Chapters **Terror * is a strange concept.*
We fear death when it doesn't stare us in the face. When at rest, it can be considered for all the losses the world will feel, for our abrupt end, things unfinished, discovering the afterlife, being judged- but when caught in jaws bearing down on us, "fear" and "death" are too complicated to understand. Terror- the sense of ultimate failure and the loss of all we hold dear- is much more abundant. Terror tests our limits, and allows us to either push harder to fight it, or fail and allow it to overcome us as it makes its dread promises come true.
Lodged between massive fangs, forelegs struggling to keep the maw held open, he quiets this familiar train of thought. With air so hot it burns singeing his dock in regular blasts, he must focus to find his escape; a focus broken as two fangs connect through the flesh beneath his left covets, slicing through nerve in a pain so intense he cannot help but
scream, though somehow he resisted.
The grass was gone. He rested, now fully on his back, engulfed in something soft, hot, moist.. incredibly hot. Strange scents were subtle on the still air, and something tugged on his left wing, but gently. It felt alive, but he felt no malice from it, so with eyes closed he listened carefully for any clues.
"Agh! Eh oot szizched! Oo ooh sizk ay eughd da ushkind ood?"
"Es bur alondalie utlulidored. Eu rinr oueh phus dradir ahs eiern froued... ehd areigh beu uhurm eiam eavoit eu rewus oip eidbeain..."
He struggled to make sense of the strange sounds. It was obvious as the chatter continued that there were two mares speaking, and judging from the hooves moving over his wing and cannon he seemed to be the topic. Why couldn't he understand them? He was fluent in... something...
The sweltering heat engulfing him was like claws raking at his sides overwhelming. Involuntarily he stiffened, and he kept his eyes glued shut as he heard his captors jump back. He struggled to breathe as the sickly smell of his own sweat wafted past his muzzle. A cool hoof again touched him, sending a sharp pain through his forehead, and just as quickly was replaced by something so intensely cold and soothing it caused a shudder through his spine.
The worried voices became softer, more hurried, and the scorching pressure from his body was lifted away. More talk, and his croup lifted by hooves... a startled murmur, and the hooves were gone again; something light and cool enveloped him as the voices died away and everything inside his mind became silent.
A welcome silence. Not the calm before the storm, not the eerie stillness when even insects fear to chirp, but the gentler one that doesn't set your skin crawling. It is the peace of safety- one that is quickly broken by the screams of a stallion that is trying to stand, only to find that his scorched flank is sticking to the flagstones he rests on.
The pain is unexpected. This time he makes it to his hooves with only a far more masculine grunt accompanying him. He turns his head- an audible pop, a stiffness; he must have been unconscious for some time- to survey the damage. The coat up to his hip has been annihilated, a blackened, sooty ring left between his light azure and the blistered bare skin of his flank.
The burn is painful... he notes this with some small relief. Hardly a vain creature, but still; it will be chill if the hair doesn't regrow.
This relief is followed by a realization that brings an amused smile to his face- it's true, what they say: a cutie mark is only fur deep.
It's a humorous observation to the stallion, and the smile opens wide with laughter as he makes another.
The creature's tongue (so thick and slick and fleshy) recently made him recoil in disgust as he struggled for his life, rudely crushing and moistening him from his tail to his tender bits- intimate parts of him which, while gluey with saliva and blood, are completely intact and spared from the flames.
The stallion laughs deep and long as the sky turns to dusk, his head thrown back with the joy of survival and the thrill of victory. He laughs as the blood pooling around his ankles begins to harden; he laughs as flies buzz around the massive body of his fallen foe and (the ones he couldn't save(the ones he was too late for(the ones he failed)its unfortunate victims. He laughs even as he thinks about how (insane)odd he must look doing so knowing full well the carnage that surrounds him.
He laughs because deep inside, the terror is gone once more.. and the very idea of such a thing just makes you wanna.. haha.. ha.. heh..
Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh!
* * *
He drifted.
Time became an anarchic concept while his body struggled against the fever that ravaged it. Light would fade and return almost at a whim through the pane glass window near his bed; sometimes he would begin a train of thought only to see the sun's glow depart and come again before it was finished, leaving him at a loss as to what the beginning of it had been. On other occasions, time would practically stop (though he was certain it was only be comparison), and it was during these times he came to know of his caretakers.
The visits of a tender hooved mare with a pink mane were perhaps the most dreaded. These moments stood out with remarkable clarity for the pain that often accompanied them, as she would poke at the wounds on his forehead and ear. Bloodied bandages would be replaced with ones new and pristine, and liquids and creams from jars would be administered each time. These containers he quickly came to know as "bad brown" and "good white", with the first bringing that horrible pain like lightning through his nerves as the old dressings were removed and the second providing a smooth slip back down to the distant thunder he had come to prefer. This mare was without fail the one to tend to this task, though sometimes under the watch of a curious unicorn, a stallion of a creamy caramel complexion and darker mane, always clad in white. Though he couldn't understand their speech, a mocking tone was often evident in this one's voice, and he came to enjoy watching him depart with his unsteady gait.
