Shedding Your Skin

Briar’s sides burned. With each crash of her hooves on the ground, a flame lanced through her side, piercing through to her chest. Her lungs screamed, but the thud of her hooves was the only sound that Briar could hear.

Never had she run so fast nor so far at once, but distance and speed didn’t matter. Though her every muscle protested, begging her to stop, Briar only wanted to be as far, far away from the village as possible. The tears had long since stopped coming, leaving only a dull, choking sob.

There. In the distance, she could make out a dark smudge on the horizon. She redoubled her pace through the fields, the tips of wheat whipping and stinging through the air around her. Some part of her gave a small thanks; the road was empty save for her, leaving her path back unobstructed.

A dark smudge became a shadow, and soon the tips of the trees towered once more above Briar’s head. With a muffled, choking cry, she broke through the brush and into the Everfree. She didn’t stop running until the familiar trickle of water reached her ears, piercing through her haze and forcing her to slow to a walk.

The glade stood as it always had, empty and quiet. The falls emptied into the basin below, yet the mist seemed to muffle the sound. The shadows seemed to cluster around her, each tree and bush welcoming Briar into their fold.

Finally, after what seemed like years of running, Briar let herself collapse to the ground. The grass was soft and cool on her coat, and the rush of water into the pond helped to clear her thoughts.

It was over, she realized. That stupid, foolish dream was dead. How could she have even dreamed that she’d be right?

She’d been wrong. And Matron—sweet, knowing Matron—had been right all along. Briar struggled to hold back a sob. How could she have disobeyed? How could she have questioned what was obviously right in front of her face the entire time?

“I can’t go back,” she whispered. The wind in the grass whispered back: You must.

Where else did she have to go? She couldn’t return to the village. Nor could she strike out on the road alone. She let out a cold bark of laughter—what did she know of the world beyond? Ironwood had been her one chance to escape this forest.

Could she even survive in the forest, alone? She swallowed. Would she? Over a point of pride?

Matron would take her back. Wouldn’t she?

“She has to,” Briar whispered.

At last, you know where to look, the wind whispered to her.

She knew. She’d been blind for so long—wishing, hoping to leave. And look where that had gotten her.

Look. With a muffled, choking sob, Briar tore herself from the ground and wrenched her head to the side, staring straight into the pond. Two bright green eyes stared back at her.

They were still glowing, she realized dully—but no; were they dimming, even as she watched? Even with the light gone, though, they would still be there: That evil, damnable green.

Her hoof hit the surface of the water, splashing through with all her strength. She stumbled, water dripping down her face—and froze.

She could hear something coming. Something in the brush.

A bear—

She spun, eyes wide—Use it, something whispered to her. There’s no use denying it any longer—and stopped in place.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Briar,” Ironwood said. “Open your eyes.”

“No. I won’t.”

“Briar, please.” He sounded tired. “Please. Open your eyes.”

“No,” she said. “Don’t you hate me?”

“How could I hate you?” he asked.

“Aren’t you afraid?” Why wouldn’t he understand? Couldn’t he understand?

“Please, Briar,” Ironwood said. “You don’t have to look me in the eye, okay? But you can’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that,” she spat. “You saw what I did to that stallion.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

Yes, it was. “I’m not taking that chance.”

He sighed. “Do you want to hurt me?”

Never. “No.”

“Then you won’t.”

“It’s not that simple. You—”

“Briar,” he said, his voice soft. “Open your eyes.”

She opened them.

Ironwood across the glade from her. His face was puffy, his cheeks stained and dirty. His every breath came with a strangled gasp, but Briar could nearly feel the weight of his gaze on her chest. She let her head drop toward the forest floor. Her face burned.

“That’s a start,” Ironwood said. He took a deep breath. “Now. Can you tell me what the hay happened back there?”

Tell him.

Don’t.

He deserves to be told.

He can’t be trusted.

He’s Ironwood.

Briar opened her mouth, glanced up, and then let her head drop back down. She gave a harsh bark of laughter.

“I’ll tell you,” she said. “But it’s a lot to explain.”

Thump. When she looked back, she saw Ironwood sitting on the forest floor, his legs folded neatly beneath him.

“I’ve got time,” he said.

So she told him. About her eyes, about the animals, about the mark on her neck. About the things she’d seen in those ponies’ souls. About the fear that she held after hearing Gladius’s tale. She even told him about Matron, and about her own short-lived escape from the Everfree.

“But I can’t go back,” she said, forcing back the tears. She wouldn’t cry again. Not here. Not now.

“We can try to persuade them,” he said. “The villagers, I mean—my parents, maybe, or—”

“No,” she said. “No.”

