remembers that it won’t stop, not even for her lakes.

You find the ocean. You weren’t looking for it, but it stretches out in front of you, endless and blue. You stare out at it blankly for a minute.

You don’t have a boat, and you can’t swim across the entire ocean. A river? Sure. The ocean? Not a chance. You’re going to have to go in a new direction.

Your fist clenches at your side, and then you’re stabbing your stick into the beach and throwing your bag as hard as you can. It bounces once, then stops. You breathe hard, and then jam your hands into your hair and scream in a sort of helpless frustration.

It isn’t fair , you liked this direction. You had thought you finally found your direction, and it felt good . Not worrying about what turns to take, finally knowing your way forward, if only a little bit. And now this, forcing you to stop in your tracks. You can’t continue forward, because you don’t have a boat and you can’t swim it.

You kick at the sand on the beach and then pivot, pacing back and forth, back and forth. You turn to the water again, shaking a little. It hasn’t changed, still as uncrossable as it was before. You take a deep breath and squeeze your eyes shut. You run a hand through your hair. You breathe out slowly. There’s salt on your eyelashes.

You open your eyes and gather your bag and stick. You have to keep moving.

There’s a skeleton under the tree. You keep your distance, walking by.

You try not to, but you can’t help but glance at it as you pass. It’s leaning against the trunk like whoever it used to be simply stopped for a nap, then never woke up. It’s bones are bleached white. The shade from the tree’s branches is dappled over it.

You can’t stop moving, you know this. The itch won’t let you. The itch doesn’t stop, you know. Everyone knows the itch doesn’t stop, everyone knows that you have to keep moving for as long as there is air in your lungs, everyone knows this. No matter where you stop, no matter what happens to you, no matter what you see or where you go, if you breathe long enough, you’ll have to keep moving.

Then there’s the ones who don’t breathe long enough.

You’ve stopped walking and you’re unsure when that happened. You’re staring from the cobblestone path at the skeleton where it sits under the tree. It’s wearing overalls, they have a big pocket on the stomach. The grass and flowers have started to grow around it, green shoots sprouting up through spaces inbetween bones. It’s hand is holding a photograph. You can’t see what it’s a photo of from where you are. You don’t go closer. You swallow hard.

You have to keep moving. You wrench your eyes away from the skeleton and force yourself to continue along the path. It’s not the itch that makes you walk faster than normal, but you can almost pretend it is.

You swear as you drop your walking stick. You lunge for it, but then quickly have to correct yourself so you don’t fall off the cliff. It clatters down, down, down. You hug the cliff wall as tightly as you can, fingers digging into whatever handholds they can find, breathing hard. 

You press your forehead against the stone for a moment, closing your eyes. You take a deep breath. Your heart is pounding. You open your eyes and look down, you swallow. The ground is far, far below you. If you fall, you’re going to break every bone in your body. You scrunch your eyes shut, just for a moment, and take another breath.

You look up. You still have so far to go. Your arms ache and your fingers sting from the strain of holding yourself up. Your knees are scraped from the rock. You’re shaking slightly, you’re tired. You want to stop climbing, but you can’t, not without either falling or flying.

You glance down, and then back up. You press your forehead back against the stone. You scrunch your eyes tight and then pop them open one more time. You gasp down air, lungs straining to breathe. You swallow, then you look back up. 

You start climbing. The top is closer than the bottom, and you have to keep moving.

The wheels on the cart click and clatter on the gravel path. The farmer was nice enough to let you hitch a ride for a while, rest your feet from walking. 

You’re sitting in the back of the cart, bouncing with the tools and the boxes. The wooden bench is hard under your legs. The farmer sits on the driver’s bench on the front of the cart, holding the reins. The horse plods along, relaxed.

The farmer comments on the weather, says it looks like it’s going to rain. You can’t disagree, it’s overcast today. 

You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just feeling the breeze on your face.

He says he’s hoping the harvest is good this year. It’s been a nice year, mild and pleasant, but you never know. He’s heading to a field of wheat and corn to tend it. If the people who visited it before him did their jobs, they should be coming in nicely.

