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Long ago, when the world was unformed, shifting and malleable in its excursions, there was no life. The Old Ones slumbered without form as they had before time expanded, yawning across the eons as a vast sky of ink. Lost amongst themselves, the Ancients dreamed together a timeless freedom, and sought to reclaim the darkness from the garish new light birthed of existence. But in light burned many an Old One, a greatness untouched by the ravages of the void. Such unreached fathoms of invulnerability was dreamed to be wonderful to behold by the Ancients, that which could not be touched even by themselves, hence valuing it above all else. But it was not so easily surrendered by those dwelling in the accursed light, where the darkness could not pass.
Thus, the shadows came.
It is only by the perception of mortals that such dreams of the Old Ones, given form and substance within the darkness, that such things walk amongst those that breathe in the light of day. To be look upon one is to forfeit either life or sanity, and often both simultaneously. For there are those that were not meant to be seen, old dreams which should have stayed in the dark from whence they came.
But there are always those whose foolishness exceeds their foresight, and with all power comes suffering. The Ancients reached far across themselves, winding in turmoil upon the apparent loss of their precious light. In such, they turned upon themselves in their wrath and devoured each other, eager to fulfil their sacrosanct and impossible desire. Such continued and eons passed as the light grew brighter, and the darkness waned at its touch. To see it was agony, to think of it torture, and it haunted the remaining Ancients’ dreams with its mere existence. Some wished only for it, and so compelled by their immense hunger, pursued the light with the extent of their might.
All shadows perished before the light, and cast the first seeds of fear into those that remained.
As such, the few Old Ones remaining, weakened and enraged, were driven far from their shadows into the infinite reaches of their homes, deep into the cosmos where not even they had dared tread. But a fragment of a dream of a thought of a whisper, the Ancients slumbered in their flight in hopes of once more freeing themselves of the accursed light. And together, the Old Ones dreamed until they were no more.
All except for one.
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The Saint Claire’s Orphanage of Brooklyn was not the largest orphanage in the city, nor was it the most well-funded. Neither was it the cleanest, nor the safest, or anything above slightly below average. It was a place of refuge to children, it was a home for those lost or castaway with nowhere else to turn.
It was a last refuge of the hopeless.
To Ronald, it was merely another place for him to explore.
Could one describe Ronald Miller, most would include ‘wild’ among his attributes. The eleven year old boy certainly did have a feral look about him, after all. Wiry black hair that seemed too shaggy for a child his age, ferociously watchful eyes behind a thin pair of glasses that looked more as if he had stolen them from some other poor hapless child, and a stocky frame made for a slightly intimidating little boy.
There was not a single day that went by that Ronald was not found in trouble for one thing or another, nor was there anything that he would not find trouble for. Then again, what was trouble if not an opportunity for a new adventure? Ronald pursued all things in such a manner – wildly, and with great fervor. The child was, in essence, a child. He was not out of the ordinary in any way, nor was he special in the slightest. Not to the adults that watched him, anyway. To the nuns, he was a nearly rabid wild child who spoke to his ‘imaginary’ friends too often. However, there was one thing that seemed to hang over Ronald his entire short life.
He seemed to have been cursed with a spirit of adventure.
Perhaps some could identify this as an obvious misperception, but to Ronald, it was anything but. There were times when Ronald simply wanted to sit still and enjoy a bit of quiet with his younger friend William, but the restlessness would seize him shortly afterwards until he found satisfactory adventure. Most, if not all of these expeditions, resulted in trouble as well – sticking gum in nun’s hair to elicit reaction and going on a wild chase through the subways seemed a perfectly valid adventure, much to his caretaker’s displeasure.
Many would refer to Ronald as nothing more than a troublemaker, which he would often gleefully agree with – antagonistic to most and utterly uncontrollable or consolable, Ronald was every sitter’s worst nightmare.
And then one day, Ronald awoke to find his best and only friend in the world long gone.
“What do you mean, ‘adopted’?” Ronald gaped at Sister Francis in abject horror as the other children ran screaming around the small closed in yard of the orphanage.
“It means that someone came and took him,” the agitated woman brushed a lock of thin hair from her face, keeping a careful eye on the other children. “Stop asking questions and go play.”
“But William’s gone!” Ronald wailed in torment, clutching at fistfuls of his hair.
