Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

XL

Night falls. Once more, the full moon rises above the two, a lovely soft light which illuminates in the distance the vague shape of Manehattan’s skyline. The Silver Sea stretches along the right in endless expanse, distorting the skies and stars above to earn its title, with shining waves of pure silver. On the left lie a short field, which breaks into large hills. They walk along the beach, or at least he does. There is only one set of hoofprints in the soft sands, the wayfarer’s – the father’s. She rests sideways over his back, rather uncomfortably, it seems. His neck is craned over to meet her, but both pairs of eyes are closed. They meet in a kiss, and the night mends what the evening tore apart.

She cannot walk any more, she fears, especially not with the full moon. As much as it should burden him, she must relax. The pain continues, even in this moment, she is suffering. Yet simultaneously, she is healing, mending with his help. He is too much for her, sometimes, and as she feels the feather shift in her hair, she feels his grace. She returns the kiss, even in all her pain, despite the heavy heart of the present, all for him. Love, to her, must always be reciprocal, not for the sake of repayment or debt, but for the sake of love itself. Although no action in itself will ever be enough to account for love, together, they seem to come very close. Still, there will always be a part left over, the love that is had for love’s own sake, the passion and heart that lies behind. She flies away with him, into new horizons for love itself, shows him grace, because it is what she may give.

In all her life, she has never been so satisfied with love. If she were to live but a moment, this would be the one she should choose, where she could feel an entire life’s anguish, and the culmination of all her love, met in a single kiss. Life will always be lived in moments, she thinks. There is far more remembered of a single point, far more thought and emotion captured in a single frame, than the area surrounding. That is the beauty of her art, she understands. She paints not a landscape, but the feelings behind; not a city street, but the passions that lie thereon. The colors mix together to arrange together their emotions, each color a reflection of her own. They are met in passion, in hope, she thinks, not joined by a pain or suffering.

Indeed, he has taken much of the suffering away, somehow. Does he feel it? Does he feel it throb through him like the shock of ice, or is it merely dissolved? He is beautiful, altogether, she decides. She has never thought the word should describe him, but that is a mere restriction of physical appearance. Underneath the vibrant blue are colors even more brilliant, dazzling to her eyes. She can see them in full now, embracing her, mutually brightening. It is in her moment of absolute anguish that she is at peace, all because of him, and as she returns the kiss, she thanks him for that simple gift, the compassion he has shared for her, the piece of her that he has served to complete, the heart that they have pieced together.

He feels it, her shaking, shivering form, and the pain is dispelled through his limbs as they strike the sand. He hopes to take the pain away, to annul it and let her be, for once, at a perfect peace. Let her be ready for the ordeal to come, give her peace for the future, he demands. As they meet in the kiss, what is first an inkling of her heart became broad pen strokes, and he can feel, through her the pain – always the pain – but alongside runs a lovelier discovery, that his hopes are in her accomplished. He has given her the hope, the peace she needs to endure the walk. That is enough for now, he thinks. That is all he can give her. It is all of him, after all. The calm tide of his love washes over her, and soothes the heavy aches of her heart and body.

So they will visit Manehattan, he thinks. It is strange, how the wayfaring never seems to end. Destiny has a strange way of showing where least expected, manifesting itself in ways unimaginable. The moon shines its soft, caring light over them, though, and soothes the wayfarer – the father – that he should not feel the ache of his own limbs as he faces the miles ahead. It certainly holds its charm. It will be difficult to leave, once and for all, but when he sees the child, he knows it will be gone. Already, his heart is found much more invested in her than any mere scenery. Just as she has said many times for him, he shall in turn be all for her. That is their heart, now that he feels its joined pulse. It has always been about an entire giving of self, a sacrifice of each for the other, and somehow a gain on both sides. It is self-fueling, like the fires of stars. The love carries on and on, like a lovely song, a lullaby that gently warms the heart.

And there, with the couple joined, is the final, sacred reunion. The hearts are one once more, and though the future is a threat, ever-present, the two are happy to be in this present, where the heart may join, dispel, and purify. Their colors underneath are exposed in the cool moon’s light, and as the hills, like mountains, begin to gather snow at their tops, they are found well and warm, their hearth’s fire glowing brighter than the moon and the stars combined, daring to outshine the sun.