Chapters Prologue
Even from Canterlot, the gleam of the sharpened spears could be spotted poised to its right by the quaking guards who, like headstones, lined the cobbles of Ponyville. Of course, on the off chance that any survivors of that sunny afternoon can miraculously identify that malign metaphor through the bounds of space and time, they ‘d likely acknowledge an irony within the depiction, for the frantic and bated breaths from the snouts of the soldiers was all the life that lingered there. Though that statement in of itself lacks the total truth due to the fact that, in spite all the houses with unlit candles, a single exemption flickered in the darkness, swaying with the pace of the pages turning, in none other than the crystal castle of the local Princess.
“Oh c’mon, c’mon!” quivered Princess Twilight as she flashed from shelf to shelf; dodging the anxious Applejack, weeping Fluttershy and consoling Pinkie all the while. “You’ve got to have something! I cleaned you, housed you in ascending alphabetical order, without ever annotating you and this is how you repay me?!”
“Uh…don’t you mean repay me ?” corrected the purple dragon from the opposing shelves.
“Besides the point!” was the snarling retort.
“I’m guessing that means that option’s down the drain.” stated Rainbow Dash, down from her position over the neglected confines of her throne.
An unsung clone of the candle’s flame could be seen igniting deep in Twilight’s pupils, “Very perceptive, Starswirl!” she screamed, “You want a medal?!”
“Come now! That’s quite enough, darling.” said Rarity, from her own freshly varnished throne, “Unless this brutish fiend has somehow kidnapped us and we are nothing but brainless Changelings, I think it’s safe to say that we are all mares here. We’re under enough pressure as it is; so stop with the uncharacteristic behaviour and show at least some scrap of civility.”
The ignition died and Twilight spoke, “I’m sorry, Rarity, Rainbow Dash, it just makes no sense: Princess Celestia told me about this “impending spirit” that the legends say is going to engulf Equestria and despite all the times they’ve had the answers, none of my books or the ones in the Sister’s Castle contain any information within them about the thing or any spells with which-”
“Twi.”
“What, Rainbow?” she snapped instinctively.
“This might sound a little weird, but… why do you always do that?”
“Do what?” the Princess queried.
“Well… y’know, repeat to us what we already know. Is that like an egghead thing or something? It’s kinda like that word you taught me during study a few weeks back. Oh, what was it? Expeh-, Expo-?”
“Does it honestly matter right now?” yelled all in unison; bar Fluttershy and her smiling therapist. Shot down from both a literal and figurative high, Rainbow sulked into her seat, her flank finally embracing the icy chair with its warmth for the first time in years.
It was then that Twilight’s little dragon, Spike, now centred in the chamber, showcased once more his anomalous ability as a courier by producing official state documents from a fiery belch in public. Dragon rights activists, who knew of this royalty made compulsory capability, were naturally hounding the walls of Canterlot Palace in questioning its ethical decency. These accusations were eventually ,however, revoked after Princess Celestia persuaded them that minor stomach pains were the single but necessary evil of such functions, mostly using the leftover Bits in the Nightmare Night charity fund. Spike had not unravelled the note from its roll a twentieth of a centimetre, before his feet leapt backwards as Rarity’s eyes and Applejack’s hooves had planted themselves firmly alongside him.
“Is it them?” pressed Applejack, “Did they get out okay? Are they safe?"
Gluing together the blasted fragments of his wits made from this initial bombardment, the dragon, gazing upon the letter, coughed and read as follows:
“Twily,
Unit Jockey has confirmed their position by the water tower. No sightings thus far. Things seem pretty quiet on our end as well. Stay strong, sis, we’ll pull through this.
–Your BBBFF
P.S. I almost forgot; the evacuation of the town’s complete, no chasu… casuah…” The little servant was at last incapacitated by a level of pronunciation taught in the town’s elementary.
“Casualties.” said Twilight bluntly, before blushing slightly as she mused, “Always the Gentlecolt, I see.”
The tension melted off Applejack’s face, under the heat of the reading. “Oh, thank sweet applesauce!” she sighed, fanning her browless brow with her hat in the motions enforced by Rarity, whose eyes bore that same look of content, “Why what I would have done to that there monster, or Applebloom, if both of them came in two inches of eacho-”
“What you would have done?” barged in Rainbow Dash, “See that window over there, cowgirl…er, never mind.” She mumbled embarrassingly, having, in spite of the years passed since castle’s erection, inexplicably grown alien to the opaqueness of the stain glass; many to this day debate whether this peculiar blank in Rainbow’s long term memory was a result of mere self-specific stubbornness or an apparent assassination of consistency at the hands of some higher authority for the sake of abstract humour.
“But the point still stands,” she continued, “If no-pony’s pinned down a weakness for this thing like you said , Twilight, there’s no way in Tartarus those guys can hold the line, especially since we’ve only got maybe about half of the turnout of the Equestria Games; what they need is the real deal!” Rainbow Dash bumped her chest with an insufferable smugness as she announced this.
