Wayfarer

Chapters

I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI
XLII
XLIII
XLIV
XLV
XLVI
XLVII
XLVIII
XLIX
L
XXXVII

I

Vivid light. Just beginning to edge over a sharp peak is a half-hidden disc of pure, burning light. Its rays cast themselves out over fields of small verdant green blades – made smudges – that surround the lonely peak. A small range of mountains arrange themselves in a half-ring that spans far around their colorful, excluded companion.

The mountain is colorful not of its own accord, but because of a city, built upon its side in shades of royal violet, gold, and white. Strangely and whimsically, it spans out from the mountain in defiant fashion, as defiant as the colors seem to the duller greys and tans that make up the rocky spires. The city carries its own spires as well, with brilliant domed roofs that just begin to catch the essence of the vivid light, almost glittering in its own welcoming radiance. The spires of white seem to shine as brightly as their benefactor, a sight that might blind the beholder, might they be there to see it. The golden trim reflects just so, and with an even greater semblance of the magnificent glow behind. Of the spires, a select cluster rise above, though its bright colors serve to conceal any sense of minute detail adorning them. Just before them lies a glittering gate of the same gold luminance, with two golden speckles on either side. It is a well-adorned city, which adorns well its mountain in turn.

Although, the city is not timeless. Some of the domes, once quite lustrous, must have turned dull. Their splendrous arches faded, decrepit. Though no building is in visible ruin, many have indeed lost their innate beauty in time’s slow tide. It cannot be told whether wind, rain, or neglect have marred the gilding off of the city’s concrete, or the dyes off of the frayed curtains and tapestries. Perhaps they have simply met the gorgeous light too many times, and no longer find glimmering excitement at its arrival. Perhaps to them, it is a mere sense of tempo, thus they do not reflect its rays, or cast off brilliant colors and shades to complement its showy rise. Perhaps, they shine for another light, of different nature. Indeed, no building is rubble.

The sky surrounding is painted in scarlet red and fiery orange, lining the edges of stray white puffs and throwing new color into the once-green smudges below, however faint. The stony-grey peaks acquire a ruddy hue, and the city, too, takes a fraction of its glow. The mountains behind claw the sky open at its edges, and may be said to have released from the wound such a lovely crimson. On the opposite edges, red fades to a speckled white-blue, which extends far beyond.

And then he.

A new, more vivid blue finds its way into the scene, replacing pieces of grey stone and red skies. It takes equine shape, and up along the neck and tail are found streaks of black, thrown back behind the form by the streaks of blue and red. From its sides extend wide wings at full span, currently in a downward stroke. The ruddy hues find themselves a home on the edges of the blue feathers, accentuating the minute bristles that make up the wings. Upon the face are wide white arcs, drawn further into ovals, which both nest blue-green atolls around perfect black islands, which both carry in themselves an image of the garish city, and the glorious light behind. Just under, on the snout, are wide nostrils, taking in the essence of the skies around, and further under is a small curve, drawn tight upward at its edges. Above the eyes rest softer curves, drawn up at their centers. The black locks threaten to drift over the eyes, but the sky keeps them at bay, casting them instead over the ears. Across the pony’s shoulder is slung a brown bag, which seems well-tossed in the wind, light, and lonely. In the streaks of black around the ears rests a small dash of red, an alien feather, unfamiliar to the wings stretched out left and right, or any wings quite like it. It mimics the scarlet of the sky, and even grows orange near the edge, and at the bristling tips, a faint yellow. It shines brighter, admittedly, than any other feather on the being, simply for its rare edging of flame. The wings – though drawn down – as well as the rest of the bright-blue being angle themselves well toward the shimmering city, as therein rests a flame reminiscent of the feather in its mane. Its forehooves are folded lazily beneath, and its rear hooves drift behind with the tail. Across the pony’s flank stretches a map, a landscape without particular detail, but recognizable by its arrangement of verdant greens and ocean blues, and an occasional triangular brown pockmark, all edged by the tan of aged parchment. Still, on no part of the map is shown a destination, any characteristic ‘x,’ as it would surely mar the indefinite landscape with a further mystery.

There is little curiosity in the eyes, for they have reflected the scene before. What is left to discover lies not in the whites, golds, and violets of the city, but perhaps in the dulled greys, and faded yellows. Still, each spire has its own golden outline in the bright blue-green eyes, and even the iconic mountain top has found its own place amongst the golden towers, the first bearer of the great light; the golden silhouette around is the harbinger of fiery light’s arrival. Just as well, in the white seas of the eyes are reflected the keen red hues of the sky, complete with the infinitesimal white puffs, and edged with the softer blues of the receding night sky. Greater is the smile of familiarity, a benevolent, memory-prompted smile, which begins at the edges of the pony’s mouth, and there shares his satisfaction. There is life here, among the spires. There is a morning’s light.

II

A great arch stretches above, colored a pearl white, from left to right spanning at least fifty hooves. The magnificent archway flattens out on the top, save for showy ramparts that alternate all the way across its visible span. Atop rests a pale-grey figure peering over the small half-wall between two of the ramparts, adorned with a royal-looking gold over its shoulders and back, and helmed with gold and a vibrant plume. Either side of the great swooping supports give way to familiarly-clad buildings, painted the same pearly white. B

Both the buildings and the archway are clothed in splendrous gold finery, weaving in and out, between its own curls, taking near-sylvan paths across the bold architecture, casting a soft golden glow over the city’s odd pearl. Along the left and right are lined countless buildings of bright signage and glass windows through which equally-countless works of art and mundanity can be found in muted, blurry color. Beyond the arch, far-away buildings provide vague, shadowy shapes, between which lies a clear whitish blue.

Another gold-adorned figure, this time shaded deep black, appears above the first figure, charcoal-feathered wings just beginning to fold in from full span, and radiant blue eyes that somehow find their way past the luster of the standard plumed helmet. Farther below, a greater amalgam of colors finds its place. Muted reds, vibrant blues, and humble golds make their ways over a cobblestone street, in the forms of ponies, couples, cliques of vibrance and hue.

The blurs may have life among them, of perhaps other shades than they were colored. Perhaps they were made of less hue, or live better-blended lives. Such hues, however cannot be seen through the blurs of their coats. For many, even the coat can hardly be seen beneath other obscuring adornments, vaguely-stitched dresses, sketched coats, hats of smudged tropics. Some have even adorned their coats with a newer, less native color, perhaps to better represent the colors beneath, perhaps to serve as greater misdirection. For most, their true colors are never shown. In an ultimate sense, their colors were never known to begin with, by holder or beholder. They remain muted under vibrant coats, painted to make vibrant streets.

But of course, the smudges do not matter in the least. They are but color. Only one figure of this scene finds true detail.

Directly below the arch is an equine of vibrant blue, hooves firmly set on the ground, neck arced up, wings tucked at his sides. In his eyes rest an undying awe. They may be aimed at the archway as far as mere focus, but they meet the rest of the scene in surprising detail, for they reflect the scene in its entirety; each multicolored gilding. They mimic the bold curves and extravagant construction in mere reflection, and commit once more to memory the glittering city as well as will recall. Even those silhouetted spires far beyond have been dedicated a bonafide image, incorruptible only for the first seconds before the colors begin to blend. The fineries grow vaguer by the second, until they become more a reflection of the stallion than of the city.

The eyes find the city well, though at the moment, they see but the mere archway, perhaps a bit less inspiring from directly below, where all that rests is its straight-edged shadow, and a sense of fading. The awnings around cast similar shades and fades directly downwards, providing shelter from the overwhelming shine of the white city, if only to be beckoned in to sample the mundanities and artistries.

The stallion’s face is painted well with a broad smile of simultaneous awe and excitement. It is a loved city, of lovely gilding and lively color. If all streets of the city are thus well-lined, then perhaps a lifetime’s span would just allow a thorough visit to each. The smile knows, and though it expects no such intimacy with the glittering city, it did so love the prospect, if only just to take a shallow dive through the city, and find but a few morsels of interest to match his hues.

Yet this is a mere frame. Such intimations may only be found in a closer look; a dash of shining glitter in the eyes, and a short stroke of white are all that are directly apparent. The bright feather still juts out defiantly from the dark mane, which now drifts casually just around the eyes and down his neck. The tail twitches just to the side, an idle movement perhaps to keep steady tempo. The map is still unfurled, and but a mere shadow of the map to be found in the rare stallion. Among the greys and pearls of stable ground, his coat seems better-suited for the sky, so close to matching it, despite greater vibrancy.

However, the eyes are focused on the arch, not the blue hues above it. That is because there is no place without the sky. So, the sky is never found on the map. It is not unique, for it shines the same blue over any city, though occasionally obscured or outshined. He becomes only so familiar with a color before he can no longer see it. Beyond is far more void than blue, more blank than bright or lucid. The sky of day is regrettably unremarkable, admittedly uninteresting. Still, he knows the color, can recall the color; he merely sees it no longer.

He is poised to continue on his way forward, but looks up at the archway only for a moment, if only to grasp its familiarity. Invisible is his momentum, which catches up with him immediately. Still, for a moment, the arch exists, as does its gilding, and the coated colors surrounding. The spires take shape for an instant, and the noontime shades come through to meet the reflective eyes. The scene exists for a mere moment before it is dedicated, after which it blends together. The arch stands in focus, and sky is but a fabrication.

III

The colors fade now. Universal shadow covers all, causing the definition of pearly buildings to blur at the edges, to lose definite shape and boundary. Still, it is not dark. A purely pale disc has begun its ascent, casting soft light across the arcades and spires below. To aid in the endeavor, thousands of glittery speckles contribute their own fine beams of light into the infinitesimal roughness of the clean white walls. No other light attempts to interrupt the sacred glow, none brave enough to disrupt the visual quiet of the night.

Along the wall-like lines of buildings are drawn shuttered windows, snuffed lanterns, and duller white shines incorruptible even by the hue of gold that seems to oft run about the city. In the background are found silhouettes of fabricated spires and aqueducts, no longer resplendent in the night’s cold light. The moon’s arrival is far less favored by the buildings of gloss and gilding, for it refuses their colors, and does not invoke the art of reflection nearly as well as the sun in its prime hours. It is a disappointment to architecture, lending only vagueness of shape and loss of definition. It is the bane of a weary traveler, for it bids the loss of a path, or, in extreme cases, consciousness. Such is the moon that lights tonight.

Still, the streets are forced to accept its boon, for without it, they would have no light at all, and would be as well a shadow as the void between the speckles of the sky. In a way, the moon makes clean what the sun declaims dirty. The small cracks of the cobblestone pathways are muddled by the soft light, making the road more characteristic of simple pavement. Additionally, the moon shines indiscriminately on bright and faded buildings alike – faded of which there is but one spire, far beyond and unfamiliar, past the street’s left wall of shops and restaurants.

The pale light has also caught the finery on the buildings, and left weblike shadows to adorn walls and ways. The resonant color finds its way into some serene water running through an aqueduct in the background, and casts a bit of glittering light into the scene, offering itself to shine calmly, waving with the water to establish the strange, slow tempo of night. The glass along the street’s ‘walls’ are no longer lucid, and offer only sheer white in response to the speckles and rays against it.

On these vague stones, the familiar stallion is caught mid-stride, his vibrant blue coat dulled to match the night sky, with only a small difference of hue and a solidity of form to separate him from the speckling of stars and space behind. His eyes are cast forward, towards an object unknown. The pools of blue-green – mainly green now – are dully cast, likely set not on an object in particular, but glazing over a blurry, unimportant canvas of the city.

The excitement is gone now, and though the hunger seems to have been well-satisfied, the nighttime has brought an end to the city’s daily pageantry, and thus the bright shine previously reflected in the livid pools is smudged away. Though the wings are well-tucked, they are rustled, perhaps from a fit of shivering. The light of the moon is indeed colder than the darkness, and its scope is far less popular among those stranded in its light. Over the eyes, twin lines flatten and slightly depress, and underneath the snout is a flat line, rather dissatisfied with its current state, but unwilling or unable to remedy it. The black of his mane is indiscernible from the night sky if not for its dull absorption of the moonlight, and the stark feather, yet unsullied by the moon’s blurring influence. The tail trails behind, listlessly, without goal or destination, keeping rhythm of the wayfarer’s pace, undying even in night.

Slung over the stallion’s shoulder is the familiar satchel, which has a few odd bulges now, but a sorry realization borne along. Dangling by its drawstring from behind the bag’s large flap is a small pouch, without a single hint of bulge or shape within. The pouch is little to mourn in the day, for in the day can be found opportunity. However, the night is far less forgiving of such a transgression. So originates this meeting of dulled shades and near-sky blues. Still this nighttime capture, despite the blended regret, is still a choice made when the sky was yet unremarkable, perhaps made even back when that same unremarkable sky was first beautiful and appreciated, in the first days of wayfaring. The eyes do not regret the night sky; rather, they regret its dominion of colorless shades and chilling air. Night lacks the life of day, despite its greatest efforts to be a scene far apart in its own beauty.

But the wayfarer brings a short spark of life to the night. Perhaps his coat adds just that small bit of extra color to the broad expanse of the night sky. Day is defined more by the colors under it than the colors it casts, regardless of uniqueness or splendor. Little color takes place in the night, and thus the night remains a less thrilling canvas to paint across. It merely lacks the lively blends that the day encourages. Still, an omnipresent color soon becomes invisible; perhaps it is better that the night lacks it. Otherwise, the stars might be lost in familiarity, the colors undistinguished between night and day. Perhaps the beauty of night is that it refuses external color. Perhaps a denial of outer color reveals a set of colors beneath, if only a glimpse or reflection. As the city comes into a vague relief against the night sky, the heart of the night becomes more transparent, its motive left bare. The night’s affection is not for the colors that attempt to make themselves known, but instead rests on the few colors that attempt to know themselves.

IV

The hopeful stars yet hold their vigil, though their speckled light is by far outshined by the moon. The deep blue fill of night stretches over most of the scene, defied occasionally by stray towers. A falling star is caught in whimsical act, just above the pale light of the moon, a wayfarer all its own, unwilling to take its place among its companion twinkles. Doubtless it burns bright; it merely never chooses a single place to burn.

The pale disc itself finds strange relief against its smaller companions, and the blue-black heart of night. It is a memorable moon, a moon larger than any other yet known. Even its haphazard designs find themselves a place in the light’s center. Small circles, miniscule points to better define the moon’s character.

And what is its character? The moon’s light is borrowed, only by coincidence able to gather enough light for a full circle. It takes the light so that it may see what lies below. Unlike the sun, which shines so bright to merely make itself known, the moon borrows just so little light as to see what the earth shines back. The moon observes.

Below and to the left of the moon stands the city’s grandest gathering of awe-inspiring material. The pale blue shines off of pointed domes and clustered towers, smooth gradients over the rounded structures, bright gold wrapping around in curves and curls which meet and diverge irregularly. The tallest tower is found in the center, the great structure casting its shadow far into the scene, over rows of buildings and windows. One more light emerges from a single window in the entire conglomerate of architecture, notably found, but still unable to cast any shadows separate from those of the pale disc. It is a curious light, found alone in the time of stars and shadows.

On grey streets stands a familiar blend of shape and color, a light blue and black, his back turned, expression hidden. His hooves are firmly rooted in place, neck up at attention, ears perked up. His bag has yet found no remedy for its emptiness, though it is hardly of concern now. His gaze is turned farther forward, looking violently ripped away from his comfortable tempo. His mouth – it can barely be seen from such an angle – is just an inch open, as if about to utter noise yet uncalculated. He is captivated, paralyzed.

Far forward, a set of golden gates bars entrance to the palace. Just in front of them, the shadow of the tallest spire ends, and just an inch farther stands an easel, with a canvas partially coated with vague colors of deep blue and dull white shines. A brush of faint yellow is pressed against the canvas, held strangely and somehow expertly between two lips, which hold small skyward curves at their edges. It is faintly amusing, the prospect of holding a brush in-mouth. Why, then, is it held so intriguingly, depicted in such crisp detail? A pair of brown eyes, not unlike the brown coat surrounding, casts a focused gaze over the brush and beyond, to the magnificent palace, hints of deep black-brown excitement drawn in the centers of white, thin eyelashes cast out to the sides, and petite lines drawn in concentration just above. The ears are lowered, unneeded and somewhat unwelcome for the task at hoof. A long, curly dark mane descends just behind the left eye, and stretches down the length of the cocoa-colored neck. A slender body, with a pair of folded wings, comes into stark relief against vague black-greys behind, extending back into a dark curled tail. Upon the flank rests a single black stroke, wide with sharp edges, like that of the first outline made on canvas.

She takes the center of the image, remembered in stark uncompromised detail. She bore no adorning colors, nor obscuring fineries. Her soft brown coat might be missed on a night lesser lit, and surely obscured in daylight, abandoned in the other mixes of faded color, ignored. Yet, that odd shape demands attention now, alone against weak pale shine. To the blue form in the foreground, she is clearly remarkable, unknown. She is a color, alone, and beautiful.

It is strange and warped, this scene. No such detail should be found on a cold night, especially on a being so far away, made so small in the scene, despite its central role. It makes her unnatural, jarring almost. Even the moonlight strikes her strangely, lighting her far more than any other rampart or spire present in the background silhouettes. She does not yet notice the wayfarer’s form. Absorbed in her work, a scene still amorphous for the most part.

So, the moon lies in wait. No doubt anticipating the meeting to come, though much afterwards still is undefined. Such realizations are too well-shadowed for the moon to illuminate, and yet too well outshined for the sun to define. They merely remain enveloped and sealed until one decides to glance at dusk or dawn, when the light is just right, when the air is calm and not permeated by heat of day or cold of night, but is merely still. Stillness can sometimes reveal more than is apparent in motion. In motion, that which moves is given the advantage, while the rest is defined as static, uninteresting. Stillness harbors no deafening sounds, no intrusive scents or tastes or touch. It merely carries apparent sight, and apparent feeling. It catches the mare in the center in fitting dull light, and catches the heart of the stallion during the skip of a beat. In the stillness, a new glow is caught at its first spark, a flame to catch and be caught, and perhaps envied. The stars are caught still and untwinkling, and that shooting star caught and hung above the cold moon, under which a new warmth is found, and blue feathers are no longer found on edge due to cold, but from the unexplored.

V

And now colors are mixed.

The moon glows well on the two, benevolently, hopefully, and the stars shine with renewed vigor in hopes to add what they can, illuminating even the cracks between cobblestones, and the bristles of the paint brush, left to lie on the easel, still coated in short strokes of starry white. The golden gate provides an excellent backdrop, with its glimmering bars between which are found vague silhouettes of night guards and the bases of tall palace towers. On either side of the gate is depicted the head of a unicorn, fashioned in plain white, with the addition of gold linings. The same high-vaulting tower makes a silhouette in the center of the background, along with the singular light of the tower nearby. The deep blues of the night sky cascade over the edges of the buildings, and fill the scene with a dim serene shade.

The moon is even greater now, and the particular form of a unicorn’s head is manifest in the assembly of craters and valleys, a watchful eye wide open for the occurring collision, with all the satisfaction the moon could have, the quiet of night finally broken in favor of a new glow and flame. It is not the first such scene that the moon has kept watch over, but it is indeed one of the finest. Whatever happens now will be enough to keep its glow strong for years to come, whether the collision creates or destroys. It hardly matters what it is that shatters the night, so long as it is shattered, livened.

Excited green-blue eyes are what define the entire countenance of the first figure. They are filled with a curiosity and renewed vigor, a glittering that livens the entire scene with happy light, and cast rays of adoration and inquiry. They are wide eyes, with eyebrows raised high, in the way they do during pleasant surprise or an enlightening discovery. The mouth is wide open in a broad, talking grin, formed currently into an invigorated ‘a’ sound. His black mane is lifted a bit off of his head, and it is apparent he is nodding energetically. All of his weight appears to be focused in his front hooves, as he is tipped slightly forward, his back hooves on their very tips, and his wings threatening to unfurl. His energy is falling away from him, adding a blue glow to the scene around him, from a couple of nondescript shops behind to the pavement below, to the gilding of the gate. His tail is swept upwards in his animation, and the feather in his mane is found in greater detail, painted in miniscule flamelike patterns.

The bag swings listlessly at his side, and although the empty pouch does find its place in the scene; it is hardly recognizable, vaguely drawn and forgotten. He is every bit alive with something new, and like a true wayfarer, he must explore, discover, however disconnected or crass such a parallel would seem to him, it is his color. Still, there is more behind his excitement than the curiosity towards a new frontier. There is something else here that offers itself up to him, that adds just the right conflict to his raging tempo. In this collision, he is made anew, a well-orchestrated meeting that sets in motion something wonderful, and something else beside. Now, here, the night has matured, and the hope of a lively evening is just beginning to bloom, and the glow is still yet one of embers, and not of flame. The cold of night no longer passes through, lest it disturb this moment; or perhaps it continues, and merely does not present itself, ignored and thus hidden by the unshaken figures.

Her eyes cannot be seen, hidden behind closed lids and a nervous smile. Perhaps it is a shield against the wayfarer’s concussive barrage of words and exclamations, or perhaps she simply has not expected such a lively companion to find her on such a lovely quiet night. Her cheeks are filled with red color, and her ears are folded down over her dark curly mane. She is sitting down now, her tail twitching anxiously behind, rather unused to such energy released at once. Her wings are folded, but tilted back, as if to absorb an impact, or to brake against a sharp descent. Her hair has hidden one eye shyly behind, though it likely has not occurred yet to the stallion how jarring his praise is to the typically-quiet mare.

Behind the closed eyes, her mind races to find something to say, anything just to respond, to break her silence, despite wayfarer’s mouth being open enough for both of them. She remains silent, but the words are just beginning to find their shape on her tongue. Somehow, still, she is excited, perhaps in a sense of contagion, or emission from the stallion, but it is built-up energy regardless. The artist has forgotten, for a moment, why she first set out on this quiet night – which coincidentally, was for the quiet – and in the fray of words, has found a new energy far greater than the slow, cold inspiration of silence.

She wonders if she should open her eyes once more, if she will be able to accept the powerful gaze, which is not broken, but merely weakened by her shut eyes. She too has noticed that undying glimmering in the eyes, that vibrant glow that flows out of his bright blue coat, undulled even by the night sky. This is a brighter glow than she ever expected – wanted, even – on a glittering night in the city. This stallion is strange, with an impossible, overflowing color, that perhaps she would like to gain a greater understanding of. Never has her humility been so well broken, her calm art been so profoundly praised. She wonders if he can see her in the painting, if he likes that part just as well. She fervently hopes so.

VI

Over a once-white canvas, the scene is painted in the oils of her craft, more muted hues befitting the muted night, if not a bit dimmer. The light does not strike her as well. It seems to her like it should wash away the colors that lie beneath, that it destroys the integrity of the color. A strange ritual, she adds only enough color to discern the hue, not bothering with tricks of vibrance or gloss. Perhaps that is how she sees: through squinted eyes, dimming the light just so it becomes comfortable to see. It should indeed be comfortable, though lively joy is not often related to comfort, at least not absolutely. The light serves too often to blind, better known to outshine than to illuminate.

The night sky is painted in a gloomy black, with only small inferences of blue near the edges of the canvas. The stars take their place in darkness’ realm, visible, but are unable to diffuse the light into their surroundings. Below, a set of yellow gates place bars over the foreground, complete with locks, chains, and the grey unicorn busts on either side. Holding the gates are short pillars of polished marble bricks, made up of a pale listless white, minute lines tracing around to mark the mortar. Small bits of yellow break up the colorless tints, though for the most part, the gate is left pure and blank, and just stretches across the canvas from left to right.

Behind, shadowy figures are given uncharacteristically-sharp detail, starting with a short tower on the far right, which carries the insignia of the sun, carefully molded just above the roof. A suspended pathway extends to another tower, more humble in form, and adorned with but a few windows and unlit sconces. Further along, a bolder tower rises up, covered in yellow sylvan designs, curling about in a curious and sporadic manner, tricking the eye with the softest illusion of illumination. The building stretches the tallest of them all, with a pointed spire reaching well into the sky, also a dim yellow. The tower farther to the left of it is only a small bit diminished in size and splendor, with a small balcony at the top. In one of its windows lies a faint yellowish glow, along with a horned, winged silhouette within. Only one more tower remains, like an afterthought. It is short and stubby, with a domed roof, and no finery whatsoever.

It is quite colorless, the scene. Perhaps there is very little color left. Perhaps in this painting, she thought she would use her last, and all she has are rare dim colors, after painting a few bright, foolish scenes. Now, she is left with the dull, the lusterless. All of her shine she thinks to be spent, and all of her color is at its last stretches of use. The painting is unlit, faded.

Still, just balancing on the tip of the tallest spire is the moon, craters and all, threatening to fall, a pale white trying to breach the drab confines of the canvas. It is ready to burst out, if only it had that extra bit of color, that small push to let it escape. However, escape would mean falling off of its perch, and that is unthinkable. So, it stays in the balance, comfortable, waiting. Without a lifelike tempo, it will never ascend above or fall below the point. It merely stays frozen forever, permanently stuck on a constricting canvas, doomed to sit rolled up in a bag, only occasionally to be reviewed, yet deemed too colorless for exhibition. It is worthless, forever trapped in its dull colors, and the artist knows it far before she begins her first stroke. No amount of coincidental positioning or careful inferences can change the fact that her piece lacks definition. Alone, it is likely to be cast out of the bag the first moment it begins to feel heavy, perhaps sold for a night’s repast.

So, why does she paint it? Why does she not fetch a new set of colors first, rather than expending all she has before considering a new batch? It is because she is curious. What if the paint does fit? What if the darkness says more without definition than the light does in relief? Why should everything have to be painted, when so much can be seen in the mind if detail is not offered? All beings’ daydreams are projected on a blank wall or blue sky, not in an epic or a masterpiece. The masterworks of the mind happen on blank canvasses. The only difficulty is that not a single soul would call a blank canvas art.

Still, some piece of a painting must always be left vague or blank, for no painting is complete without its viewer embedded. True art is inclusive, and from the craters of the precarious moon to the window’s faint silhouette, the canvas is a mere screen for patron projections and self-reflection. True art is not the artist talking at the viewer, but talking with. Beauty is found in the eye of the beholder, so should not the beholder be able to add his own sense of beauty?

