Shedding Your Skin

Gladius’s tent had been pitched just away from the bonfire, in the midst of the merchant train that had arrived for the Celebration. Even here the sound of the festivities rang through the night, with cheers and and song echoing around every corner. Briar and Ironwood passed between crowds of celebrators and onlookers alike. Mugs of cider and ale clanked every few moments, adding a whiff of alcohol to the smoke-filled air.

“I thought you said Gladius lived in the village,” Briar said to Ironwood. “Why would he have a tent out here?”

“His cottage is way too far out to make the trip at night,” Ironwood said. He dodged past a whirling dancer, barely managing to avoid the other pony’s thrashing hooves. “Plus, I’ve heard he has friends amongst the merchants. He tends to room out here for the duration of every Celebration.”

“So we just have to find him in his tent?”

Ironwood nodded. “Though it’d be better to catch him before he made it inside. From what I’ve heard, Gladius isn’t even that receptive of visitors during the Celebration itself, so we have to act quickly.”

“Got it.” Briar narrowed her eyes, scanning the crowd. Stallions and mares alike whirled around smaller campfires as licks of flame cast embers into the air. The sound and smell was overpowering; no matter which way she turned, her eyes, ears, and nose felt as though they’d been stuffed with mud.

Another train of revelers passed beside them, and Briar winced. How could anyone even think in this kind of noise?

“Got him!”

She whirled. Ironwood’s face was split into a grin, his hoof jabbed out over the throngs of dancers toward a lone shadow at the other end of a campfire. Briar stared; with that patchwork, grey cloak, there was little mistaking the stallion they’d seen before.

As she watched, he disappeared around a corner. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s catch up.”

They took off running, dodging between twirling crowds and dimly light tents. Briar’s hooves skimmed across the dry grass, her fur glowing a pale silver beneath the moonlight. Ironwood jogged along beside her, his breath coming in huffs and puffs.

Briar smiled. At least he was doing his best to keep up.

Within moments, they’d rounded the corner where Gladius had disappeared. Shadows lay long across the grass here, with only the barest flickers of far-off firelight there to light the way.

“There,” Ironwood gasped as they slowed to a trot. A shadowed figure stood at the entrance of one of the tents, its head bowed. “Gladius! Master Gladius, wait!”

The figure paused. Slowly, it raised its head and turned to face them. Briar averted her eyes—not only to avoid meeting its gaze, but to avoid the scar that she knew lay beneath that darkened hood. It glinted again in her memory, glowing crimson by firelight as the ponies around her cheered for the Witch’s death.

The figure nodded, turned back, and disappeared into the tent.

“Was that him?” she asked.

“I think so,” Ironwood said. “I think he wants us to follow him inside.”

Briar looked down at her hooves. Did she want to go in? She’d screamed at Matron and looked her straight in the eye. The story had put it as bright as day—with this power, she could be a monster. What parent would want to know of such a child?

Maybe that was why she’d been left with Matron in the first place. Maybe they’d been too afraid to keep her. Afraid, even, of what she’d become.

And then Briar felt the weight of the rose in her mane.

She grit her teeth. No. She’d come this far. She hadn’t defied Matron for nothing—she’d meant what she’d said. There was no going back from here. She could only go forward. She’d seize her past and future with both hooves.

And to do that, she had to find her parents. She’d read it in a book once—a thin, forgotten volume lying beneath Matron’s desk. When she’d finished reading it, she remembered one line above all the rest.

You have to know where you’ve come from in order to know where you’re going.

“Let’s go,” she said, and trotted into the tent. Ironwood followed soon after.

The inside of the tent felt larger than what Briar had expected. A bedroll sat against one side, its covers neatly folded across its top. A full desk sat beside it. Stacks of papers covered each inch of the desk’s surface, a single candle atop the desk giving them a dull yellow glow.

A pony stood before the desk, his head turned away from the entrance. His patchwork hood and cloak covered his body almost entirely, leaving only his hooves and a wisp of his tail visible beneath the fabric.

