***
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.
***
Dearest Blaze,
I swear I tried getting the sand out. Sadly, it quickly became clear it was a foal’s errand, so do try to open this somewhere you don’t want to go over with a pair of tweezers and a magnifying glass. But I digress.
Not really that much to say. You ever been to a desert? It’s actually quite dull. Between the heat being nullified by the unicorns and the fact that the scenery never changes, it’s more of a chore than anything else. We even found a small oasis to spend the night. I was expecting something much, much worse. To be perfectly honest, I think my novels might have slightly colored my expectations. Slightly.
Our guide is certain we’ll be able to cross the desert in, at most, two weeks. With our canteens filled and everyone’s minds forcefully getting through that whole changeling business, I sense good things on the horizon. Then again, I’ve been wrong before, and fate seems to have a sick sense of humor, so that last line may or may not have doomed me.
I hope you laughed at that last one. I’ll just pretend you did, for the sake of this stupid smile I have on my face right now. I amuse myself some times.
I do have a favor to ask you though. In my office, locked in my personal vault, is a small opaque glass box displaying my family crest. I completely forgot about it in my rush to set off on the expedition (again, sorry about that), but this recent brush with death made me realize just how important it is that I get my affairs in order.
Would it be too much to ask you not to open the box? I don’t mean to disrespect you or imply anything different from what I’ve been telling you so far, but the contents of that box have seen no eyes but those of my forefathers. All that family tradition I keep going on about? That’s it. In the box.
And I’ll know if you open it. So, do me this kindness. Please.
That is, of course, if you’re still reading this. I do hope you are.
- Byron
***
It struck Byron as odd that most of the page was left completely blank. Then he realized he was, in essence, stuck in the middle of nowhere. A very hot, then very cold nowhere.
No one had ever warned him that deserts could get that cold during the night. Sure, he’d read about it in books before, even heard several stories, but never imagined just how ridiculous of an extreme it was. Maybe it was increased by the blazing heat of daylight, but a sea of sand with no shadows had absolutely no right to be that cold. He had even laughed when the guide grabbed a blanket and covered himself before heading into his tent.
Considering Byron could hear his own teeth chattering, it was pretty clear who was laughing now.
He took a moment to look out at the starry sky, trying to remember all the constellations by name, each correct guess bringing a slight smile to his face. If nothing else, he could at least navigate by the light of stars. That had to count for something.
As he tried to entertain his insomnia away, the growing silence around the camp grew on him, until it screamed nearly as loudly as the changeling cloud did before. It was a beautiful void, the lack of even the smallest cricket. Slowly, it stopped being the audible nothing, and simply became nothing at all. If he focused enough, Byron noticed he could hear his own heartbeat, which was simultaneously sublime and utterly terrifying. A rhythmic thumping that really should not be heard, always there, always present, nearly always inaudible.
After the initial reaction of awe and wonderment, Byron started growing more and more restless, feeling like something wrong was taking hold of him. Acting on instinct, he struck the ground repeatedly, desperate to hear something external. As the soft thud hit his ears, it was as if a blanket was suddenly lifted, and the audible quietness came rushing back in, his heart disappearing back into the corners of his subconscious. Byron sighed, happy that he wouldn’t fall to insanity that soon.
Then the guide snored, a horrible grinding sound that rightfully should not come out of the mouth of anything with the ability to speak coherently. It was less a rumbling and more a malfunctioning, rusted engine that badly needed some lubrication. It frankly scared not only Byron but pretty much everypony else, who truly believed some horrible creature was attacking the camp the first time they set it up for the night. For his part, the guide seemed blissfully unaware of just how horrible his snoring was, and when told of this fact, merely shrugged and pointed out that there was little he could do about it. Various bits of cloth mysteriously disappeared from the wagons after that first night.
Byron snapped out of his reminiscing when the guide snored yet again. Grunting in annoyance and knowing full well he was in for yet another sleepless night, he stuffed his ears with his improvised mufflers and covered himself with his blanket. Even through the shielding, the snoring still kept him awake for a full hour.
