Crusader's Crutch

Chapter 3

The Crusaders’ death toll within the lifeless abyss of the Everfree had well breached fifty, a month later. Yet still they marched, hacking and thrashing through the shielding growths under the helpless moon, leaving only the dying embers of clumsy campfires in their wake. One could pin the blame on a plethora of factors for a toll of such magnitude; some would likely point to the turns teams took into the heart of a dragon’s cave, in an attempt to prove that the little scaled servant of the six was beyond such a label due to the probability of the cancerous bellows of smoke which they strode into pouring from the cave’s mouth came from that of his own, others would claim the baffling quantity of Crusaders who called the crooked scythes issued for the vegetation an appropriate weapon for a playful sparring match remained the major contributor; but yet the one thing that any sentient witness of the Crusader’s fumbling every marsh black night would most notably note, that would skip beyond the generational bounds upon it’s relaying and cause the fillies of tomorrow to endlessly quake in their beds over some ponies in fedoras, was of course the howling and the roaring of the tune sung by none other than the Cutie Mark Crusaders when they trained for the Equestria Games, forgotten by those trotting the civil streets of Canterlot miles above the raging campfires.

There in the dark sea of the Everfree, few screams of morale rose louder than those booming from the designated “Gummy F8” encampment, far from even the wavering flames most distant from the lonely peak of the Canterlot mountain. In the early morning, when the most fervent of fires dosed themselves off to sleep, those trench-coated ponies soldiered on; hacking at the trees, reading from the purple book and enacting the flailing of the hooves they called “jiving” like mechanical clockwork; their snouts evidently snubbing the stench of death that enclosed them. Yet in spite all the wrung out giggles and the ivory grins that each of his kin wore upon their lips, in a small and tattered tent, tucked away amongst the rest, lay a restless Back-Bone; his purple book closed and his long, thoughtful face turned from the crowded fire. This was the third day in which he’d stayed in bed, alternating between staring blankly at the grey lids of his eyes to staring blankly at the little overlooked creases in the gaudy mesh of colours slapped by a member of the Opal cell on the tent’s fabric that made him pray for more blankness, as a desperate expedition occurred around him. Now to be fair on the little colt, it is apparent from the sharp fragments of communication that it is claimed Back-Bone spat at the smiling fedoras who yanked him hourly from his sheets that the notion of the smiles that so enveloped him not four weeks prior withering alongside the costly leather of his dark trench coat was certainly not in the universe of his desires. Still, he found that he could not help but turn and turn, like Stale Dough with the pages of Sparkling’s private diary, the revelations that fell upon him since the start of this Crusade into the forest.

The first of which came but a few hours prior to that substantial expedition, when Back-Bone found himself washed in midst of a black leather ocean, each individual representing a mere drop, swarming with smiles and elusive fidelity that shifted only under the vigorous hoof of the Middle Mare, during the operational briefing. The expanse of Fedoras and the overbearing smell of sweat that served as that sea’s only mark of extended eagerness, was the prelude to the sheer number of initiation coronations he had attended since his own; which all consisted of him chanting out the hymns of the six when he was told and looking onwards to the stage with an icy stillness alongside wearing that peculiar grin that seemed a symbol of his conformity; smacking his brain until it showed some sign of acknowledgement a millisecond later. Indeed, it had appeared that the months succeeding the label of “Crusader” being latched to Back-Bone’s name, bore witness to a boom in The Crusader’s recruitment figures to such a degree that, had the portly, withered shareholders that blended in amongst the bleached ivory walls of their Canterlot offices caught a fleeting glimpse of them, The Middle Mare would have demanded double her usual donations from the saddlebags of her hangers-on in order to appease them. It was, of course, always probable that such an upsurge in membership would occur, for to whatever one fly clings, millions will follow; evident from the manner in which each singular part of the never-ending rainbow of muzzles that called Back-Bone “brother” under the staring moon, he could find again, quickly giving him a subtle nod of salutation as they paced behind their families and lovers, across the candy coloured bridge by The Memorial Tree.

So it was that the blacksmiths, tour-guides and representatives of the governing body that merged with The Crusaders replaced the rusted plaques dumped around the city dedicated to their dead deities, polished their sooty stain-glass into a state of peculiar allure and revered the doctrines of that promiscuous purple book in many a hysterical political rally. These acts fed the bloated ranks of the group, thus they swelled and swelled until reaching the bursting point of each Crusader parroting, like they did to give their own subjective values a veil of objectivity, the same big question:

Just what occurred on that dark summers day in Ponyville that marked the end of both the recorded passages of the Six’s lives and of Equestria itself?

