Descarte Part 1: Heart of Steel
My name is Descarte Orphanson, and I am a monster.
This is my story.
Age: 0 years, 0 days, 6 hours, 15 minutes
(Song: Monster by Imagine Dragons)
A short, rather dumpy mare trotted into the courtyard, covertly smoking a pipe. She extinguished the pipe, stowing it away covertly, as she noticed an object in the courtyard where there had been none the night before.
“Another foal?” the cook said to herself in the frigid morning air. It was so cold the air seemed to be shivering. Her smoky breath frosted out, metamorphosing into clouds of vapor which fell upon one small basket, inside which lay a sleeping foal, covered from neck down.
“He is a rather ugly one,” the cook mused as she picked up the basket and returned into Lady Marigold’s Home for Orphans.
“Now,” she continued, setting him down on a bench and tugging at the blanket with her teeth. “What species is he—Good heavens!” she screamed, jumping back and sending the basket tumbling.
Out spilled a nightmarish creature with a dragons’ tail, a lion’s paw, and all other manner of mismatched parts. His red pupils, set in yellow eyes, rolled wildly as he began to wail.
The cook backed against the wall, eyes wide. “Sweet mercy!” she whimpered.
A tall, long mare raced down the steps. “What is going on?” she demanded, before noticing the squalling... thing. She screeched to a halt. “What is THAT?”
“I don’t know,” the panicked cook trembled. “A demon?”
The mare backed up a step. “Demon...” she muttered.
The crying amplified to screeching, and something in her face changed as she watched the creature struggling helplessly. “Even if it is a demon, Cook Simmer, it’s still a foal. And we are honor-bound to take in all species.” She nudged the basket over. “Let’s go set up another crib.”
Simmer followed with trepidation as the matron set the foal into the basket and trotted up the stairs. “I don’t like this, Matron Blossom,” she whined.
“You’re a cook,” Matron Blossom replied sharply, quickening her pace just a hint. As Simmer struggled to keep up, she said bitingly, “You’re not paid to like things; you’re paid to cook meals for a hundred and fifty foals.” She checked her watch. “Speaking if, you might want to get back to that. Breakfast is in 45 minutes.”
She turned a corner and separated from the fuming cook.
“Name, name,” she murmured, stopping at a large book entitled ‘List of Names’. Setting the basket down, she nosed the book open and traced down the page with a hoof.
“The next name is... Descarte.” She said, and then flipped to the back of the book. “Last name... hm. Should it be D’Orphan, Marigold, or Orphanson?” She thought for a moment. “D’orphan sounds too unicornish. And, well, he’s not a beautiful flower—the Lady might be offended if I named him after her. Orphanson it is.”
She hurried into the next room, where rows of cribs stood on the floor, each one occupied by a sleeping orphan. In the far back, next to a grimy window looking out into the courtyard, one crib lay empty.
She carefully laid the foal into the crib, covering him with a blanket. Fondly, she said, “Descarte Orphanson.... welcome.”
Age: 0 years, 0 days, 7 hours, 23 minutes
Age: 6 years, 160 days, 7 hours, 3 minutes
“Up! Up!” was the first thing Descarte heard as his mind struggled into consciousness.
“Up, you lazy monster!” Cook Simmons roared. “You’re three minutes late!” She ripped the sheet off of his bed.
The shock of cold air roused him fully, and he rolled out of bed and stood on two legs.
“Oh no you don’t!” she screeched. “On four hooves like the rest of us!” With a sigh, he bent and walked out of the dormitory on all fours.
Simmer rushed downstairs to the cafeteria, and as soon as she turned the corner Descarte stood up and walked down the stairs.
But as soon as he entered the cafeteria, he was careful to drop to all fours again as he sidestepped to the end of the long lunch-line, several feet behind all the others.
As he grabbed his tray and awkwardly made his way to the corner table, somepony stuck out a hoof and caught his leg.
With a crash, his tray dropped to the floor, closely followed by Des himself. Glass shattered, and his bowl broke into small pieces. The prankster and his friends sniggered loudly and the cafeteria broke into laughter.
Simmer rushed out of the back, and just as quickly as it had started the laughter cut off. “Desmon!” she said angrily. “You go grab a cloth and clean up your mess right now!” She exchanged a glance with the pranker, narrowing her eyes slightly. Then she turned on her hoof and went back into the kitchen,
Face burning with embarrassment, Des grabbed a cloth and began to wipe up the spilled oatmeal. He was quickly forgotten as the others turned to their meals. Des set his paw down, just finished cleaning, and a stabbing pain lanced into his arm.
He hissed and jerked back, a shard of glass sticking angrily out of his fur. Descarte gingerly gripped it with his claw and pulled, but stopped as agony gripped his paw. With watery eyes, he saw in horror one solitary tear drop from his eyes and land on the floor with the sound of a gavel falling.
The same colt who had tripped him was also the first to notice. “Look!” he called. “The freak is crying!”
A mocking chant of “Crybaby! Crybaby!” soon swelled and filled the room, the word throbbing in Des’ ears.
He stood and rushed out of the cafeteria, teary-eyed, and ran up the stairs to fling himself on his bed.
‘Stupid glass,’ he raged inwardly. “I wish you never existed,” he said, falling into the depths of a tantrum. But a new, strange feeling overpowered his anger, draining it away and replacing it with satisfaction.
The pain had stopped. Des glanced down, and to his surprise, his paw was perfectly whole! Not even a scab or a scar marked his wound. It was as if it had never existed.
