Such A Nice Word, Goodbye

They had decided to gather at the edge of Ponyville in the early dawn hours and had sat there since then. There were clouds above and the sky was quickly becoming overcast and dark and the more pessimistic of the bunch thought that very fitting and proper for the occasion. They were of different opinions of the reason for their gathering but they nonetheless knew that this final farewell was necessary in its own way and so they had gathered here without so much as a word of complaint.

It was quiet. You could hear the soft breaths that escaped the crowd as the air they breathed churned with emotion and dark energy. The wind was soft and gentle, like a mother cooing softly for her child to sleep. And they all sat there waiting yet for the reason to arrive and some even thought that perhaps it was all a joke, that there was no reason for this, that in actuality the reason had changed its mind and was in fact going to stay here in Ponyville and not do what was said the reason must.

But in time that thought was dispelled. Down in the town a door to a small home opened—unadorned, uninteresting, yet still as much of a part of the world as any tree or character or portion of earth—and out walked the pony.

There was nothing remarkable in appearance about this pony, and yet each one that had gathered there was of the mindset that this one appeared in a variety of ways. For some said that the pony was of white coat and mane with blue eyes that swirled with deep emotion and heart. Others still believed the pony’s coat was slate, dark and grey as that material and just as tough, and whose eyes dispelled all notions of befuddlement for in them rippled the pink waters of intelligence and logic. Some said the pony was a pegasus; others, a unicorn. Untapped potential in flight; or untouched power in magic; or untempered strength in build. No one skill was said to be this pony’s and yet so many believed it so, and perhaps that is because the pony there had all the skills needed.

Perhaps it was the fault of the light and the way it played tricks on the minds of those who saw this pony, but perhaps it was no one’s fault save for this simple truth of character: that in one therein is plenty.

The pony trotted forward. Head down, eyes lowered. Steps steady. Was it with shame or regret, or exhaustion and wariness? The question was asked in silence and answered with nothing, for the crowd knew it could be only answered by the one who approached, and at the same time was it their call to make to ask such a question of such an individual? For the pony’s reasons were its own, were they not, and explaining them such as to justify them to yourself was akin to selfish projection. So the saying went that nopony there really knew save for a few and perhaps that is just so as it should be.

But the pony trotted. In a short while it was now on the road and heading down it towards the crowd and as it approached it raised its head and saw them there. And its steps slowed. And its eyes were wide like moon disks—or baby-blue china plates—but it did not matter what simile they might have made to explain the pony, for it approached anyway without regard for such.

It steps slowed to nothing. The pony stopped. There must have been something strange going on with the sunlight, for some there thought that the pony carried bags across its winged back, or was levitating them with its magic, or was otherwise pulling them behind with a small wagon, unhindered by the weight of all that was brought. The truest amalgamation of life there and yet not; plural yet singular; the paradox of definition, against all definition.

The pony did not say anything, and so those in the crowd wondered who would be the first to say anything.

As always, it was the six who had been there since the beginning.

“Hello,” called Twilight Sparkle. Her voice was strangely low and despondent, yet also filled with a vibrancy that only the joy of seeing a familiar face could bring.

Fluttershy stepped forward, demure as always, soft-spoken as always. “You have a lot of bags, there.”

The pony nodded but did not say anything.

So Applejack stepped forward, taking her stetson off of her head and holding it against her chest as a sign of respect, or perhaps of sorrow and grief, or perhaps more, or perhaps less. “Ah wouldn’t suppose y’all would need our help carrying them, would ya?”

The pony shook its head. Its ears flapped, as if to catch on the wind a whisper from someplace else.

“Are you sure?” asked Rainbow Dash, flapping her wings as she floated in place. “I mean, I’m not saying you’re weak or anything, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a few friends helping you out, right?”

“Dashie’s right!” so chimed Pinkie Pie. None questioned her as she popped out of seemingly nowhere. Perhaps that was all right and good, too. But her mane was noticeably a little less poofy and her bubbly attitude quickly faded into one of concern. “But, we are your friends, right?”

Here the pony offered a wry grin, hesitantly. But the silence still remained.

“Darling?” And that was the last of them: Rarity. “It’s okay. You can talk to us.”

When the pony did speak, it was as if it was speaking with the voices of hundreds, all synchronized so as to mesmerize all who were listening, and yet none of what was said was garbled or misunderstood despite this; and the voice that came out of the pony’s mouth was both masculine and feminine, young and old, bitter and bright, foreboding and friendly, but perhaps most important was that the voice was what it was: the pony’s.

“You have helped,” the pony said. Or maybe it said more. It might have said more somewhere else or sometime else. Perhaps then and there it was saying far friendlier things, or perhaps harsher things, but at the core of what might have been said in those other times was this. “You’ve helped enough.”

And that was true. They had helped enough, maybe more than they could have imagined. They, who were Ponyville, and the ponies, and the six who had spoken, and more.

“So,” said Twilight, “you’re really doing this?”

“Yes,” said the pony.

“Will you be all right?”

“I will.” And they saw and heard the conviction in the pony’s voice and knew that this, too, was true. As true as the sun would rise and fall and night would follow and the stars would come out and all throughout the land the ponies would sleep and wake and work and play and do all those things that ponies did and more and also less and all would continue in this cycle and life would go on. It would go on and so would they and so they must.

“I see,” said Twilight. She smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes.

The crowd parted, driven by some unspoken command. The pony trotted forward once more. Somehow in the span of a breath it crossed on through and was on the outside of Ponyville and there down the road were the hills and past that the horizon that stretched out and beyond the mere boundaries of the tangible earth.

“Hey,” Twilight called, and the pony stopped and turned to look at her. “Could I ask you one other thing?”

The pony nodded.

“After all this has gone… will you still remember us?”

A pause. A silence, heavy and meaningful.

“Always.”

That was all they needed to hear. They smiled. “Then,” Twilight said, “I guess this is goodbye.”

The pony paused, then looked at each of them, then at the ponies behind them, at the town, at Equestria.

“It’s such a nice word,” the pony said.

Twilight tilted her head. “I’m sorry?”

“Goodbye,” the pony amended. “It’s such a nice word. It doesn’t mean anything sad, when you think about it. After all, it promises something good later.” The pony smiled. “Goodbye is a nice word for until next time, don’t you think?”

Then the pony turned, having said its peace, and began trotting forward once more on the path laid out before it. Some might have questioned if this was the right choice or if the pony was simply being foolish, but they would not be heard, for they were wrong anyway. The path walked was the pony’s now and it would be in the future always and all the steps taken and the choices made and all the outcomes that would be wrought, they would be the pony’s and the pony’s alone, to build for itself the foundation of its life.

But that foundation was to be built with other things, things that those who were now behind the pony had brought and taught and given freely when the pony had needed them, and what kind of character would it be if it did not turn and address that? And so it was that the pony turned and faced the crowd and the six and the town and all that had once been its center, now another part of the soul, none to be forgotten, and the pony said these words and these words only, and they were the only words that needed to be said and they were enough:

Thank you.