The Human That History Forgot

by Avox

Rating: teen
Tags: Human, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Original Character
Length: 4223

There is a "why" behind it all, even if the elderly, amnesiac woman lost in the catacombs of Canterlot doesn't know it yet.

There is a "why" behind it all, even if the elderly, amnesiac woman lost in the catacombs of Canterlot doesn't know it yet.

Published 2014-10-17 00:00:05 UTC
Last updated 2014-10-17 00:00:05 UTC

AM

I wake up with a start, dazed and breathing like I just ran a marathon. Quickly, I tear the pilly, itchy, swampy sheets off my naked body with more celerity than my tired limbs should have been able to manage.

Deep breaths. Feet to cold, jagged floor, then stand upright. Left, right, left, right. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm going there anyway. Anywhere but here. Here is strange. Here is scary. Here is wrong.

My legs catch up with me. They start to tremble, unable to keep up with the strain of my movements. Then my knees give out, and suddenly I'm tasting salt-blasted sandstone with the tiniest hint of metallic, doctor's-office-flickering-lights, pristine-linoleum-floor, sanitized-finger-prick-needle blood.

The sudden wave of vertigo leaves just as quickly as it came, and for the first time I truly get the chance examine my surroundings. The ceiling, being the first thing I notice due to my current point of view, is covered in tiny stalactites. Every once in a while, a small rivulet of water leisurely rolls down one of them. It hangs on the precipice of the pointed rock before inevitably surrendering and falling to the uneven floor below, pooling with it's brethren. I briefly wonder where the water is coming from, but abandon the train of thought as soon as my headache begins to make itself known once more.

The walls match the floor in texture, or so I assume. They look very much the same, at the least. I turn my head to the other side, and see the bed I just clambered from. It is flush against the wall, roughly ten feet from my current position on the ground. It is small and nondescript, with a beige, flimsy sheet covering the stained mattress.

More notably, next to it sits an old television tray. On it rests a candle, still lit and burning; a moldy, wrinkly, dusty old book; a quill and inkwell; and a glass of water with a few ice cubes floating around it, water condensing on the outside from the humid air.

My heart sinks deeper into my chest.

I didn't fill that glass of water or light that candle.

Somebody else has to be down here with me.

Wait.

Wait.

Who is "me"?

I look down at my hands, and for the first time I notice how undeniably wrinkly they are. Splotches of purple skin are scattered about my arms, and the rest of my body as well—signs of injuries and bruises from times long past. I reach one of my disgusting, gnarled hands up to my face. It feels just as wrinkly as the rest of me, if not more so. My fingers slide upward onto my scalp, and I stroke them through my brittle, thin hair. Out of alarm, I jerk my hand away, unintentionally bringing a clump my hair with me. It's bleach white, just like my pale skin.

My headache slams into me like a freight train, and I throw my head into my hands. It hurts to think about it—to think about me.

My head jerks upward, and my eyes settle on the wall opposite me. Right there, obvious to me now that I noticed it, is a hole in the wall. It stands a couple feet tall, and slightly less wide—just big enough for a human to squeeze through, if she had the desire to.

...

...

...

...For some reason, I have the desire to. Maybe I can find some answers.

I drag myself over to the bed—my bed?—and pull myself up onto it. I take a moment to catch my breath. After making a split-second decision, I reach over and risk a small sip of the water; my throat is more dry than I expected it to be. Just how long was I asleep for? I quickly down the whole glass, water splashing all down my chest. I slam the glass back down on the makeshift nightstand and wipe the excess moisture from my mouth, thirst now sufficiently quenched.

Once my breathing regulates itself, I push myself to my feet once more. With much more care than last time, I take step after unsteady step over to the crevice in the wall. Slowly but surely, my balance stabilizes, and I finish the trek across the room, if it can even be called that.

Upon arriving, I crouch down. My back protests fervently, but I ignore its hopeless pleas for the time being. There will soon come a time for complaining, and that time is not now. I'm acting on borrowed time. I'm using a borrowed body. I am borrowed. Haste is more than a virtue in this situation; it is a necessity.

