Another night of uninterrupted sleep. I could certainly get used to this.

I sit up and go through my morning routine of stretching and cracking my joints, now with the added exercise of flexing my toes and ankles, then lie back down and continue my deliberations.

For little over a week now, that’s all I’ve been doing: resting, staring, and thinking. About nothing in particular. Most times, about nothing at all. I just wait and reflect and entertain whatever thought passes through my mind, and wave it goodbye as the next one drifts in, or watch with tearful pride as it blossoms into something terribly imaginative.

Or, as is the case this morning… something terribly serious.

Several things, actually. And all of them to do with the current state of affairs.

The door to the bedroom opens and Amber walks out.

“Morning,” I greet without looking.

She doesn’t return the courtesy, heading into the kitchen without a fault in her step.

No change there, it seems.

She comes back a short while later and places a bowl in my lap, then plods to the armchair.

I sit up again and look down. Beans, as usual, mashed into a paste so I don’t have to chew as much — a welcome innovation, if a little bland. Then again, everything she makes is bland. Not that I think she means to, or that I don’t appreciate her efforts. No spoon, though; Selene took that away along with the china, much to my dismay, leaving me with my fingers and overgrown nails.

It’s a shame I hadn’t thought to ask for clippers. Or a razor. Or a bar of soap.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

No reply.

Indeed, no change at all. Today would go by like any other: sluggishly. She might not be allowed to hit me anymore, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be vicious in another, more sinister way — a punishment I’ve heard of, but never experienced, and I never thought I’d have a problem with it even if I did.

The silent treatment.

It’s no trouble for me to stay quiet if the situation calls for it, like when the bus is packed full and no one has the patience to chat with a stranger, or if being noisy wouldn’t do me any good, like when I’m alone. But when the only other person I can talk to stops talking back… refuses to acknowledge my existence… as if by doing so, nurses would come and drag her away to some hard-line insane asylum, never to be seen without a straightjacket again… it hurts.

It’s one thing to feel like nothing. To be treated like nothing is even worse.

She wakes me, she feeds me, she starts the fires that keep me warm and minds the house that keeps me safe, sure, but… she doesn’t notice me anymore. Questions go unanswered. Compliments, unthanked. Concerned looks, unreturned. And for eight days, she has continued the act. I might be impressed if I weren’t on the receiving end. But at the same time, I haven’t exactly been trying my hardest to get her attention, for the very simple reason that, when I asked her if the Rules were still active, she didn’t respond. And I’m not about to take a risk with her again.

So, naturally, as has been every meal since the princess came to visit, breakfast is a quiet event. I scoop out what I can and suck my fingers clean, then go through the arduous process of picking out the dregs of paste that had lodged themselves under my nails. What I can’t remove will come out in a quick bath, I know, but I don’t like the feeling, and it gives me something to do in the absence of friendly conversation. Or conversation of any kind.

When Amber finishes, she hops down from the chair and strolls over to me, then piles my bowl into hers and returns to the kitchen. She’ll wash everything in the evening; drag a large pot outside, fill it with water and scrub all the dirty dishes with an old rag that’s nearing the end of its use.

From what I’ve seen, it doesn’t look nearly as rough as the other homemade items, so I can only assume that it and the blanket come from somewhere else. Unless she’s secretly a master seamstress with the means and the knowhow to make and dye linen and felt. I’m doubtful, though, because, really, how could she see what she’s doing past her hooves?

Or is her sense of touch really that acute?

No, I’m giving that thought too much credit.

…Still… considering that fashion really is a thing here… as strange a thought as it may be, and as boring as it may seem to pre-Equestria me… I actually think I wouldn’t mind seeing how clothes are made here — if they’re made by machines, or by magic, or, improbably, by hoof. Whatever the case, I hope their methods are less dubious than the standard back home.

This world might be similar, but… not that similar… right?

Then again, I’d agreed to be the deciding factor in a dynastic dispute, and any good historian knows how many there’ve been throughout human history…

That’s one of the serious thoughts I was having before — how messy everything is. I mean, I know what I have to do, relatively speaking… but those shows and movies… or the ones that I preferred, at least… rarely had a clear-cut hero. Plenty of villains, to be sure, but… seldom a champion for all things good and virtuous. Those that were soon gave in to the dark side of the Force, or were removed from the equation entirely.

I don’t think what I’ll be doing will necessarily be so… vile… but still, diving headfirst into a pool without knowing how deep it is holds no appeal to me whatsoever.

Thankfully, Amber gives me something else to focus on by pacing through the kitchen to the front door. She’ll be heading outside to do some ‘chores’, as I imagine she wants me to think, but she’s really getting away from me for half the day. I’ve had to skip eight lunches because of that, and because I assume the Rules are still in effect, I haven’t dared raid her pantry for a snack.

I won’t say I haven’t thought about it.

I picture everything as the sounds drift my way. Hooves clack on the floorboards as she approaches the entry, one reaching up to undo the latch and pull the handle. The door swings open lazily, and a breeze gently breathes a gust of cool air into the house. Her outstretched hoof returns to the wooden floor and, with a flick of her hair, she trots out to start the day.

Except that last part doesn’t happen. Instead, she backs up.

I lean over and peer through the archway.

