Exiles in the Night

The monorail carriage smells like old cigarettes and the sweat of a thousand war veterans. Thousands of soldiers all crowd it, taking up the seats and standing everywhere in the corridor. The countryside whirls past us, as if we are flying on the ground. I sit by the window seat, the loud singing and endless din of conversation against my ears roaring like artillery shells. I cover my ears against the sides of my head, trying to block it out and leave me alone with my thoughts.

I cough several times into my foreleg, each of them summoning a sharp pain in my stomach, as if I am being shot at from below. My mind panics for a brief second. What if the symptoms are re-emerging? Will I be away from her from another month? The faces of my comrades as they slowly wither away from the radiation, and the horrific stench of the field hospitals will forever be burned into my mind where the Rowan and plum trees once bloomed. And always, the endless drifts of fallout, the Black Rain corrupted by the radioactive ash and earth in the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. The Black Rain that takes three Ponies to clear and another three to bury the corpses...

I breathe a sigh of relief as I realise that I am not tasting blood. Perhaps everything will be okay after all, I think to myself. I look out the train window, at the countryside that passes before us. The marred landscape of Moldavia and the Carpathians have given away to the rolling hills and thick fir-trees of Transylvania. Village and field and forest blur into each other, creating a haze of gold, a dead gold of dried grass and weeds, but one flecked with patches of green, that I can only pray will burst into life as spring progresses. Above us, the sky is a beautiful shade of azure, and the clouds, white instead of the iron grey they were in March, float distant, gently, like a pod of belugas. And the sun, it shines bright, so bright. I feel like simply leaving the train and flying up onto a cirrus cloud so I can lie down and bask in the light of the sun forever. But I know I cannot. Far away in Budapest, I know Sea Star is waiting. Not in the dressing room of a makeshift theatre or a concrete bunker, but in her own home, for the first time in seven years.

Seven years. Seven years since I saw the trees on Margaret Island bloom and burst into life. Seven years since we saw the thawing of the Danube over the great Chain Bridge that linked Buda and Pest together. Seven years since I last saw my wife. How often did she read my letters, I wonder, how many sleepless nights were spent thinking of me? I cannot even think of what I would say to her once I see her again. What will she say to me? What will we do together? I feel as if my memories of her were nothing more but a pleasant dream I dreamt once during some forgotten battle, and that my life in the ice-trenches of the Alps, the wire-covered beaches of Kladovo and the unending hells of the Blood Marshes were my entire existence. To load a rifle quickly as I hear the patter of feet across no-man’s land, to conceal myself properly in a trench and bayonetting an enemy soldier come as naturally to me now as eating and breathing are to a civilian. To summon my memory of the physics that I loved before the war, the strange dual nature of light and the ethereal music of the strings are near impossible now, almost as futile as gasping an image that forms in your mind.

Every so often, we halt, and a few soldiers depart, mainly the Grenzers wearing their distinctive brown uniforms, but sometimes even a few Chevaulegers like myself leave as well. I wonder what will become of Álomvölgy in the coming years. Will new residents come and settle the land, just how the original villagers came and populated the primordial Balkan forests where bustling cities once stood after the first Weltkovergenz? Or will it lie fallow for the rest of eternity, the trenches overgrown by hedges, and craters nothing more than puddles between trees, a monument to the horrors of war? What will become of my mama and papa?

I try and turn my mind to other thoughts besides them. I once again attempt to think of what to do once I see my wife again. Perhaps we’ll go to the café where we used to socialise with friends before the war, assuming it wasn’t bombed. Perhaps we’ll go to the City Park and bask in the trees and the sun. I then realise that the recent nuclear attack probably means that the trees won’t be blooming until very late if at all, even if the city of Buda-Pest itself was spared. Perhaps it would be best if we just relaxed in the apartment while and go to Mass on Sundays as usual, I think.

But what will I do for a living, I ask myself? There probably won’t be many uses for a quantum physicist after the war, and at any rate, I wonder if the Emperor in Vienna would even have time to continue the research such arcane topics when the survival of the nation is at hand. Maybe I can become a teacher of some sort, if there is still some will left to educate our country’s children. Yet, there is a voice nagging in my mind, asking, “What will I do if there is no work? What will I do if there is no work? Depend on charity of others? Spend out the rest of my days in a homeless shelter?”

