Wind was a strange thing for the earthbound. One could only feel it when the world was turning exceptionally fast. On the nicest of days, wind was considered rare; on the hottest of days, it was considered essential; and on the coldest of days, it was considered hellish.
The flying cousins who controlled much of the airspace had often spoke of the wind as a messenger. Some thought they could harness the wind’s direction as a means to direct covert operations and give undercover messages to field agents. This was many years ago; when the nation was young, and when magic was not yet as understood as it was now.
In any case, not even the most powerful of scribes could figure out how to properly harness wind communication. Even the pegasi could contribute very little to discovering the best way to use it. The long-sought-out method of talking with the wind quickly died out, replaced with letter teleportation and the like. With the introduction of primitive, but usable electricity in cities such as Manehattan, the idea of using wind as a means to share talk grew quickly dusty in the pages of history.
The main reason why wind fell out of favor for many was because it was too unpredictable. It was hard to control, as every particle had to be arranged in a certain formation and held there, against the natural movement of the planet and the forces that bound it to its twin celestial mothers. The most powerful of unicorns, Star Swirl the Bearded, even commented that, if the wind were an actual creature, that it would be as powerful as Celestia herself (if, of course, said creature was able to think). The reasoning behind this was that, while Celestia had one celestial body to rule, the wind had the entirety of the planet, and all of its air and individual air particles, at its disposal.
Yet, Star Swirl was quick to write off any proposals to utilize the wind as a means of communication in the future. “It is as free as it was in the past, and should remain such,” he said to a hall in one of Canterlot’s schools.
Indeed the wind is truly free. It moves where it wants to, whenever it needs to, when it has a whim or a goal or simply a yearning of something.
Many ancient equine cultures have myths about the winds, whether them being gods or goddesses, nature spirits, or invisible deities. In each myth, the common idea is that the wind brings messages to its people.
Some may scoff at this, and, arguably, they’d be right to do so. No message has ever been carried across the great gales of Equestria; at least, no recorded message.
Those who listen, however, might find that the wind has more to say than previously thought.
-Excerpt from A Wanderer’s Guide To Equestria, commonly distributed to students who partook in Canterlot’s School of Excellence’s Advanced Placement Equestrian History course
***
The unicorn filly put down the large history book with a sigh. Restless and anxious, she got to her hooves, mulling over what she had read. She figured that the answers to her question lay elsewhere.
She was young; that was something that the world often told her. That, and, that she would understand when she got older. But she couldn’t wait for that to happen. She needed to know, now.
So she went outside of Ponyville and traveled right, and went up one of those hills. She sat down underneath a tree, made her order, and waited.
As she waited, she gazed up at the sky. It was nearing sunset. The normal-blue heavens now were charged with creamy oranges and pinks. The sky was as clear as the day it was born; not a cloud was in sight for miles. In the distance, in the place between the hills on the opposite side of the valley and the sky, was a dark blue. Night was approaching from that direction.
She let out a small sigh, slightly impatient. She said nothing, crossing her hooves in front of her. Her mind flickered back to a memory from a week before, and she cringed, pushing it away. She didn’t want to deal with that thought right now.
The sky deepened into darker arantium and rosum. She continued to wait.
Nearly all of her patience was gone when the messenger arrived. It blew past and flew around her in circles. She could hear it softly laugh, either in embarrassment or mockingly, she could not tell. She kindly asked it to stop, but it didn’t listen. It kept whooshing around her, albeit slowly, and she could pick out its abstract form.
“Do ya have it?” she asked, her voice high-pitched.
It only laughed in her face. She smacked a hoof at it, and missed. It went around her, whispering something to her. She batted it away. It disappeared for a moment, before reappearing.
Yes. I have it.
“Good! I almost thought you wouldn’t have it! Can I see it?”
Here.
It handed it to her. Taking it, she frowned. “There’s nothing here.”
What you ask, cannot be given physically, small one.