She stares at something just beyond the threshold, eyes wide, pupils shrunk, ears down and a foreleg raised, ready to take another step back.

“Amber?” I call, shimmying off the bench and striding towards her. “Amber, what is it?”

For the first time in a long, long time, she looks at me.

I’m tempted to savour the moment, but if something has scared her, there’s a good chance I should be afraid too. I shuffle further and turn to the entry.

Sitting outside on the grass, iridescent in the morning sun, is a little velvet pouch. And resting against it is a thin roll of paper with a wax seal.

Yes. Yes, I suppose I should be afraid.

But I can’t afford to be.

I hop closer and, carefully, pick them up. The pouch is hefty in my palm and full of metal pieces that jingle with the slightest movement. Coins. I’m guessing these are the funds she promised, and if so, this’d better be enough to buy what we need, because loose change has never really done me any good, except buy me snacks from vending machines. I hope the note will explain things better.

I duck back inside and inspect the scroll, though there isn’t much more to say about it. Displayed on the seal is a winged heart — the very same that bejewelled Selene’s collar so many nights ago. A personal emblem, I assume, but considering her full name, it’s a tad too literal for my taste. I break the seal as I re-enter the living room and set the pouch on the table.

Amber slowly walks up beside me.

I unroll what little there is to unroll and hold the paper out in front of me, and I’m all at once relieved and disappointed to find a very short message written in the curliest handwriting I’ve ever seen. Yet, surprisingly, I can understand it. “For your consideration,” I read aloud, sounding less keen than I’m sure Selene was when she wrote this. “Good luck.”

Amber retrieves the pouch, loosens the thread holding it shut and pours the contents onto the table. Gold coins spill everywhere, one rolling off the edge and landing on the floor with a weighty thud. Each is stamped with a coat of arms on one side and a portrait of Selene on the other, a cyan gem replacing her visible iris.

It’s a strange thought, to think that I’d met someone whose face adorned currency, and that I knew them on a first name basis. But she has made herself clear: the time has come.

I can’t deny it. My leg is leagues better than when I found myself here. The ache in my ankle has all but gone and the swelling in my knee is lessening by the day. My limp is almost negligible now, but not enough that I want to jog or stand on one leg. I can walk, to be sure, but with a slight hobble. And I guess that’s all Selene needs right now.

Amber turns around and walks back into the kitchen.

I start collecting the coins. They’re thicker and, naturally, heavier than the ones in my wallet — which I still haven’t told either of my associates about — and shinier too. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that there’s real gold in them. They certainly look the part. And if they are, I can only imagine how much they’d be worth back home. A car? A house? A mansion? A luxury yacht?

One can only dream.

The sound of a clay pot breaking interrupts me.

I freeze, staring at the archway.

A few moments later, a second pot breaks, quickly followed by a third.

I stride for the kitchen and lean around the corner.

Amber raises a forehoof and stomps on the shards once, twice, thrice, and then adds the other hoof and stomps harder and faster, baring her teeth and letting out a deep growl that rises in volume until the debris is nothing but dust. When the deed is done, she glares at her work with furious eyes and huffs wrathfully, catching her breath. As she turns back to the counter to grab another, she spots me, and her rage is bolstered tenfold.

I take a step back.

She slings a fourth against the wall, and a fifth and a sixth, each with increasing ferocity, then drags out a large container, heaves it onto her shoulder as she stands on two legs, wings unfurling from the effort, and slams it into the floor with a piercing shriek.

“Amber…”

She stomps about the room, hammering chips and splinters into oblivion.

“Amber, please…”

She removes a ladle from the counter and snaps it against the edge, then sticks her forelegs inside the shelf underneath and sweeps everything onto the floor, breaking some items, cracking others, and leaving the area between us a minefield of stone and clay.

“Amber, please, stop.”

“NO!” she barks, stomping so hard as she faces me that the boards beneath her hoof dent. “You’re taking everything from me — you’re not taking this!”

I’m almost relieved to hear her speak again. Almost. “You’re breaking all your stuff.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious, dingus! I would never have guessed these pots were mine! Not in a million years! Great detective work — absolutely marvellous!”

“…Don’t you think you should stop?”

She picks up a bowl and throws it at me.

I flinch, but it misses completely.

She roars and smashes a few more.

“Amber, this isn’t helping.”

“It’s helping me!” she snaps. “And it’s not like I’m ever going to see this place again, so what does it matter?! And what do you care what I do with my house?! You don’t live here!”

“Maybe not, but… this isn’t like you.”

She narrows her eyes. “Not like me?”

I don’t respond.

She marches closer. “Not like me?”

Still, I don’t respond.

“This is exactly who I am, dingus. This is me after suffering through your antics nonstop for a week and a half. This is me after I tried pushing back, only to have Princess Selene herself swoop in and tell me off. But that wasn’t enough, was it? No, of course not — that would’ve been too easy. So, now I have to babysit you. You. Of all the ponies in the world, it had to be you. And you’re not even a pony! You’re just a freak. A big, ugly, miserable freak who can’t take care of himself.”

I stare at her, unmoved.

“I didn’t ask to be stuck with you — I don’t want to be stuck with you — what I want is for you to find the nearest cliff and jump off. But we can’t always have what we want, can we? So, excuse me if I seem a little FRIGGING LIVID ABOUT IT, but I am.”

