Part 1: First Night Fight
Part 1: First Night Fight
"Sometimes you have to get up and go, even when the universe has yet to give you a path."
Based on the common knowledge of what we expect life in the capital to be like for so many, it can be hard to imagine that there are those who dwell in barren places. Unlike those who sleep on lavish beds surrounded by remarkable furnishings, Barebash had a bedroom that was just that, a bed in a room. This drab and dreary place was absent of any lighting or basic furniture besides the mattress. Even the window had been boarded to stop the light from coming in. To a guest visiting at the time when his mother was around it would have appeared more homely, but ever since her disappearance it has been stripped of nearly all its necessities.
Once a month his father would ask if he wanted to furnish it, or at least remove the boards on the window to let the light in. Each time he asked the response was the same: an undetectable smile and gentle shake of the head to say no.
On the morning of his son’s first bout in the Equestrian Fighting League, Bucklesnap peaked through the partially opened door of Barebash’s room and disrupted his slumber at an hour earlier than usual. Bucklesnap was intrigued as to what his son felt, for he believed this day to be one of the most important days in his son’s life. He had no difficulty expressing to his son all of that excitement that morning and it made for a conversation that to this day my husband holds as a cherished memory.
“This is it,” his father said opening the door, “are you ready for your first time?”
“Not particularly,” he responded, his eyes still closed and away from the door. “You should know by now that this has never suited me in the same way it has suited you
“Funny,” Bucklesnap scoffed, “because I thought you’d fire up for a moment in which you might finally realize your special talent.”
“I don’t care.”
His father knew of his son’s contempt but did not see it as a hindrance to either of them, so Bucklesnap sought to claim ignorance. “Well, you should,” he said, shifting his tone. “You need to be as fired up as your flaming red hair! That is the level of enthusiasm you are going to need to be a winner today. Right then—get up—out of bed, so we can stretch before we go out for a light run. After that we’ll go the regular routine. Fix yourself something light to eat if you wish, but you can’t fill up. That would be foolish.”
Bucklesnap had finished with what he had wanted to say and was already making his own preparations for the run, but Barebash responded as if he had yet to leave. “And I am no fool.” He shifted in his bed to face the empty doorway with a smile. “Alright, fine, I’ll get up, just for you father.” The sheets of his bed rustled as my husband rigorously shook himself awake.
His trek to the kitchen was deliberately slowed as thought of what he would eat. He thought of the strawberries their neighbor had left for them the day before, since it would be the easy option. No point in letting them spoil, he had thought to himself. He was a moment away from grabbing them when he realized why eating strawberries was a potentially bad idea: Strawberries reminded him too much of his mother. He knew it would leave lingering thoughts about her throughout the day, which would be of no benefit on such a day as this. He was already a taciturn fellow, but persistent thoughts of his mother can typically render him mute; on a normal day he would never be the one to initiate a conversation unless it was absolutely necessary and strawberries would make this worse.
He convinced himself it was better to go without any food, thinking that since this routine of physical fitness was supposed to be condensed a breakfast could be skipped. They would go twice about the block instead of the regular four, which he figured to be kinder on him.
As for his father, he just wanted enjoyed the light run they had that morning, and he did, for it was the most engaged conversation they had managed in a long while, despite the despondent outcome.
“The ring will suit you,” his father remarked on their way past Canterlot Square. “I think, Barebash, that you have built up enough tolerance to pain for you to be able to endure whatever your opponent happens to throw at you. Just don’t forget to hit back.”
Barebash ran alongside his father, and even though he could run faster he didn’t because he knew that the run was something that they did together. While father and son share the same blue color coat, if you had seen them running adjacent on this particular morning you might consider Barebash the antithesis to Bucklesnap’s upbeat tune.
“If ever I had a plan that involved deliberately taking a beating I would let you know, father. At present… I have no desire to let my opponent put me in the corner.” Not once during this conversation did he turn to face Bucklesnap and make eye contact, and he never did such a thing on regular days. He has always had his gaze focused on either the road ahead or at the ground. Not even his father could recall a time in which he saw his son look towards the sky, hopeful of the boundless wonders to be found in the world, despite having a set of wings.