After enacting her standard protocol of disdainful glares, the Princess once again held her head high as she elucidated, “You have quite the capacity for selective hearing, don’t you? As has been stated about fifteen times by now, Princess Celestia and Princess Luna should be mobilising reinforcements in Canterlot, now that we’ve taken pressure off them. On the chance that the guards should fail to hold their positions, and by “chance” I mean “inevitability”, the remaining garrisons of Canterlot elites will be able to assist us in finishing the spirit in its weakened state. Now, if you’ll forgive the frankness, I’ve had enough shouting, screaming, nagging and crying keeping me from finding a darn well solution to this whole affair before we end up having this conversation six feet-”
The rancorous roar that rocked the foundations from its near distance was the final nail in the coffin of that notion.
“Fuck this shitty day!” roared the Princess in equal measure.
As the other five mares all started upwards, while the baby dragon fell from the highest shelf in the contrary direction, the blue Pegasus brandished a smirk, “Looks like the cavalry’s come knockin’ AJ. Ten bits for the final blow?”
Spiting into her right fore-hoof and thrusting it forwards into Dash’s own saliva drenched one, Applejack slyly smiled, “Kicks Mcgee says you’re on.”
“Agreed.” declared the now upstanding Rarity, “Let’s teach this ruffian the price of sullying one’s décor.”
“My only regret, was not receiving the throne I asked for.” cried Discord dramatically.
The eyes of all fell on the isolated corner which these words emitted from.
“I’m terribly sorry, am I interrupting anything?” he queried cunningly.
The frowns on the faces of all but Pinkie and Fluttershy, was the only response.
Discord sighed, “Very well, I’ll be taking my leave then. Au revoir!” then with a mawkish wave into the glistening eyes of Fluttershy and a snapping of the fingers, he was gone as quick as he came.
After booting the sheer preposterousness of the circumstance from her system, in addition to the bottled aggravation, Twilight was struck with the weight of her current circumstance, prompting the foreseen call of, “Alright everypony, into positions. Move out.” So Rainbow Dash, Rarity and a renewed Fluttershy march out into the streets, with Spike sneaking alongside them. The two earth ponies, however, lingered still, facing a Princess whose own hooves and face seemed firmly rooted to the floor. A long, chilling silence hung in the room before the Princess finally showcased acknowledgement of the other presences.
“Shouldn’t you two be rigging the traps?” she inquired solemnly.
Applejack smiled empathetically; she knew that tone. It was the tone of Applebloom when she was first branded a “blank flank” and it was the tone she herself once held that fateful morning she awoke to Granny Smith telling her that momma and papa needed her to “take care of herself”. As of that moment, Twilight in the eyes of the farm pony was as open as one her vintage texts on a Saturday night. Closing the distance between herself and Twilight, she smiled, “It ain’t quite Golden Oaks, is it?”
"I guess not.” muttered the Princess, “But ,all the scrap books and photo albums aside, I’m not so sure that’s where I’d want to be right now either. It’s funny, despite all the lunches, slumber parties and journeys we’ve went through as friends alone on this very spot, the one time when myself, this place, the town and everyone who was evacuated might all vanish, the ones I feel mostly concerned about are-”
“Your family.” Concluded Applejack, maternally.
There was only silence.
The earth pony wrapped her hoof around Twilight’s neck, “Now listen here, Twi. I don’t know how many times we all need to tell ya, but Celestia made you a Princess for a reason. Heck, if it weren’t for you, we’d all be at eachother like varmints in the trash. Now I know for a fact that the kin of a pony like that ain’t gonna want to see them run crying to them from any kind o’ hurdle. Pinkie and I’ll follow the orders given to us, but to be honest, there’s really no point unless the leader shows face.”
“I suppose you have point.” sighed Twilight reluctantly.
Only half of Applejack’s argumentative arsenal breached the armour of the angst, but it was then, when all hopes of a composed Princess seemed squandered that the second barrage shattered the remainder into puny pieces; with smiles and confetti galore.
“Aw c’mon Twilight,” cheered Pinkie Pie with lightning pace as she stretched Twilight’s lips upwards in the rain of ribbons, “turn that frown upside down! The only thing that should have that face is that big, big dumb meanie pants monster from a hoof-full of flank whooping!” She then proceed to mimic the various fighting styles of martial arts experts across Equestria, with uncannily surpassing accuracy, all while crying cries consisting of the clichéd “Hiyas” and “woos”.
“Besides,” she restarted, “we need our Princess smile, smile, smiling or else.”
“Or else…?” Twilight probed.
“Or else my now not-so secret surprise “we beat the big bad guy” party’ll be a total doozy, duh.” elaborated Pinkie.
“You and your parties…” mused the Princess with a grin, “Okay girls, I’m ready. Go and Rendezvous with Unit Pen; thanks for everything.”