The others were less common, though the ones who came never did so only once. His favorite was an energetic pegasus with a hue not unlike his own; but her mane and tail! The colors ran the full spectrum. Seeing them against her sky blue coat brought back memories of
it's beautiful, the air beneath his wings, caressing every feather as he soars into
a real rainbow, and although she seemed timid at first, the smile that would cross his face when he watched her move encouraged her to be less cautious. After a few visits, she'd take to doing what tricks her astonishing agility would allow in the small room, leaving behind a prismatic trail for a brief second and providing a movement of air that was otherwise sorely lacking. Once when she arrived with the caramel stallion present, a brief conversation left her with a flush on her cheeks, though it was later during this visit that she first took time to carefully climb up beside him and preen his feathers. It was an overwhelmingly pleasant experience that would be repeated every time thereafter, with the care, precision and respect that only a pegasus could provide. The scent of her oil would linger, extending the comfort she provided for a bit longer. On the first occasion, there were so many dead sheaths to be removed that it took the mare a good while to do so properly, and when she reached the deadened end of his left wing she had stopped. The question on her face and in her voice was obvious as he met her gaze, and after some seconds she gave a tiny nod, a single quick nuzzle to his chin, and then returned to her task.
The other pegasus was far less talkative. He initially confused her for the Jar Bearer, the pink in their manes being so similar, but after some time he would see her skirting in and out of the room on occasion, wings often in a state of alarm and her pale yellow frame somehow blending in with the wooden walls and floor. Her movements were always directed to some task or another, whether it were to place a stack of neatly folded bedding in the small closet behind him or to prop open the window for a while to alleviate the smell of sweat, urine and disease that would sometimes build up. She once made her presence far more noticeable as she struggled to catch a small white rabbit who had invaded, hell bent to express opinions that were clearly not welcoming in its shrill cry; he felt certain he had hallucinated the experience until he noticed the small tuft of yellow down she had left behind when she had dived reaching under the bed itself. It stayed, while the mare had not; it stayed as the light left the room and darkness filled it; it stayed as the flicker of candlelight that normally accompanied his long night watch vanished; and when he awoke from
the weight is unbearable. The stallion feels the massive clawed appendage crushing the breath from his lungs, and struggles to find any purchase he can as he looks up into the screaming red eyes of
a horrible nightmare, it had been replaced by the wing of the yellow pegasus herself. With her cannon wrapped around his barrel, forehead buried in his shoulder, she had sobbed; a beautiful, wretched sound that no tongue cannot comprehend. After a moment and a deep heaving breath, she suddenly stiffened, and a jump backwards let him see her face clearly for the first time. Eyes of the richest teal no Brayzilian tourmaline could compare to, made more radiant than the purest cut could ever match twitched sporadically over sodden cheeks to which a few of his own tear coated hairs clung; and like so many other aspects of his fevered mind, she was gone.
He did eventually become aware of the fever as the days drifted to (years? moments?) weeks. It was his least rational companion that brought about the realization that so much of what he perceived and remembered could simply not be real- a spirit that always seemed to appear as he was drifting out or in from unconsciousness. Her eyes would glimmer like sapphires, diamonds and emeralds as she looked into his own, her phantom hooves so often prodding and pulling at his limbs and hair when sleep made him his most vulnerable. She would sing in a voice like fluid, as if heard underwater, or perhaps more like the din of quiet conversation in a crowded room, while her coat would shift through various hues to match her tone. Scenes of unfamiliar memories would invade his mind during these moments... an autumn day, the smell of pumpkins growing in fresh soil ...I love you... ; a carnation pressed gently into his hoof, hidden behind a gristmill ...I want you to be happy... ; a bouquet of various fragrant wildflowers scattered across pure marble ...so special to me... Her visits were uniquely bizarre experiences, though he began to suspect they were in fact his muddled interpretation of real occurrences; wouldn't he be able to understand the words of a ghost? He also knew that somepony had been tending to his hygiene, as his coat was consistently groomed and his bedclothes would every so often change in hue. It was early one morning (or late one evening? the facing of the window made it difficult to decide, and he could not see through it from where he lay) that he awoke to an interesting addition to his dwelling. A landscape of rolling green hills and interspersed forest surrounded a small town comprised almost entirely of pale buildings, wooden trim and thatched roofs on them all. The one exception was an relatively extravagant wooden dome decorated with colorful streamers which towered over the surrounding structures. The frame it resided within was a strange affair; obviously the product of a skilled wood worker, but painted a jarring shade of pink and studded evenly with a variety of stunning gemstones with which the light would play at some hours. If he were aware at just the right moments of the day, he'd see the light painting a prismatic display across the ceiling in the pattern of a rainbow- an effect that he endeavored to observe every chance he could from the first time he saw it.