Briar and Ironwood clustered by the entrance as the tent flap closed behind them. Briar was the first to speak.

She swallowed. “Master Gladius?” she asked. “We had… I had something to ask you.”

“I suspected as much,” Gladius said. “Yet why should I give a reply?”

“Because,” she said, “you’re the only one who can.”

A moment of silence passed between them. Then Gladius turned and let his cloak fall to the ground.

With the cloak removed, he seemed to undergo a transformation—he looked so much smaller than he had before, with long, bony limbs sticking out at awkward angles from a body that would never have been called, by any definition, athletic. No horn stood atop his head; no wings adorned his back.

Briar’s eyes widened as the old stallion’s face came into full view. She caught only a fleeting look—a mere glance before he could meet her gaze—but she could see that the scar over his eye hadn’t left him untouched: The eye itself was a blank, milky white, with a grey streak running across its surface in a vertical line. The other eye, though marked with cataracts, was the color of quicksilver. Its gaze seemed to pierce into Briar’s chest as it darted to face her.

“Then ask,” Master Gladius said. “And perhaps I will answer.”

Briar nodded. She reached up to her mane—her hoof was trembling, she realized, as though the mere look of Gladius’s stare had set shivers up her spine. She gently took hold of her rose pin and slid it from its place. She held it out toward Gladius, who closed his eyes and waited.

The old stallion gave a twitch of his hoof, and she dropped it into his grasp. Briar stepped back.

Gladius’s eyes snapped back open, instantly focusing on the pin. “Ah,” he murmured. “What is this?”

“I was left it by my mother,” Briar said. “I’ve had it all my life, but I’ve never known who she was, or how she came by it. Ironwood’s parents told me that you might know where it’s from.”

“Interesting,” Gladius murmured. He held it up in the air, letting the light of the candle wash over it. “Very interesting indeed.”

“Well?” Ironwood put in. “Do you recognize it?”

“Perhaps.”

Briar stared. “What do you mean?”

“I do recognize the make—and the symbol, yes,” Gladius said. “It’s certainly an artisan’s work, and a craftspony’s work at that. Journeyman level at least. The sigil I recognize as well—it is the symbol of an old, noble family.”

He went on. “The curl and finish of the petals are notable as well. With very small uncertainty, I can label this of Canterlotian make.”

“Canter-what?” Briar asked.

“Canterlotian!” Ironwood said. “Canterlot! The Princess lives there!”

“The Princess,” Briar murmured. “Was that the same Princess Celestia from the story?”

Gladius’s snout twitched. “Indeed it was. The story itself, like all tales, is ambiguous, but there is a true Princess of the Sun.

“She’s the pony who raises the Sun and Moon to make the day and night,” Ironwood said. “How could you not know that already?”

Briar stared at the ground. “I...I don’t know.” Matron had never told her, she wanted to say. How could she be expected to know?

But she wasn’t here for other stories. She was here for her own.

“Nobility,” she said quietly. “My mother was a noble?”

“It’s certainly possible,” Gladius said. “My days of taxonomic nobility are far beyond me—I can no longer recall the names as I once did—but I can tell you that the gilded rose is the symbol of an old and powerful House of pegasi.”

“But Briar doesn’t have any wings,” Ironwood said. “How could her parents be pegasi?”

“The offspring of a pegasus is not always a pegasus,” Gladius said. “Especially if the mate is an earth pony or unicorn. Any noble of a winged House might well be disowned for consorting with an earth pony or commoner.”

“So my mother...had me with an earth pony?” Briar said. “And couldn’t keep me because of that?”

“This is all speculation,” Gladius said. “I am afraid that the events of which you speak of are too far in the past to know for sure.”

“But she was from Canterlot, you said,” Briar said. She looked up. “How far is it? Could we go there?”

Ironwood looked expectantly at Gladius. The old stallion sighed.

“You are aware of the sheer size of the Everfree Forest?” he asked. “Stretching from the Badlands to the great plains of the north?”

Briar had never heard of those words—for her, the forest simply was. It could have gone on for miles, or just ended at the end of the Rainbow Lily Valley. She’d not found an end beside that of the village.

