Brother of Mine
The 24th Pegasus
The rain fell hard on the streets of Canterlot that night.
A dull rumble of thunder rattled the windows in Low Town Canterlot and sent the ponies on the streets scrambling inside the nearest buildings for cover. The Watering Hole was a popular choice, despite its moldy rafters and patchwork roof, which struggled to stave off the downpour outside. The pub, almost empty just moments before, was suddenly filled with life, and the bored wait staff found themselves scrambling to keep track of the sudden influx of orders for drinks and cheap food. It was all they could do to establish some semblance of control while the storm raged and the skies boomed just outside the dusty glass.
At the back of the restaurant, a unicorn managed to thread his way through the crowd to claim one of the last open seats at the bar. He stood a good inch or two taller than most stallions, and as he slid onto the stool, toned muscles rippled beneath his coat. The rain had turned his white coat into a matted blanket of faint gray, and a few errant drops clung to his mane. Brushing the short brown hairs back with a fetlock, he groaned and provoked a few weary pops out of his shoulders. His heavy cloak dripped onto the floor underneath him, and it took him a few seconds to shake what water he could out of it. The motion revealed his cutie mark, a clock with a black knife thrust through the number 12.
The bartender, a burly earth pony of brown and gray, glanced down the bar and waved a hoof that he’d be right over. He pulled a few mugs out from under the counter, filled them with ale, and hoofed them to his patrons at that end of the bar. He then snatched a rag between his teeth, but it didn’t linger there for even a second before he spat it onto the stained wood in front of the newcomer and began to grind away some petrified spot. His eyes met the unicorn’s, and in a rough voice he asked, “What’ll it be?”
Instead of turning towards the bartender, the unicorn’s brown eyes wandered up and down the bar, sparing each patron a second-long glace before moving onto the next. Apparently satisfied—or otherwise not finding what he was looking for—the unicorn waved his hoof. “Something stiff,” he said, the tone of his voice mirroring his request.
“Got some good Wild Pegasus if you’re interested,” the bartender said, turning to grab the whiskey bottle from beneath the bar in the same sentence. With a clink, he set the bottle on the wooden top for the unicorn to examine. The bottle was almost half empty and the label was wrinkled from spills and drips, but the amber liquid still looked as pure and spotless as the day it was bottled. At the unicorn’s satisfied nod, the bartender placed a tumbler on the bar and filled it with whiskey, the large ice cube in the center floating to the top.
“Thanks,” the unicorn muttered, savoring the lingering burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat. In short work, he emptied his first glass; he would need more. One drink wouldn’t cut it tonight. Without a word, he motioned for the bartender to give him another.
After refilling the glass, the earth pony took the whiskey and set it back under the bar. Checking that the rest of his patrons were satisfied, he set his gray eyes back on the unicorn. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”
Shaking his head, the unicorn took a sip of his drink. “No. How can you tell?”
The bartender grunted and leaned on the bar across from him. “I’ve got a thing for remembering faces,” he said, tapping his cutie mark. The corners of his lips jumped for a second. “Yours definitely isn’t one of ‘em.”
The white unicorn shrugged. “Maybe you just don’t recognize me.”
This time, the earth pony gave him an honest flash of a smile. “I’ve never forgotten a face in my sixteen years working this shitstain of a pub,” he said. “We both know you ain’t one of the regulars.”
His patron was silent for a moment before muttering, “What does it matter?”
“What does it matter?” the bartender echoed. He shrugged and glanced up and down the bar, but nopony needed anything he could help them with. He turned back to the newcomer and continued polishing the spot on the bar. “Matters nothing to me, honestly. But a pony like you doesn’t come to Low Town for no reason.” The ambient chatter of the pub filled the break in the conversation for a moment before the bartender spoke again. “Name’s Spirit, by the way.”
That caught the unicorn’s attention, and he raised his eyes off of his glass. “Spirit? I would’ve thought your name was Five o’Clock or something like that.”