Twenty yards in, the little fissure gradually begins to increase in size. After twenty more, it is more of a cave than a small tunnel. I can walk upright with ease, and my back is very thankful for the fact.

Now that the pain is gone, I notice how quiet—and how dark—these catacombs really are.

The darkness around me is suffocating, and the silence is doubly so. I shiver and pull the candle closer to my chest. I have no reason to be scared, but I can't help it. I wander helplessly down the path, one hand holding onto my only light source and the other running along the wall.

After twenty minutes of navigating the caves, I come to a three-way intersection. One path veers off to the left, another takes a sharp right, and the other shoots straight down the line directly in front of me.

Without thinking, I clench my eyes shut and turn right.

I traverse the tunnels for an eternity longer, never knowing where or why I am going. I make arbitrary turns here and there, without rhyme or reason. It doesn't really matter though, so long as I am going somewhere.

Suddenly, I hear voices. Two voices, I believe: one old, wise, and gravelly, the other young and exulted, full of such sheer happiness that only an adolescent could possibly possess. Their words are muffled from the distance between us, so I can't make them out. I quickly oust my candle—the light bouncing off the walls could give away my position—and creep forward, bound by my curiosity.

I'm now close enough that I can hear them clearly, though I can't see them. They are just around the corner, but I don't dare peek around to look. Not yet.

"Hey Granddad, can I ask you a question?" the younger of the two asks.

"Of course," comes the reply, steady and confident and not without a small twang of melancholy.

The younger voice pauses for a moment, contemplating. Eventually, he simply settles on one word: "Why?"

WAS

"Why what, buddy? You're going to have to be more specific than that."

He hangs there in limbo for a moment, not sure of where to start. "Um... why do you have to watch over... it?" he asks, his voice cracking a tad at the end of the line. He sounds just as confused as I am, and the thought is strangely comforting.

I can't help but visualize an innocent, eleven-to-twelve-year-old boy with scraggly blonde hair—old enough to know, but not quite old enough to understand.

"Because I have to. You will too, in due time."

"But why?"

"Because that's the way it is, and the way it always has been."

I can sense that the adolescent is still unhappy with that answer, and that he wants to ask again but doesn't out of respect. The elder of the two must sense it as well.

"Celestia assigned the title of Guardian of the Upwalker to our ancestors many millennia ago. The duty was passed down generation after generation to me, and once my time comes, I will pass it on to you, just like you will pass it onto your own son."

"I think I get that," the smaller one says. "But, like, why did Celestia assign your great great grandpa dude the job in the first place?"

"Not to keep the Upwalker in," he says slowly, enunciating each syllable. "It's to keep the ponies out."

My eyes bulge out of my head. Ponies? As if this wasn't already strange enough...

Not of my own volition, my head slowly pokes around the corner. Sure enough, there sit two ponies—one sporting a short, stubbly, gray beard, and the other standing at half his height with a surprisingly well-kempt head of hair.

I try my best to contain my surprise as I pull my head back behind my little alcove. I know I should have expected it, but still... I mean, of all creatures, ponies?

"But why would we need to keep the ponies out?"

"Though it isn't malevolent, the Upwalker looks... different than us ponies," Stubbles explains. "Taller. Skinnier. More lanky. It's intimidating, to put it simply, and it's in our nature to defend ourselves against the unknown, especially in the case of something as awkward and creepy looking as the Upwalker. Should the Upwalker manage to escape the catacombs and reach Canterlot, heaven knows what they might do to it."

The smaller one blinks twice, a frown worming its way across his face. "But that's not very nice."

"Exactly. That's why we need to make sure it doesn't escape, and make sure that this stays our little secret. Nopony else can know; it's too dangerous."

The silence stretches thin, though it isn't uncomfortable like it was when I was traversing the caverns of the underground mountain. The little pony is deliberating, unsure of what to ask next. A million questions still burn within him—as they do within myself, a kindred spirit—but he is unsure of how to articulate himself.