“I didn’t ask for this either.”

“Of course you did! You chose to come here, you chose to stay, and now I have to leave because you’ve chosen to go halfway round the world to find some unhinged bint who can’t leave well enough alone!”

“I never had a choice.”

“You always had a choice. I’m the one who didn’t.”

“…You chose to save me.”

“Oh, so it’s all my fault, is it?!”

“It’s… no one’s fault, Amber.”

She stomps again. “Who’d the princess ask to be a spy, dingus?! Who didn’t argue when she said that I’m going too?! Whose fault was that?! Where was my choice?!”

“…You didn’t say anything either.”

“She’s the princess. What was I supposed to say?”

I shrug defensively. “Then what are you blaming me for?”

“Because you could’ve turned her down. And you still can!”

“And do what? Risk being stuck here forever?”

“If it means getting out of my life, then yes.”

I pause, then gently shake my head. “I want to go home, Amber.”

“And I want to stay home.”

“I know, I know, but you—”

“But what? Your wants outweigh mine?”

“…No…”

“Then what, dingus?! What makes you more important than me?!”

“…I’m not more important than you.”

“So, call it off! Send her a letter and call it off!”

I hesitate. At first, it’s because I wonder how I’m supposed to send a message with no pen, pencil, quill, inkwell, crayons, paper, address, mail service or working phone. But then another thought takes hold. A serious thought. Not one that I had before, but one that sickens me all the same. And what makes it worse is that… as despicable as it may make me feel… I can’t disagree.

I shake my head again.

Amber glares at me, brows warping into a vengeful scowl, lips curling into a venomous snarl. “Do it,” she rumbles, trembling.

“I can’t.”

“DO IT, YOU LITTLE PARASITE, OR I SWEAR I’LL…!”

I wait for her to finish.

But she doesn’t. She rears up and shoves me aside with a feral scream, then rushes past me into the living room.

I quickly recover and chase after her.

Instead of going for my things, however, she slams and bolts her bedroom door behind her and proceeds to sound like a bull in a china shop. Something made of timber is flipped over and broken into halves, then quarters, then smaller and smaller pieces. The walls judder with blows so violent that I half-expect a foot to smash through. And every strike, crunch, snap and thump begins and ends with a fierce cry of unrestrained fury.

Cautiously, I approach.

I hear something fly across the room and crash against the door with a heavy clatter — metal pots, I assume, tied to a bag of some kind. There’s more pounding on the walls, stomping on the floorboards, and growling of things that I can’t quite understand, and I’m not sure I want to. But eventually, her momentum wanes. Her anger is still there, and I can tell she wants to continue the demolition, but it must be hard if she’s already worn herself out, and there’s nothing left to demolish.

She pants lightly in the far corner — or huffs; it’s hard to tell — but she doesn’t move anymore. I can imagine her sitting against the walls with her chin to her chest and her forelegs hugging her hindlegs close. It’s a bit of a stretch, but considering her kind’s remarkable flexibility, I wouldn’t put it past her.

“Amber?” I beckon.

No response. Predictably.

“Amber, listen…” I begin, then pause to gather my thoughts. Asking her whether she’s okay would be an insult — no doubt about that — so it’s best to just bite the bullet and start explaining myself, and hope that I convince both of us that I’m not the worst human in existence. Quite literally, I suppose.

I mean, being homesick… It can’t be that selfish. Can it?

“…I don’t like this any more than you do. It’s… big. And unfair. And I know I’m not making it any better, but… this might be the only chance I have. And I’m sorry, Amber, but I just can’t give it up. Even for you. Please, believe me, I would if I could… but I can’t. I… I need to go home, Amber. And the sooner we do this, the sooner you’ll be rid of me, and the sooner you can go home too. You’ll never see me again, I’ll never see you again, and…” I drift off, looking over my shoulder for inspiration. “I’ll be packing up, okay?”

Silence reigns behind the door.

“Okay,” I mutter, turning back to the bench. “Good talk.”

Still nothing.

I sigh. I feel no better. Even as I pull my bag onto the table and reclaim my laundry from in front of the hearth, I can’t escape the looming, foreboding feeling that I am, somehow, in the wrong.

With good cause, I should add; whether this is my only chance of going home or not, Selene still expects me to hunt down someone so she can do whatever she wants to them. It doesn’t matter if Firebrand’s a stranger, or a ‘pony’, or a radical — something about this isn’t right. I know that it’s better her than me, but… being someone’s personal spy, or hitman, or kidnapper… or worse…

To steal a phrase, it doesn’t sit well with me. Even if it’s sanctioned by the monarch herself.

Especially if it’s sanctioned by the monarch herself.

But maybe I’m overthinking this. I hope I am, at any rate. Maybe things aren’t as complex as I make them out to be. Maybe this is just a simple case of the greedy claimant taken to arms. Maybe the world here isn’t so bad. Minus the Medusa-chickens, of course.

…I’m still a good guy… right?

