Chapter One — Frosty Winds Made Moan
Snowflakes slashed through the frigid air like stinging sabers of cold. They caught in an involuntary dance with the wind — rising, falling, and dropping to shatter against the cobbles. Common noises muted well before they could penetrate the Sabbath stillness all pervasive at this late hour. Or was it early?
Lys raised his delicate muzzle catching a lungful of frigid air. The perpetual canopy of cloud overhead gave little indication beyond the imminent threat of flurries. His ear twitched towards the large clock tower at the center of their sprawling city. Cracked, aged bells rent the silence with their tolling, tolling, tolling.
The bells were a fixture as inescapable and lamentable as the coughs heard throughout the populous this time of year. And yet, Lys felt an inexplicable comfort from it. As he pulled his wagon along the filth-laden alleyway, he counted. Seven. Eight. Nine? Had he really been out so late?
He shuffled, adjusting the wooden collar. The rags wrapped around its cracked surface did little to alleviate the painful pressure sores from continuous contact with his thin-frame. Lys knew that he should not—could not complain. A candlemaker would always be in demand. He might not live well, but he would live. More than most could say . . .
His eyes fell to the wisp of a stallion pressed against the alley wall—a shadow of what might have been, like the rest lining the streets. Some young, some old, all exhausted. The heady smell wafting from the stallion’s patchy coat indicated an inebriate. Lys knew better than to intervene. He plodded along the cracked cobbles, driven by the familiarity of motion rather than the desire to reach a particular destination.
Despite the thick layer of ice, Lys’s chipped hooves maintained their traction well enough. Yet another storm would be upon them if the notoriously inaccurate meteorologist's report could be trusted. Under other circumstances, that would have been ironic. After all, there had been a time when weather forecasts were one-hundred percent accurate. But the mechanisms behind that, like so much of their history had been long lost. Now the best prediction for snow or indeed blizzards lay in the elderly’s joints and a mastery of the senses.
Lys shivered at wicked blast from the North. Definitely a blizzard. Spurred on by the incentive of shelter, he stumbled into a side alley by the Second Street bakery. The building had long since fallen into ruin with missing portions of masonry and a partially caved in roof. Due to a rumor started over two decades ago, most ponies avoided the place for fear of taints. Being far from superstitious, Lys rested there on occasion. No homeless pony was stupid enough to stay in one place for long lest he be a target for the overworked and extremely heavy-hoofed police force. “Clearing the streets” took on a whole new meaning with those thugs.
Shivering from the now constant wind, Lys dragged the cart into the relative safety of what had been a processing room. He stepped out from the shafts, giving his long legs a good stretch. Technically, the cart was too short for a stallion of his stature. However, simply having a cart was a luxury he did not take lightly. The ache in his back was worth the food in his belly any day.
He adjusted his paper-thin blanket—the only one he owned—across his back. With a soft groan, he sunk to the cold stone. Far from comfortable, but vastly preferable to death from exposure. This portion retained a roof and a substantial windbreak, enough to provide for a decent night’s sleep.
Weakly, he started his half-hearted grooming routine. As a colt, he used to take warm baths with his siblings. His coat had been as sleek as silk and every bit as shiny back then. Now, the dull, rough hairs more closely resembled coal than the pale granite they had begun life as. He nibbled at his leg, trying to pry off some of the filth. The result had been a mouthful of grit and street slime.
A part of him wanted to draw out the loaf of stale bread buried in the crates of candles. However, he had to save it to sate the morning hunger pains. A loud howl sounded as the wind whipped through the building. Lys watched the flakes as they passed or caught in the corners. He enjoyed watching snow. If only it were not an indicator of imminent discomfort . . .
In no time at all, he found his eyelids drooping as his mind absorbed the steady drum of the wind striking the stones. Let nature’s fury blow, it would not disturb his respite.
Lys had plenty of experience with pests. Everypony in this city had at one point or another. Rats formed a living carpet in the slums, spreading filth and disease as a result. They crawled wherever food might be sought—in barrels, in blankets, inside one’s overcoat. So omnipresent was the threat that citizen’s had grown dulled to the ever present rustling and biting. However, even the most weary would be awoken by the unmistakable crack of splintering wood.