***
Dearest Blaze,
I couldn’t help but notice I forgot to give you any way to track me wherever I went. In hindsight, that was a rather stupid move that no doubt contributed to the growing list of grievances you have with me.
So… Sorry about that. You know I can be a bit of an airhead sometimes.
Enclosed in this letter is a small gem with a simple locator spell, tuned in to another gem I’m carrying on me. As long as the laws of magic remain consistent, you should be able to know exactly where I am at any time.
Well, in the sense that it’ll give you my direction and provide a direct link for packages on the move. I wouldn’t set off looking for me if I were you, the way here’s a tad bit perilous, what with murderous changelings and all that.
I’ve also been thinking, and came to the conclusion that, unless you want to read letters saying “I walked today”, sending daily letters while crossing the desert might be not only useless, but also incredibly tedious. I know I said I’d write back daily, or close to daily, but that was before I remembered I could simply flash a locator gem to indicate I was still alive, which is pretty much the only thing of note one can say in this barren wasteland. I fear we might just die of boredom before we even start feeling thirst.
Seriously, this has got to be the most tedious thing I have ever done, and I once did stock for the local library. At this point, I’d rather be playing chess with old mare Lullaby.
I’m going off in a tangent again. Sorry.
Everything going fine. Nothing happening. Everyone’s dull.
And that’s it. Miss you.
- Byron
***
Sand.
Why sand? Of all the things, the one whose mere existence makes your eyes want to run off and hide in a hole for most of the day.
And why was it so outrageously tedious?
With nothing else to do but walk and try not to mention the mounting odor that they had not automatically blocked off yet, Byron’s day was spent trying to figure out just what he was supposed to write back home. If the last letter had been devoid of content, what was he supposed to say? Apart from the locator gem, quite literally nothing else happened. No one had talked, lunch was spent silently and the journey resumed with their stomachs full and minds empty.
In a way, it was a nice calm. Back home in Canterlot, having hours and hours to himself would’ve been absolutely impossible. With papers to sign, people and investments to finance and the odd nagging voice, usually in the form of Blaze reminding him yet again that he hadn’t eaten in three days. Now, even surrounded by more than twenty ponies, he felt truly alone.
It was quite nice, actually. He considered humming, before realizing it’d probably make his companions tie him up to a wagon and gag him. Not that he’d mind, his hooves had circled back from numb to painful. If everypony else’s pace said anything, it was that the feeling was universal. Except for the guide, of course.
Byron had taken his time to size up the stallion on whose shoulders he put his hopes and dreams. Nearly always a smile plastered on his face, never seen without his hat, and a never-ending well of optimism and adventurous spirit the likes of which Byron hadn’t seen since his father took off on his last expedition to the Crystal Empire. In a way, the guide would’ve fit in his family gatherings better than he himself did, a notion that he was sure did not escape him. And yet, he was still as helpful as ever, quick to lend a hoof or explain an obscure question that his client just happened to have rattling around in his brain. The simple fact that he refused payment for the whole venture should say enough about the adventurous spirit they were dealing with.
A cloud moving and revealing the sun broke Byron’s pondering, making him appreciate the hired unicorns even more. Despite exhausting their reserves fighting off the changelings, they still insisted on keeping them as cool as possible. He didn’t even know it was possible to deflect heat, and the collective spell managed to impress their guide more than the changelings just immediately prior, even more so after they kept the whole group protected for hours on end.
Hours. Byron made his watch levitate in front of his eyes.
Half past five. Byron sighed, knowing full well just how much longer he’d have to wait before he could rest.
***
Dearest Blaze,
As it would appear, fate smiles upon the bored. Turns out I’ll have plenty to write back to you about.
Before the expedition began, and even on the way to where we are now, our guide would offhandedly mention that the desert wouldn’t be as empty as I was expecting, but refused to elaborate on it, saying I wouldn’t need to worry about it. Naturally, as you might expect, the notion had been eating away at my curiosity until a few days ago, when more pressing concerns occupied my mind.