The ineptitude of their ability to uncover anything beyond collective reasons regarding their infatuation with their little ponies did not prevent a small amount of the text’s followers frantically leaping at the opportunity to spew out some groundless proposition as a self-proclaimed “Theorist”; on the query mentioned prior in addition to other matters such as the profound commentary on the misery wrought by self-concern seen on one instance in which Rarity ate a sandwich on a rainy day; and from that lap up a staggering amount of capital from the sold out halls of Crusaders, with others of stylistic sameness leaping right behind. Yet still, the eccentric concoctions of thought and speculation in relation to Ponyville’s fate conjured up by these members seems to have been feeble considering its failure to sate the rumbling curiosity that consumed even them. From there, as far as the records claim, the ever listening ear that The Middle Mare hung over her flocks sensed this with uncanny immediacy and before the varyingly paced cerebrums of any internal or external witness could comprehend without imploding alongside their counterparts in all parallel universes simultaneously, bumbling battalions of black Fedoras began descending down the decommissioned railroads of the mountain upon the Everfree, in the direction of Ponyville, stopping often to take breaks from lugging their lightweight camping gear and assuring the more homesick of their pack that chasing after ancient figures was of far greater significance in the promotion of universal happiness than spending idle time with their relatives.

That, it is believed, is why The Crusader’s hacked and chopped through those inhospitable woods, scythes and axes in hoof. The state, naturally, didn’t dream of any sort of interference with such operations, as not only did many of the middle aged affiliates of the establishment howl and roar amongst the coats round the campfires, but also due to the fact that any white, middle aged, unicorn mayor whose brain held within it any semblance of sanity would refuse until death, the chance of a free scouting party for future expansion with complete and utter expendability from slipping under their nose. Hence, while Back-Bone, laying there in that tattered tent with his eyes dulled and his body in something resembling a foetal position, could not get his jumbled mind to pinpoint one particular matter of this journey that was to some concealed portion of it, truly bothersome; those remarkably dominant sections labelled “Pinkie Pie” and “Loyalty to Crusaders” united in their trembling at the first spec of a thought that those feelings of uneasiness that lingered to such a degree could not be the blame of the mere concern of legal intervention.

The first of such emotions came from none other than that mode of classification which so branded his name like a hot poker; his cell. If one’s mind was ever to find itself in a state where a relationship of any sort of intimacy with The Crusaders would be considered at all logical, it would take such an individual only a brief period of time to uncover that the group was divided into six sub-sections. It would take more dedicated and obsessive digging however, under the concrete veil that the Middle Mare had so cemented over her flock’s history, to reach the revelation that these chasers of “harmony” and “unity” held once within their hearts a greater love of unification. A mere glance into the organisation’s attitudes shorty following the shelves of Canterlot’s library being first conquered by their sacred book, would disclose those wondrous images of The Crusaders dancing, joking and smiling side-by-side and thus, like bees to daisies, farming the pollen of joy and contentment from the company. Granted, you don’t need a Princess to tell you that adherence to the very ideas of “harmony” and “tolerance” in a society or faction, whose members possess conflicting beliefs and interpretations of the aspects of their lifestyle, will have the longevity of those Crusaders in a dragon’s den. Each of those bygone ponies, relevant only amongst the pages of that purple little book, remain revered by certain numbers of those trench-coated ponies for the qualities and ways of life which they were made to represent; Octavia characterised the sophistication that made her to those Crusaders with empty guest rooms and luxurious fluff a kindred spirit, Lyra embodied the infatuation with the unearthing of what’s alien that each of those fedora wearing ponies had found themselves in longing from since foalhood and Derpy, or perhaps I should say “Ditzy”, became nought but a martyr for the Crusade to bring a publishing company to its knees for daring to sell an abridged version of their beloved book to capitalise on the amount of Crusaders joining below the age of eleven.

Yet in spite of this, no mare or colt received any kind of internal following to a degree more significant than the those of the singular members of the holy six, each holding their own amalgamation of idealised traits that so defined their personas. Soon after the first increase in membership numbers prior to Back-Bone’s initiation, fierce conflictions were voiced between the Six’s worshippers over which of those stunning personalities best represented the doctrines that they were strung to and in-fighting ensued. The sheer quantity of times in which The Middle Mare noticed both the physical and mental scars left beneath a members smiles for being drawn to Fluttershy over Rainbow Dash in addition to the frequency in which she saw other members ignoring the outpour of her soul that were her speeches and instead glaring at other members with enmity, thus prompted her to separate her donators into isolated cells with most ultimate haste. So it was that those brothers and sisters of universal unity were broken into six lonely pockets, each of them labelled to reference the mare they represent; the Opal cell, the Tank cell, the Angel cell, the Owlilicious cell, the Winona cell and of course, the Gummy cell.

