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

But now the sun falls. The sky is lit red with the evening sun, and the sea is set ablaze. Torn apart are the waves, like a grim fury. The clouds are lined in scarlet, and their edges blur like cuts in the sky. Though the sands are calm, and the waves are yet gentle, the reds of sunset bring the scene into awful shade. They remain in the water, but are still now. She is doubled over, her eyes wide and bloodshot and her mouth open, uttering a silent cry. He is shortly behind, a look of strange shock and comprehension on his face, though it is masked over tenfold with worry, because he knows not her cry. Tears of anguish gather at the edges of her eyes, and just as the blues of the water are rent apart by rays of red, so their momentary peace is shattered.

Her mother has told her the pains that should accompany birth, though this is far more than she could imagine. It does not yet start, she knows, but it approaches very quickly. The pain shatters the confines of her mind, and rips apart every thought of love, of admiration, of solidarity she had before, and replaces it with her scream. The wayfaring ends now, she thinks. It is the end of the first joy they know together. It may be a new joy they reach for, but she can hardly praise such a hope right now, as it threatens to rend her apart. Think about the future, she commands herself, but the present is overwhelming. For once, she wishes above all to be anytime but now, whether it be past or future, anything just to be out of these nerves, to be free of the pain.

It passes, though she still shivers in anguish, a gripping cold that has left her breathless. She feels the ocean water drip down her face like beads of sweat, and braces for more to come. It is a pain she knows will repeat. She will never be ready, she thinks. It will always catch her by surprise, a ruthless being that touches every muscle, every part of her mind with a thought-numbing pain. Her voice runs dry, and she feels suddenly very sick. She tries to reassure herself. It is for him, she thinks, for the child she endures. It is her chance to be all for him, in the face of the storm. If she is not solid now, she is nothing, naught but lies in her words and thoughts. The pain will subside. She will endure, she knows. She can endure. She needs only demand it of herself. She will hold her hope in the next moment, when the pain should subside. She wishes only to look into his eyes, now, to draw from him that strength, to show him she is strong for him.

She cannot be weak anymore. She cannot falter if she is to be his. That is the vow he first made to her, and whether or not she knew it then, she knows now it is just as much her vow to him as her grace or her insecurity. She has never truly known pain, always thinking she should never face it. So, like a stone through glass, it threatens to shatter all she has fought for, all she has won for him.

And he, he is finished. In these moments, the wayfarer dies. His last drops of the mere present have run dry. Now he is a father in all but name. He knows not how to help her, suddenly detached in all her pain. He wants only to take it himself, to take it away from her, though he could handle it no better. He mourns not for himself anymore. Himself is over. There is only her. She is all that remains for him, she and the child. He is torn apart, unsure whether to let her be, so as not to hurt her, or take her up in his embrace. He makes his decision, and moves forward to support her. Even should he not know pain, he can help it. He has loved her, cared for her, helped her, freed her, but never has he feared for her, and the fiery skies reflects in his fearful blue-green discs. 

He can only blame himself now, for taking her this far. He should have demanded they stay in Canterlot. Truly, no single trip could be worth this much pain, could be worth an entire breaking of her character. There is nothing he can do about the past. The future, he demands. Help her for the future. He has never been skilled with the future, always making ‘plans’ the moment they are to be carried out. He could blame himself for that too, but it helps nothing.

Perhaps it is not the future. What matters this moment? What matters is whether she is all right, and whether he can help her. What can he do? What words soothe pain? He thinks quickly, desperately, searching for a single thing to say, as her breath echoes into his ears – short gasps. He must break apart the pain like it has broken her, reassemble her in a mere fashion of language, with an action. He manages to form an idea, and in a split second he executes. As his hoof rests on her shoulder, the words take form in his opened mouth, “I am here for you.”

The tears turn to joy. They are in the storm’s full swell now, and lightning whips at their beings, setting their hairs on end, breaking their ears with deadly thunder and buffeting wind. They are hopelessly lost in the tempest, tossed about in the flood, their heads just above the water. Though he wishes to help her, to lift her above water, he can hardly resist the undertow alone. Swept helplessly beneath, the wayfarer drowns and dies, merely to be born again.