“Clearly,” Francis deadpanned and shooed him toward the others. “You should be happy for him. Now take your chance to play with the others or you’ll be going back inside for an extended study session.”
“Fuckin’ bullshit,” he swore under his breath.
“What did you just say?”
Ronald suddenly found himself much more willing to run and play.
And he honestly did try, for a while. The sun was out and shining brightly, a crisp cool air wafted through, and the first hints of summer danced across the sky with an elegance unseen by those below.
Ronald still wasn’t happy.
His thoughts remained glumly on his only lost friend, and he did not necessarily enjoy the idea of making friends with one of the other children, who were mostly larger boys than he was. Frederick smelled too strongly of cheese, Jason (The Claw, as he insisted upon being called) was a crude bully with a sharp tongue, and Ned picked his nose.
Then again, so did Ronald.
Ronald had gloomily resigned himself to buddying up with the freckled nose-picker of the day, sitting on the grass and kicking mindlessly at a clod of dirt when he first realized that all others had fallen silent.
It was partially because they were no longer there.
In dim surprise, Ronald’s head darted upward to see if everyone had left, perhaps to get snacks without him. It was the worst possible scenario in his mind, and it seemed all the more possible the more he looked about and found no sign of life.
Snacks soon became the least of his worries as he realized that the usually noisy city of Brooklyn seemed to have become deathly silent, as quiet and still as a freshly packed grave.
“H-hello?” he called out, instantly regretting doing so. His voice echoed around the courtyard, bouncing impossibly loudly all around and eerily falling into a muffled yelp far too quickly.
Ronald swiftly felt as if the entire world were empty, which was quite possibly an even worse feeling than being left out for snacks; although in hindsight, he probably wouldn’t have to share.
He started to panic, worriedly darting through the courtyard and to the cast iron fence barring him from the rest of the city. Beyond, he saw no life – no people, no cars, not even a single bird. He rattled the unfortunately locked gate, conspicuously eyeing the sharply tipped top and wondering if he could scale it without being cut again when a tiny prickling crawled up his spine.
Almost as if he were being watched.
Ronald fought back a shiver, because being scared was for little girls.
And William.
To his confusion and mild elation, Ronald could indeed spot someone on the opposite end of the courtyard; although he initially mistook the impossibly tall man for a tree. Although Ronald could hardly call him a man, the harder he looked at him. Still and silent as the shadows, the thin man stared back at Ronald without moving. Decked in a long, slim black suit with a white undershirt and bright red tie, Ronald realized at long last that he couldn’t quite pick out the man’s features…
He had no face.
Ronald blinked, swearing that the tall, faceless man had moved closer to him without his noticing. As a matter of fact, Ronald was thoroughly surprised when the man stood directly before him, seemingly without taking a single step. He blotted out the sun, or what little there was. His mere presence seemed to make the world around go a little bit darker, almost imperceptibly.
Almost.
“… Do you play basketball?” Ronald peered up at the slightly gruesome faceless figure, looming over him with his impossibly long arms dangling loosely by his sides.
“I don’t believe that I’ve ever tried,” the slender titan replied, mystifying the boy. He spoke with no mouth, and his slightly raspy voice seemed to almost echo in Ronald’s ears.
“You should,” he craned his neck up at him fearlessly. “You could probably win a lot.”
“I know. I always win.”
Ronald squinted harder at the unmoving and thin behemoth, curious.
“Did you kill everybody?” he glowered at the hulking monstrosity, who only tilted his head at the boy.
“Yes and no.”
“You shouldn’t do that,” Ronald scolded him. “Killing is bad, it’s in th’ Bible.”
“Do you not fear me?” the slim being tilted his head a little further, leaning in toward the boy.
“No,” he lied and crossed his arms grumpily. “You ain’t scary. You’re bald.”
Instead of becoming angry like Ronald hoped he would, the tall man simply made a light, whispery noise that he supposed was a laugh.
“Tell me, little Miller. Would you like a gift?”
“My Aunt Danielle says I’m not supposed to take things from strangers,” Ronald frowned hard, his bushy brows furrowing deeply. Upon the mention of her name the man twitched visibly, but Ronald couldn’t actually detect any facial expression.
“Of course not, little Miller-”
“How come you know my name?” Ronald interrupted.
“Your blood may be thin, but it they all smell the same.”
“You ain’t got no fuckin’ nose.”