I blink and start listing my possessions. Three shirts; white, moss green, and long-sleeved maroon. Two pairs of shorts; blue denim and flaxen cargo. Two rags; my old shirt and a third pair of trousers that tore on day six. One pair of sneakers; drab and worn. One week’s worth of socks and underwear; freshly washed and dried. One set of keys; useless. One wallet; also useless. One camera; operational. One pair of earbuds I’d found in my bag; likewise. One phone; out of order.

As I take stock of my inventory, I realise how ill-equipped I am. Of course, I hadn’t planned on finding myself so far from home, and I haven’t had a chance to buy more appropriate gear, but still, I feel like I should have taken precautions. I know that’s hindsight talking, but…

Three days. That’s not long, is it? Three days of walking will pass by in the blink of an eye, so long as I don’t pay attention. And after that, it can’t be that long from one end of the country to the other. Really, this whole journey will be over before I know it, and then I can put this whole escapade behind me. No colourful ponies, no magical deeds, no… moral implications of any kind.

It’ll be fine. It’ll be quick, easy, painless, and I won’t have to deal with anything like this ever again. Like a vacation. A long… laborious… excruciating vacation.

I pack everything into my bag, the note included. What I’m wearing now will get me through this leg of the trip, and smell won’t matter so much when we’re in the open air. When all is done, I sling my bag over my shoulders and tighten the straps, then head around to the other side of the table and finish returning the coins to their pouch.

As I drop the last one in, the bedroom door opens, and out Amber walks, glowering at me, wings folded and emotionally exhausted, but nevertheless incensed. She pushes a backpack of her own across the floor — a hiker’s rucksack — styled like mine, strangely enough, but a dull blue in colour and far more heavy-duty. Small metal pots and pans dangle from it, dim with dust and flecks of rust, rattling against each other with every prod. It also has two side-flaps; one for a large, empty pocket, and the other for a rolled-up bedroll.

When she finishes, she yanks the blanket from the bench and folds it in half three times, then shoves the bag over and fastens it to the front with a pair of loose belts.

“You’ve been sleeping without a blanket all this time?”

She shoots back the same spiteful stare.

I shut my mouth.

“Pretty generous, huh?” she seethes. “Shame you won’t return the favour.”

I don’t react. Not outwardly.

“Let’s get something straight: you’re not special. Sure, you might be resistant to magic, and you might be in cahoots with the princess, and you might — might — be from another world. But deep down, no matter how you try to spin it, you’re just another selfish jerk, same as everypony else.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You don’t need to go home — nopony does — you just want to, and you don’t care who you step on to get there. So, I’m not doing this because I want to; I’m doing this because I’ve been told to. Never for you.”

“…That’s fine by me.”

“Good,” she snarls, then pulls the bag upright, sits in front of it and tightens a wide, solitary buckle around her waist. When she stands, it rests on her back, the side-flaps completely cover her flanks and leave her wings with just enough room to stretch and fold. It seems a little big for her, but… I don’t think pointing that out would do me much good. “Let’s go.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“…You don’t want to say good—”

“I want to get this over with! Now march your flank out the door or I’ll kick it out myself!”

“Okay, okay,” I groan, raising my arms in mock surrender and striding for the exit.

Amber follows me through to the kitchen and enters the pantry, I guess to stock up on food. She stamps on yet more shards as she goes, the pots on her rucksack clanging softly as it sways, like poorly-tuned jingle bells.

The air outside is cooler than most other days, fed by a gentle breeze that’s blowing a few clouds in from the east. They’re not big or grey, so there shouldn’t be any rain, but I won’t be placing my bets anytime soon — it’ll be a long time before I forget what my first day was like. I know the thunderstorm had nothing to do with what the cockatrice did to me, but it certainly didn’t help.

I take in the scenery. Ankle-high grass for about two hundred metres in all directions, pockmarked with small dips in the earth where I figure tree stumps used to be. Beyond that, an all too familiar forest, and further still to the west and north, mountainous ridges. The sun hangs low in an orange sky, casting its golden light across the land, climbing slowly, but noticeably, and bringing with it the promise of a new day.

And indeed it would be — the first step of a mighty adventure.

I just hope I won’t have to lose another piece of myself in the process.

About a minute later, my de facto guide and bodyguard steps out and shuts the door.

“Where to?” I ask.

“West,” she answers dryly.

I turn back and frown at her. “Where to?”

She holds my gaze with bitter resentment, then looks past me and gestures with a forehoof. “We’ll be following the river south to a lake. From there, we’ll head west and cut through a pass in the range, then follow the coast to Vanhoover.”

“Vanhoover?”

Her scowl deepens. “Got a problem with that?”

I stare at her incredulously for a long moment, then sigh and hang my head with my hands on my hips. “Whatever,” I murmur, surrendering yet again, then turn south and start walking. “I’m done complaining.”

I can feel her eyes drill into my back as I wander away, watching me with heavy scepticism. And then the pots begin to rattle again, and she falls in line behind me. Her footsteps start off slow, plodding and reluctant, but they soon speed up to their regular pace. More forceful than usual, though, because I can hear them over mine. Unresolved anger. Fair, but unwelcome, and not something I want to deal with right now.

But as we approach the foot of the hill, the sounds of clattering pots and hooves on grass fades away. I hardly notice it at first, and when I do, I keep walking, thinking she’s just being difficult. But then something stops me — a feeling; an air of hesitation — and I come to a halt and look back.

