The Refugee

Chapter 5

How do you?

"If you want to be loved, be lovable."

• Ovid

Excerpt from "The Key, The Gate, and Infinite Exploration":

        "While it may tempt those of us who have fallen on hard times in our own worlds, permanent translation must be treated as forbidden fruit as no one is completely sure of all it's adverse effects. There is, obviously, a lack of viable research into this matter due to the fact that those permanently translated never return, and (perhaps less obviously) because one of the adverse effects I am absolutely sure of is permanent memory loss. Particularly the loss of memories from your world of origin.

        I should not have waited to write this down until the last pages of this book, and I realize many of you will not have even read this because of it's poor location, but it was very difficult for me to reflect on this portion of knowledge without also being forced to go eye-to-eye memory of my own daughter's permanent translation that happened against my will.

I still see my Diane's face every night as it turns from my beloved child into that of pink horse with only a fading memory of me. I'll never forget the awful sting of watching her translation mark disappear from her glazed eyes as she sprung from my arms. A different thing all together. I'll wish I could forget that pink body that briefly housed my daughter bouncing around me, asking me what my name was. I ponder on the taste of lead and gunpowder every time I hear her voice.

        Permanent translation can only be achieved by the destruction of one's original body. This is obviously a very final choice and cannot be reversed. It is thought that if the original host vessel of one's being is destroyed beyond recognition while it isn't filled, the force that governs translation (nicknamed Hermes after the god of travel and boundaries) will be unable to find the original body to return you into, therefore forcing you into permanent residence into the world you're translated into (even if you attempt to return or are expelled by a wither).

        As I said above, permanent translation leads to permanent loss of the memories from your original world and body. As your original body rots, so do the memories contained in it. Even though there must be some kind of thread connecting the two bodies allowing interdemensional recollection, this thread apparently cannot physically transfer these memories by any means the order, or myself, has discovered. Due to the fact that time tragically travels much more rapidly in "fictional" worlds (and the strange largely unexplored effects this has on the perception of time during the actual translation) by the time you learn someone has permanently translated, it is already too late to say a final goodbye. They have already forgotten who you are. They have already forgotten who you ever were."

*****

        The dawn peeked through the foliage of the Everfree as if trying to enter without being noticed. It's gentle rays of hope and warmth should've been a subtle signal for Seraf to be wide awake, but strangely the bumps of the cart he laid in as Zecora's pull drug it's wheels over the many minor geographical imperfections were as anesthetic as his mother's lullaby in that old rocking chair in the old living room.

        Passing underneath the direct ray from the sun stung him from his drowsiness just long enough to hear the last part of Zecora's apology, "-I do not wish to pry..."

        "W-what's that?" he muttered, wondering if he had missed some other question about his origin he'd have to endure the pain of lying about to someone who'd been all too kind to him.

        Zecora turned her head and smiled at Seraf. "I was only asking with concern; where, young one, did you get those burns?"

        Seraf, trying to stall for enough time to think of a story she'd believe, looked down at his body to see that most of his burns were completely healed. It was miracle! Had that cream of Zecora's actually led to such a speedy recovery?

        She turned her head back towards the path to Ponyville. "As I said before, you need not reply. Go back to sleep, child, I do not wish to pry."

        Seraf's heart pounded as his head filled with completely rational worry. He simply had to come up with some explanation! Otherwise Zecora could suspect anything. She did live near the gate he came out of, after all!

        Was it possible she knew? It certainly was! If someone found him out, would the wither come for him? Of course that horrid thing would come! What would happen when it did come? Would he go back to a charred and broken human body!? Was his human vessel even still inhabitable!?

        He reassured himself, "How could she know?" Wiping the sweat from his brow as the thought of how absurd the notion that Zecora would suspect such a thing was. He thought of it from the perspective of his human self, "What if I had burns on earth? Would someone suspect a translation?" Of course not!

        But he had to be sure. "Dragon got me..."

        "Ah, I see." Zecora nodded, never straying her eyes from the path.

        "You saved me though." Seraf finally felt his heartbeat and breath grow slower as the idea that he could relax finally set in and the bumps in the road began lulling him back to his wonderful morning nap. "Thank you for that."

        Zecora chuckled humbly. "You're quite welcome, little one."

        The memories of all the times he woke up late for school and pretended to be sick popped into his mind. All the times he'd slept in his own bed long into the afternoon under his sheets. Sheets which, strangely, he could not remember the color of. It didn't matter, as he was certain he had been through at least a few set of bed clothes in his time on earth.

        Zecora's laugh reminded him so much of his mother's. Though, in his drowsy stupor, he could not remember how similar, exactly, the two laughs were.

        "I do not mean to pry, again." Zecora said, waking him from his oh so comfortable daydream, "But that mark in your eye, what is it, my friend?"

        Seraf groaned quietly in frustration. Now he was going to have to answer that? Couldn't this zebra just leave him alone?

        Once again he thought about the usual I don't want to talk about it excuse. He really didn't want to talk about it, after all. But once again, he had to assure himself that he had eliminated any suspicion. But how?

        Whereas each bump in the road seemed like a quick and calming motion before, each one now seemed like a painful jolt that lasted an eternity as he quickly tried to come up with some explanation that would dispel any suspicion that he was anything but a normal pony.

        Then, just like that, the silence was broken "It's ok, little one, you don't ha-"

        "-it's a scar." He boldly interjected.

        Zecora's warm smile turned into a look of sorrow. She worried that she had touched a nerve with this young colt. She kept her eyes on the road and her mouth closed, trying not to imagine what strange thing could've left a scar like that.

        "Failed spell." He continued, oblivious to the fact that he would've been home free if he'd just kept his mouth shut.