It was during one of his less lucid moments that a new face arrived; bold and purple, she would be the one to finally break apart the paralysis that held him, and everything after so much time would drastically change.
**Dragons * are magnificent creatures.*
It's a simple statement, but one of undeniable truth. You can call the sky blue or water wet and always be just as right. Some ponies will spend the day arguing as to why these certainties are as they are, but only a foal will deny the statement itself.
To many ponies, dragons are the wonders that they are for their perfect design as unstoppable killing machines. They developed as the hunters of mighty beasts, foes against which semi-metallic and incisors capable to cleaving boulders are a necessity. Various breath attacks are effective in different environments; whereas a hydra may wilt before the fires its kind never encounters in the wild, a phoenix will simply absorb them and be all the stronger for the experience. Dragons are swift as well; almost too quick for creatures their monstrous size, but a luxury afforded by their unique metabolisms nonetheless.
What few of these ponies realize is that these "rampaging monsters" are every bit their match for intellect and social structure. They are beings of few words only because few are needed; never achieving civilization has left them with little to say that their pack instincts do not already dictate. Ponies have names; dragons have scents. Ponies rely on agriculture, culinary ability, textiles and shelter; dragons reap what they need from the latent magics present in gem stones and the flesh they consume, and their nigh invulnerable bodies provide all the protection they'll ever need. Ponies raise and train armies; dragons are born into a society where every moment from their first centers around the pursuit of feeding, where there are no great orators or philosophers because they've already reached the pinnacle of evolution and such quandaries are simply unnecessary.
It is only the rarest of ponies that know their motivation. Dragon "culture" (for want of a better term) is little more than their collective knowledge that when the sun rises for the last time, only dragons will know its warmth. Other sentient beings are nothing more than vermin to them, squandering their resources and generally disheveling their perfect order- migrate, delve, hunt, exhaust, migrate. It is a simple idea, and terrifying in its inevitable conclusion. Some scholars and diplomats come to this realization...
...whereas it is the soldiers that learn of it first hand.
Pegasi are the only consistent defense against a dragon invasion.
Unicorns find their marks periodically, but it is by luck and numbers that they are able to do so. Any being of magic has its vulnerabilities, but it is through their massive size and natural bond with the elements that they are able to resist most spells. "The strongest bridge will crumble under enough carts," of course- a rule that applies when there are enough talented and trained mages working in coordination to topple a single target. These are joyous occasions for the populace, as these are the battles with the fewest casualties.
Although dragon scales are extremely tough, resisting heat and cold, claw and fang, they are still able to be damaged by well forged arms. A hide nearly as hard as iron can be pierced by a halberd of the true material, and great enough impacts can penetrate their armor to injure muscle, bone and organs within. This is where the rank and file find their place. A dragon found grounded will fall to a sufficient force, and a powerful (and extremely fortunate) soldier can deal a single deadly blow when one has been snared or incapacitated by poison or disease.
The world would be a much safer place if only the damn things couldn't fly.
* * *
**The * stallion somehow feels incredibly silly.*
With Dew Drop MIA and no other suitable diverters immediately available, he has broken formation to aim a single, swift kick into the Amethysts' eye and now stands reared on two legs with wings spread to their full span, directly in front of the enraged beast.
The tremble of combat grinds his jaw, his heart races, and instead of feeling exposed or vulnerable, his mind has settled on "ridiculous." He knows that his stance is designed to mirror and mock the dragon's own, and that the blood red eyes emblazoned on the underside of his secondaries are intended to fill it with a sense of individual challenge to divert it from the squad's lance bearers, but from his current perspective, they are simply comical. Like the paint on a jester's face, it's just an illusion that nopony would fall for, but merely laugh at. They're.. jokes. He's standing here on quivering hing legs, trying to amuse this massive beast that's now dropped and is charging. He's dropping to all fours, his wings cramp from the uncontrollable surge of panic causing them to flare, and it's not working. It's not working- fighting back against this impossible force is a madpony's illusion and he shouldn't be here in the first place!
He bolts. There's nothing in the world to the stallion besides the tremor of thundering claws behind him. The hot splash of urine against his hooves goes unnoticed; the splayed corpse and smoldering wings of Lightning Twist fail to register; screams, battle cries and the death promised by a booming voice fall on deaf ears. It is only when he slams full bore into a structure that he turns and looks back at the Amethyst, now almost directly above him. His teeth stop slamming against each other as his jaw falls slack, his pupils constrict wildly and he barely notices the orange blur that blasts by before sharply ascending at the roaring monstrosity. The aerial charge hits home, the lance buried to saddle in vulnerable chin. Eventide struggles to free herself from her weapon's rigging as the beast's slack body falls towards the stallion, who lets out a quick bark of laughter as he sees the lance's tip protruding from its skull like a unicorn's
horn was glowing softly, the pink light reflected in the beautiful liquid pools of the mare's eyes.