“Well,” his father said, continuing the conversation, “I figured since you said you weren’t excited for the match, it would mean you’d flop around the ring like a fish out of water. Wasn’t that your plan?”
Barebash thought about reminding his father of how he wasn’t the type to get hyped up for any particular event, regardless of the significance. That was when he reminded of how his father would probably feign ignorance again. Expending that energy on something that was just going to happen anyway seemed so frivolous. If there was anything he wanted to do for preparation for his match it would be meditation. To him, meditation seemed more appropriate since he has been conscious of his mind can get the better of itself. He wanted a clear mind, unstressed by what seemed important to his father. He had to put his father at ease.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t fight back. I have every intention of winning. As long as I remain calm I believe that once I step into the ring I’ll be more prepared for it. Getting concerned with the inevitable isn’t going to give me the advantage.”
“The inevitable what?” his father inquired.
“The inevitable fact that I emerge victorious.”
“Ah ha,” his father spoke with simple delight, despite mild exhaustion. As the two of them passed the Canterlot Auction House, Bucklesnap sped up to pass Barebash and then returned to his pace once he was on the other side of his son. It was an attempt to catch his eye, but it was to no avail. “At least you have the right mindset. And even if you don’t win, I’ll be glad to know that you gave it your all.”
Barebash didn’t have a response to the comment. Something was beginning to bother him. He knew his father was likely excited about the possibility of finding his true calling, but it occurred to him that this possibly wasn’t the reason he was more himself than usual. After a short thought on the matter he seized a gambit. “How many are viewing the match, and do we know any of them?” He could see out the corner of his eye how his father let his mouth hang open for a moment.
“Oh, well, now I think that would be better left as a surprise.” Bucklesnap had gotten flustered by the unanticipated question. “The event won’t be a no-show if that’s got you worried… No, I think there will be plenty of people there… There will be lots of folks, some probably from outside the capital.”
The pauses that lingered between Bucklesnaps messages were leaving his son with an uneasy sense that his father was avoiding the truth. He knew his father was looking for a way out of a conversation that had turned sour; he tried so desperately to claim that new line of dialogue as they progressed on their run. The two of them ran a quarter of a block more after the last pause, past the old brick buildings, before Bucklesnap spoke again, this time directed to a vendor as they entered the marketplace. Barebash and his father took the same route every time they went on this run, so naturally acquaintances were made with those who set up shop in the same locale. Barebash still kept mostly to himself, leaving his father to deal with all the small talk.
“Morning Misty Fields!” he shouted.
“Oh! Well hello there Bucklesnap, nice to see you again. Is your son ready for the big day?”
“You’ll be placing your bets tonight! Yeah, he’s ready, though not as excited as I am!” Bucklesnap shouted before he gesticulated to his son that they put their run on hold for a moment. If they were to talk briefly about the day ahead of them it wasn’t going to break their schedule, but when Bucklesnap gave his son a firm nudge Barebash thrashed his head about, attempted to bury his face as best he could in his chest, and quickened his pace.
With Barebash, he sometimes forgot that appears in public spaces. There are those that watch the things that he does and make so much commentary on it that the news of it sometimes come back to its origin, sometimes immediately, when the whispers do not remain a whisper. Some of the onlookers at that moment called it the most awkward attempt of head retraction they had ever seen, and he became fully aware of what he was doing; he was self-conscious of his trait. In previous instances he has been referred to as the descendant of a tortoise or a turtle that bred outside its species. It mattered little to him though as these remarks were not nearly as hurtful as what caused him to exhibit such distress in the first place.
When his father caught up to him he spoke softly into his ear, because to him what others might say still mattered to an extent. “Well you don’t have to be rude. Save the spectacle for tonight, alright?”
