The Shining Black Horse on the Ridge
*****
There's a jolt from a world beyond, and I'm awake again.
It's always an odd sensation. My body is as stiff as those of the dead, and for a moment I feel as though I've been trapped in my own corpse.
But then it passes. A quick stab of pain from an oddly positioned limb, the rumbling of my stomach, and the grinding dryness of my throat all remind me that I am very much alive.
The process takes some time. My mind will wander, conjuring all sorts of reasons to make me stay right where I am. Not to sleep, because I know I can't do that any longer, but I’m also convinced that the slightest motion would be a mistake.
Eventually, the boiling caress of the sun pulls me to my hooves. The first conscious breath enters my lungs. It’s cool and sobering. The hard cushion of last night becomes the burden on my back for the day. My legs and back bend under its weight. The ground feels like I'm standing on a carpet of daggers, all pointing up.
I give a deep sigh, then take one last look at the place where I lie. This one shall not be my grave either.
The first step is painful and sluggish. My joints are filled with crushed glass. My muscles are thin, rotten strings, straining against lead weights. My head is an empty void floating through the air. All of my weaknesses descend upon me as one, crushing me under their hoof.
I grit my teeth and take a second step, then a third. All I can do is drag myself forward, if only to drown out the sensations. Place one hoof after the other. Repeat ad infinitum. Ad nauseam.
My body is moving. The glass begins to melt, and the lead begins to dissolve. Cold air enters my chest. Warm, ragged grunts come out.
I lift my head and gaze at the path before me. There is no need to fear what lies ahead. The black horse will not visit today. Another day of waking up means another day that I get to live. The only uncertainty is when I have to go to sleep.
At this point, there is no more hesitation. No will to give another thought to where I am or what is happening. I know what I need to do. It's time to move on.
This is how I cling to my life.
"Father?"
"Yes, Inkie?"
"Does She ever see me?"
Perhaps the term "sleepwalking" has been misinterpreted?
A long walk is supposed to be the best refuge for one's thoughts. Silence and solitude provide clarity for the mind, and once you escape the confines of your home and the ponies around you, you free it from the shackles of everyday life. If the body sleeps at night – and sometimes even at day – then these are the times when the mind is given reprieve. Perhaps even the soul.
The wilderness is by far the best place for this process, though the lavatory is a close second.
I remember how as a child I used to allow my mind to wander while my legs carried me into the unknown. My gaze fell upon the barren rocks and dirt surrounding me. I closed my eyes and began to cleanse every distracting thought from my head, not stopping until it was as bare as the surface of the stones.
It didn't really matter what would then be chiseled into this clean slate. I used it mostly to chase all sorts of childish dreams. What mattered was the method, and it has served me well enough during the years that followed, when my thoughts were burdened by far greater things than a fantasy about flying to the stars.
But this path is rarely silent. A constant noise haunts me wherever I go. It serves as a reminder, an anchor of sorts, at times when I wish to forget myself.
It usually begins just a few minutes after I wake up. Behind me, I hear the crunching of the dirt. Hoofsteps. The clinking and rattling of tools, instruments, and personal belongings. The voices of colts and fillies. Excited murmurs, whispers, and even shouts.
I stop for a moment to glance behind my back. They immediately go silent. A mass of colored blobs walking on four legs blur together in my vision. I catch a glimpse of dozens of eyes staring at me, their faces a mix of surprise, confusion, and anticipation.
I don't say a word, and neither do they. The silence has returned, but the solitude that I crave is long gone. My expression doesn't change. I wipe the sweat from my brow, adjust the straps of the case on my back, then continue walking.
I manage to take a few steps in complete silence. As soon as they realize what has happened, they begin to stumble after me. The droning noise behind me gradually returns and catches up to me again, albeit a little more quiet now since few of them dared to speak any more.
This marks the end of our conversation.
We reach the outskirts of the town and enter the empty plains beyond. A beaten path is all that remains as a sign of civilization. It is filled with pits and overgrown with weeds, the symptoms of nature struggling to reclaim its birthright.
For hours we tread this passage. I never stop, never speak, and never even look back or change direction. No part of me or my actions acknowledges their existence at all. I just place one aching hoof in front of the other.
"Of course She can."
"How do we know that?"
"She is the one who moves the sun. She is the sun. And the sun can go wherever in the world you might be."
"And if I hide from it?"
"The sun can see everything. Even if it couldn't see you, it can see where you are hiding, and you cannot hide forever."
"Father?"
"Yes?"
"Does She care about me?"
