He remains, at heart, alone. The doctor has returned, and speaks to the wayfarer, seeming very tired, and something else. The wayfarers eyes are open now. His patience has paid him well, for now he knows very well the future ahead. The blurs take on grotesque shapes behind him, and the scenery is undefined, though they have not at all moved. The doctor holds a dash of bright red-orange fire in his hoof, the feather of the phoenix, born from ash. The wayfarer wears a look of disbelief, of denial, and seems as if he is ready to fall apart in tatters, like a canvas torn through the middle.
It is so impossible, he thinks. His mind swirls in a terrible vertigo, and he feels sick himself. The flame of the feather burns at his eyes as a deathly shadow holds him in a harsh vice. The heart is halved, and he is left exposed, bare in all of his disgusting being. It is as impossible as the sunrise of tomorrow, unimaginable as the next week, unfathomable as the foreign concept of next year. There is nothing. He is nothing, to himself. He is drawn once more into a hopeless storm, and his wings are broken over themselves by the unbreakable winds. His eyes are wide, but his pupils pinpricks. There is no longer any future, and the now destroys him from within. He is absolutely broken apart, the tempo descending into a silent and imperceptible tick, threatening to fall away entirely. They are no more, and he wills only to see one more glimpse, to look into her eyes, to prove that she ever existed at all.
There must be some hope, he thinks desperately, something he can cling to, to escape himself. He is caught in a vicious undertow, however, and the shadow colors the edges of his vision. Perhaps here will be a light when his head surfaces, but alas, there is but a storm, and he is blinded by rain instead.
Remember the moments with her, he commands himself, and immediately regrets it. Yet, somehow, the tears cannot come yet. It is as if here, now, they hold themselves back, though there is no one to soothe, no one to remain solid for. Every kiss of theirs passes through his mind, and he tries to hold those happy emotions with him, tries to find comfort in the memory, but like sand through the sieve of his memory, it is all lost. Without her, he has no reason to remember. All lost is his mind. Far away lies his thought. He is gone. He has never truly considered what he should be without her, and now he understands, he is nothing. The phrase somehow comforts him, as if to spiral deeper holds some secret solace. He is nothing, all and ever nothing. He has given it all up, and she has taken it with her.
Not all of it, the accuser says. Not everything. The wayfarer is still one thing, and that should be all he needs now. It is bitter to be something, he thinks. Can he not let that go too, whatever it is? He will not want to, the accuser replies, especially not now. Defeated, the wayfarer continues his spiral into the earth, hoping it will merely break him, let him join her. No, that is unfair. He must find it first, he must find it, so he may give that too, he may give it away to the void, throw it into the wind, once he finds it. Only when he is nothing may he be destroyed. That is his new vow.
The despair still grips him fiercely, but the tears still hold themselves back. Remember more, he commands. Remember Canterlot, Baltimare, Fillydelphia, each venue in between. Remember the happiness he brought her. Is that not worth something? Not now. He does not even have proof it ever happened. That is untrue. Over his shoulder rests her bag, all of her work. They will be his memory. He knows her paintings, at least. He remembers Canterlot’s palace, the view over Baltimare, the factory and memorial of Fillydelphia, the lone tree, the tower, the village below Canterlot. They are all vivid in his mind, because they stopped there. As he clings to those, he realizes he remembers far more, though any happiness merely turns to a bitter hopelessness in each scene. She has been every happiness for him. The void left there merely brings him back to the present.
So he cannot escape forever. It always returns to the now, the doctor’s solemn worry for him, the blurs around. Time mocks him by continuing into a future he does not want. He wants to move backwards, just live in the past, in those few moments he had when happiness was attainable. He realizes he is torn. He worries for himself too. He worries that he will never escape this new despair, this new shadow over him, yet another deterrent against the future. He begins to entertain fantasies. Perhaps somehow she is alive, the doctor will return and find her breathing, rush back to him, profess the wonderful news. Everything will be all right, their light never sundered, their hopes never dashed, their hearts never split. All will be right again, and they will raise their child – for it survives too – together in Canterlot, teach it the glory of the gilded and the decrepit, the past and the present, and one day, the future.
No! The thought has returned. It is a lie, he declares. He must say it, he thinks. He must shout it into the depths of his mind, silence the fantasies, silence every false future he has ever yearned for, for they only bring him suffering. He must hear it echo back, to ensure it has reached every bone, every edge of the shambles of his heart. From his soul he shouts, “she is all gone! Let her be gone!”