A familiar scene, with grassy plains, and a circlet of mountains, surrounding one alone. A bright city adorns its side, its colorful spires and domes striking a familiar chord. The sun lies at noon’s mark, casting short shadows and even light over the landscape. The gilded city glows with white and gold, once more promising the beginning of a journey. From this side of the mountain can be seen a small village at its base, far less grand, though a part of the city all the same. It is composed of wooden browns and squared sections of golden grains and soil. The sky holds the same clear blue, cloudless and familiar. In its midst fly the two, their wings at full span, gliding towards the glimmering city with ease. Their bags float behind them in the wind, and their black manes and tails catch the wind in curls and waves. They both wear blissful smiles, and look straight ahead to the wondrous towers.
He feels the need to count his blessings in this moment. She, of course, is one. There is his freedom. What else is there? Perhaps his map, he chuckles to himself. There is a world to explore, though he supposes that is not his alone. What does that leave? He has himself, his love, and the world, and to have so few seems strangely simplistic to him. Yet, he thinks there are very few things that could ever bring him more joy; only one, in fact. His eyes glitter ever so slightly, and he feels a certain rush of energy surge through him.
He can never grow tired of Canterlot. In his lifetime, he has never explored it in full. He can if he so chooses, though he finds it much more suiting to experience the city bit by bit. It leaves far more to see when he revisits, quite a bit more to do than see a popular spot or two. As satisfying as his revisitings always are, there should always be more reason to return than simply to return. If he has no other reason, he wanders the landscapes between cities, or simply finds an entirely new one. So far, it has worked fantastically; he has never once been stopped by the daunting figure of having nowhere else to go. So, Canterlot always just has a few more streets to discover for the first time, the rest to rediscover. What he will do once he has seen it all, he knows not. After all, wayfaring demands very little foresight. In fact, all it really demands is a heart that wants to see something new. The rest is left to the beholder.
Strange. It is her first time revisiting. She has understood the first discoveries so far, but she wonders if she will share the same joy as he in rediscovery. She has always loved the golden streets, though. She doubts she could ever get tired of such a beautiful place. It lends itself well to the canvas. The wayfarer says he knows a place for them to visit, and she feels a happy glow about her. She always likes surprises, especially the ones she can capture. She looks onto the endless spires and gildings; no, she has not seen all of it, but she will, one day. She remembers the frontiers of the map. One day, she will know each one of them, in full detail, because of him. She imagines the paintings she will make, and the memories alongside. It is a golden future ahead of her, she believes. She looks forward to it all the more, because she has him to share it with, though he likely knows each place already. So many years of wayfaring he has behind him, yet he still looks forward to every destination, like a child that never gets tired of sweets.
How far does he see? She might ask him. On the surface, it would seem like the decision of destination is made on a whim, the moment it is asked. However, his decision is so certain, so solid, that it seems to have been made months or years in advance. Does he predict the feelings he wishes to feel, or is it just coincidence? Perhaps there is prediction to it, but it may also simply be his whim. Perhaps he would have just the same excitement to switch around and head to Manehattan. She has always let him decide; he seems to know the best places to spend their time anyway. When she has seen enough of the world, when she has her own cities to revisit, they will decide together. For now, she is content to ride along.
The archways of Canterlot hold in them a peculiar shadow, their gildings rendered dull when shaded behind. The city is dense, and as intently as either may look upon it, they cannot yet see what lies within. The windows are shadowed, and so the city is only an exterior, like a facade. From the sky to the street there are several discoveries to be made, hopes to be found, but the two enter merely for a view, a memory, and a feeling. The world often gives more than any would expect. Out of sprouts come trees; out of cocoons hatch butterflies, out of sparks come great blazes. Indeed, reality has its own way of exaggerating. Their love, perhaps, is one of many cases. What was first a simple spark in his eyes has become boundless compassion and the will to understand her. Out of a nervous blush has blossomed infinite grace and a comforting joy for him. Out of their fiery passions is born another, and their exploration seems only to end on some distant horizon, unthinkable and irrelevant. The wayfarers are concerned with the present, and the gifts it brings.
Deep within, she feels a soft newer glow. It has been faint, but now she knows it is there. Soon, he will feel it with her.