She nodded anyway.

Gladius closed his eyes. “The forest is immense—it would take weeks to travel through. And you live merely on the edge; you’ve not seen the depths of the Everfree. Things lurk in there, where ponies fear to tread.”

“Can’t we go around it?” she asked.

“The forest is vast,” Gladius said. “It would more than triple your time to go around it. Canterlot lies at the other end, yes, but the journey itself is difficult. You would be forced to traverse nearly half of Equestria itself to get so far.”

“But you’ve been there,” Ironwood piped up. “Can’t you tell us how?”

“That,” Gladius said, “Is a tale for another day.”

He glanced toward Briar. “I will not tell you that you will never visit Canterlot—a pony’s life is long, and a mare’s hooves may take her to faraway places. Perhaps you will see it one day, the City of the Sun, yet if you do, it will scarce be in the way that you’d expect.”

There was a finality in his voice, and as he offered her the rose pin once more, she felt an uneasy quiet settle over the room. She took her time as she replaced the pin in her mane, her thoughts drifting through her mind like fog.

So she’d never visit Canterlot. She’d never find her parents. Her journey ended here. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

Ironwood must have caught the tone of her voice. “Hey,” he said softly, bringing up a hoof to rest on her shoulder. “We did what we could, right? And there’s no reason to believe you’ll never visit Canterlot.”

“Right,” she said. Her voice sounded empty even to herself.

“And besides,” Ironwood went on, “you’ve got a family here, now.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Well...you said you’d wanted to see the world, right? To live outside of the forest?”

She nodded.

“My parents seem to like you,” Ironwood said, “and well...I guess I kind of like you too. So I guess what I’m saying is that you don’t have to just go back all alone to the forest. You can stay here, if you want. And maybe someday, when we go out to see the world, we’ll visit Canterlot and find your parents and House.”

Briar couldn’t stop her lips from curling into a smile. “Thanks, Ironwood,” she said. She brought her hoof up to his and before she knew it, she’d taken him in a hug. He grunted in surprise, but gave in and squeezed her back. “Thank you for everything.”

When she finally released him, she turned back to Gladius. “Thank you again,” she said. “Really.”

“Of course,” Gladius said. “I’ll admit, however, that it is an interesting coincidence.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

A shiver ran down Briar’s spine.

When he next spoke, Gladius’s voice was lower—deeper. The candlelight glowed red upon his scarred eye, its milky-white depths shimmering in the dim light. “A gilded rose,” he said. “A black-coated mare.”

He glanced up, and she quickly looked away to avoid meeting his gaze.

“Tell me, Mistress Briar,” he said. “What color are your eyes?”

He knew.

He knew.

Briar wanted to run—to scream—to get away. He knew. How could he? How had she given it away. How could he even know that his story was anything more than just a myth?

No. She had to keep her cool. She couldn’t let him know. She couldn’t let Ironwood know.

“Blue,” she lied, keeping her gaze fixed on the ground. “Just blue.”

“I see,” Gladius said. “A lovely color. Are you sure that you’ve nothing else you wish to ask me?”

“No,” Briar said. “Nothing. Thank you.”

“Of course.” He sounded...disappointed? It didn’t matter. Briar needed to escape, to get out from under the pinning stare of that piercing, quicksilver eye. “If you ever do visit Canterlot, however, do feel free to write—a bard can always use a new story.”

She turned away. “I will,” she said.

“Wow,” Ironwood said as the tent flap closed behind them. A warm summer breeze whispered through the night air, bringing with it the familiar sounds of revelry and song. “Gladius is amazing.”

“Yes,” Briar muttered. “I’m sure.”

“Just...wow.” Ironwood shook his head, his stubbier legs working overtime to keep up with Briar’s longer strides. “You can really believe that he’s been all over the world. He’s so mysterious! I wonder if he can do magic.”

Magic. Briar was suddenly acutely aware of the weight of the charm necklace on her chest. “Maybe.”