“You brought me out here to run, not to gossip,” he remarked under his breath even as he sped up. This perpetuated his difficultly in speaking discreetly. “If you want, you can go back and flirt with her after we finish.”
As Barebash continued his attempt to make his face less visible Bucklesnap had become perplexed by his son’s sudden voice of disapproval. “What’s the matter with you?” Bucklesnap said, responding to the paroxysm. “You’re acting stranger than usual. Is something bothering you?”
“Unfortunately, there is. I’m not too comfortable with how you didn’t simply answer my question about who’s coming tonight. I’ll bet those who show up are just the floozies you fantasize about, as if they were mother!” Barebash’s voice nearly squeaked as he retrieved his head, focused on his path ahead of him and quickened his pace yet again, forcing his father to exasperate his reserves of energy in order to catch up with him.
“Is it bothering you that much?!” Bucklesnap spouted as they rounded the bend, “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little lookie-loo.” He gave his son a little nudge and a wink as he overlooked his petulance. “It isn’t anything to be ashamed of if that’s the case. Plenty of fighters have gotten nervous, both before and after they’ve stepped into the ring.”
“I’m more irritated than nervous,” he grumbled.
“Son, could you slow down a bit?” Bucklesnap panted heavily, aware of his age. “I’m getting a bit winded.”
As the two slowed down to a more moderate pace, Barebash let his head sag yet again; it reverted back to the state it often held prior to the marketplace entrance. Barebash had pestered himself with his own words; even though he had opted out of the strawberries embroidered with the thoughts of his mother, he couldn’t let her escape the purview of his mind. The more he tried to keep it off his mind the more it persisted on staying in his thoughts. The concern then became apparent. If all he could think about was his mother during the match he might be wafted into inertia while assuming a stance in the ring, leading him to find his face too close to the floor, even more so than what he was accustomed to. That was the genuine source of his irritation.
He swung his low-leveled eyesight to the left and right as he moved, but on either end a flowerbed could be found, of tulips, lilacs, and exotics each more vibrant than the last, causing an exponential rise in the shortness of breath.
“Son,” Bucklesnap said with some languid desperation, “if there is something bothering you then I want you to tell me.”
The two came to a sudden halt. Barebash cleared his throat, reclaimed a steady breath, and kept his focus on the still ground below. “I’ll win the bout dad, I will. But I’ll only do it for you, not for me. Because I know—I know—that after this night is over I still won’t have my mark... And if ever you thought that I might change my position and decide that this was what I was meant for… then you are gravely mistaken. You helped me become physically fit for the ring, but that’s all. If what I’m saying, right now, doesn’t indicate to you that what is meant for me isn’t here… then I can’t be sure if you will ever understand. Now if you don’t mind I would like us to finish the last block free of troubles.”
“But… son.”
“Actually, if it’s alright with you, I can meet you back at the training hall, after I finish the run by myself.”
Barebash then ran, as fast as he could, only hoping that his father would not follow suit. The scenery melted under a cloud of smears in his eyes. Once he felt as though enough distance had been placed between the two of them he took a moment to larrup his head up against the side of a sturdy wall and stomp the ground, eventually sliding down the wall as he embraced his anguish.
Whenever Barebash handles his frustration he does it without any intention of showing it to others, if it can be helped. On a few occasions he has thought of how his discretion is somewhat unnatural and that it is somehow connected to the lack of having a mother. Though I have never had the experience of being raised without a mother, there is something lacking in a childhood that does contain both parents. This isn’t to say that a child may become completely insensitive or distraught, but this kind of child may have an unbalance in their life, as I have noticed in my husband.
As he kicked and wept in that somber alley of his a moment arrived in which another individual offered to be his temporary shelter. They extended a reach, out to meet him halfway with his troubles. But, as soon as Barebash felt the slightest of touches upon his backside from this anonymous sympathizer he snapped into his senses, lifted himself up, and took flight.
