The Master Alchemist

The wood was damp with blood.

Gannon's blood, to be precise. A lot of it. Smeared in ugly blotches, feathers and patches of fur adrift among the drying liquid. Zecora heard him cough; a loud, terribly raucous wheezing that came with more fluids.

As she opened her eyes, she realized it wasn't all his.

Tiny, pebble-sized incisions covered her stomach, a clawed-and-polka dot hand of marks reaching up to the shoulder and the nape of her neck. The stripes of her fur grew red, as did her vision. The last thing the zebra saw as she blacked out once more was a silent, jeweled boot over a dark hoof.

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A splinter dug into her back as she woke, causing her to arch her spine and cry in pain. The wooden table under her thumped as she came down, paralyzed with agony. The impact did not help. Lances of fire chilled to a snowy wind in her veins. That was a sedative, though in her dull state, she could not place the name.

"You're up," a voice said. Not just any voice; his voice. She was almost angry at Voraloxle as she stared into that cocky, charming smile.

"You were almost too easy to find after you left me behind," Zecora criticized him, seeing again why she had loved him, but also why she left.

The dark pony shrugged. "I guess I wasn't doing my job, then, was I?" he tilted his neck. Wisps of silver hair tumbled over his eyes, a bright light over a veil of hidden grief.

"A legitimate business you do not run," Zecora replied. "It is hardly your duty to have fun." The memory of the past days drifted back to her through the sedative--dreamleaf, that was it. "Where is Applebloom? I hope she has her own room," Zecora continued, not wanting the still-young mare with the pirates and sailors she was sure were aboard.

Voraloxle tensed, his mouth tightening into a thin line. Zecora remembered that expression--his response to being accused of wrongdoing, and also when he had bad news. Both of those had come surprisingly often in his life. "She's with Celestia. We're already a ways away from Yorlug, but I got what I came for and what you needed. I can tell you the whole story later."

Zecora stopped herself from speeding a reply. "And what of Gannon, my faithful companion?" she looked around to see if the gray pegasus was anywhere to be seen.

Voraloxle looked at her, eyes in confilct. She knew that look, when he was deciding whether to lie or not. The fires of hatred, confusion, and sadness attacked each other evidently through those purple irises.

"He's doing... okay," he finally answered, still searching for words. "Not in the best of shape, actually, but I think he'll be fine."

Zecora sprang up, disregarding her pain and the stitches. Fresh blood began to ooze out of a broken scab. "I need to see him," she pleaded as Voraloxle tried to force her back onto the slab. She gave in for a moment, then slipped behind his grip. "You needn't worry of my aching limbs."

The dark pony stood there for a solid minute, gaze unmoving, eyes focused and determined. Zecora gave the smuggler points for effort, but he finally gave in to her.

"Go," he said, with an urgent, sharp, whispered tone. "Quickly now, to the deck. Be careful," he added as she stormed out of the room.

Zecora knew this ship. She kept only the knowledge of its layout in her working mind. The past she left alone, a quiet beast in the dark, ready and waiting to break the lock on its fragile cage.

A few flights of stairs later, and she found herself in the glimmering sunlight. Noon. The zebra had been out for quite a time. That thought pressed her on to the scene she watched unfold. The doctor was there. Falling Star--the deep blue fur of the pegasus was tinged a little darker as blood splattered on him. His eyes were red, his muscles taut.

"More bandages," he ordered, calm and cool. Like she had taught him. "I need tweezers, now." The materials found their way into his steady hooves. The unicorn beside him was casting an equivalent exchange spell. Quite a feat, and according to Twilight a difficult one. Spare nuts and bolts on the deck turned into pure energy and then into blood, red and rather ominous while levitating. The globs of hemoglobin found their way into a bag and down a tube leading into Gannon, who was completely knocked out and soaked with blood. Zecora slid down beside Falling Star. Without missing a beat, she examined the wound and could just see the shrapnel embedded in the flesh.

"Crew, in my saddlebags I have several enchanted rags. There is also a red bottle of healing potion, below the skin lotion. Fetch these things," Zecora barked at the watching crew members, who scrambled to help. One remained, however.