The stallion struggled to slow his breathing, though the look of compassion and interest on the visitor's face was clear. She was new, a light purple unicorn with a lavender mane that contained a single stripe the same shade as her magic. The loose midnight blue robe that adorned her was decorated with stars, and stood out in sharp contrast to the simple pleated skirts the other ponies always wore.
The mare cooed and spoke softly, reassuringly, the look of sympathy spilling out of her Amethyst eyes in a single drop that slid down her cheek. Her smile was sad and genuine, yet could do nothing to quiet there's no escape the pounding of his heart in his ears. It slipped into the pout of an accepting smirk as she stopped speaking, and the magical field of her horn peaked. Slowly she lowered it towards his forehead. As it made contact, he cried out and felt the sickening crunch
of bone over the deafening crash of the building crumbling, and the world goes silent.
The stallion's head is killing him. He opens his eyes, blinking twice to bring them to focus, and finds himself staring at a symbol of the sun settling behind still waters gracing a dusty, orange flank. Pulling himself forward, he instinctively puts fore-hoof on the mare, checking her injuries. She's breathing regularly on her side, and has no bleeding other than the shallow lacerations where her harness has torn from her barrel. Fresh blood is encrusted on her rear hoof-
"My baby!"
His head snaps around in alarm; behind him are a pair of ponies, coats of the milk chocolate common to the region- presumably the owners of the structure they are in. One, a stallion, stands perfectly still and stares straight through him, an expression in his eyes that reminds him of the vacant stare sometimes worn by Dragon Mare (that can't be her real name).
"My BABY!"
His gaze moves to the mare rocking back and forth on the floor next to her mate, staring at the swaddled bundle in her hooves and yelling
"MY BABY!"
The cry is uttered repeatedly as the stallion looks upon her. A sense of fogginess settles over his mind and becomes denser as (my baby) the terrible truth (my BABY!) in her words (MY BABY!) becomes clear. (my baby, my baby) Her cheek has been torn open, the clean tear of an impact from a weapon, possible a horseshoe (my baby) but she seems unaware. (my baby) The foal in her hooves (my baby!) is still and quiet; an obvious deformity of the skull above its left eye the consistency of crushed eggshells in jelly (my baaabyyyy). He's not aware that instinct has again taken over, driving him to examine (my baaaaby!!) the tiny colt as he unwraps the dirty white blanket that holds (my baby! my baby!) him; prolapsed bowels extend a hoof's width past (MY BABY MY BABY MY) his (BAAAABYYYY!) buttocks, and the stallion must leave. There's nothing he can do here and the need to (be anywhere, go anywhere, don't be here) rejoin his squad (this isn't real) finds him bucking hard against the wooden wall of the (crypt) house, slamming horseshoes again and again (this can't be real) in trained rhythm into the structure as time seems to stop. A splintered plank tears through (my baby) his right fetlock; embers hang still in (my baby) the air; (my baby) nopony breaths, air doesn't move as he rears back for (my baby) another powerful strike that caused a section of the wall to tear away.
His eyes darted around the room. Sheets of paper and splinters of wood hung motionless in the air. The purple unicorn's face was frozen in an expression of shock, and surprise and excitement were etched onto those of a familiar orange and pink pair he couldn't recognize standing by the stairs.
Surprise struck as he realized that he was seeing a part of the (it must be a) home he had never seen before... and that he had just moved for the first time in as long as he could remember.
The headache struck like a hammer as he started feeling the effects of gravity, the tearing pain in his fetlock, and an awareness of the mares in the room starting to move in slow motion through his rapidly blurring vision.
The bookcase struck him like only a falling bookcase could, and he was out again.
* * *
The stallion awoke in his bed from a hoof gently shaking his shoulder.
The room was dim, and the fresh scent of a garden wafted on a fresh breeze. Standing in front of him with wings partially aloft was his reclusive yellow visitor, her mane disheveled and a wide smile on her tear streaked face.
"Poiwb," she stated simply, her teal eyes locked with his own.
He looked back her dumbly, and she said it again with more emphasis, prodding his barrel with her hoof. Obviously not getting the desired response, she wrapped her pastern around his and guided him towards her, encouraging him to unsteadily take to his hooves next to the new window he had created.
A veritable sea of grass extended from the flower garden several hoof's widths beneath him, across a wide pasture and to the edge of a (here there be monsters ) dark forest. Rising above it in the distance were majestic peaks, between which the sun had just started to rise.
