Exiles in the Night

by Midnight-Blue766

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Alternate Universe
Length: 5358

The life of one Pony, his wife, and his brother in the shadow of Celest-AI.

Great War III is over, and Austria and her allies stand victorious before the Russo-Serbian coalition. Yet the war was won with a bloody cost, and vultures circle above, ready to feed off the carrion left in its wake. The AI claiming to be Celestia hangs over the Federation like the Sword of Damocles, and for Dörgésarny Gábor, her rising influence means isolation from his brother, Mihály.

Set in the same universe as In the Hollow Lotos Land and based off the same collaborative project, but not the same universe as The Diary of Valentin Sokolov.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-01-12 02:10:21 UTC

Sicut Erat in Principio

The world we live in is called Álomvölgy. The village has no more than about 150 people, and perhaps only a third of buildings. To the east, one can follow the rising sun towards the sea.To the west of it, towards the setting sun, mighty mountains that seemed to have scraped the very firmament of heaven itself hang in the distance. Beyond those mountains lie Transylvania and the rest of the Home States of Austria. Yet to me and my older brother, these places were nothing more than abstractions; the Emperor’s court in Vienna was as distant as the Moon and stars. For all intents and purposes, the entirety of creation was nothing more than this village and the fields and forests around it that one can fly to in a day.

There are two buildings at the each end of Álomvölgy, two buildings that the village revolves around. One one end is the church: a tall, elegant building made from the same wattle and daub that most of the village is made out of. The elegant stained glass windows tell stories from the Scriptures and the lives of the Saints. On the other end of the village is the Town Hall, a brick building no bigger than a large house with an array of tables for meetings. On Sundays, me and Mihály go to Mass, and sing praises to God and His saints. Unlike Mihály, I’m not old enough to take Communion at Mass, which means that he has to eat the special bread and wine the priest gives him and the rest of the congregation. I wonder why I can’t eat the special bread, but father says I’m too young to understand. The Town Hall is where father goes every Sunday after Mass to talk about how to run the town correctly, and what sort of weather the farmers need for their crops.

Our home is a cottage towards the east end of town. There are three rooms inside it: the kitchen, the living room, and the pantry. The living room, which has a stove, a couch, and three beds in the corner: one for me, one for Mihály, and the last one is shared by our parents. Then there’s the kitchen, which always has the scent of paprika, potatoes, and fruit jams hanging around it. In the fall, father moves the beds in here, since the stove in the kitchen is far warmer than the living room stove. Finally, there’s the store-room. Here are a large array of cured foods: jars of jam, or vegetables and even food that come in metal cans line the shelves, waiting to be eaten when winter comes. On top of the ceiling, in between the beams of the roof, the sparrows nest and the bats roost. Mihály loves to fly up to them and frighten the tiny birds, sending them fluttering while I imitate him. Papa does not like this, and he smacks us with a wooden spoon in the kitchen if he catches us. It leaves red marks on our faces that even show through our hair.

Papa is a weather-Pony: he’s the one responsible for bringing the wind and rain to the crops we all need to eat. He works with other villagers who can fly, ordering the others as to what to make that day; what clouds are to be made, when the rains will come, and so forth. Mihály wishes one day he could one day be up there, gracefully soaring in the heavens and forging the very threads of Álomvölgy’s existence, but papa disagrees. He believes we should study hard, go to university in Buda-Pest or even Vienna itself, and become great scholars that can earn money for our family.

The days pass like the minnows in the stream outside the village, and the seasons pass like a gigantic wheel, slowly turning a long year after year. When autumn comes, the leaves change colour, and the adults start displaying their goods out in the fair, and the farmers reap the fields with the help of the Gypsies, the dark skinned men who arrive in their carts and depart when their times come. This is the time when the fair is held, and the villagers give out candies and sweet pastries to celebrate. During autumn, we also celebrate All Saints’ Day. We go to church and celebrate all the saints, who are like God’s helpers, and remember our dead relatives. On the night before, All Hallows Eve, some of the villagers who look like us also celebrate a holiday called Nightmare Night. The foals dress up in different costumes and ask for candy, which is supposed to be given to Nightmare Moon, even though she went back to being Princess Luna over thirty years ago, before even the “Weltkonvergenz” that brought the worlds together happened. Sometimes, Mihály wants to dress up like the other foals and take part in Nightmare Night, but papa says it’s a pagan festival, which is not Christian. That God could punish us by sending us to Hell if we do so, so he says. This is a strong enough threat to stop us from playing with the other foals, but we always look out the windows, wishing we could be out with them.