"Zecora, one of the bags broke when you fell. Thought you should know," he said to her cooly.

"No matter. Find the other, and without too much clatter!"

Falling Star didn't look up. "Shrapnel. Cannon. Both of you. Him, serious. You, not so much," the doctor's assistant said. No wasting time.

Zecora nodded and examined a group of holes below the left wing. The punctures were shallow, but oozed pus and blood. That was extremely bad--an infection would make things far worse. She did her best to remove the bits of flak, but it had been quite a while since she'd done any doctoring. After all, Ponyville had a doctor with an actual license. Probably.

With most of the infectious goo out, Zecora wrapped the wound with the plentiful supply of bandages next to her. She performed similar acts on other sites.

The fifth time she reached for the bandages, they were gone.

Her hoof caught multiple splinters and dust clouded her vision as an artillery shell exploded, wracking the vessel. The whistle of another coming in filled her ringing ears.

"HARD TO PORT!" the captain, Varos, yelled, running for the wheel. The second shot hit wide, splashing into the water and detonating on the surface. Zecora hadn't noticed the ships on the horizon near the island. She would have thought them too far to be dangerous, in any case. Her opinion didn't matter, though, as the ship barely skimmed by another explosion of fire. A zebra came bounding up from below, carrying a red bottle. He was nearly to Zecora and Falling Star when light flashed behind him, smoke and ash and wind tossing him through the air like a rag doll or a soccer ball. The potion in his hooves slipped out, riding the shockwave of the high explosive. Zecora half-caught it and threw open the cork, but she fumbled. The liquid inside spilled out, cascading in waves over Gannon, as water on a sandy beach. It sizzled and popped, sealing the wounds not already stitched closed.

Zecora managed to hold in the other half of the flask and forced Gannon's neck up, tilting his head forward to close the airway and open the esophagus. Healing poultice found its way into him, a milky white color as it passed down.

For a moment, all was still.

Then Gannon coughed, eyes opening, heaving in air. Another shell burst open above the three, tearing into the unfurled sail.

"OH SHIT! WHAT THE HELL?" the charcoal-gray pegasus exclaimed, scrambling around.

Zecora had to force herself to detach from everything around and about. "Calm down, now. Up, friend. Unless you want to meet your end."

The pegasus' eyes locked with hers, filled to the brim with nothing. Just pure, absolute, silence, that of those who cannot possibly push themselves any further. When they are literally running on empty. "Okay," he responded mechanically.

Zecora and Falling Star lifted him, and together they dashed below. Gannon used them as support, stumbling along into the medical area. Carefully, so as to avoid breaking the stitches and sutures, he was laid down on the bed.

"I can take care of him from here. You should go back and help the others, or they shall die, I fear." Zecora gripped Falling Star. She knew he was ready.

The pony curtly nodded and departed.

One of few words, apart from the herd, Zecora thought to herself, understanding the doctor's character and the situation at hoof. Turning her attention from the doctor, she saw the now less severely injured Arcade Gannon sprawled across a table. He looked near death, but Zecora felt a steady pulse and noticed the bleeding slowing to a mere crawl. After finishing up the bandaging and doing a once-over, a zebra barged in, nearly smashing the equipment in the crowded room. Without another word, he left a bag next to Gannon and left. Zecora thanked whatever creator there was that the materials inside her pack had not broken or been destroyed. She dug out a few more bottles, giving them to Gannon both orally and intravenously, using a new needle. He soon felt the effects of the sedative, at least visibly. A soft whimper left his lips as he drifted to unconsciousness.

