//------------------------------// // XXXI // Story: Wayfarer // by The Plebeian //------------------------------// A calm, now. The marble white of Canterlot forms a series of arches, which stretch on like a long hallway, though one side is left without a wall, exposed to the night. The floor is hewn of smooth, cold stone. Floral patterns creep along the inner wall like vines. The two rest under the arcade, laying down, she on her side, and he on his stomach. He holds his ear up against the bulge of her belly, his eyes brimming with tears and excitement. She bears a look of wonderful bliss, a calm smile on her face, and her eyes glimmering with tears of her own. He is overcome. All at once, he hears the smallest percussion, and all of his love floods over, his passion surges in a torrent, and his first sense of nurturing love, the fatherly care, sweeps over him. He realizes that he has never been responsible for another, truly. He has no siblings, and his love has always been his equal, no filly that must be watched. It is something entirely different, to be made caretaker, and in the faint heartbeat he experiences a transformation. His love is not split between the two, but instead amplified. The two have made something more fantastic than any discovery or painting, and he loves her all the more, though he cannot place a sort of reason or value to it. Life is indeed his grandest discovery, far outshining the stars that shine above. Together, they bring a sense of fulfillment previously unfathomable. That is why his love is boundless. There is one more heart to join, one more hope brought in to their slur of happy revelations. His excitement is contagious, she thinks. Her eyes are already watery with joy, as she feels its faint heartbeat join with hers. It is an astounding quiet, though she cannot hear it above her spinning emotions. Joy and happiness swirl, but alongside are fear, anticipation. She knows her doting love, not motherly love. The sentiment has never seemed natural until now. A worry gnaws at her mind: they know not how to provide for it. She may sell her pieces, but that is hardly enough to support the duo. Among three, the food would be meager rations. Now, the future is not so well-set, not free to decide in the moment, and it frightens her. She has hardly felt its budges, and yet already she fears for the child. It grows in a poorer womb, with hardly the privilege she has known. It strikes her with guilt, that she can so foolishly lead her life with hardly even a glimpse to the far future, to the manifestations in the distance that threaten to shatter her. She brings the child into a penniless family, and she knows not who to blame for such a mistake. They have no roots, no home, no hearth for the child. All they have are two bags, one of trinkets, one of paintings. A new realization strikes him: this must be the end of his wayfaring. The thought is first deflected, as if entirely unthinkable, but it will not lie down. It strikes him once more, and again, and again, until he is subdued by it. It will be his last discovery, this new life. He is not so foolish as to believe he can destroy this child’s life merely to continue his passions. It is over, very soon. Is it an exchange, or a development, he wonders. He has never considered that his destiny could ever include remaining still. He has nothing to give his children, merely a couple of petty stories, places he has visited over and over, stories that cannot simply be told, but must be felt to be understood. He has nothing for his children. She only has her art, and that cannot provide for a child. The distress compiles, and he is overcome once more, this time by a dread and worry. There is no moon to guide him, and he is left absolutely without direction. Is there any but forward? Time certainly will not wait. This future is the absolute wrong kind of uncertain, the kind that cannot be molded by a single decision, nor decided immediately. The wayfarer needs a plan. What he would give for a newer map. But perhaps it is for the best they grow out of it, she thinks. They may have their fun, but the truth of the matter is, they cannot stay uprooted. They must choose a place, one to stay, to raise a child into the world. What mother could teach her child to fly before it can even stand? She needs her roots as well, she thinks. Perhaps it will be the traction she needs for her art to gain notice. Though the wayfarer is the fairest audience, he already hears the phrases that her art should speak. As much as she loves their carefree travels, her art must be seen by more than one. She has forgotten her aspirations with him, though she must retake them, for the sake of her child, for herself. It disappoints her that she should give up a part of that passion. She has just learned to love, and now she must learn it anew. It hurts her to ground the wayfarer, but at the same time, he is filled with such joy. Does he not yet realize what it will mean to him? In the heartbeat lies the death of his revisitings, the growing of roots. What will he do, unable to fly away each day to a new venue, confined to a single home? Despite all she knows of him, she cannot say. Such an answer is elusive. The wayfarer remembers the tree’s sacred challenge. He has found the question, now. He has forgotten the demands of love: what he must give up for each new heart. He lies bare in the moonlight, unable to cover the void in himself, and is hopelessly ashamed.