Hence it was, that Back-Bone answered to the designation of “Gummy: Six One”, but though his mind was ignorant to the time before such labels, records of this case imply that those honey-like feelings of that golden era had beaten in his heart during those initial days in the Everfree. For as he hacked and howled and roared, creeping ever closer to the grounds of Ponyville, he could always count on the harmonica voice of Zero Three howling and roaring alongside him in unison; she addressing him as “brother” and with shining eyes he offering “sister” in return. For days and nights Back-Bone caressed that title in his brain.

“Brother”.

Such a word, to his ears, held the power to give purpose to a blocked straw and the scent of pure lavender that radiated from her lilac mane of darkish hues, when he found the opportunity gaze upon and sniff it, was laced with such magnificence it caused the swooning of cupids.

How crushing was it then, for him to find one day, that every night Zero Three slept in the so-called “Angel B8” encampment, under the hypothetical banner of Fluttershy. While there are many theories as to why this revelation caused Back-Bone’s mind to drown itself in horror, the most believable of which is certainly that rather than contempt for Zero Three’s loyalty to the Element of Kindness or the possibility that such fealty would forbid the fulfilment of his affections, the thing that stabbed at Back-Bone’s brain and flung it into another state of insurmountable terror was the thought that he had displayed a semblance of compassion that was at all connected with that quiet, yellow Pegasus.

Compassion, ancillary affection towards Fluttershy; Back-Bone could not comprehend such adoration:

Who, he thought, with a stable and rational mind could love that thing? She who was unassertive, wept with the frequency of rain and had the charisma of a bowl of cereal?

It was there, when that latter query had popped into his head that he began to weep and howl with sorrow and the following morning, the reflective lacing on the cover of his book that shone like the dawn’s sun in a mirror had been ferociously ripped from the closed hardback.

Thus we come back to Back-Bone, staring at the greyness of his eyelids three days after; his mane a mess, his body still as a carcass. Naturally, such lengthy brooding was met with more than bewildered alarm by not only his cell, but every Crusader who had his designation reach their ears. The Middle Mare, who was perhaps the most frightened of all, had of course constructed a countermeasure to combat such a threat to The Crusader’s image, by ordering each and every member of her faithful pack to individually stride into the personal space of the aforementioned disheartened member and roar: “Trot on Crusader!” while providing a complimentary pat on the back, as if the mere mouthing of those three words would feed every starving filly and foal in Canterlot. Yet not that, nor even Back-Bone murmuring the song that his lovely pink pony sang angelically prior to Cranky’s arrival in Ponyville could elevate him from occasionally turning to look and ponder upon the bare space on his flank for the first time in months, dwelling on the chores that Stale Dough would subject him to upon his return or from shuddering at the distinct cries of his tortured Pinkamena once more because he wanted to find the scene of her last battle, not for the sake of cementing a notable legacy around the joy she spread to others, but out of a need to make the journey stop.

“Hey, my brother!…Six One?” called out a lax male voice paternally, “It’s me! Mind if I come in?”

Back-Bone did not answer.

A short silence preceded, before the voice at the entrance of the tent reasoned, “C’mon man, just open up already. You’re not going to find Ponyville in the ass indents of your bed; and besides, I’m freezing my balls off out here!”

Back-Bone did not answer.

The voice could be heard sighing, “Fine. I’ll take the liberty to do it myself, again. I’m coming in, so don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Finally, as a form of response, Back-Bone cranked his head around and was met with a coated colt of striking familiarity. There before him stood Gummy: Five Nine, the fellow which he had mingled with when they were fishing in the nearby ravine around a week ago. That much could be told by the scruffy black stubble that gathered across his muzzle of rich maroon and also the grin that he wore which Back-Bone so clearly recalled, that was in essence, akin to that of his other brethren but was seasoned by a drizzle of smugness that provided a hint of exclusivity. The two exchanged few statements outside their current circumstances back during their initial meeting, but the few, isolated cells that were the junk that made up the shack of Back-Bone’s social perceptions were able to detect the revulsion smeared across the lips of the fedoras that cast their rods in the surrounding area whenever Five Nine’s exhausted vocal chords uttered even the most mundane of phrases. The surprise that so overwhelmed Back-Bone’s senses therefore came not from the fact that Five Nine had been permitted so late to give him the standard protocol of reassurance due to the proximity they had to one another in their conversations, but rather the fact that he had been permitted at all.