“I’m not small! I’m fun size!”
It laughed again. Of course you are. I apologize.
She glared. “Fine! What do I have to do to get what I want?”
It’s rather simple, oh-fun-size one. Simply ask, and ye shall receive.
She had heard that phrase somewhere before, but she did not care to find out. Opening her mouth, she asked for what she wanted.
It whizzed around her, picking at her mane with invisible hands. It hugged her body, and she felt it touch her horn; it was cold, she realized, but not so cold that it was freezing. As the sky grew darker, so did its form. She found she could not see it clearly anymore.
The package you seek… it is hard to give in a satisfying manner.
“Just give it to me!”
I cannot readily give it up. I must first decide whether you are deserving of it.
“Wha—hey! I ordered it, so I should get it!”
In a normal purchase, yes. But this is no ordinary request, you understand. It seemed to shake its head, and she heard soft laughter, like another filly was nearby. Looking around, she saw nopony other than herself and it.
Do not worry. I do not doubt that you are indeed worthy of having what you want.
She sighed, but refrained from rolling her eyes. “Okay. How do I prove myself to you?”
Again, it is simple. Simply listen to what I have to say.
She nodded. It flew around to her side, before settling down in a sitting position. She thought she saw it take out a guitar and strum it; she could have sworn she heard a brief set of notes playing. Then it took off its cargo and placed it down next to it, and let out its own sigh, like it hadn’t sat down in a while.
She supposed that was somewhat true.
When it had finally settled, it took a breath that sounded like a fan blowing next to her. Then it began to talk.
A long time ago, there was a stallion. He lived his own life, rather secluded, compared to others at least. He was his own pony; he made his own money, paid his own debts, and did all things by himself.
But he was quite lonely, you see. He may have liked being alone, but he did not like the feeling of crushing loneliness on his shoulders. So, he left his comforting place in life, and sought out other places.
He traveled west, towards the shining city. It was there that he met his first real friends. They all attended the same school, and grew up around each other. In their presence, he learned things such as nobility, beauty, loyalty. He grew to become respected with them; he became intelligent, thoughtful. His friends were there by his side throughout this time.
The greatest moment, he would later recall, was when his best friend proposed to his best friend. They got married a few months later; he was their best men at their wedding. Seeing those two friends, now lovers, together, in happiness, made him feel good inside. He was grateful that they had given him, and he was determined to see to it that their happiness was eternal.
It paused, and she spoke up, “That sounds like something out of a fairy tale.”
It seemed to smile, amused. Perhaps some events are placed out of order, for the sake of keeping the listener engaged—for drama. But life is a story, and some of us are willing to write down what it says, in order to share it with others later.
Since she had nothing to say back to that, it continued.
That happiness, as strong as it was, was theirs. And though they included him in their happiness, he could not help but think that he was still an outsider. His other friend felt the same, though they were not as close as they were later on.
No amount of inclusion, no amount of that friendship, could have prepared him for what came next.
Two of the closest ponies to him passed away two years later. He was barely an adult. He was not ready to say goodbye. But he went to the hospital and did so anyway, because he knew he owed them his whole life. They said goodbye to him, to, though not before placing unto him one final gift.
She frowned. She had heard a similar story before. In fact, she was certain that it was simply telling the same story she had heard; albeit, with several key elements out of place or not even said at all.
His friend, the other outsider, was also there at the hospital. The pony who had taught him so much had also passed away. The two of them—our stallion, and this stallion—grew closer than ever, over these events. They understood the other’s pain more than the stallion’s other two friends did. They became best friends, even brothers; they were so close, that, when the stallion was looking for work, this new friend of his offered him a place in his company.
And so that stallion worked. He worked hard, helping those in need in any way he could. Any way. Some, more controversial than others. Some, he would later regret. But for now, he was doing all that he could.