So forever the painting is held in limbo, the artist’s message unclear, waiting for a generation that is willing to deem the vagueness as valuable, and the dim corners as delightful. Forever the moon rests on the tip of a needle, waiting for a breeze, a breath, a moth to set it in motion, careening down and bursting off of the canvas. It is until the pale white light grows as dim as its outlines that the artist remains a hopeless prisoner. Only when the stars twinkled out, is there art. The yellows may turn to gold and the stones and gates may be painted in full spectrum; the towers could be drawn in full shining splendor and the silhouette within defined, but until the canvas is painted black, she is alone.

VII

And now the skies are a bright blue, and wide open.

The streets of Canterlot simply end. There is no sense of closure or departure. The cobblestone streets continue to the very edge of the cantilever city, and meet the edge of a soft, cloudy day without warning or preparation. There is merely the end of a road, and a new beginning. A pair of shops rest on either side of the road, and their strange wall ceases just before the road turns to air. Short cracks spider their way through the stones, though not nearly as many as before the palace gate or near the center of the city. The spiry silhouettes are gone now, replaced by a lovely-looking openness that expands outwards, to the unknown. The sky is covered in patchwork clouds, with bits of blue seeping through the stitches. The radiant glow of the sun is suppressed by the quilted clouds, and the scene is left unusually clear, bright enough to see, yet dim enough to appreciate. The clouds diffuse the light evenly, like the shade of a lamp. Though clouds paint the sky, the scene is warm and lovely.

The wayfarer is found just past the edge of the city, his vivid coat energizing the scene around him, somewhat blurring his edges. Though his wings are in a downstroke forward, he pivots his neck around to look behind. His mane and tail billow in an invisible breath of wind, and his flaming feather lies flat against his mane, pushed down. His bag is suspended in the air, its strap loosely swerving through the air to his shoulders. In the twin liquid pools of the wayfarer’s eyes reflects an incredible excitement, like a discovery or a realization, overpowering and contagious. A broad smile, one meant to be shared and cherished, spreads across his face. Though the happy frontier spreads before him, he looks back.

The artist is the subject of his smile. Her rear left hoof is just leaving the ground, the others having already departed. Over the edge she lifts off, wings caught in a downbeat, synchronized with the wayfarer’s. She sends her regards to solid ground for the soft sky, her curly mane and tail unfurled behind. Her mouth is open, smiling at the edges, as if exchanging a joke of “hello, goodbye.” Her eyes are lustrous with hope, and a closer inspection yields the sight of clear, watery beads collecting at their edges. The dull colors are, for now, dissipated from her mind, replaced with the excitement of a journey, a change in tempo, a new inspiration. Perhaps that is all she needs. Her own bag of tools and collected works pulls ever-so-slightly against her ascent, though it is a weight she is accustomed to.

This is the heart of adventure – the embarkation. All new destinations, all new plans, all things new, require an embarkation, whether it be a simple push-off from a street or the christening of a ship. There is ceremony to it. The ceremony here rests in the invisible point where their two gazes meet each other. The meeting of adoration and hope, of vivid and muted tones, of love’s first glow, leaves the scene with no more to be desired. It is complete, whole, each bit of it filled somehow with color, inferred or otherwise. It is the beginning of life, which these two embark on, both having lived it emptily and alone. The old stones could not have hoped to support them forever. There are greater venues to be explored, other cities, stronger feelings. A cool breeze eases their flight, and their liftoff is one of permanence, of the realization of freedom.

She knows these colors, having been part of them before, having painted them. She wonders whether the outcome is always the same. A mere brown coat is hardly bright, and yet his vivid blue is overwhelming. Would there be redemption of the bright colors, or must she cast her own away on the stones?

But no more. This feeling passes.

In her eyes is found trust, and in his the reciprocal. Hers are filled with effusive light, his with a fulfilled longing, and it is beautiful the bonds that are made by whim. Many say such bonds are forced, doomed to fail because they are shortly formed. The bonds of love, however, do not begin to form in the first glimpse of the other. They are formed long before, stretching out, looking for another’s bonds to match. The bonds do not fit each other flawlessly, but enough fit for two to become one. Love compensates for slight incongruencies, small flaws between.

Some forget to love, he thinks. The small conflicts are enlarged, the correct fits forgotten in the disappointment. All becomes bitter, and hope is lost. Bonds are broken, and both are hurt, scarred by a mere failure to accept the bits of difference.

But no more. He will not let such feelings overtake him.

In his eyes is understanding, his only hope against apathy, of neglect. He wants to know her, so that he may love more than a side of her, more than part of her. Only once he loves all of her will he trust himself to be her comfort, to become a part of her. She is his hope, and he could only hope not to hurt her, to leave a part of her unrealized. He must do his best for her..

The glow is still faint. Their hearts are not yet awake. While both love, neither speaks yet, feeling their way through the empty foreign skies. They are both wayfarers, of some sort at least. They know not their destination, and merely hope for something grand to approach over the patchy white horizons. They grow without roots into self-determined shapes, attend to their own colors. Come what may, they will explore it, be what will, they discover themselves. But only through these gazes, smiles, their synchrony, will they explore as one.

VIII

Once more, crimson skies.

Blues are dominated by the blushing reds of sunset, the burning color drifting across the scape in a frayed manner, like the first drops of blood from a wound. The clouds catch fire and, set alight, burn the surrounding sky with their reflective silver linings. The holes in between, even in the portions of blue, are given a faint red glow, and the puffy white clouds are like a bandage, holding it together, just barely managing to keep it from bursting. The fiery light begins in the west, where a great disc begins its final descent.

Below the scarlet skies are verdant plains, broken up by bold mountains, though the mountain of color and many spires is no longer in sight. They are jagged, like sharp claws coming from the earth, slowly covered in rock and sand by the wind. At the bases, the fields of green make their approach, but are stopped short, disappointingly, in favor of a tan grey. The light of sunset tints these colors as well, making most of the plains seem aflame, and giving the mountains a cast of iron.

Running between the peaks is a small stream, cutting with time’s sharp razor through the mountains, and forming a winding pathway, which is easy enough to follow, and scenic enough to resemble a wonderful dream, running on at a continuous, quiet tempo to some far-off lake. A whole mountain range made merely as a pathway, all to sit still in a lake somewhere, or perhaps the ocean. The ocean is greater. One ocean sees many coasts, while a lake meets only one. A single ridge comes into focus in the foreground, over which can be seen the sun’s descent behind a far-off point. The backs of the mountains now seem an odd cast, unstruck by the full fire of sunset, left to their true colors, now unnatural. The passionate rays strike out, though it is not a reciprocal passion that fuels the sun.

On the far left of the ridge grows a small sapling, somewhat parched, unable to drink from the waters far below, but still blooming well with leaves. They are blown by a short gust, and the small tree leans just a bit, carried softly by the breath. Many shrubs also dot the ridge, more accustomed to the conditions, growing their small leaves in abundance, thriving on what little they have, waiting for the morn’s drops of dew to sustain them for the next day, and in the meantime surviving, merely surviving. The rest of the ridge is of stone, unmoving, unyielding, infertile. The rocks are painted a conspicuous red – once more – by the sunset.

The wayfarer sets up a bundle of blankets on a particularly large and smooth rock; large enough to sleep on, it seems. His body is bent over, head lowered down, teeth on the edge of a blanket, just in the middle of removing the last few folds. His eyes, however, are set on the mare. She sits down calmly, gazing as well as she can near the sunset, hoping to remember its beauty by the mere outlines, though she knows she must shield her eyes soon. How well her dark curls catch the crimson rays, how bright her smile is. She must be inspired, he thinks. She is truly remarkable when she is inspired.

What a sad light it is. It shines so brightly that it cannot accept a gaze, like a self-conscious beauty. Is it intended to shine so boldly? Is it a choice? Surely it wants her to see. Perhaps if she sees the color, she would understand its shine. She would understand the value of luster.

But it shines too bright. As always, the sun shines only for the sun. No other, no lesser. It enjoys the adoration, yet cares no more for the voices and thoughts of those on the planet than it cares about the specks of dust it illuminates in old buildings, or the cobwebs it marks gold, or the ice that it melts. Still, it casts its rays over the scene, hoping to glean a last bit of adoration before travelling to another space, for the cheer of its observers. It moves on and leaves only the moon and the stars. Only.

The couple feels the glow. Despite apathy, the sun has let it bloom just a bit more, a bit stronger. It leaves a soft smile on the artist’s face, and it drives the wayfarer to nothing but joy in his sacrifice. He loves the sunset, and is glad that she finds a similar happiness in it.

She feels the warm rays on her coat, a last burn before departure. It infuses her with more hope for tomorrow. There is life all about this stallion. She might paint him, if only to learn him, to discover what colors he is made of. There is much that can be seen when one models. They model not what they are, but what they want to be. They idealize themselves before they can pose, so much so that a good artist can see where their longing lies. The better artists can paint them as they are regardless, with their true colors. The models often do not appreciate it. Strange how many do not appreciate who they are, even though it is their own choice. Perhaps they think themselves to be weak, flawed.

He feels the cold breeze, and shivers not of the present cold, but in anticipation for the cold to come. He will love travelling with her. He loves it already. Although she speaks little, he enjoys silence long before conversation. She merely saves her words for when they matter. He appreciates that, and is perhaps even jealous of the trait. She has a brilliant shine, made even stranger by her dull coat. Could others, too, see it? Is she aware of it?

How many seek to attain the sun’s brilliance. How many are satisfied without.

IX

It is all a clear blue. The clouds are gone. There are merely the two, the morning sun shining, but unseen.

The light reflects off of her in a dark chocolate sheen. Her head is set forward, hidden from view. Her wings are widely spread, gliding off of the easy mountain thermals, a beautiful span of gleaming feathers. Her tail and mane are twisted up behind her, whipped about by the slight headwind. The stallion is in mid-upstroke, his tail and mane just drifting up, readying to fall. His head is turned upward, his eyes fixed on her, entranced.

She is beautiful, he understood. Was that the first thing he saw? Perhaps. That does not satisfy him, though. That means he is superficial. He must have seen something else. He ponders the thought. What if it were her colors? No, that is no better. There must be more. She must be more. What had he seen?

He thinks back to the first glimpse. He approaches her because he is curious. She is alone, painting, entirely satisfied. Was she satisfied? He knows not. Is she satisfied? He hopes so. It seems strange to him that his feelings could be shared. He has never felt so much for another, and he wonders if she has. Perhaps he should ask. It would make her uncomfortable. He does not need to know. He wonders why she paints. Is it decided for her? No one could paint without passion for it. She must love it. What does she like to paint, though? Just scenery? That could be boring, he thinks. He could not stand that. He remembers scenes; he does not need to paint them. He tries to recall what he had seen in his last visit to Baltimare. He remembers nothing; it has all faded.

The raging tempo of his thoughts sends his mind into tumult.

He will remember now, because of her. When he gazes upon her, he remembers everything around that adds to her. He remembers the circumstance. He remembers his thoughts. It is strange that he should only remember now. Has he only drifted about with no memory before? His past should be erased in a mere few months besides the names of cities. He is disappointed in himself. She is so quiet. He should say something, but he catches himself. Silence is precious to her. He knows that much. Why is it precious? He wondered how that question would come across should he voice it. Humorously, of course.

What if she has a sadder reason, though? It could disturb her. Will he find out? Probably. He thinks back to what he saw that drew the spark. He remembers the scene well. The golden gates, the glow of the moon. Her eyes. It is in her eyes, the twinkling of the stars. On his face is drawn a smile. She dreams of places to be, places to see, and he understands at least that part of her. The part that looks at sunsets. There is beauty to find, and only a lifespan to find as much as he could. He wants her to search with him. He wants to see the stars twinkle in her eyes a thousand times more, to see a lifetime of sunrises and sunsets light her curls. The rest of this lifetime will have to do, he thinks.

There is a pause in his thought, like the lull of a storm.

He hopes she sees something in him that makes her feel the same way. What strikes her curiosity? Is it how he talks? She seems intimidated by that, like she knows not what to say in response. Does he like that? He thinks it strange, but lovely. Perhaps she likes his spirited nature. Is he dimming that to suit her? Perhaps by being quiet. Should he ask? Not now. It is pleasantly silent. She appreciates silences like these. Where does he get that idea? She is a quiet mare, but does she like being quiet? He should ask. Later. He appreciates this silence too. It is a nice silence, that which accompanies flight. There is only the wind in his ears, and the soft rustling of his feathers.

She probably appreciates it too. She seems like she would appreciate the calm. He wonders what she would like to paint most, if she has painted it already. Will she ever paint him? He would like to see it. He loves her talent. It will remind him well of their time together, he thinks. He will watch her paint next time. He has not embraced her at all yet. It is a soft pang, that reverberates within him. Perhaps he should. She may still feel like he is stiff with her. What if it discomforts her? He can wait for her to. Is that cowardly? Yes. Is there anything he can do? He stops himself at every action, just for her comfort. She was comfortable already in Canterlot. She does not join him to be comfortable. Why does she join him? Is it a reason he would like? He hopes so.

So boldly he explores landscapes and cities. So weak he is with this mare. It is because he has only one chance. He can return to cities after he leaves them. Reconcile a place if it leaves a bad impression on him. He cannot do so with her. He must be gentle, he must not lose her. He wants to be hers, all for her. Yet, he knows not how to. He knows not whether to ask, or to wait, or to let her be. He knows nothing. The wayfarer is afraid that he should lose his discovery, the chance to share himself. He realizes he does not want to live for location anymore. It seems strange, but right. He should live for her, all for her, only for her. If only he could know her.

He seems quiet, she thinks. Perhaps he enjoys silence in flight.

X

The Baltimare cityscape takes form in glossy dark hues. Incredible box-like buildings stretch far into the sky from a concrete grey. Pale white light bounces off glass panes in multitude, and although there are few colors adopted throughout the city, it somehow seems like it needs them not. Down on the black-paved streets, separated only by a trolley-line through the middle, the pale light finds the ground only through reflection, and the starlight is all but lost. The moonlight dies coldly on the pavement, simply too modern for its tastes. If it does manage to strike the pavement, it is not noticed.

Myriad lights decorate the glassy buildings, whether mere beads or lit windows, both in the apartments and the offices. The way the buildings send light leaping across the city is remarkable, and makes it glitter in fantastic multicolor. The strange lights become the city’s own set of colors, challenging the sky to match it. Still, the stars take no such challenge, and keep their dim illumination constant. It is an art they have mastered. The lights of the city claim victory, unable to understand that no city light can truly mimic a star. Stars are, by nature, unreachable, untouchable. Therein lies their splendor. Still, the city revels in its own flickering splendor, unaware.

The street is empty, and the metal and concrete add to the cold chill of the scene. The buildings are, for the most part, unmarked, though a few boast the names of companies. It seems strange to build so far upward, in hundreds, thousands of feet. In Canterlot, buildings are made tall for splendor, elegance. However, the strange buildings of Baltimare are the same floor, repeated artlessly, their only distinguishing marks from floor to floor being the lights in the glass. Most of the rooftops simply end flat. Others add an extra pyramid-like point at the top, but are, in the end, no more interesting. The street extends endlessly forward, featuring an impossible stretch of such buildings lined nearly side-to-side. The black paving is bisected every two hundred hooves or so by another street. A perfect grid.

Side by side, they walk, and he speaks.

His wings are tucked at his sides, though the tempo of his walk seems broken, nervous. His blue-green eyes try to meet hers, but appear wide, in a sense of fear. Still, his mouth is open in a warm smile. The flame-red feather is tucked back against his mane, his bag swinging carelessly back and forth along his right side, his money pouch still sorely unweighted.

She is to his left, an invisible nervousness locking her muscles tense, but still managing somehow to walk. Her wings look strained to stay folded, nervously shaking and shivering. Still, she smiles, her eyes fixed upon his. Her head is lowered a bit, unsure if and how she should respond.

She decides she likes how he talks. If she could only find the strength to talk back.

The moon finds its way to them through the urban sprawl, adding a faint shine to their coats, although neither finds a particular vibrancy in the moonlight. The vibrancy lies, once again, where their eyes meet. Both find a certain hope in each other, though they know not whether its image is true, or merely an illusion. Her eyes have taken in many illusions before, many ghosts. It leaves her wary, but he has struck a part of her quite differently. He is not silent like she is, but perhaps she never looks for her own silence. Perhaps she merely needs to find a stallion who knows what to say. Has he ever loved before? Perhaps she should ask. In her eyes, though, is found a longing. She is afraid to lose this moment, this wonderful night. She hopes that it never ends.

Is that love? Does she love him, or merely this night with him? That is difficult.

He recalls from two nights before to her, how similar it had been. Yet, so different to his heart. He is alone, the beginning of that night. Then, he sees her, meets her. Now, they wander together, for their first time, penniless. He wonders if she minds it, being without even the money for board. He is used to it, of course. Any money he finds or works odd jobs for. He gazes into those deep brown eyes, wonders if that is something he can bear to do to her. He wants to be sure that she is happy. She has already left with him, though. Surely, she must be ready to adjust. But maybe she has not yet thought of how she must live. Perhaps that could break them apart. He must show her that his way is better anyway, that in his way of life is a greater beauty than that of roots and routine, that his way is something far more worth her eyes, her art. He does not want to lose her now, after coming so far. He is anxious, the cold night only just suppressing his sweat, though only adding to the stiffness of his bones.

There is something frightening about the thought of staying still. The idea of waking up to the same sunrise, to the same scenery, the same faces around him, sickens him. Although, this one he could have with him, he could love every day, he could discover once more each morning. He could see her eyes with any sunrise, her smile paired with every landscape they meet. He would cherish each venue all the more with her at his side, his heart warmed. For once, his journeys are calm. It is not driven by some hungry excitement, but by the hope of discovery, of his surroundings, of her. She tempers him. Something about her feels steady, like he does not simply jump from city to city looking for something. He has what he wants already, and the scenes are much clearer.

Yes, he knows a place to share.

XI

The moon’s light turns warm, by some strange miracle. The stars have found once more the couple’s paired form. Once more, the strange blocky buildings rise, but now from far below, the tops just striking the horizon. The everpresent twinkles have overcome the simple lights below, their perfect glow along with the moon lending a realized hope. The great white disc can be seen now, at its peak, shining its lovely, muted light down onto the two. Atop one of the strange glassy buildings, short half-ledges border the edges against the sky. Should one without wings wish to touch it, they could but reach out and feel it.

Nowhere is adorned, the roof merely topped with a soft black paint. Taller than the borders stands an easel, its work already finished, struck with the deep blue of the sky, the familiar whites casting low light, the tops of buildings surrounding, the lights below meeting those above. The wind chills the scene, stronger here, but in no way foreign.

There is a kindness to this place. Somehow, a new hope is found merely by a change of position. Perhaps cities are best viewed from a single space, beings viewed best only from a certain part of one’s self. Perhaps all that needed to be found was that the wayfarer travels not for the cities, not for mere landscapes. They travel because they have been somewhere once, and perhaps when their way crosses again, they will have found something different. As the diffusive light of the stars and the moon cast whitened strokes onto the roof, the city dissipates around, in favor of a single beauty found. Baltimare disappears, and there is only the roof here, the canvas, the glow, the two.

Bright blue streaks meet the black of the rooftop, he is lying down on his side, legs resting out to his left, tail swept up, caught momentarily by the still scene, broken apart from its steady tempo. His head is raised up, eyes shut happily, mouth open, frozen in laughter. His mane falls over his shoulders, but the familiar feather is not found there. Instead, it rests on the black between them, alone. She rests on her side as well, her tail still, but a beautiful, wide grin has found its way onto her face, hopelessly contagious, caught in the same laughter, a lovely sound, not yet heard or seen.

There is a beautiful story to the feather, which he now tells. It is a story far back, before his days of wayfaring, back to his childhood. He meets a beautiful phoenix while wandering in the forest and, as a young captivated child, tries to approach it, perhaps to play. It flies off long before he could reach it, though in a start, it sheds a feather. The young colt takes it into his hoof, examines it, and puts it into his short black mane. Another day, a few years later, he returns to the spot – the bright feather still kept in his mane – and finds the phoenix. It has quite nearly lost its feathers, and cannot fly from him. The young, naive boy tries to give the feather back; after all, the phoenix needs it more. The phoenix takes to flame, and takes the old, plucked feather with it, reducing all to a pile of ash. The boy stares astonished at the pile of ashes, and faints. When he awakes, the ashes are gone, and a new feather left.

He has never told the story before but to his parents, who he knew never quite believed it, at least not the second part. He wonders if she believes. He quite likes the story, though he has never thought of telling it, sharing it. He is not a great narrator, after all. He understands his life better in moments, not spans. It is more like a collection that way, easier to remember, look through, though perhaps some moments are lost. He is happy to open up to her now. He has managed to pull a laugh out of her, and how beautiful it is. Perhaps it is because she laughs little that it holds such wonder. Would that mean, then, that his smiles mean little? He seems almost always to smile, to laugh. He wonders if his laugh is anything so captivating as hers, and doubts. When joy is little shown, it seems far more joyful, out of mere rarity. He loves her, it is decided. He wants to show her all that he has seen, and see it for the first time with her. He wants to know her, to know his grand scenes, his cityscapes with her.

She has wondered oft about the feather. It always seems to disturb his vivid blues, to try to outshine him. Now she understands, the feather is what first made the blue bright. It is the will to take a second look, see what else there is to see, now. She had never been to Baltimare, much less looked over its buildings at eye level; much less loved there. She loves him, it is decided. She loves his caring eyes – does he realize their glimmer? – and the way he removes her from her silence, draws her out. He wants to know her, and it seems strange. She has never thought that there was much to know.

Others only want to know her art. They ask what she thought when she painted a piece, if they even ask that far. They do not ask what she feels in between. Somehow, though, the art does not mean as much to him. He cares for her, sees the paintings as a way to look into her heart, and not the other way around. She loves the comfort he brings, the odd familiarity he serves in such a new place, the beautiful gleam he brings to his surroundings. She loves that he loves her.

Up above, they found a place to share.

XII

A canvas, resemblant of a moment, where the crisp lines of reality are found flawed in interpretation, made into imperfect strokes and fills. Therein lies her heart.

A black ledge cuts across the lower foreground, rather blurry, nondescript. It is merely set there to determine that the piece is not made from remembrance of some flight, becoming more and more forgotten as the paint strikes the page, but made in full view of the canvas’s contents, a scene constantly experienced, however quickly made. Just over the ledge are a multitude of the straight buildings. There is a sense of boldness and beauty in them, perhaps. It is not easily caught, held to light, but it is there. It lies not necessarily in their bold, defiant forms and height, nor quite in the perfect reflections in the countless windows that make up each building’s wall, in which twinkle both stars and city lights, and combine rivalry to a unified beauty, more fitting to a canvas.

The buildings are cast below, perhaps exaggerated so, or perhaps merely a matter of perspective. The buildings grow out of black mist, with no defined land beneath. It is too far up to see the roads, the bases of the buildings, so there are merely the ones that meet the sky, the parts that reach merely for the sake of reaching, however lackluster their form and shape, however colorless they remain, they stretch, many with adorned crowns, ringed in white or golden light, a mark to last the night, and keep wary those that seek to fly through, by some strange whim. The beauty rests in the faintest of strokes. Some few windows are lit from behind, their occupants expressly visible against the perpetual shadow. Small bits of color find themselves in lit windows, undefined, for lack of possible detail, but still beautiful altogether.

She may not have actually have seen them. Perhaps they were imagined, brought to life by a certain hope and trust. However, they were there for her, so they are painted, and in some ways recognizable, both for face and profound value, the only bright hues to be found. Above, a great blue expanse stretches over the rest of the scene, bordering each shadowy square with soft night sky. There lies a space without limits, without lyrics. It is simply free, so long as she can find her way out of Earth’s bonds. Perhaps she has, but is it her first?

The blue void is speckled first with the visible stars, a rather small collection of bright speckles, painted in miniscule spirals. Then, scattered around are strange remembered stars. She knows they are there, but cannot see them now against the bold city lights. She fills them in, lighter speckles almost hidden between the brighter stars. Finally, the moon takes shape at the center, its mare-arranged craters painted first in a light grey, and the rest of the details imagined and added. From the moon stems the odd brightness of the scene, the ability to find the trace bits of color.

She is awakened. It can be told from her quick strokes, her will to paint brighter colors. The flame in her arises to that of the hearth, and her art has found new life. The black canvas may wait, for she has something newer, something more spectacular to paint over. The bright lights all stem from that single flame, far beyond. They are akin to holes punched out of a paper lamp, where the small flame inside shines brightly through. It can be said that he watches closely as she paints, for the strokes occasionally give a nervous twitch, or a simple nudge. She likes to paint for him, it seems.

She often does not paint the night so brightly, typically finding more beauty in its plainly-interpreted dim shadows than in the calm rays the moon casts. It breaks her form. The strokes are no longer regular, managed merely by the tempo of brush to canvas, but painted to the rhythm of conversation, edged with laughter. He is all she could ever want: an audience during and between paintings, not merely for display or the occasional sale. The happiness it brings her she cannot yet account for. She feels it, but she has no measure of it, yet to find its end. For him she paints the stars and moon that he so loves. He knows them well, their arrangements. He must see the stars quite a bit, to be able to recall them so clearly.

She likes the change of style. It gives her something new to think about. Is it just his presence? Has her entire outlook changed? She cannot say exactly, at least not if asked. Perhaps she knows in her heart. Regardless, the canvas has new colors on it, and it is strange for her to see at first, as if it has been painted by another between when she took up the brush and set it down. It is hers, indeed, but she has changed so much. She may find her past self quite unfamiliar. Perhaps she should amend the gates of Canterlot to reflect the transformation. No, it is better she can remind herself of what he does for her, what he is helping her become. No longer do the blacks and greys find dominance over the edges of her scenes, like shadows cast by the eyes.

So she paints. She paints while she can, while she can feel this bright light. She paints, hoping that it will not dissipate, that she can continue to feel this wonderful light all about her. She wants to be able to look back, and see the happiness she once found in the world, the active love she has given up, and still somehow received in full. It is beyond her dreams, to be pulled out of the dim light, to see a vivid world around her. It is all she can do not to cry tears of joy.