The bottoms of my hooves start to sting. I glance down at them, noticing a few specks of blood within every hoofprint that I leave behind. Moments later, I hear them start murmuring behind me. They must have noticed as well.
Our odd parade marches on nonetheless. This is what we are. I am the pony climbing the mountain. The trail of small depressions left by my hooves are the cord, and they are the ones hanging from me as I lead them toward the heavens.
The sun is still high above us. We follow it like moths are drawn to the candlelight, oblivious to the doom that awaits us once we reach it. There is only one constant in the universe, and the sun demonstrates this every day. It is born every morning. It dies every evening. Perpetual and inevitable.
There's a stab of pain in my left forehoof. My mechanical gait falters somewhat. I hiss through my teeth and try to ignore it. Moments later, another one strikes my right hind hoof. The two now punish me every time they hit the ground, making me stumble several times.
I hear a gasp behind me, followed by excited murmuring. I ignore them and continue forward. My right foreleg is in pain now as well. My hooves feel like I'm walking on soft and slippery mud.
They keep whispering to each other. Despite my efforts to block it out, I can’t stop hearing them. I give a deep sigh and turn my attention to the ground, hoping that its ever changing surface will better distract me than the unmoving horizon.
I freeze the moment I lift my hoof again. My eyes land on the mark left by it. A slightly malformed, round shape in the dirt, its surface painted dull red. A droplet of blood emerges from the tip of my hoof and falls dead center into it.
This is the stamp of my arrival.
"She cares about all of us, Inkie."
"Did She see me when I was born?"
"Yes, She did. She even witnessed when I was born. She was there when our ancestors came to life. From beginning to end, their lives were open to Her."
"And did She care for them all? Did She care for you?"
"Yes."
"When I go out and my hooves turn red and they hurt so much... does She care for me then?"
"Yes, She does."
"Then why does She let ponies like me be born?"
I remove the case from my back. The whispering grows to restless chatter. Their eyes are fixed on me as I slowly trot up to a nearby boulder and sit down on it.
There is no planning involved in my journey. No forethought to where I'm going, how I'm supposed to get there, or what I'm supposed to do once I reach my destination. Every day, I just wake up, then start walking. Every night, I find a place to lie down, then fall asleep.
But there is one unwritten rule: the moment my blood marks my hoofsteps clearly, I have to stop. That is my sign. No matter where I may be, the place where I stand at that moment shall be the location of my next performance.
There is no set pattern for these events. An entire week could pass, and all I would do is walk, leaving behind a trail of red stains as the only memento of my passage. At other times I stop more than once in the same place, often just a few paces away from where I've slept the night before. Many a great city had the honor of hosting several concerts in a row for the anomaly that is Inkie Pie.
I set the case down next to me and open it, releasing a mixed stench of dust, old wood, and rust. The guitar lies inside, its polished black surface still shimmering in the hot sun despite all the wounds adorning it. These wounds form a reflection of my own. There's even some dried blood on the body and the neck, especially the fretboard and the strings.
Although it may seem like it can bleed, any sign of life is an illusion. This instrument is a corpse. It is a body that has not been embalmed, and is still being carried to the funeral. Along the way, the procession halts a few times and opens the coffin. The body is presented, made to sing, and whoever wishes to do so can pay their final respects.
I lift the guitar out of its case and place it in my lap. My hooves caress its smooth surface. Its weight disappears completely, and I can feel every part of it, almost as if I've lost a limb and can now reattach it.
I touch the strings. The upper three are thin and have a sharp edge. They cut into my hooves as they make a whining sound. The lower ones have a rough texture, and their voice is a more subtle hum. They buzz a little as they grind into the cuts made by their razor-like counterparts.
My congregation forms a rough semicircle before me. The youngest ones squeeze and shove their way to the front row, either sitting down or climbing on top of their parents' backs. A few of them are brave enough to crawl forward and huddle together right at my hooves, staring up at me expectantly.
Moments later, the chatter intensifies, and the crowd parts in several places. They make way for the next wave of daring individuals, each one of whom is carrying a different instrument. These ponies form up between the children and the rest of the crowd, then begin to set up their worn contraptions. The air becomes filled with a cavalcade of noises as this makeshift orchestra struggles to tune itself, while the others can barely contain their excitement.
I raise my head to look at them. Everypony falls silent. A sea of unmoving faces stares me down, silently awaiting whatever miracle they think is going to happen.
