***

Dearest Blaze,

Once more, I assume you’re reading these instead of throwing them in the fire along with the rest of the stuff I left behind. But I promised I’d write to you daily, so that’s exactly what I’ll be doing, even if you never see the damned things.

I promised you that I’d be back, that after this it’d all be over. I don’t expect you to be lenient, but I have to do this. As my father did, as his father did, all the way back to when family records didn’t exist. What kind of disappointment would I be if I didn’t carry out family traditions? Surely, you can understand?

Would you turn your back on centuries of history for the sake of comfort?

But, as promised, this’ll be the last. I’ve stretched this relationship to the breaking point one too many times, and indeed fear that this particular instance might have broken it entirely, but I beg of you to believe me: this is the last one. No more disappearing for months, no more running off and forgetting important dates, no more pacing around in the office until the wee hours of the morning racking my brains for the “next big find”. This is it, Blaze. I can smell it.

The maps are real, the sources trusted. Our guide is experienced enough that he could pinpoint locations on maps I didn’t even know I owned. He has regaled me with tales far too specific and detailed to be mere fantasy and, above all, he has given me proof. Legitimate, physical evidence of his claim. Obviously, he has not allowed for me to mail it to you, but you can rest assured that it is, in fact, real. A proper artifact, recovered from one of his solo expeditions to our ancestral home. And if his conjecture is true, if his next target does in fact exist where he believes it does, it will be a game changer. No more will I languish in obscurity under the shadow of my forefathers, but rather rise above them on flaming wings. I hope, beyond all hope, that he is right, lest I come back more depressed than ever before.

But I ramble on for far too long. Blaze, I urge you to be patient, this one last time. To open the letters I send, to read the words I write to you. Nothing pains me more than leaving you behind, than being unable to see you when I wake up and know that all is well because your voice is there to say hello. You know this, for I know you feel the same.

My dearest Blaze, trust me when I say that I’ll be back, that it will be much better than before, and that this whole “adventuring business”, as you call it, will soon end. Above all, remember that I love you above all things else on this world. Would you ask me to brave Tartarus for you, I would do so without skipping a beat, that I assure you.

So, here I am hoping you read this so far. Please wait for me, Blaze. This one last time.

- Byron

***

“You still think she’ll open that?”

“I have to, for my sake. Unless you want me to turn useless.”

“Even more than you are already?”

Both of them chuckled.

“I know I don’t exactly have the right to go talking about it” – the guide laid his hoof on Byron’s shoulder – “but I hope you two patch things up.”

“We don’t need to patch things up,” Byron sighed in exasperation, “I need to patch things up. I screwed up again, doing this. Should’ve given it time, should’ve let her understand, I don’t know…”

“Mister Charter, again, I know it’s not exactly my job to step into this territory, but I don’t need you second-guessing every step you take” – the guide looked back at the small camp the group had built – “actually, scratch that, we don’t need you second-guessing.”

“But what if she’s not opening these?” Byron sighed, looking down at the half-written letter, unsure whether or not to finish it, “what if I screwed it up for good this time? What if I’m coming back to an empty house?”

“Better to have loved and suffered than to never have loved at all.”

Byron stared at the guide with whatever pitiful hatred he could muster, certain that the stallion was now trying his best not to pat him on the head to spare his feelings.

“You’re certain that she feels for you what you feel for her?”

“I know she does.”

“Then have faith that she will as well. If you want my advice, keep sending those, because even she’s not opening them now, she will eventually. The worst thing you could do know is give up.”

“I guessed as much,” Byron sighed as he put down the pen, “sorry for bothering you with this nonsense.”

“Someone has to” – the guide smiled – “I don’t see any of them putting up with this.”

“That’s because I’m paying them to follow me around. None of them are doing this out of some misguided love of adventure.”

“Love, perhaps, but I’d hardly say misguided” – the guide looked oddly annoyed, but the look quickly faded away – “after all, you should be following my example if you wish to do your family justice.”

“Have I mentioned I like roofs?” Byron quipped, yanking a quick laugh out of the stallion in front of them, “also floors. And walls.”

“And flowery print wallpaper too, I’m guessing” – the guide began walking towards the camp, trying his best to contain a derisive laughter. Just as he was leaving earshot, he turned around and shouted – “try to get acclimatized. It won’t get any better from this point forward.”