At around four o’clock in the afternoon, we came across another small oasis. Happy to have a reprieve from the walking and an opportunity to drink to our heart’s content, the whole group rushed forward and set down the supplies next to a pond. It wasn’t until we began filling the canteens that we noticed we were being watched.
The first indication was the guide. He was staring straight ahead, without so much as a twitch, when he took off, leaving us in a cloud of dust and blades of grass. When we all turned towards him, that’s when we saw a par of unfamiliar eyes looking right at us.
To say that we were surprised would be an understatement. Several of us took several steps back as the guide landed right next to our unexpected company and exchanged a few words with her. As the rest of the group quietly discussed what they thought was happening, I instead made my way around the pond in order to get to the source.
And that’s when things got weird.
Our guide introduced me to the pegasus, a young mare by the name of Swift Saddle. He began explaining that she was a member of a group of nomadic ponies living out in the edge of desert, further south in the grasslands. According to him, they often ventured out into the southern towns of Equestria in order to trade for odds and ends, mostly precious gems and minerals for food. We exchanged pleasantries, I introduced myself, and almost immediately she confused me for my father.
To say that I was confused would be a disservice to my true state of mind. She not only recognized my family name, she recognized my first one as well. Of all the things I expected to happen, this was way down there in the bottom of the list. As you can imagine, I immediately demanded to know how she knew about him, and instead received an explanation from the guide.
As it would appear, this isn’t the first time my family sets their sights on this goal, nor is it the first time Charter hooves tread this land. According to both the mare and the guide, my father set off on the same kind of expedition we’re in right now, several decades ago, before any of us three were born. No doubt he wrote about it in his journal, which of course I never had access to. Who knows what he found, or if he even found anything? This opens up a whole new world of possibilities, and another one of questions. My father always told me of every journey he ever made, but appears to have omitted this one. Perhaps he unearthed nothing and wished for his son never to know he spent a large sum of money going absolutely nowhere. Or maybe it’s the opposite, which just leads to even more questions.
Have I mentioned my head is spinning wildly as I write this? Because it is. It’s quite discomforting. But I digress.
The mare was nothing if not pleasant. After I revealed my lineage, she immediately offered to take the whole group back to her clan’s camp, which was only a few hours away. While initially hesitant, the guide assured me that the nomads had a strict code of hospitality, and as such would treat us with as much respect as they could muster. Eager to find out more about my father’s expedition, I accepted the offer, and after explaining the situation to the rest of the group, we followed Miss Saddle for several hours, until we came across a large group of tents and improvised huts on top of a particularly flat dune.
I was directed towards the head of the clan, an old pegasus by the name of Rolling Cloud. He was in charge of a community of about one hundred ponies of all types and ages, and had been so for long enough to have personally met my father. Apparently, I have his eyes.
Despite my initial excitement, he did not offer much more information. Aside from the fact that he sold my father some maps of the southern grasslands, everything else was already known to us, which was incredibly disappointing, to say the least. Despite my insistence on setting up our camp outside their own, Cloud was adamant in being as welcoming as possible. Not wanting to insult someone who, up until that point, had been nothing if not completely helpful, I accepted his proposal and told the group to set the tents up inside the main camp.
Blaze, I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff. If my father had indeed passed through here, his journal must have some sort of information regarding what he was doing. Please, if you’re reading this, I need the box in the vault now more than ever. I’m on the verge of a massive discovery, I just know it. But I need the box.
- Byron
***
“Get her off me!”
“That’s how she says hello.”
“She’s breathing on my neck!”
“Swift, you’re making the poor guy nervous, let him go.”
The young mare looked straight into Byron’s eyes for several seconds, leaving him feeling even more awkward than before. Just as he thought that she might move in for an even more unwanted display of familiarity, the pegasus flapped her wings and jumped back a couple of feet, still looking quizzically at the stallion she had quite nearly assaulted.
Wait, had she been sniffing him?