Ponies like to imagine that wisdom and mystical power is an instant given to those that look like me. They see weary travelers who talk and sing like prophets from a better world. But there is no logic behind that idea. Why would a wise pony sing about the miracle of being alive in a way that portrays it in such a bleak fashion? Why would a good musician write a song about death and decay by employing such harmonious melodies?
I rarely permit myself such luxuries. As a result, they describe most of my works as "dissonant." I wouldn't know about any of that. I only strive to make my songs sound honest, just as they should be when faced with such concepts. But sometimes even I can't resist, and my guitar begins to emit soft melodies that conflict with the true nature of the subject at hoof.
It is a lie that I can accept, if only because I enjoy it. Everything we enjoy is a lie in one way or another.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. My hooves move into position. I exhale, letting the tension vent from my body along with the air in my lungs. I can feel my body deflating. My head becomes weightless. The ground disappears from beneath my haunches, leaving me to float inside an empty void.
I open my eyes again, then start strumming the first chord.
*****
Their eyes widen as the first waves of sound reach their ears. They recognize this song. Instead of the usual cheering and stomping, not one of them makes a sound this time. Their silence allows the chords to ring out like never before.
The self-proclaimed musicians shift around a little and start tugging at their playthings. A second guitar soon comes to life, supporting the melody played by my own. A low, rhythmic hum is next. A sharp, metallic rattle. A distant ringing that grows stronger with every passing moment.
My hooves burn as I strum harder and harder. The others play louder along with me. Every new instrument adds to a sound greater than its own, steadily shaping it into a tremendous beast that will trample and consume all in its path.
Moments later, the tension that we've built up subsides a little, settling into a more subtle progression. I take another deep breath, then disconnect the sensations running through my body. Having reached this point of clarity, I allow my gaze to wander over their faces.
One by one, every life is laid out before me. I see colts and fillies huddled together, runaway slaves of a life they could not accept. I see grown up ponies, deserters from the well-oiled machine of society, staring in awe, confusion, and even shock.
At a single glance, every pair of eyes tells me all that I need to know. As I take in their sight, the emotions of my past self start to drift about in my mind once more.
Back then, I think I would have despised them. I would have hated them for following me around. I would have seen them as useless, unwanted children hanging off from me. Some of them are literally that: foals who sought refuge with me after the womb of the world has rejected them.
Few of them manage to be honest with themselves. They follow me because they don't understand me. If they did, they wouldn't do it any longer, either because they would realize that they no longer need to, or because they couldn't stand it.
My voice bursts forth from the bottom of my insides, making them shudder. Though I no longer harbor such emotions, I show them no mercy. Every one of them is a story that should be allowed to run its own course, and yet they insist on binding them to me instead. What will they do when my story ends? Where will they go when I am dead and gone?
I didn't think it was possible to feel so lonely in such a crowded environment. With every follower that I gain, every additional soul that I see so different from my own, I feel more and more isolated from the rest of the world.
There was only one colt who stood out in my eyes. Unlike many others, he wasn't deterred by my attitude. For weeks, he kept trying every possible approach in order to seek out the one that might be my weakness. His attempts ranged from primitive, carnal rituals to the most delicate seduction a pony could devise, and they brought him closer to me than anypony else ever before.
He is the only one I can respect. Not for his intentions, or even for the fact that he eventually gave up on them. He saw me as an equal. He tried to claim me as an equal, while all others either worshiped or ignored me. Later, he became the first and perhaps only one to abandon the path left by my hooves.
He managed to see something the others could not. Perhaps not even I.
As we move through verse after verse, something unusual happens. A wave of nausea hits me. The pain in my hooves is replaced by a numb sensation. My limbs feel like they are detaching themselves. The music, and even my own voice sound like they're coming from miles away.
My mind begins to wander. I find myself in that dream again. I like to believe it's just a dream. I've heard many explain it as the result of blood loss. My mind generates vivid experiences as my body loses its vital fluid. Others have suggested that I've ingested chemicals that have this effect. Maybe all such theories are true. Maybe neither. I don't care.
I see myself lying in bed. My boots that I refuse to put on are next to me. My parents are in the other room. My sisters are out working. I stay still, feeling like a helpless infant, forever chained to this room by those five words.
I remember the last time father uttered them before me.
I jump up and run out the door. My legs carry me as fast as they can. The house and the lands dissolve from my sight. There is no pain. No blood. Nopony is following me.
You never loved me, father. I was never meant to be. Mother never loved me either, nor any of my sisters. All of you were just another stepping stone in my life.