“He seemed really curious about your eyes, though,” Ironwood said. Briar stiffened. “Any idea why?”

“I don’t know.” Briar did her best to keep her voice neutral, but she couldn’t be sure. Had a tremble slipped out? Could Ironwood have guessed…?

“Huh,” Ironwood said. He glanced toward her. “What color are your eyes, anyway? Now I’m curious.”

Briar quickly jerked her head away. He couldn’t see. She couldn’t meet his eyes, or else he’d know—they’d all know—

She crashed into what felt like a mountain of flesh.

“Oof.” Briar collapsed to the ground, her head spinning. Slowly, she raised her head to see what she’d bumped into.

A stallion towered above her. His chest was easily twice as broad as she, and muscles rippled on his every leg.

Briar’s nose twitched and she caught a newly familiar scent: Alcohol. Booze.

The stallion absolutely stunk of it.

“What d’ya think you’re doin’?” the stallion slurred, glaring down at her.

“I—I’m sorry,” Briar said.

The stallion growled and took a step forward. “Sure y’are. Slammin’ right into me like that. Watch where you’re goin’, you stupid filly.”

“Hey!” Briar started at the sound of Ironwood’s voice.

Ironwood leapt in front of her, glaring up into the much larger stallion’s eyes. “She’s the one who ended up on the ground. Maybe you should watch where you’re going, instead.”

“Ironwood—no,” Briar said. She’d not dealt with drunk stallions before, but she’d seen bears aplenty in the Everfree, and this stallion was reminding her of nothing more than a big, angry bear. You didn’t fight with bears or try to reason with them. You ran. “Please. Let’s just—”

The stallion snarled and slammed a hoof into the ground. “You tryin’ to say somethin’?”

“Maybe I am!” Ironwood shot back.

The stallion took a step forward—and then another, his breath hot and stinking. “You want me to pound you into the ground, you little goat dropping?”

“Bring it on, you drunk ass,” Ironwood spat. Briar’s eyes widened.

“You little—”

The stallion let out a whinny that echoed through the night, slicing through the sounds of revelry and chilling Briar to the bone. He reared back, enormous hooves like shadowed tree trunks against the dark night sky.

No. Time seemed to stop for Briar as she watched Ironwood shrink beneath that enormous shadow. No—

You can stop it, a thought whispered to her.

No.

You have the power.

But—

Use it!

Before realizing what she’d done, Briar had jumped in front of Ironwood, pushed him to the ground—and looked the drunk stallion directly in the eye.

The night sky went dark. The stars vanished, and the songs of the Celebration dulled until they were no more than a mayfly’s buzz. Only the stallion was left.

And Briar saw him.

She saw him trotting alone down a dirt road, a mountain of wood strapped to his back. Sweat ran down his face, and he gave a grunt of pain with each new step—yet still, he walked on.

She saw a mare, her face young but her eyes old and tired. She saw a foal lying in a cradle, its cries sick and weak. Spots covered its snout, and each cry was smaller and weaker than the last.

She saw a mug of cider sitting on an empty table. Another joined it, frothing with alcohol—and then another. More joined it, the tabletop growing darker and darker until a mountain of mugs and bottles covered its surface, the air stinking of alcohol and sweat.

And then she saw his eyes: Dark and dull, but glowing a deep, alien green.

She opened her mouth.

STOP.

The fairground returned. The stars popped back into the night sky. Her visions—the road, the foal, the table—vanished without so much as a pop.

Briar stumbled and collapsed to the ground. Her sides heaved, and she realized that she was sweating.

Her eyes fluttered open. Over a dozen ponies had appeared between the tents surrounding them, staring directly at the trio in the center. Ironwood sat trembling on the ground with his hooves over his head. And the stallion—

Briar flinched. He stood completely and perfectly still, his gaze directed directly ahead. He stared off into space, making neither movement nor sound.

“What just happened here?” she heard a pony ask. “Bit, what’s wrong?”

Bit. Was that the stallion’s name? Briar watched him for some kind of response—anything—but the stallion said nothing.

And then she realized that he was trembling.

