Away from the Empire. Up on the Wall, then past that too. On the mountains, a distance away, not too high. The storm cleared, the sky was blue again, not too far. A good sign. A good thing. No need to run forever, past the sea or past the desert. Finding a town would do, and his moonflower still slept. Moonflower. Maybe that would do as a name.
He'd set up a greenhouse, or maybe just a patch of land. Ponies liked flowers, didn't they? He would, either way, and they wouldn't deny him a place. That would come later, it'd all come later. For then, walking. No more running for a while, the battle was over.
The mountain was calm. The breeze was gentle, the animals shy. The trees tall, and shade was pleasant. The path was not too steep, not too hard. Walking would do. It was good to slow down, for once in a while. He hadn't had a chance to for so long.
A town. They'd find one, there were bound to be many towns, or at least one. Eventually. At worst he'd keep walking, find a stream and follow it downwards, into a river and along that way. Towns were usually built along rivers. Were towns still built along rivers? He saw no reason they shouldn't have been. But there were many things he didn't see, or hadn't seen. A fair tradeoff perhaps, there were many other things he had seen that those around him hadn't.
She slept. On his back as he carried her along. Why her? No reason, no reason other than she was a name and a face that he knew, well enough to get to her at least. Why not anyone else there? Why should he have? Why should he have taken her either then?
Choice. All there was to it. He'd chosen one thing, chosen against another. He'd wanted to, and that was it. No other reason there, no other reason needed. Was he happy?
He looked at her. Moonflower. No. Not yet. Perhaps he wouldn't be for a long while. Perhaps he'd never be. But it was not because of that, and what he'd done put him on the right path towards it. If he wouldn't make it, it'd be for other reasons. Different reasons. What he'd done was good, for as good as something could be by mere decision. Good for him. That was good enough. What else could anyone ask for?
Good for a higher power. Good for a Good that was in itself, pure, above, dictating what was and what not good. What sympathy could he have for that, with his history? Could he say he'd done good, then?
It didn't matter. He didn't care. He'd never cared, there was no reason to start then. One thing at a time. A walk down the mountain, him and his moonflower, plucked from her field to lay her down somewhere else. Somewhere better. He hoped, the same would hold true for him too.