The sun is burning everything around me. The clouds boil away. The sand melts into glass. I feel the heat through my hooves, searing my flesh. It only drives me to run faster.
An odd sensation runs down my spine. I can't see the black horse, but I know it is watching me. Its eyeless gaze follows my every step and sends a chill through my bones.
I will not stop for it. I will not give in.
I see a mare up ahead. Her gray coat and dark mane are an island, the desert and the sky an upturned ocean of monotonous colors. She is carrying something heavy on her back. Her hooves carve a trail into the face of the earth, and I decide to follow them.
My hooves fall into the depressions left by her own. Agony flares in them, and I see the trail turn red with my blood. The joints in my legs are screaming. I can feel my lungs burning. The path is grinding down my body as I struggle to catch up to her. Her slow gait has not changed, but the distance between us doesn't seem to close. She doesn't stop, nor does she look back at me.
The ground beneath my hooves begins to shift. Hot sand turns into gray and lifeless ash. Darkness consumes the sky. The burning heat is replaced by an airless, icy embrace. Countless tiny motes of light appear on the surface of the black canvas now above us.
I have no idea where I am anymore. The music is still present, and everything but my sight is telling me that I'm still playing to my congregation. I roar over the cavalcade surrounding me and slam my hoof against the guitar, as if I were pounding on Father's chest or trying to break down the walls of my mind.
I look at the figure ahead of me again. She is now a tall, dark silhouette against the grayish wasteland. Metal shimmers in the light of the stars over parts of her hide. Her mane and tail float in a nonexistent breeze.
I look down at the hoofsteps she leaves behind. The trail that I follow is soon crossed by another, then dozens more. Hundreds of thousands of tracks crisscross all over the surface of this empty land, stretching out in every direction all the way to the horizon.
She finally stops, allowing me to catch up. I trot up behind her, now barely able to stand from the agony. My limbs feel like they are crumbling away. They are turning into dust and drifting away as the ashes slowly absorb me.
My time is running out. I turn my head to look at her. Somehow, I feel a great sense of importance in meeting her, even though I don't know who she is. It feels as though we have so many things to say to each other, yet we do not speak.
She looks up at the star-filled sky. Her eyes seem empty. Her face is devoid of emotion, as though her very soul had been ripped out of her body.
I follow her gaze. A ball of white hot flames stares down upon us. Its light should be blinding, but we don't even blink. Its heat should evaporate us, but the air remains cold and dead. It can only watch us longingly from the other side of the invisible bars, while we stand motionless in our cage.
A sea of noise swirls around me as the composition reaches its peak. My whole body goes numb. It feels like it's being washed away by the waves of sound, and yet I still see the two of us standing there, motionless. I can no longer tell which part of the sensations is real. My existence is split apart, and my mind desperately tries to seek where my true body lies.
The sound fades away, and a merciful shroud of darkness takes hold of my vision.
"She isn't the one to blame for that."
"Then who is? How can you say She cares for me if She didn't do anything about it?"
"That isn't true."
"Yes it is! She never does! She never climbs from the sky to help me!"
"Calm yourself."
"She doesn't care when I'm hurting and bleeding! You do! You were always the one to come for me!"
"So you think She doesn't care about any of us?"
"Yes!"
"Inkie, She is the one who gives light to all of us. She is the one who gives us warmth. Isn't that enough to ask from Her? She gave you life and keeps on giving it every single day."
"She didn't give me enough of it..."
I snap back into this reality as the final chord dies down.
Everything goes silent. My audience holds its breath as they stare at me. I do not move. They start whispering and shifting around, unsure of what they should do.
A minute or two passes before they decide to approach me. As soon as they take a few steps, I lift my head to look at them. They all freeze, a few of them gasping in surprise. The musicians hold on to their instruments for dear life, and the foals shrink together as my gaze falls upon them.
For a moment, it seems as though this is the end. I can almost feel the black horse breathing down my neck as I bleed out through my hooves. But the warmth of the sun above quickly washes away his icy breath. Strength flows back into my body, and the haze lifts from my mind.
I exhale, then brace myself on my instrument once more.
*****
The sun has dipped below the horizon by the time I decide to stop. The guitar almost falls out of my embrace. Its dark surface is covered with fresh crimson stains.
I try to get up, but my limbs are all stiff. A couple of the young foals run up to me and help me get to my hooves. The rest of the crowd approaches me as well while they murmur in concerned tones. I shake my legs a bit, then look at them indifferently. A great distaste remains in my mouth when I think about them. However, I cannot deny that getting some help for once is a great relief.