Amber stands frozen with her head facing home. I can’t see her expression, but the angle of her ears and the slight sag in her neck tells me all I need to know.

…No.

A good guy, I am not…

But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.

Quiet as I can, I set down the pouch, slide off my backpack and retrieve the camera from its bag, then switch it on, take off the cap and adjust the settings. We’re outdoors at sunrise, so that’ll mean a low light sensitivity — let’s say… an ISO of 400. And because I’ll be taking a landscape shot, I’ll want everything in focus, which means a medium aperture…

Actually, let’s bump down that ISO to 200 and increase the exposure time; I’ll have to keep it extra steady, but the image should be a little brighter. Sure, I could take as many photos as I like and choose the best from a mediocre bunch, but I don’t want to be spending more time of this than I need to. It has to be right the first time or not at all.

I stand up and turn to the cottage, camera at the ready, but stop when I see Amber staring at me. I must have either been talking to myself or making too much noise, or both. In any case, she examines me closely, but not critically, and makes no comment on the device in my hands, or what my intentions clearly are.

I advance with cautious confidence and take position beside her, but not too close. And then, after glancing back to make sure I’m not overstepping my bounds — or more than I already have — I bring the viewfinder to my eye and peer through.

Golden light on whitewashed walls. A homemade door slightly ajar. Windows open and welcoming the sun. A thatched roof, weathered, but standing strong. Dandelions sprouting from a sea of grass. Mountains of green and grey rising in the background. And above it all, the dark blue of night fading away with the breaking dawn.

I focus the lens and take the shot.

…Perfection…

The first leg of the journey west bears a striking resemblance to my first day here, barring one very stormy detail. Not just because we’ve passed by the spot where I found myself over a week ago, but because I haven’t said a word since our brief exchange outside the cottage.

It’s not that the silent treatment has reared its ugly head again — and I’m glad it hasn’t — it’s just how the journey goes; there’s nothing to say. I have questions, sure enough — an almost boundless supply of them, in fact — but they don’t have anything to do with the task at hand, and Amber has made it quite clear how short her temper runs. Whether she could answer any of them is neither here nor there: she’d berate me even if I tried.

Besides… I haven’t given her much reason to be cooperative, have I?

“You know, I never caught your age,” I remark, heedless of the warnings.

Ahead of me, Amber slows her pace and sags with a frustrated sigh. “Does it matter?”

“Not really. But—”

“Then don’t ask.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

She halts and looks over her shoulder with an all too common frown. “Isn’t the fact that I don’t want you to enough?”

“It’s just a simple question.”

“And I don’t feel like answering. Least of all to you.”

I catch up and stand beside her, eyes locked with hers. “So, what, we’re just going to walk in silence the whole time?”

“Why not? Eight days was easy enough. What’s wrong with three more?”

I frown back. “Because we’re supposed to be a team.”

“No. We aren’t supposed to be anything. All I have to do is make sure you stay alive, but that’s where it ends. I don’t have to be your friend, buddy, and I don’t want to, so the sooner you get that through your thick head of yours, the better.”

“…I don’t think you’re much older than me.”

Her frown becomes a scowl. “You weren’t listening, were you?”

“I was, and I don’t blame you. But that won’t stop me being curious.”

She winces, then turns away and continues walking.

“What?” I ask bemusedly, matching her pace. “Really, what’s the big deal? It’s not like I’m asking why you have a second name or anything.”

She shoots me a rancorous look.

“I’m not asking that. So, I’m not breaking the Rules, am I?”

“Bring it up again and you will be.”

“On what grounds?”

“Rule Two.”

“…Which was that again?”

“Do what I say.”

“Oh, right. The fun rule.”

“Don’t get sassy with me.”

“It’s not sass; it’s salt.”

“…Salt?”

“Yeah, salt. You know, like… Oh.” I look back to her. “Horses like salt, don’t they?”

She narrows her eyes. “Ponies.”

“Still, it doesn’t make much sense to you, does it?”

“Half of what you say doesn’t make any flipping sense.”

“A bit of an overstatement.”

“Hardly.”

“Selene doesn’t seem to think so.”

“The princess doesn’t know what to think. All she said is that you’re different and you’re not from here. She never said anything about believing you.”

“And you?”

She winces again. “What about me?”

“What do you think?”

“…That you’re the biggest headache I’ve ever had.”

I flinch inwardly. It’s an automatic response and I hate it — how something I once found so benign is now one of the most hurtful insults to ever grace the English language. “I’m being serious, Amber.”

“So am I,” she says peevishly. “My life was fine until you came along. I was happy.”

“Didn’t look like it.”

“And what would you know? Do I need to be smiling all the time? Does my life need to be full of sunshine and rainbows and the magic of friendship? No. Some ponies like being alone. Some ponies like being independent. I, for one, like being out here, where life is simple and I don’t have to care about anypony else. But then you showed up, and you had to ruin everything, didn’t you?”

“You think I meant to?”

“If you didn’t, you have a funny way of showing it.”

I slump and groan, “Can we please not do this?”

“Excuse me,” she retorts. “In case I didn’t make myself clear back there, I’m not doing this because I want to — I’m a hostage, so I’ll complain as much as I like, thank you very much. And if it makes you feel worse, tough luck. It’s the least you deserve.”