The mare's left hoof ran up his foreleg and settled on his withers, and her shoulder pressed against his as she used her right to point towards the beautiful hues of the sunrise; the pale golds and bright orange of the heavenly body impressed this morning over the white that faded to the sky's blue further up the horizon. She then dropped back to all fours and pressed a hoof to his barrel again, bringing his eyes back to hers, and this time her message was clear.
"Dawn."
Receiving a name was the start to his first genuinely nice day since he had been found.
A lengthy examination later that morning by the Jar Bearer and unicorn stallion of his wound, reflexes and balance concluded with them giving each other a quick, satisfied nod and presenting a large sheet of paper with a pony's skull drawn on it. The unicorn held it aloft with his magic, droning on for a moment before rolling his eyes at Dawn's lack of comprehension. He sighed and finally jammed his hoof through the skull's sagittal crest; Dawn blinked and thought for a moment for nodding in return. "Open skull fracture" was a grim diagnosis, but evidently one that he had somehow survived. The (he must be a) doctor made one last sneering remark, and he and his assistant went on to speak with the ponies waiting outside the room.
The stallion peered into the hallway that the others were gathered in. A few ponies he recognized well enough; the colorful blue pegasus, the yellow one who had woken him that morning, and the robed purple unicorn that had broken whatever grip (the abyss ) had held him scribbling intently on a scroll of parchment. The other three made him hesitate, and then he understood: his ghost had been real. The orange mare from earlier had an unusually dense blonde mane tied back behind a flat brimmed brown hat with a rounded crown. A disorderly pink puff of feminine vigor trembled beside her, barely able to keep any hoof on the floor for more than an second or two. The stunning (ghost! HA!) pure white unicorn nearest the door looked dully with half closed eyes at the physician, toying idly with her oddly spiraled purple mane. Worn around her copious croup was a complicated magenta number, embroidered with tiny gemstones and standing out from her compatriots' simply hued skirts.
Dawn blinked at this, and swallowed involuntarily. Realizing that each other pony present wore garments that covered their nethers, teats and marks filled him with a bizarre sense of self-consciousness at his own exposed flank and tender bits. The pale unicorn must have noticed his awkward attempt to wrap his bedclothes around himself and was by his side in a heartbeat, her light blue aura grasping the sheet and adjusting it expertly into a makeshift toga. The stallion took a half step back and bowed his head as she examined him critically from multiple angles. Her eyes suddenly lit up and with an excited squeal escaped her lips as she clopped her hooves together and produced a measuring tape from her dress. "Personal space" lost all meaning as she started noting the lengths of his wings and limbs, calling out to the other unicorn who trotted in, quill still taking notes in front of the increasing annoyed physician. A pen spontaneously appeared with a pad and the purple one began to jot on it as well, listening intently with a facial expression that hovered somewhere between mild annoyance and curiosity. After a few minutes, the tape snapped back into its case and the white mare addressed him and prattled on brightly about sometime. Blinking, she interrupted herself and furrowed her brow. She then retrieved a gorgeous diamond from her garments and spoke to him again.
"Dawn.." she stated, pressing a hoof against his shoulder, before bringing the gem to her own barrel and saying her name.
He nodded and repeated it back to her. The word was foreign to him, but it must have meant "Diamond." Visually pleased with the recognition, Diamond gave another delighted squeal and trotted out towards the stairway, continuing to spout on over her shoulder as she disappeared from his sight. Her associate shook her head with a tiny smile, and introduced herself with a hoof to her barrel. Without context, the stallion decided her name must simply mean "Purple," and addressed her by it with a dip of his head. She beamed and returned to the hall and her supernatural writing arrangement.
With a moment to himself, it was finally a good time to survey the bedroom he had been occupying. It was the elegantly simple design of a rustic cottage; wooden framing over plastered walls, themselves a light beige. A conventional paned window was situated in a far corner and faced over the same garden he had seen that (Dawn ) morning; closed now, it had been the one that had served as his clock before. Two more round and segmented portals punctuated the wall behind his bed, too high to see anything but the sky from his previous position- but still, he lamented, such a view might have been enjoyable during his immobility. Or, it may have been torture; he sighed and shook out his wings to find them stiff and heavy from disuse. This brought him to his uncourteous addition; the air had fallen still, but not languid, the cool smell and firmness of autumn made him yearn for the sky. The wall itself was badly crushed where the section had torn away, and bracketing near the ceiling showed where the piece of furniture that had assailed him belonged.
It wasn't as though the impromptu renovation was intentional; he had just needed to move, and suddenly reacquiring the ability so unexpectedly had...
...had what? The stallion wasn't sure. He shook his head and finished his survey. Beams crisscrossed the peaked ceiling, studded with an interesting assortment of pegs and hangers. The scant decor that graced the walls was bright and simple, themed around nature and the sky, with the exception of the cityscape that had been added recently. Floorboards meticulously stained green led up to... holes in the baseboards? Blinking, he bent down to observe one more carefully, only to step back from the smell of vermin. The tiny passages were obviously hoof carved and even marked with tiny engravings; truly a peculiar contrast to the otherwise immaculate setting.