The moan was punctuated by the thump of an explosion from outside. Silence reigned after that, signaling an end to the conflict. With what speed she could muster from her weakened body, Zecora entered the hallway. Soft light spread through a ceiling hatch across the floor, strumming a silent pattern across an invisible violin. It was almost eerie. There was no noise, not even the waters of the sea. Serenity entered Zecora. She felt anew and grandiose, but at the same time mute and dull. Her steps clopped along the stairs, thundering stacatto to a melody of nothing. Opening the hatch, she saw a scene not totally unknown to her, but entirely unpleasant. The main sail was torn and corrupted with fire and shrapnel, rent in most places rather than less. The bow was shredded, deck exploded and open to the salty air. The ship was turning, at least. Albeit slowly, but it was actually moving away from the conflict. In the distance, Zecora saw flashes of light as war continued on between various factions of differing origin. Apparently, whoever had fired on them considered the ship a lesser threat. Almost ironic, considering their small yet rather powerful cargo.

She saw a sinking craft and hoped that Celestia had kept Applebloom safe.

Drawing her attention from the fight, she rushed towards the injured crew on the deck. Her herbal bag proved useful; she had a cauldron set and boiling, popping with the fire of life-giving potential. The hours waned by as the casualties were moved to the sickbay. With a pop of bubbles, the healing potion cooled, a misty white liquid losing heat rather quickly. As she stared into it, Zecora lost her thoughts. It brought forth memory, and with that a sort of anguish and wonderment, unbeknownst to her for many years...

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"Come on, now. Let's think this through," Voraloxle said, calm and suave as always. Even with pistol in hoof, fires of deathly anger burning in his eyes.

Jo' Tasha had his rapier leveled against the pony's throat, ready to slide over at any moment. It would not have done much good, of course. Voraloxle's reaction time was legendary. Both would be dead before they hit the ground. "Oh, friend, I've thought this thought, calm at first, but soon I knew I needed to believe it for it to be real," the zebra said. "You wouldn't understand! You don't know what an idea is, Voraloxle. Ideas cannot be killed. That is where they draw their strength."

Zecora stood beside him, knives clinking, tainted with venom. Falling Star wielded no weapon but the power of his voice, but that seemed enough for the mutinous crew to have at least five firearms trailed on him at all times.

Voraloxle drew in a breath before answering. "Perhaps. But if you cut off the head of the snake, poison the water of its kin, and hunt down every one of them to extermination, will there be any snakes left?"

Instead of replying, Tasha simply tightened his grip.

Falling Star entered the conversation then, tone lilting and spilling into the ears of those around him, delicate yet powerful in manner.

"I don't think you want to be the snake here, Jo. I know you. You are not like that. You are better than a serpent, more than an animal, or a slave. Stop this madness."

For a time, the zebra thought.

"Perhaps you are right in that regard... maybe... NO! No, you lie! You are fools all!"

Falling Star ended regretfully.

"Cui bono?"

While Tasha's fellows deliberated with the newfound doubt, Voraloxle leapt back, firing. One round struck Tasha, gutting him, but not before the blade caught Voraloxle's shoulder, digging deep. He dropped the second revolver as he drew it, unable to use his arm. However, the pony remained content with the five rounds he had. All but one hit a mark, and Zecora sliced through the remainder. The deck of the Diamond's Destiny lay still, as even the waves stopped with life, a final crash resounding through the air, but fading away in a distant echo...

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The white liquid found and closed the wound like a seamstress sewing a dress. Light hummed through the darkness of night on the deck, potion emitting a natural light to the sky, fighting a battle to the death against death itself. Voraloxle flexed the appendage, drawing as quickly as he could. With a wince, he grunted and dropped to the planks. The splinters below were like honey on the tongue compared to his pain then. A wound long in healing was not the most pleasant outcome he could have had.

"Take me back to Equestria. You can have my damn ship, you blasted fool. I don't expect honor among thieves, so I circumvent the process outright. If I ever see you again after I make landfall, I will skin you alive." Voraloxle hissed curses at Varos, defeated like a dog beaten to submission. This beast, however, still had fangs, and a ransom left to boot. The boxes of treasure were magically teleported when they made port, gone before the sun rose on the murky water, white with predawn moonlight. Gone, perhaps, to the ocean, to an island, to a cavern, to a hole. Even Voraloxle himself did not know, only that if he didn't have it, no one did. Zecora left with him, city streets bathed in blank contrast, black and white. They split soon after, losing track within a few weeks.

Neither really cared.

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