“Byron, allow me to introduce our guest” – the guide helped Byron get up on his hooves – “this lovely young mare is Swift Saddle, of the Cloud Clan”
“The who?”
For the first time since meeting him, Byron saw the guide’s mouth drop and a scowl form shortly afterwards.
“You’re joking, right? You do know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Not really, no…” – Byron’s head dropped and he did his best to hide the fact that he was feeling incredibly disappointed in himself.
The guide sighed in exasperation, hitting his forehead with one of his hooves.
“Long story short,” he rattled off, hoof still firmly on face, “group of nomads living off the wild in the southern grasslands, beyond the desert. I would’ve expected you to know this.”
“And why is that?”
“I expected you to be older.”
The voice came as a complete surprise to Byron, who flinched and took a step back at the unexpected noise. It took him a few moments to process the fact that the young mare had just addressed him.
“And… why is that, exactly?” he stuttered.
“Well, you were here so long ago” – she tilted her head slightly – “and you still look so young!”
Byron was left completely flabbergasted. The guide, on the other hand, looked more sheepish than anything else, which only added yet another layer of weird to the encounter.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Byron spat, increasingly anxious.
“No, but I know you, Byron Charter.”
She knew his name.
How did she know his name?
“Dust,” Byron growled, the guide’s obviously guilty expression having not escaped him, “Mind explaining to me how she knows my name?”
“Well…” – the guide scratched the back of his neck, actively trying to avoid his client’s gaze – “To be honest, I was expecting you to know it.”
“Know what?” Byron’s screeched, a growing sense of uneasiness growing within him.
“This isn’t the first time this happened. Your father already came through here, years ago.”
Byron heard what the guide had said, but his mind chose to ignore it. After all, it severely conflicted with his own view of reality. His father had never come down the same path he was now taking, he knew that. After all, if he had, he’d know. He always knew about every trip his father took.
Why were they lying?
Why would they lie?
“Seriously now, come on.”
“I’m serious, I thought you knew,” the guide looked legitimately worried, and perhaps a tad bit disappointed. “Heck, I’ve been running on the assumption that you already knew most of what happened.”
Byron wanted to contest this statement, wanted to tell them that his father never did such thing. But a complete stranger living off in a desert that he had never even seen in his life knew both his full name and somehow knew of his father. Try as he might, he couldn’t explain that in a way that left his preconceived notions intact.
“Last time I came through here,” the guide continued, gradually inching forward towards Byron, “I met the clan further south, even stayed with them for a couple of days. When I asked the chief if anyone had done the same journey, he told me that he sold some maps to your father, decades ago. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”
Byron wished he knew.
“Right… Listen, if it’s not too much to ask, let’s just skip over that fact for now” – Byron was trying his hardest not to turn around and sulk under a rock – “Miss…”
“Call me Swift!” she responded excitedly.
“Right, Swift” – he never quite felt comfortable referring to anypony by their first name right off the bat – “I… appreciate you sharing this bit of information, but unless there’s anything else we can do for you-“
“Actually,” the guide interrupted, raising one hoof in the air, “I believe that Swift here can do something for us.”
“Indeed I can!” – the overall cheerfulness of the mare was beginning to get on Byron’s nerves – “Our camp grounds aren’t too far away from here. A couple of hours and you’ll be sleeping on proper beds!”
Surely, no one could be that cheerful in a desert. And was she giggling?
“I don’t know,” Byron muttered, looking to the group on the other side of the pond, “There are quite a lot of us, we wouldn’t want to bother.”
“Nonsense, it’s no bother at all!” – Swift accompanied the reply with a small hop closer towards an increasingly annoyed Byron – “We’re always glad to have visitors.”
“Still-“
“Byron, a word?” the guide whispered as he quickly walked by his client’s side.
Without skipping a beat, and still looking back at what was a frankly disturbing smile, Byron followed the guide to a nearby bush, where the latter quickly gripped his face with his front hooves and started talking so close to his eyes he could swear he saw the stallion’s uvula swaying with each sound.
