The Equestrian Godfathers

He had nothing left. Everything in him was drained down to the dregs. Pedro was alone in the world, save for the crying Flores, helpless and probably hungry. He had fed her earlier but babies needed to eat quite often. He had abandoned the packs back when he last heard Vital. The delay he provided must have been significant. They hadn't appeared on the horizon so far as he could tell.

They had become all there was in the universe. The cracked ground, the endless horizon, the scrub, and the two of them. No army behind, no town ahead. Every step was agony, every breath was a burning surge. He had saved most of his water rations to feed Flores, and hadn't even bothered with a last sip before abandoning it all. His parched tongue reflexively licked over his dry lips, while his eyes blinked through blurriness and what wasn't there.

”A nice, cold glass of water, with ice. No plastic, no metal. A glass, with ice. Hey, we can imagine anything. Lemonade. Ice cold,” Old Timer said.

Pedro coughed, and laughed at the same moment, painfully nodding his head. “Sí, Viejo... me acuerdo... agua fría, con hielo...” He licked his lips again, imagining how delicious that ice water would taste. Water, tasting good. With his dry tongue and burning throat, it certainly would taste like something. Like the sweetest nectar. A mouthful of water would be finer than the oldest wine, greater than champagne or any other thing considered great. In that moment, that ice cold water would be more precious than anything.

There was more to life than that, though. There were real things to consider. Pedro looked into Flores' face and softly stroked her head, to calm her as best he could. “Lo siento. Disculpa me, princesa. No puede alimentarte...” She was the only thing that really mattered. She... she and all those that had come before. All those dead, they mattered too. Her parents needed remembering, Old Timer needed remembering. Vital... the others...”

”I'll just make a quick report and the memories of the fallen will live forever, and we'll save future lives too. Pour les princesses et principute, oui, camarade?”

Pedro gave a light bray and nodded his aching head, almost throwing himself off balance. “Sí tambien, Niño. Camarada. La rebelión me necesita, necesita saber a las emboscadas...”

He was the only one who remained that remembered everything. He remembered the story, he recalled the names of the fallen and how they fell. He could save countless lives in the future by recalling the details he had been entrusted with. He was the sole archive of many lives that had been lost. In his mind rested the hopes and needs of the dead. Success was far from optional, it was the whole point of his life.

His entire existence had become a necessary thing because, like his fallen friend, he had become a tool... a vessel, in fact. He had transcended his simple identity as an aching donkey. He was something more important than a single life. He carried history, he carried warnings. He carried everything on his broad shoulders, and the burden weighed more than the packs he had abandoned.

His aching arms reminded him of his sacred burden. Flores had stopped crying as much as she had been. She was the heaviest thing of all. She carried the full weight of the future in her tiny body. In her was the hope of a new, sweet world. In her was the promise of brighter days to come. She represented something to be striven for, a new tomorrow. And thanks to sacrifices made in her name, he alone was left to carry the most important thing in the world.

The onus pulled down his arms but lifted up his thudding, racing heart. He had been chosen, by fate or by fortune, to carry the future, to use every last ounce of his strength, to give his entire life, to get her to safety. Her parents had tried to give her a better life, but a monster had cut their hope short. Three strangers had been there when she entered the world, and two had gone to their deaths ensuring she survived. He had to make it. He was the last keeper of this hope.

Step by plodding step drew him on, carried him through the blasted land toward the glimpse that Vital had given. He had delivered hope that there was an end. It was enough to know it was there. But not... not what was there. He only thought he knew. The old map and his own hope told him it was Gaskinwich over the horizon.

It could have been a slave processing facility, a maturation camp, an abandoned, corpse-strewn ruin... another donkey camp... it could be anything. He had no real reason to believe they had held the right heading all that time, that they had followed the map correctly. One small angle change could have sent them to any number of horrible places.

“No... 'ta Gaskinwich...” He asserted, closing his eyes to let them rest, the wavering forms of the environment meaning nothing to him anyhow. He walked on, only occasionally cracking his eyes open to see he was still going straight and true. He watched his way, and the shadows trudging beside him, sharing the heavy burden of the sacred calling.