Eventually, the words find themselves. "Why is the Upwalker here in the first place?"

Stubbles shrugs. "Some say that Eternity wove all her different universes from the same thread of time, and that the Upwalker—along with the sole pony existing in its world—are the bridge between the two that keeps us from crumbling into dust."

Once again, Not-So-Blondie blinks twice, though this time it's out of confusion.

Stubbles laughs. "Don't think too hard on it. It's just a theory, after all."

"...But there has to be some sort of definite reason, right?"

"All we know is that once every half-century, the Upwalker awakes, almost always amnesiac. It is confused and lost, and it's my—our job to make sure it makes it back to bed safely for its next hibernation. Sometimes its a male, sometimes its a female. Sometimes its an adolescent, sometimes its an elderly person. Heck, my grandpa told me that that one time, it was an elderly man who aged backward."

"B-but..."

"No buts. That's really all there is to it, I promise you."

His face scrunches up. "That doesn't make any sense, though."

"It doesn't have to. We just have to do our jobs, and everything else will sort itself out with time," Stubbles states, an air of finality in his voice.

The boy isn't quite done yet, though. "...Why do you think the Upwalker is here, Granddad?"

"Personally? It's kind of strange, but I believe the Upwalker is here simply to allow us to wonder why the it's here. Gives us something to kill the time with, you know?"

"Huh?"

Stubbles sighs, letting out a low chuckle. "Think about it. When all is said and done and I eventually kick the bucket, nopony will truly remember me—even memories fade with time. It's just an ode to the fact that nobody ever truly leaves a permanent mark on this world.

"You see, when I was your age, I was naive. I figured that there had to be some sort of "why" behind it all—why else would anyone or anything have bothered putting us on this big slab of rock in the first place? But then I realized that there really isn't a reason. And then it hit me that our purpose is having no purpose."

It is clear that the child was lost, but he still nods his granddad on anyway, enraptured by his wild hoof gestures and charged words.

"Time is a construct of the sapient mind," Stubbles continues. "We exist because we were told to. Same with the Upwalker. It's our sacred duty to live, and that's exactly what I intend to do. Everything else I do, everything else I experience—it's just an added bonus."

"W-wow," the boy mumbles.

Stubbles nods, one side of his mouth pulling up into a smile. His heart isn't in it, though.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Hey Grandad, do you know what the Upwalker looks like?"

"Well, in maturity, they're usually about twice our height."

I glance over at them, then back down at myself.

Check.

"Hair only grows on their heads, armpits, and crotch."

Once again, I look down at my own naked body.

...Check.

"And they have these weird, horn-like appendages called phalanges protruding from both their neck-hooves and ankle-hooves."

I crack a smile at that, rolling my eyes.

Check, I suppose.

"Wow, that sounds really cool! I hope I get the chance to see one sometime soon," the boy cheers, full of untainted childlike bliss.

My heart stops in my chest.

Anchors drop in my belly.

All hell breaks loose somewhere within the confines of my mind.

Suddenly, I know what I must do.

I slowly pull myself to my feet, knees shaking twice as badly as before. Left, right, left, right. I trudge around the corner and out into the light of the cavernous opening. The sunlight is blinding, and I raise an arm to shield my eyes. I can sense their eyes settling upon me, and I can hear their jaws hitting the floor. I only wish that I were able to see the accompanying looks on their faces.

Eventually, my eyes adjust to the light. Now that I can get a good look at them, I drink in the sight of the strange equines.

Stubbles' mane is mostly gray, peppered with the occasional sprinkle of white or black. His coat is a grayish-blue, and reminds me of faded denim jeans. His eyes, contrary to both his coat and mane, burn a fiery orange, and their still alight with the youth his body no longer has.

His grandson's mane is bleach white, which is stunning in contrast with his crimson coat. His eyes are a deep sea blue, full of the same curiosity that is more than evident in his voice. He stares at me in wonder, his tail swishing from side to side in anticipation.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but no words come. A small, wimpy croak pops from my throat instead, but it's still enough to break them both from their reverie.

