//------------------------------// // XIII // Story: Wayfarer // by The Plebeian //------------------------------// 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.