Dear Trillium.

by Dawning View

Rating: everyone
Tags: Tragedy, Sad
Length: 1972

Washed ashore to an unknown island, these are the letters and notes of a dying journalist on their first journey across Eternity's Crossing towards Cervidas. Unfortunately, their destination was never made.

A ship lost at sea, and only one dying survivor. These are the dying chapters of their life as they wander blindly through an unknown island with no signs of rescue, their hopes of traveling to Cervidas crushed by that of a raging storm.

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Heavily inspired by Dear Esther and its writing style, Dear Trillium hopes to explore an unknown area of the Equestria and Beyond map through cryptic writing and broken story lines that must be pieced together to help fully understand the story as a whole. However, only speculation can be ruled out as answers to the story, as a clear and true answer to questions will never be answered.

This is an experimental bit of fiction, so don't go in expecting gold.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-12-15 04:06:17 UTC

Deserted rock in the middle of the ocean.

Dear Trillium. The island is as disdain as the crew that I shared bunk with. It was navigational error that brought me to this deserted rock in the middle of the ocean, but there is also a serene beauty to it all; a feeling of unexplored potential caresses my mind with waves equivalent to those rippling along the jagged stones that jut out from the shore line. Perhaps there is an essence of magic in the air drawing me deeper to the islands heart?

A dreary shade of grey.

Dear Trillium. The sun doesn't show here during the day. Instead, a dreary shade of grey paints the landscape with equal creativity to that of a dribbling foal running chalk against a loose dirt floor. The sky is also of equal creativity. Not even the clouds feel as if they are out of line, painting a near smooth canvas on the ethereal above. It's almost as if you could reach up and paint a line on them from upon the mesa in the distance. I have a feeling such things would be inane, if not fruitless.

Rapacious waters.

Dear Trillium. My mind is blank to the time I have been out upon Eternity’s Crossing, or if I was even afloat in that section of ocean when the ship was consumed by the gaping maw of the rapacious waters. Wherever it was, its currents lead me to this desolate rock where time has been set in a state of somnambulism, forever to roam with little to no awareness of its surroundings. Understandable that it stays this way. Imagining anybody who could enjoy an appalling piece of the worlds crust such as this seems implausible at best.

Tied by an invisible anchor.

Dear Trillium. I tried to triangulate my location with the map I took when I departed. I tried using the direction the wind is blowing in comparison to the islands that surround this one. It has all been in vain, as I cannot get a grip of true north without the sun. It remains a mere guessing game until that point. The winds are strong enough here to keep the gulls to the ground, like they are tied by an invisible anchor.

Prodigy of eternal life.

Lunaria wrote of life and death scenarios, and how one should hold out until the last moment before admitting poor defeat. It entails the story of a stallion who walked out to the Marelantis, seeking that of a life away from his own, the chance to recreate a world in his own perfectly flawed image. He walked upon the creatures and land that rose beneath him to guide him to his final destination, the creatures following to a land of prosperity that he promised to them. He would be their savior and prodigy of eternal life, sculpting the island from his own life force to provide perfection to all. He held out his spirit until the final moments, letting its essence nourish the land until none was left. I can still feel the tears of the creatures who followed being shed due to his passing.

This forsaken land.

I yet have to see of any signs of savior around this forsaken land. The grass is as malnourished as I, and the water is a brine that could attach a limb back to its host if one were to be lost. The path to follow is between a valley, either worn by the rain or by those who used to inhabit this island. I have yet to see any signs of civilization, so the accusation of none being here remains.

Slumbering giants coming to wake.

The islands off in the distance seem to grow as my ascent continues, slumbering giants coming to wake, a phoenix reborn from the ashes of a prior life. What service did they provide to be granted a second life?

Lumbering towers of stone.

The lumbering towers of stone and sediment bare knowledge of a prior life, but the language hidden in the meticulously carved hieroglyphics is out of my range of translation. To draw them would take a time beyond what seems to be available to me, but rudimentary rubbings may reveal enough to the scribes back home. Eight shall be the amount of pages required to cover all that has not been wiped clean by the relentless winds. I shall see to the headmaster if this island feels it can spare its hubris.

Many cycles ago.

Dear Trillium. It seems rather stereotypical that one survive a wreck and be the only one left, even more so that it be the journalist. So seems to be the final pilgrimage that took place here, what seems to be many cycles ago. Scattered pages of illegible text lay strewn upon the moss covered floor of a collapsed abode on the edge of a small mesa, mold festering away at what was left. The gulls seem to keep their distance from here. Perhaps I should follow suit to the more experienced.

The crumbling pages of this diary.

