Sweet Marshmallows Galore
Daisies and tulips, as far as the eye can see. Dilapidated… a lot like me; though I don’t mean that in the sense that I am withering, no, far from it. I am dilapidated because of my stature—I am short… small, however you wish to say it. I don’t find solace in the fact that I am tiny, nor that I am easily a runt; yet, I will and have continued onward against the harsh truths of this reality.
“Hey, Spoo, hurry up,” I hear from ahead. I lift my head from my hooves, I spot something that would be considered normal for us. Already, several of the others have began building a small fire; camp will be setup around it and we'll be resting here for the night.
The rugged, wild ground threatens me with falling—a soft, rhythmic flap of my feathery wings helps to keep me balanced. Fallen moss covered branches litter large areas of the soil, yet the most dangerous element would have to be the grass. Tall and fair, it truly was rampant, though, I could just call it dying—as it is a brown color, not that fine, rich brown either—no, it’s that ugly brown of the dying.
Off on the right is a mountain range; to the left a mountain range. The front? You guessed it, nothing. Well, technically it would be an open field, or a cold mountain pass; as we are traveling through the mountains on our way to overthrow a corrupt governing body. Or maybe we are the corrupt ones here to cause disharmony to all? We’ll see eventually, but for now we still must get there.
I draw close and I can't notice several things: the first being that we are low on wood (we will have to resupply later); second is that everypony is already starting to claim a spot around the fire! I trot the remaining distance, still using my wings for balance, and I get the last remaining spot that isn't on the dirt.
Old Hems uses a basic spark spell to ignite the kindling—or attempts to do so. After the fourth usage it finally catches, quickly spreading to the rest of the burnables in the maw of the flame. The heat billows outward, though it is far more relaxing than warming. Hems slouches into his chair; it must take a lot out of him to perform that type of thing.
Hems Cough (Old Hems as we generally call him) is the oldest, aside from that, he is also our leader. We are but a small band—small in numbers, not small like… me, “Ugh…” A few of the others glance at me but quickly return to chatting amongst themselves; like always, I’m left sitting all alone over here just warming by the fire deep in thought. The others share this common goal, only they could be anypony—they aren’t special in anyway... we aren't special.
Speaking of thought: the last time I checked in with the U.C.B. (United Creatures Bureaucracy) they were discussing the possibility of thought crimes, or as they call it a "class-00t crime” (actually they say offense, but still!). Thought crimes being what it sounds like, crimes committed in one’s thoughts. The numbers may vary, but the letter will always stay the same with the correlating type of offense—it’s weird and overly complicated.
The U.C.B. controls all; trade, taxes, agriculture, education, energy, and of course defense. Without them our lives would be much, much worse; or that is what they teach in the schools. For someone like Hems—old, and taught the “truth”—then all of what they do has been bad, yet I don’t believe it truly matters; whether they altered the history books or if they left them alone. We are here, and they are there; soon we will be there and they won’t.
Slandering the name of the U.C.B. is a class-37d offense—the 'd' stands for detrimental or death, one of those two. Hems is easily the most wanted out of everypony here. One thing they teach in school is that we live in a utopia, but that much can’t be true. It is why I am with them. If somepony says utopia, then it is clearly a dystopia; because a utopia doesn’t exist—no matter how badly we may wish that they do.
“Youngins, listen up!” Hems shouts, his voice cracking slightly—most likely from the altitude. I break out of my little thought bubble, I can practically hear the popping. “Back in my day–”
“Are you going to tell us about the war from thousands of years ago?!” Sour inquires stupidly. Sour… another Pegasi, but a complete idiot. He’s much taller than… um… he has a soft blue coat and an ugly green mane. It doesn’t even match, but he dyed it himself, so… yeah.
"Ha…" Hems deadpans. “I know you think I’m that old, Sour, but I can assure you that I am not.” The blue stallion shrinks down to the ground trying to hide, a sheepish expression painted across his face. Hems continues normally, “Now… back in my day there was a story. A popular story that circulated around for awhile. Any of ya want to hear it?”
A hoot and holler arose as the response, I sat quiet and attentive—as always. Hems, the nicest among us as well, made a living as a storyteller, until the officials of U.C.B. found out about the contents inside the stories (they were considered "anti-patriotical" or that is what the others tell me). They tried taking him into custody but he was able to somehow give them the slip. He’s never explained it before and I don't see it being explained in the foreseeable future.
“Right…” he mutters weakly. His eyes scanning us, looking at everypony but when he gets to me he seems to stop for half-a-second—once he knows that all eyes are on him he continues. “I haven’t told ya how I lost my hind legs… now have I?”