What if I decide to emigrate to “Equestria”? What if I bow before the hollowed Celestia, and spend the rest of my days in an opium dream? What if a fake version of Sea Star’s parents are there, smiling their gentle smiles as if nothing were the matter? I remember the words of Exodus, “Thou shalt not have strange gods before me”, and shudder at the possibility of betraying myself and my heritage in such a manner. I switch once more to trying to look out at the changing countryside, watching the villages of Transylvania melt into the towns of Hungary with a subtle grace, and finally as the towns melt into Buda-Pest.

The city is full of celebration and hope as the train pulls in. Anxious lovers and parent pull their lost companions into an embrace, many breaking down in tears. The throng of sentients is disorienting, and amidst this mob, I am unable to see my wife. Perhaps she wasn’t waiting for me here after all. With some difficulty, I pull out my fob-watch. A remarkable little contraption, which combines a watch, phone, video player, and even an internet browser with the grace and dexterity of days before the Second Weltensprung and the horrors of the war.

“Call: Sea Star,” I shout into the phone, hoping that there is an answer. Another chill passes through me. What if she somehow left me in these years, or if she was killed in a bombing? But these fears were in vain. A few seconds later, my prayer is answered.

“Gabi?”

“I’m... I’m at the station, honey. Get... the taxi?”

“It’s a little expensive,” she replies, “but I’ll be there at the station in 20 minutes. Do you mind?”

“No... not at all. I’m on... platform 5, by the way.”

“All right. I love you, hon.”

“I love you too.”

The wait for her is excruciatingly long. The clock is too high up, and so I wouldn’t disturb anyone in my attempts to check the time, I resort to just checking the fob-watch every few seconds, but every minute that passes feels like a millenium. 14: 20. 14: 22. 14:25. 14:28.

14:35. This is it. I wander the platform, wondering where she could be. I call out for here. No reaction. Some stares. I call again.

“Sea Star? Sea Star?”

A distant voice calls out to me.

“I’m over here, Gábor!”

I turn. There are too many humans to notice where she is, to I take a gamble and spread out my wings, and fly about 10 feet above the platform.

Amongst the confused stares, I see a Pegasus mare sitting by a bench with several other mares. But this one is different. Her mane is a deep blue, like the sky the late afternoon. Her mane is a clean white, and they hang free from her head, like cirrus clouds. And those eyes, they shine soft and golden, not too piercing, but not too weak either. Sea Star.

“Gábor! Down here!” she cries. I sweep down, carefully avoiding any passengers, and land beside her. I nuzzle her, sobbing by her side. I am home, and my wife is with me today.

It’s evening right now. I look out at the empty streets as I drink the soulless-tasting Liquid Meal with Sea Star. The maple tree outside our apartment hasn’t bloomed yet. Neither have the trees on Margaret Island, or the City Park. The only green trees in the city are the conifers, standing defiantly at the death of their brothers. It has been three weeks since Easter, and we still must wear our overcoats when flying out in the air (not that I can fly— the doctor said I’ll be too weak to fly until August), and, during particularly chilly evenings such as tonight, inside the apartment, too. From reports on the radio, I gather that a Pony (or Human, for that matter) going outside will still need to wear safety clothes long into the summer, perhaps as next year or even the Thirties roll along. Not even the fittest of Pegasi can fly up to the Ozone layer in the best of times, and even then, to mend the holes the war burned into it would be a monumental task taking years, one I can only wish I can participate in.

Me and Sea Star play Chess in the light of an oil lamp I bought at a convenience store to pass the evening away. The war put a major strain on our resources- even with the plentiful gas of Wallachia, the burning of the Galician oil fields and the bombing runs we fought so valiantly against took its toll on civilian life. Months after the war ended, our gas supplies are low, and thus electricity is scarce. We therefore must content ourselves with either renewable energy, which is expensive, or with old-fashioned pleasures, which are far cheaper than either alternative. We talk about our war experiences (or what we're willing to discuss, given the general misery): me and being an officer in the worst of fronts, and Sea Star about her experiences being an entertainer for the troops. It's a shame we never saw each other directly back then.

"...and can you believe she actually thinks she's the next Sweetie Belle? Ugh, the nerve of that mare."