Spirit chuckled. “That’s my twin brother. You know what they say: he’s always somewhere.” He chuckled again at the dry joke. “But in all honesty, yes, that’s my name. My parents were religious folk. Thought I’d grow up to praise the sun like they did.” He cast the unicorn a faint smirk. “Bet they never thought I’d take after the ‘other’ definition of spirit.”
The unicorn smirked, although the expression was hollow. “Fitting,” he said, and he set the glass back down on the bar.
“What I want to know is what brings a pony like you to a place like this,” Spirit pressed. Taking another look at him, he added, “Where’re ya from? High Town? Baltimare? That Celestia-forsaken backwater town at the foot of the mountain?”
“High Town,” the unicorn answered, his voice dull and flat.
“So what brings you to the foot of the mountain then?” Spirit asked. “Looking for work or something? Ain’t much around here if that’s the case.”
The unicorn was silent for a moment, but after a few seconds shook his head. “No, just looking for somepony. Maybe you’ve seen him around.”
“What’s he look like? Maybe I can help you out,” Spirit said. “I’m not one for names.”
“Well, his name is Last Resort,” the unicorn said. “Unicorn. A little shorter than me. Cream coat and red mane. His mark is a scroll with three lines, the last of which is circled. Know him?”
The bartender thought for a moment. “Can’t say the name itself rings a bell, but maybe. Have a picture on you?”
Reaching into the folds of his cloak, the unicorn pulled out a folded piece of paper. Flattening it out on the bar, he showed Spirit the face of the pony in question.
The bartender studied the picture for a few moments. “Hmm...” he murmured, scratching his chin with a hoof. “I might know him,” he finally answered. “What’s it to you?”
“He’s my brother,” the unicorn said. “He ran off a few days ago. I’ve been looking for him ever since. We think he might have come to Low Town.”
“Ah,” Spirit said. “If he’s your brother, then you are...?”
“Final Hour,” the unicorn answered.
“Hmph. Your parents had a thing for the dramatic climax, don’t you think?” Spirit teased.
Hour shrugged. “They passed when Resort and I were young. We never really got to know them; spent our lives growing up in an orphanage.” He idly slid his half-finished drink in circles with his magic. “We were pretty close.”
Spirit was thoughtful for a moment. “Any idea what happened?” he asked. “With your brother, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Hour said. “But it’s... personal. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I understand,” the earth pony replied. Shaking his head, he poured himself a shot and downed it in a gulp. “I lost my sister in Manehattan when I was thirteen. Never knew what happened to her. One minute she was with us, the next she was gone.” He stared into his empty shot glass. “Never saw her again.”
Final Hour bit his lip. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say, staring back down at his glass.
Spirit shrugged. “It is what it is. Some days I think I see glimpses of her walking down the street through these windows, but they’re always mirages or my mind playing tricks on me. She could be dead, for all I know, but I do pray every night that if she’s still alive out there, she’s happy.” He laughed bitterly. “I guess I did turn out somewhat religious in the end.”
“Life’s funny that way, sometimes.”
“That it is,” Spirit answered. After thinking for a second, he said, “I saw your brother the other day nosing around one of the warehouses by the river. The old textile mill. He definitely looked like he’s seen better days. Poor stallion doesn’t look like he’s slept for a while.” The earth pony leaned across the table, and Hour was shocked by the sad resolve in his eyes. “I hope you find your brother, friend. Nothing’s worse than losing a sibling.”
Final Hour bowed his head and slid off of his seat. His magic deposited a hoofful of gold bits on the bar—far more than what the drinks were worth, but he didn’t mind. Nodding once, he turned away without a word and wove his way through the crowd to the beaten and battered door.
The wind fought his magic as he forced the door open, but he succeeded with a little effort. The rain pelted his face and battered his body like thousands of tiny motes of gravel flung from the sky. Squinting, he managed to concentrate just long enough to manifest a forcefield of arcane energy to keep the rain off of his face and head. Because of the color of his magic, the world took on a brownish hue, but it at least let him see where he was going. Gritting his teeth, he cantered down the street and charted a westerly path towards the Maressissippi River.