You ask if he ever wonders who planted the fields.

He shrugs, says that isn’t any of his business. The fields are there now, and so are the orchards and the pastures and the vineyards. Someone has to take care of them. If he has to keep moving anyway, might as well spend his time travelling between the fields, making his rounds. Everyone else can go explore, let the itch take them far away from any sort of home, he’ll stay right on his path, moving along and growing things.

You think that sounds nice, having a set path. It isn’t for you, but it sounds nice.

He asks where you’re going, a question you’ve learned to dread. He tsks when you say you don’t know, says that you’re young, you’ll find somewhere to go. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, but you’ll find somewhere to go.

You sigh, and let the silence fall. After a time, you ask him what his favorite field is.

He loves the blackberry field. Rows of bushes stretching out across the land, taller than he is. They might be an absolute chore to take care of, growing wild when left alone, but there’s nothing that can beat fresh berries straight off the branches.

It reminds him of days with his older sister, sneaking handfuls of berries when their parents weren’t looking. Getting caught anyway because they got all sticky from the juice. He laughs, says those were good days. You hum.

He says she went off into the wild blue yonder once the itch hit her. She got old enough to need to move and found herself too restless for this old poddering path. He didn’t quite get it back then, still doesn’t if he’s honest, but after the itch hit him, he understood a little bit better. Some folks just have to go far and wide to find their place, and that's that.

You swallow. He turns around to give you a knowing look, then turns his attention back to the road.

He says he might miss her sometimes, but he finds her letters sometimes and sends a few back, so he’s doing fine. He has his cart, his horse, his path between fields, and a sister sending him stories from far off. He’s got his lot and he’s happy with it.

He’s been talking too long, though. He asks you about yourself.

You don’t have much to tell. You have a bag full of memories and sometimes a walking stick. You like flowers, the pretty colors of them, and you like a challenge. You write letters to your parents sometimes, leave them under a rock or in the roots of a tree and find a reply in a bush or tacked to a signpost. You don’t really know where you’re going yet, so you’re just moving.

You must sound sad with that last note, because he tells you not to worry. You have time to figure it out. Someday you’ll look back and this will all be just a fond memory.

You’re not sure if you believe him, but you have to keep moving anyway.

The grass stretches tall above your head. The stars above you spill across the night sky, bright and oh so very far away. Your fire has gone out, but the ashes are still warm next to you. You’re using your bag as a pillow. A light breeze rustles the grass and you can hear crickets chirping somewhere nearby.

You can’t sleep.

Everytime you close your eyes, you see the skeleton, sitting underneath it’s tree for a break that never ends. The image paints itself on the inside of your eyelids; the relaxed lean, the worn overalls, the sun on it’s bones.

The picture in it’s hand.

You can’t stop. You know this. You can take a break, you can rest, but it can’t be forever. If you keep breathing long enough, eventually you’ll have to keep moving.

It’s dark, and you wonder. You wonder what it would take to make you stop. There’s a skeleton hiding in the dark behind your eyelids, and it sets your thoughts to whispering.

You could drown, attempt to swim that ocean like a true fool and find yourself breathing water until you breathe no more. You could injure yourself, and gasp for help alone and afraid, far from where anyone could hear you. You could starve, or dehydrate, or be hunted, or fall. There’s a great many things that could happen to you.

But the image of a picture in boney fingers sends your thoughts spiraling another direction. 

Sometimes, people fall apart. Something breaks their heart, or the endless wandering starts to eat away at their spirit, or they lose something, some one , important to them. Something in them cracks under the strain, and they forget how to move. They freeze in place, still and unreacting, like a puppet with the strings cut. Not even the itch can reach them.

For a while, anyway. If they breathe long enough, they’ll have to move again. 

Sometimes, they do. Whatever broke inside them stitches itself back together just enough, just enough to ease the pain screaming through them. And when the pain quiets, the itch screams and screams and screams, no longer drowned out by cracked and shattered pieces of themselves. Sometimes, they’ll stand up, and they’ll continue on, because they have to keep moving. Despite everything, they have to keep moving.