I hold back an exasperated sigh and search my surroundings for something of interest.

Grass. Trees and mountains in the distance over rolling hills of grass. To our left is the river, still muddy, but now flowing with a thin, shallow trail of water, twisting and turning in the trench along the path of least resistance. On the right, the ridge blocking the west from view is coming to an end, giving me the impression that we’re heading into a rather spacious valley. The few clouds that once peppered the eastern sky have long since passed, leaving the sun clear to warm the earth, and me, from above.

To think, there’s a being with enough power to raise it and its twin, using forces beyond my total comprehension. And I had met her. Talked with her. Shared meals with her. Grown to know her on some personal level, yet be sure that I’ve barely scratched the surface.

And now I am in her service, trudging across a world I know next to nothing about to find a renegade aristocrat whose motives I don’t fully understand, escorted by a talking pegasus who’s making way too much sense.

Just another chore on a Sunday of housework.

I stop to appreciate the view from the top of a gentle ridge.

A valley indeed, and what a sight it is; easily a few kilometres wide from this side to the other, and from east to west… I have no idea. Long enough to leave me clueless, at least, especially on the left, where it seems to cut through most of the range in a relatively straight line, before widening even further and veering off behind a mountain.

It’s shallow, as far as my experience with hiking goes, and dotted with pockets of trees, including a line following another, larger and definitely better supplied river, sourced from two tall peaks on the right. In the centre of it all, almost directly ahead of us, surrounded by yet more trees, is a lake. A real one. Bigger and undoubtedly deeper than the glorified pond by Amber’s house.

“I take it that’s where we’re heading?” I ask the figure strolling down the grassy slope.

“What do you think?” she snarks.

I frown. “You could’ve just said yes.”

“Too bad, so sad.”

My jaw clenches, and I make a conscious effort to keep the pressure off my bad tooth. “You know, if you keep acting like this, I won’t feel sorry for you,” I warn, beginning my descent.

“I never asked for your pity,” she grumbles. “I don’t want it either.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To go home.”

“So do I.”

“At my expense.”

“And you wouldn’t do the same?”

“I would do what’s right: I’d give myself a choice.”

“So, you’d refuse what’s basically an order from the princess herself?”

Amber yanks herself to a halt with a surprisingly equine, yet unmistakably thunderstruck whinny. Neck stiff and ears high, she swings about to face me side-on. “Don’t bring her into this!” she snaps, although her anger sounds a little forced. “She’s not the one who won’t say no!”

“Would you?”

She shuts her mouth and takes an unsteady step back. “Don’t make this about me either,” she says, firmly, but with a slight quaver in her voice.

I stop beside her and narrow my eyes. “Then answer the question.”

“…Why should I?”

“Because if you don’t, you already have.”

Her scowl deepens, and then she blinks in confusion and shakes her head. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?! Since when do you speak in riddles?!”

I don’t reply, holding her gaze for a moment in a disappointed frown, then turn away and continue ambling toward the lake.

“Hey,” she calls reproachfully. “Hey!”

Even so, I don’t react.

She gallops in front of me and cuts me off, pots flailing about and crashing against each other. “Don’t walk away like you’ve proven anything! I’ve answered nothing!”

“Yes, you have.”

“How?!”

I straighten up and fold my arms. “Would you say no to the princess, if it meant you might never see home again?”

Her stern expression remains, but she takes another step back, and her voice sounds even more hesitant. “I told you not to make this about me.”

“And there you go, dodging the question.”

“…So what if I am?”

“So, you can’t bear the thought of being wrong, because that puts us on the same level. You wouldn’t give me a choice if we switched places, would you?”

“…You’re not the victim here.”

“I know. But I said it once, I’ll say it a hundred times: I hate double standards. So, go ahead and criticise me all you want — call me a selfish jerk if that’s what I am to you — but don’t go putting yourself on a pedestal, Blazer, because you’re no better.”

“…It’s Amber.”

“And there you go again! The point just flies over your head, doesn’t it?! Misses it by miles! All because you’re too obsessed with the little details to see the bigger picture! Or you see it and you still don’t care, because you don’t like what you see!” I take a moment to calm myself before continuing, “We’re stuck in this together, Amber. I can’t say no to her and you wouldn’t either, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

“…I won’t blame the princess.”

“No, of course you won’t — you’re blaming me, because I’m the most convenient.”

“…I’m not the bad guy.”

“Neither of us are. And we’re not good guys either. We’re just… desperate. And scared. And we don’t want to say anything because we hate each other and ourselves, and the first who does is basically admitting they’re the weaker one, and the other’s going to hang it over their heads forever. So, I’ve already lost that fight, haven’t I?”

“…You don’t know me.”

“I know you well enough—”

“You don’t know me!”

“Then surprise me! Don’t get angry at me for once! Empathise! Because I’m sick of you jumping at my throat every chance you get!”

She pauses, staring at me, huffing through her snout and a conflicted look in her eyes. Her wings are drooping somewhat, her ears are angled back ever so slightly, and her brows are lined with the faint, familiar wrinkles of a troubled frown. “I’m not a bad pony,” she says, with what little conviction she can muster.