Secretly, though, he did all this because he could not cope with the feeling of loss. Unprepared, and still feeling alone, his work became his only source of escape. But even then, it wasn’t enough.
It did not help, either, that he had still not found his purpose in life. Oh, sure, he was helping a great deal of ponies, but something about it all felt incomplete. It felt strange that he, out of all his friends, had not yet discovered what he was meant to do in this life.
One day, seemingly like any other day, he found a quill pen and a black inkwell on his desk. There was also a piece of paper on that same desk. He did not understand how they had gotten there, but something told him to use them.
And so he did. He began to scrawl out the words, turning them into phrases, then into sentences, then into paragraphs, then into pages. Soon, he had an essay, and he sent it off on its merry way.
The deliverer paused, and she thought she saw it grin. The sky continued to darken, though it was still light out. Yet, strangely, she did not feel impatient. Something told her that the story it was telling was important enough to warrant her attention.
Time passed. Old scars faded, and new ones settled in. One act drew a large divide between he and the other stallion, the one whom had been there in the hospital. His beliefs were challenged, and he found himself doubting what he did. He may have worked for his friend’s idea of a greater future, but that did not mean he was willing to be a part of it.
The ghosts of his past… of his sins, his mistakes… all of the ponies he had hurt, in his quest to right the wrongs of the world… they gave him no rest.
Still he continued to write, and soon he had amassed a large and attentive audience. All across Equestria, ponies flocked to bookshelves, looking for his next written word. He should have been happy with this, but he wasn’t.
Years passed. He decided enough was enough. It wasn’t the fame that got to him; nor his other job. Something else caused him to stop what he was doing. He paused his life, and sat down, and thought long and hard about what he wanted to do. And he realized that what he was doing wasn’t enough.
So he left.
She knew that. It was the story that had been passing through Ponyville for the past week.
He left his old life behind, wanting to start anew. He traveled far. He traveled south. He traveled to where he thought he could find what he had been searching for, what his life needed.
It wasn’t purpose. It wasn’t drive. It wasn’t out of fear, or out of hate, or anything like that.
It was for the same reason you want this package.
She stared at it, then shook her head. “That’s not—I don’t think that’s right. He said he did what he did because he wanted to protect everypony.”
Really? That’s not what I heard.
“Well, that’s what I’ve heard.”
Interesting. But I have traveled far, small one. And the truth of why he did what he did is more than what he said. He might not even know it either. It shrugged. Then again, I have heard many things. I have listened to many voices, witnessed many perspectives. Many things have combined, and those things are what I tell you now.
She nodded slowly, before gesturing for it to continue.
The stallion soon found what he was searching for. He settled down for a little while, intending to only have a temporary stay. Yet fate had different plans. Soon he was caught up in this new environment’s own shenanigans and problems. And soon his old life came roaring back towards him.
But this time, he did not run. He may have hesitated at first, but he held strong. This time, he had more ponies backing him, even if at first they were wary of who he was. His past, his old demons, were driven back. His darkness hid from this new light, vowing to come back another day.
It stopped speaking, and she realized that it had concluded its tale. “That’s nice and all,” she said, “but what does that have to do with my package?”
It has everything to do with your package, small one. Tell me, what is it that the stallion was searching for?
“I had thought it was for a way to escape his past, but you keep saying it’s not that. That it ties in with what I want?”
He did want to escape his past. But, as I said, he may not have realized it, but he was searching for something else. And that something, was called “good.”
“Good?”
Good. True good. The kind that he had not seen in many a year. But he found it; here, in fact. In this town of yours.
It looked at her, and had a knowing smile on its featureless face. And you? You search for the same thing. Ask me again what you want.
She hesitated, but did so anyway. “Tell me, what makes a good pony?”
A difficult question. One that not all younglings ask. Tell me, why now, all of a sudden? Most ponies your age would rather ask about whether or not Santa Hooves will give you gifts this Hearth Warming’s.
