Wild was blinking at the ceiling of his dorm. The sun was shining into his bedroom, heralding the new day. He simply knew it was a new day - he had slept for more than twelve hours. He felt comfortable in his bed, somehow managing to wake up in just that perfect position from which he simply didn’t want to move. There was no tiredness in his body, no residual weakness - it was fully rested in a way he couldn’t quite describe. His mind was clear, and he thought something about it was better as well, although, once again, he couldn’t describe what it exactly was.

He didn’t remember dreaming about anything at all. He expected nightmares, he expected something, but there was nothing, just a long and yet instantaneous stretch of time dedicated to rest and nothing else. He was thankful it happened like it did - he had always welcomed dreamless sleep, and now it was more welcome than ever.

Wild got out of his bed, each movement deliberate. He stood up straight and then performed his morning stretches, helping his body wake up further, shrugging off the remains of sleep. The very sensation of stretching felt amazing, and a deep lungful of air was refreshing like nothing else. He liked his slightly dry lips, somehow surprised by the fact that he was thirsty.

The dorm was exactly the way he left it on the day of the Changeling Invasion save for a few things. Namely, now there were dirt marks left on the floor from when he returned, and his bed was in disarray and slightly dirty as well. He hadn’t bothered to shower when he came back, surprisingly and thankfully without being accosted by anyone on the way, and he simply laid down on his bed and went to sleep in what felt like an instance.

Everything in his dorm was how he wanted it to be even if not exactly how he would like it to be. It was still... impersonal. At first, he was fine with it, but now it felt wrong. Before he returned to it, there was a part of him that expected the dorm to be given to someone else, and he would then have a different one. In retrospect, it was obvious the thought had no basis in reality, but he couldn’t help himself. Before he died, he was homeless, and having a place afterwards didn’t feel real until recently. Now... perhaps he wanted a place that was truly his, although he didn't know if his dorm would be it long-term.

As he walked to the bathroom to take care of his morning needs, he was struck by how comfortable the dorm was in a spiritual sense. Or perhaps a sense of mind, he couldn’t exactly find the right description for it.

In a certain way, his dorm was his. He was allowed privacy in there. He remembered his early childhood when privacy was not a concept he understood, and his parents did not care much about it either. He had learned to forgive them for it - they had been raised in a different time and in a different culture. It was no excuse, but it was an explanation, and they made an effort to accommodate his sense of privacy once he blew up and yelled at his mother for entering his room without knocking one too many times. It wasn’t like he was even doing much of anything that would meet his parents’ disapproval at the time yet, but the very fact that someone could enter his place without his permission bothered him. He was scolded for shouting, of course, but his parents were willing to learn, and they respected his privacy in the future, always waiting for his explicit permission to enter. Perhaps surprisingly, they even respected it when he said ‘no’. He counted himself very lucky that them knocking was asking for permission and not just giving him a few moments to collect himself before they entered regardless of his wishes. His room was his.

This dorm, he once more told himself, was also his... at least for as long as he stayed at the orphanage. He didn’t know what the future held for him. Perhaps he would own a house or an apartment. Perhaps he would rent a house or an apartment. He thought about a possibility he had already lived through as a human - owning nothing and renting nothing, living in the streets, always afraid, always uncertain. On the street, nothing belonged to him. Every comfortable sleep nook could be taken away at any moment even in the middle of the night. There was danger, always, everywhere. He remembered waking up to pepper spray someone thought would be funny to use on him. That was, unfortunately, not the most unpleasant of ways to be woken up, he had learned later.

In the bathroom, he relieved himself and then jumped into the shower. Finally, he washed away all the dirt and grime from the day before, although he had to scrub vigorously to get rid of some tree sap. It was then when he noticed it.

The black circle on his left flank. He checked the right flank - a black circle was there as well.

A talent mark. He knew what it was, although a part of him expected he would never have one. Was he not a human in some way still? Humans did not have talent marks. No sort of spontaneous tattoo that he knew of, at least.

He thought it might be another brand, but this thought quickly disappeared, and a certainty came upon him - no, it was not a brand. It was a part of him. It was connected to what happened to... to how he lost his body and then regained it. To how he destroyed the Nightmare, and how...