Lunaria always wrote in defined sentences, always using strong vocabulary to turn the odds, or to enhance a story. I noted that over the crumbling pages of this diary that her normality of graceful calligraphy - that would make the best scribes jealous - began to slowly fade like a dying candle. How long was it until the darkness filled the rest of the room?

Two separate paths.

Dear Trillium. The cove along the path of the final pilgrimage split into two separate paths; the right path leading along to the final resting ground of a colossal ship, the figurehead rotted away until its remains stained a rusty line in the sand beneath. Only eight links of chain were left rusted to the anchor, petrified in a comatose like state of disrepair. The gulls seem rather attracted to this place, free of the anchor that the gulls earlier were bound to, floating around and navigating through the holes in the hull like the crew must have done all those years ago. I plan on entering the ship to learn more about the past of the ship and crew, but feel as if the gulls will determine that decision. I will tread back to the other path to let them mull over if I am worthy or not.

A petrified state of unconsciousness.

The path to the left of the split was craggy and as unforgiving as ones mother in law. It seemed though that this path was not one to salvation, but one that an individual would take when exiled. The grass and shrubs wilt here like one would when on the brink of starvation, but still remain to service as a guide so one does not lose their balance on the loose edge of the cliff. You can see the slumbering giants off in the distance well from the end of the path, a jump that follows after the end to the battering waves and rocks below, a gaping maw to inhale those who made the leap. Perhaps the path to exile was a path that that lead to recreation, but in a petrified state of unconsciousness forever to be held captive as a slumbering giant within a legs distance of their past brethren.

No candles alight.

Lunaria often wrote of her walks through the palace of her elders. What was grandeur and royal had converted to a crumbling catastrophe of broken heritage and dying memories. One can get lost with a single step down the wrong corridor, but she had a burning desire to walk down the halls with no candles alight. Ones sense of direction is only so strong until they venture down the wrong path.

A well sealed golden cylinder.

The only contents of the ship that were still intact were a small silver locket and a barely legible parchment encased in a well sealed golden cylinder, engraved with intricate designs that seem to tell a story of their own. Its story has failed to penetrate the depths of my imagination, as the symbols and craftsmanship are of a professional level that exceeds that of the highest ranking artisans I have had the decency to talk with. I will decipher this, even if it means I will never leave this island.

Eight years old.

Eight years old was she when he departed from Canterbury for the vast riches of the world unknown.

Homesickness.

It had been six weeks since the captain set sail, the glistening sun upon departure a beacon to those who left the port. I had been labeled greenhorn, the nautical term for amateur I assume. I felt ill, not from the rough ocean we travelled, but the homesickness I had forgotten to take into account before taking this passage to Fawntaine. I always praised you for rarely getting ill, or letting it hold you down. I would purposely make myself ill just so I could apply methods you told me to follow.

Ever so apparent.

The arduous task of walking up hills with little to no energy has become ever so apparent to me as I carefully make my steps up a rocky, tightly knit valley. No plants grow around the stream running around my hooves as I trek further up the mound. The rocks here are salty, blending the water into a vile liquid that nothing can possibly survive. Not even Iron Brand's best forged shoes could survive the onslaught oh this wretched brine.

Strong spirits.

Iron Brand swirled his drink as he stared out the window. A rainy night had settled upon us as we decided to drive our problems away through strong spirits. Such trivial problems should have been easy to quell with simple conversation, but drinking was a much less arduous task. With our lips loose and minds blurred, we dispelled our thoughts. Silence should have been our choice of communication.

My drunken body.

Menial, drunken conversation had metastasized, the other patrons of the building having overheard our words. Being asked to leave was not a normal occurrence inside the tavern, but my drunken body and blinded mind did not think of the repercussions that were brought by uttering threats to the owner. I had decided that fighting would be the best option to keep my seat in the warmth, but the local guard had ideas that superseded any and all that I may had been thinking at the time.

Away from prying eyes.

The journals of Lunaria were hidden amongst the depths of the Great Archives, away from prying eyes and mischievous prat Canterlot seems to be able to brew at times. All eight of them seemed to have been left untouched for generations, nearly two-hundred cycles from what the withering leather and fragile pages seemed to evoke. The journal titled ‘Descensus’ was different from the rest in almost every aspect. It was a darker sheen of brown, almost black, and glistened with an intense polish that made it seem as if it was constantly taken care of, while the pages inside didn’t fare so well. Why would they take care of the outside, rather than the knowledge within? In curiosity, I took the journal out and hid it in my bags before departing from the archives. The lady at the desk had a vile grudge for my last borrowing of an old legislation on the Treaty of The Northwhey Crossing. Coming back with a slight crease in a page was enough to put me into bad tastes with her, so leaving with something that she is surely unaware of without checking out with her was the best option.