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"Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything about it."
-Oscar Wilde
Eons stretched between the two greatest loves of the universe.
Time and dust turned burning flame to ash, till the previous greatest love existed only in the tiniest fragments of nothingness. Thus when came the next love to match that first in passion, in flare, in purity, it trembled through galaxies and rearranged the stars of the night. It added vibrant flare to every sun which dared shine upon it, sprinkling light across all that existed.
Or so Temple saw it.
To his mind, nothing could match the desire that flowed his blood, the need that beat in his heart, the love. No force on any earth could challenge this romance of his, and it may seem one-sided at the start, but he knew it was only a matter of time. As William Goldman had Westley say of Buttercup, “Just as he knew that the sun was obliged to rise each morning the east, no matter how much a western arisal might have pleased it, so he knew that Buttercup was obliged to spend her love on him.” And so would go Temple’s love affair- an outsider may deem it unrequited love, but they couldn’t be further from the truth! His lover loved him more deeply than any ocean’s depth, with more burning passion than any galvanist eruption, with more-
Ah, but reflecting on their love in parallel structure grew tiresome, tedious, tenuous. Parallel structure worked well enough in speeches, but rather weakly in matters such as this. Then, Temple reflected, the truth remained that not even the great DaVinci stood the most miniscule chance of creating artistry that could portray the intensity of Temple’s love affair. No brush-stroke or pigmented oil could convey the emotion in all its glory. No writer’s vast vocabulary contained strong enough diction to convince a reader fully of the truth of the love’s extent. And no strand of words, no delicate pearl of linguistic splendor, offered the faintest inkling of precisely how much love swelled in Temple for Biff.
Cruel fate had pried them apart, paths diverging as in Robert Frost’s yellow wood, an agonizing departure that left Temple’s spirit, briefly, in shambles. Still, he persisted, hoped against hope, knew that if he just willed it enough- channeled all his desire until the galaxy heard his needs- he would see him again. He willed it, strained, needed, yearned, pined, begged, bowed, dreamed, wished, hoped, prayed-
And then his pleas, at long last, came to fruition, in the form of orange armor at the Reds’ base.
He had his guesses, his assumptions, at first, but retained an air of disconnect, maintained the iron that had locked his disposition away. Protect the flag, lead his team, man the base- those three tasks were his and his to complete, and complete them he planned to do. The orange troop across the canyon meant nothing, couldn’t mean anything, that was his enemy. It didn’t matter that Biff had always loved the color orange, had spoken in his colloquialisms and common language of sunsets and bonfires and cantaloupes and dreams of Jupiter. No evidence supplied to Temple suggested the orange newcomer could be the love of his life.
And yet his yearning only grew, and now had focused in, sensing the proximity of all his dreams.
If he could only find a way to get to him.
Time passed, months of seasonless dust and sand, adding a morsel of pain and frustration- and then sweet relief. Through chance, by the gentle and generous stirrings of fate, Temple’s heart finally found rest: the orange trooper was Biff after all.
Long nights soothed the ache of Temple’s pining, refreshed the memory of dearest language and the most riveting eyes Temple ever had the blessing to meet. Oh, how he loved, how he longed, how his heart pulled- and here he went again with parallel structure, but old habits died hard, and it had been so long, not even his intellect could properly function around this most divine of dreams. Certainly, by societal standards of any time period, Biff paled next to Adonis, fell a shadow when stood next to David; but it was love which sharpened the contrast between Biff and any other creature or being. All faded in Temple’s eyes, fogged by irrelevance, compared to the vibrance and beauty of his best friend.
Then came the night his certainty wavered.
At first, Temple thought the desertion ideation existed only as that- an idea, a mere contemplation, a thought that would never be acted on. Then he learned the truth of Biff’s reasoning, and first, he knew only fury.
There was a moment after Biff revealed the truth of his lady love to Temple that it was hard to breathe, through the shock and raw anger.
Adam Cowley said it best, “A mighty pain to love it is, And 'tis a pain that pain to miss; But of all pains, the greatest pain, It is to love, but love in vain.” Temple knew that as well as anyone, after the initial turmoil convinced Biff neglected to return his affections- but he had forgotten the words for time immeasurable, being himself thoroughly convinced of Biff’s reciprocation. As Biff informed Temple of this lady he longed to return to, Temple saw no orange anymore- only red.