He was soaked to the bone before he reached the corner.
Low Town was deserted, and for good reason. The water running down the side of the Mountain of Dawn was so thick that several times Final Hour detoured to find a higher street to try and cross. Garbage and newspapers were swept out towards the riverbanks to the west with the tide, and all Hour had to do was follow the flow as it sheeted off of the granite monolith towering above him. Almost every window he passed was lit by lantern as pony families huddled together in the shelter and warmth of their homes, simply waiting for the evening storm to pass.
Lightning arced overhead, illuminating the warehouses in front of him.
The old Red Loom textile mill had certainly seen better days. A hundred years ago, perhaps two, the building had been full of mares and fillies sent from the countryside to work textiles for additional income. Nowadays, the red brick building stood empty and silent, a ghostly monument to the early days of industry in the fashion world. The large windows in the four story building were cracked, shattered, or simply glazed with dust, and one of the tall brick chimneys had collapsed with age, unable to withstand the punishing weather that frequented Canterlot in the summer. Behind the building, a disconnected water wheel creaked and groaned with the surging river, almost too rusted over to turn properly. Obscenities had been spray-painted up and down the sides of the derelict building by rebellious colts, but even these too were falling prey to the inexorable march of time.
Final Hour approached the chain link fence surrounding the building and grasped the lock in his magic. The lock, more rust than steel, nearly shattered at his touch, and indeed all it took was a small tug to snap it in two. Discarding the pieces onto the cobblestone, the white stallion pushed open the chain gate and quickly dashed across the muddy ground surrounding the building proper. By the time he found himself underneath an overhang that provided him some protection from the downpour, water was streaming down the sides of his cloak and his mane was plastered to his scalp.
Clinging to the side of the building, Final Hour worked his way around the perimeter until he found a half-closed door above what was once a loading dock permitting entrance to the interior of the mill. Gritting his teeth, he forced the door upwards with his magic. The old metal released a hideous screech as it slid up, forcing Hour to flatten his ears against his skull to block the noise. Wincing, he bent down and crawled through the opening into the blackness of the building.
Shadows dominated the interior like a morass of choking darkness. What little light was able to penetrate through the storm outside and the dusty windows inside cast long and terrifying shadows across the cement floor and brick walls. Tiny shards of shattered glass crunched under Final Hour’s hooves, and he walked around the interior perimeter of the building to stay out from under the broken skylights and the rain they let in. Old, enormous looms, now bare of thread or cloth, creaked with the rain pattering across them and the wind blowing in through one window and out through another.
Since the color of his magic was too dark to provide any real light, Final Hour instead had to rely on the faint lighting from outside to see his way around the building. At the back corner he spotted the skeleton of a metal staircase leading up to the higher levels. Without hesitation, he set his hooves in that direction, the continual crunch crunch of glass underhoof marking his every step.
Something glittered under the faint light from above, catching Hour’s eye. Just a few feet away from the staircase lay a discarded candy wrapper. Picking it up with his magic, the stallion examined it. It was nearly impossible to tell how long it had been there—it might have been left by some kids hanging around the mill after dark—but there were still crumbs inside. That it hadn’t been picked clean by ants and the like meant that it was recently discarded, probably within the past few days. Still, it wasn’t enough to say that it was Last Resort’s doing.
Clank!! Bumpbumpbump.
That, on the other hoof...
The noise had come from upstairs, and Final Hour tossed the candy wrapper aside and put one hoof on the staircase. The old metal groaned as he put his weight on it, but it was sturdy enough to support him. With careful steps, the stallion climbed the flights of stairs, eliciting the occasional moan from the metal. In no short order he found himself on the top floor, formerly home to the offices of the mill’s foremares in days past.
The door at the end of the walkway was ajar.