I can't help but smile at her account of the Vision Rhyme, the so-called "heart-throb of the Blitztruppen", and her lack of basic manners and etiquette back in the war. I myself listened to her songs a few times, though I of course preferred listening to my own wife's songs to her. She says this as she craftily threatens both Knight and Rook with her Bishop, forcing me to choose.

"In the officer corps, we would duel snobs like her on the field of honour."

We both chuckle slightly. I turn to the board, thinking of what to do: both pieces are part of my strategy to outflank the Queen and force her into checkmate on the King's Side to the left. I smile as I notice something she overlooked. I take my pawn and capture the Bishop.

"I think you've spent too much time as a blood-addled soldier, Gabi."

We're too deep in conversation to continue the game, though

"No, seriously, that actually happened a few times, and I've seen them myself. For example, there was this Lieutenant— I think his name was Schröder, or Schneider, or something like that. He was this real zealot who kept ranting about how the Germans were, and I quote, 'heretics who'll follow Luther to hell', and that was one of the least offensive things that came out of his mouth. So needless to say, we got sick of him real fast, and this other guy, Konrad Hoch, I remember, who wasn't even a Protestant, finally just slapped him with a white glove the next time Schröder got tipsy on his wine, and he called me to-"

However, despite our sparing use of electricity, there are some electronic devices whose uses are simply unavoidable, such as the electric ringer that suddenly interrupts our conversation. I excuse myself, go over to the foyer and answer it, and I nearly launch myself into the air with shock.

“Hey, Gabi. It’s Mihály. You got a spare room for me?” The voice is cracked and has a thick Transylvanian accent.

"Excuse... me?"

"Yeah, it's me, Mihály. I'm sorry for barging in, by the way. Anyways, do yo got a spare room?"

“Hold on there, Mihály.”

I check the apartment. Sure enough, there’s the spare room right by me and Sea Star’s bedroom.

“Yes, Mihály. We’ll be right down.”

Me and Sea Star go downstairs, though much to her detriment, I tardy a few minutes to get on my tuxedo on (unfortunately, even the dexterity of hooves has its limits, and that limit is four legs), and hurry downstairs, and I am once again given another shock.

Mihály is horribly marred. An eyepatch covers what used to be his left eye, and even then, I can see the scar tissue where his eye used to be. Turning around onto his right side, I even notice that his wing is missing. Only a bandage stump remains where it used to be.

“Mind if you stop staring at that, Gabi?” he grunts after a few seconds.

Blushing slightly, I get up and blink for a few seconds.

“What... what happened?”

He points to his missing eye.

“Remember the Blood Marshes, Gabi? This is what I paid for your life.”

I bow my head briefly as the loss of my brother's eye that day truly sinks in. He then points to his missing wing.

“Judgement Day. The Ruskie plane engine was a couple of feet closer to me than I thought it was.”

I nod my head as well. The sacrifice Pegasi made for the safety of Europe. I truly am a fortunate one in that respect. We quietly return to our apartment, and I show Mihály the spare room where he’ll be staying in. We manage to move the couch into his room due to the lack of a bed, and Mihály uses his old military uniform as a blanket. I unpack the bag he brought with him, and notice a large pad. It’s white, white as ivory, and has three diamonds on the top left corner. Hastily, I turn it around, and I discover to my horror a blank screen. It’s a ponypad. I put it down and stare at Mihály. He stares back.

“Gift from the hospital. Helps pass the time now that I can’t fly.”

“But... why...”

“I don’t know, Gabi. Maybe they wanted to give me something to enjoy myself if I couldn’t pay for another wing.”

Something isn’t right about this reasoning. But for some reason, I still trust him nonetheless.

“Mind if I take it? My wing’s starting to hurt like hell.”

Reluctantly, I give the Ponypad over to Mihály. I back out of the door, silently, and sit down by the table. To think my own brother has become a player of that... copy of Equestria. Is he still the same Pony in the game? What is his “shard” like? Is there another me on it? I take a bottle of wine from the cabinet and open it with some difficulty and pour out a glass, as me and Sea Star continue our game in silence. It tastes like a chemical plant exploded somewhere in Prague, and makes my head feel like I was caught in it, too, but it at least takes my mind off Equestria Online.