Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

XLV

The first revisiting, easily the hardest. The dark tones surround him, and swell around his figure in shades of black and deep grey. Though a waning gibbous moon rests far above, its light is dulled and obscured, the stars around it entirely stifled by a smoky haze. The Fillydelphian night is, as always, an impenetrable gloom, and as he stands and stares at the source of smoke, the awful rectangular factory, its vile smokestacks, he is found once more a member of its ashen color. His colors are as vibrant as any others under the haze, and his sorrowful gaze at the factory reflects once more the shadow he has seen in her eyes.

Indeed, the scene is truly incomplete without the buildings surrounding the factory. They reveal its corruption, its effect citywide. Although the wayfarer has feared the smoke, far more threatening is how the soot touches every bit, every corner of the city. The impossible blackness has destroyed his childhood, molded him into the wayfarer. Now, though he does not yet realize it, it is what took the artist from him.

As the awful black covers the pure beams of the moon, the wayfarer is still in hopeless awe, that everything can suddenly be so wrong. The tide is not at full swell any more, but the soot still covers him, adding a worse black to his mane and tail. All of his heart is gone to waste, lost in the unknown. He understands her meaning now, with the painting. She merely wants to destroy the factory, let the bleak shades die on her canvas, and perhaps his memory with it. She always seems to have him in the front of her mind, he thinks. She was always first to him, as well, the first to look to, the first part of his own enjoyment, the first reason to go anywhere. Where does it end, though?

He cannot find it here, yet, not all at once. The first step is here, though. There are two unresolved pasts here, and the resolution of the first confirms the second. He leaves at this dreary place a resignation. He is finished fearing the factory. He can no longer despise it, hold against it the death of his family. No building, no place, holds malevolence. It is a cruel fate, and perhaps the ones behind his factory, though they mean no more than the factory now. He lets it go, his eyes open, unafraid as the last remnant of his past drifts off, out of his reach.

Will he miss it? He thinks he has grown fond of subjects to blame. The factory, the world, his own bitter fate. It is too easy to let fall a blame. Eventually though, he simply must move on, find a solution, give up the hatred. That makes one more thing she has given him. He gives a faint chuckle; she has accumulated quite a count. Least of all should he blame himself, he thinks. He simply has never wielded any power, always a bright idea or a plan, and nothing to carry it out but a pair of wings. He has no money, no power to avenge a single point of his life, even if he can figure out a subject of vengeance. If there is nothing to gain by placing a blame, by remembering any longer, perhaps it is best left forgotten. It makes enough sense now, from where he is standing. Perhaps it merely takes a step to the right, to where she has been standing.

Funny how even with all of his wayfaring, she knows more about life than he could ever have imagined. It is a shame that wisdom, in the end, can never be taught. She has quite her share. Still, she may still show it to him, over time. Perhaps now that he has lost her, he is more inclined to listen to what she has already said. He can still feel her watching him, silently. She lets him alone for now, perhaps to keep him from breaking, perhaps to make sure he breaks just the right way. It is not for cruelty that she waits, though. It is out of her compassion. He has his quest, and she must let him find it on his own. That is precisely how this discovery must be made, he thinks. Still, he longs for a single touch, to feel her in something more than just a dash of red in his mane, than a mere weight on his shoulders. No, he is not afraid anymore. He wants her to know, and feels a hint of a smile, somewhere beyond the haze, though he can hardly join it. He thinks it will be a long time until he will smile. Likewise, he wonders if he will ever find the tears to weep again, or if they have all been spent.

Of course it is unfair, the world he lives in. However, he would not be who he is now if it were fair. Would he much rather be something else? He does not think so. Everything in his past has been absolutely necessary, no matter how much he would like to turn it back. The world has shaped him with every smile and tear, and even here, he realizes it would be no good to turn back and wish for a different outcome. Each passing breeze forces him to shiver, and he is further humbled by the world around him, pushed into a slow submission to the past. It is the first of many steps, he knows. The past will always fade behind, and as the wayfarer he is, he must continue on, and let old memories die. He must fly on to a greater, more welcoming dawn, and there find the sunlight that heals and restores. In the night he may reflect, but the morning is time for hope, and out of each sunrise comes new opportunity, a reason to transform.