//------------------------------//
// XXXIV 
// Story: Wayfarer 
// by The Plebeian 
//------------------------------//

Strangely, they walk now, wings tucked at their sides. A thin dirt path winds into the horizon near a small, winding river. The sky is a perfect clear blue, and the afternoon sun lends a keen warmth against the cool late-autumn breeze. Open, even fields of grass stretch out in either direction, some mountains breaking a faint mist far in the distance. They walk side by side, the bulge of her belly just a bit larger. They exchange some calm words, and suddenly their deep love seems no longer dominated by doting passion or momentary joy, but a calm, steady love and companionship.

It will be a long walk, she thinks. Their flights already take several days between cities, and the stretch of land between them and the Silver Sea may be flatter, but it is no shorter than any route they have taken before. Why does she worry? She cannot quite answer. She just feels like she should be worried about something, like she is a careless fool if she has nothing to worry about. She will grow out of it, she thinks, if she just gives it a bit of time. The foal still has a while to come. Stress can hardly help her at this point. 

It will be a long calm between them. There may be moments of passion, she thinks, but she has only known the passion to spark in new venues, in bold changes of scenery. She has only known passion to spark when their pace is fast enough. Can passion coexist with their roots, when they grow them? It seems foolish to think it should die so quickly, but she cannot know until the time arrives. Perhaps there will always be that layer of uncertainty in their love. Will their love truly grow with time, as they say it does?

She thinks about it for a long while, then realizes that it is her choice. Whether her love grows is all within her power. The supposition catches her off guard, as she has never considered her love so much her choice as a natural feeling. Perhaps its repercussions were her choices, such as flying away with him, casting away her fears with him, but she has never known the love itself to be her choice. It is so fundamental, it seems beyond her control. Perhaps she has a better grasp of it now, what it should truly mean. She thinks to bring it up in their conversation. He always seems to have something revealing to say when she has a question stuck in her mind. If it truly is within her grasp, then she will make sure it grows. She will give it all of her effort. 

Will she love him or the child more? There is a long pause. It will be him. She feels like either answer is unfair to the other, but there are things the wayfarer has done for her, has saved her from, that she does not believe the foal will equal. Perhaps her vision will change in time, but right now, she loves him much more. As curious as she is, she decides not to ask him the same question, at least not now. He will find his own answer soon enough, she thinks. In time, she thinks he will tell her of his own accord.

He has never known wayfaring from the ground. It is a far greater lull than the windy rush of flight. He could not converse with her easily between craning his head back and the buffets of wind. Now, the road is plain and steady, and she walks right at his side. It is strange he has never thought to travel by land. As he looks around, he has far longer to enjoy the scenery, and from a far different perspective. It is much more enjoyable. He doubts he will ever appreciate flying as much after this calm. Perhaps the child will be the same, a happy calm for a long while, at least location-wise. 

He is no fool who thinks having a child will be simple and quiet. There will be plenty of excitement, plenty for him to do, but it will all be familiar, far slower than his typical pace. It will still be a relative calm. A smile stretches over his face, and his fear dissipates. Already the calm of the ocean has found him. Indeed, there is much he yet does not know. He has never thought such a profound calm could lie so plainly just below him, in all of his travels. In hindsight, it seems easy enough to see, and already, he considers his old self a fool, and a hint of amusement joins his smile.

No, he has not learned all he can from wayfaring, but he doubts there is anything he can find in a horizon that cannot be found in the foal, in the artist. There will be time to learn all that he must about his life, about himself, even with roots. Perhaps one day, when the foal has grown, he will go wayfaring again. Will it still bring him the same joy? He looks at the same map that has adorned his flank since the phoenix. Perhaps it means more than just a literal wayfaring. Perhaps it is his heart that he must explore, not the plain world. If so, he has only explored one or two venues his whole life. It disappoints him that he still knows so little about himself, in all of his travels. The foal is something new to explore, he knows. It soothes his fears, of fatherhood, of roots, just to know he will still be an explorer. He looks forward to the Silver Sea. It will not be his last adventure, just the end of his first – perhaps his second – wayfaring. All that presents itself is a new horizon.

Though the road stretches far, they seem to have quite enough to discuss together.