Ironwood’s mouth became a thin line, but he nodded. He let out a low chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“I just never expected this when you rescued me,” Ironwood said. He shook his head, mane swaying in the night breeze. “That you’d be some kind of ridiculously amazing woodsmare? Maybe. But that you’d have some kind of magical ability, too? Briar, there are unicorns out there who couldn’t even dream of doing what you can!”

Briar chuckled, too. She couldn’t help it. He was so...enthusiastic. So innocent. Or at least trying to be, for her sake.

“Actually,” she said, “that’s not all I can do.”

“What do you mean?”

A small smile curved her lips. She held her hoof to her chest, caressing the small wooden wing that hung there. She felt the words take shape in her mind.

“Watch.”

She didn’t need to say them, she realized—but her lips formed the movements anyway. She barely needed to think; the words were just there, flowing together as easily as if she’d been born knowing them. The necklace felt warm against her chest, and she pulled her hoof away. She didn’t need to look to know it’d worked, but she glanced down anyway.

The wing glowed a soft, pure white, casting light all around them. The shadows danced around the edges of the pond, their darkness greyed out by the reflected shine. Briar felt her smile push against the sides of her mouth until it hurt to hold it in place.

She’d done it.

“Amazing,” Ironwood breathed. He’d leaned in close, his head almost directly under her own. “And you’re not even a unicorn.”

“It’s a charm,” Briar murmured. “Matron taught it to me. She always said that you don’t need to have a horn to do real magic.”

“I guess so,” he said. He shook his head and leaned back. “Briar, that’s incredible! Do you realize what this means?”

“What?”

“You’re an earth pony!” His face had lit up, shining through with earnest joy like she’d never seen before. “And you can do magic! Nopony can do that! Briar, you can show this to the world—everypony would know your name!”

“No!”

She regained control of her senses scarce seconds after her shout. “No,” she repeated, taking a deep breath. She looked down at the ground, and the glow around her neck faded. “I can’t. Not with my eyes. I can’t leave this forest—not after what happened tonight.”

“Never leave?” Ironwood asked, his voice small. “Briar, but what about our promise?”

She’d said that she would travel the world. She’d said that she wouldn’t leave his side.

But that dream is gone. Torn apart. Dead.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Leaving was a mistake. I can’t make that mistake again.”

And not when it might put him in danger, too. But she couldn’t say that—he’d protest it, try to force her to relent. She had to stay strong. She had to be selfish, no matter what Ironwood would want.

“I…” He stepped back. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said.

Ironwood nodded. “So now what?”

“Now?”

Briar looked up at the trees, towering far above them. “Now,” she said, “I go back home.”

“I guess I do, too,” Ironwood said quietly.

Briar was quiet for a moment. Then,

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you—for everything. For showing me that there was something other than the forest. Even if it was a mistake to leave, I’m still happy to just know it for myself.”

“And thank you, I guess,” Ironwood said. A weak grin grew on his face. “Someday, when I’m on top of the world, I’ll look back here and shout to the wind that I made it, all because you showed me that it was possible. And you’ll know.”

“Somehow,” she said. She couldn’t help it. She was smiling too.

“Somehow,” he echoed. The clearing fell silent.

“So this is goodbye,” she said. Her eyes stung, and she sniffed, raising a hoof to wipe the moisture away.

“Yeah,” Ironwood said. He held out a hoof, and she took it. “But not forever.”

Briar’s hoofsteps felt heavy on the mist-soaked grass.

The moon sat high overhead, almost invisible behind the clouds. What little light seeped through to the forest floor was weak, casting the ground in a sickly mass of shadow. The cottage waited in the center of the clearing, its windows glowing faintly amidst the darkness surrounding it.

As Briar approached the door, a lone, ringing caw echoed through the night. She glanced up; a raven, its feathers jet-black, sat upon the roof above the door. As her hooves met the first step, it let out another cry and fled to the air, the moonlight glinting off of its wickedly curved beak.

Briar reached for the door. She could do this, she told herself. She wasn’t too proud to admit that she’d been wrong.

Matron would take her back. She had to.

The door creaked open, and light leaked out from the inside of the cottage over the steps. Tentatively, Briar stepped inside.

Matron stood beside the fireplace, her back to the door. Flames danced in the hearth before her, casting twisting shadows across the floor toward Briar’s hooves. All light in the room was focused at Matron’s hooves, all other corridors and corners as black as the night outside.

Briar swallowed and stepped forward. The door swung shut behind her.

It was impossible for Matron to not have noticed her entrance—but regardless, she spoke not a word. Briar chewed on her lip, searching for the right words to say as the silence descended over her shoulders like fog.

Finally, she spoke.

“I’m sorry,” Briar said. Her voice was hoarse, but she gave the words all of the earnesty that she could.

Matron didn’t respond.

Briar stared down at the floor. “I was foolish,” she blurted. “An idiot. I saw things that weren’t there, and forgot who I was. I should have listened to you, and I didn’t.”