Other times, well.

Other times, they become a skeleton sitting under a tree clutching an old photograph. Or a mess of fish food in the river, or a forever unpaid tab at the liquor seller, or a whispered tragedy in the gossip.

You wonder what it would take to make you stop. To make you lay down and never stand back up. To let go of that cliff and see if you grow wings on the way down.

It’s dark, and the fire has gone out beside you, so there’s nothing to stop your mind from spiralling. It’s just you, and a traitorous, terrible, terrified part of you that wonders if it’s worth it. The endless wandering, the uncertainty, the fear, if any of it is worth it. 

The dead get to leave, it whispers. The living have to live with it, but the dead get to leave.

You open your eyes. You aren’t quite sure when you closed them. The stars shimmer above you, your ever constant, ever distant companions. When you reach one arm up, you can’t touch them, can’t scoop them up in your palm like fireflies, but you can trace their constellations, and you can whisper their stories to yourself. 

As you watch, your finger following hidden lines between glowing pinpricks, a shooting star streaks across the sky, quick as a flash. You smile, just a tad. You feel like crying, just a little. Not like you will cry, or even could cry, but there’s a sting just behind your eyes that comes right before tears. You swallow. 

You suppose if you needed a sign, there it is.

The stars fall like so much rain, unseasonal and unexpected, and you trace their path with your finger until the sky starts to lighten and you can see them no more.

You close your eyes, take a deep breath. Then, you stand up and grab your bag. You have to keep moving. You have to.

There’s a man on the side of the road. He’s kneeling in the dirt, staring down at his open palms where they rest on his knees. He’s as still as stone, but he’s breathing.

You stop.

He’s wearing a long sleeve shirt, green as fir trees. His bag is on the ground next to him. His face is unmoving, unreactive. He doesn’t seem to notice you, but he’s breathing.

The sun beats down on you as you stare at him. It’s somewhat hot today, he isn’t dressed for the weather. A creek babbles in the distance. Insects chitter and buzz. A dragonfly darts in front of him, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react.

The dirt crunches underneath your shoes as you walk over to him. You crouch down in front of the man and sling your bag down to your side. He doesn’t react. You turn to dig around in your bag, bottles and cans and papers clinking and rustling together.

You don’t know what broke this man. You don’t know where he’s been or what he’s done or who he is. You don’t have anything to say to him, you don’t know what to say to him.

You pull out a glass jar the size of your palm. It’s about halfway filled with sand, and has a few small seashells in it. There's a light blue cork keeping it shut tight. You shake the jar just a little, just to hear the clink and shift. It’s from the ocean. You bottled it yourself, as a little momento. 

You like to keep mementos from where you’ve been, small little keepsakes to remind you. This one is bittersweet. It’s a memory of such intense frustration and betrayal, but it’s also a memory of an endless, awe-inspiring expanse. It was beautiful, once you calmed down enough to appreciate it. It hurt, but it was beautiful.

In the bright light of day, you can remember why all your inner demons have to hide until night. There’s sights to see, beauty to find, curiosities to explore, and people to meet. There’s little fish in streams, smiles that are a touch too sharp, blackberries to eat, and shooting stars to watch. The wandering hurts sometimes, frustration and loneliness and fear all tangling together, but it can be fun. It can be fun, exciting, joyful, amazing. It can be fun.

You don’t have much to say, so you don’t say anything at all. You press the little jar into his open palm. There’s calluses on his fingers when you curl them around the bottle.

You have to keep moving, and it’s both a curse and a choice.

You don’t know how to say that. You don’t know how much this will help, either, but you watch as his fingers squeeze the little jar and he focuses on it, finally reacting.

You stand up. You can’t do much more, you don’t know this man. You pick up your bag and watch as he turns the jar this way and that in his hand, and you think he’ll be alright. You hope so, anyway.

You turn, and you walk away. There are things to do and people to see, and you have to keep moving.