Wayfarer

by The Plebeian


XLI

There is no landscape, no moon or sky. The plains are gone, the Silver Sea has vanished, and all that remains is a blank room. The floor is tiled white, and the walls are a clean white, with a faint texture, as if they had been hastily painted and left to dry imperfectly. A set of lights hang from the ceiling, and the two stand near the room’s center. Along the sides are rows of seats, with blurs of color occupying. Both are in distress, their faces painted with faint, unsure lines, their faces set grimly, hers both tired and afraid. A third being takes form, with a white coat wrapped around his tan-brown colors. His eyes are also soft with concern, and from his mouth flows a set of stern, fearful words.

So it is not a typical pain, she thinks. It is something far more grim, foreboding. She finds it difficult to meet the doctor’s eyes, the father’s eyes. Somehow, she feels a hopeless shame, as if it is her own fault, her own negligence that casts their fear. After they have come so far, after all the pain he takes from her, now this threat arrives. It is a grim horizon she faces, and as it approaches at a breakneck pace, she wishes only to return to the moment, to be lost in just a single frame, to be trapped in a painting of her own. She has come so far, and now, at the end of it all, she knows not whether even the next second will hold for her peace or pain, hope or anguish. She cannot pin the moment down, figure it out, for it keeps moving, squirms out of her grasp. It is futile, her struggle, and she cannot find the strength to press on. She feels somehow separate, rent apart.

What if it is lost? Could he possibly forgive her? He might, in time. Knowing him, he would blame himself first, then he would blame nothing. How would she react? She would be lost for a long time, cold and shadowed once more. It would be her greatest failure, their greatest hope lost. No, she will not lose it. With the thought comes another torrent of emotion: inadequacy, failure, insecurity, helplessness, hopelessness, terror. She wants only to run away, and that makes her nothing but a coward, she thinks. She wants to return to the times before, of ease and bliss, and that makes her weak. She cannot face her emotions without him, and that makes her dependent and lusterless. As the shadows return, she finds she is colorless as well. She would give anything for his touch, but she refuses herself that weakness now. How can she be for him, when she cannot even be for herself? The thought only throws her further into spiraling despair. In all the love she has with the wayfarer, the father, she has only become weaker.

And yet somehow, he wraps his hoof around her. She knows not whether to let it slip off, or to let herself get lost in it again, or if that is a bliss she should deny herself. He has never cared about her weakness, she thinks. If anything, he loves her more for it. Why, now, can she not accept her own grace returned?

Because, she answers bitterly, in the end, she is nothing. Here, on this diverse shore, her depression has found her once more, by some awful miracle, and she is no more than she was when he found her. She has not grown for him, he thinks, but merely distracted herself from what she has always been. She tries to escape the thoughts, and can no longer feel the hoof over her shoulders, the reassurance that the father tries to give her. It is lost in her own dark passions.

But is this not also an indulgence? She knows not to feel, so she turns to the only thought that feels correct. She is not strong for facing herself here, for destroying all that the wayfarer and father sought to complete for her. She is merely a child, throwing a tantrum against herself. Of all the paradoxes, she is strong for letting herself depend on him. He wants to lead her, wants to comfort her, and the only true selfishness is denying that to both of them. Her only weakness is her ability to call herself weak. Of course she is weak alone. So is any soldier or general, so is any king or queen. She may berate herself all she likes, as he does, but in the end, she needs him, and he needs her back. That is how love is meant to be, in the end. It is not an interaction of independent beings, but a collision and fusing of two broken hearts. Of course her heart alone is weak, for it is only a half.

She is ready, now, she thinks. She can feel his embrace, and it gives her the slightest of hope. Though the doctor can tell her numbers, odds, uncertainties, hope has no regard for such figures. Hope takes the smallest chance, and makes it real, tangible. She holds the hope in her heart, and she can feel the heart’s fire return, if not a bit sullied by the winter’s cold. Her mind stills, for their child, for the father, that the heart should stay whole. She lets go of the bitterness once again, refuses the shadow an opportunity to land. It all drifts away once more, though the tears still flow. Yes, she is afraid. There will always be fear, but fear is a challenge, not a barrier. Fear itself may always be overcome. She may face it, with him. She will be apart from him, but she will not be alone. She takes a part of him with her, to assure them both. She carries his feather, their combined colors, their true colors, and readies for the ordeal.