“No,” I agree, then lean closer and sneer. “But I bet you’re worse than most.”

She stares back at me, seemingly unmoved. But then her eyes begin to shift, and she starts to blink faster, and her ears lower, and she retreats a few more steps, and even though she’s doing her best to hide it, she becomes visibly distraught. She turns around and sits with her back to me, and when the pots finally settle, she gives a meek, shaky, almost inaudible command, “Go away.”

“Why? So you can feel better about yourself? Because the truth hurts? Well then, welcome to reality, beehive! So glad you finally decided to join us! Now we can—”

“Adam. Please. Go away.”

I fall silent.

Why, I don’t know.

I want to keep raving. Treat her like she’s treated me. Tell her what I think; what I’d rather be doing — what I should be doing — instead of agreeing to a deal I couldn’t refuse. Remind her that sometimes in life, we have to do things we don’t like, and there’s no way to back out of them. Scold her for thinking that she’s the better person just because she saved me, when I did the same for her, and after she left me unconscious, sprawled on the grass, choking on half a tooth.

Everything I’ve said, and everything I want to say, is the truth. It may be cold, hard and inconvenient, but that is the nature of truth. And if she can’t handle it, that’s her problem, not mine.

Saying my name doesn’t give her a free pass.

…And yet… I am silent.

Even as I lower my arms. Even as I close my mouth. Even as I frown and feel the frustration build, I ask myself why. Why would it be wrong to break the peace? Why does she deserve my pity when she’s given me none? And why, despite myself and above all else, am I complying?

“I’ll be at the lake,” I say tersely, and continue down the slope.

She doesn’t respond. Not that I want her to.

I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. I have the perfect opportunity to get up in her face, shout her into the dirt and shut her up for good, and I’m letting it go, all because I can’t bring myself to do it. And for what? Because she’s a little upset? Big whoop. I’ve been feeling more than a little upset ever since I found myself here, and then some, yet here I am, marching on. Angry as hell, but still standing. And she starts acting mopey over a few harsh words.

I really am too forgiving, aren’t I?

She’s cold and callous and, in spite of all the opportunities I’ve given her, never learned how to keep her temper in check. I’ve been tolerant. I’ve been compassionate. I’ve been sympathetic. I’ve tried to find common ground, and every single attempt has been rebuffed and scorned. What more am I supposed to do? Everyone’s patience has a limit and I’m at the end of mine.

I stop at the bottom of the hill and turn back to yell something snide.

But the words vanish before they reach my tongue.

From this distance, she isn’t much bigger than a thumbnail, and there’s no sound but a soft draft through the valley, but I don’t need to hear or see her in detail to know what it is she’s doing.

Crying.

Not wailing loudly like a heartbroken lover, or weeping waterworks like a fountain. A rub of the eye. A simple sniff. A heaving chest when breathing in and shuddering shoulders when breathing out. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Rarely without restraint. As if she doesn’t want to admit it, even to herself. Or perhaps — and more likely — she knows she’s being watched.

A pang hits me, pressing on my chest like an open palm and pushing through. Dulled by the bitterness I’m already feeling, it doesn’t go very far, and I can’t tell what it is right away, but I know that in some strange way, what I’m doing isn’t right. Staring, that is. It wouldn’t be right to say anything either. So, instead, I start walking again. Backwards, at first, and slowly, unable to take my eyes off her for some reason, but then after a few strides, I turn around and resume my journey, frowning at the grass before my feet.

Am I letting her off easy?

I want to think so.

I want to, but I don’t.

Why?

If I am letting her off easy, why do I think I’m not?

And if I’m not letting her off easy, why do I feel I should?

…I’m… confused… And I’m not sure what by. Myself? Her? Us? Something else entirely? How am I supposed to know? I’m not a psychologist. Or psychiatrist, or whatever those doctors who ask ‘and how does that make you feel’ are called. Therapist. Shrink. Whatever. That last one sounds a little derogatory, though. I don’t think I need one yet, but if this… sense of discomfort keeps growing…

Shadows play across the ground as I pass under a canopy of leaves, and I look up slightly to better see my path. The forest here is less dense than the one surrounding the cottage, full of pines more than anything else. What species they are, I can’t tell, but they’re tall enough that I might be able to reach the lowest branches if I jump, and thick enough that my fingers would only just touch if I wrap my arms around the trunks.

The image of me hugging a tree brings an old memory to my mind, and I welcome the distraction. A memory, from my old house, when a family of birds were harassing passers-by in the street, and I had the bright idea of bribing them off with food. And it worked; so well that I had them literally eating out of my hand within three months. There were about nine in total, though I’m sure some came and went as they pleased, but I did manage to catch a few faces.

Speckle was the first to warm up to me. She had an air of confidence about her. Not in an arrogant sort of way, but more… erudite. Learned, if that makes any sense, considering her avian nature and whatnot. Pecker was the second, so named because he was just as confident as Speckle, but a little less courteous, to others and to me. At least, until I managed to straighten him out by favouring his targets, then shooing him away whenever he tried to pester them.