Baring his standout smirk, Five Nine tipped his hat courteously before hauling his voice-box off its bench for yet another round, “Hey there champ, how’s the beauty sleep fairing?”

Back-Bone groaned and, at the turning of his back, reset himself to his previous position, “‘Trot on Crusader’?” he muttered bitterly.

“Well yeah, that’s why she sent me,” affirmed Five Nine as he casually pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat, “but, by my estimates, you’ve heard that about thirty times today, so I’m gonna spare you the grief.”

Clutching the butt in his hoof, he pointed a cigarette in Back-Bone’s direction, “Want one, my brother?”

“Stop. Talking.” Hissed Back-Bone.

Immediately, Five Nine brought an end to the smile across his lips as well as the process of lighting his cigarette, freezing entirely for a moment before realisation kick started the grin to life again. He chuckled as he mused, “Oh, I get it. That chick I saw you hanging around with, from the Angel cell, I think?”

“Just go…” Pleaded Back-Bone as moisture clogged up in his eyes.

“Yep, right on the money.” Concluded the other as he continued, “And now that floppy little joystick of yours is making you question what happiness this family can bring.”

Instantaneously, Back-Bone shot his startled face in Five Nine’s direction, “Huh?”

Relaxing his tone further as he finally lit the stick of tobacco in his mouth, Five Nine consoled, “Oh believe me my brother, I’ve been there. With the mares in this place it’s always; ‘you’re a nice guy, my brother, but let’s be friends’ or ‘ you’re my brother, not my lover’ and that witch that’s in charge, geez-Louise, she’d make Sweetie Belle’s toast outta your head for so much as complimenting her mane when she’s writing a speech.”

Back-Bone’s face of bewilderment turned to one of exaggerated revulsion, “D-did you just insult-”

“I know, I know. ‘Tolerance is the precursor to the happiness of unity’ and blah,blah,blah;” Interrupted the other with clarification, “ but we’re talking about a group of ponies who couldn’t discuss the six’s mane-styles without ripping each other’s throats out, so I’d say it’s fair game.”

To this, like many things, Back-Bone could find no counter and listened further to the colt’s words.

“Like I was saying though,” reminisced Five Nine through his cigarette, “The mares in this ‘family’ are hardly Celestia’s gifts to ponykind; but in truth, the biggest let down for me when I signed up was that if you yourself back up that mountain, to Canterlot, you’ll find that girls of The Crusaders compared to the ones back above are completely indistinguishable. Take this one time, for instance, before I snagged a copy of the book; I had found myself this little Pegasus with the daintiest pair of green eyes a man could hope for. Every day in the midsummer sun I would say to her; ‘You, little lady are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me; please be my special somepony’ then she would always say; ‘ I love you, but I don’t know if I’m ready’. Fast-forward two days and bam! There was a new coltfriend, and away she flew. And so, my dear Six One, the moral of the story is that no matter where you go, by land or sea, women are nought but dolled-up lumps of worry and indecisiveness; so I wouldn’t waste precious tears over some wench you don’t even know.”

Once again, Back-Bone wished he could object, but thinking over the years and years in which he had been forced to heave Stale Dough upon his back in attempts to level with Sparkling at every turn, made subtly nod his head in agreement as he relaxed, before posing an entirely new question, “So… why are you here?”

“Sorry?” Probed Five Nine.

“Well…if that’s true, then… why are you here…with The Crusaders?”

At this, Five Nine chuckled cockily once more, tossed the cigarette from his beaming lips and opened them to speak, “Ah, a very astute question there, my brother. I put up with it all, not because I want to promote collective happiness, nor because this coat I’ve got here is actually kinda spiffy; but rather because to all that I’ve said, I can find one exception.”

“W-what?” Stuttered a wide-eyed Back-Bone.

“Well, we’re all in the Gummy cell here, aren’t we?” posed Five Nine slyly, “You love Pinkie, I love Pinkie, even big ol’ Two Eight in the next tent loves Pinkie. But how many of us are faithful enough to transform that love into something more?”

For a long while, Back-Bone stared at him curiously with a look of contemplation on his face, before finally uttering, “I don’t get it.”

“Fuck me, you’re dense,” groaned the other in a chilling tone, smothering his face in his hoof, “have you seen the diagrams of our little Pinkamena?! Her mane that’s like cotton candy, her thighs that are chiselled to perfection and those eyes, oh Celestia! And that smile which both look like they twinkle from time to time? On top of that, can you honestly say that the dead, or fictional or whatever that cutie is could ever abandon you? Besides, Pinkie doesn’t have wings; so she couldn’t fly from me even if she wanted to.”