Lys blinked awake in an instant, squinting in the near-impenetrable darkness made all the worse by the howling storm just beyond his windbreak. Even in the relative shelter, Lys could feel the wind whipping under his blanket causing the rough hairs to bristle in protest. Pushing that aside, his ears tracked where the sound might have come from. Easier said than done given how the wind distorted sound as if passing it through an empty bottle.
Concern for his cart led him there first. Nothing. Squinting into the darkness on the other side led to no visible results either. Groaning, he got shakily to his hooves. A foalish part of him imagined taints playing in the shadows, but the rational side held fast to logic. “Hello?”
The wind carried the tiniest of squeaks to his ears. It sounded like a child or . . . perhaps something else entirely. Hairs standing up more if that were possible, Lys advanced slowly towards the potential source. His heart skipped a beat when he caught a faint lavender glow emanating from a shattered crate. Will o’ wisp? Lys shook away the thought, striding forward. Such apparitions were manifestations born of hunger and desperation, not reality. There had to be an explanation.
Sure enough, when he reached the splinters of the rotting wood, he caught the source of the glow. A delicate unicorn mare, long ebony tail tangled in the remnants of the crate. Her elongated horn made a feeble attempt to pierce the darkness as she worked to extricate herself. If she noticed his presence, she did not show it, working feverishly in the half-light.
Lys made to speak, but found the words caught in his throat as he took in the mark on her ivory flank. A promise mark? His own—a lit candle in an elegant holder—had been the only known mark in decades. And yet, this mare . . . this stranger had one just as clear as his own. A long scythe like might be used for harvesting grain. What did it mean? Where had she come by it? He could not let the opportunity pass.
"Allow me to help you,” he murmured softly.
The mare jumped, falling backwards towards the larger planks.
Heart skipping a beat, Lys caught her by the leg. If she had not been startled before, she certainly was now. Her petite frame quivered under his touch, brilliant eyes darting between his hoof and his own confused stare. At long last, she spoke in the barest of whispers, “You can see me?”
“You are rather hard to miss.”
Her focus drifted down to his blanket now resting against the cracked stones. With the smallest of motions, she levitated it up to him, then dropped it as her gaze fell to his flank. “You have a cutie mark too?”
Cutie mark? Despite the confusion, Lys could not help but admire the mare’s voice—as soft and welcoming as any Hearth’s Warming bells. “I have a promise mark if that is what you mean.”
She shook her head in the manner of a small child denying an elder. “No, you have a cutie mark.”
He found a trace of irritation from the mare’s denial. “Why would anypony call them by such a ludicrous name?”
Her eyes grew wide as if realization were dawning. Then, slowly, she continued as if explaining something very basic, “Because that is what they are called. It is no secret.”
Lys snorted. Do not argue with her . . . Ponies here did not have the excess energy to spend on pointless arguments. “Whatever they are called, nopony has been seen with one for over seventy-five years.” Nopony except me. He quickly tossed the blanket back onto his flank to hide the mark.
“Seventy-five years . . .” The words came out as if she were trying to register their significance. “Has it really been that long? I suppose it must have been . . .”
“Just who are—”
“And yet you have a mark,” she interrupted. The tone, though gentle conveyed a small measure of accusation. “Why?”
“I do not know. If I did . . . well now, I would not be talking with you.”
“Fair enough.” The mare wrenched her hoof from his grasp, continuing to pry her silken tail hairs from the wood.
Lys made to help, but she swatted him away. Irritated, he stood watching her until she had freed herself and stepped out onto the debris-free stones once more. Now that she stood beside him, he could begin to appreciate her beauty. Saddle Arabian blood flowed strongly through him, but even he had to admire the elegant lines of her body. Her head only reached to the base of his neck, and yet he could sense as much as see the confidence eniminating from the lovely mare. If angels existed, Lys felt certain she must be one.
Apparently taking note of his stupification, she cleared her throat loudly. “Well, I do appreciate your help er . . .”
"Lys. Just Lys,” he added. His grandfather used to tell of a time when most every pony had two names. Now, it seemed impossible to even imagine.
“Lys,” she repeated to herself. Then, the smallest of smiles graced her features. “It is a nice name. Mine is Strya. Just Strya,” she added with an almost cheeky wink.
“It is an honor to meet you, Strya.”
“And you as well. It seems we have—” she paused, eyes widening as if realizing something of critical import. “Where? Where is it?”
"Where is what?”
Strya pranced in place. “My scythe! I need to find it or I cannot do my job.”
