//------------------------------// // XXX // Story: Wayfarer // by The Plebeian //------------------------------// Many suns set, and the city is asleep. The two are found on the street, and the nights are beginning to grow colder. The typical white walls, made of buildings, rise all around, and they find themselves at a dead end in the street, at which stands a singular tower. It carries the same whites as the buildings around, though the building’s speckling of faded paint makes it resemble the moon’s splotchy texture. The tower rises four storeys upwards, and although each floor has a window or two, only the single window at the top has no boards over it. The building is fairly wide, perhaps twenty-five to thirty hooves in diameter. The awnings are long faded, and are held together by mere frayed strings, weaker even than gossamer thread, once a lovely deep red. The tower ends with a conical roof, and through the upper window drifts a curtain of faded blue, marked with holes from the sun’s slow fires. Far above the tip of the spire floats a circular void, the barely-perceptible form of a new moon. The easel is set up, the scene’s colors beginning to take root in the canvas, though not yet completed. Her eyes are closed, and color has risen to her cheeks, the brush set down on the easel’s rack. The wayfarer embraces her from behind, around her shoulders, and rests his head just beside hers, as if to see, in this moment, exactly what she might see. She places her hooves over his, and the two are met in a keen silence, a peace. At the base of her belly, a small bulge begins to form, just barely perceptible. She has chosen to paint the place, without even his prompting or notice. She has picked it out, knowing exactly that it is his favorite. There is something greater that can be found in an aged building. It is like the experience of an older , an abundance of something more that shines brighter to the trained eye than the moon at night. The tower has a story to it, he knows, but he cannot yet discern it. It can be sensed, but not seen. He enjoys the mystery it holds. One day, he will find the story. Perhaps, he thinks, he will write it down, just so that he can never forget. It pulls him, and though he knows there are no occupants, he does not wish to enter. Perhaps there is something yet sacred, that he wishes not to break. He will enter another day, he assures himself. Perhaps when there is nothing more to find in the world. The sentiment makes him chuckle inside, that he should ever see all of this wide world. The embrace warms him, and he can smell the sweet scent of her curly locks. He can just see the tip of the feather, poking out from behind her ear. It is her inner fire that warms him, and as the two embrace, he feels time slow, for just a moment. His heart ceases to beat, and his eyes go blank. He just feels her, how the two of them are. They only grow closer, as the year ticks on through its seasons. It is already a full summer they have traversed, and the fall nears its equinox. He is ready for a winter with her, with this hearth’s fire. He is ready to shelter her from the cold, and to keep his own fire strong, that she may stay warm. Against the breeze they find in each other their warm fire He feels their joined heart, and explores still the parts of hers. Of all, her hope is the greatest. Though she may be of a shyer type, she always carries hope for another day. He grants her that liberty, he thinks, that freedom of self. He lends himself to her, that she may not be afraid to speak her mind, though he has become excellent at reading her regardless. Like the embrace they are held in, much is left unsaid, that needs no longer be said. In her, he finds his own hope, a hope for a horizon that he will not have to spend alone. She is a mare that he may share his world with; that is all he can ask. Her heart leaps in surprise, and she feels the familiar rush of passion. His embrace never grows weak or lifeless. She can always feel a bit of him flow into her, as with his eyes. It is a calm passion that passes between them, like a small brook that she cannot seem to find the end of. She holds him tight, and feels the warmth against the cold autumn night. She loves the season, but she has not often spent the colder half outside. How has he ever endured it alone? It matters not. She remains, and will remain for him. Behind her closed eyes begin her own flecks of gold among the shots of walnut color. She is at peace, she thinks. She rests in her love’s embrace, and feels the first inklings of new life forming within her. At the edges of her eyes are formed two happy tears, for all that has gone absolutely right. Hers is a life of the utmost perfection, as far as she will ever see. She loves the look of the tower. It strikes her as something beautiful not in spite of its decay, but because of it. Regardless of its cracks and fades, it stands on like a monument, though she knows not what of. Perhaps the story is theirs, to find beauty in something, regardless of how many times it is seen or visited, regardless of what ails or destroys it. The wayfarers find beauty in whatever is seen. After all, anything that the eyes may find has a story, and every story has a message for its listeners. She wonders how their story appears, to one outside of their heart.