“C’mon, Bit,” the same pony said. She couldn’t see him, but she didn’t want to. Go away, Briar wanted to tell them. Leave them alone. “Let’s leave these nice ponies alone, eh? Sober up a bit.”

“He’s drunk out of his stinkin’ mind!” a stallion called out from behind them. A roar of laughter went up from the gathered ponies. As Briar watched, even more appeared, gathering around in some kind of circle to see the “show.”

“C’mon, Bit,” the first pony repeated. Briar thought she could see him as he approached; her head hurt, but she could see a set of dark grey hooves as they plodded over the grass. “Let’s just get you out of here, right? I’m sure Daliah’s worried sick.”

Bit collapsed to the ground.

His hooves thrashed, his tail lashing out behind him. Convulsions wracked his body and his torso twisted from side to side. Sweat ran down his sides in buckets as spittle covered his mouth.

A cry went up from the crowd. “No!” Briar shouted, lurching forward—and stopped in place, a heavy weight on her shoulders.

“There, lass. I got you,” a stallion’s voice said into her ear. “Don’t wanna get too close to that.”

They were going to find out. They were going to find out. Briar glanced about frantically, trying to find a way to twist herself out of the stallion’s grip. Ironwood groaned from his place on the grass, slowly getting to his hooves. A trio of stallions entered Briar’s vision as they rushed toward the fallen Bit, each jumping onto a different part of his body.

“Hold him down!” one called.

“He’s not breathing!” another shouted. “It’s like his whole body’s just going crazy!”

The stallion in front held Bit’s snout in place as his partners struggled to keep Bit from hurting himself. “His eyes,” the third stallion breathed.

Briar struggled harder. A strong wind blew up in the clearing, whipping her mane around her neck and over her chest. She grunted, trying to break free.

“His eyes!” the stallion hollered. “They’re bright green!”

“No,” Briar breathed. “No, please. I didn’t mean it—”

She felt a weight on her neck—and then a sudden gasp of breath from the stallion behind her.

With a final wheeze, Bit gave one last convulsion and fell utterly still. Briar’s eyes filled with tears. No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Please let him be—

“He’s unconscious,” one of the stallions called. “Completely out of it. Least he’s breathing again. But his eyes—I ain’t never seen nothing like this. They’re greener than grass.”

“And glowing,” one of his companions said. “What the hay happened here?”

Briar flinched as the stallion behind her pushed her head down—thrusting the back of her neck into the air. “Lads,” the stallion breathed. “She’s got a mark here—looks just like a rose.”

“It’s nothing,” Briar said. “Really. Just nothing.”

“It’s just a legend,” a mare said from the crowd. “Just a myth.”

“Look!” the stallion said—and then Briar was twisted around, her neck bared to the crowd. “Green, glowing eyes? A rose on her neck?”

“She’s a witch,” another stallion said. “She made him stop breathing. She wanted to kill him!”

Ironwood—where he’d come from, Briar didn’t know, but she gave thanks for him all the same—leapt in front of the second stallion. “Hey! Let’s not get crazy.”

“She controlled him just by looking into his eyes!” someone called.

Ironwood gave a bark of laughter. It was flat, forced sound that made Briar wince. “Come on, guys. It’s just a myth, right? I know Briar. She’d never actually—”

“Get out of the way, foal,” a stallion spat. “She’s dangerous.”

Briar glanced around, eyes wide and frantic. The circle of curious onlookers had become a mob, with ponies shouting after her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing that this was just a nightmare. Let it be a nightmare. Let it stop.

“I won’t let you touch her!”

“Get out of the way!”

“All of you, shut up!”

Briar’s eyes flickered open.

A familiar-looking stallion pushed his way through the crowd until he stood directly before Bit’s stilled body. “What in Tartarus is going on here?”

“She’s a witch!” a stallion called out. “She tried to kill Bit!”