So the girls trotted vigorously on past their crystal thrones and out into the battle. The first thing that they bore witness to was a long, thin arm slowly reaching from the depths of a shadowy cloud...
Chapter 1- Maybe You'll Fly...
Chapter 1
Chink, crack. Chink, crack.
These were the only sounds across the land that signalled the coming of the dawn, dragging the residents of Canterlot from their beds to the fields and offices, where they would turn the cogs of the city. Hours would pass, they would waddle back to the concrete basement they called a home with a few bits in their saddle-bag and then they would sleep; dreaming of that potential promotion or the foal-hood friends long gone, waiting for the chinking of chisels to prompt their rise again. These noises, that were the humming in the well-oiled machine of the former capital, rung out from the sterile strips that made up Canterlot’s commercial rock farm. Those who have ended their career in those strips, without throwing half their life savings at a doctor, shrink or undertaker, have often been known to dub the place with the extremely flattering and eloquently expressed title of “a hole”- A name with a considerable amount of accuracy, given the fact that with all the isles of rocks, hammers and chisels that drilled away at each other for centuries and centuries, one would be forgiven for seeing the farm as a hole in the space-time continuum.
Often the family in charge of the firm, with their committees and ties that blended in with their flow charts, drew up names cheesier than a Delicatessen on a moon actually made of cheddar, to slap on their product like “Super Sedimentary” or “Boisterous Boulders” all for the sake of catching the eyes of the confectionary stores, who practically smelt bits for the local dentists yanking the teeth with five hundred pounds of rock candy out he gums of fillies and foals. Even so, all the paid endorsements from the aristocracy and the gaudy slogans on posters made of recycled construction paper in the world did little to morph the mouths of the muddy stallions to any shape beyond that of a neutral line. Yet despite all of those strips that showed their links with the same rocks, the same expressions and the same supervisors that patrolled the same paths, there was but one portly earth pony whose merry whistling marked him with a sort of uniqueness.
If one was to skim the records held by Canterlot’s government, they would eventually find this brown pony filled under the name of “Back-Bone”, after several hours of searching. The reason as to why hunting for one tax payer in that meticulously designed register they called a database had mutated into such a time sink, was merely a quarter due to the current white, Unicorn Mayor of Canterlot running to his wit’s end and listing all the citizen names in descending order in an attempt to give his term a some distinction over the white, Unicorn Mayor preceding him and all the predecessors prior since the vanishing of the sisters; regardless of what most world weary ponies will tell you over a cup of cider. In reality, it was primarily due to the fact the name “Back-Bone” doesn’t quite catch the eye in the way that those such as “Breezy Brilliance” or “Blight Trotter” do. Indeed, if it weren’t for the whistling and the singing that made the nails of a banshee on a chalkboard sound like Sweetie Belle, Back-Bone would have faded into the crowd; another of the many faces that lined like cattle along the rocks and combined to construct the image that granted the farm its infamous reputation.
So comes the inevitable explanation on how Back-Bone’s life wound him up in such a position: the pony was born to parents who were ponies. Now, while that statement may be the equivalent of saying that the sky is blue, one would be hard pressed to describe his immediate family with any other word, as the mother and father had no remarkable failures or triumphs throughout the entirety of their existences. Back-Bone was raised and then tossed into the Canterlot Elementary that was built after Ponyville’s destruction, with the rest of the children. By the time his prepubescence was in its twilight years, Back-Bone’s flank was without a cutie mark. He ignored it. By the time the itching between his hind legs dragged his eyes to mare’s shower rooms during Gym class, Back-Bone’s flank was without a cutie mark. He tried everything; painting, music, athletics; every subject and hobby known to the curriculum and ponykind. By the time he graduated out into the wide confines of the city, Back-Bone’s flank was without a cutie mark. There are of course, many worlds and civilisations held within each individual star that occupies the nebula of space and while the cultures that pervade them have remained entirely alien to one another since time immemorial, those traversing the planets from whatever cramped corner of whatever wasted universe that was abandoned by its owners first, would find the single similarity that the stars all had regarding the ridiculous requirements to be met in order to secure a job that handed out even an eleventh of a penny more than the minimum wage; employers in some galaxies, for example, value hard earned diplomas, whereas others demand applicants to perfectly recite ancient archaic literature while being water-boarded. Equestria has, since the battle at Ponyville, differed in this regard due to the fact that even the thickest of the ignorant found themselves contributing to Canterlot’s 97.8% employment rating without a lick of effort on their end. Such is the case when your qualification is tattooed on your rear for all to see. Therefore, lacking a talent to his name and lacking in connections thanks to that one time in the elementary where he smashed a filly’s snout for convincing him that the word “gullible” was on the ceiling for the tenth time that week, Back-Bone found himself with an ultimatum: decompose in the rock farm or decompose in his mother’s apartment.