Byron’s smile dropped considerably the moment he was left alone. His own inadequacy was far too much for him to be at peace with it. Finishing the letter and sending it via his own magic, he tried his best to sleep, failing miserably.

***

Dearest Blaze,

We hit the edge of the Badlands earlier today, and decided to regain our strength rather than push onwards. I write to you from inside a tent that’s far too small for me, but just big enough that I have no right to complain about it. No, I’m not having second thoughts. Do remember I once slept on a rock for three weeks.

As it stands, nothing much has happened so far. The occasional changeling, sure, but our guards are more than equipped to deal with them, in addition to the fact that we have three unicorns on our side. I don’t think the green bugs will be stupid enough to attack us head-on. However, I must note that the locals have mentioned them being a lot more restless as of late. They say the little bastards are gathering for something, maybe an attack on the heartland. After the resounding beating they got last time, I very much doubt that, but do please drop a note by the guards next time you go by the palace. You never know.

Aside from that, nothing much else to say. Me and the guide have been looking over the various maps I brought along, trying to make sense of the way we’re supposed to go. We found that the quickest way to our destination would send us straight through a desert, with not many better alternatives. The “safe” routes would probably add weeks, if not months, to the voyage, and we’re working on limited supplies. After a round of groaning and complaining, we got everyone to agree to the shortcut, as it were, on the condition that, if the desert is not crossed by the time we exhaust half our water supply, we turn around and try for the longer route. I didn’t like the idea, but we can’t exactly do this with two people alone.

I’d also like to say I have a surprise for you. No doubt you saw the package inside the envelope, and even if you did not open it immediately, I’m sure you know what it is. I’ve collected some rather interesting-looking stones on the way here. They’re quite beautiful, and I’d hazard saying they would fetch quite the price in certain circles. But, seeing as I’m here as an explorer, not a miner, I decided to merely pick the one that shined the brightest and also happened to be red. That one would be for the one waiting at home for me.

I know pretty shinies probably won’t be enough to assuage the pain and anger caused by my departure, but I was hoping it’d be a nice start? After all, you always had a soft spot for these things. Maybe you can break out that necklace you always regretted not using.

***scribbles and unintelligible nonsense fill the middle of the page, along with a hoofmark and what appears to be smudged dirt***

I apologize for the sad state that this letter will arrive in, but unfortunately it’ll have to do. As I was writing, one of the guards was assaulted by one of those green devils. There was a scuffle, and we managed to beat it back. No doubt the bugger was trying to run off with his would-be victim so it could then impersonate him. Bloody things. Rest assured, I was unharmed.

The rest of the group has decided that it’d be best to keep moving rather than stay behind and watch the night. Considering the stories I’ve been hearing from the locals are becoming more and more plausible the more I hear those bugs fly around in the darkness, I have to say I’m inclined to personally lead the pack as far away from this place as possible. Who knows what they’ll do to us if we let our guard down?

Hopefully, I’ll be capable of writing to you again tomorrow, or maybe the day after if we have to run for our lives. If you have not warned the palace guards, please do so. The buzzing of their wings grows stronger by the minute.

I’ll write to you again. This I promise.

- Byron

***

“Changelings! Help!” somepony yelled.

Byron gave himself the luxury of staring at the piece of paper for a full three seconds before unceremoniously dropping it on the ground and bolting outside to what was most likely going to be a gruesome death.

The entire camp was in turmoil, with everyone running around searching either for the weapons they had brought or for something sharp they could use as an improvised stabbing device. The unicorns were huddled together, flashing bright lights all around the camp in their frantic search for the source of the scream. Before he could take in more of the scenery, Byron felt his left hind leg giving way, and the rest of his body was quickly dragged off into the darkness, feeling every bump and rock on the way tearing at his skin.

In one second, all sorts of thoughts ran through his mind. Would the ‘lings eat him, as the stories said? Would they simply keep him prisoner, as a template of sorts? Would they get his memories as well?

Blaze.

“No you bloody well won’t!” he screamed, twisting himself around to face whatever was dragging him. In the pitch darkness of the night, he saw only two eyes, a deep blue in color, looking right at him. Unable to think of any other way of resisting, he tapped into his reserves and propelled himself off the ground, as if hitting a trampoline. The dumbfounded changeling could only stare as his no longer hapless prey flew in an arc and landed right on top of it with a loud thud and a sickening crack. Feeling his leg free, Byron scurried to his hooves and ran straight back to the camp, which was now surrounded by a wall of light, with everypony in the middle staring outwards.