“I didn’t!” Briar said, struggling against her captor’s hooves. She realized where she’d seen the new stallion before—it was the mayor of the village, who’d introduced the Celebration just that morning. He’d seemed so kindly in the morning light, but now, shadows drifted across his face and firelight flickered over his coat, basking it in a crimson glow. There was something new at his side, too—a leathery sheath bound to one flank. A hilt poked through, gleaming silver in the dim light.

“A witch?” Yarrow—that was his name. He glanced around at the mob, scowling. “What madness has taken you all?”

“Look at his eyes!” a stallion called. “He nearly died!”

“I don’t need to look at his eyes to know that he’s drunk out of his mind,” Yarrow said. “I don’t need to hear any of your drunken ramblings either.”

Briar looked up and froze; step by step, Yarrow was stalking toward her, his snout set in a scowl.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean—”

“Hush,” Yarrow said, and took her head in his hooves. “I want you to look me in the eye, and tell me what happened.”

Look him in the eye. That set her squirming again—she couldn’t meet his eyes. Not here. Briar was acutely aware of the mood of the crowd, just barely contained by Yarrow’s command. If he triggered her power, or worse, turned against her…

She struggled. “No—please. You don’t want to do that.”

Yarrow scowled. “I’m trying to help you, young lady. I can’t do that if you won’t help me first.”

Briar tore her head away. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“I said,” Yarrow said, “look at me when I am trying to talk to you!” He took a hold of Briar’s head and turned it to face him. Before she could squeeze her eyes shut, their gazes met.

The night sky disappeared once more.

Briar stood in the middle of the village square. The town was silent and empty, yet identical to what she’d seen that morning—

—save for the enormous pillar standing off to the side of the square.

Briar’s eyes widened. Three more pillars, just like the first stood at equal intervals around the space. She slowly looked up.

An enormous stallion stood over the village; each “pillar” was one of his hooves. It was Yarrow, snout raised, and towering above even the tallest of buildings. For all his size, though, nothing in his stature betrayed malevolence or chaos. The stance of his shoulders and the set of his muzzle betrayed a sense of protection and will.

Amidst the clouds above, a pair of feminine eyes overlooked the square. They glimmered a bright, sky-blue, watching Yarrow’s gargantuan figure without blinking.

Briar glanced down at the ground and realized that, with each giant breath, she could feel Yarrow’s heartbeat through the earth. But it wasn’t alone: a smaller, quieter heartbeat echoed after it, and Briar felt in her thoughts the strangest urge to protect, to defend, to love.

She opened her mouth, tears falling down her cheeks.

PLEASE.

LEAVE ME BE.

And once more, the night sky returned to the world.

Yarrow’s eyes glowed green. Slowly, one step after another, he backed away from Briar. The crowd watched as he turned a corner and disappeared.

The angry murmurs returned.

“His eyes—”

“Did you see—?”

“Hear what she—”

“Told him to—”

“No,” Briar said. She turned her head wildly. More and more ponies had raised their heads to glare at her, pure loathing and fear in their gazes. Her chest burned. “No—please. Just leave me alone.”

“She’s dangerous!” a mare cried.

“Don’t look into her eyes!” a stallion shouted. “She can control your mind!”

“She’s a witch!”

Briar’s head whipped around, looking for an escape—and found one. A small opening in the mob, just wide enough for her to slip through.

Beside her, Ironwood was coming to, giving weak protests and pleas. But she couldn’t spare a thought for him. She had to get out of here.

She bolted.

“Get her!” somepony screamed.

Briar galloped, her hooves pounding on the soul as she dodged around each villager that leapt into her path. Each time, she raised her head and glared directly toward them, forcing the other pony to flinch and look away.

Above her, the light of the bonfire licked against the undersides of the clouds, casting them in a dark, evil crimson. Briar’s hooves galloped to the beat of her heart as the ponies’ cries reached a crescendo. She ran, dodged, jumped, and leapt—

—she soared over a pony’s back as he cried out in rage and fear—

—and hit the ground running. She ran and didn’t let up, even when the shouts faded behind her. She ran until the only thing that she could hear was Ironwood calling her name, and ran until even that faded.

She ran, and let the darkness overtake her.