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

They still walk on, their path defined by the small imprints in the grass behind. The trail has nearly disappeared, leaving a couple of small lines in the dirt from heavy carts, entirely surrounded by tall grasses. The sun dawns on another day of travel, marking the morning far above them. Their shadows are yet long, through rather undefined as they stretch over the grass. The river still flows farther away, and a mountain range rises alongside it. 

The tallest one stands at least twice as tall as those around, boldly clawing at the sky. The couple walks side by side, though for now, a silence pervades the air. He stares at the mountain, the fiery blue-green of his eyes dulled with a sense of regret as he looks up at the great mount, which seems to pierce open the clouds themselves. She looks over her shoulders at the bulge, as it continues to grow within.

A question lingers in her mind. She cannot say she is entirely satisfied with her life. It is strange how despite everything, despite the wayfarer and their child, she can still thirst. She first tries to discard the thought as somehow selfish, as if to search for any further fulfillment indicates a corruption of personage. Still, there is nothing she can do to deter the feelings, and decides to confront them. Perhaps it is merely because it is not how she imagined her future, the multitude of dreams she held in her childhood, the ones that spurred her to become an artist. She sighs inwardly. She knows she gave those up for something far greater. Perhaps it is something that will remain. She does not particularly like the thought, that even in her resolve, such thoughts haunt her. Is it not a sacred art, though? To love?:

She thinks of the wayfarer’s doting eyes. Never could he harm her, not knowingly. What if there were something more that set him against her, though? A fundamental grinding of character that will serve to rend her open, if they do not realize it? Where does such a thought come from? She grows tired of her wandering mind. Perhaps it is a mere phase of strange despair. It likely vanishes when next she looks upon him, sees the care he holds in his eyes, sees the grace she has taught him. It makes his walk lighter, she thinks.

Has he not given up anything for her, after all? Her dreams do not die with the child. If anything, they are reborn. He will be confined, caged, she realizes. Is that the toll of love? She imagines so, an eventual sacrifice of dreams of the arts the heart knows, to learn the art of love. He dies inside for her, she thinks. Though they may move on eventually, his wayfaring will never be the same. It is a part of him that she destroys. Could it be for the better? She ponders the sentiment awhile. Perhaps it is a matter of maturity, that he should have to give up his heart to keep theirs growing. It is a harsh death, but apparently necessary. There lies Foal Mountain, she thinks, their first physical sacrifice together. 

They have made sacrifices before, she thinks, with their first vows, though, she understands, those were happier sacrifices for them to make. She gave up insecurities, depression, he gave his pride and lonely repose. Though they still weep for those parts of themselves, they understand that they are better in the end for it. They are made whole together. Now, though, their aspirations are on the line. With each heartbeat, she is reminded of what she continually takes from the wayfarer, with only her love in return. Perhaps now she understands the wayfarer’s first sentiment to leave her, for her own good. It is a strange manifestation of selflessness, one that hurts more than heals, she knows. Still, she feels a pressing guilt that she has not shed a single tear for the death of the wayfarer.

There is the mountain, he thinks. Is the mountain itself a small sacrifice? Of course. It is merely scenery, a place, a thing. That is a lie, of course. He finds so much more in every landscape than just a scene, especially as it changes around him. He cannot say it is an easy sacrifice to make. She has made many for him too, he thinks. Do they equal? There it is, again, the will for some sort of equality in sacrifice. If it is equal, he thinks, neither side has made a sacrifice, but merely an exchange. No, the wayfaring is not a trivial loss. It is his livelihood, one of the few things he knows he can always cling to, in any storm. Can he give it up? Of course he will. He has her now, has a child. It should be far more, he thinks, to lose those instead. Those he can never lose.

It will be the last time he sees these places for a long while. As always, he pays his tributes to the land, surveying it, remembering each detail, that they may remain clear in his mind. However, the scenery is quickly lost in the storm. It is no use, to try and throw more sand into his mind’s sieve. Perhaps it is enough merely to enjoy it, though he finds it, at the moment, very difficult. How should he enjoy a constant reminder of what he loses? It wounds him every time he sees it, the grand mountain, both his and her sacrifice, he reassures himself. She is as much a wayfarer now as he is. How difficult it must be to give something up the moment it is learned in full.

Still, she is strong, perhaps stronger than he can credit himself for. Perhaps he should ask what drives her, what keeps her focused on others, that she can so easily forget herself amidst the swirling torrent of rain.