Stubbles turns to his grandson, laughing with the cozy, friendly warmth of a family sitting around the fireplace on Christmas, wrapped up in blankets and munching on freshly made cookies.

"Buddy," he says, grin growing ever broader, "today is your lucky day."

WILL BE

"W-wow," the colt mumbles.

The grandpa laughs. "First day on the job and you get to see an Upwalker? You sure are one lucky colt, kiddo."

The colt nods slowly in agreement, still lost somewhere in outer space.

"I am Sprocket," Stubbles says slowly and gently, trying not to startle me, "and this is my grandson, Gizmo. Who are you?"

"Hello," I croak, voice still hoarse from my supposed hibernation. "And I do not know."

He nods, taking a tentative step toward me. I nod, and he takes another. And another. And another. Once he's halfway to me, he stops. "How much to you remember?"

"Nothing."

"I see. And how much of our conversation did you hear?" Sprocket asks.

"Some of it."

"Might as well start from the beginning, then. You are the Upwalker, and I—we are your guardians. You need not fear us, for we are your friends."

I urge him to continue.

"You must've just recently awoken from your hibernation," he explains. "And soon, you will fall back into your sleep. It's our duty to make sure that you are safe before and while you do so, so when you're ready, we will guide you back to your room."

"Why am I here."

It isn't a question.

"We do not know. One of your predecessors was discovered here many millennia ago, and it has been the sacred duty of my lineage to make sure that he and his procession remain a secret. That's all we know for sure."

I cock an eyebrow. "...Is there anything more?"

"There are fairytales of your existence circulating, though they're just that—fairytales. Nopony besides the princesses and us know that you truly do reside here in the catacombs, and none of us happen to know why you're here."

I turn my gaze slightly to the left, and see that Gizmo is still fixated in the same spot, eyes glossed over. I smile a little bit at that, and Sprocket does too.

"Still alive over there, bud?" he asks with a throaty chuckle.

"..."

Sprocket rolls his eyes. "That would be a no, then."

He trots back over and gives his grandson a well-intentioned sock to the shoulder. Gizmo gasps in surprise, finally dragged back down to Earth... or whatever planet it is I am on.

"...I would like to go back to my room now," I ask politely, curtly.

Sprocket's expression quickly sobers. "As you wish," he says.

He spins on his hooves, heading straight for the passageway that I exited from not even three minutes prior. I follow a few paces behind, and Gizmo a few more behind me. I can't help but notice he's dragging his hooves, but I don't question it. It's not my place.

As we walk through the darkened corridors, I don't feel the same sense of uneasiness and dread that I felt before. Something else has taken it's place, though, and I cannot pinpoint exactly what. It's something dark, something gloomy. My heart feels like its being pinched, and it feels like I'm floating alongside my body instead of existing inside of it. It's strange, and not in a good way.

Eventually, we re-enter my little sanctuary. I sigh, and take a seat on my bed. The two ponies wander over and sit down in front of me, the smaller of the two still stark silent.

"If you need anything, we will be waiting just outside your room. Don't hesitate to get us if the need arises."

I nod, and Sprocket turns and leaves the room. Gizmo remains.

Head hung low, he saunters over to me. "Have a nice sleep, Miss Upwalker."

I smile a small, weak smile. The young equine wraps his hooves around me, and I pull him close, patting him on the head. The strange feeling inside me quintuples in intensity, and for a second, I can hardly breathe.

He hops back down onto all fours and smiles. It looks like he's about to cry, though I'll never know if he actually did, as he was out of the room before I even realized what had happened.

I sit there for a moment, wrapped up in my thoughts. Suddenly, I know what the strange feeling is.

It is sadness.

I just got this body. I've barely even had it for an hour. I don't want to fall asleep, only for some imposter to come and take my place just like I took that of those who came before. It's not fair in any sense of the word.

I shift my line of sight to the left, and it settles on that dusty old tome resting on my nightstand. Without thinking, I reach over and grab it, pulling it close to my chest.