She looked away. “Well, to tell the truth… I think he made me think of the question.”
It nodded. Ah. Inspired by his example.
“Not exactly,” she admitted. “I think… I think I’m just confused. Why tell me a story? Why tell me his story? I just want to know—”
You wish to know the impossible answer an impossible question.
“Impossible? What do you mean?”
I mean this. It is impossible for me to deliver your package in objective terms, without giving my own insights and opinions about it. It would be too subjective, and you would realize this, would you not?
“I would, I guess…”
It shook its head, but did not seem dissatisfied. It was still smiling.
Tell me, little one, who is good? Who is good in your life?
She paused, looking up and frowning in thought. “Who’s good? Like, who’s a good pony to me? Or who’s good to ponies?”
What do you think? It’s up to you what your answer it.
She nodded, thinking hard. What was good? What did she think made something good?
“I guess… I mean, I know Mommy is good. ‘Cause she helps anypony out, even if she’s a little clumsy. And Daddy—well, he’s not really Daddy yet, but I call him that anyway—he’s good, too. He takes care of me and Mommy. And he’s pretty smart, so I guess that’s good, too.”
Tell me why your mother is good.
“My mother? Well, she helps out when she can. She’s also Ponyville’s mailmare, their best one, in fact. And Daddy likes to create these cool inventions to help out various ponies.”
Tell me more.
“Miss Twilight Sparkle and all her friends are definitely good. They’ve saved Equestria so many times, from Nightmare Moon, and Discord, and Queen Chrysalis, and that Sombra pony. Oh, and the princesses, too, are good, since they give us day and night and protect us all.”
Who else?
“Miss Cheerilee is good, because she cares about our education. Also, she’s super nice, and really forgiving and patient with all of us.”
Hmm. Now, tell me: who isn’t good?
She stared at it. “What do you mean? Aren’t all ponies good?”
You tell me.
She frowned, about to protest again; but almost immediately, she found her mind already showing who wasn’t “good.” She bit her lower lip, trying to not quiver. “That’s not… I’m not—”
It saw her discomfort, and wrapped itself around her. It’s okay to think like that, especially to those who hurt you. And what they’ve done wasn’t at all good.
“O-okay. Um… I guess… Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon aren’t good. But they’re not bad, they’re just… mean…”
But not good?
“W-well, maybe they’re good deep down, and are just confused or something!”
You’re defending them? Even after all they’ve done? It didn’t sound incredulous; in fact, its voice sounded like it was impressed. Can you tell me anyone else who isn’t “good?”
“D-Discord, I guess. He kinda made the whole town crazy. Queen Chrysalis, too, because she tried to take over Canterlot.” She scrunched up her brow. “But that was because she was trying to find food for her changelings.”
Her trepidation quickly released when she came to the last pony. “Sombra, definitely, wasn’t good. He was trying to enslave ponies, and was just mean all around.”
It nodded, rubbing its nonexistent chin with its nonexistent hand. A valid answer. I’d say the same. But, tell me… It regarded her with a seemingly raised eyebrow, and an intrigued stare. What do you think about him?
“Him?” Quizzically, she cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
The stallion of the story. The one who fled. Do you think he is good?
She, confused, could do little else but move her mouth silently.
It sighed. Come now, small one. You have demonstrated remarkable intelligence for a being your age. Surely you can give me your thoughts regarding the stallion of the story?
“W-what makes you think I’d have anything to say about him?”
Because you’ve talked with him. Interacted. Experienced. You and he met, some time ago, and you were there when his life came to an end… and a new one began. You were there when he fell, and there when he rose. It smiled. So, tell me… is he a good pony?
She thought back to all that the stallion had done, and realized she could not say for certain. But she did not want to keep the deliverer waiting.
“It… it depends,” she softly said.
On what?
“On… on whether you believe that actions define who a pony is.” Her brow furrowed. “Because, I think, that if I were to judge him based on his actions… well, then I’d say several different things about him.”
