I’m walking, but where to?
With no intent, but it seems like I’m looking for absolution, absolution in a place where none is to be found. The magnificent Gothic spires of the old cathedral look but a shadow of what they once were, a tale of woe, as I’m sure, but a tale I don’t know as of yet. The cobblestone steps appear ominous, but I cannot worry about the trivialities of this place for the time being, rest is surely the most pertinent of things to do at the moment. The torch lit sconces of the street seem to be whisked away as I pass, the damp night air forming cool pockets in the collar of my trench coat. It only now struck me that I looked quite peculiar, the coat, the top hat, the obvious sense of purposelessness to my actions, all, were, to put it bluntly, out of place. I also neglected to mention the obtrusion around my waist of a holster which happened to be carrying a Pippington .38 cal revolver.
As I started to limp further and further down the streets, my hooves started to uncontrollably clutch my side. There was an unmistakable stinging pain trying to arrest my motion as I travelled along the Victorian pathway into an area that was quite literally shrouded in the mists of the night air. The pain became impatient, unnerving, but I did limp forward into the abyssal area until I saw lights flooding from either side of the street. In one fleeting moment, the place had seemed wholly different. The disquieting serenity of the empty streets had converted into the unwitty banter of unruly patrons frequenting the various establishments scattered around the edges of the pathway.
There was, within this array of dim noise, and equally dim lights, one light that attracted me to it fiercely. It is not particularly bright, nor is it summarily different from the others, but it caught my attention nonetheless. Pain now excruciating, I was drawing the unwanted attention of the people on the streets by clenching my side in agony as I limped further and further towards that light. I know you are quite frequently told to avoid that light at the end of the tunnel, but now it seems like my only plausible destination. Something about that light was different, I could not pinpoint it, maybe the way it flickered, its motion was unnerving, no, perhaps its colour was off. It seemed faded, fading, fadin... fad…
There was a noisy crack against the wooden floorboards within the house that belonged to the light that I saw. That seemed right; “the house that belonged to the light” …
At any rate, when I was describing my boorish appearance, I failed to bring light of the cause of that immensurable pain. A glaring gash across my left side, that was bleeding profusely, but not quite in the way that you would expect a wound of that size to bleed.
I felt a firm slap on my face, accompanied by a voice of similar power. As my eyes slowly opened along with that classic moment of blurred vision, I awoke to a face that was not familiar to me, in this life, or my brief stint in the next. My time in that place, equidistant both from earth and the afterlife, as a pony with little faith might call it, was shocking. Dante’s inferno may refer to it as “Limbo”, a home for the good, no, the people who existed as Godless beings. Someone must have judged me unfit for either plane, no heaven, nor hell, damned to forever roam the afterlife in the same fashion as I had lived, faithless, indecisive, dismissive. Limbo seems like the ultimate punishment, heaven seems fine, but to wander aimlessly among the spirits of the eternally “In-between” is just too unclear for a pony like me. Hell is not an attractive place, but some finality would be welcome, wouldn’t it?
Driven harshly back into this world by a stallion with a fiery mane and a right-hoof to match, I gasped for air. He seemed like a bar-hand, not the owner mind you, he wasn’t dressed accordingly, but he did have an aura of deep-seated kindness in his demeanor, masked by his calm and collected nature. His outstretched hoof looked to greet mine as he staggered back to his feet, his weight carrying both him and I, until I was completely on my hooves. Every pony in the tavern was leering at me, with equal curiosity, and the type of attention that would usually be paid to a pony in my situation. The type of situation that arouses attention based on pure principal… well they do always say first impressions matter the most.
As I settle down onto my hooves for what seems like the better part of an eternity, I begin to look at Mr. Fire-Mane with distinctly suspicious eyes. I thoroughly analyze, him, not knowing what I am particularly looking for, and I realize that I am glaring at him with much hostility. Unearned hostility I might add, that is quite unbecoming of a stallion that had just arrived in town. Fire-Mane once again reached for my hoof with his, I shook it, warily, but intently, as I am in a grave mood. The exact cause of this shade of existence was indeterminate to me, perhaps misplaced rage, lost deep within the depth of my psyche… why must I pander so fruitlessly?
“Uhh…uh… hi, it’s uhh.. it’s nice to meet you? …” the fiery headed one said with an obvious inflection at the end, as if he was asking me if it was a pleasure or not… Perhaps I’m looking into this a bit much seeing as I’m in a quite unfavourable situation. “… my name’s Silver Sky…”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it is, but the pleasure is all mine” I said with a cool and calm undertone, even if I wasn’t feeling quite right, it was always important to keep up appearances. My coat had been removed, and my filthy shirt was the only piece of clothing on my torso, drenched in blood from the rib – down. I’m sure I’m quite the sight right now, but the forest of eyes was no equal to my composition.
“The name’s…..” I stumbled, wait why can’t I remember my name, “Di... Di…”, no , it’s no use, what’s a pony without his name, a drifter, a pony with no home, a soul as unsettled as the tenuous sea that ultimately drifted him there. My memory seems to be fragments, bits here and there, without the bridge in between to connect them, sorrow, anguish, relief, repent… repent for what, this is heading nowhere, just like I am.
“I… I can’t remember my name, please excuse me.” As I stumbled out upon the moist stones, the light drizzle outside felt like hail on my skull, but it did not strike it in the literal sense, but it somehow felt like cold tremors within the very depths of my mind. An indescribable pain, brought on by the haunting of being a pony with no home, no companions, just a wanderer of the wastes. I was caught in a place somewhere between the unbearable decadence of Canterlot’s elite, and the tortuous lives of those who embrace the simple lifestyle in Dodge Junction. Of all the generic names for this place that seemed anything but, it was Ponyville, as I read on the wooden placard, eerily swinging above my head as I walked credulously down the cobblestone road. The placard was hand etched, but had a distastefully unsettling quality to it, like something out of a horror novel.