I toss a stick into the fire, which I found lying on the ground next to me; a soft crackle comes out along with a slight puff of smoke. "Hems, the Stallion in the Chair" that is a title that was given to him from way back in the day when used to be an explorer, but something went amiss and he came back telling these wild stories (as well as the missing hind legs). Helping him out, the villagers of some small town were able to get him the chair and a trip to the hospital; though, I found out sometime later that it was out of pity, and not a sense of righteousness or care.
“Since you all are talking amongst yourselves… I’ll jus’ tell you. During my travels I have come upon many-a-things; temples, ancient civilizations, ruins, and much more; but the thing that was the most dangerous would have to be the catacombs. I discovered something that is, by far, the oldest thing to ever stumble across this land. It… we…” he trails off, the look in his eyes suggest that he isn’t here: he is living through what he has seen.
“Anyway…" he begins," "Who’s ready to traverse the tale?” he still seems out of it. The stomping from the others suggests that an answer has already been agreed upon. Hems had made a life as a storyteller after he made it into that chair—because that was what his cutie mark, the word ‘book’ written in ancient Lunarian, dictated.
“During my travels I discovered many things, and in those travels I came across this tale—from a small rural town. Now… you all might be thinking ‘how is this story different than those other stories’ and… well… let me tell you.” He pauses for a moment to take a breath, “It was an evening unlike any other, on that night the sky shone a deep crimson red; and the lights of many colors shined like nothing else.”
“Big deal,” Buttersack exclaims. The poor mare, she doesn’t even know that she can fly.
“Oh, but it is a big deal!” Hems informs, “You see: it wasn’t all that long ago that the fate of the world rested in the balance, which honestly happens a little too often. However,” he adds, “this was a time like none other—because unlike any other time, she wasn’t a problem.”
“She?” somepony questions.
“Er… fate,” Hems rectifies with ambivalence. “Do y’all want the story, or not?”
“Yes?” Sour answers, clear hesitation. Everypony else face hooves, I sit silently and watch as Marnyle adds another log to the fire. “What?!” he asks the others.
“I’d like to hear your tale, Hems…” I begin, but as the others turn towards me, I trail off. All those eyes continue to penetrate and cut through like knives through butter, I cover my face with a wing.
From around my cover I can faintly hear, “I’d like to hear it as well.” I move my wing slightly, very slowly at that, I can see that it is Vul—he’s my best friend; as we generally always agree—he flashes that kind smile he does when backing me. A pregnant silence fills the air.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity somepony murmurs that they would like to hear it as well, and before long everypony agrees.
About time they agree; since, how could anypony not like one of his stories?!
“Yeesh…” the old stallion's remark easily drowns out the rest of the noise. “Took ya long enough. Whatever… now, this story wasn’t told in a traditional sense—it won’t be—no, it gets to have a nice touch of odd interpretation. ‘What’s that?’ you are most likely asking. It is going to be… different. Any sort of objections now?” Before anypony could answer he continues, “No? Good. Now let’s begin.”
Old Hems’ horn sparked to life; odd purple and orange lights spiral around—dissipating at the point. “Now just… relax… take a deep breath and…” he trails off as the spell blasts off; a small flash of those same purple and oranges fills my vision before everything fades to black. I reach for the dirt beneath me but find nothing. The nothingness surrounds and crushes me.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
I’m falling… into nothing? yes... a nothingness. This nothingness spreads all around me, suffocating my breathes and forcing them to only come out in short puffs and gasps. Suddenly, I can feel a dampness underhoof. It is cold, but also very hard; if I had to make a guess then I would say it has to be some sort of stone.
Finally a light washing through my vision filling it in a blinding dull shade of red. Bloody? No. Lidded. I open my eyes to a blinding light, a hoof comes up to cover them in a hope to block some of the light, but it is as if my eyes have never seen anything in weeks or months.
“Huh… I feel… heavier,” I stretch out my wings—but I don’t feel anything moving. With half-lidded eyes I check my sides; through the blurriness I can see smoothness, and grey and blacks of my fur.
“What?!” why does my voice sound funny and why aren’t my wings moving? Why is my coat different? I take a deep breath in and let it out in a slow sigh; before I rest my raised hoof back on the ground, a hard thump rings out. “As I thought: stone.” Now having a few minutes, now, my eyes are able to make more than a blur in my peripherals, not quite perfect; but it comes in with far more clarity.