XIII

The cool light streaks over the same familiar scene, the rooftop, cast in black, the buildings surround, the stray lights, the moon, the stars. All is quiet, calm, cold. The canvas still rests, finished, in the center.

They are together. The wayfarer rests with hooves tucked under his body, neck stretched out and curved around her. She rests against him, hooves tucked under similarly, her head resting gently against his side. Huddled for warmth, they keep their glow alight, throughout the cool summer night.

It is strange, their glow. One first marks it as some little love-at-first-sight, that sort that dies as quickly as it may come. However, both see it quite differently. Their love still takes time to bloom, and even then, is not based on some mere compatibility of character. That seems base to them both. Instead, here and now, if they were awake, they might describe it as an interesting spark that, with enough curiosity, takes to flame over them. He often wonders about those poems professing love, how one would somehow give up the sun and stars to meet once more with a far-away love.

Yet, he has her with him. He will wake up in the morning with her nuzzled against him, a feeling that makes his heart leap. He has her here already, and he would rather travel under the sun and the stars with her alongside. He takes his chance, and has her now. They are each other’s already, but he knows not how to respond. He knows it cannot be some strange end, a life to be lived in some happy monotony, the only change being a companion. He has love already, and what is he to do with it? He cherishes it, yes, but what does one do with love? Where does it go, once it has blossomed?

She sees it as far more than a mere spark of curiosity. Their first meeting, to her, was like being caught in a wildfire: nerve-wracking, destructive, the first step of rebirth. Her quiet nature is nearly shattered. A longing she has never even known is immediately filled, without her seeking. Suddenly, she is taken to a greater place. She cannot imagine returning, back to drearier scenes and static life. She has someone to be for, to paint with. It is not nearly so base as the famed love at first sight because love, in that sense, is too weakly formed. It does not account for an entire change of perspective, of lifestyle, of thought, of tempo, just for one other. It does not account for the new hope each finds in the other, the new life they vaguely see ahead. It is a love that drives her only to know him more just so she can become a greater part of him. She wants to give back every bit of what he has done for her, in whatever way he will accept. In many ways, he rescued her, she thinks.

It is little to do with who she is in the past. She has always been satisfied well enough with the present. She knows no other moment, for each second she is alive, she has new thoughts, new realizations. She cannot even fathom what it would be to return to the past, but neither may she understand what is to come. She is happy with the now, even though there is still much to discover. There will always be time.

He dreams about her art. How brilliantly she lays her bright hues across the canvas. She sees every detail, everything he would have forgotten after blinking. She notices it all, and paints it somehow more beautifully than reality can manage, as if the conversion of the image through her mind and back adds more than subtracts in the translation. He finds every bit of it a miracle, far beyond his ability, though she sees it as a common skill, something she could teach him. He knows not even her gentle caress could bring him to hold the brush so elegantly, to capture reality so imperfectly as to make it beautiful. That is something reserved for her, something he can always be amazed at. Before long, he realizes that he knows not what she is painting in this lovely dream. He asks, and she laughs, and continues on, adding color after color, but it is unrecognizable. He continues to ask, and yet she speaks not until the entire canvas is colored. Once more, he asks, to the simple response, “you.” Now, though it is a slur of every color real and dreamt, he sees it as himself, and is astounded at its accuracy.

She dreams of his open skies. He is boundlessly excited about the next destination, the next dreamy place for them to land. He has no roots, no cares to tie him down, and never has she been freer than when she cast off her own bonds to go with him. She wonders how he first cast them off. Is it a mere decision based on his mark, or is it harder than that? Perhaps he leaves something behind. He is always so vibrant when he takes to the sky. It is contagious, even should he try to contain it. When he looks over the landscapes, he wears this wonderful smile of passion and peace, simultaneously, every bit a revisiting as it is a rediscovery. She asks how he feels the land, how he can find something new in it each time. He laughs, and turns a corkscrew, but answers not. She looks around at the land, to see what may have changed, but only glimpses a couple of young trees, nothing that could be expressly new about the landscape. She asks him again, and he aims down to land. She follows, and they lie down for a moment. Once more, she asks, what makes the scene so happily new to him. He answers, “you.”

They sleep, and dream loveliest dreams.

XIV

The sun finds them now, descended from their nest far above. The tall glass buildings mark the edges of the street, and are set aflame by the sun’s bright flares. They are permeated with the harsh burning light, and give the venue a celestial touch. Still, it is only by mere reflection that the sun meets the street, and thus the space between is left fair and warm. Splotches of wild color form opposite streams on either side of the street, many adorned with greys and blacks – a strange set of colors to hide behind. They are indefinite, just detailed enough to be recognized in peripheral vision. As always, they are not meant for focus, forgotten as soon as recognized. Perhaps they have lives and dreams, but here, from this view, they are nothing. The black streets are invisible under the multicolored mess of splotches, and the windows just above are brought to life with their reflections.

The two are found above, wings outspread, hooves relaxed underneath. Their manes and tails are tossed well by the wind, caught in wild arrangements behind them. In the midst of her curly brown locks is found the bright red feather of a phoenix, made bright by the sun’s warm rays. She has a wide smile, left open as she talks. Her eyes are filled with a love for the city, for the happy flares of sunlight that touch her feathers with muted glows. It is a city worth painting over sometime, if she can only find a point from which she could see all of it, and yet capture its unique beauty. His eyes are wide with familiar excitement, but his smile is calm, happy merely to listen. It is rare that she talks alone, but it is wonderful to listen to. The way her young voice lifts and falls, yet remains just so soft, never fails to make him smile and, somehow, demands his attention, despite its light nature.

He is happy she likes the city. At first glance, it may seem a dead, lusterless city, but it truly does have greater shades behind that make it a brilliant city. The buildings, however monotonous, find their life in reflection, taking on the color of those around. Indeed, in each building around can be found the hint of vivid blue and lovely brown smudges. They take on the sun’s light and are made bright. Though they are mimics, they add well to the heart of the city through their mimicry. Through them, the splotches below are repeated and amplified, and their colors made brighter. He has always loved the golden touch they add when the sun shines, the glow they cast upon the sky and the streets. He has not yet found a city quite like it, though Manehattan seems to approach the same medium, albeit at a faster tempo.

He doubts the two cities will ever be quite the same. He wonders if she would understand why, or if she is still feeling her way through. Her happy exclamations bring an intense joy to his face, and his heart soars. He knows not what to say back, though. He can only nod, having never talked about the love a revisiting brings. He sees a few new buildings, made taller than the others, of course. He loves those small new things, but they are well-overshadowed. He sees in the buildings their reflections, a plurality that had not been when last he visited. That makes the visit much happier. He could speak of that, he thinks. That is a wonderful subject.

She sees them too, and wonders if he will speak of them. He seems oddly quiet, all-considering. Perhaps he is deep in thought. Still, on his face is painted a smile. It occurs to her that he likes to hear her more than himself. It adds glow to her smile, and she falls even farther into love with him. It is a beautiful place, this golden venue. Would she love it so without him? She ponders the thought, but refuses it. The sun would be blinding, not golden. She has never liked the sun, but on these glassy canvasses glows a greater fire than the sun could accomplish alone. She wonders about the others below, how they can live in such a city without looking up at the reflections. They may be used to it. Perhaps that is why he is a wayfarer, so that no venue can ever become bland in his eyes, save for the sky. It makes sense, she thinks, that he should wish to outrun routine. She would like to remain here for a short while though, if only to see it all.

He wonders if she has thought about it, what they could be. Far away, he sees a horizon he has not yet explored, one he only noticed with her beside. It looks wonderful, even from here. Would she go with him? He believes so, hopes so. Had she felt it the night before, the amber glow he still yet feels, whenever he looks at her smile? If he could only ask that. Would she join him there? He wishes he could tell. Her smile may say so, he thinks. He must ask to be sure, though. How can he have her, yet feel like every moment he could lose her, perhaps to the scenery, or to the canvas. He thinks he does not deserve her.

So that is it. He is afraid because he has nothing to give her but what she can already take without him. He despises that part of himself. He always assures himself that he is poor only in the weakest of currency, but he knows that he will always be ashamed of it. He has nothing but himself, and until now, that was all he could need. Now, he must ask her.

He seems to have a question on his mind, she thinks. She wonders if he misses his feather.

XV

Under a roof, now, the golden lights of the monumental glass buildings are found only in the windows of the background. Through the glass drift memories of the splotchy crowds beyond, coated in grey. Between the wide windows rests a door, swung open by a recent entry. Across the floor are black and white tiles, arranged in patterns and checkers, whatever may have come to mind. Round tables are scattered around atop the tiles, fashioned of cast iron, and painted a plain black, with matching chairs. Along the side walls are lined a series of booths of similar make.

The café is full, each table taken by some form of color, singular or plural, having some form of breakfast. They are vague figures, though not so rushed as those outside. They take distinguished shape, and one may recognize them separately, but they are still strangely left out of detail. Perhaps that is how they are remembered. Memory has a strange way of blurring those other parts of reality. The mind remembers the colors, the forms, but not faces or clothing or interaction. It is disappointing that it only holds so much. Perhaps it would make the scene seem brighter.

The two are seated directly across from each other, and yet for once their eyes do not meet. She turns her head to her left, surveying the lovely place with keen interest, wondering if she should paint it sometime. She would very much like to, should she find the time, though it would be much to paint, not nearly so easy as the glassy buildings at night. There are others here to sketch and detail, all within the time it takes for them to eat. It would be a challenge, she thinks, but she would rise to it. Sometimes a painting is better rendered with such a rushed tempo, improved by the quick, bold strokes. It takes practice, though.

She remembers her first time speed-painting, as they called it. She still carries the painting with her in her bag. The strokes are confused, and many parts of the paper left white. It is a river she had done in watercolor. The sky remains a blank white. All the trees she remembers are manifest in a slur of green smudges, each missing a trunk. The river is rendered well-enough, although she has left gaps for rocks that she never had time to fill in. The riverbed is hastily stroked two long stretches of a plain tan, and a few red dashes in the air signify a couple of songbirds that had flown by as she set up the easel.

She keeps it to remind herself that her best art should take time. Still, she is quite happy with the rendering from the night before. She has caught all that she wants to, and wonders if she should sell it. No, it helps her remember. She wonders how he can remember a place so well without pictures, how he can hold it all in his mind. He knows the way perfectly to this place, without even faltering. It is all ingrained perfectly. She wonders what the paintings mean to him, then.

He stares down to the floor, to his little trinket-filled bag. It is baffling to him. She has elected to pay for breakfast alone. He cannot bear himself, unable to support her. Is that not his duty? His heart is wrenched between the material and the sublime, that she loves him regardless. How can she ignore it? Perhaps she has anticipated it. He does not like that idea. It makes him feel weak, unfit to care for her, if he cannot even provide for her. He wants to ask, but will it always be so? Must she always pay for their travels? Before, he could merely work small jobs, but now, he cannot imagine putting her through such demeaning labor. Yet, as much as he thinks, he cannot find a way through the barrier. He has no money, and he never will have any. Can she love that? Will she agree to travel with that looming over her? He cannot say; he can only ask.

It returns to that, the asking. It is a mere few days with her, and already, he finds himself at this question. Would she let go, forever, just to be with him, just so he can wake up to her smiles? He knows not. Once again, he must ask. Once more, a pause. She loves it, now. She has said that she loves him too, but whether it is enough, he does not know. Perhaps she merely loves the change of scenery, the new things to paint. She will have to sell her paintings for them, he imagines. Would she let them go for him? Possibly, but he will never be happy with it, regardless of how she feels. He must ask her. Everything but her art he must ask her to trade, just for him, just to travel. He cannot ask now. The sting of his poverty still pains him. How could she smile so brightly, even when she is responsible for him? It is alien, and it hurts him to accept so much grace, so much generosity, without hope of repaying.

Yet, he fails to grasp that such is the nature of generosity. It gives all it has, until there is nothing left, and then it gives itself, all that it is, where there will always be more. The heart may never stop giving, even should objects and trinkets run dry. He does not understand it yet. He cannot accept it. Strange how one of his love’s most wonderful traits he finds so cruel. He wants to resist it, rebuff it. He wants to pay it back, and void its heart, but another day, he must accept it, for generosity gives regardless.

He seems to be thinking. Perhaps there is something about the place he remembers, something he needs a bit of time to ponder.

XVI

This scene is familiar, far up, atop the greatest building of Baltimare. The ledges rise up on the sides of the roof, and a bright blue expanse lies beyond, this time pointed at the open landscape beyond the city, vast plains stretching to the horizon. The formerly-black paint is revealed to be a simple grey in the sunlight.

His vivid blue is about to meet the sky. His back is turned, and he is caught in the moment just before he decides to take flight. At this altitude, the wind whips his mane and tail wildly behind him, like the flickering form of a strange black flame. His wings are spread out, ready for their first push, always the hardest. His head is low, and from his visible eye streaks a row of tears down his face. His mouth is open, but no longer do his energetic barrages surge forth. Only the softest words.

She is behind, her wings folded. Her mane and tail are cast behind her in the wind, no longer covering her face. Her eyes are wide-drawn, her pupils become but small dots. Tears streak down from her eyes as well, and she tries to shout after him, to pull him back.

He knows it is best for her. She will be happier without him. Perhaps she will continue on her own, but he cannot let her lose everything for him. He cannot ask her to give herself up, all that she is and could be, just for a penniless wayfarer. He must leave her, or she will forever be poor with him, perhaps go hungry with him. There have been days when he was denied food for weeks. He could not let that happen to her. He has to break her, for her own good, before she can become entangled in the mess of a life he leads. He looks back into her desperate eyes and regrets it immediately.

It should be far easier, but he can see her heart now, and it holds him back. He should not have looked, for now he sees all that she feels for him, all that she has already given for him. It makes him feel all the more a coward than a bitter hero. Her voice rings through his mind, and he wishes only to shut his ears. He meets her dark walnut eyes and wants only to shut his own, for he sees the tears that streak across her face. She is everything he could ever want, and that is why he must leave her, before he can change her, break her. He wishes that he had left her alone that fateful night, that he had not torn her away from who she was meant to be. He had, though, and he must return her, before he can hurt her further. Every bit bitter, all his mind aflame, he readies to fly. He can outfly her, he knows. She cannot chase him forever. He must keep flying away from her. For her own good, he thinks.

She is distraught, her tears streaming out behind her face in the wind. It is unthinkable. He cannot leave. Does he not love her? Does he not see that she loves him? It is all she can do not to crumble again. She feels it approaching again, the shadow. Icy fear grips her, the concept of being once more alone, only worse now. Now, she knows what she is missing, and she cannot regain it if it flies away. The dark shading begins to fill in at the edges of her vision, and the tears come back. Maybe he sees it, does not want to get involved with it. That only throws her further into the deathly spiral. She cannot bear it. He is all she ever could want, or need, and he wants to leave. She falls apart at the seams, her heart’s tempo broken, and the tears fly back in twin streams carried away by unfeeling wind. Her hope is readied to leave her, and her happiness with it. Her inspiration threatens to die out, and her will is crushed. She is broken, every part of her.

Perhaps he is right to hate her, with her quiet reverie. He must need more than her inept mind could manage, her words always fading in the last syllable, always unsure, unsteady. He must need someone stronger than her. Her voice breaks, and she wishes just to close her eyes, be done with it. Just let her wake up some new morning, when he is far out of sight, just another memory, perhaps to add that extra layer of depth to her art. Art is suffering, they claim. Indeed, if this is art, she hopes to be done with it. Let her die instead. She blames herself for all of it. She is merely not vibrant enough to match him. The feather simply does not fit her hair, her colors. She is not adventurous enough for him, for she stands too still with her foul, suffering art. Now, as he threatens to leave, she fathoms no brighter future. She only knows the shadows of before, the near-black canvasses that she has painted. That is real art, she thinks. Therein lies her destiny, to keep painting over the same canvas until it is a slurry mess of hideous brown and black.

What has he been pondering all this time? Is it whether she is truly fit for him? This only brings more tears, for she knows the answer. What if she is wrong? What if he is wrong? She clings to this last inkling of hope, and ties herself to it. It is her only chance, the last bit that will tell her what lies behind his own eyes, with their teary trails. She gathers her hopes, or their shattered remains, and fashions from them a question. In her broken cadence, she voices it: what did he want to ask this entire time?

XVII

Mere moments pass. So she has seen it, and now she has heard it. He is turned to her now, stooped low as if in some unbearable shame. His head is humbled, eyes cast to the ground, with their weary twin streams abating. The wind still buffets his black mane, though it stretches out forward, now, to her. She is stiff, from shock perhaps. Her mouth is open a bit, as if to speak, but no resonance is found there. A mix of confusion and conflict are painted over her face. Her eyes have grown softer, now, but no less afraid for him. The sun shines regardless. Noon, it marks, casting their shadows straight down.

So it is for her that he does this. It is out of love he must deny himself, deny her. She thinks him so strong, so carefree. She has not considered her actions to be anything but her own choice, not forced by his state. He cares so much, she thinks, but yet he knows not how to care. She only needs one care, the care that stays with her, that brightens her life in ways she cannot imagine or paint alone. He has broken her heart, but out of its remains rises a new heart, one that she likes far more. She realizes he is vulnerable, much like her. She has something to give, now. From the depths of this new heart, she realizes it is not for independence one loves, but for completion. She can complete him, she thinks. She needs only to decide. She imagines lives beyond this scene, to watch those sunsets alone, to paint alone, to fear, to cry, to rejoice alone.

She can see the shadows now, but they are separate, shattered on the ground with her heart. There is no longer the void to fear, but a light to look up to. No longer can darkness remove her from him. She can see beyond, horizons and sunsets to share, smiles to give. She feels the feather caught in her mane. She likes it there, she decides. Out of love, he means to leave, and out of love she refuses to let him. Love must sacrifice both ways. Then, it is no longer a sacrifice, but a gift. No art can amount to him, for no single picture can capture what he has done, no bold strokes or vague outlines. No color she has seen can match his coat.

All for him, she declares within herself. Yet, her body is still caught in shock. Speak, she wills. He waits every moment, fears for every moment she stays still. She wills herself forward, to the future she has seen. She must be for him, as he is for her. His heart is broken, and so she moves to mend, her grace prepared, a plentitude he simply cannot imagine. He must never have known such grace, to find it his weakness. She will show him the happiness that he gives her, become the savior he is.

He waits restlessly. He should not have asked. It is too much to ask of anyone. He fears he has broken her, and wonders if she can recover. It is cruel, to take her so far. He cannot be hers, for he has nothing to give. He wishes to say something, anything to heal her this moment. He must not leave her guilty of him. He must not destroy her art, or he is worse than nothing. It must be fear on her face, fear to be ensnared with him.

Please say no. He wishes only to leave her no more scarred, no more to think of him. Just let her be. She can go farther without him. He sees it in every painting, the love she has for the world. She must go alone, or she will suffer with him, and her art will be lost. Please say no, so that he may go on, wander in his broken tempo, alone. Say no so that she may live on, and become something wonderful, something he can never touch again.

It is hard for him to let go. It is all he can do to keep from breaking himself. He struggles against a storm of his mind, a swirling, confused torrent. He cannot look into her eyes. It will only hurt the both of them more. He has imagined this would be difficult, but he could not have prepared himself for such a riot of emotion. Stand firm, he thinks, do not let her attach. The more she tries to pull him back, the more it will hurt both of them.

He should not have asked, for one answer he can no longer accept. He can feel her gaze. It must be desperate, and that hurts him further. He is every bit despicable. Return her to the world, he demands himself. Let her be free of him. He wonders what could have been, the happiness he could have. Not for him, for her, so he breaks himself away.

He thinks of what she will be without him. Someone finds her, that loves her art. She is a rising star, her brush strokes grow stronger without him. She is her own. She is great without his oppressive travelling, his lack of roots. Her work is praised, and she lives her life in splendor, never to hear the name of the cruel wayfarer again. He loves her the same, to see her bloom. Let her go, fly away to a better life for her. She needs not his bounds. Though it hurts them both, he must be strong enough to leave. He remembers the warm glow, the lovely sunset, the moonlight meeting, and the tears threaten to return. For her, alone, not him. For her life, and not his love. What will she answer? Is he prepared for the pain to come? No, but it comes regardless.

She sees him. She knows how to save his heart.

XVIII

She tells him yes, although it is not through the word. The word is for communication, not for the affirmation, solidarity it pretends to entail. Her eyes are closed, and her dark curly locks drift over the left side of her face, cast back, so as not to obscure it. The feather rests by her ear, vibrantly, and her neck is outstretched. She kisses him softly and tenderly. His eyes are wide in shock, and rosy color runs into his face, disrupting the former blue. His wings curve down now, though still outstretched.

And now, his heart is broken. She wants nothing else. He has been so wrong. He wants to berate himself for such a mistake, but he is lost in her. She has not forgiven him, he understands. She has never seen any wrong to begin with. She sees only his greatest, his inner colors. He is overcome, and his heart and mind are shattered. He feels the strong wind rush past him, and he looks over her graceful form. She is all he could ever want, he knows. And yet somehow, she wants him too. He is not undeserving, for her grace knows no such sentiment.

He cannot pay her for what she gives him. Somehow, all she asks is exactly what he asks, and the kiss brings him only further into ruin. No longer does he remember the horizon behind him, for it is a memory fading quickly, dying with the lonely pieces of his mind. He retrieves a few. He likes his wayfaring, she loves it too, he knows. His words she loves to hear. His love will always remain. He needs no longer his guilt, nor debt.

They are cleansed. He kisses back, and he dreams no longer of lonely horizons. He has a heart to share. He will always live without roots, and that she loves too, somehow. It is mystery to him, but he will learn, in time, what she gives for him. She is so beautiful, nothing he has found in any landscape or revisiting. She is not his, nor he hers, for one cannot own itself. They are theirs. She is so tender, he thinks. How can she be so? Perhaps it is a part of her that he reveals to her. He likes how that seems. She has shown him his memory, his love for the first time. Perhaps this love is far more reciprocal than he has imagined.

He finds no fault in her, though he cannot believe she finds the same; still, he must. He must, if he can accept her. She wants no debt, just all of him. He sees back to his shame, his nervous steps. He must give them up, and as much as he wants, it is more difficult than he can imagine. He pushes them away, tries to supplant them with hope, but they worm back in. He tries to destroy them with his self-berating anger, but realizes that must go too. He feels her tender kiss, and learns. He gently pushes them off, like a raft to sea, to a horizon he knows well. The sea touches many shores, but they shall never return to his. He whispers a good-bye, then turns around, never to look back. Everything for her, and he shall never turn around. The glow of a hearth’s fire takes flame in his heart, and he readies to weep, only for joy now. Only for her.

He understands now, and her heart leaps. She has brought him back to her, and she can feel the change work through him. She feels his broken heart, and like her heart before, she weeps for the parts he has left behind. He needs them no more, and she loves him all the more for his sacrifice. It is never easy, she knows, but now, they both have the pieces of their hearts. They may piece them together, one by one, into one.

She likes how it sounds, and she wants to say it aloud. Nothing more she says, though. For this moment, the now, the kiss is enough. She lets her unconditional love flow out of her, and helps him recover himself. She wants only to see that vibrance once more in his eyes, when she opens hers. They will be more beautiful than she has ever seen. He is afraid to see them go. The fear abates, darling. She is here. Let it go. She takes him up into a mental embrace, never to let him go. They will stray together, she thinks. There is no reason to stray apart. Let them be, together and one.

She waves goodbye with him, to all that he gives up for her, and she sees her own fear, her own shadows lilting away on that little raft. Let it go forever, she thinks. It is no easier, though she keeps on; the image of those blue-green atolls in his eyes strengthens her. She sees a certain weakness leave too, this of its own accord. It realizes now that she can live without it, so it flutters away. She will not miss them, for their heart together is whole. She smiles inside, feels his warm fire, realizes her own. It warms her, brings tears of joy to her eyes.

She is free with him. She has cast aside the shadows. She loves that she could show him the way. She realizes that she has lost hers awhile. They find their path together, and she wishes it no other way. She knows this is no end, but a new beginning. To a brighter sunrise she looks forward, and to sunset they will love. And beyond, they will love as the moon shines. He is ready now, she knows. He has given himself up, and she herself. He returns the kiss, and the vigorous tempo of their heart is broken a moment, in a wonderful pause.

And there, on the rooftop, they found their heart to share.

XIX

And now they leave. The familiar bright blue of the open sky is clear now, save for the marks of a few clouds over the horizon. Their linings do not yet shine, so they remain blurred. Below, a few vacant rooftops touch the sky, their characteristic windows lost below. Grassy plains stretch forward for an eternity, hardly touched by hills or depressions. From here, one could see the curvature of the Earth. How strange it is that those least connected to the ground see it so much clearer.

Perhaps it is the same with the sky. There is not much to know about the sky itself. It is what lies beyond that most fascinates those below. They map the stars and the way the moon changes form, though in reality those should have little influence on their daily lives, besides bringing light. Perhaps that is what makes them interesting. From here, from the Earth, they appear to serve no other purpose than to send some light their way, to give the Earth a gem-marked roof. Here and now, though, the sun still shines, and the plains are still lit with warm light, and the tops of the buildings made recognizable.

They take form, in their streaks of blue and brown. Their wings are both caught in an upstroke, a product of synchronized tempo, as they begin their next journey. Their manes billow behind, his in a sharp flame, hers in a curly train, adorned with the bright red feather. He flies just a nose ahead, to lead the way along the familiar plains, the marks only he knows to follow. She gazes at him fondly, her heart still fluttering along with his.

She looks admiringly at him. As she feels her feathers drift and sift through the air, she begins to understand his appreciation for his travels. The wind rushes through her mane, and in every sense, she feels free. Her vision stretches to the edges of the land, unrestricted by trees or towers. Her mind wanders free, encouraged by the blank skies. Indeed, he must have much time to think in the relative void of the open sky. She wonders what he has thought about before her, what he thinks about now. She will ask soon. For now, she enjoys the sound of wind filtering past her ears.