It came as no surprise to Byron that they initially refused to let him in, unable to know for certain whether or not he was the original one. After one of the bugs materialized from the darkness and tried running off with him, however, that attitude quickly changed.

The group was now as one, two dozen pairs of eyes all fixated on the inky blackness outside the ring of magical light. Byron was told that one of the guards had been attacked by the bugs, but managed to free himself with the help of one of the party’s pegasi. Unable to see any of the ‘lings in their natural habitat, the group was content with sitting in place.

“You hear that?” somepony broke the silence with a shaky voice, “the noise.”

Everyone’s ears stood up. At first nearly imperceptible, but slowly gathering in strength, they heard the sound. A constant buzzing, not unlike that produced by a beehive, filled the air. A constant, droning noise that scratched at everyone’s mind and set them on edge.

“We need to leave. Now, before they gather enough of them to force their way in” – the guide immediately set off for his own tent – “Flashing, Dark, Glimmer, cover us while we pack everything up.”

“Right” came three voices in unison, quickly followed by another bright flash that momentarily lit up the surroundings like the light of the sun, leaving the terrifying image printed into everypony’s eyes.

Dozens of blue eyes, all flinching from the sudden burst, flying around and above their camp, apparently unwilling to get any closer. If anypony there had been reluctant to leave, that moment alone was enough to convince them, and soon enough all hooves were busy packing the tents, the foodstuffs and assorted materials back into their wagons. Yelling and admonishing filled the air as everypony got irritated with everypony else not going fast enough.

Byron, knowing that most of his things were relatively easy to organize, made sure to grab the unfinished letter and brush off most of the dirt off the surface. Completely unwilling to scare or otherwise worry Blaze, he tried describing their situation in the best light possible, a tiny voice inside berating him for outright lying in regards to his own near abduction. But Blaze should remain blissfully unaware that her beloved had been a hair’s breadth away from being removed from life, Byron kept repeating to himself. Anything less was unacceptable.

“Byron!” the guide yelled from somewhere outside, “move your flank and pack up, we need to get out of here!”

The voice woke him up. A quick flash and the letter disappeared in midair. Before anyone else could yell at him to hurry up, Byron folded his tent and everything in it into a neat little roll, dumping it onto one of the wagons. With the unicorns on the front and rear, attentive to the slightest movement in the dark, the group quickly made its way further south, intent on leaving the Badlands for good.

***

Dearest Blaze,

You might notice the ink’s a bit greener than usual. Do try not to dwell on that for too long.

I apologize for taking this long to write back, but the past three days were spent trying to get away from what I can only imagine is a second invasion attempt. I remember when they first attacked Canterlot. Up until this point, I honestly thought that would forever be the scariest day of my life.

I wish I had the capacity to explain just how wrong I was.

Remember many years ago, when we managed to spend a vacation right in the middle of a locust epidemic? Remember the buzzing, the blackness that enveloped the sky, the tiny fluttering wings and black bodies that blotted out the sun and ate everything that wasn’t nailed down? Remember how we huddled together in fear and battled the critters trying to get into our house? How you said that we were facing not animals, but hunger personified?

Add to that a collective mind, full of nothing but malice, hatred and a desire to destroy everything with four hooves and a heart. The grins, the glistening eyes, the noise.

Dear Celestia above, the noise.

I swear I could feel my brain scratching at the back of my eyes, trying to get out. My ears melting from the inside, every hair on my back standing up. And above all, that sense of utter dread that only the fear of death can create. What we thought was a lone attack was, in fact, a scouting strike. Not long after we packed up and left, the buzzing that had, up until that point, been intensifying, gained physical form in the shape of a hundred or so of the ‘lings. We lost one of the guards, and only managed to escape when one of the unicorns used some sort of energy blast to drive them away.

The hours after the encounter were spent running as fast as we could without losing any of the supplies. We tried hiding. Once. You can guess how that went.

It took us a day and a half to even gain the slightest edge in the escape, and even then only with inordinate luck and our guide’s odd ability to imitate the bugs’… language, if you can call it that. One quick dive into a cave and several hours of waiting later, we finally felt brave enough to take a peek outside.