I finally reached a circular area in what seemed like the middle of town: Victorian architecture, likewise furnishings in the fronts of shoppes and houses. It had a concentric design, and in the middle, where all the energy of the area seemed to be focused, was a formidable tree. Its branches twisted around the structure that was built within it, and protruded very evidently from within the tree. There was a flickering inside, much like the one in front of the tavern, an implacable flickering, and now I’m oddly sure the glow seemed a bit off as well. I’m drawn to it once more, like a fatal attraction, Persephone beseeching me make haste back to the underworld … oh the underworld, at least I’d find some finality in my existence. Persephone my dearest, wait, wait-
When I had recovered from my disillusionment, and my apparent shortness of breath, I realized I had barged in through the wooden door that would have otherwise barred my passage if I hadn’t been so charmed by the light. A purple pony rushed out of her chambers, only to greet me with a warm smile, not a candle’s warmth, but expectant warmth, one from an old friend or relative. She had an air of arrogance to her; a tediousness about her disposition that was all in all, disquieting.
She tenderly touched my shoulder with her hoof: “Hi, it has been a while since we saw each other last, you never did tell me your name, Sir.”
I didn’t know what to say, ‘saw me last,’ my recent memory loss doesn’t help in the slightest. I’m often limited by my nature, it seems, I’m no more than a seafarer effortlessly riding the waves of life. It was apparent she had known me, was she in Limbo with me, I doubt it, but I’ve heard of ponies who try to coerce with the damned, and in my moment of despair, I know that’s where I was, a fate more eternally uneasy than the deepest reaches of Tartarus.
She was wearing a midnight blue hooded robe that cloaked her body, and as she rose to take her hood off, you could glimpse the most magical cutie mark I have ever laid eyes on. She was a unicorn: dark purple mane, with a pink strip towards the centre. She introduced herself as Twilight Sparkle, weird, it feels vaguely familiar, much like how you would struggle to remember an answer on an exam: so close, yet so far. That describes how I’ve been feeling lately.
She inquired about my thirst, and asked if I wanted a drink; I replied positively, minus my biting sarcasm, which seems to be all but gone in lieu of the situation. As she walked away to get me my drink, I noticed something that was just in the periphery of my vision, a book on a pedestal. It was pitch black, like Hades himself, and bore an insignia : a pentagram.
When she returned, I had gratefully accepted the drink : Lemongrass tea, oh equines love this stuff.
“I see your shirt is filthy with blood; mind if I ask if it’s your blood?” The purple mare probed, she wasn’t one to beat around the bush at all.
“ Uhh, I believe so, this wound under my rib seems to be causing it, and I seem to be suffering from some sort of memory loss…” I said shrewdly.
Come to think of it, I’m not entirely sure if all of the blood on my shirt is mine. I do have a wound there, but it seems like an awful amount to have from a gash that size.
As you’ve now probably come to realize, I love Greek mythology, it seems about one of the only things I can completely remember. I feel like I’ve always been entranced by ancient mythology, and how those ponies of old tried to shoot theories to explain what they could not fully understand. You know, Atlas was used as a means of explaining why the sky never fell; he held up the earth. On the shoulders of giants is what this world is, guided by the few that know. I feel like she’s somepony who knows.
“So miss Sparkle, where have we met? “my obvious first question was a certainty to both her and I.
“That hardly seems the most prudent of questions at the moment, why don’t you try asking if you’re here for a purpose?” she calmly responded. It wasn’t until now that I realized she had a knowing look about her face, knew something about me, my predicament, my loss.
The room seemed still, and if it wasn’t for the cool breeze coming through the window, it would’ve been unbearably tense. It was probably around 1 or 2 in the morning now, the streets were dead.
“Well, I can’t seem to remember anything – It’s all a blur, on big, fantastic blur. I know I was coming here for a reason, was that reason you?” I stumbled across my words like a belligerent drunk.
“That may be, but I’m not so sure” She said calmly as she walked into the foyer behind her. She reemerged with a trench coat: long, fleeting sleeves, and a carelessly adrift back. It had a rusty tone to it around the midsection, which differed from the rest of coat; a dusty brown.
She reached inside the pockets and pulled out an ID card and showed it to me. Of all the things I can remember, my face wasn’t among them. She led me to a mirror and as I gazed into the lost eyes of my calm face, I noticed a kind of serenity. Not a kind from a zen garden, or complete peace and quiet, but the self-realization kind.
She pinned the ID card to my chest and I held it up to the mirror. The card, oh, it was me, God – I examined the card fiercely. It read: Deputy Inspector Lesaddle, Canterlot’s finest, equicide division. I guess that’s who I am, Deputy Inspector – D.I. , perhaps that’s what I hazily remembered back at the tavern.
The mare gracefully floated to my side – “Are you alright? It seems to have upset you.”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Wallowing in my own pity wasn’t one of my strong suits.
As Twilight Sparkle left the room, I ran towards my trench coat. I grasped it with determination, and in my eccentric dash for the door, I proceeded to take that intriguing black book with me.
These sconces were really beginning to abuse my motivation; they flickered aimlessly about, like tides, heading in a general direction but with no purpose.
I know I shouldn’t pry in the affairs of other ponies, but she made hers mine from the moment she said she knew me.