”We're gonna have a feast, just like the old days,” Old Timer said with a smile. “Just like the old celebrations. Cakes and pies, cookies, all manner of soups and salads, maybe a roast gourd, maybe more than one. We'll sit down to pizza and ice cream, and endless flowing bottles of water and cider.”

“They'll celebrate what we did! We're heroes!” Vital cheered. “We made it out of their clutches, with important data. We're useful. Being of any good use is special. We're tools of the finest kind, the kind of tools that build civilizations. We're survivors that stand tall and do something of some substance. That's what makes us something to remember, something to celebrate. We can be proud of being useful.”

“Fuimos útil... éramos útil... somos útil. Somos... camaradas para siempre... no van a morir. Nunca, nunca, nunca...” Pedro panted out his words as he pictured the grand celebration waiting for them in Gaskinwich. All of them. They would surely reserve two places for them, given equal honor, given respect that heroes deserve.

He had to think of such things, had to hold out for such wonderful things. The caribou had stolen everything from all of them. Their homes, their futures, their memories, the very ability to even feel joy. They had been divested of everything that mattered in the world. All that was best and most normal in life, burned away by the hateful insanity and childish ugliness of the caribou and all their supporters.

The hateful Stag King had done something he couldn't fathom, done something no war leader was meant to do. He had stripped an entire population of everything. It was said cornered animals would fear no death and fight to escape. More thoughtful creatures would fight as hard when offered no hope of an escape from a final battle. If their way home was gone and the way forward left only death, they would have no fear of death. They were already dead, it was only a matter of taking the enemy into their graves.

The filthy caribou had stolen everything in the world. They had taken it all away with their invasion, consuming it all until those who did not fall in with them were left with ashes. Dust and ashes made from the scraps of beauty. Pedro blinked, and shook his head, the eternal horizon looming, approaching, swallowing the world in nothingness.

The sky became meaningless, turning into everything, into nothing. It consumed the ground, left him staggering on air. His compatriots, his comrades, vanished. Their shades had been celebrating, cheering the coming victory when the emptiness that was the caribou swallowed them whole.

He was feeling numb, empty. He was a hollowed-out shell, the uncaring eternity around him gobbling him down from the inside out, hollowing him, leaving a mere crust that would drop down dead. A nothing. An empty nothing.

An echoing wail rang in his ears, and the thick cotton batting that was wrapped around his senses pulled away. The cry grew louder, pushed back the emptiness. He blinked his eyes, and looked down at the wailing Flores. She was there. She was real. The all-consuming horizon couldn't take her away. And he wouldn't let the caribou take her away either, render her into nothing. She was too real, too present. Nothing could make him deny she existed. And because she existed, all the rest of the world must have existed. The world had to exist if Flores was there to prove he wasn't alone.

She was the hope that tomorrow existed. She was the hope of a brighter day to come. By merely being, by having no taint of the ugly world inside of her, she was what made the emptiness flee. So long as he carried her, he carried her hope. He was a vessel, to deliver her hope to a safe place, where she could be safe, where the fallen could be remembered. It all rested on him to do the task, to carry on for those not able to do it on their own. As in the old world, mutual reinforcement, helping others to make all better.

Having the world build back up one piece at a time almost seemed to give strength to him limbs and relief to his body. No mere second wind, it was the third or fourth at least, more than could be claimed by most. It was an illusion, he knew it well enough. He was destroying his body, but to a greater purpose. It didn't matter if he ground his aching form down to powder. So long as what was left of him reached town with Flores, that was all that mattered.

He had been looking down at her for so long he hadn't been aware of any change. Looking back, he saw the dust cloud rising. They were coming, hard and angry. Two prior attempts had crashed against them, reducing their force but not turning them back. One more. They had to know he was the last. Their over-sized force had absorbed the losses inflicted and could still go on, and would, until he died.

Looking forward, he thought his eyes were finally failing, one more shade to color his view. But blinking didn't make the vision go away. Buildings, the tops of buildings rising up, signs of civilization, of the end. The final goal. He was within view of the thing he had once, in the darkest hour, feared was only a story and a dated mark on a map. He had no real confirmation but he knew in his heart of hearts it was what he thought. Gaskinwich. Freedom.