Did he not consume whatever spirit mass or soul mass they were comprised of?

He rushed to the mirror. He remembered Luna’s words about what would happen had he accepted the Nightmare’s offer. Physical differences would be the most obvious. However, when he looked at himself through the mirror, nothing jumped at him. He was as he always was. Same height as far as he could see and feel, same colors, same muscles, same everything. He blinked - were his eyes brighter or was it his imagination? Was his vision sharper somehow or was he overthinking it, looking for more details just because he was focused on it? Were his pupils now taller and narrower and no longer perfectly round or was it a trick of the light? He moved his head closer to the mirror, looking at his own features with care, turning his head this and that way. One thing was clear - his mane was longer. Right now, it was long enough for its tips to be visible in front of his eyes if he combed the mane flat. Maybe another month and the mane would actively get into his eyes. Would it be a good idea to get it cut? Last time, he was balding heavily, and he shaved it all off as often as he could. Now, however... perhaps it wouldn’t be bad if he grew it out more. It looked good.

He shook his head slightly - he wasn’t looking at himself with the intent of considering making himself appear handsome or beautiful. Although, he supposed, it would not be bad. Maybe it would even be a good thing. He hadn’t cared much about his appearance beyond being clean and decently comfortable in a long while, and it was now time for his looks to improve. Why, though? He had no one to look handsome for. Though, he had to admit that some ponies looked... aesthetically pleasing. That was perhaps the best way to describe it, although he wasn’t certain. There was just something... more. Something he couldn’t describe properly. It was similar to...

His blood ran cold. He realized it, and how he wished he didn’t, how he wished he was wrong, but no... perhaps he should have expected it. Perhaps it would have always happened, considering that everyone around him was nude.

His mind was, somehow, having thoughts that came dangerously close to sexual.

He jumped back into the shower and turned it cold. He couldn’t think about it. He didn’t want to think about it. Just no.

A memory came to him, unbidden.

“Dad,” he remembered himself saying, somewhat awkwardly. He hadn’t known why it was his dad that he went to with this, but he did find out later that it was, perhaps, instinctual, “I have... I think...” he gestured somewhat uselessly, trying to force his thoughts into proper words, “Everyone is talking about girls. And... I don’t feel anything about that. But I feel stuff about boys. Just a little, I promise!”

“Ah, son, I think I know what you’re trying to say,” his father smiled at him, “I suppose it’s time. You are growing up, after all. Well then, let me educate you...”

The next hour or so was awkward, but Wild then learned about sexual and romantic attraction, as well as things that were connected to those attractions.

“A lot of people would really like for me not to tell you, but there are people who are attracted to boys but not girls,” his father said, “Or to both. I am one of those people. Back in the USSR, I had a boyfriend when I was just a few years older than you. We had to do things together in secret, of course, but it was worth it.”

His father was bisexual? Wild, at the time, thought it weird. If he was bisexual, then why did he marry a woman? His confusion was evident on his face then, and so his father continued his explanation.

“I can’t say it was love, exactly,” he admitted, “We fooled around, sure. Held hands, kissed, and more. But it wasn’t exactly what I have with your mom. Can’t really explain you what’s going on there, but I suppose I just don’t like men that way. I don’t know why, but, frankly, it doesn’t matter.”

Wild learned that he was gay. It was less of a shock than he thought it had to be.

“Some people are gay, some are bisexual, some don’t like anyone at all, and most are straight,” his father shrugged, “I don’t get why it has to be a whole mess with people saying who can and can’t marry whom, but it’s not up to me. My advice to you - know who you are, and know when and how to tell others of it, and when not to. The world isn’t kind to the gays. I am lucky I fell in love with a woman, I suppose. Though, know that I will be by your side. Whomever you like, it’s all the same to me, just make sure whomever you get involved with knows what he’s getting into, alright? And if it comes down to the dirty, there are a couple tricks to make things go smoothly. I’m sure you don’t want to hear me talk about it, so I’ll see if there are any books around on that topic.”

