Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

IX

It is all a clear blue. The clouds are gone. There are merely the two, the morning sun shining, but unseen.

The light reflects off of her in a dark chocolate sheen. Her head is set forward, hidden from view. Her wings are widely spread, gliding off of the easy mountain thermals, a beautiful span of gleaming feathers. Her tail and mane are twisted up behind her, whipped about by the slight headwind. The stallion is in mid-upstroke, his tail and mane just drifting up, readying to fall. His head is turned upward, his eyes fixed on her, entranced.

She is beautiful, he understood. Was that the first thing he saw? Perhaps. That does not satisfy him, though. That means he is superficial. He must have seen something else. He ponders the thought. What if it were her colors? No, that is no better. There must be more. She must be more. What had he seen?

He thinks back to the first glimpse. He approaches her because he is curious. She is alone, painting, entirely satisfied. Was she satisfied? He knows not. Is she satisfied? He hopes so. It seems strange to him that his feelings could be shared. He has never felt so much for another, and he wonders if she has. Perhaps he should ask. It would make her uncomfortable. He does not need to know. He wonders why she paints. Is it decided for her? No one could paint without passion for it. She must love it. What does she like to paint, though? Just scenery? That could be boring, he thinks. He could not stand that. He remembers scenes; he does not need to paint them. He tries to recall what he had seen in his last visit to Baltimare. He remembers nothing; it has all faded.

The raging tempo of his thoughts sends his mind into tumult.

He will remember now, because of her. When he gazes upon her, he remembers everything around that adds to her. He remembers the circumstance. He remembers his thoughts. It is strange that he should only remember now. Has he only drifted about with no memory before? His past should be erased in a mere few months besides the names of cities. He is disappointed in himself. She is so quiet. He should say something, but he catches himself. Silence is precious to her. He knows that much. Why is it precious? He wondered how that question would come across should he voice it. Humorously, of course.

What if she has a sadder reason, though? It could disturb her. Will he find out? Probably. He thinks back to what he saw that drew the spark. He remembers the scene well. The golden gates, the glow of the moon. Her eyes. It is in her eyes, the twinkling of the stars. On his face is drawn a smile. She dreams of places to be, places to see, and he understands at least that part of her. The part that looks at sunsets. There is beauty to find, and only a lifespan to find as much as he could. He wants her to search with him. He wants to see the stars twinkle in her eyes a thousand times more, to see a lifetime of sunrises and sunsets light her curls. The rest of this lifetime will have to do, he thinks.

There is a pause in his thought, like the lull of a storm.

He hopes she sees something in him that makes her feel the same way. What strikes her curiosity? Is it how he talks? She seems intimidated by that, like she knows not what to say in response. Does he like that? He thinks it strange, but lovely. Perhaps she likes his spirited nature. Is he dimming that to suit her? Perhaps by being quiet. Should he ask? Not now. It is pleasantly silent. She appreciates silences like these. Where does he get that idea? She is a quiet mare, but does she like being quiet? He should ask. Later. He appreciates this silence too. It is a nice silence, that which accompanies flight. There is only the wind in his ears, and the soft rustling of his feathers.

She probably appreciates it too. She seems like she would appreciate the calm. He wonders what she would like to paint most, if she has painted it already. Will she ever paint him? He would like to see it. He loves her talent. It will remind him well of their time together, he thinks. He will watch her paint next time. He has not embraced her at all yet. It is a soft pang, that reverberates within him. Perhaps he should. She may still feel like he is stiff with her. What if it discomforts her? He can wait for her to. Is that cowardly? Yes. Is there anything he can do? He stops himself at every action, just for her comfort. She was comfortable already in Canterlot. She does not join him to be comfortable. Why does she join him? Is it a reason he would like? He hopes so.

So boldly he explores landscapes and cities. So weak he is with this mare. It is because he has only one chance. He can return to cities after he leaves them. Reconcile a place if it leaves a bad impression on him. He cannot do so with her. He must be gentle, he must not lose her. He wants to be hers, all for her. Yet, he knows not how to. He knows not whether to ask, or to wait, or to let her be. He knows nothing. The wayfarer is afraid that he should lose his discovery, the chance to share himself. He realizes he does not want to live for location anymore. It seems strange, but right. He should live for her, all for her, only for her. If only he could know her.

He seems quiet, she thinks. Perhaps he enjoys silence in flight.