And here is the fifth, though not necessarily the last. He stands before the great gates, though two guards stand at attention to either side. The gate is wide open now, and the sunlight strikes the place, rendering it quite dissimilar to her first depiction of it. The grand palace shines with brilliant domes of a bright marble white and gold finery. A few dashes of color pass by him, giving him odd stares, but he pays them no notice. The sun marks noon, atop the tip of the palace’s tallest spire. It is a bright scene, and though he seems quite out of place in a place of such grandeur, he cannot help but feel a connection to the silhouettes that have lingered here, that have stood in the same spot.
He wonders how she would depict it now, in night or day. They both present themselves well to him, and the painting reminds him of what they were, long before they collided. They had been separate, incomplete. He feels her smile in the noon’s sun. This scene is quite picturesque, he thinks. After all that has transpired, this is how she would want it. This is by far a greater climax to reach. Though the sun only casts, it still allows the better of the building’s features to gain their full recognition. After all, the gates are open.
This is a happy meeting, he thinks. He can see her standing there, spending her time with the lovely full moon, taking care with each mark and crater, absolutely oblivious of his approach, and it sparks a joyful smile in his face. A kinder tide washes over him, and once more, she brings him to a wonderful peace. He may think of her kindly once more, he thinks. She no longer presents an impassable sorrow, a hopeless tremor. He has her to thank for that healing, he thinks. In faith, his heart was never left alone. Here, on earth, he keeps hers with him. It is his for comfort, his for love. He still has his companion, her kindness only amplified to match the distance between. The expanse between is wide, but it is nothing to the experienced wayfarer. He has flown through the world several times over. A span of time is merely a new horizon to approach.
They may think him strange, to see one with such peace, yet still searching. He cares not. Like her, he has only one real audience, and at this venue lasts a memory of joy, and once more the beginning of a new journey. He has had a long time to think, and now, in the cobblestone streets, he has found his answer. He asks himself if it is truly the answer, and affirmation resounds throughout. It is indeed bitter, and it is a mistake he has made since the beginning. It is a mistake he has only corrected now. It is a mistake she could not afford, and did not.
She remains quiet now. She knows he has found it, and needs some time alone – how ironic, in the face of the answer – to think about it. He is left with but his thoughts and the scene before him. It is regretful indeed, but he has cast regret aside. He has cast aside all that would make him mourn his decision. There is no weeping to be had, no self-criticism, no regrets. There are merely reparations to be made to his love. There is a resolution to be met among the stone, the marble, the gold.
It is clear to him now, how he could forget, and though it is surely his fault, it is not worth mourning any longer, only fixing. Indeed, it destroys her in the end, at least the part of her he can touch. However, he doubts he could ever find it without that distance between them. The nature of the problem rests therein. He could not save her, because he could not know what destroyed her until it was too late. He is merely happy she could guide him now to the conclusion. As with any new realization, it takes a long while for each implication to reach him. It is all right; he has time. She gives him all the time he needs.
There, on the streets of grandeur, the wayfarer indeed finds tears. They are pure and joyful, for he has found a new freedom – another irony – in this last discovery. He is free of his own chains, free to wander once more with her. She has forgiven him long ago; for her, of course, there never was a thing to forgive in the first place. Now he may forgive himself, and into the horizon another taint leaves their heart – theirs, for it is joined again – and wanders off to its own new horizons. The tears streak down his face, for all of his journeys, all of his joy and suffering, have finally met a calm, resounding note, a lingering love that even in her wake fulfills him.
They are truly a wonder, the wayfarers. They find as youth what cannot be found by the greatest sages, the wisest seers. They find peace, and they find resolution. As the sunlight strikes the wayfarer’s coat, the selfsame vibrance comes to light in his impressive blue coat, and the black of his mane finds a particular charming luster, fuller now with her addendum. The feather finds a comfortable place in his mane, a happy reminder of a journey made complete. A bag rests on either side of him, one containing trinkets, the other canvasses, the collections of wayfarers and artists together, brought together by an impossible collision. It is still remarkable to him, that two wayfarers of diverse shores should collide so perfectly. The wayfarer no longer believes in coincidence. No coincidence is so joyful as his journey. Indeed, reparations will be made, and one more discovery, one revisiting, remains.