Words cannot describe how absolutely divine the silence was. Nothing, not even the wind, made the slightest noise. I inhaled, taking in the hot air and then coughing horribly. And yet, every time I felt my throat get scratched from the inside, I did so knowing that I was free to do it. No more of those things chasing after us. It was finally over.

However, I can’t help but think that something is wrong about this whole situation. Rather than overwhelming us with their sheer numbers, they always seemed to linger a bit behind us. Instead of overrunning us, they were always just close enough to prod us forward. By all means, we should be dead. Or replaced. Or both.

And yet, the more I look back, the more I realize that the chase was really only that. A chase. They had enough of them to turn day to night, to force us forward even under the weight of our supplies. And yet they never insisted, never stole anything, never killed anyone but the guard on the first night. And the second we dived into the cave, they just… left.

Now, we stand at the edge of the desert I mentioned before. Which gives us with two options:

Firstly, the ‘lings might be frightened away by the climate and refused to go forward. Which I don’t believe stands true, seeing as where they live is vastly worse than a simple desert.

Alternatively, they were simply trying to chase us out of their territory and not actually trying to kill us, which might explain why they always stayed behind and never really forced their advantage. Then again, it doesn’t really explain the whole three days thing, but it could be that the bastards are really just that territorial.

I just realized I can’t feel my own hooves. It’s quite a nice change from feeling like they’re being boiled off. The sun is shining and everyone is just sitting around happy to be alive. If it weren’t for the heat, I’d suggest we just sit here and fall asleep. Alas, I fear we might be cooked alive if we don’t keep moving. That and the whole water business will probably be strained after the chase.

I regret now writing this much in my current state, seeing as I’ll probably end up fainting from the effort of delivering this letter. But I promised I’d write to you as soon as I could.

I really hope you’re still reading. I really wish you were here. I could use your voice right now.

I miss you.

- Byron

***

The heat rolled in from the mouth of the cave, along with the bright light of the morning sun. No one dared to move or make a sound, and everypony’s muscles were slowly forgetting how not to be tense. So much time they spent huddling together in fear that they could visibly see the sun moving upwards towards its zenith. It must’ve been a few minutes after midday when the guide got up, shook away whatever dust had collected on him and trotted to the entrance, much to everyone’s silent complaining. Amidst the flinching and quiet gasping of his protestors, he proceeded to step outside and take one long look all around him, before unleashing another of those dreadful, ear-splitting screeches he claimed were part of the ‘lings’ language. No one had bothered to ask how, or even why, the guide knew how to speak the thing, and Byron himself was pretty sure he didn’t want to know in the first place. The rasping noise echoed for a few seconds before settling down, at which point the guide came back inside and beckoned everyone to follow him.

Byron cautiously stepped up towards the exit, the rest of the group trailing off behind him just in case. The blazing sun blinded him for a moment as his eyes got accustomed once more to the light, and his choice of inhaling deeply out of relief would backfire immensely when the hot air hit his lungs like a red-hot iron rod.

Byron broke into a coughing fit, feeling his throat get more and more scratched as it went on without end. The guide seemed unwilling, or at least unable, to help, so he had to make due with forcing his mouth shut. He could taste blood when he spat the mucus onto the sand, and it was only than that he realized they ran all the way to the desert they were supposed to cross.

As Byron looked out at the vast yellow and brown expanse, the rest of the group crawled out of the cave, carrying the supplies with them. One by one, they collapsed, stupid grins plastered onto their faces as they silently appreciated their newly found freedom. No more buzzing and blackness following them, no sir.

With everyone busy slouching and resting from their three day forced march, Byron recovered a sheet of paper from one of the wagons, only then realizing it was covered in a dried-up green liquid.

A thought occurred to him, followed by a shiver that forced it down into Byron’s subconscious.

“Marching” – he turned towards one of the guards – “nice shot back there”

The guard mumbled something that sounded awfully like a drowned out "whatever" before letting his head fall once again onto a rock.

The more he wrote, the more Byron realized just how tired he was. It wouldn’t be long until he realized he’d probably pass out from the effort of merely sending the letter, so he went back into the cave they had been hiding in previously and found himself a niche to lay in. With a flash, the letter disappeared, as did Byron’s will to remain conscious. After all, he’d earned his sleep.

Author's Note

Very first attempt at uploading a MLP fanfic, so criticism is not only appreciated but expected. Go wild.