Wild would forever be grateful that his father went about it the way he did. It was a lot less awkward than it could be, and Wild didn’t have to hide who he was from his family.

Unfortunately, any thought of sex was now met with a wall of extremely unpleasant memories. He held his head under the shower for a long time, hoping the rush of water would wash away the invisible stains he felt on himself, wishing for the sound to drown out the degrading words he heard inside his head, prayed for the sensation of water on his skin to remove the feeling of harsh hands grabbing him, nudging him, pushing, pulling-

He breathed hard, counting each breath, turning the water the coldest it could go. One breath, two breath, and it was so cold. Three breath, four breath, he was shaking and shivering. Five breath, six breath, there was nothing but him, the lungs filling with air, and the cold water running through his fur.

He didn’t know how much he spent like it but, eventually, he turned the water off, emerged from the shower shaking, and roughly dried himself off. The memories were still there, they were waiting for him, but he could hold them at bay.

The circle. The circle on his flank. Two of them, one on each flank, that was what he needed to think about.

Was he inside the circle, locked away from the rest by the thick black line? Was he outside the circle, prevent from accessing something within? Was he the circle, protecting something or keeping something away?

The color black was the color of darkness, the color of nothingness. It was the color of death, and he thought it suited him. He died not once but twice, and he came back both times. Black, the color of death, and a circle, the symbol of cycles. Life and death, perpetually together, perpetually in motion, one after the other. It fit... but it wasn’t quite what he thought it was. There was more to it.

What sort of symbolism was it? He should have looked more into talent marks. He knew what they did - they showed what a pony had a talent in, hence their name. However, usually, it was far clearer. A paint brush signified a painter, a hammer a carpenter, everything just made sense. Then what did a black circle mean?

He brushed his fur away and looked closer, craning his neck, bending to bring his face closer to the flank, to the circle on it. The fur was turned black, and even the skin underneath was black. It was not a fuzzy circle, no, it was very well defined, a stark contrast against his blue fur. The circle, for all intents and purposes, was perfect as well, although it was stretching along with how his skin stretched. Neither the skin nor the fur felt any differently - the only difference was the color. It was certainly not paint - he couldn’t scrub it away. He was sure that even if he shaved all the fur off, the mark would still be there. Of course, that much was obvious because the skin under the black fur was also black, but he just had to think.

Whatever meaning this circle had, it would likely become clear in the future, hopefully. Right now, he realized he really wanted to eat, his stomach was actually growling. It was a given, considering for just how long he slept.

He exited the bathroom and noticed an envelope lying under the entrance door. He frowned, picked it up, and saw that it was addressed to him from Luna. Trying not to worry about what it could be about, he opened it and unfolded a short letter.

Dear Wild,

Because the day before was very eventful,

Wild snorted at the understatement and then continued reading.

we didn’t end up discussing some things. By now, you have undoubtedly noticed your talent mark. I hope you are not alarmed despite the circumstances that caused it to appear. Usually, a talent mark is a cause for celebration, but I understand if that is not how you feel about it.

In truth, he didn’t know what he felt about it. How he got the mark, it was... well, he knew when to be honest with himself - it was traumatic. He was surprised he wasn’t yet hit by the fact that he died - or almost died. Would it hit him later or would he just move past it because he had already died once before?

It felt useless to cry about it, and his face remained dry. He had already cried as he hugged Luna in the immediate aftermath. But was it enough? It felt like he should have been shouting, wailing, bawling, screaming, and yet he wasn’t.

He decided to put it all off for later... whenever that would be. There was the rest of the letter to go through.

If you are willing, I am open to talking to you about everything regarding talent marks that I know. I am not an expert, however, and I recommend you consult the books such as “The Meaning of Talent” by Clear Type and “Your Talent and You” by Morning Inspiration. Should you wish to, I will be able to find someone who specializes in talent marks to talk with you in order to help you with your thoughts about yours.