Another transformation takes place within her. As her mane and tail flow behind her, she admires herself. She has never considered her form beautiful. If love should ever come to her, she expects it to be for anything but beauty. Perhaps the shadows never let her consider herself beautiful. She has hidden her eyes for so long behind her dark curly mane. Now, with it rushing behind her, her eyes clear; she wonders if he brought this beauty to her. Naturally, she thinks so. The past days have transformed her mind from the inside out.

Has it been a mere few days? She only remembers the few sunrises with him, and yet it has seemed an eternity. She plans to tell that to him as well. It seems to her a bit fast, to make such a commitment to him. Then again, why does love need some predestined restriction? It is clear to her that their love is something worth experiencing, worth sharing. Why then, should it wait? She wonders what it is she has just committed to on the rooftop. It is all for him, and a shared heart that she vowed. It sounds very similar to a wedding. How strange a wedding it seems, to have so many tears and so little occasion.

She has not met any friends in Canterlot anyway. She has not seen her parents for so many years. It would be quite the surprise, she thinks, to return with the wayfarer, but perhaps they would demand a formal wedding. Something in that seems unnecessary, unbecoming to her. So intimate a vow they have already spoken, that no such wedding need take place. She smiles, as she catches a glimpse of those livid pools found in his eyes.

How things have spun around, he thinks. Never have things changed so drastically for the better. It is refreshing to him, the open air before him, though he wonders if he will ever feel its rejuvenation in earnest with her already beside him. He needs it not. His mind roams free now. He always appreciates how the wind shuts the sound out of his ears. It lets him think so clearly, without anything but the soft rushing. The past few days rush through his head in tumult. It truly has been a few days. Odd how slowly they have passed.

He quite prefers it to the constant rush of travel. It brings a sense of balance to be with her. Every embarkation is new with her. He has plenty of time to show her all that he has found. Then, he may take her to horizons new to him. He has dreamt once that he followed the coast until he found cities far away. He meets many new folk, very alien, very exciting. They welcome him well, of course. He smiles, imagining the opposite. He should merely move on the the next town, just so far until he finds the right place.

There has only been one time he was spat out rather rudely by a city, back in Las Pegasus. He names it the Poor-Gilded City afterward. Never again, he thinks, and smiles to himself. Most cities welcome him well or not at all, though. It is always the small ones that notice him pass through. They ask for stories and memories, and he is happy to share. He always loves the small ones. They have the greatest hearts. He thinks back to her. She has quite the heart, more than he could have seen through those mane-hidden eyes. She wears her mane to the side today, and it is wonderful to see her eyes in full.

XX

They have quite nearly arrived. A vague skyline rises far in the background made of various greys. Above lies a dash of grey, with a small hint of yellow. It is hardly a glamorous place for its looks, but something beyond the visual attracts the eye to those buildings. They are far off, and a single tree, much closer, blocks out much of the city behind. It is a small oak, quite lonely in the rolling plains around Fillydelphia.

Curiously, it stands amongst a field that sustains no more than amber grasses. Its greens are quite lovely in the summer sun, and they cast a faint tinted light onto the ground below. The wayfarer’s large blanket is spread out over the grass, a clean white sheet that crushes a few of the long fibers underneath. An easel is set up just within the tree’s shade, as the sun approaches the height of evening. Both of their bags lie plainly on the sheets, helping to weigh it down against a soft wind. From the artist’s bag protrude a pair of bread loaves, one halved and clearly munched-on.

The wayfarer sits still on the blanket, a smile painted over his face, wings folded and eyes wide with excitement. The artist sits at her easel, brush held in her mouth, a smile forming up at the corners. She paints the scene stroke for stroke on her canvas, capturing the colors quite excellently. She is caught-up in her art, calm and serene as she paints.

She has decided to paint him, and the very concept excites him. He has considered many times to ask her himself, but has wanted her to decide when she thought she was ready. Art cannot be rushed, after all. Still, he is anxious to see what she sees. Truth be told, he has never focused well on his reflection. It seems alien to him. He might not even recognize himself, should he be asked to find his vibrant blues in a crowd. He finds his form ordinary, not necessarily muscular or weak, but just enough to suit his lifestyle. Anything more seems rather pointless to waste on a life of flying around anyway. She takes her time, and he slowly regains the patience he has felt for hours in the sky. He waits solemnly, marking the scenery behind him.

He has met the tree before, though its story remains unknown. All he knows are that no trees – especially the oak – have ever been fond of Fillydelphia’s barren plains. It casts a wonderful shade, perfect for their picnic. He has fed the tree a bit of water, for it must be so dry in these fields. He wonders how she will depict the tree. He wants to remember it, as much detail as he can. Something about its broad shady branches seems to welcome and nurture wayfarers like himself. Perhaps it has been planted by one, long ago. He has never met another like him, yet he always attributes it to the low chances that two should collide.

Perhaps he truly is one – now two – of a kind. It both attracts and disappoints, that only they should find beauty in travels, when there is so much to see, so much well-fashioned Earth all around. True, he has found another wayfarer at heart. With that, he is satisfied. Indeed, it has been quite a lovely happenstance. Such a thing he could not credit to coincidence, however. He has always understood that fate has its dealings in everything. Perhaps the tree is one of fate, a fated stray. He feels compelled to pay it tribute.

He holds still very well, she thinks. That is, when it is demanded of him. Her smile broadens. She knows enough of him now. Her knowledge is not perfect or exact, but that is one reason why she paints. As for the wayfarer, every painting should be revisited, to see what else might be seen. Paintings, however, are not so easily-amended as memories. As well as she may try to find the tree in the same light, the same season, the same date, it will not be anything near the same as when she first paints it.

He looks quite charming with the green light on his coat. His eyes are always so wide, she remarks to herself; it is almost amusing to paint. She has always imagined portraits as things painted with a sense of formality, and here he is, eyes wide with excitement, with a grin like a child’s all across his face. She imagines any moment that he might stick his tongue out. It is charming, still, and she still finds herself staring into his eyes. It only makes his smile wider, and she barely musters the will to suppress her laughter.

The tree is quite remarkable, she thinks. Upon seeing it, she knows she must paint it. It is so singular, so picturesque. Yet, as she paints it, it becomes something more. It sways at an even tempo, and she realizes it is precisely like a heartbeat. It provides just the right shade to bring out his vibrance, and the more she paints it, the more she hears it whisper to her. She cannot make out the words, though, for a long while. She has already finished the wayfarer, and commits to spend more detail on the tree. As she thinks of the sound it makes, she makes sense of it.

The voice is warm like the sun’s morning rays, befitting the wonderful green of the leaves. The more its whispers fade in her mind, the clearer the words become to her. She holds the sound in her memory just long enough to discern what the tree must say to her. Its cadence is as slow as time itself, as light as the leaves it bears, should one break away. In the quiet nurturing voice, she finally pieces the words together, “Giving is my legacy; your memory my reward.”

XXI

Strokes on canvas, the scene is depicted.

It begins with the Earth. Broad strokes span from side to side, marking the floor of the plains. Golden stalks shoot out of the ground in multitude, and are depicted swaying. Behind, the city of Fillydelphia is represented by a set of black blurs, which span all the way from side to side of the canvas. Above, a blue sky is given small blurs of grey, though it does not at all match the city’s mass of smog. It is too light, though it has little effect. If anything, to represent the haze in full would confuse the piece.

In front of the buildings is depicted the tree, which stretches just to the edges of the canvas. It has a strange and sharp detail, made with the smallest streaks of the dark and light browns of bark. It is sturdy enough, and the trunk’s bends give it the sense of leaning over, as if to hold a child. Its thin branches are covered in bright leaves, painstakingly detailed and sharpened. It is quite stunning, the way they cast their thin green shafts from the sun, hidden behind. It is a level of detail she has never yet committed to. On the ground before the tree rests a white blanket, with the two bags on it.

Of course, she has not neglected him. He takes priority, with more detail even than the sharp leaves of the tree. He sits, rather relaxed on the blanket, the hairs of his tail painted as exact to reality as the thinnest brush allows. His hooves rest firmly on the ground, his front hooves locked, sitting him up. As always, the blue of his coat requires her most vibrant sky blue, which stands starkly against the rough browns of the tree bark. His wings are folded at his sides, and he holds himself rather proudly. His head faces the viewer, his broad smile easily completed with a few strokes. Strange, how simple it is. It almost seems like such a characteristic smile should be harder, but it is so simple.

His eyes, however, are not nearly as easy. The color alone is already difficult. A strange whim-based blend of blue and green is used in strokes originating from the centers of the great orbs, with dark centers. She catches the energy quite well and, combined with his smile, the stallion is captured in a state of eternal excitement. Short brows flow down just over the eyes, and his black mane cascades down over his shoulder in short, thin strokes. Over all, the depiction is quite lifelike, and very satisfying.

She wonders how long he has held the excitement. It is so strong, overpowering, even. The bright colors very easily outshine the browns behind, and she wonders if he appreciates his own vibrance. She weighs it in her mind, and decides she will not ask, but find out herself. He seems not to acknowledge it. It does not surprise her that he might take it for granted. After all, it has been his since birth. Why should it seem remarkable? It may not, and indeed there are many others with bolder colors. Regardless, it is bright to her. It is not the coat, anyway, that finishes his figure. It is the eyes, she knows.

The eyes first drew her in. They are vivid like a child’s, but they hold so much within them that their energy is where the comparison ends. He has seen much, and felt far more, especially now. She still loses herself in them. She has spent a long time trying to perfect their image in her mind, but the twin pools manifest differently every time she takes another look. Like the wayfarer’s revisitings, she finds a new facet for every new glance. She hopes they never dim. They are something she may rediscover. What does she see now? It is another new facet; he has met a certain calm now. Despite his lively features, something about this place has put him at ease, given him serenity. It is the first time she has seen him so calm on the ground. She will ask him about it, she resolves.

She believes it could be the tree. Its slow, steady tempo certainly puts her at ease. Can he hear the whispers?

In faith, he cannot hear them now. They touch the fibers of his ears, but he cannot catch them, yet. The voice is too quiet for him. He has not yet adjusted to the quiet. His heart still beats for adventure and activity, and he cannot yet hear what is soft or subtle. The words echo in her head still, and confuse her. She works them tirelessly, and in her mind the sharp edges of the leaves begin to blur, as if a shadow of the tree still remains where it was only a moment ago. Then, the tree is still. The edges of the leaves are soft, and the tree is frozen, a testament to its still permanence.

The brighter colors of depiction suit her. Her new light is well-displayed in the shine of the leaves and his vibrant coat. It comes as naturally as the shadows before, and she is happy to produce something so detailed and clear. Though her mind is clouded and conflicted, her painting remains unscathed. She wonders if that worries her. Is she too detached from her art? It is possible. Still, it seems better this way, more resemblant of what she began with. As the mind works, it blurs its images, and the ideas behind them. She will keep her painting true.

Still, what if more is found in a painting true to mind than one true to life? That is something she must ponder much more. A few flecks more are added to his eyes, the facets she cannot yet see. There will always be more to discover. One day, she will know him and paint him in full.

XXII

The buildings of Fillydelphia are remarkably dark. They are not painted darkly, but several elements combine to bring them a sense of darkness. The first are the black stains that seem to coat each building’s outer wall. One could take a hoof and scratch a bit of the strange shade, but there is still a thorough stain beneath. The source is easily found, and yet another contributor: the haze in the sky. It is made of an awful grey, which blots out a remarkable portion of sunlight. The dust slowly settles on the buildings, and falls so constantly that to keep any building clean is impossible. The coal dust is quite oppressive, and while several buildings may rise to the height of those in Baltimare, they are not nearly so refined, often made of cement, left smeared in a perpetual dust.

The street has simple cobblestones, and is lined similarly to Canterlot, though drained of color. More houses than businesses line the streets, and the buildings alternate between two and three storeys, built in a classical brick style. The ponies on the street, however, are more varied. While many wear traces of the haze in their coats, their colors, for the most part, show through. Soft hues penetrate the haze, and smiles may still be found. They are strange ones, to be sure. It is as if they know not the dust they live in. It is so prominent that it can no longer be seen. The sky always looks that blue, the buildings always that bright, their coats always that vivid. There, among colorful smudges, the two find their places, cantering easily through the street.

His neck is panned to the side, caught in a sweeping glance over the scenery. He wears no smile, and his eyes are intense and scrutinizing. Although his walk seems easy, his thoughts are active and racing. She looks at him with an avid curiosity, as well as a certain admiration. Her gait is easy as well, and the workings of her mind can be seen, even through her deep brown eyes.

This is quite a change of pace, she thinks. She has not known him to be one for gloomier ventures, and indeed, Fillydelphia holds a special sort of gloom. It makes her shiver. She wants to walk closer beside him, if only to figure out what he can see in such a place. He does not smile, and it confuses her. She wants to ask him what has taken away his luster, but senses that this silence is something sacred. Perhaps even the wayfarer needs his share of gloom. She thinks back to the shadow, how she had carried it with her. There were times, yes, when she appreciated its presence. However, she cannot revisit such a force. Only in moderation. It would be foolish for her to revisit such an abyss, especially so soon after letting it go for him. A strange part of her says it would be like betrayal, and she weighs it in her thoughts. It is true, such a shadow would keep her from enjoying her time with him.

Still, she wishes she could comfort him in some way. It makes her feel uneasy herself, the way he looks at the city. He has no lovely glimmer in his eyes. It is replaced by a strange intensity, as if to search for something specific in the city. There will be a time, she thinks, to bring him a bit more cheer. It disappoints her to be unable to help, but she knows this is something he must search for on his own, whatever it is.

Of all, it is the most bittersweet city he frequents. He looks at the gloom above, and feels a pang of hopelessness. It has only grown thicker since last he visited. The children have grown a bit, but they still run through the streets, so happy and carefree, despite the dust that takes them over. He remembers that time very clearly, and wonders if the old dust still occupies his lungs. He pays the place a short tribute, for there is much history to meet here that even the dust cannot obscure. He takes a moment to survey the scene. Yes, he remembers this avenue.

He has played here before, run through these streets with the same joy. So far away it is, now. Here rests his childhood: the beginning of the wayfarer. He is born here, his father a factory worker, his mother caring, but hopeless from decades of char dust. She has soft eyes, and gives everything to see her child go somewhere greater. It is here he finds his first map, plans his first journey: the woodland, where twice he meets the phoenix. It is all he can do to escape, the wayfaring. It brightens his mother’s eyes to see him experiencing life away from the dreary town, but it cannot pull her out of her own despair. Father wants to help, but his shifts in the coal plant only grow longer. One day, father falls into a fit of coughing, but the dust has too much of a grip already, and it takes away his color. Mother’s heart is broken, insists that he takes his inheritance, and go chase his horizons.

He agrees, and flies far away, straight to Canterlot, to Baltimare, Manehattan, the blooming city of Cloudsdale, to each corner of Equestria he knows of. When he returns, his mother is dead, her heart shattered too far to hope any longer. She has seen her death approaching, even before her love passed. She had merely wanted him to be away when it happens. She wants her child to fly away from the dreary place.

So is born the wayfarer. He has outrun sorrow up until he met her. Now, he faces it once more, once and for all. He is happy she can stand by his side. He plans to tell her the story, once he atones.

XXIII

They wander together, in search of a place to meet. The easel is set, although the smoky buildings still surround the two. She begins painting, just barely out of the street way. The great towers part from the scene for a bit, in favor of a single massive building. It does not reach quite the same height, but it is several times wider than the business buildings around it. It is square, functional, with three great chimneys that double its height. From each stretches an oily black plume, which all reach unbroken up into the dark haze. It is the source of the city’s power, and simultaneously its desolation.

The closer the eye comes to meeting it, the harder it is to see. The first glance cannot be trusted. It cannot truly entail the realities that lie on the other side of the charred black walls. The wayfarer remembers only a few traces of his father’s stories, though they had been spoken only when he was believed to be asleep, unaware. He remembers violent fires that would escape, the blackening of lungs and heart, collapsing workers, spent dry. They coat the building with yet another layer of dread. A few have stopped to witness the painting, though they move to leave when they see its subject.

He leans in to whisper something into her ear, a concerned look upon his face. She holds a concentrated gaze on the coal plant, though her mouth turns to a frown at whatever he whispers. The brush is held firmly in her mouth, its tip a fitting black.

He has made amends with the place. He has told her his story in full. Ever since, she remains silent, painting the dark building, a rather depressing vision, especially for any in the city. He knows not what she plans to capture, but it hurts him to see such a place committed to permanence. Perhaps he has not truly made amends. He cannot be expected to forgive the city of his upbringing, though. The dust permeates everything. It chokes and kills, like a spiteful ghost in its haunt. He has never heard of a ghost that haunts an entire city. Naught but the coal plant’s. He thinks this is the last time he will visit. There is nothing more to see, he thinks. There is nothing new here. The air is still putrid, the people still sooty, the venues still dark.

She has resolved a part of it for him, but he shall never wish to return, especially not with her. This is a part of him that she need not share nor understand. After all, the greater parts of his life have, over time, overshadowed the loss of Fillydelphia. The phoenix feather remains unsoiled, his lungs have cleared of the soot, and he has simply moved on. However, each time he returns his mind to the factory, he knows he will not forgive it. He would much rather leave it behind, let it disappear as he chases his new life with her. His childhood shall fade until only the brightest memories remain. His mother and father will be kindly remembered, but no further reminisced.

What matters is now, he tells himself. That is always how he escapes. He turns around, and as the wayfarer is wont to do, flies to a greater place. That is his birthright, his life’s allotment. He no longer sees it as cowardice, but instead as choosing his battles. These battles he believes to have already lost. There is a brighter place he knows of for her to paint. He whispers in her ear, hoping the words are not lost on her. It sours him to interrupt her painting, but to make this place immortal is unfair. Any place but this, he begs within. Any street or venue. He may handle the splotchy children, the spattered houses, the barren skyline, but not this place. Forever this place, he demands, must be lost.

There is a way she knows to destroy a fear, a hatred. His story has touched her heart, and upon seeing its origin, she knows exactly what to do. She remembers her own childhood, of the days she had been afraid of the dark, of the lakes and fields around her rural home at midnight. She is hardly able to close her eyes at night, knowing those scenes lie outside. One night, she stays awake, and draws them, unable to sleep. When she awakes, and looks at them, having drawn all that there is to draw, she sees no fright in the scene. It becomes simply another light to draw in. To take the motion out of an object, to reduce it to an image, a memory, is how she best destroys a fear. Once it is taken away from its realm, to a calm, it can be reconciled, destroyed, if the mind is willing.

He does not realize it yet, her endeavor. She cannot tell him, though. Like cities, resolution must be discovered, not introduced. It is a troubling scene, to be sure, and as she paints it, she too begins to understand the hopelessness it brings to him. Soon, though, she will help him not to fear. That is worth it in the end. She continues to paint, though the whisper disturbs her.

He wants her to stop, above all, just stop. He speaks to her of brighter places to paint. She has the plant itself finished. It is enough. Let her be done. She is sorry to have brought him such pain, but some pains are necessary to bear, in order for others to be healed. She must show him, when they leave the city. She does not want the past to follow him, that he must always pace himself ahead of it. One day, he must stop and confront it. It is a part of happiness, confrontation. It fades pasts and futures unwanted. He has resolved so much for her. She must return the favor.

XXIV

There is a clearing among the buildings, in the shape of a ring. The cobblestone street circles a piece of grass – a wonderful green for such a city – and meets a pair of streets in the background. Colorful blurs in the shapes of other observers can be found on the street, staring at the center. From the grass rises an incredible leaf-shaped scale, which reaches up several storeys into the air. It is a wondrous white, which glitters with flecks of red now, in the setting sun.

Lines of black mar the pearly surface, etched in and inked carefully. The lines are as thin as those of a book, and yet they cover the entirety of the scale’s front face. The sunset touches the minute lettering as well, igniting it with a fiery orange light, like hot metal from a forge. The monument is polished, not marred by the city’s dark dust. Flowers both wild and tame take root around the monument, the city’s greatest collection of color.

The easel is propped up in the foreground, the scene’s colors captured thereon. She looks intently at the memorial, trying to figure just how to depict it. Her eyes glitter with a touch of inspiration. He sits far ahead, just in front of the monument, silent. There is more memory to be found here. The fiery etching he has not seen before, and he searches for a name, one he has heard long ago, of two generations past.

The wayfarer has only visited the monument once, in the midday sun. Now, as the lettering glitters in the sunset’s light, he remembers a short mention his father had made, though the name escapes him. If he can just find the name, he will know it. It is a name that floats around the mind, but waits to reveal itself.

He has never known his lineage, he realizes. It has always just been him and his parents, and then just him. He has always been more concerned with the present and future. His grandfather was not of the factory, though. He was of something brighter, but he remembers not. Anything would be encouraging, to know that his family has not always been trapped, that there is another who found the light in such a dreary place. He surveys the names marked in fire, just looking for a drop of familiarity, and wonders how many other families’ legacies end with those letterings. The thought makes the monument seem insufficient, despite the beauty of its tribute, its harsh medium.

He wishes there were something more than a name to find in the monument, but he can hardly imagine some sort of resolution of the past. The unknown name on the monument is why the wayfarer’s father was alone, with only a young, heartbroken mother. It must run in the family, he thinks: the sacrifice of self that is just as destructive as its alternative. It saddens the wayfarer, that the enormous scale can have so far a reach. One father left alone after another. What would that make the wayfarer? The thought with a cold breeze – a harbinger of autumn – readies to shiver him. There will be no such sacrifice, he hopes. He will remain for her regardless of what ails them. That is his vow, after all: everything for her, everything more to be with her.

And what if the choice is not his? What then? The wayfarer curses his thoughts. It is not a question he can answer. He will do all he can, but he is only one, not an army, not an immortal. He has no friends, no relatives, nothing but the love of a mare. Perhaps that is better, that he should have no legacy to soil. No son may curse his poverty, no daughter his decisions. The artist, of course, will remember him, but she may have a life without him. That is not what matters, he scolds. She will miss him, regardless of what remains. Perhaps then, he must simply hope she dies first, or they somehow die together, so she will not be left to weep. What nature of thought is this? It is now that he realizes he has lost himself, and is ashamed. She is no weakling. She lives on as he does.

It will not be permanent, he hopes. His mother has always told him of the place afterward. It has been put out of his mind a long time, as he has always considered himself somewhat invincible in his vibrant youth. Now, he wonders if it is truly there, if his parents can see what he has become, if his father still coughs violently, or his mother falls to tears. Then, it would simply be a matter of waiting for both of them. Then, they would live on in a happier world. Would there be anything to discover there, though? Would it merely be a single place, to only be discovered once? He is confounded, and decides he will find out one day, far away.

Can he give his life for hers? Of course. He would give everything to remain with her. What if he had to give that up too? It troubles him, but he holds the question against himself. He decides that he cannot bear to leave her. He is not his father’s father, not nearly so noble. It hurts him to admit so, but he feels justified in his admission. He has tried, on the rooftop, and he knows now he never could have taken off. He is simply not stallion enough to do it. Perhaps that is his fault. He is so fond of love, of discovery, that he cannot leave it alone. He does not understand the harm he brings to the objects of his affection. His only consolation is that the decision is hers as well.

The name reveals itself, now. He remembers it, and pays tribute to the one that can sacrifice love.

XXV

And what is found on the canvas now? Strokes of a pure white align to form the awesome iridescent scale. A stallion of blue coat and black mane sits before it in reverent silence, looking to spy a name in the stark, fiery lettering, which spans the scale from side to side, top to bottom in fine, ambiguous strokes of a bright amber. However, that is where the scene ceases familiarity.

All around the stallion is a colorful blur, thicker than even the amalgam of Canterlot, which streaks in a circle around the monument. No individual form may be found, and there is no more trace of the cobblestone, lost underneath. The buildings surrounding the monument are as they were first. Some are spotted with gaping holes, the brick structure disheveled and crumbling under stress. Scorch marks stretch up along the taller buildings, at least the ones that can withstand the heat. Many bricks are colored pitch black, cracked open or even crumbled, despite their birth in the fire. The sky is lined with both the fires of sunset as well as the fires of battle, many high-reaching towers set aflame. Buildings found whole in the present are found crumpled and abused. The sky is filled with smoke and falling ash.

And yet, at the center rests the pearly white scale, with its flowers and its observer, calm as the night, though the world dies around. It is strange how a war is reduced to beauty by time. Perhaps it is unfair that only the best is remembered, that sacrifice is only as good as its legacy. It must be remembered that the fire burns only the names on the monument, not the observers. As powerful as it may be presently, fire itself is only temporary. It is its mark that dwells far beyond its lifetime, the black char that coats the walls, the sooty rain and smoke that choke the air. The monument is beautiful, yes, but will the observers always know the names that adorn it?

The artist knows it is not her happiest work, though it is by far one of her most inspired. She has been told as a child, the stories of Fillydelphia and Manehattan, though they took on a much more fantastical, heroic place in her mind. She wonders what the wayfarer looks for in the enormous scale, if there lies a family member etched in fire. No family of hers fought, though she reveres the time all the same. She knows at least her own piece of turmoil, of hopelessness. Though war is not her walk, she trusts herself to depict just this piece of it. She has always adored the look of fire, constantly moving, vivid colors to paint. To capture fire in a painting is to only take a fraction of it. She is always sure to work for just the right flickering blend of colors, to match exactly how the flames would tilt in the wind.

She has once heard from a star-watching unicorn that not all fire is destructive, that some fires create. In her memory, he mentions something about how great fiery stars are like factories, but she understands not. She remembers another example, though, from her father, that forest fires make room for young trees to grow. All the proof she needs, though, is found in a candle. The others seem to overlook that fire, the fire solely to create light. She once painted in candlelight, just to catch a scene under a new moon. It was a special painting, only lit by stars. She remembers it was of a distant skyline. Canterlot, she thinks.

