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

And now he is left alone in the waiting room, found in one of the many despaired seats along the walls. Colorful undefined blurs sit at either side of him, though they are certainly no consolation for thought .They are nothing, no more than the walls or lights to him. He wears an anxious look, his eyes tired, though their blue-green shine still leaks through his hazy expression. He is in every way uncomfortable, alone, silent, looking as if he wishes to shift his seating, though he has done so several times already. It is a constant and terrible nervousness that dishevels the feathers of his wings, that sets his mane out of order.

It has been many seasons since he was last alone. It is no longer so soothing as when he first walked through Canterlot, with all its gold and finery. This is hardly a scene he would choose for reflection, yet as it is entirely blank, uninteresting, he is forced into his thoughts. He would give anything to be by her side, but he would likely faint, or get in the way. They were far more important than his peace of mind. He must be satisfied to wait, to remain in uncertainty for a while longer. There has never been such awful suspense to wayfaring. It is always a constant journey, a solidly happy outcome. Has he done all he can for her? He thinks so. What of himself? He is for her, for them. That is all that currently matters.

But what has he truly been for her, the whispering voice asks. What, truly, does he do for her? He has freed her, he thinks, opened her up and let her true colors show. He has brightened her life as much as he can. He has given up wayfaring. She gave up her art first, though. What accuses him? It remains without name, and merely points his mind to the white on her canvasses. He makes up for it now, he thinks. He makes his own sacrifices. Her grace already forgives all anyway. The vows were all for the other, after all. Has he truly given her his all, though? As far as he can tell, yes. He gives up pride, he gives up his relentless self-criticism, he gives up the wayfaring altogether.

Yet still his answer feels empty, as if it misses something incredibly crucial. He tears himself apart from within, trying to find what he has forgotten to give. The accuser waits for him to find it, though it knows he cannot find it, not yet. The longer it goes on, the more distraught the father becomes. That something could float beyond his notice for so long baffles him. Perhaps he has not answered the tree after all. Perhaps it is only now he knows the question. He has forgotten something crucial, despite all his love, despite everything. There is something more yet to give. He has given himself, he has given up all that he could be for her. He has done all he can to strengthen himself so he can better lift her up. How could he miss something? The horror grows on him, and his despair becomes more and more visible. 

It is a tumult, their love, a lovely storm that brings them together despite each occurrence, an endless cycle of giving, until now she has given everything, and he has given all he knows how to give. It is a torment, his mind, the accusation, and his old trappings threaten to return as he faces, once more, the void around him. There is no one he can confide with, no scenery to distract him, no part of himself he can find solace in. So his hopelessness continues to grow within him, choking out his hope, threatening to choke out his love. He tends to the heart. Though its second half remains invisible, he tries to keep its flame going. He keeps an ember’s glow, and warms himself by it, hoping that she may feel a bit of his heart in her struggle. He must hope so.

He wonders if he should join her anyway, if there is some hope they could spark together, to help her through. It is no help that the situation is so dire. Still, he may only consider one possibility. She must endure, even if she must be partially alone. She feels so far away now, like a distant star that he tries to capture. He wishes above all just to escape this moment, to return to their kiss. Even her first pains were better, so long as he could reach out and touch her, so long as he could lean in and kiss her. Now, she is gone; he abandons her in her greatest struggle. It is not his choice, he defends, but it still feels a poor excuse for him. It is for her own good that he stay away, though. Still no assurance. The grim whispers continue to echo. He forgets something, he has neglected her, somehow, and he is torn apart in the storm between them. He can no longer shelter her, be her solidarity. He stands alone, and his fortitude means nothing wasted only on himself. He stands too well alone, wishes to have her under his wings again. It is just as reassuring for both of them, to feel the other. Him because he believes he can protect her, and her because she thinks he finds some strange strength in her.

But the wayfarer is good at being alone. Over time, the thoughts dissipate, and he counts the seconds as they go by. His heartbeat slows, and he wonders just how long the seconds pass by him. Minutes go by undefined in length, and should an hour have passed, he could not tell. All he feels are warped seconds. He slows his counting, until the tempo takes its own shape, a slow, impossible heartbeat, each pulse several true minutes apart.