With careful steps, Final Hour navigated the rusty catwalk hanging some sixty feet above the hard concrete floor below. Each creak of a joint brought pause to his steps, but he continued onwards. When the door was finally within a foreleg’s reach, he grasped it with his magic and pulled it open.
The foremare’s office was much like the rest of the mill: dark, damp, and disheveled. The desk had been turned on its side, one of the chairs was in pieces, and the filing cabinets had been laid one atop the other as a sort of makeshift barricade. What really caught Final Hour’s eye was the ambient orange glow coming from the left, just off the side of the door.
He ducked as three arcane bolts flew inches from his head. Scrambling across the floor, he took cover behind the filing cabinet barricade. His heart racing, Hour ducked as another bolt went over his horn. “Resort!” he shouted, “Resort! It’s me!” Manifesting a shield, he dared to stand up from behind the cabinets.
Standing at the other end of the room was a bedraggled unicorn stallion. His cream coat was matted, his red mane was a mess, and his orange eyes were bloodshot and panicstricken. His horn glowed with orange Arcana, ready to be loosed into another spell. On seeing Final Hour stand up, however, the spell fizzled away, and the stallion slumped against the wall, hyperventilating.
“Hour!” he exclaimed between breaths. “I thought it was somepony else! Thank Celestia it was just you!”
Sighing, Final Hour let his shield fade away, but his hooves remained rooted where he stood. “You tried to kill me,” he noted.
“I didn’t know it was you,” Last Resort murmured. “I’ve been running for so long... so, so long...”
“Resort.” Hour’s voice brought his brother’s breathing to a halt. “It’s over now.”
Blinking, Last Resort shuffled away from the wall and closer towards his brother. “You can help me.”
Gritting his teeth, Final Hour looked away. “I can’t. You know that.”
“Please!” Last Resort cried, stomping his hoof against the ground. “You know you can! You’re with the Guard! You can help me! I’m... I’m just...” He hung his head. “I’m tired of running. I don’t want to run anymore. Please...”
Hour narrowed his eyes. “Come with me, then. We’ll go back to High Town and take care of things there. We can—”
But Last Resort was shaking his head. “No. No, no, no. I can’t go back to High Town. You know I can’t. You know why. Just... Just...” The ragged unicorn began pacing. “Just get me across the river! I can go west... to Tall Tale! Or Vanhoover! Nopony will ever see me again! Nopony will know what happened!” He clopped his forehooves together. “Please! Big brother...” he pleaded.
“I can’t,” Hour said one more time. He took a step forward. “Resort, she was our friend. Our best friend! Why?!”
Last Resort’s ears flattened against his head. “I didn’t know it was her! And it was an accident anyway! She never should’ve... s-should’ve...” he took a shuddering breath. “I needed the money, Hour. I had debts I needed to pay off. And it was d-dark. All I saw was the jewelry in the moonlight!”
“You stabbed her!”
The cream unicorn ground his teeth together and punched a hoof into the wall. Chunks of brick separated from the mortar and clattered around his hooves. “The knife was just supposed to be a threat! But Cherry fought back, and it slipped, and...” Tears began to stream down his face. “I would never have done it if I knew it was her!”
Final Hour didn’t budge. “But you would have done it if it was somepony else.” It wasn’t a question.
“If I didn’t, the griffon cartels would skin me alive and use my skull to drink wine out of!” Last Resort exclaimed. “I needed the money, or else they were gonna kill me!”
“Come with me, Resort,” Final hour insisted. “We can figure this out, I promise.”
“No!” Resort shouted. “Her father’s one of the most powerful nobles in town! Do you know what he’s gonna do if he gets his hooves on me?!” He shuddered. “I’d be lucky if he just sold me off to the cartels! He’ll make my life a living Tartarus!”
Final Hour widened his stance. “I can do my best to make sure you have a fair trial, and I’ll put in a word for you. You can’t ever hope to make it up to Cherry or her family or me, but every little step you take to try and make this right puts you a step closer to earning my forgiveness—and hers.”