Dawn sighed and settled onto his belly by the breach. The crisp air felt amazing on his plummage; the delicious scent of grass and flowers relaxed him with it's easy familiarity; the firmness of the flood beneath his rump comforting- he couldn't remember the last time he had been able to just rest naturally. Stress from something so simple as standing and thinking had sapped the energy from his underused muscles and misspent mind, and his head settled on his forelegs as he accepted sleep openly.
It was the scent of a farm that woke him some time later. The sawing and scraping he had accepted in his dreamless slumber, but the rich smell of soil and healthy sweat was apparently too enticing for his mind to ignore. He opened his eyes to see the orange mare working on his improvised frame, shaping the splintered edges into something far more presentable.
Dawn couldn't help but admire the pony's build. Taut muscles shifted smoothly under a rugged but kempt coat, her poise practiced and solid as she labored. She was simply striking.. and seemingly perceptive as well, as she noticed his appreciation and turned to him with a rather informal wink.
"Des sotora vuin, sugarcube!"
He gaped. He stared. He salivated unexpectedly, and swallowing, repeated the name of the succulent treat back to her.
The mare snorted, then laughed openly. "Sugarcube! Pe erj breomf!" Dawn watched as she trotted to a green saddlebag with an apple on it, retrieving one of the bright red fruits from it and coming back.
He actually drooled.
The pumpkin hided pony gave a shake of her head and said "Wa sugarcube, hep..." She held the delicious globe aloft and shook it once for emphasis. "Apple!"
He didn't know the word, but repeated it back to her. The mare grinned and then pressed it to her flank. "Apple kmer!"
Dawn blinked and just parroted "Apple" back again. He knew she was following suit to Diamond and Purple from earlier, but the exotic treat in front of him had make him keenly aware that he hadn't eaten in forever.
Apple Something smirked, and glanced around conspiratorially before another short trip to her bag produced a brown glass container, corked and marked with her namesake and a smiling cartoon stallion. She uncorked it and held it under his muzzle for a few seconds before pressing it to her barrel. "Applejack."
Present a starving pony with delicacies the likes that royalty can ill afford, who has no context whatsoever for custom and courtesy, and you WILL find your croup nipped and hooves emptied.
To her credit, Applejack merely responded with a laugh and a quick clop to the floor with a hind hoof. Dawn bit greedily into the fruit, the sensation causing his vision to blur for an instant. Some deep part of his mind knew (those treats are only for royalty ) he should feel some shame, but he was just too hungry to care. Three bites downed its flesh and the core followed, washed down by a single swig of the intoxicating (know your place, chattel ) beverage; Dawn collapsed back to his croup, the unabashed look of a stallion satisfied on his face. His expression was the last straw for Applejack, who's hoofsteps out to the hallway were almost covered by her honest, open laughter.
Dawn settled back onto his forelegs, blissful and unsure as to why he felt unashamed. It didn't matter; he was smiling (you never smile ), the knife of hunger he had forgotten in his belly was dulled, and he felt as comfortable as he had ever been.
...day and night, dawn and dusk, sky and earth...
sun and moon...
GIANT BLUE EYEBALLS
His pulse racing, the stallion found himself awake and alarmed, balanced on a rafter.
Looking down, he gaped at the pink mare from before. She was inexplicably perch on the beam next to him, quivering with excitement. With a smile that could peel paint with its radiance, she launched into an outpouring of excited babble.
After several seconds she inhaled sharply and exclaimed something, poking at herself. And said it again, and again, with increasing intensity. Furrowing her brows, she began to present him with a series of objects, dropping each one off of their support- a pink toy, a pink button, a pink mane brush, a pink figurine of herself- where was she getting these?- until he finally addressed her in her word for "Pink!" Another gasp, and Dawn was hit by a smile that literally knocked him off his hooves.
Falling straight backwards was completely unexpected, and before he could try to right himself he landed inexplicably with an audible grunt on the back of the smaller statured Pink. The irrational mare gave him no time to recover as she resumed her stream of and merrily hopped across the room and out the hole in the wall with Dawn still draped over her back.
Finding himself on his hooves, the stallion blinked and was promptly dragged into a slow trot by Pink's grip on his mane. Letting go, she resumed the inane babble and Dawn was able to process the area around him. The house in which he had been kept was an utterly bizarre design, seemingly grown out of the ground itself and yet studded with clearly artificial additions. There were bird houses ranging from tiny structures to a full fledged chicken coop to accommodate the unseasonal amount of bird life that flitted about. A small brook babbled through the property, flowing from the forest (many here lose their lives ) on to points unknown. Rounding the home revealed a well trod dirt road that peaked near the main entrance with a natural bridge, shaped and tended by obviously talented hooves. The flower garden he had admired earlier faded seamlessly into wild foliage; the transition between manicured and unkempt was gradual and visually impressive. Unimpressive in size, the structure nevertheless called to both the eye and heart with its obvious dedication to leaving the natural order undisturbed in the face of civilized habitation.