He turned his paw around and around, searching for the glass, but it had gone, disappeared away mysteriously. A sudden thought came to him. He had wished the glass away—and it had gone! Gone where, he didn’t know. But did it matter?
Descarte wore a smug smile the rest of the day.
Age: 6 years, 160 days, 7 hours, 30 minutes
Age: 10 years, 43 days, 16 hours, 12 minutes
“Alright, what’s your problem, kid?” Descarte’s attention was focused on the child in front of him, a young colt sporting a large and vivid black eye. The bed creaked as Des shifted, waiting for him to speak.
“Well, I... I have some ponies that want to adopt me,” he said. “But I got in a fight, and I’m all beat up.”
“And?”
“I really don’t want them to think I’m a trouble-maker! Can you fix my black eye?” the colt pleaded.
“It’s gonna cost you,” Descarte said idly, examining his paw.
“I have 10 bits,” the colt said hopefully.
“Fifteen.”
“I only have twelve,” he said, crestfallen.
“Alright, make it twelve and tomorrow’s breakfast,” was Des’ reply.
“Deal.” They shook, and then the colt shut his eyes tightly and waited.
Descarte shut his eyes likewise and concentrated as hard as he could. ‘This bruise never existed,’ he thought, visualizing the bloom of color. ‘I hate this bruise and it should go away.’
He opened his eyes to see a healthy, unbruised eye. Des nudged the colt, wiping away a patina of sweat from his brow. “It’s done. Hand over the bits.”
Disbelievingly, the colt opened his eyes. “I didn’t feel anything,” he accused.
With ease born of practice, Des whipped out a hand mirror and showed him. “You shouldn’t feel anything. If you did, something went wrong,” he said boredly, with the ease born of experience.
The colt examined himself, looking for a sign of the bruise, and found none. “Thanks, Desmon!” he said gratefully. Des winced at the innocent use of the nickname. He pulled out 12 bits and slapped them into Des’ claw.
“Next,” Des called as the colt skipped away down the dormitory.
A timid filly, little more than a foal, crept up to him. “Mr. Des, my toy broke,” she stammered, holding up a small carriage which had snapped in half. “C-can you fix it?”
“Yeah,” he told her. “But it won’t be free...”
“I have two bits,” the foal said.
“I’ll take it.” Des took the two pieces of the toy and closed his eyes. ‘This toy should be fixed,’ he thought. ‘I love this toy and it shouldn’t be broken.’ The door creaked, breaking his concentration, and he frowned, repeating the mantra several times.
He handed the fixed toy over. “Two bits, please.”
She held out two bits, trembling, and Des swiped the coins, depositing them in his wallet.
“Aha!” came a screech from the bottom of the dormitory. “I’ve got you now!”
Cook Simmer stomped over and said, “Taking money for doing magic, eh? You’ll be doing KP for a month!” She grabbed him by the head. “We’re going to the matron right now.”
Dragged out of the dormitory, Des groaned. The Matron would not be happy with his “antics,” especially if the Cook was the one who described it.
“Matron!” Simmer called, rapping on her door. “I caught the freak doing magic again!”
The door opened, and Matron Blossom peered out. “Come in,” she said wearily.
“I caught the sneak doing it again!” Simmer proclaimed proudly. “He was—“
“Leave us, Cook,” Blossom said.
“But—“
“Leave us,” she repeated forcefully. “Disciplinary matters shall be conducted by the Matron alone.” She pulled Des in, pushed Simmer out, and shut the door firmly.
“Des, dear Des,” she moaned after a moment, “How many times have I told you not to flaunt how different you are?” With each word, he shrunk in on himself. “You know you’re going to have to do it alone after you turn sixteen, and you already are different enough.”
“I’m sorry, Matron,” he said.
“You had better not be using your powers to hurt others...” she said warningly. “If you have, I’m going to have to expel you.”
“I wasn’t hurting nobody!” he exploded. “I fixed some foal’s little toy and Simmer burst in and dragged me here!”
“You fixed something?” Blossom asked in surprise.
“Yeah, a filly paid me two bits to fix her broken toy,” he said defensively. “And before that I healed some kid’s bruise.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her brows furrowed in thought. Suddenly she blurted, “You can’t do any more of this, Des. You have to keep this secret.”
“Wha—“
“Don’t argue,” she said fiercely. “It’s for your own protection. There is enough dislike for us in the town because we harbor pegasi and unicorns—if they knew you lived here, if word got out—heavens, dear Descarte, they might kill you!”
He recoiled. “Kill me?”
“Yes, Descarte, kill you. Simmer hates you, you know that. And she’s been sworn to the cause of helping colts and fillies! What if less scrupulous ponies hated you just as much?”
She sighed. “Just stay in the background as much as you can. Don’t try to draw attention to yourself—you draw enough attention already. Clear?”
“Yes, Matron,” he said, cowed.
“I said, clear?”
“Yes, Matron,” he chanted. “Clear, Matron.”
“Now go back and do your chores,” she said, dismissing him and opening the door. “I have work to do.”
He slunk out the door, ignoring the victorious gaze Simmer bestowed upon him.
As he made his way back to his dorm, rubbing his ear absentmindedly, he noticed the line of ponies waiting for his services had dissipated. Oh well.
Carefully, he stowed his wallet in the surreptitious hole he had carved in the middle of his mattress, than made the sheets and stepped back. "Fitting in, fitting in,” he muttered as he began his daily cleaning, making it into a—not exactly a song, as Des couldn’t sing at all—but almost a song. Somewhere between a song and a mantra.
Age: 10 years, 43 days, 16 hours, 30 minutes
