Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

XXV

And what is found on the canvas now? Strokes of a pure white align to form the awesome iridescent scale. A stallion of blue coat and black mane sits before it in reverent silence, looking to spy a name in the stark, fiery lettering, which spans the scale from side to side, top to bottom in fine, ambiguous strokes of a bright amber. However, that is where the scene ceases familiarity.

All around the stallion is a colorful blur, thicker than even the amalgam of Canterlot, which streaks in a circle around the monument. No individual form may be found, and there is no more trace of the cobblestone, lost underneath. The buildings surrounding the monument are as they were first. Some are spotted with gaping holes, the brick structure disheveled and crumbling under stress. Scorch marks stretch up along the taller buildings, at least the ones that can withstand the heat. Many bricks are colored pitch black, cracked open or even crumbled, despite their birth in the fire. The sky is lined with both the fires of sunset as well as the fires of battle, many high-reaching towers set aflame. Buildings found whole in the present are found crumpled and abused. The sky is filled with smoke and falling ash.

And yet, at the center rests the pearly white scale, with its flowers and its observer, calm as the night, though the world dies around. It is strange how a war is reduced to beauty by time. Perhaps it is unfair that only the best is remembered, that sacrifice is only as good as its legacy. It must be remembered that the fire burns only the names on the monument, not the observers. As powerful as it may be presently, fire itself is only temporary. It is its mark that dwells far beyond its lifetime, the black char that coats the walls, the sooty rain and smoke that choke the air. The monument is beautiful, yes, but will the observers always know the names that adorn it?

The artist knows it is not her happiest work, though it is by far one of her most inspired. She has been told as a child, the stories of Fillydelphia and Manehattan, though they took on a much more fantastical, heroic place in her mind. She wonders what the wayfarer looks for in the enormous scale, if there lies a family member etched in fire. No family of hers fought, though she reveres the time all the same. She knows at least her own piece of turmoil, of hopelessness. Though war is not her walk, she trusts herself to depict just this piece of it. She has always adored the look of fire, constantly moving, vivid colors to paint. To capture fire in a painting is to only take a fraction of it. She is always sure to work for just the right flickering blend of colors, to match exactly how the flames would tilt in the wind.

She has once heard from a star-watching unicorn that not all fire is destructive, that some fires create. In her memory, he mentions something about how great fiery stars are like factories, but she understands not. She remembers another example, though, from her father, that forest fires make room for young trees to grow. All the proof she needs, though, is found in a candle. The others seem to overlook that fire, the fire solely to create light. She once painted in candlelight, just to catch a scene under a new moon. It was a special painting, only lit by stars. She remembers it was of a distant skyline. Canterlot, she thinks.

She wonders how a picture must look to one who has not seen the place. It might seem it were imagined or adapted. What if the place is changed beyond recognition? Perhaps Fillydelphia’s land has been painted before the city. She may have even seen such a painting, and not recognized it. Perhaps the past is as good as any fabrication, once it flickers away. Indeed, she cannot know what the fires over Fillydelphia looked like, and there are very few left that do. She returns to the fire. Try as she might, she cannot look at a candle for a mere moment and remember what the flame looked like. It is gone too quickly, replaced by another shape. Such a thought troubles her. How many other things can be forgotten in a mere moment? She cannot remember the precise arrangement of the stars. She cannot remember what phase the moon is in.

How much of that matters right now? None of it. Does the war matter then, once it is forgotten? When the last veteran expires, will the war simply cease to exist? The princess may remember, but how many others will? Perhaps a few grandsons will know of it; great-grandsons even, but what about after that? The war will be gone, nothing besides this enormous scale remaining. Then what? She cannot say. The memorial will mean nothing. Perhaps it will fall, be replaced by a building. Perhaps another war will take its place.

What will she be, then? When she is dead, what will be there to remember her? The wayfarer, perhaps, but after him? Perhaps a child, should they have one. How long will she be remembered, then? She cannot quite recall the name of her great-grandmother. Perhaps her art will be known. Art is just a bit more permanent. She likes to remember a time, a place, with a painting. It is not reality, but it is all she needs to recall the reality, everything she would feel in a place, the memories that drift along with a time. Perhaps her paintings will be her permanence, even if the original meaning should be lost. She could be happy with that. It is not immortality, but it is enough that her name should not be forgotten. She is kept alive by her mementos. The thought brings an ironic smile.