I give a deep sigh and look up at the slowly darkening sky. One by one, the stars all come to life on its surface, followed by the pale orb of the moon as it ascends to take the sun's place.
I never asked him about Her sister. While the sun only watches, at least it has never abandoned us. And while the moon can follow the sun and find me wherever I go, no blessing would come from there.
There is nothing. Not even the gaze of an ignorant deity, only the visage of a long-forgotten bad dream.
I pick up the case and place it on my back, groaning from its weight, then turn my head to take one last look at them. Without hesitation, they all start packing up their things as they prepare to follow in my hoofsteps.
I can't help but crack a tiny smile. What does it matter, anyway? Perhaps once my story ends, they'll start a new one. No sense in turning them away until then.
I lift my hooves and drag myself forward. The funeral marches on in silence. There is still much ground to cover before the burial.
Author's Note
Just so nobody can say "you only do side stories to try and leech off other people's success!", here's a story inspired by one that I believe -- despite having issues of my own with it -- has not been read and appreciated by nearly enough people.
PRAISE YOUR NAME
“Come one! Come all!”
The sound of wood creaking rings out as the much abused pieces unfold and snap into place, kicking up clouds of dust. The stage is set.
"Come and see the Great and Powerful Trixie!"
I can’t imagine that she thought this through. Is she really expecting to draw a crowd here?
“Watch as she performs the most amazing feats of magic known to ponykind! Watch her reveal miracles that nopony has ever seen before!”
There's a loud bang, and a cloud of thick, grey vapor engulfs the stage. A blue-coated unicorn mare emerges from the haze and walks up to the edge of the wooden platform. Her attire is a shameless mockery of the famed mage of old: a large, purple cape and pointy hat, both of them adorned by colorful stars.
"Come and see the greatest magician in all of Equestria!"
She throws her forehooves into the air with a wide, confident smile on her face, then closes her eyes. A heartbeat later, the entire stage is lit up by a barrage of flames, sparks, bright explosions, and clouds of smoke.
"Please!" she whispers to herself. Droplets of tears bleed from the corners of her eyes. "Come on! Just… just this once… please?"
But they do not come.
The roar and the parade of visuals die down within seconds, and the steady drone of the crowd around us takes over once more. Unfazed by the display, everypony just trots on.
I clear my throat, then ready the guitar in my lap once more. My right forehoof gently begins to strum the first chord. The ponies sitting before me murmur in excitement. A few of those passing by pause to take a look as well.
I glance at the far end of the square again. She is still there, standing her ground.
"Please!" she whimpers. "Not this... not this again..."
Her hindlegs start to tremble under her weight. Her firm stance wavers and begins to lose its balance. Moments later, she collapses onto the floor of the stage and buries her head under her forelegs.
"Can't... can't you just give it to me?" Her teeth grind on each other as she struggles to hold back her tears. "Just once more?"
She lifts her head, which reveals the wet dirt now staining her face, and opens her mouth. She looks about ready to scream at them, but no words want to come out.
I take a deep breath and sing the first line. My actions are devoted to the song, but my mind keeps wandering back to that mare – though "filly" might be a more fitting word. She may seem full-grown, but time has yet to take a true toll on her.
Of course, it isn't entirely her fault. The city officials have banned all unofficial performances a long time ago. This place is the only exception, but they know nopony would ever want to try their luck here.
After all, there is nopony to perform for here. Nopony except them. The so-called "Mares of Hoofington."
I see you now as you sit before me. I see you cradle each other and sway lazily to the rhythm. I can hear a few of you start humming the melody that's caressing your ears.
My gaze travels across their faces. Though I only catch a glimpse at a time, each one encompasses the whole life of the pony it belongs to, and now reveals it to me.
There you are, silent one. You hug yourself and stare at the ground all day, as if trying to shrink yourself into nothingness. Even after so many years, the memory still troubles you every waking moment.
The fire started without warning. You weren't able to get to them all in time. You remember how he told you to leave him. He told you to take the children and run. You remember how the youngest was still trapped in his room. You can't forget his screams. You couldn't fight them off as they held you back. You remember wanting to go back and just curl up with him along the flames.
And what about you? Yes, that's right. Lean on her shoulder. Just let it all out. Tell them that you didn't want to do it. That it was just too much to take any longer. But you still loved him, even when you took the blade. The memory of his loving embrace was in your mind when you stepped up behind him.
You could never bring yourself to hate him. Your hoof moved on its own as you thrust it in. It struck again and again, seeking his heart. You wanted it to be over quickly. You didn't want him to suffer.