Lys wanted to point out that most farmers kept their scythes in their greenhouses—warehouses cannibalized for purpose of crop production. After all, no crops could grow without the aid of the artificial light created by the unicorn’s magic-infused stones. Natural light could not penetrate the grey clouds perpetually blanketing the sky. Surely she knew that. “Perhaps it is in your greenhouse?”
“No, no, no.” Strya stamped her hooves. “It is not that kind of scythe.”
Lys felt certain he had betrayed a good measure of confusion now. “Then what kind is it?”
“A very special kind.”
He snorted. Helpful, that one. Before he could offer up a suggestion, a piercing whistle broke through the dull roar of the storm. He flinched, clamping his hooves to his ears. Just as he looked up, a long scythe came arching midair out of the darkness, narrowly avoiding his muzzle as it sped into Strya’s magical grasp.
The unicorn grinned from ear to ear. “There you are! I was looking all over for you.” Her hooves stroked the ancient runes encrusting the scythe’s wicked blade. Even the handle appeared worn down with centuries of use. Just where did a mare like her get something like that?
Strya turned back to him, lips pursed in an almost appraising way. Then she nodded approvingly. “Your ribbon is still strong.”
“My what?”
She trotted over to stand beside him. “Nothing, do not trouble yourself over it.”
"All right then . . .” Lys felt the day’s exhaustion return full force as they stood next to each other. Reluctantly, he walked back to his wagon. To his surprise, Strya followed suit. As he settled back into place, she remained standing. “Yes?”
"Do you want to talk more? It has been many moon cycles since I had somepony to talk with.”
Lys let out an involuntary yawn. “It is late. I want to talk, but I must ply my trade tomorrow.”
"Oh . . .”
To his great surprise, Strya lay down beside him. The contact made him start—his first in well over two years. Her warmth made him reluctant to pull away. When she yawned as well, he decided it would be better to share in one another’s space and prevent frostbite than to cling to outdated propriety. With the last of his energy, he adjusted the blanket so it lay across them both and fell into a deep sleep.
Strya had long since ceased questioning the mechanisms that brought her into situations her mind could scarcely fathom. If she believed in Fate or Destiny, however, this encounter would be considered nothing short of divine intervention.
The blizzard—releasing with all the pent up fury of taut rope sent her scurrying for cover. Alas, being who she was, Strya avoided hiding in a warm room. Instead, she settled for the comfort of a substantial windbreak found in the abandoned Second Street Bakery. Seeing the living skeleton of a stallion curled up against his cart had not surprised her in the least. Such sights—though pitiable were far from uncommon.
In her attempt to nestle into a rotting crate, it had shattered like the many liquor bottles lining the streets. Strya expected the stallion to stir, to investigate—never to see. But he saw her as surely as she him. A cruel joke that after nearly two centuries of isolation a poor welp would be the one to finally note her presence. Had her weary mind conjured up a fantasy to cope with the pain?
As she pressed herself against the stallion’s chest, she knew that could not be true. He breathed, he emitted heat, in his eyes a spark of life still burned. This Lys could not possibly be a spectre.
Why? That question continued to nag at her. Why now? Why him? Why did he possess a cutie mark? None of the ponies she had encountered still bore one. None except this stranger. This warm stranger.
Strya found herself involuntarily being drawn tighter against the stallion’s worn coat. A living, breathing being beside her, treating her as one of his own. How would he react when confronted with the truth? She like so much of this city had passed long, long ago. Not from this life, but from this plane. As far as the ponies knew, she was just another spectre haunting this glorified mausoleum.
Reluctantly, she closed her eyes, allowing herself to become lost in the steady roar of the storm.
Author's Note
Thank you for reading. 
This story concept holds a special place in my heart, and I did my best to re-imagine it far better than the original. I hope it's proved an enjoyable read.
If there are any grammar errors or whatnot, feel free to point them out and I'll try to fix it. As for other stuff, I'll be honest, I'm well past the point of criticism. If you don't like it, for the love of muffins, walk away and leave me in peace. I have severe depression, I can't take a lot of heavy criticism these days. A reason I haven't been writing much lately.
Decided to publish this as a thank you gift to my 500 watchers. I can't tell you how much your support means to me.
Special thanks to ForgottenComrade for proofreading my ramblings and my best friend for giving me her honest opinion.