It was... very thoughtful of her. He had already thought about looking something up about talent marks at the library, and now he had a direction. It would also prove to be a nice distraction from... everything else. However, he didn’t know if he wanted to speak to anyone else about his talent mark, considering how he got it. He didn’t expect he would be warmly received if he revealed the truth about it. Luna thought he did a good thing - at least that is what she said, and he hoped she meant it - but he didn’t think others would understand. He could almost feel how he would be judged, how his actions and words would be dissected and used against him. No, everything that came to this was too deeply tied to things he was ashamed of, things he didn’t want to think about. It would be for the best for him not to speak about it with anyone aside from Luna. She already knew a lot about him - there was little else that he could reveal that would change anything.

There was just a few more lines in the letter, so he read them.

If there is any questions, you are welcome to ask them of me. I don’t know whether you want to be alone at the moment or in company of your friends, and presuming one way or the other would be rude, but I hope you will not hesitate to reach out to me. It is my duty to help you, and I embrace that duty wholeheartedly.

Sincerely,

Princess Luna

Wild put the letter back in the envelope and then stashed it all away, making a note in his mind about the books. Before he would talk to anyone, he would read those two books. He convinced himself he wasn’t evading anything by doing that.

In any case, he was very hungry right now, and he focused on that.

***

It had been a long time since he ate at the cafeteria last. In fact, he remembered that was when the Changeling Invasion kicked off. It already felt like a lifetime ago. Now, at least, he was in no cocoon. His mind was clear. His brain needed some fuel, and that meant food. His body could not function without it, although he wondered whether his spirit would. The feeling of being able to just exit his body and fly - or whatever way spirits used to move - anywhere and elsewhere didn’t disappear.

When he entered the cafeteria, it was like a wave went through the breakfast crowd. Someone recognized him - and he was fairly certain he remembered their face as well. Were they a part of the group that he led to escape during the Invasion? Suddenly, he felt like it wasn’t a good idea coming to the cafeteria. As more people noticed him and recognized him, he felt a shiver go down his spine as they all looked at him. His ears folded flat against his head and he considered bolting from his spot and run all the way back to his dorm, lock himself up, and sneak out afterwards when no one was around.

“Everyone, stop staring, it’s rude,” someone said, and he felt like an enormous amount of pressure was lifted off him. The person who said it turned out to be one of the oldest ponies around, although Wild only vaguely remembered seeing them around before. They turned to him and said, “Sorry about them, you’re a bit of a hero around here. And,” they turned back to everyone else, “You will be afforded the right to not be disturbed during a meal. Breakfast is important, is it not?”

One by one, the curious stares disappeared, although the attention on him didn’t lessen by much. In fact, it took him some effort to keep the thoughts of others out of his own head. He was immensely grateful for the technique Luna taught him, allowing him to direct all those thoughts around him instead of trying to outright block them or, the worst option, letting them through to him.

“Look, Wild, if anyone bothers you, call me, I’ll help you take care of it,” the pony told him casually, “Name’s Bell. I’m sometimes in charge of the discipline around here so that no one gets rowdy. There’s also Dusty Hooves and Blueberry, they sit in my place when I’m not around, they’ll help you too.”

Wild nodded his thanks and headed to grab something to eat. He didn’t exactly intend to go for help, but he appreciated the thought. He could handle some stares. He could handle the eyes on him. He could handle the attention. He had to.

Once he gathered what he wanted to eat, he started looking around for a place to sit down at. He remembered he wanted a specific one, and it took some digging in his mind to find out that he wanted to be near a radio and next to the stack of newspaper. He did want to know what was going around in the world. He could afford to be ignorant no longer, that much was clear.

He sat down and listened to the radio for a moment. There was a weather schedule - and wasn’t that still odd how there was a schedule and not a forecast? What was scheduled was a definite weather pattern, one that could be timed down to around within five minutes. There was some fluctuation, but you could easily schedule your entire day around the weather schedule. The only untamed part of Equestria that regulated itself was the Everfree Forest, and its weather made weather scheduling around it a bit harder.

