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.