His tears invisible to passers-by in the autumn rain, Back-Bone hauled his hooves over to the place of his now widowed mother to crawl into his bed and whine himself to the grave over the talents that he failed to obtain and gave up on, before some words of wisdom from his parent hauled him to the strips for the twelve hour shifts at 2 bits an hour and the rows upon rows of blank faces that bore the same blank flanks; working away in the stead of the bees that accompanied them in the summer. In the time he lost chipping and heaving big grey stones, half a decade had slipped Back-Bone by. It was a period of his life that included the passing of his mother, the appointment of a brand new white Unicorn Mayor and the earth pony being mixed up in a relationship with a pink Unicorn baker by the name of “Stale Dough” from the confectionary store at which workers on the strips received a discount.
There is very little that’s worthy of note concerning the affair between these two. On his break, Back-Bone would walk up to the store counter and Dough would give him his midnight lunch of slapdash strawberry cupcakes with glittered icing and a glass of water, in exchange for some bits to use in the salon and an ear to go on a quick tirade about how much more dazzling her friend Sparkling Spectacle looked. Their favours did however extend a tad further, albeit mostly on Back-Bone’s end, as often on those bitter early mornings, Back-Bone would be bombarded with the usual hassles of:
“There was this bottle of Acre Relic apple scented perfume that Sparkling had on from Charming’s Cosmetics; could you go and grab some for me after work? And make sure it’s the Royal Gala kind.”
Or
“That dress I was gonna wear for Star Reacher’s birthday is a size too small; can you return it for me? Thanks.”
Thus, Back-Bone fetched the old fragrance, fetched the dress’ vacant hanger and fetched whatever bits and pieces were wailed out for by Dough’s cherry-sized mind to sate her mental hunger.
So that was the routine of Back-Bone: wake up, chink at rocks all day under the lashings of the elements and unnerving silence of the supervisors, consume some food at the store, burn that off to the best of his ability hammering at the rocks some more and then lie in bed until his eyes decided to shut; all the while awaiting that moment on the fleeting horizon where a tiny stone would miraculously materialise on his mucky rear and act as a prideful scar of the banality. It never appeared. Hence the noose that the pony hung from the beams on the ceiling within the apartment he inherited, which he swore he would put himself on at some point during the next week or so.
Such was the crossroad that the stumpy little earth pony was stuck at, when the hand of destiny, luck or whatever hypothetical force one choses to store their faith in, lifted him softly by the hooves and down the path that lead to this whole business. The Pegasi were practically wringing every last droplet from the rain clouds upon the crops that lapped at the base of the mountain Canterlot latched itself to, and rocked frantically in the wind. Back-Bone’s hooves were lugged over to the public library by the returning of a cookery book, which he proclaimed to himself to be a parting errand for his marefriend. After stutteringly stating his request to hand over the book to the unconsciously hoarse librarian, Back-Bone was directed by the piqued pointing of her flame red hoof to the hollow space in the non-fiction section the hardback inhabited alongside it’s white, brown and black clones. The gravity of that last chore’s finality pressed a clear, broken breath from his mind as he placed the book back amongst its brethren and turned his head towards the exit.
Yet in that turning, an alluring flare of the purest purple drew in his left eye. The shining shone, naturally, from the stem of a lonely book with golden lacing, thicker than an unabridged documentation of a teen’s ramblings and appeared as such a diamond in the rough of the other books that you’d swear that Sirens were singing to you with every glance. Stupefied by such sensations, Back-Bone carefully removed the text from the wide empty shelf, evidently made to house further copies, and examined it closely. The book was a hardback, as was told by the smooth leather cover that massaged the bruises on his hooves and the aforementioned lacing flawlessly captured the earth pony’s reflection, such was the extent of its sheen. Though out of what one can only assume to be the result of eye-rolling supernatural intervention or the artiness of some scotch swirling auteur, deserving of further critical eye-rolling, neither the cover nor first page bore a title or author. There were however, six symbols etched into the cover and stem: one of three butterflies, one of three apples, one of…you get the picture. His eyes with a brighter curiosity than a light in a tunnel to those isolated from the surface, he snapped the cover open and skimmed some excerpts of a random page. One quote in particular rose to the top, every letter caressing his very heart as he read:
“Maybe you’ll fly someday, or maybe you won’t. You’re all kinds of awesome anyway.”
As this statement melted into the natural cracks of his brain, Back-Bone called to the librarian with an abnormal clarity, “Excuse me, do you know how much this costs?”
