//------------------------------//
// XI 
// Story: Wayfarer 
// by The Plebeian 
//------------------------------//

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.