“They’ll have supplies and food we can trade for,” he hurriedly spat out, “Not to mention that around these parts it’s considered incredibly rude to reject an offer of hospitality!”
“But I-“
“Listen here, I’m sorry you had to learn about a family secret through me, but I swear I had no clue you weren’t aware, so I’m sorry, alright? But right now, we have a nomad offering us a bed to sleep in, and I very much advise you to take her up on her offer.”
…
“Alright then,” Byron resigned.
“Good” – the guide let go of Byron’s face and headed towards the smiling pegasus, then confirming that the group would indeed be following her to the clan grounds.
Swift let loose a loud squeak, a high-pitched squeal of glee that made Byron wish for the guide’s snoring, and quickly took off, flying in a circle above the group and telling them to hurry up.
“Lively little girl, isn’t she?” Byron quipped as the guide came back to him.
“They’re all like that, honestly”, the pegasus responded, putting his hat back on, “It’s frankly disturbing, no one should be that happy in a-“
“Desert, yeah”
The guide laughed, forcing a smile out of Byron.
“Go tell the group we’re leaving. Don’t want to bother them during dinner”
~~~
Swift Saddle left the hut, winking at a disturbed Byron. It certainly didn’t help that the guide was apparently egging her on, something that he’d get smacked on the head over at a future date.
In front of them, a plain and unassuming grey pegasus with a mane and tail whitened by age, eyes baggy and bloodshot and the occasional twitch in his movement. Regardless, he appeared to be perfectly capable of navigating without the use of glasses, and didn’t seem to be any slower than your average pony.
“Allow me to welcome you to our humble home,” he began, settling down on a pillow, “It isn’t that often that we get visitors. Especially not second timers.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” the guide responded, bowing his head.
“Please, we’re all friends here. Tell me, Dust, who’s your companion?”
“This one is Byron Charter, son of-“
“Byron Charter the Sixth,” the old pegasus concluded, smiling and shaking his head, “the latest in the increasingly unimaginative Charter family.”
Byron had to give the clan chief that one, he was perfectly right in that regard.
“In the flesh,” he added, happy to speak once again, “We’re here becau-“
“Because of your father, I’m guessing?” the chief interrupted yet again, quickly shifting Byron’s opinion of him downwards, “One would assume a father would share his tales with his sons. Or son, as the case may be.”
“One would assume, wouldn’t he?” - Byron couldn’t keep himself from inserting as much bile as he could in that simple sentence, immediately chastising himself for disrespecting his father that way - “Sadly, it would appear that I have remained blissfully unaware of this particular segment of my father’s life.”
“Most unfortunate. Worst still, I’m afraid there’s not much else I can add. Your father came about my clan many years ago, looking to cross the mountains south of the grasslands. We traded a few things, I provided a few copies of our maps, and he was off nearly as fast as he appeared in the first place.”
“He was alone?” – Byron was incredibly surprised at being told this, as his father adamantly refused to travel alone. Maybe that stemmed from the phantom voyage?
“Yes,” the chief answered, nodding, “I found it odd as well, but he came back and apparently fathered a child, so I’m assuming it didn’t permanently scar him.”
For whatever reason, Byron found the chief’s blunt mannerisms refreshingly amusing.
“Anything else you can tell me?” Byron insisted.
“I’m afraid not. I apologize.”
“It’s fine…”
“If I may” – the guide flinched slightly as the other two stallions in the room looked straight at him – “We have a more pressing concern.”
“Oh, no need to worry about lodging, we’d be more than happy to share whatever beds we have.”
“That’s… Most generous of you, Chief Cloud, but we have our own accommodations.”
“Nonsense, Dust. You’ll bring your things to our camp and sleep comfortably for the first time in what I can only imagine is weeks” – the chief got up and walked slowly towards his two visitors – “and there shall be no complaining. I insist on it.”
The guide looked at Byron, seemingly content with the nod and smile that the latter produced.
“Much appreciated.”
The Chief smiled.