Five Nine’s lips began to visibly quiver as he said this, but he quickly slapped his smile back on and with a forced cackle continued, “Of course, I’m sure that’s the last thing she’d want. You know what she said; page 456, line 20:”

Then suddenly, as though he were programmed Back-Bone’s mind instantly droned out the memorised line in perfect synch with his visitor, “‘Everypony’s my friend, and I love to see my friends smile!’”

After a brief exchange of startled looks, the two heartily laughed at their uncanny unison, thus shattering any ice that hung between them.

This therefore acted as the smoothest of transitions, into that moment where that complete picture of Five Nine’s self, became to Back-Bone as clear as a gust of air. As the titters of the two colts died out into a tranquil silence, Five Nine closed the distance between himself and Back-Bone, stating with a soft shrewdness, “And that, my dear brother is exactly why I’d call a colt mad not to… relieve himself in his darker days, by showing his love for his favourite girl through his stick rather than his tongue; it’s far more…passionate.”

Hence, the final piece of his visitant’s past that had so puzzled the recesses of Back-Bone’s thoughts had gone into place with the most conclusive “click”. Affections of the romantic kind were of course considered tolerable amongst those fedora wearing ponies, provided that they did not interfere with either the short or long term goals of the Middle Mare. However, as any devout follower of any sort of strict tenants will openly claim, to say that the objectification of one who so served as symbol of their philosophy was a matter beyond any repentance, would be an understatement. The packs of the Middle Mare were not exempt from this; to members who committed such acts, their title of “brother” or “sister” would go without acknowledgement and stares of abhorrence and anger from those disciples of unity would assault them from every corner. Yet in spite of this, Back-Bone could not ignore sky blue eyes of his happy pink pony that bore the signs of divinity, nor could he ignore then the unquenchable inferno of heat that burned between his hind-legs, whenever the slightest thought of her cinnamon scented coat coursed through him.

It was at that moment that Five Nine turned his front away from him and paced towards the exit, “I suppose now’s a good time to leave you be. But I’m telling you, Six One, you should try it sometime. Folks here would, and do, call it ‘desecration’. But me? I call it ‘reassurance’.”

“‘Reassurance'?” posed Back-Bone curiously.

Five Nine turned, flashing his smirk as he did, “That stallions like us don’t have to swing our door the other way just yet.”

Not an hour or so later, Back-Bone snuck from the Everfree Forest under the cover of vast darkness back home towards the glimmering lights of Canterlot. He knew of the hostility that so enveloped his surroundings and he knew that, while The Crusaders could never banish him for desertion due to their collective beliefs, that he ran the risk of being absent when the location of his pink pony was unearthed. He concluded however, that such physical and mental perils were indeed preferable to jeopardising the name he held with them, his only family, for the act he was about to commit. So it was that he rushed towards the apartment of his marefriend, where he had slept over the week prior to the expedition, promising in whispers to the pink party pony with every breath he took that he would search for her soon.

When he dashed into her bedroom with his black fedora and raincoat, Back-Bone saw through the tint of his mirrored shades Stale Dough sitting up waiting for him, the flood of lines around her eyes each marking a day in which she had done so. One could by now of course, easily believe that it was quite uncommon of Stale Dough to neatly make the bed and light candles on the bedside in the manner in which Back-Bone was then witnessing, in addition to the longevity in which she had desperately challenged her fatigue. However, considering that a handful of days ago she had discovered that Sparkling had ended the virginal period of her life, Dough naturally jumped at it in accordance. So it was here that she smacked on a sultry voice and tried everything; she complimented his clothes, his eyes, spat out lewd humour; all of which was alien to the tongue she displayed in isolation towards the walls of her apartment. It was however, a futile effort. For all Back-Bone saw in such seduction was the gateway to his chores, her tirades and the day in which she may sprout those fake butterfly wings that Rarity once used, to fly away from him.

The fires of his crotch engulfing his senses, Back-Bone pinned his marefriend against the headboard, two sharp punches followed and after being shoved onto the hardwood floor, Stale Dough sprinted off wailing, thick red blood trickling from her nose as she went. When all fell into a peaceful silence Back-Bone sighed with relief; that was it, there would be, for now, no further walls between him and his beloved. Thus, Back-Bone lay atop the bed, opened his tarnished purple book once more to the most suggestive diagram of Pinkie and reached towards that fiery place between his legs and when the sun rose a few hours later, those hidden cells within his mind that let out their bloodcurdling screams and cries against The Crusaders had been, like the lives of the offspring produced by the satisfaction of the burning, extinguished.