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