There are some out there that need to find a special place to clear one’s thoughts. For some, that place is an open field or the beach. For some, that place is a slanted rooftop in the higher altitudes of one’s city, which is exactly where Barebash felt he might clear his mind of troubled thoughts.
During his retreat, Barebash watched the blue sky, recollected, and noticed how the sun idly passed by like a leaf on a stilled pond. It was difficult for him to ignore the dearth of nourishment his stomach had to deal with, but the unsettled mind seemed like a more pressing issue. When the calmness of his mind seemed to become unsettled again he changed to a different rooftop where he found mental refreshment. This happened about every hour or so. There are plenty of rooftops in Canterlot that all can provide a similar effect depending how one views it. That special place, where one may clear their thoughts, can allow for time to slip by without any hindrance of responsibilities. Sleepless, and unsound, the muffled bustle of the capital atop a roof can lull the turbulence in one’s soul. But, like all things, it is not meant to last forever, or even the entirety of one’s day for that matter. As the day progressed into the later afternoon he knew he had to return to his father’s training hall to fill his stomach and ready for the match.
But returning to the training hall became a difficult task. Barebash was beginning to think that it was impossible for him to ready for his match. Unlike his mother, the thoughts of victory were fleeting and the seldom mood of careful focus would be absent in the ring that night. He wanted to forfeit the match and leave all the spectators in disappointment. It would have been the easy way out, but he cared too much about his father still to let that happen.
When he returned to Cider Street with his home and training hall in view he thought about how much the hall had changed since he was young. Much of the training hall Bucklesnap had built, back when they were a complete family, had since evolved into a more hospitable territory. It was half the size of their actual home but had twice the furnishings and color. The interior of their home was degraded to an extent and was more useful for storage and dining purposes than anything else.
The hall had its ring in the center with a well-kept brown couch and cedar tables surrounding it. The designated weight lifting zone was left of the entrance, the water closet was to the right, and the maintenance room was in the back. It also had a desk for study which rarely saw use, along with some decorated memorabilia of a fighting champion to give it some pizzazz.
When Barebash opened the door there was some expectation of an angry or vengeful father, waiting to grant hateful curses upon an unworthy son. Bucklesnap never demonstrated such behavior though. Instead, an unanticipated situation came about, as a voice that had not been heard by Barebash in years was cordially presented to him.
“Ahoy, Barebash! My, you sure got bigger didn’t you? I imagine you’re bigger than you’re old dad now aintcha? Last time I saw ya I reckon you were bout half as big as you are now.” This plump, old fellow on the other side of the doorway had a fluffy mustache and was sporting a thick brown scarf around his neck that matched the color of his coat. “Hey, whatsa matter? Dontcha member me? It’s your uncle Pummelstock!”
Pummelstock reached out in an attempt to place a limb around his neck and pull him in closer, but Barebash ducked and spun around to avoid such an encounter.
“Aww, well, I can’t blame ya if ya don’t member me. But surely your father told ya this morning I was coming in to Canterlot, ya know, for your big match t’night.” Pummelstock spoke with lofty words as he scouted out the room. “Where is your father anyhow?”
“Not here,” was the response.
His uncle puffed a cumbered half-chuckle. “Well even I could have told ya that lad.”
“Then why are you looking for him?” he responded solemnly as he slowly made his way towards the ring with his head sagging. “If he came here after the morning run then he probably left already to go flirting.” Barebash plopped his rear onto a stool beside the ring and rested his head on one of the cedar tables.
“Ah—well—I still gotta deliver to him this letter," Pummelstock said as he lifted a couch cushion, as if he thought Bucklesnap was hiding there of all places. "Although, I don’t know what good it will do 'em since Bucklesnap ain’t never learned how to read. But I suppose he could just find a feller to read it for ‘em.”
Barebash flicked his hair as he yawned. “Then you should toss it somewhere where he might see it. Then he could get to it when he wants to.”
“Oh—quicker he sees this, the better lad. It’s got the official Royal Seal on it—that it does.”