As one could probably tell, Back-Bone had stumbled upon a published compilation of the parables of the legendary six, who fought at Ponyville all those centuries ago. Of course, these crucial figures of history were hardly news to anypony’s ears; arbitrary events where picked from the memories of tutors in kindergartens for the sake of telling a tale of caution and a borderline obsessive number of plaques and statues in their name where chucked all over Canterlot during Heaven knows what era, in addition to the well-aged windows that still inhabit the city’s palace; ironically, the only reminder of their status in their time. It’s rather difficult however, to dwell on the past while Manticores are pulling your crop farmers kicking and screaming into the overgrown Everfree Forest in the present. So the plaques began to rust and the stain glass stopped drawing the public eye entirely. Thus, it was in these neglected souls that Back-Bone found a kindred spirit. The word for word speeches of the friends the lines contained; he memorised. The melodies sung by them to ignite the fading vigour in themselves and their allies that the text also possessed; he could sing by ear. In the end, he believed to know them like his own:
Twilight Sparkle was clever and occasionally witty, Applejack was honourable though bland in his perceptions, Rainbow Dash was what Back-Bone could only articulate as “badass” and Rarity alongside Fluttershy, in his eyes, infested the same dreary cesspool. Back-Bone never did explain such hatred, but one thing quite noteworthy was the fact that after reading a passage related to either of these ponies, he could not bear to look into the book’s reflective lacing. Yet there was one single pony that toppled them all, who, if she indeed lay buried, would produce a final smile at her posthumous ability to let others do the same. So it was that from the day he read the story of the rainbow forming from the rainboom at Pinkie’s rock farm and gawked at the diagram of her sky blue eyes, Back-Bone locked the hanging noose away and grinned as he hummed the party pony’s songs in front of the raised brows of the supervisors; his own rainbow at the fore-front of his mind.
It’s funny how words on paper can alter the very fabric of one’s reality, but in time this proved for Back-Bone to be a double edged sword. On one hand, even the more prestigious ponies of Canterlot appeared now to be less the oppressors of those on the lower rungs in any capacity on the ladder of existence and more of the slaves to a social system that preaches pessimism and the malice of life. Yet on the other hand, fundamental pieces of the society in which he inhabited made, in the context of the book, little logical sense.
For instance: the Everfree Forest somehow eclipsed every major settlement in Equestria, with the obvious exception of Canterlot due to its altitude; yet according to the book when Discord’s seeds of chaos rose from the ground, Canterlot was one of the first places to be struck.
So why did the growing cease at the base of the mountain?
Also, at the end of that same tale, Princess Twilight and her friends sacrificed the Elements of Harmony to maintain the Tree of Harmony, which halts the forest’s growth; yet it grew.
So what happened to the Elements?
With the book’s final section holding only the spottiest details about that last battle and journeying through the forest past the nearby Zap Apple trees being rendered all but impossible, unless the sound of arriving at what’s left of Ponyville with limbs petrified, shattered and generally misplaced sounds appealing to you, these questions lingered in the air without answer.
Here marked the beginning of Back-Bone’s quest, when he discovered one day that in his infatuation he was far from alone. The great purple book nested in Back-Bone’s saddle bag, leaving only to be browsed when he awoke, when he was at the confectionary store or in public during his painfully brief holidays and when he lay in bed. Yet on the odd occasion where he turned his head from the pages in a café, bar or wherever, he would always be met by that peculiar sight in an isolated corner of the room. A pony of a pale lavender always sat away from the crowd with a faint smile, clutching another copy of the thick, purple book that shone with equal glory. The pony consistently donned a black raincoat and fedora, even in the sweltering summers, so the query of which race it belonged to was quite the conundrum. Its facial features though, were distinctly feminine and in all the places Back-Bone laid eyes upon her, she never once left her seat nor spoke to any waiter. Instead the mare would scour thorough the pages, then scour through the pages some more before slowly raising her head to stare in Back-Bone’s direction with her mirrored shades and giving him a courteous nod. She made no advances and never tailed him down the dark back alleys as far as he could tell and still she dominated that little space in Back-Bone’s brain between the designated “Pinkie Pie” and “Smiling” spaces. He frequently wondered how she obtained a second book, evidently showcasing that the memory of that wide, empty shelf in the library had been purged from his thoughts. He also wondered whether or not her book was being read out of commitment or extracurricular analysis and if it was in fact the former, whether or not conversation could be struck. Then suddenly he recalled the feebleness of the mare’s smirk, curious if such weakness was there due to the text’s inherit joy falling deaf upon her or on the off chance that the more implausible circumstance had occurred, in that the happiness she inhaled from the passages in the past no longer gave the desired effect. As he dwelled upon this thought he almost swore he could hear the disquieting cries of his little pink pony that were said by in a page to have rung out so long ago:
“Make it stop! Oh, make it stop!”
Refusing to bear the weeping any longer, he resolved to approach the mare upon their next encounter. There was no need however, for when Back-Bone arrived at the confectionary store the following midnight, the mare was all but absent and in her place was a note left at his usual table which read:
“The Memorial Tree.
Saturday, 2.00 AM.
Come.
-Your friend”
So he did.