“Temprano, princesa...” Pedro rasped out, stroking Flores' head softly as he staggered onward. He knew the end was near, but which end was still a mystery. Even if he didn't deign, or have the wherewithal, to look behind, he knew they were there. An implacable force of faceless, murderous monsters rushed at him. Reduced, stung and harried by his fallen friends, but ever approaching, forever coming at him.

They probably didn't even know he had Flores. They had no concern for her. The mark on his head meant he was their property, and he had defied them by exercising his will and escaping the place they intended as his grave. Knowing he was being chased just for his crime was bad enough. Knowing they didn't even possess the feeble and almost-worthless kludged-together equipment to keep a newborn foal safe until they could be taken to a maturation camp meant they might just regard her as a liability. She was a filly. One or two might even be...

“¡Monstruos!” He shouted suddenly, making Flores cry again. “Disculpa me otra vez... pero...” He hugged her tighter to his chest and lumbered along, ears held high to catch the coming rumble of the pursuers, to let him know when they were truly closing in, and ready to destroy his hope for the future which had just been rekindled.

His eyes played tricks on him, and his ears did too. He saw his friends, heard them urge him on. They didn't lay blame or lament the passing, they were proud of what they had done. They did it of their own will, after all. They had earned the right to be called heroes. Having them travel with him was truly humbling. Their shades, even if only made by his mind, were the finest compatriots he could think of.

Knowing there were unreal figures joining him made it that much harder to accept that a real voice was speaking to him, a very real, female voice. His burning eyes looked on the face of a pegasus mare. She was so green. Verdant green. Lush, leafy green, the opposite of the desolate waste he had just crossed, a sign to him that she might not have been real. But blinking and thinking didn't make her go away.

She wore clothes, unlike the mares the caribou held. Simple clothes, cloth trousers and a tank top. She looked like a laborer, but one who collected a wage. Her voice was distant, it echoed, either through disbelief or because he had to pull himself out of fading away. The words finally reached him. “I said, hello there. I'm guessing you need a lot of help, if that cloud behind you is any indication.”

“M-monstruos...” he rasped out, the words a wheezing huff. “Estan... monstruos. Malvado... asesinos... mis compadres, mis camaradas...”

“Oh sir... I wish I spoke Caballito, just Percheron and a little Cavalino. I see by your forehead where you came from. And you have a baby that... well, no matter where she came from better she cries in your arms but... is any of this making sense?”

A long, slow blink followed. His not-a-figment spoke standard Equestrian, like his comrades. He owed it to the vision to do the same. “Yes... I understand. The killers, they want this filly. Our princesa. My comrades, they slowed them down, they died but... they do not stop...”

The pegasus nodded slowly, reaching out toward Pedro. “Give her here and I'll take her back to Gaskinwich for you...”

“No!” Pedro brayed, hugging Flores protectively. “No, it was our sacred duty. We swore to her mother, we swore on her blood and our honor to take her to safety. Us. Viejo, Niño, they gave their lives so I could take her. She must not be caught by those butchers.”

“I admire the dedication but you can barely stand. Donkeys can do a lot but you need help. I'll hold you up if needed, just... lean on me,” the mare said, putting a strong shoulder up under one of Pedro's, supporting him as he walked on.

“Gracias, spirit. You will make my final moments peaceful. When I fail, I will not fail my princesa alone. Those monsters, those evil monsters...”

The mare waved off the comment. “Oh don't think like that. Those idiots aren't a problem. They're already dead, they just have no idea yet. Forget about them and focus on reaching town. Those bastards should realize that you don't approach a rebel town armed and arrogant, because we know how to deal with the Stag King's stooges.”

The marching army caught sight of the two walking away from them, the last living slavecatcher drawing his rope tight, fingers squeezing as he imagined wrapping the rope tight around the fleeing donkey. He'd reel in that filthy creature. He'd make him pay. Sure, he had dived out of the way to let others die, but he had to live to capture him. That would save him from punishment. Dragging the filthy donkey back, braying and bleeding, for his due punishment.

His thoughts of revenge and evaded punishment ended when the world opened up and swallowed him whole, pulling him shrieking into a choking, dusty darkness that engulfed him and silenced his cries with a wet crunch.

