Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

XLVIII

And now the fourth revisiting. He stands in an open field, where a gentle wind breathes through his mane, once more free and well-colored with the feather. A broad expanse of dulled green grasses stretches out before him, though he remains on the ground. He likes it there, on the earth. He realizes now the fondness she holds for it, a place where all must turn for a bit of guidance, a bit of stability. He could use some, he reflects. A smile, something so foreign, is found on his face, and a glimmer has begun to return to his eyes. He is not whole, but he is happy enough. He can still feel her warm presence, healing him through the remainder of the winter, fueling on his search.

This painting she also left unfinished. It is a shame. Perhaps he is to blame, with all his quickened pace. Perhaps he should have let the two of them slow down, let time take its course. That is not the answer, though, he senses. It is part of the answer, perhaps, like the other revisitings, but there is more than one facet to this gem, which makes it all the more fascinating, all the more compelling to find. He will search on, undeterred. After all, he has all the time he needs. It is here that they planned their last great excursion, down on the verdant plains. Nearby, he had found his own appreciation for the earth, for its quiet, easy paths. There is a wonderful simplicity to it, a place where each may wander free and become something that, in the end, is beautiful. Perhaps it is a bit fantastical, his perception. That is something she only adds to, he thinks.

It is strange that she leaves out the inhabitants, though. As he looks over the base of Canterlot mountain, and the village it holds, he wonders just what she sought to prove in leaving civilization out. Of course, that is how he has always seemed to view his landscapes. He idealizes them. Though the others lend to a scene bright colors, they are lost to him, focusing merely on the scenery behind them. Indeed, he remembers no others in all their journeys. Even the face of the doctor has become a blur. Only hers remains. He has never sought for fulfillment in the people of a city, but in the city itself. Perhaps that is what she depicts. Perhaps he has missed entirely, he laughs within.

It is a strange way to live, being alone. He realizes that now. For so many years, he has left the others alone. It took a miracle to break him free of that. He has always seen himself as one meant to be left alone. After all, wayfarers do not collide. And yet, not far from here, two did. She had not known it then, that she is a wayfarer. Does it work the other way around? Has he been made an artist? A painter of bright scenery? Can he depict the scenes just as well? Perhaps. He has never tried. Perhaps he should try.

He can feel a bright smile from her now, coming from the sunshine. He is very close. He can feel it, and she knows it. Perhaps she has found the answer already. They are better at searching each other’s hearts than their own, he imagines. That is how love grows: outward, not inward. He takes another look at the painting, a keen analysis. It is not how he or she sees the world, he thinks. It is how the world sees itself. The crops die and live again, and will one day be gone again. The houses will one day fall, someday to be built higher and higher, until they reach the great city themselves. One day, the ground will join the sky. That will be a day worthy of any wayfarer’s revisiting. His heart soars, that he should see that fateful day.

If the buildings are but a blur, the colors, the others, must be even more ephemeral. They come and go, and try to leave some legacy, but all that is left is a blank point on the canvas. It must be dreary, to not feel time pass. It is a bitter realization he finds: no one is permanent. In fact, few are even visible. However, it is of little effect to the wayfarer. He has never wanted a legacy. He has never wished for permanence in the stars. He merely wants a joy for now, a happiness that lasts him while he is here. What happens beyond his grave matters little when he will not be there to enjoy it. What is in a legacy that he should seek?

There will be no others to mourn him when he passes, and it does not bother him. There will be nothing but a body left in his passing, and that is all right to him. What more could he ask for but a life of ups and downs? What good is an impact if he is not there to take part in it? Perhaps there is something he is missing. Perhaps it is another side effect of being a wayfarer, a disregard for a distant future, but legacy is little more than a word. Let the world bury him, let him become part of the earth. After all, the earth is all that she has depicted. The earth is all that truly remains. That is a legacy he would accept, perhaps to allow another seed to grow from his empty shell. That is a real and worthwhile effect.

Yes, he is close now. He can feel it just beyond his reach. He knows where to go now, to find the last piece of his answer. It is well that he came here, for here is the beginning. Here he will find the end. He looks to the gilded city with a keen hope and warm heart.