Last Resort was shaking now. “I don’t wanna die...” He took a step towards the door, and he cast his pleading eyes on his brother. “Hour, please... just let me go. I don’t wanna die...”
Hour took a matching step towards the door. “You can’t run from this forever. You’re only going to make it worse.” He swallowed hard. “Come with me. Please...”
His brother hesitated, one hoof still in the air. The door was no more than ten feet away. “They’re going to kill me if I go back.”
“Brother, please...” Hour begged, advancing another hoof closer to the door. “Please don’t.”
“You don’t have to stop me!” Last Resort insisted. His orange magic grabbed hold of the door, forcing it open even wider. “You can say you never found me. That I was gone before you got here. It’s not so hard!”
One hoof stepped outside the door. Then another. Final Hour could only stare at his brother, his breathing heavy and ragged. “Resort, I swore to her family that she’d have justice. I don’t break promises.”
Last Resort stopped halfway through the door. “But I’m your family, Hour,” he whispered. “Family always looks out for each other.”
Hour gritted his teeth. “She was like family to us too, you know.” His vision blurred with the tears in his eyes. “And I loved her. And... and you took her from me.”
His brother shrunk back, his ears flattened against his head. “Hour, I’m... I’m sorry. You know I am. I really am.” He looked down the catwalk to the staircase across from it. “And I should go... You won’t see me again.”
Final Hour’s horn began to glow with arcane energy, honed and focused from his training for the Royal Guard. “Don’t...” he pleaded. “Just come with me...”
Last Resort stopped a foot from the door. His eyes widened at the sight of Hour’s glowing horn. “You wouldn’t... not to your own brother...”
“Please don’t make me...” Hour whispered, unable to meet his brother’s eyes.
“You don’t have to,” Resort insisted just as quietly. “I know you’re a loyal stallion... to the Guard... to Cherry...” He swallowed hard. “But the price of loyalty shouldn’t be a brother’s blood.”
Final Hour said nothing. He couldn’t find the strength.
“Goodbye, brother,” Resort whispered. With one last awkward shuffle of a hoof, he turned and started to gallop through the door.
Final Hour squeezed his eyes shut, felt the tears staining his cheeks, and let the energy leave his horn.
The door to The Watering Hole opened with the tinny tinkle of the bell hanging over it, but nopony in the bar noticed save for those closest to the door. The skies were still pouring; in fact, the rain seemed to be coming down harder, and the dark clouds boomed with tremendous fury. Nopony paid it any mind; they were too busy enjoying conversations and booze with their friends.
The lone figure entering the pub gently shut the door behind him and took an empty seat at the bar. It was just as crowded as before, but he still managed to find an open spot at the very end. Shivering, he shook what water he could from his shoulders. His tail dripped onto the hardwood floor underneath him.
Spirit saw the newcomer appear out of the corner of his eye, and immediately he made his way over. As the unicorn wrung the water out of his mane, Spirit leaned closer. “You find him?”
The pony was silent for a few seconds. “Yes,” Final Hour answered. He stared at his hooves for a few seconds, noting the discolored stains around his fetlocks. “Can you get me a drink?”
The earth pony nodded. “Sure. What’ll it be?”
Final Hour didn’t say anything for the longest time. “Something stiff,” he finally murmured.
Spirit gave him a small nod. Reaching under the bar, he pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “Got some good Wild Pegasus if you’re interested,” he said, slow and quiet.
Hour waved a hoof that it would do. Wordlessly, Spirit poured him a drink and set it in front of him. “There you go.” He grabbed the cap to bottle it back up, but was stopped by Final Hour’s hoof.
“Just... leave the bottle,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”
Pursing his lips, Spirit set the bottle back on the bar and gave Final Hour some space. Finding another patron who needed his help, he left without another word. The unicorn waved his thanks, downed his first drink, and quickly refilled it.
And the rain fell hard on the streets of Canterlot that night.