        "I have never seen anything quite like that." She replied in an attempt at ending this dreadfully awkward conversation on as comfortable a note as possible. Her efforts were in vein.

        "Someone made me botch it up and I paradoxed." He said, bravely continuing to expound, "It could've been worse, I suppose." His stern look never leaving his face in case Zecora happened to turn around.

        After a few more seconds of awkward silence, Zecora began to wonder about the validity of his story. "You performed a spell, you say?"

        Seraf began to reply with the automatic Need I repeat myself? Something stopped him, though. He could not bare to be so brash to this Zebra any longer. She had shown him far too much kindness in such little time of knowing him.

        Though he would never trust anyone other than his parents with much more than could be contained in a bucket, he felt, once again, a warmth in his heart that made him hold his tongue and instead say, "Yes."

        He touched his chest as if to try and kindle the flame in his heart. It would mark the milestone for him of the first time he'd watched we he said to spare the feelings of one he shared not a drop of blood with.

        "That is indeed a strange thing you claim." She replied, looking back and catching him holding his chest all glassy-eyed.

        Unsettled by her statement, and slightly embarrassed that he had been caught in a moment of sentiment, he pushed even further. "Whatever do you mean?"

        Zecora turned her eyes back towards the road, the small rays of sunlight shooting through the trees and projecting the shapes of the spaces the leaves neglected onto her striped back as she walked gracefully. "For you are a pony with two wings, and no horn."

        He felt his heart thump violently in his chest. Had he screwed this up?

        "And magic can only be done by unicorns." She said.

        He had! His jaw dropped. Was she joking? Was magic really limited to only one breed of equine in this world? No, she had such confidence in her voice. She was so certain. It must have been true!

        He wanted to curse her for prying so foolishly. She said she didn't mean to pry! And here she was! Prying!

        How could she? The wither would descend on him any minute now, for certain! What would happen to him? He had no body to return to!

        The beams of sunlight expanded into spotlights before his very eyes. Exposing him. Taking away any shred of hope that he might conceal himself when that horrid beast came for him again. He watched the world twist through his teary eyes. He flattened his body against the wagon and to whimpered uncontrollably.

        The cart suddenly stopped. He was far too terrified to open his eyes. He could not even imagine lifting his head from the base of the wagon to check his surroundings. Any minute now, he knew he'd hear that awful SCREEEEECH that signaled his imminent doom.

        He cowered as he most certainly heard wings swoop by and most definitely heard hooves stepping into the dirt as something dreadful approached the cart. His eyes pinched tighter as he heard the sound of reigns dropping to the ground.

        Zecora. The wither had most certainly got her. It was over.

        All the pain he'd endured. All the loss he hoped to escape. Blown out like a candle in the wind.

        He shook as he felt the cool earth beneath him. Had he fallen out of the cart? What did it matter now?

        "Little Seraf!" he heard the roar of the beast shake the ground as an icy hoof touched his shoulder.

        "Please! No more talk about your eye!"

        That voice. Zecora?

        "I promise now, I will not pry."

        Zecora!

        His head sprung up in hope that it had all been some crazy paranoid mind delusion. His eyes met with hers as he pushed himself up from the dirt.

        "My little pony, you are still not well." She said. Seraf could identify that the concern in her voice was genuine. As it always seemed to be, with her.

        "Let's get you in the cart, you should rest for a spell." She said softly as turned the cart upright.

        Had he really turned it over?

        He eagerly laid himself back in the cart, pressed his head against it's floor and waited for the sound of Zecora taking the reigns once again.

        As he felt the cart begin to move forward again. He could not shake the sinking suspicion that Zecora still might have suspected something. It was only logical after she had witnessed such a catatonic response from him.

        "M-my friend did the spell." He fibbed. "My g-girlfriend, actually. At the time."

        "I see." She offered.

        "She was very good at magic. And very pretty. The prettiest pony I've ever seen." He said. He just wanted her to listen.

        "Uh huh." She said nervously. She wondered if he was really this stupid of a child.

        "I only broke up with her because she boasted so obnoxiously about her skill. Most unbecoming."

        Zecora let our a sigh of relief as the realized that listening to him was helping him keep calm. Wanting to avoid any conversation that might make him go feral again, Zecora tried to make the best of the situation. After all, it'd be hours before the reached Ponyville.

        "Tell me about your little filly friend, then, little one." She knew he just wanted her to listen to him.

        Seraf was confused. She still wanted him to continue? Hadn't she heard enough? He sighed confidently as he fully realized the opportunity to make himself look interesting with a tall tale she'd have no choice but to take his word on.

        "Her coat as blue as the clear summer sky. Her eyes were a gorgeous magenta rivaled only by the autumn sunset."

        Zecora chuckled as the idea of a foal spewing such purple prose so casually reminded her of a certain young white mare she knew.

        "She may have captivated everyone who laid eyes on her." He spewed onward, "But I was the one who put a spell on her heart, you see."

        "You will have to meet miss Rarity." Zecora politely interrupted, "She talks just like you do, you see."

        Seraf was puzzled by this. A woman? Or...mare? Whose level of English enrichment could rival his own? "I suppose I will!" He said with a confident smile as he raised he head and poked out his chest. For a moment, he knew what he wanted.

        He briefly imagined a sophisticated and gorgeous girl with ivory white skin who could finally be someone that understood him. They'd talk about interesting things for hours, and go to sophisticated soirees!

        His noble dreams, however, did burst as soon as he remembered where he was, and how little desire he had to get romantically involved with a horse. Even if it did have a deeper understanding of the finer points of the spoken word.

        He flopped his head back onto the cart and laid down in disappointment. "I suppose...I will."

*****