The Fall of Canterlot

Interlude

The Cave

Unknown location, eight days after The Fall.

Her horn ached as she chiseled another line into her marking rock, a large, cracked boulder standing in the open. Moisture dripped from the cavern’s ceiling, fiercely cold against her patchy coat. She shivered, her stomach turning flip-flops with ever-present nausea. She rubbed it with a hoof in an attempt to soothe it, sloughing off some coat hair in the process. Finishing, she sat back, admiring her work. Eight lines now. Eight days since she’d woken up in this cave, with no way to the surface. No memory. No clue of who she was, or why she was here. Or even where here was. She remembered a few things, here and there, scattered details. Snatches of imagery of faces or places. A familiar scent. But nothing coherent.

A wave of nausea rolled through her. She sank to the moist cavern floor and curled into a pathetic little ball, rocks poking into her skin. She’d been like this ever since she woke up. Nauseous, severe body pains, hair falling out, falling unconscious, anxious… the list went on. She knew this wasn’t normal. It didn’t feel normal. She remembered enough to know that.

The nausea passed. Only a minute or so this time. A new record. Maybe she was getting better. Taking a deep breath, she uncurled and stood. She had duties to perform.

She trotted at a sedate pace to her shelter. When she awoke she found it nearby, a one-story structure of aged, cracking stone and mortar. A faded image of a sun with eight spokes covered the wall above the doorway. Once, a wooden door had stood there, but she found it fallen over into several pieces, much of them rotten. A few lanterns full of smokeless flame burned in sconces set all around the outside and inside of the building, providing a sphere of light in an otherwise pitch black cave. In the remnants of old rotten crates and intact urns of ceramic and stone she found blankets, a spear, a flint and steel plus tinder for a fire, and some food. The food was carefully preserved with spellwork on the urns, keeping it fresh even after however many years the building had been abandoned. The spear was likewise preserved with a small gem encrusted at the base of the head. While she’d found no water, there was an underground stream not too far away she could source it from.

Inside, inside was why she bothered to keep herself alive despite her suffering. She had a friend.

He was there when she woke up. She smiled at the familiar sight. He was familiar. His face appeared in her flashes of memory. Like with herself she didn’t know his name, or anything about him, except that he was suffering, like her. Unlike her, he was unconscious. Her mind wanted to call it a coma; he hadn’t woken up once. He just lay there, breathing softly, sometimes wincing or letting out grunts of pain. She did what she could for him, feeding him little scraps of hay and oats, some water from time to time.

But they were running out of food. The supply had been minimal to begin with. She’d have to fish the stream, even though the thought turned her stomach. Food was food and without food neither would survive.

She checked him over. Still no sign of awakening. Reaching for the food urn with a hoof she gingerly removed small mouthfuls of food with her field, one at a time. She’d learned early on any attempt to use it for anything larger or more complex filled the air with sparks and her head with white-hot agony.

After feeding and watering him, she took some food for herself. Not that she could eat much. The many stains of vomit scattering the shelter proved that. It was a wonder to her that her friend appeared not to suffer the same thing. Whatever was making them sick, he could withstand it better.

So why was he in a coma? It was a question she’d asked herself many times, but without her memory she’d never be able to answer it.

Searching the shelter, she found her spear and took it in her mouth. She also donned her makeshift saddlebag she’d made from a tied blanket. With careful, slow strides she made her way to the river, lighting her path with her horn. The river babbled and chuckled its way through the darkness. Listening carefully she heard the occasional splash signifying fish were present. She’d seen them before; sightless, ghostly white creatures. Not even a griffon would find them appetizing. Her light wasn’t bright enough to see them by. She’d have to hunt with sound alone.

She wasn’t sure how long she laid there, occasionally poking the river with her spear. Measuring time without the sun was next to impossible; she only kept track of the days because of her sleeping periods. Eventually she did catch a fish. A single, solitary fish, barely the size of her forehoof. She wanted more, but she was just too tired. She needed to rest.

She trudged her way back to the shelter and collapsed onto her pile of blankets. She didn’t sleep; she dared not sleep too often lest she lose all track of time completely. So she lay there, her mind churning. She used times like these to try to remember something, anything. The usual images flashed through, without meaning. The image of a purple mare recurred most often, someone precious to her. Maybe her lover?

Her stomach rumbled. She needed to cook that fish.

Crawling to her hooves she took out the flint and steel, lighting a fire in the shelter’s hearth. She speared the fish on a long, thin piece of stone and set it atop the fire to cook. Soon the shelter was filled with the scent of roasting fish.

Her friend snorted in his sleep. Startled, she rushed to check him. Shock etched across her features as he rolled back and forth in his makeshift bed, mumbling words she couldn’t quite make out. Then he really surprised her.

He opened his eyes.

She fell on her rump, eyes wide as dinner plates. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo in her breast. “H-hello?” she said, her voice cracking from disuse.

He blinked, sitting up and looking around. “Ugh, my head,” he groaned. “What happened? Where am I?”

She risked reaching out a hoof in greeting. “You were unconscious.”

His eyes narrowed as he focused on her. He cocked his head to one side, and then another. “Starlight?”

Her mouth fell open. Her name. He knew her name! The sound of her own name unlocked a small piece of her memory: a name for her friend.

“...Spike?”

Author's Note

Surprise!