Fall is also the time of the Feast of Saint Michael, Mihály’s Name Day, which is like his second birthday. When this day comes, mother and father gives him little gifts, even if he isn’t doing his homework right. He also takes out a small picture book about Saint Michael the Archangel, and tell us about how he fights for God and helps us keep away temptations and demons. Saint Michael is one of my favourite saints, almost as much as Saint Gabriel. Not only is does he help protect us, he’s Mihály’s patron saint, and I feel that sometimes, a little bit of Saint Michael shines out in him, too.

But fall is also the season when school starts, when Mihály has to go away all day to the other village, far, far away from Álomvölgy and learn. Every morning at dawn, papa sends him out of the house, flying away to school. On those days, he’s gone for the entire day, and since papa is out making the weather, that only leaves mama to play with. When Mihály comes home, he also has to do homework, which is like the paper sheets papa fills out, but from the school instead of the office in the city. I often see him struggle to fill the homework sheets, or memorising the rosary and the gospels like papa wishes him to be.

Winter is a better season, even if it’s when it gets colder. This is when father tells the other flying villagers to make snow, which is a white, powdery thing that falls from the sky. With snow, we make snowballs and make snow forts and play at war. We imagine that we are fighting in the Siege of Jassy, not too long after Archduke Maximilian became our Emperor. We take turns being the Russians and the Austrians, digging small holes in the ground, pouncing up and attacking each other in surprise. We never win the Siege of Jassy, but it always ends with us in a pile of snow making snow balls. Other times, we pretend that it’s ancient times, and that we’re Hun warriors off to conquer the Roman Empire. We sneak up on the foals (both the ones that look like us and the ones who don’t) when they are distracted, building snowmen and snow angels, like the corrupt and decadent Romans. Sometimes, we wait in the snow, while Mihály is old enough to take position in the clouds. Then, screaming, “FOR ATTILA!” we pounce on the unsuspecting victim, attacking them with snowballs (but not icicles; father says we could poke someone’s eye out) and trampling whatever they were building apart beneath their hooves. Oftentimes, they get mad, and they start attacking us in turn with snowballs, and we all get covered in snow as well. Other times, they run off, and they avoid talking to us or the other villagers who look like us.

Winter is also the holiday season. Advent begins at the start of December or the end of November, but the first real winter holiday is Saint Nicholas’s Day. We leave our boots out by the window still, and when nighttime comes, Saint Nicholas himself, accompanied by the fearsome Krampusz. Saint Nicholas is tall, like the priest, and he wears scarlet vestments and a tall mitre and shepherd's staff, and has a beard as white as the snow on the ground. The Krampusz is smaller, like us, but his wings are like a bat’s wings, and his pupils are narrow and thin, like a lizard’s eyes. Saint Nicholas talks to our parents, and if we were good, he gives us sweets and small gifts like toy cars and marbles. However, if we were bad, the Krampus puts onions, switches, and other things we don’t like as a reminder of our actions and a warning not to repeat our actions, and hisses at us, and makes scary faces.

However, best of all is Christmas, when we celebrate Jesus’s birthday. On the Holy Evening, the night before Christmas, we eat delicious salad with Grandma and Grandpa, and afterwards, father, mother, Mihály and I go off to Church for Midnight Mass. Afterwards, our parents tell us to go off to bed. On Christmas morning, Mihály and I wake up, and they invite us into the living room. Our faces glow with delight as we discover an entire tree has been placed there, surrounded with gifts and lights. Mother smiles and tells us that during the night, the Christ Child and the Angel Gabriel came into the living room and brought us the tree and the gifts. It’s always different, sometimes, it’s books, sometimes, it’s games like Chess or Backgammon, or toys like balls and jigsaw puzzles, but the joy is always there. Mother and father can’t afford to buy many things, but we cherish what few gifts they give us, knowing that we must use them well. This is when grandmother tells us about the Hearth’s Warming’s Eve, when Equestria, the nation we came from, united in the face of the terrible windigoes. Father scowls, but grandfather says she has the right to tell him the stories of our people.