I see. It smiled, cool, gentle, like the physical manifestation of a quiet whisper. Then let us entertain that idea.
She considered the stallion, deliberating over his actions, his transactions, his crimes, his hopes, his dreams, his aims. He had done much good; but he had also done much bad in his life. That she knew for certain. It was simply the way they were; those who fled, who buried their past, their old life… they were all from something bad.
“All those ponies he hurt…” she whispered, more to herself. “All those ponies… and he hasn’t apologized to a single one of them.”
But how could he? If he tried to apologize for what he had done, more threats and dangers may have risen. Perhaps his friends would be in danger of some old victim’s revenge plot. The city he had called home had become stable and peaceful when he had done what he had done. If he were to take back all that he did, would that mean that the city would collapse? Would the structure fall in on itself?
She still did not know quite exactly why he left in the first place, other than “it was necessary.” At least, that’s what her mother told her—though, her mother had only heard snippets of conversation. The papers weren’t too reliable; some things had been censored. Only the six mares and the three fillies whom the stallion had gotten help from seemed to know anything, and she didn’t want to risk inciting him by asking them.
But how could she say that he would be mad? When he had saved her from the bullies, he was mad… but mad in a good way. In a way that one would expect of a sentinel, a guardian. Like a father confronting the reason behind his daughter’s torment.
“I… I’m still not sure,” she said. “I mean, he’s done bad, but he’s also done some real good. Did you hear about how he was helping Sweetie Belle with school? He’s even giving her lessons in Latineigh.”
I have heard many things. It did not sound surprised nor bored with what was said. It also did not seem willing to add much to the conversation.
“Then again… I remember their faces. The bullies, I mean. When they were yelling at me, mocking me, and when he yelled at them… I saw fear. They were scared of him, of what he could do.” She closed her eyes. “Was he going to hit them? Was he going to send them off to where the bad ponies go? I wonder if that’s what they were thinking.”
She opened her eyes, staring blankly ahead. “Then… then there was the issue with Mr. Rich.”
A bruised hip and twisted hoof, I recall?
She nodded, head bobbing up and down. “Even Mommy thought that was excessive. And Daddy was still worried about anypony being near him.”
She looked away, towards the setting sun. “I guess… maybe he isn’t… good. At least, not in the way you’d expect.”
He is misguided, it affirmed. Confused.
“Maybe. But there’s more to it than that.”
She turned back to it. “When he saved me that day, I could sense there was something different about him. He wasn’t just strange, though he definitely is that. He was… trying.”
Trying?
She blushed. “That was the best word I could think of to explain how I felt.”
I do not quite understand.
“Well, I’m not sure I understand it—him—either.” Her gaze drifted all around. Its form shimmered and faded slightly. It would have to leave soon.
“I’m not sure what he’s thinking when he does what he does. Maybe he’s trying to make up for old mistakes. Maybe he wants to return the favor to the ponies who helped him. Maybe it’s all an act, or maybe not. But what I do know is that he’s trying.”
Something about the word made the corners of her mouth twitch.
“I think he still believes he can accomplish some amount of good in this world. I think, even though he may mess up a lot, he’ll still be trying to do what’s right.”
She sat down. “So… when you ask me if he’s good… I think you should be asking, if he can be good. If you ask that…” She found herself smiling. “Then I think that, yes, he is good.”
It regarded her with a calm stare.
The grass shuddered and whispered amongst themselves. Above, the branches swayed, rustling, restless, talking quietly. The clouds above them looked down, frowning, worried, confused.
Will he do what is right, when the time comes? it asked, cocking its head, making the wind pick up.
She slowly nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
And if he doesn’t?
“Then we aren’t talking about the same pony.”
The whispering stopped. The leaves froze. The sky stayed still.
The world stopped for a little moment as it decided what to say next.