The pair made two laps, the contrast between loquacious and taciturn far less subtle than the development in the wilderness before Dawn slowed and stopped. His muscles weren't stressed, his breathing wasn't labored, and yet he was exhausted. His carnation companion had anticipated this and switched to an actual sentence directed at him, complete with spontaneous bran muffin. The stallion accepted it as well as its existence, and ate it slowly from her hoof. His languor seemed to affect Pink, for she waited until his last bite had been swallowed before pressing herself into his barrel in an open frontal hug. She spoke a soft something to his crest, squeezing and rocking him softly for a moment before standing back with a significantly saner smile.
Pink began back to the house, but soon turned and looked over her shoulder at the drained stallion. His want to retire in the grassy shade behind the home was clear and she smiled again, trotting back over and giving a gentle nudge to his rump. Dawn took the hint and returned an appreciative nod before settling back onto his haunch, croup pressed to the cool grassy slope of this new home.
...crystal and wind, ice and fire...
...duty and love, growth and acceptance...
A glimmer of light from the setting sun between distant anvils awoke the stallion, the distant promise of rain felt in his feathers. Eight bars were being hummed quietly nearby as the yellow pegasus that produced them tended to her flowers. She worked methodically yet without purpose, centered in her task. Her relaxed wings and posture betrayed more than words ever could; compared to the nervous intensity the stallion always observed in her, she seemed completely at peace, as though having escaped for the moment a world she couldn't truly be a part of. The quiet melody was disorganized, shifting in tone as the mare eased between murmur and song and back again.
Dawn soon found himself lost in watching the mare, his thoughts drifting as her serenity affected him. It occurred to him that this was the pony who had retrieved him when he had first awoken, and evidently the one who had chosen to provide him a home. This mare that he had seen glimpses of so frequently, watching over him and granting him safety and recovery (...order and friendship... ) when he was on the verge of death, without knowing him, and with no possible expectation of the act being repaid in kind.
This mare who had named him.
Dawn's heart dipped briefly as he realized that he didn't know her name.
Laboring to his hooves, he approached her, the crunch of grass as he walked strangely clear to him. As he reached the edge of the flower bed a kaleidoscope of butterflies took flight. Hearing their silken wing beats drowned out by a rumble of faraway thunder highlighted how still and quiet everything had become, and the stallion refocused on his target, realizing that he had been staring the entire time but hadn't noticed when she had stopped her song to gaze back at him. The colorful insects descended around them, many settling in her mane and on her raised cannon. The mare brought her hoof to her barrel and smiled, the name "Butterfly" spoken as softly as her namesakes' flight as another of the tiny creatures settled onto the cloth concealing her mark.
...generosity and laughter, magic and loyalty, honesty and * kindness*...
A butterfly burns in a crystal field.
The stallion shook his head and looked down at the hoof on his shoulder. Butterfly cowered slightly in front of him, still holding her foreleg to his body as a gesture of support. The swarm of insects was gone along with the daylight, and as he looked up he could see that the storm clouds had drawn considerable closer as twilight enveloped the sky. A chill breeze rustled his feathers as he tried to shed the daze that held him. A gentle wing wrapped around his own served to dispel this strange sense of disconnect and he allowed himself to be led up the simple staircase that had appeared under his 'door' as he slept. The frame had been finished and a plain oaken door was installed as well- the first small drops of cold rain gave light to just how timely these additions were. The room itself had been rearranged; in place of the raised bed, a mattress- thinner than the old one, yet still comfortable- lied, large enough to rest comfortably on. Dawn nodded internally in approval; the lateral position he had found himself in before had felt awkward and uncomfortable. A low table had been brought in as well, with a number of floor pillows surrounding on it. On its surface resided a bountiful salad, which was wolfed down before too much could be observed about it.
Dawn gagged a tiny bit and let out a most undignified belch. It would be some meals later before his system had fully adapted to and received enough solid food to be less voracious towards it.
* * *
Life settled into the rhythm of routine. Dawn was permitted as much sleep as his body required, settling into a warhorse's pattern- naps throughout the day as inactivity allowed, and a longer respite at night when ( the horrors ) dreams would come. Meals became more regular, as did his response to them; the sheer variety and quality of them was almost overwhelming, with carrots, apples, and a variety of uncommon flowers frequently incorporated. The rare and mind blowing sugarcube was somehow a frequent offering, and he often indulged in them as succulent snacks during the afternoon.