Chapter 2
The prospect of a house, in many ways is a rather intimidating one. You can pull an outlandish variety of both bright and shady characters over your welcome mat and due to the apparent sacrilege that one commits by raising the tiniest bit of animosity, wear a different face for each encounter. Yet the walls, the appliances and even your bed, they’ll know all your faces and they’ll know of all the times that their grand master kept running those expressions by the mirror to test what sticks. So it was that the great river that coursed its way through the old gardens of Canterlot, became to so many ponies a second home; when the sun soared high above the mountain’s peak in the shining noon, as it still did strangely enough in Celestia’s absence, the fathers with their wives and fillies, along with the very special someponies on Hearts and Hooves Day flocked to the river’s candy coloured bridge; laughing and grinning as they crossed. Come the time when the sun retreated into the valleys and you could watch those same ponies quivering to themselves in the river nursing their redundancy or their bleeding heart, as their tears lead to the end of the city by the currents, were they trickled down the waterfall into the darkness below.
Back-Bone passed a few of these faces as he paced toward the Memorial Tree with an anxious anticipation that early Saturday morning. The state of his mind as a result of those emotions would have made a whirlwind go green and the pitch black bags under his eyes that were plastered on his face as luminous sticky notes of his sleeping routine since the meeting was arranged certainly weren’t doing him any favours. That wasn’t even accounting for the fact that the manager on the strips had announced the totally delightful news that Back-Bone would be working the notorious “suicidal Sunday shift” just the day prior, which would take place after he had finished painting Stale Dough’s apartment a single, imperceptible shade of green brighter than the one in Sparkling’s place. Nevertheless, Back-Bone pressed through the fatigue with surprising ease, the frailty in the smile of that mare scratched at his mind on the mere thought of it and with the book held so close in his saddle and the permanence of another pony’s grin within the reach of a snail’s arm, Back-Bone knew he would reignite the flames of passion which he could swear once burned freely through her; else, the rich, full mane of his beloved party pony would fall flat and the nightly cries on both ends would creep along once more.
After a gruelling yet short period of walking, Back-Bone found himself at a bend in the river. An exact description of this corner shall not be given, for trying to describe such a place would be the equivalent of attempting to detail the appearance of a blank wall with a picture of another blank wall slapped on it. There was however, a crooked, lonely tree that hung over and observed the natural and unnatural fluids of the rivers with an obviously rusted plaque dumped by its trunk. Fighting for his brain to acknowledge these details to judge whether or not he’d taken a left turn off the mountain and was now smack dab in the middle of the Everfree getting his loins sized up by a prying Timber Wolf, Back-Bone rubbed the sleep from his eyes and upon their readjustment, took the sight of that chilling, weak smile on a lavender muzzle, floating against the darkness of the night sky as conformation that he had made it.
“I am glad that you have arrived, my friend.” Spoke the mare in the black fedora with a robotic tone of pleasantness.
A chill coursed down Back-Bone’s…well, back bones as her queer speech simultaneously allured and disturbed him into delirium; shotgunning the carriages of his train of thought across the bounds of his skull. The calls of crickets drowned out the long silence in the air, until suddenly the hypothetical carriages of Back-Bone’s mind clicked back into place and resumed their course.
“W-wait…” he stammered meekly in realisation, after his widened eyes had wandered to survey his surroundings further, “isn’t this where…?”
After waiting for Back-Bone’s question to wind up at that abrupt close, the mare responded without a single nuance altered nether vocally nor facially, “This is the very spot in which Princess Twilight Sparkle first learned the legend of the Mare in the Moon. Surely you had not forgotten, my friend?”
It was then Back-Bone’s realisation morphed into horror. Of course that’s where he was. How in Tartarus could he have assumed otherwise? After months and months of reading, he could remember the precise number of rocks that Pinkie used to make “Rocky” during her tragic social isolation and he could refer to all the trivial ponies to have ever crowded around the six by name, yet he had forgotten one, simple moment that marked the beginning of it all. He bit his lip; perhaps he was more suited to the strips than to carry the confetti-filled torch for his pink pony- After all, if that mare with a faded smile recalled something from the text which he couldn’t, then what hopes did he have of flushing ignorance from her? It was on this thought that the cries surged through him once more, howling higher than spring winds:
“Make it Stop! Oh, make it stop!”
“Do not worry, my friend.” Droned the mare in black again, “Your expression speaks your thoughts. You are forgiven.”
The cries stopped. It seemed that blessing came with a second opportunity.
Attempting atone his stature in his own head, Back-Bone stuttered as he spoke, his whole fidgeting to such a degree that it would make those with ADHD seem like turtles, “Uh, no I- well, what I meant was that it was…um…good, of you to pick such a…good place.”
Were it anyone else he was talking to and it would’ve had as much of an effect as a stick to a nuke, but still the usual short silence sliced the conversation.
Concluding that this road of discussion would lead inevitably to them crashing into a solid brick wall as a burning wreck and losing one another, Back-Bone frantically directed the mare onto a different subject.