When spring comes, the villagers who look like us start clearing the sky of ice and snow, and putting in the green plants and flowers and crops. They wear three colours, tan for those who wake the sleeping animals, green for those who grow the plants, and blue for the ones that clear the skies and bring back the birds. Papa is the head of the blue team, and he’s often the one who yells out orders, like a general commanding his troops. Mihály also takes participates. He loves to break up the clouds, and he wishes that I can be old enough to help him break the clouds up, too. This holiday is called Winter Wrap-Up, and we like to sing the special song about it, too. Springtime is also the time my birthday, which is also the same day the Angel Gabriel came down from heaven and told the Virgin Mary she would be the mother of Jesus. Since the day before is my name day, my parents always give my name day presents on the same day. I’m always sad that I don’t get presents three times like the others, but mother smiles and tells me I get twice as many presents as Mihály. Mihály’s birthday, and Easter are also this season.

On weekends, when Mihály finished up all his studying, me and Mihály play on the streets. We chase the chickens that wander loose on the streets, flying up into the air when the housewives try and scold us. Other times, we watch the old widow Boglárka make pots inside her shops. When she’s done spinning the pots into existence on her potter’s wheel, she inscribes them with mysterious markings on the side. Sometimes, I wonder whether Boglárka is a witch, and she writes spells in a magic language to prevent them from leaking or from their contents from spoiling.

And so as the butterfly emerges from the cocoon, the world is restored to green and vigor. The months slowly pass, and as time goes by, the days get warmer and longer, and spring blends into summer. Mihály is no longer goes to school during the summer, so he’s free to play with me all day long— or, at least, when his omnipresent studies are finished. He takes me out exploring as far as our little wings can fly. Father doesn’t think we’re old enough to truly become explorers, but we still try and search for new and interesting places. We find little alleyways behind the houses, gorge ourselves on plums  from Mr Szarvas’s orchard when his farmhands aren’t looking,and fly out to the sheep pasture near the little stream which eventually farms out of our village. Mihály likes to explain how the shepherd will always look out for the sheep that he watches, and no matter what, he will always go out and find a missing sheep, even if he has to leave the other sheep behind, and that he learned this in the Gospels. Thanks to papa, Mihály is very well-versed in the Bible as well as his other studies. Sometimes, I image that will become the village priest some day. Papa would never be content with him being just a priest, but I still enjoy the image of him in the place of Father Bartal, a great stallion in black robes, delivering sermons to the villagers about the things he learned in the Bible. Perhaps one day, the angels will come and, being so impressed, they will show God his zeal and faith, and he would become the Pope.

But there are other powers in the world than God. There is only one major holiday in the summer, and that is the Summer Sun Celebration.  When grandmother comes to visit us that, she tells us that the sun is raised by Princess Celestia, who rules that country where we once came from, and her sister Luna raises the moon. I always see father talking with her about not telling them these stories as he does with the other stories, but like every other time, she is unhindered. Sometimes, I wonder if Princess Celestia meets God every day in heaven, or if she’s an angel. But most of the time, after grandma leaves and the house slowly settles back into normal, I simply watch the setting sun from the window, content in its beauty for its own sake.

I put down the wine, and I look out to the window, absent-mindedly pushing away the book that I brought to the table. I make a second glance back at the door to Mihály’s room, where he is almost certainly drifting in the illusory peace of an Equestria that never was. I try my best to return to that memory, back to the days when we played, together, on the hills and valleys of the Carpathian mountains. Yet my mind wanders still, and slowly, the memories of those early days, bathed in the sweetness of honey, turn bitter as the reality of those times sinks into my mind.

'Tis Long Ago Since Welcome Rest

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.