Pummelstock removed his scarf and placed it on a nearby table. After undoing the top and bottom folds of his neck warmer it unveiled the mentioned letter; the scarf had acted as a strap to keep it on the underside of his chin. This method of concealment did appear somewhat unnecessary to Barebash, but the mention of the Royal Seal on a piece of parchment raised his level of curiosity at every passing second. Despite having residence in the capital, neither Bucklesnap nor Barebash had any interaction with the members of the Royal family, nor did they ever see them outside of etchings on their likeness. The notion that royalty, that is, those holding duties far superior to the matters of common folk, would make an effort to send a letter their way was something completely unfounded. It riled Barebash’s interest enough for him to rise from the stool and inspect the letter up close.
He made an attempt to decipher the letter’s contents, despite his lack of literary education. Then as he sniffed it, furled it and unfurled it, balanced it on its side, rubbed it against the table’s edge, folded it at various angles, and even tasted it, he bothered his uncle with questions as to the means by which he procured the letter and the nature of its origins. Barebash was careful enough to select a tone that overwhelmed neither his body, nor the sanity of his uncle. Some thought was put into the tone he used, for he figured the right tone might provoke his uncle to asperse truth about his ears. He delivered his queries with that level of enriched spirit that he believed would have made his father proud to see even that level of interest about anything from him. And even though the inquisition yielded no satisfying results, other than it was initially to be delivered by a Royal Guard before a transfer took place, the letter managed to occupy my husband’s thoughts long after his uncle made a departure.
It was the first time since his early childhood that Barebash had become truly fascinated by something. All the thoughts that preponderated his mind—of the match, the fury he held for his father, or that his father might hold for him, the prep work he should have done for that day, and even the fact that his stomach was nagging at his brain to provide it with some nourishment—had evaporated into the ether as his conscious drifted into an unhealthy bewilderment. He had lost all sense of who he was and somehow managed to stumble, subconsciously, towards the arena. Images in his mind appeared in abundance of his actions appealing to an individual of significance for the country. “Could it be a duke?” he thought to himself during this where he had delusions of grandeur. He let his mind become consumed by his fantasies—because he thought he lacked the capacity for such whimsical lust—so much so that he could make no clear recollection as to where he might have stopped in the moments before a match official pulled him into the arena locker room and splashed some water onto his face. He believes he might have encountered another individual prior to this, one that might have shaken him as they attempted to deliver a message, but there was no certainty of anything during this period of maundering.
“Hey, rookie,” the arena employee said, “your match is starting any moment now. Pull your head out of the clouds and shape up for it.”
When he came to his senses and realized that he was moments away from his match, he started to think about the dire situation he had been thrust into. His opponent, which early seemed to be on equal terms with him on skill in the ring, now appeared to have the advantage of preparation over him.
As he sat on the locker room bench, psyche still reeling in from the void, he stared at his stomach and noticed how it continued to betray its owner. He had a flitting thought of how his opponent would snicker at his vapid appearance; he was a pushover when held in the same light as his father. It felt to Barebash as if a violent wound had already been inflicted upon his midsection. It stung like the bite of a serpent, with its nocuous venom spreading throughout the rest of his body, enfeebling him. That is when the fear came.
There was a question that still lingered with him: where did the letter with the Royal Seal come from? There was some hope that he would have his answer after he stepped into the ring. He surmised that since there was an urgency for the letter to be delivered to his home on this day—this day particularly, the day of his first match—that there was reason to believe a member of the Royal Family might be in attendance, such as a Duke. But there had to be some reason for this match to be attended in particular—on this particular day—with these particular contenders. There was a variable that was unaccounted for.
Barebash took a full evaluation of his appearance in the locker room mirror in the hopes of possibly finding a clue as to his selection to receive a royal letter. At the time, neglected the fact that Pummelstock said the letter was addressed to his father, not to him. But for a letter of that significance to even brush up against his face, granting him the pleasure of its redolence, was all that it took make him more conscious of his status in Canterlot.
