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

Wayfarer - The Plebeian



A picture is worth one thousand words.

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XXXVIII

A happier scene takes place now, and far simpler. The ground is a near-perfect sliver of an enormous sphere, the horizon clear and perfectly rounded. The foreground is made of a gritty tan, which cuts off directly into a great silvery blue, occasionally with the assistance of white seafoam. They have arrived at the Silver Sea, its name earned by the wonderful way the sun reflects so clearly over the white waves, lined just like the clouds in the near-evening light. Some bright, puffy clouds decorate the clear blue skies, and the sun’s radiance is found in their wet figures. They run excitedly through the water, she ahead of him, splashing water directly into his face, likely on purpose. Smiles adorn both faces, and as she cranes her head over to look at him, her formerly curly mane set straight by the saltwater, their eyes meet.

This is why they first joined together, he thinks. This is what he first saw, the potential he had seen in her deep almond eyes. She has a passion deep underneath, just crying to break free, to be let out in a burst of absolute joy. He hopes to foster such a joy in her many more times, but he wonders how he should spark it, without the constant scenery. The passion of roots, he thinks is far less excited, more calm, like a slow heartbeat. Perhaps, though, if he shares whatever he finds with her, even in such a city, she will still find a reflection of this joy. He will do all that he can to ensure her joys do not die with his dreams. But why does he think of such a thing now? Is even the bliss, now, corrupt with thoughts of fear, uncertainty?

He has already lost his touch for wayfaring, he thinks. He can no longer simply enjoy the place, enjoy the now. He can no longer afford to, he thinks. Though the bright seas are a wonderful calm against their bright spirits, he cannot shake the lingering presence, the responsibility he must now take, for the sake of his child. Is this a truer love he feels? A love that refuses to be blinded? He decides that yes, it is. It is not easily swayed, governed by an infatuation, a momentary emotion, ruled by poor sentiment. No longer can he believe the future will always be as perfect as the now, yet he commits to her regardless. That is the vow, after all. Everything for her, heedless of the weather. It is no easy feat, he knows, but it is required, demanded of him, by him. As he sees those lovely eyes, he knows the future that lies ahead, he fears it, but he is ready to face it. They face it together, after all.

Where does his love lie? Is it merely in those eyes? Of course not, it lies behind, he thinks. What is it, then? She is artistic, that is something to love. She is a wayfarer at heart because of it. That is not why he loves her now, though. That is why he loved her first. There is something more that bonds them together now, something he still does not fully understand. It is her grace, he thinks. It is still a jarring thought. He has a chance to give it back, he thinks. Not for reparations, but for love. Has she ever felt it in turn? He cannot say. He may ask.

She feels the longing look in his eyes. He does not regret the fall of the wayfarer, she thinks. He wants more than anything to show her the reaches of his commitment, to demonstrate just how much of her heart he has taken to his. In their playful riot, in a mere moment, she can just barely see a glimpse of what lies behind his gaze, what lights the glow in his eyes. It was the glow she first saw, that first made her close her eyes in a cowardly, shielding stance. She can gaze into them fully, now, though at first they seemed like the sun in their fierce rays. Perhaps they have grown softer, in the time they have spent together. She does not think it impossible, that in all of their ventures, he has not taken a piece of her own calm, her own grace. That is what he wants to show her now, she thinks. He has found her grace, he wants to have her grace, though he does not yet know it in full. It is a bright light that she wants to help him ignite, but it is no easy cause.

His resolve is, in itself, inspiring, though. That is one more reason they remain. He is always so sure, so certain, at least on the outside. She has seen a few spare moments, when he has looked at the ground, or the sky with a certain confusion, a questioning gaze, as if to ask where he should be led next. In the moments afterwards, though, he always regains the solidarity, his eyes regain their luminance, and that is the end of it, as if he has somehow found an answer. It is baffling to her, and though she hardly imagines she could find such resolve in the same way, she still longs for that part of him, to be able to reflect it in herself.

Therein lies her determination; she must be for him as he is for her: something to lean on, a support for his own heart, for their joined heart. She cannot outrun her thoughts like he does, though. She may only face them. For him only, and all for him, should she go through such a transformation. Perhaps it is in him she should find her solidarity, a strange paradox, though she thinks that somehow, it should fit together. Though his eyes grow soft, afraid, she finds the determination to bring that hope, that strength back to him.