//------------------------------// // XXVIII // Story: Wayfarer // by The Plebeian //------------------------------// The two lie in the colored leaves, now, and only the base of the tree is visible. Bright yellows and oranges contrast against their soft browns and vibrant blues. A map is stretched out over the leaves in tan parchment paper. All across it stretch small depictions and names of Equestrian cities, cast in light colors. The map is worn, some of the colors beginning to fade away, though its dark inked lines remain true. The wayfarer wears a thoughtful smile, and his hoof points to a depiction on the map of marble spires, underwrit by “Canterlot” in scrawling lettering, clearly a unicorn’s writing. She raises an eyebrow, but traces of a smile still touch the edges of her lips. She agrees. She knows not what lies behind those excited eyes. She is glad enough to see them excited again, she thinks. They still hold those handsome curious flecks in them, the bits of green in the blue. They are growing, she thinks. Although they may not be his best memories, she is happy to know the colors of his past. She finds hope in it, if anything. He has come from such gloomy places, and still leads a wonderful and bright life. She likes to be a part of it, to help him overcome what has passed, to guide him through what is to come. Is that her duty? A mere part of it, she thinks. What is his, then? The same. Her own past is quite resolved already, though. All he must help her with is the future. The present, too, she supposes. It is the first he smiles in a while, she thinks. She has always thought he was a wayfarer for joy. Now, she understands each city holds its own emotion, its own part of his heart. He visits a city to feel each emotion at its strongest. He revisits when he feels he has perhaps lost his grasp of an emotion, when he must visit a state of mind once more, when he is wiser. That is the heart of wayfaring, where the scenery is colored with a feeling, not a shade. She has never met a stallion so emotional, she thinks. Her father has always been reserved, at least visibly. Of course, she has never made an effort to meet any other stallion in full. Perhaps that is her fault. Still, the vibrance she sees now, she saw when they first met. No other has seemed so. Perhaps it is that his colors are just the right fit, the lively blue, the aquamarine tint the eyes take on as a whole. What, then, would his mane and tail say, with their deep blacks? It is his past, perhaps, but he carries it with him still. So, what is the mane? She loses herself in thought before the epiphany strikes. It is as hers is in its dark shades. Once adorned with the feather, now it is hers. She cannot help but blush. He knows it all along. Half of his color is her, and half of hers his. That is the kind of discovery she looks forward to when the sun rises, she thinks. She discovers the two of them together, not just him or her. That is the source of love, at least for them. The self always changes, so there will always be more to discover, always more reason to love. She finds that her doting passion escapes her now. She can feel it as she gazes into his eyes, that her joy flows out into him. It is one of the simplest ways to share, just a meeting. She cherishes the moment, paints it on her heart. He knows he can find it among the marble spires with her. She sets the last visit apart, yes, but it was a short visit, and there is something he has forgotten to pay tribute to. Canterlot is the first place he met something exactly like him, singular in its simultaneous splendor and shambles. It is a part he must revisit, for he knows there he will find his answers. He looks forward to showing it to her, though he will wait for her to notice it first. She will, he knows. She has an eye for the center of his feeling. That is what he loves to see in her: she understands exactly what he finds in the cities, even in her first visits. She is a natural wayfarer, he thinks, and smiles inside. She seems unsure of Canterlot, though she is curious enough, he thinks. He can tell by her slightest smile. She is ready to trust his judgment. Her trust for him seems boundless, and it flatters him. He is lucky to have found such a wonderful companion. Truly, he thinks, it cannot be luck. As well as he can pretend it is, he knows that no luck can arrange such a meeting. Only fate’s manipulation is so delicate, so fine-tuned. He sees a special sparkle in her eyes, and her face fills with color. She has found something. Her joy flows into him, and his own smile cannot help but grow. She knows the heart behind the feather now. Her brown eyes take on a luster, and he feels the need to embrace her. He has wondered awhile if she understands, and now he knows. She has found one of his first bright discoveries, reborn. The fire of their heart glows bright, and the two are drawn together, urged on to a kiss. He wonders if she knows how bright her eyes shine. He resolves to tell her, for she deserves to know. The feather rests in the midst of curly black locks, and in the morning light, it fits all too well, he thinks. There is passion, but it is not unfounded, like the passionate colors of flowers or fires. Their passion, he thinks, is far more wondrous. It is not only of bright colors, but muted color underneath.