All it took was a single look to silence him.
Even though he had no face, or perhaps because of it, the tilted, silent and somehow watchful blank twitch toward Ronald managed to silence him almost instantaneously.
“You are just like the others. Filthy little mortal.”
“How come you’re here?” Ronald pried, looking around him as if everyone else were hiding behind his slim frame.
“Repaying a debt. Now… would you like to go on an adventure?” the tall man asked him quietly.
“No,” Ronald replied grumpily. “… Yes. If it means you’ll back off. You need a Tic Tac.”
Before he had even finished speaking, wisps of grey mist slithered around him and enveloped him completely, cutting off his sight. He frantically attempted to swipe away the fog, blundering forward in a blind panic in his attempt to flee.
But he wasn’t running away, of course. He was only chasing after the slender figure, that was all. Naturally.
Ronald stumbled over cold rough ground, fingers scrabbling at loose dirt as he lost himself amongst an unexpectedly wooded area. Enormous, lofty trees emerged like phantoms from the mist, beckoning him forward with welcoming arms. He almost thought that he spotted the faceless man slipping away through the trees, and Ronald continued his ‘chase’ even faster.
“Hey!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, which came out in a much higher pitch than he expected. “Hey, hey! Wait, stop! Fuck thing – fuckin’…. Stop! Fuck damn dang fuck darn –!”
Ronald was most definitely not a boy with an elegant vocabulary.
Sweat beaded coldly over his body the harder he ran, nearly feeling as if he were caught in a nightmare in which he couldn’t run away fast enough. Ronald swore even more vehemently in denial of the fear clutching his heart in an icy fist, panic surging through his mind. He hardly even noticed when he finally burst from the fog, trails of mist flying behind him as he ran at top speed.
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The unicorn plucked another mushroom from the base of the tree, dropping it nimbly into her saddlebag. She hummed an old song that she had written, strumming strings in her mind to accompany it. Another spotted green mushroom here, a pair of red and brown blossom topped mushrooms there.
Zecora had insisted on only a select few, but Lyra couldn’t really tell the difference between the majority of them. The zebra had been kind enough to offer the very basics of alchemy in return for assistance in gathering ingredients, but Lyra was finding the tasks to not be much to her liking. It was simply more rewarding writing music, it was something that she was good at and loved.
But, Bon Bon insisted on stepping out of comfort zones every now and then, and Zecora really wasn’t so odd once she got to know her. She fondly recalled one of their last ‘lessons’, which eventually devolved into giggling and swapping rumors like schoolfillies again.
Of course, Zecora wasn’t quite so quick to relax after Lyra accidentally set her home ablaze, and it was mostly serious business after that.
Lyra stifled a small grin as she packed the last of the blossoming plants into the saddlebag, careful not to squish them under their own weight. Tossing her mane from her eyes and letting out a short breath, Lyra marched through the Everfree down the memorized paths and toward the zebra’s hut, eager to return home.
She nearly froze in place when a thin mist began congealing around her, masking her sight.
The Everfree Forest was not necessarily a place that ponies could feel safe in, but Zecora knew it better than most and had properly prepared the unicorn in methods of taking care of herself. However, she was unprepared for sudden bouts of mysteriously grey mist.
Perhaps there was something Zecora forgot to mention?
Nervously, Lyra attempted to magically forge a hole in the mist to see clearly again.
No sooner had she done so than she was promptly tackled from the side by a rabid animal screaming at the top of its lungs.
“Fuck fucking fuckity fuck!” it screeched, tumbling right over her as she rolled with the impact. Terrified but determined to keep a level head, Lyra shoved the assailant off in one swift motion and rammed a bolt of magic through a nearby tree branch, walloping the thing right in the head.
Much to her surprise, the monster went down rather quickly; at which point Lyra could take a breath, not realizing that she had been holding it. Blood pumped to her head as the adrenalin began to wind downward, and her curiosity drew her to the huddled and shaking creature.
It took her a moment to realize that it was crying.
Curled up in the fetal position, the apish and pale thing was clad in some of the strangest bits of cloth that Lyra had ever seen. It clearly had some level of intelligence if it could make clothing like a normal pony, which mystified her further. The lump of short, wiry black mane atop its head was too short for a mare’s cut, and the voice, while simpering while crying, was noticeably that of a young male.
The question was, what was ‘it’, exactly?