He turned his head, bore his teeth, and ruffled his mane and feathers. His wings were larger than normal when compared to others that flaunted a pair, but it didn’t seem likely that this would prod a special audience to arrive. Then as he let his gaze drift down his backside it drew in a revelation: he would be the first fighter to go into the ring without brandishing a proper mark.
By the time one of the arena crew members bound my husband’s wings to his body the atmosphere preceding the arena had long since passed its phase of distilment. Wings are bound in the Equestrian Fighting League to decrease the likelihood of foul play. Constricting the ribs of the contenders, though that’s what my husband was thinking at the time. With a rough shove he was pushed out the door as the arena employee shouted to him gleefully, “Look alive out there Barebash!”
Not once did he acknowledge the booming crowd. He kept his head low and made no visual contact. The vibrating ground remained his primary focus in his approach to the ring. To acknowledge the audience would break the elaborate mood that been hastily assembled. An actor would not acknowledge the audience, less they break the scene. There was a lot of chanting and howling, enough to make his shiver as he reached the ropes. He couldn’t gauge how many members were in the audience based on sound alone, but he knew there was enough. To know for sure would require him to look up and around, which isn’t what he wanted.
He stepped over, then under the ropes as he met the opponent at eye level. What normally would be a rare event for him took place without much thought. He could understand the value of good ring ethics. After that, all he could do was be patient as the announcer gave the proper introductions for two belligerent athletes:
“Hello and greetings to you all! For the first pairing of the evening we have two newcomers that have trained diligently to get to where they are at this very moment! In this corner we have the son of a former contender, the offspring of a fighter holding multiple records. He’s the son of Bucklesnap the whipping strap. Here he is folks… BAREBASH!!” The announcer spoke with such gusto that it managed to escape being engulfed by the audience’s roar. “And in this corner we have a young fellow that many have said can send a serious chill down your spine when you attempt to follow their incredible speed. From all the way up north, give it up for… SLEETFAIR!!” The audience roared once more as the announcer brought the two contenders towards each other, indicating that the match would soon begin.
Sleetfair, the greenhorn, was determined, and there was no denying it. His eyes emitted every intention of winning. Their eyes locked on each other. The determination in Sleetfair’s green iris appeared to surpass whatever it was Barebash believed he had. He had to reflect again on his own circumstances. He had frenetic energy in his bones that told him to keep things unpredictable. The fluid traveling through his heart told him to never stop. The fervid skin was screaming to attack. The frazzled hair told him to cut loose. The hunger in his gut craved for victory. “This is it,” he thought, “this is exactly where the world wants me to be.” A physical advantage was lost but his resolve had finally been found and it solidified as his line of sight drifted away from the opponent and towards something that stuck out from the audience.
And as the referee was about to ring the bell, Barebash removed his full attention from his opponent and placed it upon a white figure that appeared in the background; he saw the full solidification of his resolve.
Out in the audience was the magnificent Princess herself—the ruler of the land—the one responsible for all those that dwelled within the country. All of his thought processes ceased at the sight of her free-flowing hair, the white fair of her form, and the felicity found in her position. But what struck Barebash with awe the most was the item she bore upon her head: the symbol of her rule and the representation of the will that those inhabiting the land placed upon her. She is the one that serves them in the highest of possible positions.
“This is,” Barebash faintly spoke, under his breath, “Princess Celestia.”
Then with the sound of a bell the first blow was dealt by Sleetfair. It was a swift jab across my husband’s brow, cutting into him coarsely. It wasn’t enough for an immediate technical knockout, but the pernicious attack greatly inhibited his fighting performance. For any normal individual this wound would require immediate medical attention. To Barebash this wasn’t much of anything, barely enough to bring him out of his stupor. His ears were still ringing from the sound of that bell and he only realized it then. That imprint of the Princess still lingered in his mind’s eye. He had embraced the catalyst. For it was with the sound of that bell that the end of an era had arrived for my husband, the era of self-dissonance, and that a new path was preparing to expand, unfolding upon him.