She wonders how a picture must look to one who has not seen the place. It might seem it were imagined or adapted. What if the place is changed beyond recognition? Perhaps Fillydelphia’s land has been painted before the city. She may have even seen such a painting, and not recognized it. Perhaps the past is as good as any fabrication, once it flickers away. Indeed, she cannot know what the fires over Fillydelphia looked like, and there are very few left that do. She returns to the fire. Try as she might, she cannot look at a candle for a mere moment and remember what the flame looked like. It is gone too quickly, replaced by another shape. Such a thought troubles her. How many other things can be forgotten in a mere moment? She cannot remember the precise arrangement of the stars. She cannot remember what phase the moon is in.

How much of that matters right now? None of it. Does the war matter then, once it is forgotten? When the last veteran expires, will the war simply cease to exist? The princess may remember, but how many others will? Perhaps a few grandsons will know of it; great-grandsons even, but what about after that? The war will be gone, nothing besides this enormous scale remaining. Then what? She cannot say. The memorial will mean nothing. Perhaps it will fall, be replaced by a building. Perhaps another war will take its place.

What will she be, then? When she is dead, what will be there to remember her? The wayfarer, perhaps, but after him? Perhaps a child, should they have one. How long will she be remembered, then? She cannot quite recall the name of her great-grandmother. Perhaps her art will be known. Art is just a bit more permanent. She likes to remember a time, a place, with a painting. It is not reality, but it is all she needs to recall the reality, everything she would feel in a place, the memories that drift along with a time. Perhaps her paintings will be her permanence, even if the original meaning should be lost. She could be happy with that. It is not immortality, but it is enough that her name should not be forgotten. She is kept alive by her mementos. The thought brings an ironic smile.

XXVI

Another canvas, with darker colors. The coal plant. A cast iron gate bars the way with thick, pitch-black lines in wide, sweeping curves. Behind, lit clearly and carefully, are the dim tones of the factory. Two large doors are found on either side, though no windows mar the walls’ surfaces. The building juts straight out of the ground, a typical rectangle, at least four hundred hooves long, two hundred wide, three hundred high, all plain black. It is simple, perhaps made by a mathematician rather than an architect. It appears to be made of brick, albeit a strange black variety. Great black cylinders rise out of the left, right, and center of the massive box, which narrow a bit up until their tops, at which they become amorphous shafts of billowing blacks and greys. Farther up, the plumes meet in a great cloud, with a flat top. The cloud is nearly as wide as the canvas.

And yet, the paint stops there. All the space between is an empty white, and it brings tears. Perhaps it is enough to remember the factory itself, but that is but half of the factory. The rest is found in the city itself, sadly unconsidered. So, what happens to a painting left unrealized? It merely becomes a memory in itself, perhaps a bit sourer. It is not often a piece must be given up. It should hardly become routine. The blank canvas is both the love and hate of an artist. The only difference between the emotions is time. This blankness, to the artist, is rather disappointing.

However, it is for the wayfarer. She will forgive him. Indeed, it is rather gloomy. Perhaps it simply brings back too much for him. As much as she loves the task a canvas demands, she loves him more. She gives it all up, lets go her brushes into the open sky for him, just to see a single new horizon with him. The paint may spill across every last blank canvas as her last works. They are only a single part of her, and though she should mourn them, she has mourned before. That is her vow, after all. All for him. Still, she hopes it is not a decision she must always make.

She remembers it all the more, now. She needs no painting. She still does it for the beauty, for the joy of capturing a scene in full splendor, or in this case, full melancholy. It is a tradition all her own. White is meant for the sketchbook, not the canvas. After all, no artist sets out to capture just a piece of what they see. Everything that finds the imagination must be painted. To draw the sun one day cannot help her remember what she says that day, how she feels. It is just a sun. Disconnected. So, it bothers her. She knows it will subside, though. She may still show it to him, when they leave. If anything, it is even less malevolent without its surroundings. He may still make amends with what is already there.

She must not hold it against him, she understands. That is cruel. There are plenty other venues to paint. She may toss this old canvas away, one day. Perhaps, though, it is worth keeping. Indeed, she can still find something in it. It reminds her of her commitment, that no painting will be worth what she has found in him, what he has done for her. That sounds all right, from where she stands. So, it remains in her mind, a small sacrifice. Just a bit of blank canvas. That is all.

There are many whites that can be found in the world. The purest are the stars, then the moon, born of the purest, brightest whites, all which the Earth only ever sees a piece or reflection of. There are white flowers, roses. Half of every book is white. Snow and ice are a wonderful clear white. It is not necessarily an ugly or disappointing color. It is often considered pure, like a pearl. There can be beauty in white, like the Milky Way, or the marble spires of Canterlot. It is said to be every color at once, but the artist should argue otherwise. She once mixed all her oils, as a child, and only received from it a putrid brown.

White is a mere lack of color. White is pure color as easily as a foundation is pure architecture. If white were all colors at once, she should sell her blank canvasses. They should already hold every scene on Earth, every memory of the buyer, every memory her own, just all at once. It just takes some picking-through, a bit of selective vision, and the viewer should see what they want, she could say. That amuses her. Theorists may talk all they like. There is not so much purity in white as there is vacancy. She will always prefer a bit of color to liven up a sunrise, a bit of glittering sunlight in her snow, a bit of amber luster in her pearls, a bit of red in her rose. That is part of why she loves the wayfarer. He is so lovely to paint, with his vibrant blue against sheer black.

The colors underneath are wonderful as well, she thinks. He truly does love her, first and foremost. He could give up his travels for her. After all, he has been ready before to give up his love just to save her heart. He is love, in that moment. He is all she has ever wanted to love. Indeed, what is a bit of white canvas to love? It is like a short disagreement, easily forgotten, easily forgiven. In the end, she will always choose him, as he chooses her. She remembers, for a moment, what he has allowed her to give up, what he lets her say farewell to. That is something no simple painting can amount to, she knows.

XXVII

A new day dawns, and the sun is low in the sky. The sky is a cool blue-white, and despite the brighter rays, the air is still cold. Far in the background, the Fillydelphian haze is abandoned. The young oak stands once more, bare this time. On the ground are scattered bright smudges of red, orange, and yellow. They are brighter, perhaps, but they have left the tree without its cloak. The wayfarer stands among the leaves, once more figuring what can be found in the lonely oak. The artist stands behind, her eyes soft with the look of concern.

There is something more to find here, he knows. It is just beyond the reach of his mind, just beyond his mortal comprehension. The cold wind readies him to shiver, and he regrets crushing the soft leaves underhoof. He has already paid it tribute, but he has missed something, he thinks, that can yet be discovered here. It teases and taunts him, constantly floating around the edge of his senses. Why does it hide now? Perhaps he has lost something in his travels. He never thinks he has much to lose in the first place. Still, the tree accuses him now of being bare. Of what, the wayfarer knows not. Has he loved her any less? Absolutely not. There are emotions that demand solving in Fillydelphia. Now that he has resolved them, he may go on, start anew. He looks forward to the world with her. Already he sees the bright cityscapes, lit in even moonlight.

Yet still this tree confounds him. Perhaps it must be found upon a new revisiting. That disappoints him; he feels so close to finding it. It tries all of his patience, and he still searches his heart for the tree’s quarrel. If the wayfarer has love, what can he be missing? He decides he cannot yet answer that. Defeated, he resigns, committing to return another day, another time, for the question the tree poses to him is greater than any he has yet answered. As he sees the city behind, he affirms his resolution never to return. He will visit only for the tree. One day, he will be wiser. He always sees more when he revisits. That is his hope, at least.

What, then, is this meeting? Has he met the tree simply to be asked a question? Perhaps he may find the answer somewhere else. His journeys have never been particularly connected, but something, he senses, changes as he stares up at the pointed arms of the tree. He wonders if the tree has given the same quest to any other, or if he is alone in the search for an answer. The wayfarer realizes he is afraid of what he will find. The strange request has left him curious, but something about the tree, perhaps its fallen leaves, tells the wayfarer that the answer may not be pleasant. He wishes that, just for once, a wisdom other than love could be sweet. He has met patience, destiny, legacy, beauty, and love, and only love has left him without some bitter taste. Thankfully, love has been enough, so far, to make up for the transgressions of the rest. He thinks back to his vow, and smiles. Always, he thinks, for her alone.

He is looking for something, she thinks. He cannot find it. Whatever it is, it troubles him, and his eyes are searching restlessly for an answer. Was it an answer? She believes so. She wonders if he will ask her, if he even knows the question. She must ask, help him search. Yet, she hears no such call from the tree. The whispers have stopped with the leaves, but the benevolence still remains for her. Her mind halts for a moment, and the realization dawns on her. This question he must answer alone. Her heart sinks. More than helplessness, she hates being unable to help. It makes her feel weak, uncaring, though it is outside of her power.

Quite a bit is outside of her power, is it not? She is of no import to any but the wayfarer. Does that distress her? Yes, she decides. Would it be any different if her art were discovered, acclaimed? Not by much, she thinks. She may be loved and praised, but she commands no kingdom, moves no mountains. All she truly controls is herself, and that – she bitterly laughs to herself – varies. She cannot even help her love in crisis. All she has is her heart and her money for him. It is not an issue, she tries to affirm, but the thought dies quickly. Of all the things she could give him, it is the thing he has not truly needed. Is her heart enough? The better part of herself smiles, and she realizes she is a fool. Of course it is enough. She may not work the question with him, but she can surely ease his worry. Worry has always been a plague, she thinks. Never has she known it to lengthen her life or solve a problem. Surely, it gives her no calm.

However, as she takes in the colors of the leaves, the tree does have a last message for her. Something approaches, something that both of them must be prepared for. It comes quietly, brightly. The supposition floats about her mind a bit, and baffles her. She knows only one answer that fits the leaves’ riddle, and she knows not how to understand it. Will she tell him? No, he has enough to worry about. She must wait. Still, just the idea brings her a sense of excitement, and her heart leaps for a moment. It it true? Time will tell, she knows. Now, though, a simple joy threatens to spread across her face, to break her concern. Perhaps it will ease his as well.

The tree gives its mandate, and so falls into a deep sleep. So, autumn has begun; the leaves have fallen.

XXVIII

The two lie in the colored leaves, now, and only the base of the tree is visible. Bright yellows and oranges contrast against their soft browns and vibrant blues. A map is stretched out over the leaves in tan parchment paper. All across it stretch small depictions and names of Equestrian cities, cast in light colors. The map is worn, some of the colors beginning to fade away, though its dark inked lines remain true. The wayfarer wears a thoughtful smile, and his hoof points to a depiction on the map of marble spires, underwrit by “Canterlot” in scrawling lettering, clearly a unicorn’s writing. She raises an eyebrow, but traces of a smile still touch the edges of her lips. She agrees.

She knows not what lies behind those excited eyes. She is glad enough to see them excited again, she thinks. They still hold those handsome curious flecks in them, the bits of green in the blue. They are growing, she thinks. Although they may not be his best memories, she is happy to know the colors of his past. She finds hope in it, if anything. He has come from such gloomy places, and still leads a wonderful and bright life. She likes to be a part of it, to help him overcome what has passed, to guide him through what is to come. Is that her duty? A mere part of it, she thinks.

What is his, then? The same. Her own past is quite resolved already, though. All he must help her with is the future. The present, too, she supposes. It is the first he smiles in a while, she thinks. She has always thought he was a wayfarer for joy. Now, she understands each city holds its own emotion, its own part of his heart. He visits a city to feel each emotion at its strongest. He revisits when he feels he has perhaps lost his grasp of an emotion, when he must visit a state of mind once more, when he is wiser. That is the heart of wayfaring, where the scenery is colored with a feeling, not a shade.

She has never met a stallion so emotional, she thinks. Her father has always been reserved, at least visibly. Of course, she has never made an effort to meet any other stallion in full. Perhaps that is her fault. Still, the vibrance she sees now, she saw when they first met. No other has seemed so. Perhaps it is that his colors are just the right fit, the lively blue, the aquamarine tint the eyes take on as a whole. What, then, would his mane and tail say, with their deep blacks? It is his past, perhaps, but he carries it with him still. So, what is the mane? She loses herself in thought before the epiphany strikes. It is as hers is in its dark shades. Once adorned with the feather, now it is hers.

She cannot help but blush. He knows it all along. Half of his color is her, and half of hers his. That is the kind of discovery she looks forward to when the sun rises, she thinks. She discovers the two of them together, not just him or her. That is the source of love, at least for them. The self always changes, so there will always be more to discover, always more reason to love. She finds that her doting passion escapes her now. She can feel it as she gazes into his eyes, that her joy flows out into him. It is one of the simplest ways to share, just a meeting. She cherishes the moment, paints it on her heart.

He knows he can find it among the marble spires with her. She sets the last visit apart, yes, but it was a short visit, and there is something he has forgotten to pay tribute to. Canterlot is the first place he met something exactly like him, singular in its simultaneous splendor and shambles. It is a part he must revisit, for he knows there he will find his answers. He looks forward to showing it to her, though he will wait for her to notice it first. She will, he knows. She has an eye for the center of his feeling. That is what he loves to see in her: she understands exactly what he finds in the cities, even in her first visits.

She is a natural wayfarer, he thinks, and smiles inside. She seems unsure of Canterlot, though she is curious enough, he thinks. He can tell by her slightest smile. She is ready to trust his judgment. Her trust for him seems boundless, and it flatters him. He is lucky to have found such a wonderful companion. Truly, he thinks, it cannot be luck. As well as he can pretend it is, he knows that no luck can arrange such a meeting. Only fate’s manipulation is so delicate, so fine-tuned.

He sees a special sparkle in her eyes, and her face fills with color. She has found something. Her joy flows into him, and his own smile cannot help but grow. She knows the heart behind the feather now. Her brown eyes take on a luster, and he feels the need to embrace her. He has wondered awhile if she understands, and now he knows. She has found one of his first bright discoveries, reborn. The fire of their heart glows bright, and the two are drawn together, urged on to a kiss. He wonders if she knows how bright her eyes shine. He resolves to tell her, for she deserves to know. The feather rests in the midst of curly black locks, and in the morning light, it fits all too well, he thinks. There is passion, but it is not unfounded, like the passionate colors of flowers or fires. Their passion, he thinks, is far more wondrous. It is not only of bright colors, but muted color underneath.

XXIX

A familiar scene, with grassy plains, and a circlet of mountains, surrounding one alone. A bright city adorns its side, its colorful spires and domes striking a familiar chord. The sun lies at noon’s mark, casting short shadows and even light over the landscape. The gilded city glows with white and gold, once more promising the beginning of a journey. From this side of the mountain can be seen a small village at its base, far less grand, though a part of the city all the same. It is composed of wooden browns and squared sections of golden grains and soil. The sky holds the same clear blue, cloudless and familiar. In its midst fly the two, their wings at full span, gliding towards the glimmering city with ease. Their bags float behind them in the wind, and their black manes and tails catch the wind in curls and waves. They both wear blissful smiles, and look straight ahead to the wondrous towers.

He feels the need to count his blessings in this moment. She, of course, is one. There is his freedom. What else is there? Perhaps his map, he chuckles to himself. There is a world to explore, though he supposes that is not his alone. What does that leave? He has himself, his love, and the world, and to have so few seems strangely simplistic to him. Yet, he thinks there are very few things that could ever bring him more joy; only one, in fact. His eyes glitter ever so slightly, and he feels a certain rush of energy surge through him.

He can never grow tired of Canterlot. In his lifetime, he has never explored it in full. He can if he so chooses, though he finds it much more suiting to experience the city bit by bit. It leaves far more to see when he revisits, quite a bit more to do than see a popular spot or two. As satisfying as his revisitings always are, there should always be more reason to return than simply to return. If he has no other reason, he wanders the landscapes between cities, or simply finds an entirely new one. So far, it has worked fantastically; he has never once been stopped by the daunting figure of having nowhere else to go. So, Canterlot always just has a few more streets to discover for the first time, the rest to rediscover. What he will do once he has seen it all, he knows not. After all, wayfaring demands very little foresight. In fact, all it really demands is a heart that wants to see something new. The rest is left to the beholder.

Strange. It is her first time revisiting. She has understood the first discoveries so far, but she wonders if she will share the same joy as he in rediscovery. She has always loved the golden streets, though. She doubts she could ever get tired of such a beautiful place. It lends itself well to the canvas. The wayfarer says he knows a place for them to visit, and she feels a happy glow about her. She always likes surprises, especially the ones she can capture. She looks onto the endless spires and gildings; no, she has not seen all of it, but she will, one day. She remembers the frontiers of the map. One day, she will know each one of them, in full detail, because of him. She imagines the paintings she will make, and the memories alongside. It is a golden future ahead of her, she believes. She looks forward to it all the more, because she has him to share it with, though he likely knows each place already. So many years of wayfaring he has behind him, yet he still looks forward to every destination, like a child that never gets tired of sweets.

How far does he see? She might ask him. On the surface, it would seem like the decision of destination is made on a whim, the moment it is asked. However, his decision is so certain, so solid, that it seems to have been made months or years in advance. Does he predict the feelings he wishes to feel, or is it just coincidence? Perhaps there is prediction to it, but it may also simply be his whim. Perhaps he would have just the same excitement to switch around and head to Manehattan. She has always let him decide; he seems to know the best places to spend their time anyway. When she has seen enough of the world, when she has her own cities to revisit, they will decide together. For now, she is content to ride along.

The archways of Canterlot hold in them a peculiar shadow, their gildings rendered dull when shaded behind. The city is dense, and as intently as either may look upon it, they cannot yet see what lies within. The windows are shadowed, and so the city is only an exterior, like a facade. From the sky to the street there are several discoveries to be made, hopes to be found, but the two enter merely for a view, a memory, and a feeling. The world often gives more than any would expect. Out of sprouts come trees; out of cocoons hatch butterflies, out of sparks come great blazes. Indeed, reality has its own way of exaggerating. Their love, perhaps, is one of many cases. What was first a simple spark in his eyes has become boundless compassion and the will to understand her. Out of a nervous blush has blossomed infinite grace and a comforting joy for him. Out of their fiery passions is born another, and their exploration seems only to end on some distant horizon, unthinkable and irrelevant. The wayfarers are concerned with the present, and the gifts it brings.

Deep within, she feels a soft newer glow. It has been faint, but now she knows it is there. Soon, he will feel it with her.

XXX

Many suns set, and the city is asleep. The two are found on the street, and the nights are beginning to grow colder. The typical white walls, made of buildings, rise all around, and they find themselves at a dead end in the street, at which stands a singular tower. It carries the same whites as the buildings around, though the building’s speckling of faded paint makes it resemble the moon’s splotchy texture. The tower rises four storeys upwards, and although each floor has a window or two, only the single window at the top has no boards over it. The building is fairly wide, perhaps twenty-five to thirty hooves in diameter.

The awnings are long faded, and are held together by mere frayed strings, weaker even than gossamer thread, once a lovely deep red. The tower ends with a conical roof, and through the upper window drifts a curtain of faded blue, marked with holes from the sun’s slow fires. Far above the tip of the spire floats a circular void, the barely-perceptible form of a new moon. The easel is set up, the scene’s colors beginning to take root in the canvas, though not yet completed. Her eyes are closed, and color has risen to her cheeks, the brush set down on the easel’s rack. The wayfarer embraces her from behind, around her shoulders, and rests his head just beside hers, as if to see, in this moment, exactly what she might see. She places her hooves over his, and the two are met in a keen silence, a peace. At the base of her belly, a small bulge begins to form, just barely perceptible.

She has chosen to paint the place, without even his prompting or notice. She has picked it out, knowing exactly that it is his favorite. There is something greater that can be found in an aged building. It is like the experience of an older , an abundance of something more that shines brighter to the trained eye than the moon at night. The tower has a story to it, he knows, but he cannot yet discern it. It can be sensed, but not seen. He enjoys the mystery it holds. One day, he will find the story. Perhaps, he thinks, he will write it down, just so that he can never forget. It pulls him, and though he knows there are no occupants, he does not wish to enter. Perhaps there is something yet sacred, that he wishes not to break. He will enter another day, he assures himself. Perhaps when there is nothing more to find in the world. The sentiment makes him chuckle inside, that he should ever see all of this wide world.

The embrace warms him, and he can smell the sweet scent of her curly locks. He can just see the tip of the feather, poking out from behind her ear. It is her inner fire that warms him, and as the two embrace, he feels time slow, for just a moment. His heart ceases to beat, and his eyes go blank. He just feels her, how the two of them are. They only grow closer, as the year ticks on through its seasons. It is already a full summer they have traversed, and the fall nears its equinox.

He is ready for a winter with her, with this hearth’s fire. He is ready to shelter her from the cold, and to keep his own fire strong, that she may stay warm. Against the breeze they find in each other their warm fire He feels their joined heart, and explores still the parts of hers. Of all, her hope is the greatest. Though she may be of a shyer type, she always carries hope for another day. He grants her that liberty, he thinks, that freedom of self. He lends himself to her, that she may not be afraid to speak her mind, though he has become excellent at reading her regardless. Like the embrace they are held in, much is left unsaid, that needs no longer be said. In her, he finds his own hope, a hope for a horizon that he will not have to spend alone. She is a mare that he may share his world with; that is all he can ask.

Her heart leaps in surprise, and she feels the familiar rush of passion. His embrace never grows weak or lifeless. She can always feel a bit of him flow into her, as with his eyes. It is a calm passion that passes between them, like a small brook that she cannot seem to find the end of. She holds him tight, and feels the warmth against the cold autumn night. She loves the season, but she has not often spent the colder half outside. How has he ever endured it alone? It matters not. She remains, and will remain for him. Behind her closed eyes begin her own flecks of gold among the shots of walnut color. She is at peace, she thinks. She rests in her love’s embrace, and feels the first inklings of new life forming within her. At the edges of her eyes are formed two happy tears, for all that has gone absolutely right. Hers is a life of the utmost perfection, as far as she will ever see.

She loves the look of the tower. It strikes her as something beautiful not in spite of its decay, but because of it. Regardless of its cracks and fades, it stands on like a monument, though she knows not what of. Perhaps the story is theirs, to find beauty in something, regardless of how many times it is seen or visited, regardless of what ails or destroys it. The wayfarers find beauty in whatever is seen. After all, anything that the eyes may find has a story, and every story has a message for its listeners. She wonders how their story appears, to one outside of their heart.

XXXI

A calm, now. The marble white of Canterlot forms a series of arches, which stretch on like a long hallway, though one side is left without a wall, exposed to the night. The floor is hewn of smooth, cold stone. Floral patterns creep along the inner wall like vines. The two rest under the arcade, laying down, she on her side, and he on his stomach. He holds his ear up against the bulge of her belly, his eyes brimming with tears and excitement. She bears a look of wonderful bliss, a calm smile on her face, and her eyes glimmering with tears of her own.

He is overcome. All at once, he hears the smallest percussion, and all of his love floods over, his passion surges in a torrent, and his first sense of nurturing love, the fatherly care, sweeps over him. He realizes that he has never been responsible for another, truly. He has no siblings, and his love has always been his equal, no filly that must be watched. It is something entirely different, to be made caretaker, and in the faint heartbeat he experiences a transformation. His love is not split between the two, but instead amplified. The two have made something more fantastic than any discovery or painting, and he loves her all the more, though he cannot place a sort of reason or value to it. Life is indeed his grandest discovery, far outshining the stars that shine above. Together, they bring a sense of fulfillment previously unfathomable. That is why his love is boundless. There is one more heart to join, one more hope brought in to their slur of happy revelations.

His excitement is contagious, she thinks. Her eyes are already watery with joy, as she feels its faint heartbeat join with hers. It is an astounding quiet, though she cannot hear it above her spinning emotions. Joy and happiness swirl, but alongside are fear, anticipation. She knows her doting love, not motherly love. The sentiment has never seemed natural until now. A worry gnaws at her mind: they know not how to provide for it. She may sell her pieces, but that is hardly enough to support the duo. Among three, the food would be meager rations. Now, the future is not so well-set, not free to decide in the moment, and it frightens her.

She has hardly felt its budges, and yet already she fears for the child. It grows in a poorer womb, with hardly the privilege she has known. It strikes her with guilt, that she can so foolishly lead her life with hardly even a glimpse to the far future, to the manifestations in the distance that threaten to shatter her. She brings the child into a penniless family, and she knows not who to blame for such a mistake. They have no roots, no home, no hearth for the child. All they have are two bags, one of trinkets, one of paintings.

A new realization strikes him: this must be the end of his wayfaring. The thought is first deflected, as if entirely unthinkable, but it will not lie down. It strikes him once more, and again, and again, until he is subdued by it. It will be his last discovery, this new life. He is not so foolish as to believe he can destroy this child’s life merely to continue his passions. It is over, very soon. Is it an exchange, or a development, he wonders. He has never considered that his destiny could ever include remaining still. He has nothing to give his children, merely a couple of petty stories, places he has visited over and over, stories that cannot simply be told, but must be felt to be understood.

He has nothing for his children. She only has her art, and that cannot provide for a child. The distress compiles, and he is overcome once more, this time by a dread and worry. There is no moon to guide him, and he is left absolutely without direction. Is there any but forward? Time certainly will not wait. This future is the absolute wrong kind of uncertain, the kind that cannot be molded by a single decision, nor decided immediately. The wayfarer needs a plan. What he would give for a newer map.

But perhaps it is for the best they grow out of it, she thinks. They may have their fun, but the truth of the matter is, they cannot stay uprooted. They must choose a place, one to stay, to raise a child into the world. What mother could teach her child to fly before it can even stand? She needs her roots as well, she thinks. Perhaps it will be the traction she needs for her art to gain notice. Though the wayfarer is the fairest audience, he already hears the phrases that her art should speak. As much as she loves their carefree travels, her art must be seen by more than one.

She has forgotten her aspirations with him, though she must retake them, for the sake of her child, for herself. It disappoints her that she should give up a part of that passion. She has just learned to love, and now she must learn it anew. It hurts her to ground the wayfarer, but at the same time, he is filled with such joy. Does he not yet realize what it will mean to him? In the heartbeat lies the death of his revisitings, the growing of roots. What will he do, unable to fly away each day to a new venue, confined to a single home? Despite all she knows of him, she cannot say. Such an answer is elusive.

The wayfarer remembers the tree’s sacred challenge. He has found the question, now. He has forgotten the demands of love: what he must give up for each new heart. He lies bare in the moonlight, unable to cover the void in himself, and is hopelessly ashamed.