“So…what’s your name?” he posed cautiously.
“There is no name, my friend.” Replied the mare once more, in that same mode of merriment.
“W-what?” stammered a stunned Back-Bone.
The mare repeated what she said as if it was automated.
Back-Bone flinched slightly at this response, in spite of his attempts to supress it. Then, after summoning up his courage he stepped forward and stared into her, where the fedora masked the mare’s glasses, curiously.
“C’mon, you’ve got to have a name.” he murmured assuredly, “I mean…who doesn’t? Like my name, it’s Back-Bone. I told you mine so… I guess that kinda means you have to tell me yours.”
The mare responded, stating, “My cell designation is: “Zero Three”, my friend.”
Back-Bone’s heart began beating at this dripping of information, “Right, but what about your name?”
“There is no name, my friend.” Zero Three regurgitated.
So the thumping in Back-Bone’s chest dropped dead, along with that topic; which was killed by another brick wall of silence.
Having been reminded once more that he had the charisma of a bowl of porridge, Back-Bone’s mouth released a sigh as he heaved the mangled exchange towards the desired point, “So… um, what do you want?”
This prompted another jump from him, due to the immediacy and longevity of Zero Three’s explanation. Given how easy it is known to be for one to adopt the attention span of a toddler when paragraph upon paragraph of exact elucidation is passing their way from a monotone voice, the whole clarification will again be absent. Though it must be said that despite having not be spared from such a fate, Back-Bone possessed some elusive ability to actually listen through the droning intently, as the mare spoke in circles that both clear and perplexing. She said that she was part of what she called “a society of the liberated”, yet she spoke of “unification”. She spoke of “Omni-benevolence”, yet she mentioned a need to “transcend”. The only portion in all her mechanical babbling that was as straight as a pencil was that she and her associates followed “the way of the six” and that they, after great examination of Back-Bone’s public reading habits, had marked him as their own. The beating in the earth pony’s heart was came back from the other side, thumping like a drum at a party being zestfully tapped by the bouncing hooves of his little pink pony. He had come to dish out enlightenment and instead he had uncovered a batch of likeminded ponies who had already tasted it; thus he concluded that if Celestia was there, somewhere in the plains of existence that she was most certainly smiling upon him that day. Still elated from the ecstasy of the revelation, Back-Bone asked the mare in a wide-eyed prayer, “Can I meet these ponies?”
So ends the tale of how Back-Bone had established first contact with the group known as “The Crusaders” and marks the beginning of the one which tells of how they hurled him to his awakening. There is both little and much to be said regarding these “Crusaders”; while the quietest murmur from the mouth of Fluttershy is louder than what they will speak about their origins, one doesn’t have to know the square root of 346 in order to conclude from their sell-out assemblies, photographic memorisation of speeches within the text down to a comma and framed sketches of Applejack nesting on their bedside drawer , that each and every member of The Crusaders may deem ancient Six to be an element with a little importance in their short and petty existences.
That being said, much has been uncovered concerning The Crusaders beyond the single sentence of a file the authorities of Canterlot cared to compile, which read: “Scene kids”, since the passing of these events. The group was rumoured to have popped on the map an astoundingly short period of time following of the release of that perplexing purple book. The outrageous mass of pages deemed a pure pillar of Ponykind spoke of “Crusaders” somewhere in their textual abyss, so it was only natural that the group put two and two together and labelled themselves with such a title. Thus with a name etched in their heads and a doctrine consuming their hearts, the first of The Crusaders strove to complete the legacy of Twilight and her five followers by attempting to spread Harmony and Friendship across the stony streets. They went about doing this by simply telling others to be happy and praying that such things would happen. As for their rather noir-like get ups, each member was required to wear the standard issue, regulated uniform of a black raincoat, fedora and pair of mirrored shades during any and all organised gatherings, for the sake of, as the ruling Middle Mare put it, “ the eradication of all racial, sexual and personal bias that may strangle the salvation of our unity”; although records recently uncovered suggest that the Middle Mare’s specific selection of clothing she chose as the symbol of her group, can perhaps be explained by the mountain of Gumshoe Sue detective novels she used to nurse herself to sleep at night with.