It opened its mouth and breathed. She saw… things… come out of its mouth, a torrent of knowledge and experience. The things swirled around her, and at first she was frightened. As they continued they swirl, she heard their voices. They were quiet, as quiet as the gentlest of zephyrs, and just as soft and kind. But they were also familiar to her, like she had heard them someplace before. They greeted her like she was an old friend. They told her many things, and yet remained silent on many other things.
They were words. They were power. They were knowledge. They were intelligence. They were alive.
They asked and answered questions and inquiries. They laughed and cried and lived and died. They shared what they had to say, all they did not say, all that they could and would and could not and would not.
She was confused, but strangely uplifted, by what they said, even if she could not recall exactly what it was that was said.
The things receded, vanishing into the coming night. She watched them go, their bodies glowing like small fireflies, illuminating the ground and air, before they all disappeared.
She turned back to it, cocking back her head. “That was… that was the others, right? The other questions, the other requests. The other ponies.”
It smiled. Truly, you are wise beyond your years, young filly unicorn. It is no wonder why the stallion of the story wanted to help you.
It stood. You asked for an answer to what good is, and, as promised, I shall give one.
Good, my young friend, is following what your heart and mind say. Good, is trying to be a better pony than you were yesterday. Good, is being there, for others, when they cannot lift themselves up.
Good is also being willing to take action, to take the initiative. Good, as well, is to be willing to subvert the old ways of life, and lead on to a new, brighter future.
Good can be sacrifice. Good can be virtue. Good can be stubbornness. Good can be many things, and it can also not be many things. Good is good. You will know when something is good when it happens; you simply will.
It caught her confused look with a cheeky grin. Why, you ask? Because, simply put, you are good. You ask, and are willing to ask. Even if the answer may seem controversial.
It looked up, at the stars, the darkness. But also remember, small one, that good is a subjective term. There are enough definitions to cover the entirety of creation in but a few. And… it may not be the best way to describe our story’s stallion.
But fret not; perhaps, in time, he will earn the right to be called that. Perhaps, he will truly be good; perhaps, he will understand why you consider him good.
She nodded at his explanation, but was still a bit dejected by the response. “It just seems so useless to question,” she said.
It nodded understandingly. These kinds of questions have plagued many a brilliant mind. You should take pride in belonging in their ranks.
It began to shimmer once again. She saw the sky distort behind it. The stars and heavens reflected off of its featureless body.
It reached out an invisible hand. Now that is over, I believe now would be the best time to ask for payment.
She frowned. “I didn’t bring any bits.”
We don’t take bits, anyway. No, child; we are paid with what you can share. What you can give.
What she could give? For a moment, her brow scrunched up as she stared at the outstretched hand.
Then, she realized what it was asking. She smiled at it. “Oh, I get it.”
She leaned forward, pressing her muzzle into its palm, and spoke one, simple phrase. When she was done, she leaned back, and it closed its hand and brought it to its chest. She saw her captured breath fall into its body, becoming one with it.
It smiled at her, and pat her head. What good is, how it is defined, my little pony… that is up for you to decide. And, chances are, you’ll find that you’re right.
The sun vanished behind the trees. Night had finally come. It was time to head home.
She turned to her right, staring down at the lone house that was at the edge of her town, overlooking the northern gate, like a sentinel from another time. She saw that its lights were out, as if nothing was home. As she gazed at the structure, her mind wandered from one image to another; first, of the house, then of the messenger, then of the stallion. Her chest was warm, and her heart, happy.
“I guess you’re right,” she said, turning. She found that it had already departed. She felt its embrace briefly, before, like a nightly gale, it flew up and away, heading towards distant lands, to tell others about the filly who had come for a package, and gotten two.
One for herself, and one for him.
She turned, and traveled back home, though not before thanking the deliverer one last time.
She repeated what she had shared in her mind over and over, knowing that no pony but her would be able to hear it, but not caring anyway. Just her knowing seemed to make it all worthwhile.