XXXII

Still they continue. The sheer face of Canterlot Mountain rises in the background, steep and bold in greys and browns. They stand on earth, now. Their lofty travels above are ended. Scattered randomly about the landscape are small shacks and large fields of amber grain. The shacks are humble and wooden, with a select few rising over two storeys. Small unlit lamps hang from hooks on the walls, and no trace of stone or metal may be found. Small dirt paths run through the buildings haphazardly, reflecting only the paths most trodden.

A couple of bright blurs take form in the background, though none engage the two. They have their own businesses to tend to. The easel, once more, is set, and the earthen colors have begun to take shape over the page. The scene slowly comes to life in bright greens, soft golden browns, and the brown slurs of wood. He sits beside her, silently, patiently.

She likes the quaint village, she thinks. The colors lend themselves well to her imagination, and though it is a simplistic place, its heart runs far deeper than the roots of stone or concrete. She likes to feel the soft grass, the depression of soil under her hooves. These people have not yet thrown off their connections to the land, and she doubts they ever will. Although some may think it depressing to live quite literally under the high vaults of luxury, these ponies hold no affections for the useless gildings and arcades and paved venues. They merely enjoy being a part of their earth.

The artist comes upon an interesting realization: she has never quite had the same affection for the earth. It has been beautiful, and occasionally inspiring, but she has never looked to it for comfort, for any sort of meaning. She has never had roots in the earth, and at the thought she gives a silent ironic chuckle. She looks for roots in cities and others, not in the earth. She cannot overcome the sense of humor to it, though her smile makes it more difficult to paint. Now she has lost her focus, and looks for the spot she had left off.

Every once in a while, he remains quiet, she remarks. The bright smile fades not, but the words end. She likes the short quiets. They are like lulls in the storm of her emotion. It is a fair storm, she thinks, but still it confuses her, to feel so much at once. Her love overcomes her at many points, so she is happy when there is just a single moment to sit still, to be silent. She can stop, think, reflect on everything that passes. He has seen it in his eyes, he understands that something will have to change for their child. That is likely what he is silent for, she thinks. He knows not how to continue. As she feels the small heartbeat, she thinks there must be a closing, a last journey. She will tell him that she is up for a final lap.

And yet perhaps it need not be the end, at least not permanently. Children grow fast, she thinks. When they have grown enough, they may continue. That would make her career futile again, she thinks. Forget her career. She thinks now, her art shall never be worth this time with him, no matter how she improves, no matter what power she wields in the brush, he will always mean more to her. Is that all right? It is her resolution, so that is as right as it should ever be. All she needs are them. It is only him, her, and the child now. Her smile grows, and once more, she has lost her place on the canvas. She still enjoys to paint, though. After all, it is her greatest talent. Her greatest material talent, she corrects.

She has painted more with him. It is due to the quick changes of scenes, yes, but she senses there is something more beyond that. She is more inspired with him, yes. That adds to it. There is something more, though. Over the few months, she has grown so much. She has cast off her inhibitions with him. For these months, she has been almost entirely happy. The ‘almost’ seems out of place, she thinks. Still, no relationship is perfect. Indeed, she has argued with him, though it falls out of her memories like sand through a sieve. In the end, only the happiness remains, and the rest is a vague afterthought.

He is ready to give all of it up. He wonders what job he will find. How simple it is to think of working, until he imagines being confined. It is for a greater good, he assures himself, though thoughts still haunt his mind, walking the same path each day, making trodden paths, seeing the same colors, feeling the same thoughts for the rest of his life’s span. It makes him feel constricted already, like he cannot even move from the spot where he sits without disrupting a fiber of his life, his child’s life. he revolts against himself. It is selfish. He has fulfilled his dreams already, seen a multitude of horizons and sunrises. Now it is time to ensure his child’s are met.

It is a wonderful life he leads, he decides. He will love the child more, he knows, once it arrives. He is merely unused to fatherhood. He has already felt the first echoes of a father’s joy. One day, in a few months, he will be happy to grow roots. Nothing else will feel so noble, so fulfilling, than securing the childhood that he was denied. Perhaps by seeing his son grow well, that last bit will fall into place, the final unresolved pieces of his own childhood. He will provide a father where there was previously dust, and she a mother where there was previously a shadow.

Slowly, in time, they meet the Earth.

XXXIII

They lie on the grass, the small shacks of Lower Canterlot and the high-rising spires of Upper Canterlot lost in the distance behind, left a happy memory, a first and last revisiting. A map is unfurled between them, and two hooves, one of brown and one of a vibrant blue mark different points on the map. Their eyes meet. Her almond circlets reflect a disappointment and resignation, while his own atolls are marked with concern and compromise. The sun arcs up, quite nearly at the height of noon, though as before it sees nothing that it lights. Her hoof marks on the map a ridgy triangle named underneath “Foal Mountain,” and his marks a vast expanse of blue, written “The Silver Sea.”

Her will to continue, to call for one last venture, has surprised him, but a lovely surprise it is. He likes the thought of enjoying one last adventure with her, before an entirely new embarkation comes to pass. They could meet one more new sunrise, see one last venue. The wayfarer knows a wonderful place, but she has suggested her own. He loves Foal Mountain, though he fears for her health. She wants to please him one last time, perhaps, but mountain climbing with child is a bit too risky, even for one with such bold color as the wayfarer. Besides, there are greater venues for the peace of Foal Mountain, and the Silver Sea is not nearly as remote as the mountain. It disappoints him to refuse her wish, especially on their final lap, but it is for her own good.

She has always loved the mountains, but as she feels the heartbeat against hers, she knows as soon as she feels the parchment under her hoof that the destination simply cannot be theirs. She has not visited the sea before, and looks forward to the opportunity. She is sorry that already the child limits their travels, but it is simply the way things must be. Perhaps she needs a calmer venue as well, something easier to take in. She has heard the ocean described to her before, merely sand and then an endless blue beyond. It does not sound particularly interesting to paint, she thinks. Merely two base colors; a third if she counts the sky. Perhaps a few clouds, and that is all. She hopes there is far more than can be described.

There will always be restrictions, he thinks, but they are but small sacrifices. Is not love just as easily found and sustained in a city as a frontier? Can a place truly suppress all of his love? He doubts it entirely. He will find a way to love even more, he thinks. He simply cannot understand it yet. He has always known his future self to figure things out. As always, he adjusts once he meets the challenges anew. Only then does he understand his new wisdom.

One day, he thinks, he will think himself a fool. It is a rather strange thought. After all, he yet knows no other way to think. In fact, he rather likes how he thinks now. Should he already consider himself a fool? Hardly. There will always be new wisdom to find, and only so much can be gathered at a time. It is not his fault if he cannot gather all of it at once. The child will bring to him an entirely new domain of understanding, he thinks. As always, it will begin foreign, and become familiar.

At least there is some sort of plan, for now. There is no void ahead of them. She likes having a plan, an itinerary. As artistic as she is, structure is soothing. She has heard that many artists find it restrictive, uninspiring to any decent artist. Perhaps she is happy to be inept, then, for structure to her just leaves her one less thing to fret about in the present. She needs not wonder where she will next go, what she will next paint. It is already determined, defined. They say inspiration cannot be forced or scheduled, but she paints just as well.

Perhaps it is just a matter of personage, and hers is merely a minority. Strange how even art can be covered in such dogma. Still, she wonders how she will continue to paint. It will no longer be a case of painting whatever seems interesting at first glance, for those will be quickly expended in her first months wherever they settle. Perhaps it is merely a matter of finding something new each day, a constant revisiting. Perhaps she will add more detail to the smudges of color that populate her cities. She will slowly learn their faces, she thinks. It would be an excellent change of style, perhaps to take the emphasis off of the environment, place more emphasis on its inhabitants. She has tried it with the wayfarer, though she doubts any but their child will catch the same detail in her art.

She will like the ocean, he thinks. He has a few good memories left there, though it has never been a place he wished to stay for long. It will be a calmer landscape, a place where they can rest, just a moment, before their new lives begin. He does not think he has ever understood the ocean; perhaps he will this time. He knows a nice clean beach, that none ever seem to find. They can catch their breaths, and just be calm for once. He has come to appreciate the calm much more with her. He has far more to think about in the few lulls of his travels, and he is happy to use them in full. He wonders if he will have any such lulls with the child. Perhaps during the night, he thinks. The night always seems to have the best moments of quiet. Though it is their last excursion, it need not be some grand finale. Often, he thinks, a calm serves far better.

XXXIV

Strangely, they walk now, wings tucked at their sides. A thin dirt path winds into the horizon near a small, winding river. The sky is a perfect clear blue, and the afternoon sun lends a keen warmth against the cool late-autumn breeze. Open, even fields of grass stretch out in either direction, some mountains breaking a faint mist far in the distance. They walk side by side, the bulge of her belly just a bit larger. They exchange some calm words, and suddenly their deep love seems no longer dominated by doting passion or momentary joy, but a calm, steady love and companionship.

It will be a long walk, she thinks. Their flights already take several days between cities, and the stretch of land between them and the Silver Sea may be flatter, but it is no shorter than any route they have taken before. Why does she worry? She cannot quite answer. She just feels like she should be worried about something, like she is a careless fool if she has nothing to worry about. She will grow out of it, she thinks, if she just gives it a bit of time. The foal still has a while to come. Stress can hardly help her at this point.

It will be a long calm between them. There may be moments of passion, she thinks, but she has only known the passion to spark in new venues, in bold changes of scenery. She has only known passion to spark when their pace is fast enough. Can passion coexist with their roots, when they grow them? It seems foolish to think it should die so quickly, but she cannot know until the time arrives. Perhaps there will always be that layer of uncertainty in their love. Will their love truly grow with time, as they say it does?

She thinks about it for a long while, then realizes that it is her choice. Whether her love grows is all within her power. The supposition catches her off guard, as she has never considered her love so much her choice as a natural feeling. Perhaps its repercussions were her choices, such as flying away with him, casting away her fears with him, but she has never known the love itself to be her choice. It is so fundamental, it seems beyond her control. Perhaps she has a better grasp of it now, what it should truly mean. She thinks to bring it up in their conversation. He always seems to have something revealing to say when she has a question stuck in her mind. If it truly is within her grasp, then she will make sure it grows. She will give it all of her effort.

Will she love him or the child more? There is a long pause. It will be him. She feels like either answer is unfair to the other, but there are things the wayfarer has done for her, has saved her from, that she does not believe the foal will equal. Perhaps her vision will change in time, but right now, she loves him much more. As curious as she is, she decides not to ask him the same question, at least not now. He will find his own answer soon enough, she thinks. In time, she thinks he will tell her of his own accord.

He has never known wayfaring from the ground. It is a far greater lull than the windy rush of flight. He could not converse with her easily between craning his head back and the buffets of wind. Now, the road is plain and steady, and she walks right at his side. It is strange he has never thought to travel by land. As he looks around, he has far longer to enjoy the scenery, and from a far different perspective. It is much more enjoyable. He doubts he will ever appreciate flying as much after this calm. Perhaps the child will be the same, a happy calm for a long while, at least location-wise.

He is no fool who thinks having a child will be simple and quiet. There will be plenty of excitement, plenty for him to do, but it will all be familiar, far slower than his typical pace. It will still be a relative calm. A smile stretches over his face, and his fear dissipates. Already the calm of the ocean has found him. Indeed, there is much he yet does not know. He has never thought such a profound calm could lie so plainly just below him, in all of his travels. In hindsight, it seems easy enough to see, and already, he considers his old self a fool, and a hint of amusement joins his smile.

No, he has not learned all he can from wayfaring, but he doubts there is anything he can find in a horizon that cannot be found in the foal, in the artist. There will be time to learn all that he must about his life, about himself, even with roots. Perhaps one day, when the foal has grown, he will go wayfaring again. Will it still bring him the same joy? He looks at the same map that has adorned his flank since the phoenix. Perhaps it means more than just a literal wayfaring. Perhaps it is his heart that he must explore, not the plain world. If so, he has only explored one or two venues his whole life. It disappoints him that he still knows so little about himself, in all of his travels. The foal is something new to explore, he knows. It soothes his fears, of fatherhood, of roots, just to know he will still be an explorer. He looks forward to the Silver Sea. It will not be his last adventure, just the end of his first – perhaps his second – wayfaring. All that presents itself is a new horizon.

Though the road stretches far, they seem to have quite enough to discuss together.

XXXV

Colors find themselves on a canvas, though they do not take full sway over the white. A tower stands tall against a vague outline of the night sky, taken away from its companions in Upper Canterlot, affixed to the canvas alone. The night is shaded similarly to her most recent depiction of Canterlot, though invisible stars still give the tower a lovely halo of cool white, and in the sky, she has still depicted the new moon, though it stands just as alone as the tower itself, without its companion stars. A gap of white sits between the two objects, though just enough to detach them. The nights colors are dull, as before, though not nearly so heartless.

The building is painted in a grey, as the faded white meets the low nighttime lighting. The trace cracks are marked well in a darker shade, spidering their ways around, over the surface of the tower, like a floral design all its own, a meaningful negative finery. A small wooden door is found at the tower’s base, nearly hidden by the night’s dim shade. A small metal handle is found on the door, though it is hidden a bit by the boards that cross over in front, nailed on either end to the wall. Regardless, the entire element is found in remarkable detail, in every bit beautiful to the artist.

The detail continues further up on the tower, in the windows, similarly boarded, with decayed shutters. In some spots, the viewer can see a glimpse of the building’s insides, notions of a grandfather clock, a cabinet with broken china plates, though the rest is obscured. The building grows thinner farther up onto the next level, with two more visible windows, which are, as well, boarded. The shutters only reveal a void beyond in these instances, meeting dead walls or shadow. On the final floor is depicted a single window, without boards, its shutters opened, and a blue decrepit curtain floating out in a faint autumn wind. The curtain is riddled with holes, faded out of its original colors, having long lost its luster.

Still, it is strange to find a single window open on the tower. Inside can be seen some trace details, what seems like a set of books on a shelf, all faded a bit, though not nearly so much as the curtain. It is very curious, especially to the artist. Still, she paints them all the same, in the greatest detail that can be mustered. The starlight illuminates the curtain well, as it sticks out astray from the rest of the building. Just a bit further up is the roof of the tower, which narrows slower and slower as it approaches the top, producing an inward curve, and a sharp-looking needle at the top, a rather neat point.

It is perhaps the most interesting thing she has ever found in Canterlot, the tower. It is one of the few things that actually does match her style, the amplification of the trace decays. The palace hardly lends itself so well. Here, on the tower, she has a wonderful set of flaws to accentuate, to find beauty in. Under the new moon, the building can be cast in exactly her light, the soft light which casts just enough shadows for the cracks. Perhaps it is a shame that the buildings surrounding should not be painted, though they are not of the same nature. Perhaps it would allow a contrast, but they may also muddle the meaning. It is incomplete, and will remain such. It is regrettable, but not nearly so much. As always, it remains her choice, just as much as love is her choice.

She should have loved to look inside, but it is not her place, she knows. Just so, the knowledge of the inside can add no more to the painting of the outside. They are different entirely. Just the small glimpse will do. Perhaps it will spark her same curiosity in another. That is all she asks for, a reaction and an audience. That is all she expects, really. The wayfarer shares her curiosity, but also her restraint. Even their adventures have bounds. Some things must be waited for. She knows already she cannot understand what lies within. Perhaps one day. Perhaps their child will see it.

Some mysteries must remain so. The mind enjoys curiosity nearly as much as discovery. After all, there must always be something new for each revisiting. When they know the world better, then they shall visit, she thinks. It always traces back to experience, whether it is the subject of wayfaring or love or art. So, the curtains remain solitary, the tower strangely vacant.

The beauty of any revisiting, of course, is time. Every bit of every city feels time’s toll, and so there is something new at each corner. The longer a building is left alone, the greater the discoveries are found within. The tower is like a gleaming gem to the couple, but it will only be so as long as they leave it alone, just as flowers must be left alone to bloom. No such intrigue can be found in the buildings around it, for they have not lived long enough to collect stories. They too, bloom with age. Their love takes on more beautiful forms, their bonds grow stronger, sometimes without their notice. It is a more constant discovery, something far more visible. It will bloom in full, one day, as odd as it may seem, and that is where the analogy of the flower shall be lost. Perhaps when one flower has bloomed, another will bloom in turn. Then, they will be ready to see what rests above.

So, it is better that the tower remain alone with the new moon. They make a fair couple, a past and a present. The rest still has yet to meet a harsh future. Only in a crucible may be found the purest beauties of meaning, the purest hearts.

XXXVI

But another set of colors find another canvas, equally incomplete. Though all the correct colors show, only one or two are fully represented. They are the greens and the greys. A field of calm grasses takes form, and stretches from left to right, and forward up until the mountain. Then, they fade in favor of a stony grey, which causes this painting to be her only one without a sky. It reaches up, and its grey-tan details are well-represented, despite their vagueness in reality. The field and the mountain are full in depiction.

However, those grasses in square fields, the golden grains, are nearly vacant. Their colors form at the edges of the green grasses, along with brown markings, where fence posts may have risen. White takes the place of each building in the village, though brown smudges still border the green, as if the buildings and fields have been taken, and the borders are the few remnants of the strange catastrophe. The ponies, as well, are absent, though no such outlines take their place. They have not been planned in the first place. There is only the bare earth, and the mountain’s own anti-horizon. The rest is left uncertain.

Many look to the earth for comfort. In many occasions, it happens to be the one true ground. Buildings are built on a foundation for support, but the foundation is in the ground. Even those of Canterlot find their strength in the earth. They are built into the great cantilever, which is built into the side of a mountain, which is founded upon the earth. The clouds come from oceans and lakes, which rest on the earth. Perhaps it is out of a strange expectation that the earth should always remain solid, despite the contradictions that quicksand and sinkholes may suggest.

Though soil with every step sinks a small bit, buildings somehow stand tall without sinking down in the same proportion. Though sand caves beneath a single step, it may carry the weight of an ocean. Somehow, the greater the weight, the more accepting the earth is. Perhaps it is a matter of arrogance, choosing only to hold weight that it deems worthy of its abilities, though that should hardly seem characteristic of such a steadfast and eternal force. Perhaps it is a matter of need. Surely a hoof sinking in soil is no occasion, but when buildings sink, they cause quite a riot.

Perhaps the earth supports exactly what its inhabitants cannot, or even just a bit less. It is true, the cantilever of Canterlot cannot extend forever. There is an architecturally-stated point where it should collapse, were it extended, regardless of necessity. The earth will occasionally collapse under a poorly-placed building, particularly those placed on sand or mire. Perhaps it is the earth’s own method of prompting the consideration and improvement of its inhabitants. The earth is not the greatest at breaking falls. In fact, it is usually feared for its constant efforts of trying to. The earth is not considered conducive to a softer crash landing. Something has to brake the projectile before it should land well.

So the earth is not wholly dependable, at least for its livelier inhabitants. Those encompassed in nature’s realm tend to have a luckier time with it, perhaps due to their simplicity. Trees grow on the sides of cliffs, strange forms of life are found coloring the hottest pools, and few animals ever meet the terrors of a collapsing building, at least not in their typical domain. It may be that they simply do not push their budget, or perhaps it is a matter of necessity. Those outside of nature pursue improvement, so the earth sets for them objects of struggle, resistance, or in several cases, the dangerous lack thereof. As the challengers grow, so must the challenges. Before long, there will be great columns made to lengthen Canterlot, or perhaps allow it to encircle the whole mountain, rather than protrude from one side. The greater sapience becomes, the less the earth assists it, until those unbound by nature, unbound by the earth, leave it behind. Perhaps the earth is merely a different variety of cornerstone for those that populate it.

So, she chooses to capture the earth first. As emotions weigh on her mind, she searches for her own cornerstone, apart from her lover. Something more solid, more rooted. Whether the earth will support her or challenge her is yet unclear. She has paid it a tribute, regardless. Though that it is alone on the canvas might be an untrue depiction. To be bare of its inhabitants leaves the earth with little more purpose than any other twinkle in space. Perhaps it is its support of the life aboard it that takes it so far, that makes it seem so significant.

What will happen if she is supported? Will it ease her nerves, let her bear the child in joy and peace, or merely let her feel nothing, simply clearing her mind of the emotion she finds so tumultuous? What if it were to let her sink, to fall, even? She should fall far into her emotions. Perhaps that is where she must be, in the heart of her own storms, in order to halt them. It is not a foreign thought, but it is a confounding one, a strange one each time it is visited, that the ailment should be the cure, venom the antivenom. She must fall in order to learn herself, to learn of him.

Though another way may be wished, understanding often has a single clear path, and a thousand unsure, the clear path always the most daunting. The road is difficult, nearly always unkind to those who tread it, treacherous and rocky. However, forget not that the earth stands beneath every stone, every uncertain mire, and every tripping root. She makes her decisions then, and hopes that she is not entirely removed from her solidarity, that in some way, the earth stands beneath her too.

XXXVIII

A happier scene takes place now, and far simpler. The ground is a near-perfect sliver of an enormous sphere, the horizon clear and perfectly rounded. The foreground is made of a gritty tan, which cuts off directly into a great silvery blue, occasionally with the assistance of white seafoam. They have arrived at the Silver Sea, its name earned by the wonderful way the sun reflects so clearly over the white waves, lined just like the clouds in the near-evening light. Some bright, puffy clouds decorate the clear blue skies, and the sun’s radiance is found in their wet figures. They run excitedly through the water, she ahead of him, splashing water directly into his face, likely on purpose. Smiles adorn both faces, and as she cranes her head over to look at him, her formerly curly mane set straight by the saltwater, their eyes meet.

This is why they first joined together, he thinks. This is what he first saw, the potential he had seen in her deep almond eyes. She has a passion deep underneath, just crying to break free, to be let out in a burst of absolute joy. He hopes to foster such a joy in her many more times, but he wonders how he should spark it, without the constant scenery. The passion of roots, he thinks is far less excited, more calm, like a slow heartbeat. Perhaps, though, if he shares whatever he finds with her, even in such a city, she will still find a reflection of this joy. He will do all that he can to ensure her joys do not die with his dreams. But why does he think of such a thing now? Is even the bliss, now, corrupt with thoughts of fear, uncertainty?

He has already lost his touch for wayfaring, he thinks. He can no longer simply enjoy the place, enjoy the now. He can no longer afford to, he thinks. Though the bright seas are a wonderful calm against their bright spirits, he cannot shake the lingering presence, the responsibility he must now take, for the sake of his child. Is this a truer love he feels? A love that refuses to be blinded? He decides that yes, it is. It is not easily swayed, governed by an infatuation, a momentary emotion, ruled by poor sentiment. No longer can he believe the future will always be as perfect as the now, yet he commits to her regardless. That is the vow, after all. Everything for her, heedless of the weather. It is no easy feat, he knows, but it is required, demanded of him, by him. As he sees those lovely eyes, he knows the future that lies ahead, he fears it, but he is ready to face it. They face it together, after all.

Where does his love lie? Is it merely in those eyes? Of course not, it lies behind, he thinks. What is it, then? She is artistic, that is something to love. She is a wayfarer at heart because of it. That is not why he loves her now, though. That is why he loved her first. There is something more that bonds them together now, something he still does not fully understand. It is her grace, he thinks. It is still a jarring thought. He has a chance to give it back, he thinks. Not for reparations, but for love. Has she ever felt it in turn? He cannot say. He may ask.

She feels the longing look in his eyes. He does not regret the fall of the wayfarer, she thinks. He wants more than anything to show her the reaches of his commitment, to demonstrate just how much of her heart he has taken to his. In their playful riot, in a mere moment, she can just barely see a glimpse of what lies behind his gaze, what lights the glow in his eyes. It was the glow she first saw, that first made her close her eyes in a cowardly, shielding stance. She can gaze into them fully, now, though at first they seemed like the sun in their fierce rays. Perhaps they have grown softer, in the time they have spent together. She does not think it impossible, that in all of their ventures, he has not taken a piece of her own calm, her own grace. That is what he wants to show her now, she thinks. He has found her grace, he wants to have her grace, though he does not yet know it in full. It is a bright light that she wants to help him ignite, but it is no easy cause.

His resolve is, in itself, inspiring, though. That is one more reason they remain. He is always so sure, so certain, at least on the outside. She has seen a few spare moments, when he has looked at the ground, or the sky with a certain confusion, a questioning gaze, as if to ask where he should be led next. In the moments afterwards, though, he always regains the solidarity, his eyes regain their luminance, and that is the end of it, as if he has somehow found an answer. It is baffling to her, and though she hardly imagines she could find such resolve in the same way, she still longs for that part of him, to be able to reflect it in herself.

Therein lies her determination; she must be for him as he is for her: something to lean on, a support for his own heart, for their joined heart. She cannot outrun her thoughts like he does, though. She may only face them. For him only, and all for him, should she go through such a transformation. Perhaps it is in him she should find her solidarity, a strange paradox, though she thinks that somehow, it should fit together. Though his eyes grow soft, afraid, she finds the determination to bring that hope, that strength back to him.

XXXIX

But now the sun falls. The sky is lit red with the evening sun, and the sea is set ablaze. Torn apart are the waves, like a grim fury. The clouds are lined in scarlet, and their edges blur like cuts in the sky. Though the sands are calm, and the waves are yet gentle, the reds of sunset bring the scene into awful shade. They remain in the water, but are still now. She is doubled over, her eyes wide and bloodshot and her mouth open, uttering a silent cry. He is shortly behind, a look of strange shock and comprehension on his face, though it is masked over tenfold with worry, because he knows not her cry. Tears of anguish gather at the edges of her eyes, and just as the blues of the water are rent apart by rays of red, so their momentary peace is shattered.

Her mother has told her the pains that should accompany birth, though this is far more than she could imagine. It does not yet start, she knows, but it approaches very quickly. The pain shatters the confines of her mind, and rips apart every thought of love, of admiration, of solidarity she had before, and replaces it with her scream. The wayfaring ends now, she thinks. It is the end of the first joy they know together. It may be a new joy they reach for, but she can hardly praise such a hope right now, as it threatens to rend her apart. Think about the future, she commands herself, but the present is overwhelming. For once, she wishes above all to be anytime but now, whether it be past or future, anything just to be out of these nerves, to be free of the pain.