All this information that would have been washed up in the oceans of the years, comes courtesy of Back-Bone from when he went under his “Coronation of Initiation” in the old Sparkle’s house the following week. The manor house, now converted into a public hall, showed as much similarity to itself a few centuries ago as a dog does to a worm. The once sparkling floors of fine azure had been canned in favour of some cheap laminated wood that bore a stench of banality and the lavish library on the second floor whose shelves many priceless first editions of Equestria’s most cultured works called home had been at the chink of some tools, erased from existence to make way for a lanky ceiling that loomed over visitors, instilling a sense of futility. Yet this is not what first registered in Back-Bone’s mind as he giddily strode into the hall. What he did see where the smiles, the legion of smiles on all the muzzles in his direction that marked the outline of an allegorical red carpet leading to the stage where he they wished him to sit. Walking further and turning his eyes left and right he saw the sheer variety of these muzzles; smooth and grizzled, masculine and feminine, gaunt and round, combined with the light lavender of Zero Three that Back-Bone saw merged with a crowd for the first time. Yet what really whirled his brain to and fro, in synch with the whirling of his eyes, was the fact that each of grins, from left to right and top to bottom, where not wandering around him mating and breeding with the others of their kind, but where rather held a helpless captive by his very presence. So it was as a result of this, that when a black fedora was crowned upon his head come the ceremony’s closing, that same smile was worn across his face alongside it.
Returning to the moments preceding the crowning however, Back-Bone’s blood rushed like a parasprite, as he sat upon the simple stage, on the chair of hard plastic The Crusaders dubbed a “throne”. Their leader, the Middle Mare, stood aside him with her flaming red snout to the herd. After a forced cough to silence the noise that was already dead as a corpse filled with door nails, the Middle Mare markedly raised her chin and bellowed the stock speech along with the voices of ponies beneath her; who mimicked her chants like a record. This went something along the lines of:
“The earth pony tends the lands that nourish us, yet the expansion of their fields for which they fought with sweat and blood will certainly be confined by jurisdiction; they are bound. The unicorn studies a sea of spells to their most primordial variants in order to awe and protect us, yet they will be inevitably deemed as dogs with tricks that all those like them have mastered; they are bound. The Pegasus can soar to the sky, yet they will eventually strike its ceiling along with the rest; they are bound. It is only through the bestowing of happiness and harmony, as the benevolence of the almighty six bestowed them unto us, sisters and brothers, that we may transcend the bounds of our manifestations and embrace each other as one!”
After the rest of the black fedoras had piped down, the Middle Mare spoke of things that held actual relevancy to the stoutly brown pony struck by their spell, such as “the second family” and “tolerance” in addition to other jumbles of jargon that the ears of every Crusader consumed contently even after their thousandth time of hearing them. The ears of Back-Bone however, only partially swallowed this into his skull, for his eyes widened as they and his ears uncovered a revelation about the Middle Mare beyond her fedora and rain coat of contrasting white. His eyes perceived her blazing, stress wrinkled muzzle of the fiercest red and while one ear drum consumed her words, his other detected a tone of unconscious hoarseness that was beating against it at its very sound. Even the top student of a hypothetical “School of Sceptics” would be stretching to find doubt in the fact that the Middle Mare herself was none other than the librarian of the Canterlot library whom he’d encountered all those months ago. An inaudible chuckle came from Back-Bone’s mouth at this fluke, along with all that it implied and the coronation proceeded.
Hence, after jotting down his name, age, address, bank account password and desired cell to be assigned over the course of five forums without a moment’s hesitation, we come back to Back-Bone’s crown being fitted with a fedora of its very own. With the deed done, the Middle Mare gazed into his dark brown eyes that shone with a rare shine. The distinct sharpness of her voice had startlingly died as she softly announced, “We shall hereby be call you by the designation of: “Six One”. Welcome, my brother.”
With that the Middle Mare stepped back and nodded at towards the members of the crowd and like good ponies their voices flowed from their monotone mouths and filled the hall in the contextually edited chorus of the choirs that, once upon a time, marked crowning of a certain lavender alicorn. No one truly knows what the fabled “Neighagra Falls” detailed in the map page of that strange purple book actually would have looked like, but given the fact that something, let alone harmonious melodies sung with synthetic precision, was being performed for his sake, as well as the sight of the one to whom he wished to deliver joy, Zero Three, singing along with a smirk and of course, the cheers and whistles of his little pink pony consuming his head and heart, it’s relatively safe to say that the appearance of the quantities of water falling from Back-Bone’s glistening eyes was not a million miles off.
Later that night, with that trademark “Crusader smile” worn along his lips, Back-Bone strutted into his apartment, hung up his fresh fedora, raincoat and shades and woke the baby filly in the room downstairs with his mutilation of the song that was sung by Rarity when she became acquainted with Fancy Pants, which he admittedly liked. He bookmarked the next hymn, which he planned to sing the following Sunday night and leapt into bed. Snuggling into his pillow which now bore uncharacteristic comfort, Back-Bone closed his eyes as the frontal lobes of his brain turned over the Middle Mare’s remarks on “happiness” and drew up plans to spread such emotions at the first opportunity. This was cue of a little portion marked “commitments” at the back of his head that whispered a little reminder that Stale Dough had told him to clean her apartment for Sparkling Spectacle’s forthcoming visit. That was all it took for Back-Bone’s smile to hang itself up with his fedora and reveal an expression of reluctant horror to the walls and ceilings of his home.
Chapter 3- On Love In The Everfree
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.