Matron gave no reply, but Briar thought that she saw a twitch of her head—but perhaps it was just a trick of the firelight. Briar mustered up her courage and went on.

“You took me in. You took care of me, and I disobeyed you,” Briar said. She swallowed. “I should have listened—the ponies in the village couldn’t be trusted.” Ironwood would understand, she hoped. “The forest is the only place safe for me—here, with you. I’m sorry for ever leaving you.”

Briar’s heart beat in time with the dance of the flames in the fireplace. Finally—slowly—Matron turned to face her.

The shadows drifted to cover half of Matron’s face, while the other half remained lit by the fire, her mane now a dim, glowing crimson. Briar quickly averted her eyes as Matron raised hers.

“I have your apologies,” Matron said quietly. “But do I have your word?”

Briar nodded silently.

“Then so be it,” Matron said.

Briar swallowed.

“You will focus more on your studies,” Matron said. “It is clear that I gave you far too much time alone to ponder the world beyond the trees.”

That was fair. Briar nodded again.

Besides, she could make the most of it. She’d learn more magic—and if nothing else, she could do it in memory of her friendship with Ironwood.

And she’d mastered the spell, hadn’t she? She would tell Matron—and for once, maybe there’d be a glimmer of pride in the old mare’s eyes, and she’d learn more, and forget about what she’d lost.

“It’s clear to me that you are unfit to learn any more magic.” Matron’s voice echoed in Briar’s ears as though in a cave. “At least until I know that I can trust you once more.”

Briar nearly opened her mouth to reply—but what was there to say? Instead, she simply nodded.

The wooden wing felt cold on her neck, and she brushed a hoof against its surface. She kept her head down, and waited for Matron to finish.

“Now,” Matron said, her voice still quiet. “It’s time for this day to end. To bed with you—and let the bones of those foolish dreams sleep as well. I will see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Matron,” Briar said meekly.

That night, she lay alone in her bed. Her thoughts drifted in her head like birds in the Barrens: lost, and shrouded in darkness.

Good night, Briar, a voice whispered.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back. She didn’t know if, by some miracle, Ironwood could hear her or not, yet some part of her soul hoped that he could. “I’m sorry, but you’ll be safer this way. Everyone will.”

She turned over in bed as the curtains drifted in the evening wind. Eventually, her eyes fluttered closed.

Good night, little chrysalis.

Briar somehow managed to stumble through the next day, but each moment felt like a patch of mud, sinking deeper with every passing second. She did her chores without being asked, as she always had, but drifted through each in a haze.

Matron barely spoke ten words to her for much of the day; even breakfast took place through a mere exchange of nods. When the time came for Briar’s lesson, the recitation of herbs felt more like a dream than real. As Briar stood by the desk, she felt the same buzz that she always had, but her thoughts were elsewhere—not flying through the clouds, but sinking into the shadows of the trees.

By the end of the day, she felt numb in body and mind. Each step was a struggle, every breath a dulled sensation. Finally, with Matron’s permission and a boiling stew over the hearth, Briar retreated to the glade to think.

She sat there amongst the cool grass, the water trickling through the pond mere feet away. The falls pounded away into the basin, but she was grateful for the roar. It washed away her thoughts, clearing her mind of doubts and confusion. Above, trickles of moonlight seeped through the canopy and over her coat.

Briar closed her eyes, feeling her chest rise and fall with each breath.

So this was her life once more—her future. Would she learn magic again? Matron had said that she could regain her trust, but even so, there was no guarantee that new spells would be possible without Ironwood’s encouragement.

And what would she do? Life was longer than she’d thought; just meeting Gladius had made that clear. Had Matron really been here in the forest for all her life, tending her herbs and practicing her charms?

Would Briar one day take over for her? Would she wake up one morning, and find that Matron had vanished as her parents had? Would the cottage and woods one day be hers, and hers alone?

Instead of scoffing—though the thought seemed so ridiculous; Matron felt so permanent—Briar opened her eyes and looked up at the moon. She wondered, for perhaps the final time, what it would be like to fly like a pegasus through the sky. The moon would be so close, then—as though she could merely reach out and touch it.

Only part of the moon’s surface was visible through the treetops, but as she watched, a cloud drifted over across its part of the sky, blocking its light from view. A shadow passed over the glade, casting the falls and brush into darkness. Briar felt a shiver go up her spine.

A branch cracked in the night, and Briar whirled around.

A figure stood in the shadows at the edge of the brush. Before she could move, it lurched forward and fell into the clearing.

Briar’s eyes opened impossibly wide.

There, lying on the forest floor, his coat matted with red, was Ironwood. He raised a hoof toward her, blood running down his face.

“Briar,” he choked out. “H-help.”