“I – are you alright?” Lyra extended a hoof cautiously, a hint of guilt striking her. Then again, it had just bowled her over.
The boy twitched at the sound of her voice, covering his head with his arms and throwing out a wildly terrified look with one eye.
“I-I’m not going to hurt you,” she lied, completely prepared to bludgeon the eerie looking thing again should it try to attack her. It had a face almost like a pony, but it was just… wrong. The dimensions were all wrong, the eyes were too small, it practically had no muzzle at all. “It’s okay, I’m sorry – you just startled me, I’m sorry. Are you okay? Can – can you talk?”
“Horse,” he blurted, surprising Lyra even further. “Talking horse! Horse!”
So, the thing definitely had speech capability, but it clearly wasn’t very intelligent.
“Unicorn, actually,” she corrected him softly, extending her hoof again to help him up. He refused. “Unicorn, pony. My name is Lyra. Can you say ‘Lyra’ little guy?”
“Go fuck yourself, Lyra,” he sniffed bitterly, rubbing the nasty looking welt across his face.
Her eyebrows rose considerably after that.
“Whoa, where did you hear that?” she asked in what she hoped was a conversational tone, her thoughts abuzz as she contemplated ways to transfer the creature safely to Zecora. Lyra half wanted to just leave the thing, but it seemed just as lost and confused as she was on her first expedition to the Everfree. “Are you a mimic, little fella?”
“… Ronnie,” he sniffed, wiping his leaking nose with one elbow and drying his tears. “M’name’s Ronald. I’m not mimic, I’m Ronald.”
“Ro~nald,” Lyra nodded in a singsong tone. “What a strange name. Did I hurt you, um… Ronald?”
He sniffed again, frowning hard at her and causing the long welt to bend in what she was sure was a very painful fashion down his face.
“No,” he growled, turning away from her and wiping his eyes again before standing up. Even when standing he wasn’t quite as tall as Lyra, and she couldn’t tell how she had been so intimidated before. Probably from the shock of being rammed out of nowhere. If anything, the creature reminded her of a colt, although of what race she couldn’t really tell.
“Are you sure?” Lyra asked lowly. “Do you want me to get a bandage, or water for it?”
“Choke on aardvark anus,” Ronald spat at her. “Leave me alone, meanie.”
Thinking, Lyra nodded and said, “Okay, if you insist. I’ll leave you all alone on your own.”
She had barely started away before he came tramping after her, and she had to fight to hide her smirk.
“No, wait!” he blurted fearfully, grabbing air after her. “Don’t leave me here, I wanna go home!”
“Uh… where-where is ‘home’, exactly?” Lyra thought aloud. “Do you know the way back to your nest?”
He blinked at her in befuddlement, her words being the last straw.
Mysterious faceless men, he could handle. Billowing mists that led to eerie woods, he could handle. Even mint colored talking horses, he could handle. But the thought of Ronald living in a nest like a very odd bird seemed to be what threw him over the edge, and all the shock came tumbling down atop him in once instant.
“Brooklyn isn’t a nest,” he blubbered, desperately and vainly trying not to revert to the huddling crying mess that he refused to be. “It’s a city – it’s big, it’s really big! I was there and all the people, but they aren’t there anymore because the guy needed a Tic Tac and I’m not supposed to take things from strangers and Sister Francis said bad words about Jews in the kitchen and everyone was gone and I don’t know where I am and my friend got adop-te-he-he-he-ed!” Ronald sobbed hysterically, clinging to her foreleg as streams of tears poured down his face.
“O-Oh, oh, oh no,” Lyra mumbled at the pitiful sight, unable to bring herself to shake the panic-stricken and weeping boy off. “No, no – don’t, don’t cry, come on –”
“I want to go home!” Ronald wailed, only clutching her more tightly. “Please, I wanna go – I wanna go home!”
“Shh, shh shh shh,” Lyra patted him on the head in horrible discomfort, slowly leading him down the trail and toward Zecora’s hut. “It’s okay, it’s okay. We’re gonna get you home, just-just stop crying, please? Please?”
Lyra didn’t know the first thing about what he was or where his supposed ‘city’ was, and the further they traveled, the more hopeful she was that Zecora would have some answers.
And to think, she had been planning on having a nice quiet evening with Bon Bon.
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Author's Note
I know, it needs a cover image.
I don't have one.