The first thing I notice is that it's heavier and thicker than it looks. It's clearly seen more years than I could possibly ever imagine, so I treat it with a special tenderness. Something this antiquated deserves as much.

I gently peel open the cover, and I am assaulted by the smell of dusty paper and the crinkle of the binding. My eyes pore over the words on the first page.

From Number Four...

They gave me this book and told me to write in it, for posterity's sake. They say I'm the fourth of these "Upwalkers", and that there have been others before me. I was very confused, but I didn't press the issue at all. I just miss my kids and wife back home. I don't want to be here anymore. This place is weird.

Maybe taking a nap will clear my mind. I can only hope.

My heart stops beating.

No.

No.

This can't be.

I read onward, even though my gut tells me not to.

From Number Five...

What am I doing here? I'm scared and I miss my mommy. They told me I had to write in this journal before I went to bed, but I don't know what to write. If you're reading this, please, please tell me what's happening.

I frantically flip through the pages, heart racing a million miles per minute. My eyes stop on a particularly sloppily written passage.

From Number Seventeen...

Figures like that some shit like this would happen to me, of all people.

Something about ponies and humans and Eternity? I'unno. Doesn't really matter. I'm convinced that this is just some crazy dream—I mean, I know that weed is supposed to do this to you, but this... this is a little much even for me. If I didn't know any better, I would say it's real. It sure feels real, at the very least...

Here's to hoping my friends are just playing some stupid prank on me. That would be a nice twist, eh? Eh, whatever. I'm gonna try and sleep this off.

I tear through the god-forsaken book at a feverish pace. The words all blend together as tears stream down my face. The pervasive sadness from before dominates my every waking second, and my headache has returned full-force. It hurts to breathe.

My eyes stop on an unusually long passage halfway through the book. Against my better judgement, I read on.

From Number Two Hundred Fifty-Six...

What's the damn point?

Last I remember, I was on my way to Uni. I was a little scared, and a more than a little excited. It was the end of the beginning of my life—I was finally moving out. In a few years, I would finally start my career as a mechanical engineer.

But now I'm here.

It's weird. I feel like I should be upset over all that being torn away from me while I was so close, but I don't. It's like I've suddenly been plagued by this strange fit ennui. And I mean the funky, pumping-gas-in-the-rain, rivulets-of-water-running-down-the-windowpane type of ennui, not the razor-blades and nooses type.

I mean, if you think about it, it's all pointless. We go to school so that we can go to college. We go to college in order to get a job. We get a job so we have something that will while away the time until we're finally old enough to retire, at which point we're already too old to do anything remotely productive. Like, when all is said and done and humanity inevitably winks out of existence, what will have been our purpose? Nothing, really. I'm getting just as much done here as I would be there, so not much is lost, as morbid as the thought is.

Blargh. I'm rambling now.

I do think that I will miss my family and friends though. I can still hear my mom barging into the garage, looking at me tinkering with all my little gadgets.

"C'mon inside, Gizmo," she would say lovingly, using her pet name for me. As embarrassing as it is, it still makes me smile. "Dinner's ready."

...I haven't slept for three days now. I've read the other entries. I know what happens when I do.

If you're reading this, then, well...

My face levels, completely stoic. Eyes never leaving the book, I turn the page. It is completely blank, and atop it written in fancy calligraphy is "Number Two Hundred Fifty-Seven". Knowing what I must do, I reach over to the nightstand and dunk the quill into the inkwell. I hold it there for a moment and let it drip, and then I bleed onto the page.

Once I am done, I set the book back down onto the nightstand. I fall backward onto my pillow and my eyes flutter shut for one final, everlasting dream...

. . .

. . .

. . .

The next time the human awakes, she is surrounded by warm, blinding white light. The smooth, silky hand of Eternity clasps her own and bravely guides her forth into the nexus, step after gruelling step.

For the first time in a long time, the human smiles.

Author's Note

I had a few hours, so I randomly cranked this one out.

...I am so sorry.