A few other names stick out; Shyler, Big-B and Hopalong. The rest, I’ve probably forgotten, or I never knew them well enough — I don’t remember. What I do remember, however, is that on the evening before we moved out for a place closer to the city, I saved a bread roll from dinner and shared it with them. And when that was done and they’d all flown back to their tree, I gave it a great, big hug, hoping they’d somehow feel it too.

They were just birds — probably in it more for the food than anything else — but for a five-year-old in a neighbourhood without any kids my age, it was something. Maybe not the same as having someone to play with or talk to, but something.

I was a heck of a lot happier than I am now, that’s for sure.

The canopy breaks and gives way to a gentle slope, and about ten, twenty metres further is the lake. If memory serves me right, it’s shaped somewhat like a giant bean, and judging by the view I’m granted, I’m standing on the slight bend inwards. Grass, trees, white sand on the shores, mountains, again, rising in the background, and clean blue waters shimmering with the light of a sinking sun.

I rest a hand on my hip and use the other to shield my eyes. Twelve hours. Or close to it, at any rate. It really hasn’t felt that long. I mean, sure, I said that it wouldn’t, and it hadn’t… but… I don’t know. I guess I was expecting something a little… well… more. Adventures are usually filled with adventure, aren’t they? Not just travelling endless expanses of nothingness. Beautiful nothingness, granted, but it’s starting to wear on me. Familiarity breeds contempt, after all.

But that’s not the only thing that breeds contempt, is it? Fight fire with fire and everyone gets burned. I learned that lesson the hard way. And now I’ve made the same mistake again.

I wander to a tree and lean against it, then take off my bag and sit at its base. Despite my peaceful surroundings, I am not at peace. Far from it. I’ve done something I promised myself I’d never go back to doing, and I’d… wanted to make it worse — to exacerbate the issue — just so I could feel better about myself.

And then what would happen? For the rest of the trip, I’d have to be the jerk, otherwise she’d see through the ruse and treat me worse than she ever had before, and then it’d be a verbal arms race over who could hurt the other more, short of beating them. Or she wouldn’t care, and instead I’d be stuck with a pessimist, lethargic and slow-moving, shutting me out with all but the most basic of responses; yes, no, maybe, don’t care. In either case, nobody wins.

And, perhaps more importantly, Selene would be sorely disappointed.

…I should do something, shouldn’t I?

But what? Go back? Talk to her? What would I say? How do I start something like that? Would she even want to hear it? Is it worse to try and fail or to never try at all?

I mean, I know it’s better to try, but I’m not sure it applies when she’s involved — she’s…

She’s different.

Pots and pans rattle from behind. Pine needles crunch underfoot. The trunk I’m resting against suddenly feels quite hollow. As do I.

An orange snout peeks around the corner, quickly followed a neck, two plodding forelegs, a fiery mane, and two half-lidded eyes. She stands on the edge of the tree line with me, close enough that I know she must have seen me, but far enough away that it’s clear she doesn’t want to be disturbed. So, she explores the scenery as I once had; silently and without much joy. Or if she does, she doesn’t show it. Not noticeably.

I try to say something.

Nothing comes out.

She turns and lumbers a little way to her right, away from me, and sets down her bag under the fading shadow of a pine. From there, she pulls from the main pocket a sheet of plain canvas, two wooden poles, several lengths of rope, and small metal pegs. A tent. Meant for one, if the size of the canvas is anything to go by, and not that it would be appropriate to ask if I could sleep next to her even if it was. She needs space. Or as much of it as we’re allowed to give each other.

I consider offering help, but remember that I don’t have much experience with camping, and even less how to raise a tent. She’d have to teach me on the fly, which means I’d be slowing her down, and considering her outburst about me not having any skills in gardening or house maintenance, I don’t think she’d appreciate that in the slightest. So, I keep my mouth shut, and trust my anxious gut that I’m doing the right thing.

The sun sets by the time she stamps the last peg into the earth. It only took her five minutes, at most — a technique I suspect she’s polished over many days and nights, because there wasn’t a moment of hesitation in any of her movements. If it wasn’t obvious to me before, it is now: she may call this mountain range home, but it’s not where she’s from. And I think it has something to with The Name That Shall Not Be Spoken.

She unbuckles the bedroll from the rucksack and spreads it across the floor of her shelter, then unfastens the blanket. Instead of heading into her tent, however, she hesitates, sitting and staring at the tartan felt in her hooves. And she stays like that for a good, long while, as if scrutinising it, but the air around her isn’t a critical one; it’s… pensive. Dejected, but pensive.

And then she holds it to her chest, stands, and walks towards me on three legs.

I try not to tense up.

She stops about an arm’s length away from me, head down and eyes on the ground, still half-lidded. And she stays like that for… too long. Ten seconds, if I count right, until she lets the blanket slide from her grasp and returns her hoof to the grass. And then she turns around and shuffles back to her end of the campsite.

“We’re going to tear each other apart, aren’t we?”

Amber slows herself to a halt and stays staring at the forest floor. I think she sighs, but I can’t be sure. “…Yeah,” she quietly, soberly agrees, then trundles on. “I guess we are…”

Author's Note

So you thought you might like to go to the show
To feel that warm thrill of confusion, that space cadet glow
Tell me, is something eluding you, sunshine?
Is this not what you expected to see?
If you want to find out what's behind these cold eyes
You'll just have to claw your way through this disguise