• Published 1st Dec 2013
  • 725 Views, 23 Comments

Wayfarer - The Plebeian



A picture is worth one thousand words.

  • ...
3
 23
 725

XXII

The buildings of Fillydelphia are remarkably dark. They are not painted darkly, but several elements combine to bring them a sense of darkness. The first are the black stains that seem to coat each building’s outer wall. One could take a hoof and scratch a bit of the strange shade, but there is still a thorough stain beneath. The source is easily found, and yet another contributor: the haze in the sky. It is made of an awful grey, which blots out a remarkable portion of sunlight. The dust slowly settles on the buildings, and falls so constantly that to keep any building clean is impossible. The coal dust is quite oppressive, and while several buildings may rise to the height of those in Baltimare, they are not nearly so refined, often made of cement, left smeared in a perpetual dust.

The street has simple cobblestones, and is lined similarly to Canterlot, though drained of color. More houses than businesses line the streets, and the buildings alternate between two and three storeys, built in a classical brick style. The ponies on the street, however, are more varied. While many wear traces of the haze in their coats, their colors, for the most part, show through. Soft hues penetrate the haze, and smiles may still be found. They are strange ones, to be sure. It is as if they know not the dust they live in. It is so prominent that it can no longer be seen. The sky always looks that blue, the buildings always that bright, their coats always that vivid. There, among colorful smudges, the two find their places, cantering easily through the street.

His neck is panned to the side, caught in a sweeping glance over the scenery. He wears no smile, and his eyes are intense and scrutinizing. Although his walk seems easy, his thoughts are active and racing. She looks at him with an avid curiosity, as well as a certain admiration. Her gait is easy as well, and the workings of her mind can be seen, even through her deep brown eyes.

This is quite a change of pace, she thinks. She has not known him to be one for gloomier ventures, and indeed, Fillydelphia holds a special sort of gloom. It makes her shiver. She wants to walk closer beside him, if only to figure out what he can see in such a place. He does not smile, and it confuses her. She wants to ask him what has taken away his luster, but senses that this silence is something sacred. Perhaps even the wayfarer needs his share of gloom. She thinks back to the shadow, how she had carried it with her. There were times, yes, when she appreciated its presence. However, she cannot revisit such a force. Only in moderation. It would be foolish for her to revisit such an abyss, especially so soon after letting it go for him. A strange part of her says it would be like betrayal, and she weighs it in her thoughts. It is true, such a shadow would keep her from enjoying her time with him.

Still, she wishes she could comfort him in some way. It makes her feel uneasy herself, the way he looks at the city. He has no lovely glimmer in his eyes. It is replaced by a strange intensity, as if to search for something specific in the city. There will be a time, she thinks, to bring him a bit more cheer. It disappoints her to be unable to help, but she knows this is something he must search for on his own, whatever it is.

Of all, it is the most bittersweet city he frequents. He looks at the gloom above, and feels a pang of hopelessness. It has only grown thicker since last he visited. The children have grown a bit, but they still run through the streets, so happy and carefree, despite the dust that takes them over. He remembers that time very clearly, and wonders if the old dust still occupies his lungs. He pays the place a short tribute, for there is much history to meet here that even the dust cannot obscure. He takes a moment to survey the scene. Yes, he remembers this avenue.

He has played here before, run through these streets with the same joy. So far away it is, now. Here rests his childhood: the beginning of the wayfarer. He is born here, his father a factory worker, his mother caring, but hopeless from decades of char dust. She has soft eyes, and gives everything to see her child go somewhere greater. It is here he finds his first map, plans his first journey: the woodland, where twice he meets the phoenix. It is all he can do to escape, the wayfaring. It brightens his mother’s eyes to see him experiencing life away from the dreary town, but it cannot pull her out of her own despair. Father wants to help, but his shifts in the coal plant only grow longer. One day, father falls into a fit of coughing, but the dust has too much of a grip already, and it takes away his color. Mother’s heart is broken, insists that he takes his inheritance, and go chase his horizons.

He agrees, and flies far away, straight to Canterlot, to Baltimare, Manehattan, the blooming city of Cloudsdale, to each corner of Equestria he knows of. When he returns, his mother is dead, her heart shattered too far to hope any longer. She has seen her death approaching, even before her love passed. She had merely wanted him to be away when it happens. She wants her child to fly away from the dreary place.

So is born the wayfarer. He has outrun sorrow up until he met her. Now, he faces it once more, once and for all. He is happy she can stand by his side. He plans to tell her the story, once he atones.