Over and over again, you just kept screaming his name. You kept begging him for forgiveness.
Her body shakes from her sobs as she buries her head in the older mare's chest. The mare hushes her while her forehooves keep stroking the young one's mane and back.
"It's all right," she whispers. "Don't cry. It's over. He will never hurt you again."
"Nopony will," another elder adds. "You're with us now."
The filly just sobs and hugs the mare even more tightly. Whenever she tries to right herself, a fresh wave of tears make her double over once more.
Another young mare is leaning against the wall to my right. Her coat and mane almost blend into the dust beneath her. She stares at me with a blank expression on her face. One of her hind legs is bent in an unnatural way. White and reddish lines crisscross all over her once pristine skin, the thickest ones lining her back.
It was the wrong place for the thief to make his career. Even those who shared his profession felt that it was unethical, not to mention unwise.
He sneaked into their camp one night and managed to unearth their stash. All the money they ever managed to scrape together was piled up in one little hole in the ground, waiting to be shared between one another.
It would have been the perfect job, had he any control over his greed. The rattling of the coins woke them up. They surrounded him just as silently as he entered. The heavy bags he tried to smuggle out became the perfect tools to provide blunt force.
The strumming halts for a few seconds, as if the music itself had to stop and take a deep breath. The last chord that I played fades slowly into the noise of the busy marketplace. Then, just as I’m about to continue, the voice of a mare rises above the crowd.
She sits up straight and inhales deeply, then starts to follow the melody I’ve presented to them. A second voice joins in shortly afterward, then a third. By the time my hoof meets the strings again, every one of the mares before me releases her voice.
Every other sound around us is overwhelmed by this makeshift choir. The notes they sing resonate with every inch of my body. Everypony around us stops dead in their tracks as the sound washes over them, though I can’t tell how they’re reacting to it. Everything around me fades away. We are all that’s left: the Mares of Hoofington, and Inkie Pie, the wandering foal with a guitar.
My hooves are still bleeding. For a moment, however, the agony disappears as it makes way for something far greater. As the mares unleash their song, they grant me a taste of their souls, and I find myself sinking into every ounce of pain and despair they’ve felt in their lives.
The colt had poor judgment and too much fire in his blood.
To be fair, though, he did at least try to properly court them. His downfall was that he only saw them as free game. They were prey to him, nothing more.
Up to a point, they just ignored him. Then he tried to spike their water with some local wine in the hope that it would make them more pliable. They didn't take kindly to that.
One night, he was lured into an alley by the youngest member. His eyes were too busy drinking in her form to check his surroundings.
His scream never managed to exit his lungs.
They never saw him in Hoofington again. His friends would later recall him being very hesitant to speak to them, and his voice sounding more high-pitched than usual.
I look up at the conjurer again. She's staring back at me with a mixed look of confusion, curiosity, sadness, and even a hint of envy. Her lips tremble as if they were holding back a flood of words, but she doesn't speak.
She throws off her hat, stumbles off the stage, and starts trudging toward me. The robe falls from her back along the way. Nopony picks it up, or even notices the bright and colorful thing on the ground. They just walk all over it.
As she draws closer, I notice the finer details of her form. I can make out all the cuts and bruises that adorn her sides. I can see the slight flaws in her gait, which suggest even more wounds that hide beneath the surface.
But those scars are fresh. Mementos of her more recent journeys that will not stay with her for much longer. It’s the more subtle ones that really catch my gaze. Those hardly noticeable patches of her hide where her smooth fur gives way to bare and mottled skin.
Burn marks. Dozens, if not hundreds of them. They are the relics of the baptism a showmare must go through if she wants to make a career out of playing with fire.
She comes to a halt next to a couple of the older mares. They glance at her, then, without saying a word, they shuffle aside to make room. She slumps down among them with a sigh, all the while keeping her gaze fixed on me.
She doesn’t need to ask, and they don’t have to say it. From now on, or at the very least for today, they will accept her as one of their own.
*****
Love is a peculiar phenomenon. I could never understand it, even though I have seen many forms of it.
I see it even now as those two young ones embrace each other. They sway to the rhythm, holding on with both their limbs and their lips while their tongues trade places constantly. It's those lips and those tongues that shape the web of lies that hold us together, even when we would prefer to drift apart.
Is this all that we are? Is this what our children are destined to be? A side effect of our parents being seduced by an opportunity for a few minutes of pleasure?
After everything they've gone through, could these mares ever know that kind of love again?