It passes, though she still shivers in anguish, a gripping cold that has left her breathless. She feels the ocean water drip down her face like beads of sweat, and braces for more to come. It is a pain she knows will repeat. She will never be ready, she thinks. It will always catch her by surprise, a ruthless being that touches every muscle, every part of her mind with a thought-numbing pain. Her voice runs dry, and she feels suddenly very sick. She tries to reassure herself. It is for him, she thinks, for the child she endures. It is her chance to be all for him, in the face of the storm. If she is not solid now, she is nothing, naught but lies in her words and thoughts. The pain will subside. She will endure, she knows. She can endure. She needs only demand it of herself. She will hold her hope in the next moment, when the pain should subside. She wishes only to look into his eyes, now, to draw from him that strength, to show him she is strong for him.

She cannot be weak anymore. She cannot falter if she is to be his. That is the vow he first made to her, and whether or not she knew it then, she knows now it is just as much her vow to him as her grace or her insecurity. She has never truly known pain, always thinking she should never face it. So, like a stone through glass, it threatens to shatter all she has fought for, all she has won for him.

And he, he is finished. In these moments, the wayfarer dies. His last drops of the mere present have run dry. Now he is a father in all but name. He knows not how to help her, suddenly detached in all her pain. He wants only to take it himself, to take it away from her, though he could handle it no better. He mourns not for himself anymore. Himself is over. There is only her. She is all that remains for him, she and the child. He is torn apart, unsure whether to let her be, so as not to hurt her, or take her up in his embrace. He makes his decision, and moves forward to support her. Even should he not know pain, he can help it. He has loved her, cared for her, helped her, freed her, but never has he feared for her, and the fiery skies reflects in his fearful blue-green discs.

He can only blame himself now, for taking her this far. He should have demanded they stay in Canterlot. Truly, no single trip could be worth this much pain, could be worth an entire breaking of her character. There is nothing he can do about the past. The future, he demands. Help her for the future. He has never been skilled with the future, always making ‘plans’ the moment they are to be carried out. He could blame himself for that too, but it helps nothing.

Perhaps it is not the future. What matters this moment? What matters is whether she is all right, and whether he can help her. What can he do? What words soothe pain? He thinks quickly, desperately, searching for a single thing to say, as her breath echoes into his ears – short gasps. He must break apart the pain like it has broken her, reassemble her in a mere fashion of language, with an action. He manages to form an idea, and in a split second he executes. As his hoof rests on her shoulder, the words take form in his opened mouth, “I am here for you.”

The tears turn to joy. They are in the storm’s full swell now, and lightning whips at their beings, setting their hairs on end, breaking their ears with deadly thunder and buffeting wind. They are hopelessly lost in the tempest, tossed about in the flood, their heads just above the water. Though he wishes to help her, to lift her above water, he can hardly resist the undertow alone. Swept helplessly beneath, the wayfarer drowns and dies, merely to be born again.

XL

Night falls. Once more, the full moon rises above the two, a lovely soft light which illuminates in the distance the vague shape of Manehattan’s skyline. The Silver Sea stretches along the right in endless expanse, distorting the skies and stars above to earn its title, with shining waves of pure silver. On the left lie a short field, which breaks into large hills. They walk along the beach, or at least he does. There is only one set of hoofprints in the soft sands, the wayfarer’s – the father’s. She rests sideways over his back, rather uncomfortably, it seems. His neck is craned over to meet her, but both pairs of eyes are closed. They meet in a kiss, and the night mends what the evening tore apart.

She cannot walk any more, she fears, especially not with the full moon. As much as it should burden him, she must relax. The pain continues, even in this moment, she is suffering. Yet simultaneously, she is healing, mending with his help. He is too much for her, sometimes, and as she feels the feather shift in her hair, she feels his grace. She returns the kiss, even in all her pain, despite the heavy heart of the present, all for him. Love, to her, must always be reciprocal, not for the sake of repayment or debt, but for the sake of love itself. Although no action in itself will ever be enough to account for love, together, they seem to come very close. Still, there will always be a part left over, the love that is had for love’s own sake, the passion and heart that lies behind. She flies away with him, into new horizons for love itself, shows him grace, because it is what she may give.

In all her life, she has never been so satisfied with love. If she were to live but a moment, this would be the one she should choose, where she could feel an entire life’s anguish, and the culmination of all her love, met in a single kiss. Life will always be lived in moments, she thinks. There is far more remembered of a single point, far more thought and emotion captured in a single frame, than the area surrounding. That is the beauty of her art, she understands. She paints not a landscape, but the feelings behind; not a city street, but the passions that lie thereon. The colors mix together to arrange together their emotions, each color a reflection of her own. They are met in passion, in hope, she thinks, not joined by a pain or suffering.

Indeed, he has taken much of the suffering away, somehow. Does he feel it? Does he feel it throb through him like the shock of ice, or is it merely dissolved? He is beautiful, altogether, she decides. She has never thought the word should describe him, but that is a mere restriction of physical appearance. Underneath the vibrant blue are colors even more brilliant, dazzling to her eyes. She can see them in full now, embracing her, mutually brightening. It is in her moment of absolute anguish that she is at peace, all because of him, and as she returns the kiss, she thanks him for that simple gift, the compassion he has shared for her, the piece of her that he has served to complete, the heart that they have pieced together.

He feels it, her shaking, shivering form, and the pain is dispelled through his limbs as they strike the sand. He hopes to take the pain away, to annul it and let her be, for once, at a perfect peace. Let her be ready for the ordeal to come, give her peace for the future, he demands. As they meet in the kiss, what is first an inkling of her heart became broad pen strokes, and he can feel, through her the pain – always the pain – but alongside runs a lovelier discovery, that his hopes are in her accomplished. He has given her the hope, the peace she needs to endure the walk. That is enough for now, he thinks. That is all he can give her. It is all of him, after all. The calm tide of his love washes over her, and soothes the heavy aches of her heart and body.

So they will visit Manehattan, he thinks. It is strange, how the wayfaring never seems to end. Destiny has a strange way of showing where least expected, manifesting itself in ways unimaginable. The moon shines its soft, caring light over them, though, and soothes the wayfarer – the father – that he should not feel the ache of his own limbs as he faces the miles ahead. It certainly holds its charm. It will be difficult to leave, once and for all, but when he sees the child, he knows it will be gone. Already, his heart is found much more invested in her than any mere scenery. Just as she has said many times for him, he shall in turn be all for her. That is their heart, now that he feels its joined pulse. It has always been about an entire giving of self, a sacrifice of each for the other, and somehow a gain on both sides. It is self-fueling, like the fires of stars. The love carries on and on, like a lovely song, a lullaby that gently warms the heart.

And there, with the couple joined, is the final, sacred reunion. The hearts are one once more, and though the future is a threat, ever-present, the two are happy to be in this present, where the heart may join, dispel, and purify. Their colors underneath are exposed in the cool moon’s light, and as the hills, like mountains, begin to gather snow at their tops, they are found well and warm, their hearth’s fire glowing brighter than the moon and the stars combined, daring to outshine the sun.

XLI

There is no landscape, no moon or sky. The plains are gone, the Silver Sea has vanished, and all that remains is a blank room. The floor is tiled white, and the walls are a clean white, with a faint texture, as if they had been hastily painted and left to dry imperfectly. A set of lights hang from the ceiling, and the two stand near the room’s center. Along the sides are rows of seats, with blurs of color occupying. Both are in distress, their faces painted with faint, unsure lines, their faces set grimly, hers both tired and afraid. A third being takes form, with a white coat wrapped around his tan-brown colors. His eyes are also soft with concern, and from his mouth flows a set of stern, fearful words.

So it is not a typical pain, she thinks. It is something far more grim, foreboding. She finds it difficult to meet the doctor’s eyes, the father’s eyes. Somehow, she feels a hopeless shame, as if it is her own fault, her own negligence that casts their fear. After they have come so far, after all the pain he takes from her, now this threat arrives. It is a grim horizon she faces, and as it approaches at a breakneck pace, she wishes only to return to the moment, to be lost in just a single frame, to be trapped in a painting of her own. She has come so far, and now, at the end of it all, she knows not whether even the next second will hold for her peace or pain, hope or anguish. She cannot pin the moment down, figure it out, for it keeps moving, squirms out of her grasp. It is futile, her struggle, and she cannot find the strength to press on. She feels somehow separate, rent apart.

What if it is lost? Could he possibly forgive her? He might, in time. Knowing him, he would blame himself first, then he would blame nothing. How would she react? She would be lost for a long time, cold and shadowed once more. It would be her greatest failure, their greatest hope lost. No, she will not lose it. With the thought comes another torrent of emotion: inadequacy, failure, insecurity, helplessness, hopelessness, terror. She wants only to run away, and that makes her nothing but a coward, she thinks. She wants to return to the times before, of ease and bliss, and that makes her weak. She cannot face her emotions without him, and that makes her dependent and lusterless. As the shadows return, she finds she is colorless as well. She would give anything for his touch, but she refuses herself that weakness now. How can she be for him, when she cannot even be for herself? The thought only throws her further into spiraling despair. In all the love she has with the wayfarer, the father, she has only become weaker.

And yet somehow, he wraps his hoof around her. She knows not whether to let it slip off, or to let herself get lost in it again, or if that is a bliss she should deny herself. He has never cared about her weakness, she thinks. If anything, he loves her more for it. Why, now, can she not accept her own grace returned?

Because, she answers bitterly, in the end, she is nothing. Here, on this diverse shore, her depression has found her once more, by some awful miracle, and she is no more than she was when he found her. She has not grown for him, he thinks, but merely distracted herself from what she has always been. She tries to escape the thoughts, and can no longer feel the hoof over her shoulders, the reassurance that the father tries to give her. It is lost in her own dark passions.

But is this not also an indulgence? She knows not to feel, so she turns to the only thought that feels correct. She is not strong for facing herself here, for destroying all that the wayfarer and father sought to complete for her. She is merely a child, throwing a tantrum against herself. Of all the paradoxes, she is strong for letting herself depend on him. He wants to lead her, wants to comfort her, and the only true selfishness is denying that to both of them. Her only weakness is her ability to call herself weak. Of course she is weak alone. So is any soldier or general, so is any king or queen. She may berate herself all she likes, as he does, but in the end, she needs him, and he needs her back. That is how love is meant to be, in the end. It is not an interaction of independent beings, but a collision and fusing of two broken hearts. Of course her heart alone is weak, for it is only a half.

She is ready, now, she thinks. She can feel his embrace, and it gives her the slightest of hope. Though the doctor can tell her numbers, odds, uncertainties, hope has no regard for such figures. Hope takes the smallest chance, and makes it real, tangible. She holds the hope in her heart, and she can feel the heart’s fire return, if not a bit sullied by the winter’s cold. Her mind stills, for their child, for the father, that the heart should stay whole. She lets go of the bitterness once again, refuses the shadow an opportunity to land. It all drifts away once more, though the tears still flow. Yes, she is afraid. There will always be fear, but fear is a challenge, not a barrier. Fear itself may always be overcome. She may face it, with him. She will be apart from him, but she will not be alone. She takes a part of him with her, to assure them both. She carries his feather, their combined colors, their true colors, and readies for the ordeal.

XLII

And now he is left alone in the waiting room, found in one of the many despaired seats along the walls. Colorful undefined blurs sit at either side of him, though they are certainly no consolation for thought .They are nothing, no more than the walls or lights to him. He wears an anxious look, his eyes tired, though their blue-green shine still leaks through his hazy expression. He is in every way uncomfortable, alone, silent, looking as if he wishes to shift his seating, though he has done so several times already. It is a constant and terrible nervousness that dishevels the feathers of his wings, that sets his mane out of order.

It has been many seasons since he was last alone. It is no longer so soothing as when he first walked through Canterlot, with all its gold and finery. This is hardly a scene he would choose for reflection, yet as it is entirely blank, uninteresting, he is forced into his thoughts. He would give anything to be by her side, but he would likely faint, or get in the way. They were far more important than his peace of mind. He must be satisfied to wait, to remain in uncertainty for a while longer. There has never been such awful suspense to wayfaring. It is always a constant journey, a solidly happy outcome. Has he done all he can for her? He thinks so. What of himself? He is for her, for them. That is all that currently matters.

But what has he truly been for her, the whispering voice asks. What, truly, does he do for her? He has freed her, he thinks, opened her up and let her true colors show. He has brightened her life as much as he can. He has given up wayfaring. She gave up her art first, though. What accuses him? It remains without name, and merely points his mind to the white on her canvasses. He makes up for it now, he thinks. He makes his own sacrifices. Her grace already forgives all anyway. The vows were all for the other, after all. Has he truly given her his all, though? As far as he can tell, yes. He gives up pride, he gives up his relentless self-criticism, he gives up the wayfaring altogether.

Yet still his answer feels empty, as if it misses something incredibly crucial. He tears himself apart from within, trying to find what he has forgotten to give. The accuser waits for him to find it, though it knows he cannot find it, not yet. The longer it goes on, the more distraught the father becomes. That something could float beyond his notice for so long baffles him. Perhaps he has not answered the tree after all. Perhaps it is only now he knows the question. He has forgotten something crucial, despite all his love, despite everything. There is something more yet to give. He has given himself, he has given up all that he could be for her. He has done all he can to strengthen himself so he can better lift her up. How could he miss something? The horror grows on him, and his despair becomes more and more visible.

It is a tumult, their love, a lovely storm that brings them together despite each occurrence, an endless cycle of giving, until now she has given everything, and he has given all he knows how to give. It is a torment, his mind, the accusation, and his old trappings threaten to return as he faces, once more, the void around him. There is no one he can confide with, no scenery to distract him, no part of himself he can find solace in. So his hopelessness continues to grow within him, choking out his hope, threatening to choke out his love. He tends to the heart. Though its second half remains invisible, he tries to keep its flame going. He keeps an ember’s glow, and warms himself by it, hoping that she may feel a bit of his heart in her struggle. He must hope so.

He wonders if he should join her anyway, if there is some hope they could spark together, to help her through. It is no help that the situation is so dire. Still, he may only consider one possibility. She must endure, even if she must be partially alone. She feels so far away now, like a distant star that he tries to capture. He wishes above all just to escape this moment, to return to their kiss. Even her first pains were better, so long as he could reach out and touch her, so long as he could lean in and kiss her. Now, she is gone; he abandons her in her greatest struggle. It is not his choice, he defends, but it still feels a poor excuse for him. It is for her own good that he stay away, though. Still no assurance. The grim whispers continue to echo. He forgets something, he has neglected her, somehow, and he is torn apart in the storm between them. He can no longer shelter her, be her solidarity. He stands alone, and his fortitude means nothing wasted only on himself. He stands too well alone, wishes to have her under his wings again. It is just as reassuring for both of them, to feel the other. Him because he believes he can protect her, and her because she thinks he finds some strange strength in her.

But the wayfarer is good at being alone. Over time, the thoughts dissipate, and he counts the seconds as they go by. His heartbeat slows, and he wonders just how long the seconds pass by him. Minutes go by undefined in length, and should an hour have passed, he could not tell. All he feels are warped seconds. He slows his counting, until the tempo takes its own shape, a slow, impossible heartbeat, each pulse several true minutes apart.

XLIII

He remains, at heart, alone. The doctor has returned, and speaks to the wayfarer, seeming very tired, and something else. The wayfarers eyes are open now. His patience has paid him well, for now he knows very well the future ahead. The blurs take on grotesque shapes behind him, and the scenery is undefined, though they have not at all moved. The doctor holds a dash of bright red-orange fire in his hoof, the feather of the phoenix, born from ash. The wayfarer wears a look of disbelief, of denial, and seems as if he is ready to fall apart in tatters, like a canvas torn through the middle.

It is so impossible, he thinks. His mind swirls in a terrible vertigo, and he feels sick himself. The flame of the feather burns at his eyes as a deathly shadow holds him in a harsh vice. The heart is halved, and he is left exposed, bare in all of his disgusting being. It is as impossible as the sunrise of tomorrow, unimaginable as the next week, unfathomable as the foreign concept of next year. There is nothing. He is nothing, to himself. He is drawn once more into a hopeless storm, and his wings are broken over themselves by the unbreakable winds. His eyes are wide, but his pupils pinpricks. There is no longer any future, and the now destroys him from within. He is absolutely broken apart, the tempo descending into a silent and imperceptible tick, threatening to fall away entirely. They are no more, and he wills only to see one more glimpse, to look into her eyes, to prove that she ever existed at all.

There must be some hope, he thinks desperately, something he can cling to, to escape himself. He is caught in a vicious undertow, however, and the shadow colors the edges of his vision. Perhaps here will be a light when his head surfaces, but alas, there is but a storm, and he is blinded by rain instead.

Remember the moments with her, he commands himself, and immediately regrets it. Yet, somehow, the tears cannot come yet. It is as if here, now, they hold themselves back, though there is no one to soothe, no one to remain solid for. Every kiss of theirs passes through his mind, and he tries to hold those happy emotions with him, tries to find comfort in the memory, but like sand through the sieve of his memory, it is all lost. Without her, he has no reason to remember. All lost is his mind. Far away lies his thought. He is gone. He has never truly considered what he should be without her, and now he understands, he is nothing. The phrase somehow comforts him, as if to spiral deeper holds some secret solace. He is nothing, all and ever nothing. He has given it all up, and she has taken it with her.

Not all of it, the accuser says. Not everything. The wayfarer is still one thing, and that should be all he needs now. It is bitter to be something, he thinks. Can he not let that go too, whatever it is? He will not want to, the accuser replies, especially not now. Defeated, the wayfarer continues his spiral into the earth, hoping it will merely break him, let him join her. No, that is unfair. He must find it first, he must find it, so he may give that too, he may give it away to the void, throw it into the wind, once he finds it. Only when he is nothing may he be destroyed. That is his new vow.

The despair still grips him fiercely, but the tears still hold themselves back. Remember more, he commands. Remember Canterlot, Baltimare, Fillydelphia, each venue in between. Remember the happiness he brought her. Is that not worth something? Not now. He does not even have proof it ever happened. That is untrue. Over his shoulder rests her bag, all of her work. They will be his memory. He knows her paintings, at least. He remembers Canterlot’s palace, the view over Baltimare, the factory and memorial of Fillydelphia, the lone tree, the tower, the village below Canterlot. They are all vivid in his mind, because they stopped there. As he clings to those, he realizes he remembers far more, though any happiness merely turns to a bitter hopelessness in each scene. She has been every happiness for him. The void left there merely brings him back to the present.

So he cannot escape forever. It always returns to the now, the doctor’s solemn worry for him, the blurs around. Time mocks him by continuing into a future he does not want. He wants to move backwards, just live in the past, in those few moments he had when happiness was attainable. He realizes he is torn. He worries for himself too. He worries that he will never escape this new despair, this new shadow over him, yet another deterrent against the future. He begins to entertain fantasies. Perhaps somehow she is alive, the doctor will return and find her breathing, rush back to him, profess the wonderful news. Everything will be all right, their light never sundered, their hopes never dashed, their hearts never split. All will be right again, and they will raise their child – for it survives too – together in Canterlot, teach it the glory of the gilded and the decrepit, the past and the present, and one day, the future.

No! The thought has returned. It is a lie, he declares. He must say it, he thinks. He must shout it into the depths of his mind, silence the fantasies, silence every false future he has ever yearned for, for they only bring him suffering. He must hear it echo back, to ensure it has reached every bone, every edge of the shambles of his heart. From his soul he shouts, “she is all gone! Let her be gone!”

XLIV

The full moon still shines, and he has escaped the room. He stands atop a Manehattan high rise, his heart exposed to the open wind. Twin streams fly out from his eyes, no longer withholding their heavy tides. He releases his lonely despair out into the sky, wishing to feel just her touch, just the calm love of her being. The moon and the stars cast their light on him, and try to cast away his heavy shadows, hopelessly trying to save him from his fury. However, he is inconsolable, impossibly lost. Indeed, the wayfarer has never been lost, but his sobs revisit him over and over in an irregular tempo, threatening never to cease, never to wane or ebb, to always take him over, once and for all.

Gone. She is forever gone. He shouts it now, his mouth wide open, his eyes looking guiltily at the stars. She will never return, their child will never be. He will never again be complete, a broken shard, unable to cope with the being he was once satisfied to be. He is shattered inside and out, his wings outstretched as if to leap off, but he is chained down, continually pondering his escape. He does not deserve the escape. Not until he finds it.

He destroyed her. He may blame himself. If he had left her, if he had never loved her, she would be alive. She does not want him to think such thoughts, he tries to console himself. She exists no more, she cannot want anything for him. She is somewhere happier, he thinks, beyond his deadly reach. If he had let her go, if he had flown away, she would have been saved. She could get over it, could recover. She would still be alive.

She would not. He saw it in her eyes that day. He saw the extent of the shadow. If anything, it would have sped her on to her death, having given the shadow enough power to overcome her. Is that it? Has she always been doomed to die because of him? What if he merely left her alone in the first place? He saw the painting. She could not have gone on much longer like that, seeing hardly enough light to find her way through the nighttime colors. Is that all he is meant to do? Watch her die, give her the best life possible before fate could overtake her, even as he himself becomes death’s agent.

He could never have known, he tries to console himself, but it is merely a testament to his ignorance. What has he forgotten to give up for her? The accuser remains, watching his question at work in the wayfarer’s mind. Yes, he is the wayfarer again. He is no longer the father. He is no longer her love. He deserves no such titles, for her grace is gone out of him, leaving only a bitter self-resentment. The storm rages on. He is free all he wants to fly on, he mocks. Every horizon is open for him, beckoning he return and revisit, for they have so much to discover for him now. After all, there is no restrictive child, no pregnant artist to weigh him down. Go, fly away, foul thing. Find happiness in the cities, the landscapes. Go find the beauties of flaws, since they are so profound. He blames himself as he is wont to do. Even now, he knows he forgets everything she fought for, just another insult to her grace. He lies, says he cannot help it. He cannot let it go so easily. It is merely moments in the past, not even a painting away. Is that all that destroys grief? Is it merely a matter of time, as they say? Must he merely wait like before, as if somehow the spiral should turn back, forget him, and in turn let him forget her.

Will he forget her? That is an even worse thought, that he should allow himself to forget the greatest part of his life, just to destroy the worst with it. Is that all he is good for? Destroying? How strange that a wanderer should become a harbinger of doom, entirely harmless at heart, yet managing to harm. In the end, it matters not his heart. She is gone, and all of him with her. Her smiles, her kisses torment him. Never will he feel her soft caress again. Never will he lead her to a new frontier. He is wholly and truly alone now. Separated by what, he asks himself. What holds him away from her? It is a mortal barrier. He could cross it in a mere few seconds, a skydive. He could easily meet her, all grim sentiment aside.

He has forbidden it, though. Not until he answers the accuser, the tree. Until he has an answer, he is nothing but a poor vagrant, undeserving of notice, undeserving of grace, undeserving of the comfort of death. He is despicable, he decides. Time goes on, and will be his penance. He is all alone, now, and must find his mistakes alone. Only then will he be absolved.

And yet out of the moonlight comes a calm. Is it her touch? It is a faint reflection, yes. He must make an awful scene for her, and he regrets the emotions he has filled the air with, and somehow he immediately feels forgiven, greater, there is nothing to forgive. He is understood. But, as he tries to embrace it, it shies away, instead pointing him to a horizon. He is not finished; he has an answer to find. Indeed, he has his wings. He is free to once more don the mantle of the wayfarer. He will not find his answers here, but as he feels the weight of the second bag on his shoulders, the scratch of the feather, once more in his mane, he knows where he must go, a plurality. There are scenes to revisit.

XLV

The first revisiting, easily the hardest. The dark tones surround him, and swell around his figure in shades of black and deep grey. Though a waning gibbous moon rests far above, its light is dulled and obscured, the stars around it entirely stifled by a smoky haze. The Fillydelphian night is, as always, an impenetrable gloom, and as he stands and stares at the source of smoke, the awful rectangular factory, its vile smokestacks, he is found once more a member of its ashen color. His colors are as vibrant as any others under the haze, and his sorrowful gaze at the factory reflects once more the shadow he has seen in her eyes.

Indeed, the scene is truly incomplete without the buildings surrounding the factory. They reveal its corruption, its effect citywide. Although the wayfarer has feared the smoke, far more threatening is how the soot touches every bit, every corner of the city. The impossible blackness has destroyed his childhood, molded him into the wayfarer. Now, though he does not yet realize it, it is what took the artist from him.

As the awful black covers the pure beams of the moon, the wayfarer is still in hopeless awe, that everything can suddenly be so wrong. The tide is not at full swell any more, but the soot still covers him, adding a worse black to his mane and tail. All of his heart is gone to waste, lost in the unknown. He understands her meaning now, with the painting. She merely wants to destroy the factory, let the bleak shades die on her canvas, and perhaps his memory with it. She always seems to have him in the front of her mind, he thinks. She was always first to him, as well, the first to look to, the first part of his own enjoyment, the first reason to go anywhere. Where does it end, though?

He cannot find it here, yet, not all at once. The first step is here, though. There are two unresolved pasts here, and the resolution of the first confirms the second. He leaves at this dreary place a resignation. He is finished fearing the factory. He can no longer despise it, hold against it the death of his family. No building, no place, holds malevolence. It is a cruel fate, and perhaps the ones behind his factory, though they mean no more than the factory now. He lets it go, his eyes open, unafraid as the last remnant of his past drifts off, out of his reach.

Will he miss it? He thinks he has grown fond of subjects to blame. The factory, the world, his own bitter fate. It is too easy to let fall a blame. Eventually though, he simply must move on, find a solution, give up the hatred. That makes one more thing she has given him. He gives a faint chuckle; she has accumulated quite a count. Least of all should he blame himself, he thinks. He simply has never wielded any power, always a bright idea or a plan, and nothing to carry it out but a pair of wings. He has no money, no power to avenge a single point of his life, even if he can figure out a subject of vengeance. If there is nothing to gain by placing a blame, by remembering any longer, perhaps it is best left forgotten. It makes enough sense now, from where he is standing. Perhaps it merely takes a step to the right, to where she has been standing.