I take a few labored, heavy steps, my breath still comes short, and my muscles sore to the point that every movement is stiff and pained—it feels as if I just ran a marathon. I plop my rump down, a crunch and poking feeling immediately makes me jump back to my hooves. I pat at the ground below me, I manage to find something that explains both of those things: a pair of small-framed, broken glasses.
With my hooves I begin to pat myself all over; sides, back, ears—everywhere I can think of touching—it isn’t until I get to my mane that I notice something off—while my mane is usually wiry and messy from not being able to clean it often enough—this mane is messy in a whole other way: matted with dirt, sticks poking out in every direction, and it was a much, much shorter length.
I pick the glasses up with a hoof, placing them on my muzzle; I can tell they are bent and out of place—cracked, even. But through them I am able to find a certain clarity that has been out of my privy as of the last few minutes. Around me, stone—to be more specific, vine-covered and cracked stone. Vines cover everything in sight, except me; though, as I look around more, I can see that they don’t cover one another, only the vine seems to hold any ground.
A large box of roughly eight ponies long rests in the center of this room—I'm indoors? “What’s in that thing? Why does my voice sound so odd?" Through the lenses of the glasses I can see the world from around the veil; though that veil seems to be one of a metaphorical meaning (what it means is beyond me). “This isn’t real… is it? Hems can’t teleport a group, he just doesn’t have that type of power. Right?”
There it is again! A deep rumble whenever I talk. I know my voice. I know it doesn't rumble—maybe my throat is just scratchy, or maybe I’m in some other body… but… that can’t be right. Is there such a spell for that? If there is… can it affect such a large group? Could it have misfired?
Opposite the box is a large door, which, like everything else, is covered in those grotesque vines. It won’t be opening anytime soon—judging from the way the vines tangle along the coarse surface. Wait… where is it I woke up at? I trot around looking for it, yet all of the floor looks the same. Not the same-same, but it is all waterlogged and covered in those snake-like plants. Something in here should be able to give me a hint—there must be a detail out of place.
“Vines, rocks, stones, vines…” I begin saying, something lukewarm starts tinkling down my bottom lip—my teeth feel so different. “Vines, vines and more vines!”
I look back to the over-sized rectangle, “Rocks,” I mutter with despondence. It strikes me (not physically), there is only one spot with rocks. I trot back over to it, and sure enough: I find exactly where I awoke; that isn’t all, I also find the only source of light—a hole in the ceiling.
At least one thing is finally answered: I fell through the ceiling and lost consciousness; yet, where that floor is and why I’m missing my wings is still needing to be answered at one point, and preferably sometime soon. The next best thing for me to figure out would, most likely, be the exact location of where here happens to be, whether it be the here relating to a map or from where we (or is that I?) set up camp.
I take in the room for the first time, scanning it for the details that I have been skipping out on, and it is so... lackluster; a few support pillars, a ceiling, the door, and that... box (should I still be calling it a box, I feel I've been using that too much?). And I can’t forget that this place is spacious. A large area, like a couple hundred ponies could fit in here without much problems. The only downfall of which I can tell is that there are vines covering everything that hasn't moved within the last three minutes.
Seeing as the cuboid is gigantic; I take the time to traverse around it—checking out the thing, seeing what it is doing here, what materials make it up, and how it got here. That should help with answering the most prominent questions at the forefront of my mind—as of the last ten seconds.
Poking it with a fetlock I find a slight hollowness to it, based off the sounds that it makes. Under some scrutiny, I find that it is mostly just wood, yet strange markings litter over every portion of the thing. As I follow the markings across it, I can conclude that there are what looks like ponies or the ancestors to us ponies; they’re doing their normal thing in a village, though far more than just those ponies covering the thingamajig. On the next set of marks is what appears to be a large biped attacking the village; after that, it seems that the ponies sacrificed something and the biped calms; lastly, it dies, yet, by the looks on it whenever the sun… or maybe that is the moon, is high in the sky the creature awakens.
“Odd,” I mutter as I see something out of place. Scribbled in hoof-scratched letters on the floor nearby is a single passage written in perfect Pone (the language the government gave us ponies to speak and write, it is said to be from the ancients). Stallions beware, sugary delicacy required. That is all. “What is that sugary delicacy, I wonder…” keeping my thoughts in, I look around more.
I trot along the outer wall, or as close as I can get to the wall, it is very dark down over here, well, at least for being far from that hole. Shaking my head I return back towards the hole. “Of course!” I burst, everything falls into place at last.
The spell, the room, and my weird voice; add in the writings and markings. And I can only come to one conclusion: I am reliving what somepony saw a long time ago—with the added addition that I get to make different actions as if I were that pony. Maybe it is a brave mare who fought against their own oppressors! But then again… who could the oppressors be? What if… what if this is old Hems?