Can you see them, my "loyal disciples"? You may think highly of me, but all of these mares are stronger than I am, or ever will be. Where all others would just run away, these fragile creatures would face the tide head-on, then suffer through every consequence.
I pick up the case and place it on my back, then trot toward the gate that leads out of the marketplace. Along the way, my ears pick up on a set of hoofsteps keeping pace with me. Among the ocean of different forms and colors, I notice a light blue shape in the corner of my vision, never once getting any closer, but never falling out of sight either.
I halt suddenly and turn around. The showmare is there, frozen in mid-stride, the same odd look on her face as before. Her eyes widen when she realizes that I stopped because of her, and she glances around for a moment as if searching for a way to escape. Her mouth hangs open, and her legs shuffle as they try to decide where to go, but no words or actions come to pass.
We just stand there and stare at each other for a while. Eventually, she swallows, then takes a few steps forward. I don’t react, even when she’s almost nose to nose with me. Her face shifts to a look of contempt as her eyes scan me up and down.
“You’re nothing so special…” she finally mutters.
“No,” I reply after a short pause. “I’m not.”
Her gaze meets my own again, her face showing pent up anger. “So how come you’re more popular than The Great…” She stops and shakes her head. “Ugh… than me?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you ‘don’t know’?” She is pacing around me now while her eyes dissect me from every angle. She even stops to prod my guitar with her forehoof for a moment. I let her do it without moving at all. “You must have some kind of secret technique or… magic, or… something!”
I wait for her to trot back in front of me. “I don’t know,” I repeat with a sigh. “What you’ve seen is all that I do: I sing and play guitar.”
“It’s not fair…” Her voice starts to shake. “I used to be the talk of the town wherever I went. I used to be the greatest magician in the world.”
I nod silently.
“Everypony was happy when I performed for them," she says. "Now… now they just walk past me like I’m a ghost…”
I nod again and wait patiently as she lets all out.
“I try to do a nice show… I try to be entertaining…” She sobs, then frowns at me again. “How can they love what you do? All you seem to sing about is… pain.”
“It’s the one thing I know best,” I reply.
The showmare gives me a look of disgust. “So what? I should just start doing that? Do a show about misery, pain, and death?” She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Can’t really attach a dazzling fireworks display to that, you know.”
“That’s not for me to decide.”
“You…” She stumbles back a bit and looks at me incredulously. “You really don’t have any answers, do you?”
I sigh. “I guess not.”
The mare stomps her hoof in anger. “What was the point of this then?” she cries. Her eyes are welling up with tears. “When I walked up to you, I… I felt…”
I don’t say a word. She seems about ready to jump me, but I know she won’t move. I just wait for her to do what she needs to do.
“It was as if something told me that I had to meet you,” she goes on. “A voice from beyond… a sign… I don’t know. But I know that I had to talk to you. I felt that you could help me…”
“You’re not the one,” I say before she can finish.
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“I know now that my destiny is to meet somepony,” I turn my gaze toward the sky for a moment. “A very important somepony. But you are not that pony.”
“B-but… but I…” she stammers. Her legs start to tremble.
“I’m sorry. I have no answers for you.” I return my gaze to her eyes. Her mouth is left hanging open as I cut her off again. “My path is meant to solve a different mystery. Your questions need to be answered by somepony else.”
The showmare’s lips tremble now as well. Her limbs manage to hold for a few seconds longer before she slowly falls down onto her haunches. She lifts up a forehoof to hide her face, and I can see her body shake as she gives muffled sobs.
“This isn’t fair…” she whimpers. “It’s pointless… wrong… I hate it!”
“No. Nothing is fair,” I reply in an even tone and look away again.
For a minute, all that I can hear from her are the sounds of her trying to bury her tears in the ground. When her eyes run dry, she lifts up her head weakly to get it out of the dust and gravel.
“Your hooves…” she mutters. When I don’t react, she raises her voice. “Hey! Your hooves! They’re… I think… they’re bleeding!”
“Yes…” I whisper. The memory of father’s voice echoes in my mind. “They do that from time to time.”
“We need to get help! We can’t just—”
She’s about to get up, then freezes when I raise a hoof to stop her. Her eyes widen at the sight of the blood that coats its underside. I hear a tiny squeak escape her throat as she looks upon all of my wounds: the deep cuts, the valleys scraped into the flesh, the thick layer of earth and clotted blood that mixed together.
“H-how…?” she whispers. “How can you… walk on that? You… p-play with that?”