Then there was the scheduled winter - it would come in a set amount of days. Fifty days before then, there would be the Running of the Leaves. It was a competition, a race that was an established tradition whose purpose was to shake the autumn leaves off the trees with the pounding of hoofsteps during the race. That was, at least, how the leaves were handled in and around Ponyville and other rural areas - for denser towns and cities, strong winds were used to blow the leaves off the trees. Wild didn’t exactly believe the power of the wind and the shaking from the runners were in any way equal in strength, but he wasn’t going to question it much because, well, magic. He had also seen enough things that were far crazier than that, after all.

He read through the newspapers as well, and it seemed life was on its usual way, although there was always a column dedicated to the Changeling Invasion. There were raging debates about what to do with the changelings themselves, and no law was yet enacted to give them any legal status within Equestria. Wild thought politics were not his immediate or even long-term concern, so he discarded the papers.

“Oh hey,” he heard the familiar voice of Swingblade. He sat down noisily nearby, and Precision wasn’t far behind, “Glad to see you up and about,” his eyes widened as he spotted the talent mark, “Oh damn, you’ve found your talent? Neat! When did it happen? What is it? Why’s your mark a circle?”

Wild was inwardly shrinking from the questions, his mind racing to give some sort of an answer that would stop this attention.

“Swingblade,” Precision lightly cuffed him on the back of the head, “If he wanted to talk about it, he would, wouldn’t he? Stop bothering someone who’s eating.”

“Hey!” Swingblade scowled at her, then looked back at Wild. He opened his mouth, then closed it. After a short while, it appeared he found something he could actually say, “Anyway, now’s that you’re back, you’re gonna get back in the club, right?”

Even Wild was not oblivious to the obvious change of topic, but he wasn’t about to point it out. He simply nodded, and then signed that he was looking forward to it. In truth, he... felt somewhat apathetic about it at the moment. After the Changeling Invasion, after his relatively long period of recovery, after almost dying again... he wanted something else. What it was, he didn’t know, but there was a sense of tiredness he had deep inside.

Life would go on, he knew, but everything that had happened in the span of just one month was... he didn’t think it was overwhelming, considering that he wasn’t breaking down - or at least he thought he wasn’t - but he still needed a pause of some sort, even if he didn’t know what pausing really is.

He would figure it out, he hoped. For now, there was the meal he was eating, even if it didn’t really taste like anything for him. He knew the flavors, he knew how they felt, but they just weren’t doing anything for him.

His mind felt clear, but there was some sort of emptiness to it which wasn’t just the emptiness he felt where his connection between his body and soul was. That connection was now... gone, but also not, and it was different, and...

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about anything.

He simply didn’t know what to do.

Author's Note

Wild's father's understanding of sexuality and various attractions is incomplete, but I suppose it's about as good as it could be back when he would've grown up. To this day, Russia isn't exactly kind to LGBT+ people, and it's not getting better anytime soon. However, I won't allow anyone to pretend that there aren't and weren't LGBT+ people around the world during all sorts of times. Some were "lucky" enough not to get much flack for it because they were careful and their preferences happened to align with what was acceptable, but that's not the way it should be.

Anyone should be able to connect to anyone in whatever way they want as long as there's consent. And if there is consent, then it's no one's business what's going on.

On a different note, more may be said about various ponies, adult or not, at the Orphanage as Wild actually discovers more of it. I know it has been a very long time since the story began, but I consider the story a slow burn. Told mostly from the perspective of Wild, it's natural that he just wouldn't know a whole lot considering how much he keeps to himself and how much he is allowed to keep to himself. Of course, it's partially because I'm still not very familiar with how an orphan would be treated - aside from all the cliche evil orphanages with matrons and whatnot - so I am doing my best not to put my foot in my mouth. From what I know, orphanages aren't really a thing anymore in most places, so I can't draw inspiration from there.

Wild continues suffering, unfortunately. The road to recovery is long and full of obstacles, and the setbacks aren't uncommon. As I said before, I don't know overly much about psychology or how someone like Wild would be actually treated, but I'm doing my best with what I have. And what I have is what I decided to go with... probably for my own detriment. But, well, if I don't challenge myself, I don't think I will get anything written. Maybe in the future I will look back at it and cringe like I now do at my old stories, but that is the future, and now is now.