The marching army halted, weapons at the ready, eyes casting about. “Show yourself! You cannot oppose the army of his pitiless majesty! We are invincible! Surrender to him or suffer worse torments than death when we subdue you! Come out of your cowardly, bitchish hiding!” The lead armor-bedecked caribou held up his brittle iron greatsword, solidly set in an attack stance.

Silence reigned on the dusty, magic-sapped plain. The warm wind whipped along, casting up dust eddies that forced the prepared ponies and caribou to blink, nervously looking to see if anyone had caught them dropping preparation. Barely a sound passed them, scratching and muffled grinding, the ground very faintly rumbling. They felt it slightly, as the trace of a distant army on the march.

The heavy tension snapped when the ground all but exploded. Massive paws crashed through the cracked and blighted earth, grabbing legs with a savage strength, claws digging into the flesh. Several of the soldiers were dragged into the ground, crying in sudden terror and pain. Before any counter attack could be mounted diamond-tipped spears rushed up from the ground, impaling other soldiers through the abdomen, chest or directly from crotch to out the mouth or head.

The caribou remained, steadfast and resolute. His recapture squad had been whittled down by the futile efforts of the pony rebels crashing against them, but they had pushed on, more force that necessary as a show of manly power. They had been triumphing, until they found craft, hiddenness, surprise and misdirection. “Come out! Don't hide from the truly masculine and dominating! Come and be killed or surrender! Come! Face me!”

The ground exploded once more, releasing the bulky, intimidating form of a huge Dig Dog clad in heavy golden-toned metal armor. His helmet covered his head but exposed his jowly, stern face, mouth drawn back and teeth exposed. He held up a huge steel-shafted spear tipped with a glowing diamond.

The Dog had his arm drawn back and cast the spear with a hard bark. The twist of the toss slid past a desperate, sudden block, the diamond tip punching mercilessly through the caribou's cheap armor, slicing through his body like hot butter and straight out the back, to ram resolutely into the ground.

The Dog hit the ground with the clatter of metal, watching the anger turn to agony on the caribou's face, the sword trembling in his hands and falling, clattering in the bloody dust. The cervid slumped but didn't fall, locked legs holding him against the spear impaling him. With a tremendous bark of triumph the Dog shouted out to the dying caribou, “Faced!”

While the perimeter defenders mopped up the pursuers, Pedro and the mare haltingly conversed, the delays owing to Pedro's exhaustion, mitigated somewhat by the power of hope. “What do I call you?”

“I'm Sprouting Grain. I used to be a journeymare plow-maker and repairer of all classes of farming implements. You can guess that I'm not quite in that profession anymore. The rebellion has me turning plows into swords and spears. A noble effort, very needed. And I can still do it in reverse once we hack those antlered assholes into buzzard food,” Sprouting said with a delighted lilt.

Pedro laughed breathlessly and nodded slowly. “You are a rebel, just like Niño. So proud to fight for the country. I am Pedro. Pedro Cama. And this is our princesa, Flores Cumulus Aura. We all named her. All of us...”

“Such a great name. She has a lot to live up to,” Sprouting said, gently tickling Flores on the belly. “You mention your friends often. Who were they? Did you happen to escape somewhere together? I mean... were they donkeys too?”

“Oh no. Niño is... was a pegasus. Vital Monsoon, rebel, proud rebel. Viejo was a unicorn. Old Timer. He had broken free of the caribou. All of us were marked men, dead men caught to be sent back. We escaped and found our princesa. Her father had been killed, and eaten by a monster stallion. Her mother was wounded by the beast, but Niño killed him. We... had no choice. Only one could leave there. Flores... we buried them all, as the rebels demand. We tried to come to Gaskinwich. Tried to come together. It was so important we come, with her. To keep her safe.”

“You really have a lot of things invested in you...” Sprouting whispered, stroking Flores slowly. “You three deserve medals. More than medals. If it was still the old world you'd be made knights, lords. Taking this little one through so much... I only hope the town is enough for you.”

“It is safe. She is safe. It is enough,” Pedro rasped with a smile.

Together they walked on to the town of Gaskinwich. No future was certain, but there was, at last, hope.