“The same way you do with your own,” I reply. When she doesn’t comprehend, I point to one of her own forelegs, where a rather large, though mostly faded scar hides on its underside.
She shakes her head and pulls away. “N-no… those are… they’re nothing like…” she stammers. “They don’t compare to your hooves.”
“Why not?” I ask her.
“I… I got these a long time ago…” she says. “They’re just… mistakes. Once I became good enough, I didn’t get any more. But you… you’re...”
“I was born with these,” I reply. When I set my hoof down, a dull ache makes my body tense up. “They followed me my whole life. To every place I went to. In every song I played. Through every mistake I made.”
I look away from her. Movement in the distance catches my attention: the mares slowly gather their belongings as the business hours come to an end.
“Mistakes are always made,” I add. “But our wounds are more than just a memorial to each one. They are signs of growth. Of survival…” I trail off.
The filly cradles her head between her forelegs as she lies on the bed. The voice echoes in her head over and over:
“She’s healthy, but... her hooves…”
In the distance, the young mare who cried on the older one’s shoulder gets up along with the others. Her face now bears the same blank expression that they all share.
“Wounds can only be gained by those who live to meet them,” I whisper.
The showmare lying at my hooves says nothing in response. Turning her head slowly, she follows my gaze to the corner of the marketplace.
“Those mares…” she mutters after a while. “They’re one rough herd, aren’t they?”
I nod.
“You could almost feel it in the air…” she adds. “And if they didn’t want you sitting next to them…”
“They’re my favorite audience,” I reply.
“You’ve played for them before?”
“Wrote a song about them.”
“Really?” Her eyes widen in surprise. “Does that mean you know them that well?”
“There’s a lot one can learn from them.”
“One can learn a lot from anypony,” she whispers, almost to herself. Her eyes lose focus for a moment, and she appears lost in thought, or perhaps memory. “I should know. That filly and her ‘friendship lessons.’” Those last words come out as though she were spitting out bile. “She... she tried to tell me before…”
The mare shakes her head and tries to muster an arrogant expression once more. “Unless we’re talking about you, of course,” she grumbles. “You’re definitely not the savior I was hoping for.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” I reply nonchalantly.
“Hmm… I wonder if they have any foals,” she says and gets to her hooves. Her stance is more firm, making her appear much larger than the miserable little pile she was moments ago. “I’m sure The Great and Powerful Trixie could perform for them at least.”
“They have a few. Don’t get to see many performers, though.”
She smirks, then lets out a small laugh, one that is reminiscent of her more confident side. The mare that stands before me is now the same one that I saw on that stage when her act began.
“I best be on the top of my game then,” she says eagerly. “No matter where she goes, The Great and Powerful Trixie must never disappoint!”
With that, she trots off and disappears into the crowd, head held up high. I remain still and stare after her silently for a while.
The blue unicorn filly turns around. She giggles. A small, gray-coated earth filly trots after her. The two of them, both young and clueless, run off into the desert, a swarm of foals close behind. All of them are smiling. They crowd around and cheer as the gray one starts to sing, while the blue one creates shooting stars with her horn...
“Miss Inkie!”
A young stallion, one of my “followers,” runs up to me with a worried expression. “There you are!” he says while gasping for breath. “We, uh… we lost sight of you, and… well, we thought that... you might have... you know, um...”
The rest of the herd catches up to him and forms up just a few hoofsteps away, the same look of worry on all of their faces. I give them a fleeting glance in return. Each one seems deeply humbled every time my gaze travels over them.
I don’t say a word, merely adjust the case on my back, then turn around. My legs drag me further toward the barren lands outside the city. As the blazing sun begins to set, my hoofprints seem to shine in its dying light.
In the distance, I can hear the showmare’s voice ring out, once more full of energy and ego. A loud bang follows shortly afterward, which is answered by a series of high-pitched cheers. I glance back for a moment and give a tiny smile. Through the crowd of nervous disciples and the throng wandering within the marketplace, I catch another glimpse of those mares. They now sit on the opposite side and stare at the conjurer’s stage in silence. A few dozen foals scurry between them from time to time.
Can you see them, followers of mine?
If you ever wish to pray for somepony, then pray for these abandoned souls.
I can see my own path before me, but they know not where to go.
The moon takes over the throne in the sky. It stares down upon a trail of silvery marks that run out of the city and into the desert. A small herd follows them, each step taking them closer to where the heavenly object shall meet the earth.
I hiss from the pain as my soft hooves pave the way.
Author's Note
I realized I love The Angels of Light so much that I just couldn't help myself...