I can’t stop the shutter that consumes my entire being. “I can’t be a stallion… that would be so… so… um…” the ground shaking breaks me from that thought. Like a broken spinner balancing on the end of a tip, I lose my balance falling to the cold floor; the vines practically growing over me.
I look to the ceiling, yet, it isn’t moving—not even shaking! Around me, my eyes rest on the not-mare-in-the-box, which is glowing an odd red with a multi-color backdrop—it draws out another shutter. A large lid slowly moves across it, dangling stiffly in the air ever-so-slightly. “A sarcophagus? Yes… it must be,” I conclude indignantly. But what could be that… large… of course! That large bipedal monster-thing, but what type of creature is it and where does it originate? What could it be doing here and why?
Before I get the time to think through more, something moving catches my attention; out from the sarcophagus comes a skeletal hand—hooks the size of a pony! The box could easily fit twelve ponies in it, and yet out comes the hooks; like nothing is wrong! The claws grip the edges of the sarcophagus and like a horror-in-a-box, it begins to wind-up—moving higher and higher.
A thud of both my heart and the heavy lid, pronounce that the creature can come fully free; with no more lid boggling its movements down; the air rushes by in a strong breeze as the creature rises from its coffin, 'fiery' is all I could think before I am snatched in its grasp. The thing is fast, moving the distance with relatively no time at all—before I could even react to it.
High into the air I rise trapped in the tight grip. Everything around me feeling super-heated, it is burning to the touch; yet no flames are visible, no distortion, just air—clear and empty. My bones feel as though they are being broken in two, put back together, then broken again. If I didn’t know better, then I would have thought that the cracking noise is coming from me—they come from the skeletal behemoth.
Closer and closer I am brought to this beast’s mouth, until finally I could feel its breath against my fur. Its breath! How does something like that have breath?! It doesn’t even have any lungs for the air to collect. The hollowed-eyes scan me, looking me up and down—searching for something. It must not find it, because it gets a look of vexation.
The huge mouth begins to move, and a deep rumbling voice booms out, “Pony… sugar…” the voice bounces inside my ear lasting for what feels like minutes.
“Su-sugar?” I gulp anxiously and full of fear, I'm glad I haven't done anything embarrassing.
“Little stallion… bring… me… sugar!” the voice, as before, pierces through all. “My… marshmallows!”
What?! Just... what? Marshmallows... as in those fluffy little pieces of fluff and sugar? “You want… marshma--” I never got the chance to finish speaking, because I am sent flying through the air, and not at my own volition. If I had my wings this wouldn't be a problem, then again... I've already reached speeds much faster than I could fly—the way my cheeks flap at my sides tells me that much. I crash into a pillar before falling to the stone below with a thud.
I must have broken more bones than I thought, because nothing comes to me when I think about the landing. The monster lifts itself off the ground, missing legs (something that I may no longer have here shortly) become apparent as it begins to crawl. The beast rapidly traverses the distance between my discarded body and it at breakneck speeds; the claws strike marks in the hard stone, yet the vines seem perfectly fine.
With one final crash, it reaches me—I lie helplessly watching. The big boney spine smashes down, the earth quaking under the great force, neither of the two shatter from the force. No, instead it looks as if it gently floats above the stone ever-so-slightly in such a strange and bizarre way. The hands slam down next to me, and its intentions become clear, “Where... is it… puny-pony?!”
I try to talk, to move, but I can’t—no words come out, nor any muscle response to my commands. After several seconds I can finally make a sound… but it isn’t any sound that will help—just something with a small 'meep' to accompany it; in fact it is something with a rather distinct sound—and the smell washes through the air.
The boney hand swipes me up in one solid motion. Without any hesitation it begins to raise me over the humongous mouth. Razor sharp blades nearly as large as I. That is all I see, after that the glasses—which miraculously have stayed on—drop into the waiting maw. The next that thing I know is that I am falling.
I fall, and fall, and fall. It doesn’t feel like I’ll ever stop, yet it doesn’t feel scary—nor thrilling—it feels like nothing. Which is the oddest thing to experience. Blackness eventually consumes my vision, and a sense of familiarity wraps itself around me in a warming-yet-cold embrace.
~-- -~- --~
I shudder as I come to—I’m back around the campfire; several others are yelling at Hems Cough. He doesn’t seem to take it very seriously, as he is chuckling joyously. A hint of a smile crosses my face, things are so peaceful when others smile. I stand up to stretch my sore legs and let some blood flow into my hooves, too.