Then he steadied himself.
Of course Biff longed to return to this girl! Why shouldn’t he? She must be deeply in love with him, as anyone could easily become- her love would be no match for Temple’s, but that was a matter in the moment irrelevant- and she must have professed these tumultuous emotions to Biff. That explanation served well, as it allowed the lingering perseverance that Biff’s heart belonged to Temple, and his desire to desert was only the mark of a gentleman who wished not to distress a fine lady.
Temple played along, for a time. He knew in the deepest crevice of his heart, in the sowed fields rich with memory, that Biff would come to his senses shortly. Nights continued on, swirling with stolen moments and snatched ecstasy. Temple’s fretting nudged back into his mind, a creature of worry and doubt nesting in the back of his consciousness, no matter how he tried to kill it. Biff continued on as ever before- convinced of his need to return to this woman, desperately trying to escape his post, leaning on Temple for support in what was most certainly a case of unrequited love.
But where the unrequited love lie, Temple’s doubts insisted he couldn’t be sure anymore.
And oh, how it pained him, as months dragged on. How he hated her, and how he hated Biff, and most of all how he hated himself for harboring an ounce of ill for the essence of love. The strongest he could ever be would always be with Biff at his side- but now, now, time and doubt and pain convinced him he could be stronger. The prods and whispers came to him at nightfall, and told him his strongest moment would be to let Biff go. If you love something, truly, after all, the right action was to let it go- and watch as it fluttered back.
The decision teetered, caught between defeat and mercy, and persistence and love. But it became more than apparent, that fateful day, where Biff’s heart lie.
His lady not only loved him- she continued his legacy.
She currently brought into action the single blessing which Temple could not bestow. She offered the one thing he could not. And Biff, virtuous Biff, his heart bigger even than his smile, brighter than his eyes, would never abandon family. Temple understood. And he hated her, just a bit, but he also now felt his love extend to this unknown woman who offered Biff her world.
His best friend would leave him, would enter a future, follow a diverging path that Temple could not follow. His love, unrequited, would fester on, and Biff… Would love another.
As long as Biff would be happy, Temple would accept that.
-And yet the choice was snatched away from him, stolen again by a woman, but this one much more cruel, and much more merciless.
Temple felt that flag-pole impale his own heart that day, and he was convinced it would never beat properly again.
There were few words that could proclaim the shape of Temple’s spirit after the world was destroyed in front of him, and even they lacked the true depth of the shattering: “I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.”
Words borrowed from Tennyson rang in his mind, and the decision made itself. Temple would love Grif until his own heart ceased to beat.
Socrates first spoke the words, and spoke them best, and still Temple heard their truth after eons had closed upon the passage of time.
“Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.”
The words, hollow, ancient echoes of a forgotten past, fit as well then as any before. Fear robbed Temple’s voice, the relentless human need to survive, as a man he’d certainly underestimated held him at death’s edge. His tongue pleaded mercy he hadn’t offered, and his last hope faded, extinguished into nothing. Tucker had every reason to kill him then, and not even the faintest fallacy to argue in favor of mercy.
And Temple was ready.
Though he shook, knowing he hadn’t lived a life that deserved heaven at Biff’s side, he was ready. May death come, may it bring what pain it will bring. The universe had shifted under the infinite of Temple’s love for Biff, and it understood what Biff’s death had done to him. It would understand that Temple had died that day with Biff, and the casing that walked on, sentient fury and grief, had not been the creature of love and poetry known as Mark Temple.
The Freelancer begged his mercy, and Temple didn’t deserve it, and especially didn’t want it from her. She had been partly responsible. Please, let him die- let it be done with, and the afterlife greet him with warm open arms and shining eyes- he didn’t even care if she was there, too-
The sword vanished and a fist followed.
When Temple woke, it was to disappointment- life went ever-on, relief never to be found.
He wondered what it would be like to love and be loved in return, and sorrowed that he would never know.
And for once, he had only the most appropriate words, these from Henry Van Dyke:
“Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice; but for those who love, time is eternity."