Funny how even with all of his wayfaring, she knows more about life than he could ever have imagined. It is a shame that wisdom, in the end, can never be taught. She has quite her share. Still, she may still show it to him, over time. Perhaps now that he has lost her, he is more inclined to listen to what she has already said. He can still feel her watching him, silently. She lets him alone for now, perhaps to keep him from breaking, perhaps to make sure he breaks just the right way. It is not for cruelty that she waits, though. It is out of her compassion. He has his quest, and she must let him find it on his own. That is precisely how this discovery must be made, he thinks. Still, he longs for a single touch, to feel her in something more than just a dash of red in his mane, than a mere weight on his shoulders. No, he is not afraid anymore. He wants her to know, and feels a hint of a smile, somewhere beyond the haze, though he can hardly join it. He thinks it will be a long time until he will smile. Likewise, he wonders if he will ever find the tears to weep again, or if they have all been spent.

Of course it is unfair, the world he lives in. However, he would not be who he is now if it were fair. Would he much rather be something else? He does not think so. Everything in his past has been absolutely necessary, no matter how much he would like to turn it back. The world has shaped him with every smile and tear, and even here, he realizes it would be no good to turn back and wish for a different outcome. Each passing breeze forces him to shiver, and he is further humbled by the world around him, pushed into a slow submission to the past. It is the first of many steps, he knows. The past will always fade behind, and as the wayfarer he is, he must continue on, and let old memories die. He must fly on to a greater, more welcoming dawn, and there find the sunlight that heals and restores. In the night he may reflect, but the morning is time for hope, and out of each sunrise comes new opportunity, a reason to transform.

XLVI

First summer they saw it, then in the autumn. Now he visits it alone, in the midst of a cold winter. With the charred streets of Fillydelphia faded far away in the background, cold snows fall on empty fields, and chill the wayfarer to his bones; his wings shiver vigorously. He has become unused to being alone to warm himself, though he knows that even all of his blankets would be useless here. The skies are a pale blue, and the morning sun still does little to warm him. From the ground rises the tree, the accuser, bare of its leaves, and the colors of fall having been swept away from its roots. It is a rather sickly sight, though to the wayfarer, it stands for something far more dreadful.

He yet has no answer, but apologies are in order. He has not found his answer fast enough to save her, to give her the love she deserves. He readies to feel a pressing guilt, a vicious, railing persecution, but he only feels his apology reflected back to him. The wayfarer realizes now it has been a warning, and not a challenge. Now, with the tree entirely bare, alone out in a white-glazed field, the wayfarer can certainly relate. It stands alone. Perhaps it too feels the awful cold. He sits at its base, wondering if it should give him a hint, though it clearly makes no move. As always, the discoveries are for him alone to make, for him to interpret and realize. Although the wayfarer cannot truly understand the tree’s silence, its warnings, he accepts them regardless. Perhaps it has seen something even the wayfarer should fear now.

It is the second revisiting, and yet the wayfarer still feels no different, no closer to the answers. He knows she had seen something too when they visited the tree. She painted it so well, so perfectly in its splendor, which now seems a testament to her seeing the best in all that they would visit. She sees not the haze of Fillydelphia, but instead an opportunity to help the wayfarer, to comfort him.

How easily time passes without notice. Only three seasons with her, he wonders. Hardly that, even. Perhaps two in totality. That was all. He feels the shards of his heart, halved and alone without hers. He is not ready to let it mend, he thinks. For once, he believes that he needs a broken heart. It drives him on towards his purpose, gives him the energy he needs to seek the answer. It is much harder to see without her beside. A second set of eyes always sees clearer. He looks fondly upon his past with her. That is a past far more worth living. That makes it, all in all, a positive, even with her gone. Perhaps that lifts a weight off of him, a resonating pain put to rest. Even now, he would not change the present for all its glamor or circumstance. Now, he has a purpose. Before, the wayfaring was, in the end, meaningless. He saw beauty, but never quite learned enough from it. Now, the beauty has something to say, a part of him to reveal.

And what does the tree reveal? He has made in a mere two seasons a love that will echo for a lifetime. He is proud of it, despite its loss. That he can be satisfied with. Perhaps her memory is all he wants from her, that wherever she lies now, in her own paradise, she remembers the wayfarer that she once loved. She will always forgive him, he knows. Perhaps that makes his transgression hurt all the more, as if it should make him easier to wound her. Yet, as he stares at the tree, he knows there is more to learn. Perhaps the answer will yield more, after all, the tree posed the question. There are more venues to visit. Surely, one will carry the answer to him.

This is where she has painted him. He and the tree are not too far apart, he thinks. She gave them both a vivid color, and he remembers the shine she has placed in his eyes. She told him about the shine, once, that she lives for that shine. The memory cuts like a blade into him, though it is of a much happier time. Still, he remains without tears to shed. If that cannot bring him down, perhaps there will never be another to shed. Perhaps he has become numb in the storm. Though hail strikes at him, he can no longer feel his cuts or bruises. He does not like that he should become a shell. After all, it is his heart that made him shine in the first place. His passion is what lights his eyes with fire behind the deep blue and green. Should he lose that, he would lose a part of her with it.

Perhaps it is not out of numbness, he thinks. He surely feels the wounds, though she heals them slowly, he thinks. It is not that he lacks feeling, but the emotion dissipates. Like many pasts, it is fading behind him, though he does not think himself ready to lose it. He calls after it, hoping to catch up to it, but it merely fades on. It fades faster than he can chase it though. She wants him to move on, but her death is a part of her he must cling to. The memory drives him on, keeps her with him. Oh, he has cared, he has given up all his care for her. What is there left?

He and the tree stand well enough alone. Both may withstand the cold, to their merit. They have always been strong, more than any might say they appear to be. Though the oak is fair and young, it stands strong in its solitude. The wayfarer too stands strong, meeting the storm with fire to hold his warmth within.

XLVII

Another day or two of travelling have led him here, his third revisiting. The sky is filled with a clear bright light, and the area below caught in a slur of reflected colors. He knows the building well, and he pays it its special tribute. After all, this is where the glow first took flame. This is where their hearts became one, wholly broken and reformed. A small layer of snow covers the previous black of the plain roof, and a set of prints lines his way, having walked a few steps to get a full view of the streets below and the sky above. The city of Baltimare has always been a kind place to him, despite the bittersweet passage it reads to him now, as he sees his own reflection in several windows. Of course, he is reflected alone.

The wayfarer is quite tired, but this place has helped to see again. He can imagine the spot exactly where the canvas must have stood, after looking over her painting a few times. The night has turned a deeper black this time, though, cloaked by the winter air. He tires of his regrets of her. He merely wants to find a resolution, an answer. He has threatened to leave her here, too. Is not that moment forgotten immediately? He can feel a warmer embrace here, as if he may, by chance, meet her again here. Why should he not? He remembers where the first kiss had been sealed, the lovely happiness that had bloomed in that moment. He needs not forget that too, he supposes. The best memories may still be kept.

It is like the phoenix, he supposes. He does not dwell on his parents or the smoke of his childhood. He dwells on the phoenix, of his first journeys. Those were what defined him, not a hopeless upbringing. He can see it in her first painting with him, in the bright colors in the reflections, in the stars and the moon, which is now beginning to wax again. It has been her first bright beauty, the first she had been met with an incredible and bright light. He is happy to have brought that to her.

Here is also where he first met her grace, where he was broken over himself. It has been a much happier breaking, he thinks, but it is still a shattering of his mind and heart, that he could be forgiven with a mere dismissal, that they could lay down all of their imagined debts for each other. That is a beauty he can enjoy revisiting. What has he now to give away? He can give away his regret, certainly his fear. He will dismiss his guilt and ill memory, let himself be glad. After all, she still remains here, somewhere in the air, in the skies. She may still yet complete him. What else? He has not yet found the answer. It comes in time. He may give up his impatience here. Here he had lost his time, his constant counting and summing. What else may fall away in this purge? The shadow may leave too, he thinks. There is no more reason to despair. What is past is past, and only pushes the wayfarer on to the future, whether or not he attempts to resist. He may give up his berating once more. It never should have returned in the first place.

What may he take back? It is an odd thought, but he realizes he may yet have something to gain, not just to lose. He can retake his passions, his joy, for those he lost. He may regain his love for a new horizon. After all, he is a wayfarer once more, and that need not be depressing or hateful. He will take her peace with him, too. He realizes he has far more to gain here than he should lose. That has always been her way, after all. She always gives more than he can return; such is her grace. He can take that too. After all, it was his too, when they had been one. It still is his. He need only take it with him. He adopts also her selflessness, though he hopes he has always had that with him. Now there is merely the quest.

There is still no answer here, he knows, but he is much closer to it. He chases it, though he knows it will be a bittersweet discovery. It is for her that he travels now, and that is enough to keep him happy with every sunrise. It is still as if he can see those wonderful almond eyes when he wakes. He wonders if she has learned anything since she passed, if there is anything to learn in paradise, or if it is only on the earth that new wisdom may be found. It would be a dreary place, he thinks. There are still others to learn from, but he does not think there would be much to see in paradise. All would be too perfect, flawless to find beauty in it every time. He always hears that it is perfect, unchanging, a place of absolute happiness. To the wayfarer, that sounds far more like a hell than a hope. The idea simply does not attract the young, hungry heart. Perhaps there will be more to find another time, in another venue, but a real paradise, for the wayfarer, is here on earth, despite all of its ash and imperfection. Despite its childhoods and losses, it still proves a far better reality, in that it remains real. Still, he looks forward to rejoining her, some far-off day. That is one more thing he releases: the will to join her immediately, whatever the cost. She will wait as long as it takes him to find the answers he seeks. Whatever journey he goes on now, through earth and fire, he knows he will return one day to a calm hearth.

XLVIII

And now the fourth revisiting. He stands in an open field, where a gentle wind breathes through his mane, once more free and well-colored with the feather. A broad expanse of dulled green grasses stretches out before him, though he remains on the ground. He likes it there, on the earth. He realizes now the fondness she holds for it, a place where all must turn for a bit of guidance, a bit of stability. He could use some, he reflects. A smile, something so foreign, is found on his face, and a glimmer has begun to return to his eyes. He is not whole, but he is happy enough. He can still feel her warm presence, healing him through the remainder of the winter, fueling on his search.

This painting she also left unfinished. It is a shame. Perhaps he is to blame, with all his quickened pace. Perhaps he should have let the two of them slow down, let time take its course. That is not the answer, though, he senses. It is part of the answer, perhaps, like the other revisitings, but there is more than one facet to this gem, which makes it all the more fascinating, all the more compelling to find. He will search on, undeterred. After all, he has all the time he needs. It is here that they planned their last great excursion, down on the verdant plains. Nearby, he had found his own appreciation for the earth, for its quiet, easy paths. There is a wonderful simplicity to it, a place where each may wander free and become something that, in the end, is beautiful. Perhaps it is a bit fantastical, his perception. That is something she only adds to, he thinks.

It is strange that she leaves out the inhabitants, though. As he looks over the base of Canterlot mountain, and the village it holds, he wonders just what she sought to prove in leaving civilization out. Of course, that is how he has always seemed to view his landscapes. He idealizes them. Though the others lend to a scene bright colors, they are lost to him, focusing merely on the scenery behind them. Indeed, he remembers no others in all their journeys. Even the face of the doctor has become a blur. Only hers remains. He has never sought for fulfillment in the people of a city, but in the city itself. Perhaps that is what she depicts. Perhaps he has missed entirely, he laughs within.

It is a strange way to live, being alone. He realizes that now. For so many years, he has left the others alone. It took a miracle to break him free of that. He has always seen himself as one meant to be left alone. After all, wayfarers do not collide. And yet, not far from here, two did. She had not known it then, that she is a wayfarer. Does it work the other way around? Has he been made an artist? A painter of bright scenery? Can he depict the scenes just as well? Perhaps. He has never tried. Perhaps he should try.

He can feel a bright smile from her now, coming from the sunshine. He is very close. He can feel it, and she knows it. Perhaps she has found the answer already. They are better at searching each other’s hearts than their own, he imagines. That is how love grows: outward, not inward. He takes another look at the painting, a keen analysis. It is not how he or she sees the world, he thinks. It is how the world sees itself. The crops die and live again, and will one day be gone again. The houses will one day fall, someday to be built higher and higher, until they reach the great city themselves. One day, the ground will join the sky. That will be a day worthy of any wayfarer’s revisiting. His heart soars, that he should see that fateful day.

If the buildings are but a blur, the colors, the others, must be even more ephemeral. They come and go, and try to leave some legacy, but all that is left is a blank point on the canvas. It must be dreary, to not feel time pass. It is a bitter realization he finds: no one is permanent. In fact, few are even visible. However, it is of little effect to the wayfarer. He has never wanted a legacy. He has never wished for permanence in the stars. He merely wants a joy for now, a happiness that lasts him while he is here. What happens beyond his grave matters little when he will not be there to enjoy it. What is in a legacy that he should seek?

There will be no others to mourn him when he passes, and it does not bother him. There will be nothing but a body left in his passing, and that is all right to him. What more could he ask for but a life of ups and downs? What good is an impact if he is not there to take part in it? Perhaps there is something he is missing. Perhaps it is another side effect of being a wayfarer, a disregard for a distant future, but legacy is little more than a word. Let the world bury him, let him become part of the earth. After all, the earth is all that she has depicted. The earth is all that truly remains. That is a legacy he would accept, perhaps to allow another seed to grow from his empty shell. That is a real and worthwhile effect.

Yes, he is close now. He can feel it just beyond his reach. He knows where to go now, to find the last piece of his answer. It is well that he came here, for here is the beginning. Here he will find the end. He looks to the gilded city with a keen hope and warm heart.

XLIX

And here is the fifth, though not necessarily the last. He stands before the great gates, though two guards stand at attention to either side. The gate is wide open now, and the sunlight strikes the place, rendering it quite dissimilar to her first depiction of it. The grand palace shines with brilliant domes of a bright marble white and gold finery. A few dashes of color pass by him, giving him odd stares, but he pays them no notice. The sun marks noon, atop the tip of the palace’s tallest spire. It is a bright scene, and though he seems quite out of place in a place of such grandeur, he cannot help but feel a connection to the silhouettes that have lingered here, that have stood in the same spot.

He wonders how she would depict it now, in night or day. They both present themselves well to him, and the painting reminds him of what they were, long before they collided. They had been separate, incomplete. He feels her smile in the noon’s sun. This scene is quite picturesque, he thinks. After all that has transpired, this is how she would want it. This is by far a greater climax to reach. Though the sun only casts, it still allows the better of the building’s features to gain their full recognition. After all, the gates are open.

This is a happy meeting, he thinks. He can see her standing there, spending her time with the lovely full moon, taking care with each mark and crater, absolutely oblivious of his approach, and it sparks a joyful smile in his face. A kinder tide washes over him, and once more, she brings him to a wonderful peace. He may think of her kindly once more, he thinks. She no longer presents an impassable sorrow, a hopeless tremor. He has her to thank for that healing, he thinks. In faith, his heart was never left alone. Here, on earth, he keeps hers with him. It is his for comfort, his for love. He still has his companion, her kindness only amplified to match the distance between. The expanse between is wide, but it is nothing to the experienced wayfarer. He has flown through the world several times over. A span of time is merely a new horizon to approach.

They may think him strange, to see one with such peace, yet still searching. He cares not. Like her, he has only one real audience, and at this venue lasts a memory of joy, and once more the beginning of a new journey. He has had a long time to think, and now, in the cobblestone streets, he has found his answer. He asks himself if it is truly the answer, and affirmation resounds throughout. It is indeed bitter, and it is a mistake he has made since the beginning. It is a mistake he has only corrected now. It is a mistake she could not afford, and did not.

She remains quiet now. She knows he has found it, and needs some time alone – how ironic, in the face of the answer – to think about it. He is left with but his thoughts and the scene before him. It is regretful indeed, but he has cast regret aside. He has cast aside all that would make him mourn his decision. There is no weeping to be had, no self-criticism, no regrets. There are merely reparations to be made to his love. There is a resolution to be met among the stone, the marble, the gold.

It is clear to him now, how he could forget, and though it is surely his fault, it is not worth mourning any longer, only fixing. Indeed, it destroys her in the end, at least the part of her he can touch. However, he doubts he could ever find it without that distance between them. The nature of the problem rests therein. He could not save her, because he could not know what destroyed her until it was too late. He is merely happy she could guide him now to the conclusion. As with any new realization, it takes a long while for each implication to reach him. It is all right; he has time. She gives him all the time he needs.

There, on the streets of grandeur, the wayfarer indeed finds tears. They are pure and joyful, for he has found a new freedom – another irony – in this last discovery. He is free of his own chains, free to wander once more with her. She has forgiven him long ago; for her, of course, there never was a thing to forgive in the first place. Now he may forgive himself, and into the horizon another taint leaves their heart – theirs, for it is joined again – and wanders off to its own new horizons. The tears streak down his face, for all of his journeys, all of his joy and suffering, have finally met a calm, resounding note, a lingering love that even in her wake fulfills him.

They are truly a wonder, the wayfarers. They find as youth what cannot be found by the greatest sages, the wisest seers. They find peace, and they find resolution. As the sunlight strikes the wayfarer’s coat, the selfsame vibrance comes to light in his impressive blue coat, and the black of his mane finds a particular charming luster, fuller now with her addendum. The feather finds a comfortable place in his mane, a happy reminder of a journey made complete. A bag rests on either side of him, one containing trinkets, the other canvasses, the collections of wayfarers and artists together, brought together by an impossible collision. It is still remarkable to him, that two wayfarers of diverse shores should collide so perfectly. The wayfarer no longer believes in coincidence. No coincidence is so joyful as his journey. Indeed, reparations will be made, and one more discovery, one revisiting, remains.

L

Only two elements mark this place at all familiar, but it is nonetheless a revisiting. It is a circular room, with a bed set on two sides, one made with a torn-off blue curtain, and one holding the wayfarers’ bags. The room is lined with a faded brown wallpaper of sylvan designs and curls. There is a single window in the room, and a small hatch on the floor, though it remains shut and secure. A few shelves are set up along the walls, faded, but not nearly as faded as the paper, or the single remaining curtain that drifts inwards with the first light breezes of spring. The artist’s bag lies open, and its contents are spilled over the floor, grand scenes of Canterlot palace at night, a beautiful scene of reflections and reality in Baltimare, a portrait of two in similar color, a dreary factory left alone to fade, a memorial captured in its own time, a familiar aged spire, its tattered curtain drifting outwards, and a scene of the earth. The wayfarer sits at a desk, an impressive stack of canvas paper at his side, and one sheet directly before him, the look of inspiration keen in his eyes.

He has never quite been an artist. He can never mimic her finesse, he thinks, just as she can never quite mimic his own fervor for the journey. However, she found her own version of it, her own way of his joy. She is with him now, and he can tell, he has surprised her, for a torrent – of love now – washes over him as he begins his work. She has painted their journey, and now it is his turn. She helps him through the gaps of his memory, assuring him that such is a part of all the art, the spaces that are left to be filled. As she guides him, a broad smile stretches over his face. It is just like any new journey, the first few steps weak and uncertain.

It is a wonderful apology, to set right a wrong. It is his best effort, and he knows that by the time they finish, he will hold in his hands a masterpiece, a journey embodied. He wills himself to find the first strokes, though he feels already he is not meant for the grand scenes. He has not her finesse with a brush. It is a difficult start, but she still urges him on, as he has once.

It is more difficult than he can imagine, to try and capture a moment in its essence. There is so much he yet does not know, so much he cannot quite remember. She continues her calm, gentle pushes, and slowly, the ideas begin to form in him. The wayfarer, indeed cannot draw. Several drafts are started and discarded in his mind alone. It takes practice, she assures. He will become better.

But that is not what he sees in his mind. That is her way of painting a scene. She combines colors, mixes tones and shades, and sets up an easel. Here, he sits at a desk. He is not a painter, but he is still an artist, just as much as she is a wayfarer. He feels his way through, the new, greater idea taking shape in his mind, and her quiet whispers cease, and she watches as inspiration takes over. He has stood well enough alone, but this is his apology. This is his art, and that is all she wishes to see. The idea takes grand shapes, bends a bit, as he plays with it. It takes a while to take its true form, but as it skips through his mind, he sees that it is, of all, the most beautiful thing he has done, for they have made it. He has experienced many things, partaken in many scenes, but never have they made them. Never have they truly made anything. He lets his inspiration run wild, and as idea after idea swirls through his mind, he is once more calm, able.

In the wayfarer’s mouth is not a brush, nor a palette. It is a pen. On the desk sits an inkwell. His mouth still remains caught in a smile, and in his apology, in her forgiveness, the two are found whole again. He has heard, once, that a picture is worth a thousand words. It is a beautiful phrase to him because the wayfarer knows words well. He needs not color nor brush. He has every color in the black ink, every impression found as pen finds the canvas paper. He knows each scene as he knows himself, as he knows her. He has his depictions ready, gathered together in his mind. Hers are there too, in his own medium. It is a new art, and as she gazes down upon him, she is once more surprised, for in his eyes are found yet another discovery; certainly not the last.

Outside, the sun begins to set, and warm rays light the curtain aflame. They come from behind the wayfarer, and light the feather as well, burning as if captured in the moment of a phoenix’s last flame. It falls on the canvas, and the last rays of an unfeeling sun prepare to fade. There is a peace, and the scene is captured just as he has paused the first bit of his writing. It is a simple message, for both her and the others. It warms her heart, for him to write it so well. It is not nearly a perfect work he sets out to make; that is exactly what makes her heart leap.

On the canvas is found a new beginning, written in the black of their manes. It is a simple introduction, not even a sentence, that brings them finally together. At the top of the blank sheet is written in an artistic scrawling script, “This time, your way, love, that neither of us should stand alone . . .”

XXXVII

They still walk on, their path defined by the small imprints in the grass behind. The trail has nearly disappeared, leaving a couple of small lines in the dirt from heavy carts, entirely surrounded by tall grasses. The sun dawns on another day of travel, marking the morning far above them. Their shadows are yet long, through rather undefined as they stretch over the grass. The river still flows farther away, and a mountain range rises alongside it.

The tallest one stands at least twice as tall as those around, boldly clawing at the sky. The couple walks side by side, though for now, a silence pervades the air. He stares at the mountain, the fiery blue-green of his eyes dulled with a sense of regret as he looks up at the great mount, which seems to pierce open the clouds themselves. She looks over her shoulders at the bulge, as it continues to grow within.

A question lingers in her mind. She cannot say she is entirely satisfied with her life. It is strange how despite everything, despite the wayfarer and their child, she can still thirst. She first tries to discard the thought as somehow selfish, as if to search for any further fulfillment indicates a corruption of personage. Still, there is nothing she can do to deter the feelings, and decides to confront them. Perhaps it is merely because it is not how she imagined her future, the multitude of dreams she held in her childhood, the ones that spurred her to become an artist. She sighs inwardly. She knows she gave those up for something far greater. Perhaps it is something that will remain. She does not particularly like the thought, that even in her resolve, such thoughts haunt her. Is it not a sacred art, though? To love?:

She thinks of the wayfarer’s doting eyes. Never could he harm her, not knowingly. What if there were something more that set him against her, though? A fundamental grinding of character that will serve to rend her open, if they do not realize it? Where does such a thought come from? She grows tired of her wandering mind. Perhaps it is a mere phase of strange despair. It likely vanishes when next she looks upon him, sees the care he holds in his eyes, sees the grace she has taught him. It makes his walk lighter, she thinks.

Has he not given up anything for her, after all? Her dreams do not die with the child. If anything, they are reborn. He will be confined, caged, she realizes. Is that the toll of love? She imagines so, an eventual sacrifice of dreams of the arts the heart knows, to learn the art of love. He dies inside for her, she thinks. Though they may move on eventually, his wayfaring will never be the same. It is a part of him that she destroys. Could it be for the better? She ponders the sentiment awhile. Perhaps it is a matter of maturity, that he should have to give up his heart to keep theirs growing. It is a harsh death, but apparently necessary. There lies Foal Mountain, she thinks, their first physical sacrifice together.

They have made sacrifices before, she thinks, with their first vows, though, she understands, those were happier sacrifices for them to make. She gave up insecurities, depression, he gave his pride and lonely repose. Though they still weep for those parts of themselves, they understand that they are better in the end for it. They are made whole together. Now, though, their aspirations are on the line. With each heartbeat, she is reminded of what she continually takes from the wayfarer, with only her love in return. Perhaps now she understands the wayfarer’s first sentiment to leave her, for her own good. It is a strange manifestation of selflessness, one that hurts more than heals, she knows. Still, she feels a pressing guilt that she has not shed a single tear for the death of the wayfarer.

There is the mountain, he thinks. Is the mountain itself a small sacrifice? Of course. It is merely scenery, a place, a thing. That is a lie, of course. He finds so much more in every landscape than just a scene, especially as it changes around him. He cannot say it is an easy sacrifice to make. She has made many for him too, he thinks. Do they equal? There it is, again, the will for some sort of equality in sacrifice. If it is equal, he thinks, neither side has made a sacrifice, but merely an exchange. No, the wayfaring is not a trivial loss. It is his livelihood, one of the few things he knows he can always cling to, in any storm. Can he give it up? Of course he will. He has her now, has a child. It should be far more, he thinks, to lose those instead. Those he can never lose.

It will be the last time he sees these places for a long while. As always, he pays his tributes to the land, surveying it, remembering each detail, that they may remain clear in his mind. However, the scenery is quickly lost in the storm. It is no use, to try and throw more sand into his mind’s sieve. Perhaps it is enough merely to enjoy it, though he finds it, at the moment, very difficult. How should he enjoy a constant reminder of what he loses? It wounds him every time he sees it, the grand mountain, both his and her sacrifice, he reassures himself. She is as much a wayfarer now as he is. How difficult it must be to give something up the moment it is learned in full.

Still, she is strong, perhaps stronger than he can credit himself for. Perhaps he should ask what drives her, what keeps her focused on others, that she can so easily forget herself amidst the swirling torrent of rain.