“Really, Hems?! That wasn’t a story, that was a massacre! I woke up and I was in a different place, once I was done panicking some weird large boned thing came and ate me!” Marnyle fuses ungracefully, so unlike herself. Her face is strewn up in such a way that she almost looks like one of those martyrs of the old tales—always with a scowl. I hear several 'yes's of agreement and a few others tell about their times inside the spell—which they aren't very happy about—it is very noisy with all of them.
I seem to have been the only one to have talked to the creature; at least from what little I could understand in the cacophony of that clamor. To really hear the creature speak, to find the air too stuffy to breath, to feel the heat of a fire upon my skin—all of these to just one little thing, and I was the only one to get that far. I make my way to a more open for some air (it feels much too crowded) and it happens to be a secluded area not far away, where I can watch the stars dance across the night sky.
Things are quiet for the first few minutes. “There you are,” says a kind and familiar voice. The racket is still coming from behind. I don’t turn, but I give an expansive nod. “Anything bothering you?” The stallion plops down next to me with the grace of a mare, the flowers left completely undisturbed.
“It’s just… I don’t know… I’m so confused,” comes my daft reply. The flowers cast next to the picturesque night's sky is one of the most relaxing thing I've ever seen, but I just couldn't relax.
“Confused with what?” so simple a question, yet so much thought—or maybe just a strong delivery. “You are still you.” He has a point: I am going to always be me, since I can't possibly be anypony else—by definition, I am me. But that doesn't make much difference, I was in the body of a stallion for strawberries' sake!
My chest feels tight, I want to gripe it so badly, but I keep my hooves down. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before letting my gaze drop to the flowers below. “Am I? I was in the body of a stallion today, and… and…”
“It felt natural?” he finishes with a clear tone. Always reliable, and sharp; he is truly the nicest of friends.
I sigh, “Yes...” He is silent at first, but then he chuckles. My head snaps to the side, eyes piercing an icy gaze. He isn’t even taking this seriously! His forelegs are resting behind him and are supporting his weight as he leans into them, his head is cocked back with an open mouth, and his eyes are shut with the forms of tears threatening to break through the lids (from the laughter, no less).
“Sorry… sorry,” he works to regulate his breathing to a more controlled level, and runs a hoof over his eyes to clear any watery curtains. “You had the chance to experience something new! Isn’t that great?! Even if you are unsure about things, just remember one small thing…” he trails off leaving me in wonder, or more likely getting me to accept the advice by asking for more—there is also the chance he has already provided the information that I may need to finish it.
“Remember what?” I’m far more curious than I am angry at this point, and with him giving such a nice bait I decide to take it. “It isn’t going to be some strange analogy about fish, is it?” I ask, when I turn back to him his face is that of dubious dread and one that is getting to know a cold sweat. “Wait! Seriously?!”
Like normal he remains silent, but suddenly jumps up with a deftness only he could ever muster, and begins running down to a large patch of purple tulips, before swinging around and with a triumphant expression he proclaims, “Just remember that I’ll be here to help!” His grin grows wider, “We all will!” he exclaims with forelegs stretching wide.
“We… all… will…” I mutter to myself in half-confusion. I turn around to see everypony gathered around watching the two of us, they all are just standing there with wide smiles across their faces, and a warm glow in their eyes. “Everypony is here…”
“That’s right,” Vul says coming back up to me from the tulips; though he was as silent as those 'ninjas' from the stories, I didn't notice him until the last moment. “We are gathered for the same purpose… it is only natural that we have one and another’s backs until the end.” He nudges my shoulder with his own and when I look I can see his eyes as calm as the ocean. A steel resolve, unable to be bent or broken—or intruded upon. Vul is the type who will get done what he sets out to do, no matter the cost.
I find myself smiling as well, though, I may have my doubt, confusion, and even guilt; I at least know that I have them (the rest of the group). They'll be willing to stand at my side… until the end, and I feel that I can stand by their sides, too. “Thanks,” I say softly. The only one who heard it is the only one I wanted to have it heard by, Vul—my closest and dearest friend, and the one who is the most danger to me.
He spontaneously hugs me, it is warm and tight. He whispers into my ear, “We can talk more later if you need it.” Once he finishes what he is saying he breaks off the one-sided hug. He turns and makes his way back to the fire. “It’s cold out here, let’s get back to the fire.”
Hems laughs as he wheels back to the fire as well, the others following in kind. Hems cheerfully yells, “Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we move!” I stay behind, and smile as I watch my... family return to the waning incandescent glow.