As time passed, he became increasingly familiar with the roles the ponies who had come into his life. Butterfly was naturally his most persistent companion, preparing his meals and tending to his everyday care. She introduced him to the rest of the home, and his initial observation of the rodents was explained- this mare was obsessed with animals, from the conglomerate of small mammals and birds to tropical beasts Dawn could not recognize, and what would appear to be a completely domesticated bear. His first reaction to the ursa was no better than his initial encounter with the shower; Butterfly learned quickly that baths were the better approach to his hygiene. When not attending to her other duties, she would talk to him, sometimes for hours; not being able to understand her didn't stop him from enjoying the interaction. For whatever reason, this was the closest he had to feeling like part of actual conversations, and the sense of normality and acceptance this brought was most welcome.
Pink and Applejack shared a role in his convalescence that Rainbow soon joined- physical therapy. Dawn required little coaxing to stretch his legs and start bringing strength back to his languid muscles, but the direction (and more importantly, company) they provided brought purpose and direction to his actions that would otherwise have been lacking. Sometimes independently or as a trio, usually in pairs, they worked with him through an assortment of activities that ran the gauntlet from swimming to physical games and clumsy attempts at flight. In his weakened state, the sensory nerve damage was too much to overcome on his own; his first short 'flights' would consist of Applejack carrying him to nearly flight speed, Rainbow scooping him up and elevating him through simple maneuvers before releasing him to glide clumsily to his infallible landing pad of Pink. Dawn's slow improvement weighed upon his mind; a pegasus' flight is centered around their innate magic with their wings providing more control and stability than actual lift... and it was the overall lack of propulsion that made him worry that there was damage to his being that no amount of work could repair. It was rare that these concerns were allowed to fester when the team was present, however- daily gifts of impossibly sweet baked goods and beverages of various strengths were effective diversions and their upbeat confidence could not be resisted.
Nor could Diamond's obsession with his mane. Often accompanied by Purple (apparently for company; she rarely did anything other than scribble away at scrolls and journals), she began on a quest for fashion that the stallion could barely comprehend. What started as providing him appropriate attire in the form of a robe of festive golds and greens turned into a veritable parade of pants, coats and haircuts. Although Dawn had retaken control of maintaining his feathers and coat, his mane and tail were another matter altogether; literally nothing could tame them. Diamond would reach states of complete indignation, stamping her hooves and making the most ridiculous expressions when she would return a day or two after a styling to find that his hair had practically regrown.
He sometimes worried that Purple had some compulsion with rolling her eyes and planting her hoof squarely over her face. Dawn couldn't quite get a good bearing on the strange unicorn. Her bearing and appearance were humble and yet almost (royal ) regal. The other ponies always looked to her as though she were their leader, yet she gave no impression of being in command of anything. She always stood back and kept to herself, while being warm and friendly to the others when they approached. A curious enigma, Dawn accepted her as socially awkward and perhaps the mostly mentally gifted of the group- it was natural for ponies to flock to the intelligent for guidance, and this was the only conclusion he could reach that fit the situation.
It was a crisp autumn afternoon when she would once again prove herself as a catalyst for change and tear down another barrier between the stallion and the world around him.
Flames lick marble walls.
Soft grass, green and moist with morning dew; flowers dotting the meadow; vibrant hews.
The clamor of a city screaming; hoarse yells from a foot, a block, a mile away; the din of calamity somehow inconsequential.
Rich earth furrowed around a hoof; the light, hot and gentle from a brilliant sun; an ant crawling up a pastern, making its way over and between cerulean hairs, stiff with dried sweat.
Hooves planted firm on uneven cobblestones. Hot wetness on his forehead, the scent of copper, the all-too-familiar taste of blood in the corner of his mouth. Ears ringing; the situation must be assessed.
Firming his stance reflexively, the stallion braces against dangers unclear as he tries to gather his thoughts. The fires rise freakishly, growing with a speed impossible for a place so unwelcoming to a natural blaze. He’s unstable, wounded, but like no wound he had experienced before; the searing pain through his head makes it impossible to… the hot, dry wind drifts over his primaries… the updraft…
Gasping, the stallion snapped back from the burning city. The grass he laid on was firm and its scent crisp in the summer air. There was no sign of whatever disaster he had just witnessed, no city within his clearing vision, and the only sounds were of far off insects, always seeking out their noisy mates.
He struggled to clear his head, but the more intently he surveyed his surroundings, the less alarmed he felt, and the less at ease he became. Sleep’s strange blanket settled over his wings and flanks as he tried to fight it off. The sense that he must rise and look for cover overwhelmed him as the calm embrace moved down his flanks and shoulders, and panic began to set in full force as his mind began to slip from consciousness, the last of his awareness relaying a soft yellow and a mare’s voice speaking gentle words that he couldn't understand.
