Wild died, yet not. He survived - in a way. Torn from his body, almost disappearing into nothingness, but he pulled himself together, defeated the Nightmare, and took his body back. The memory of that popped up in his mind often now, and he didn’t know why. It didn’t make him cry, didn’t make him even shudder. It was simply a matter of fact. It was what earned him the black circle on his flank.

And so he lived, yet he didn’t. The first day after he gained the mark, he looked up the books Luna recommended. Over the next few days, he read them, and they didn’t give him all that much. They talked about how a talent mark didn’t define a pony despite being a major part of a pony’s life. They talked about how having a talent mark in one thing didn’t mean a pony was doomed to be always mediocre at best in other things. They talked about how every mark has a place, every mark is valid, and every mark is welcome. That raised a question - what about talent marks for... unsavory things, like murder? That question was, fortunately, answered - there was not a single mark know in the whole history of pony kind that stood for any unsavory things. One could get good at killing or other things, but there was never a talent mark that stood for it.

The symbolism of the marks hugely depended on the surrounding culture. If, for example, a hammer was never associated with carpentry, someone with a talent mark for carpentry wouldn’t have it as a hammer. More obscure marks like geometric shapes or esoteric symbols also hugely depended on the culture. In truth, it was all speculation - no one knew the real origin of the talent marks nor how precisely they functioned. However, it was guaranteed that a pony with a talent mark in a certain thing would be intuitively good at it, in a way that only years of learning how to do it would give anyone else. Someone who had a talent in building houses, for example, would intuitively know what kind of house would fit in a place - though, it depended on whether their talent was in engineering, art design, or other ways. An engineer would know how to properly lay the pipes and route wiring, an artist would know just the right design that would fit with everything around it perfectly.

Wild had learned a lot about talent marks, but it still didn’t answer what his own meant, precisely. A circle could symbolize many things, and he looked up what ponies thought of a circle. He gravitated towards spiritual meanings right away. He wanted to scoff at that - he was never a spiritual kind of person - but there was an itch, some sort of a deep instinct pulling him there, and he was somehow convinced to trust it.

A circle was, unsurprisingly, continuous. It had no beginning and didn’t end. There were no corners, no angles, and although there was an edge - two edges, considering that his mark was an outline of a circle - he felt like it wasn’t exactly important. In the end, a circle represented a cycle, and quite often it was of life and death.

Wild felt that it fit. Perhaps dying twice - and living after both times, even if he no longer really knew how to define what death even was - was what triggered his mark’s appearance. Would he be destined to die again and again, only to come back after each time? As he thought about it in the privacy of his dorm, he couldn’t help but giggle in a disconcerting way - he was now more than Jesus Christ, who died once, returned, and then disappeared. Could he perhaps walk on water now? Turn water into wine? Should he start a religion of his own? Would a black circle be its symbol instead of a cross?

Once this small bit of hysteria had passed, his thoughts continued on. It was clear that a cycle of life and death fit, somehow, but he didn’t think he would die again, at least not if he was careful. He didn’t long to repeat the experience of being torn from his body, although he didn’t feel like there was even a connection to cut.

On the second day after receiving his talent mark, he lay in bed and allowed himself to float up. And there he was, separate from his body, which remained living, lying there, breathing steadily, looking peaceful yet also empty. There was no resistance when he went out of his body, no sort of alarming sensation. He simply rose from his body like smoke and formed into... whatever he was now. A spirit, a ghost, a soul? He certainly had no bodily sensations.

It felt like a lucid dream, in a way. He was aware of looking, but he had no eyes, so he wasn’t quite seeing. He was aware of sounds, but he had no ears with which to listen, and so he wasn’t quite listening. He was aware of the texture and the material around him, but he had no body, no limbs, nothing to really touch anything with.

It felt oddly silent too. He could hear himself breathing, but he wasn’t breathing - his body was. All the noises of his body that he had never quite been aware of before had disappeared, and without them, it was quieter in a way he couldn’t describe. Obviously it wasn’t silent, he hadn’t gone deaf - he could hear outside things just fine, but there was nothing inner anymore.

He easily floated away from his body, feeling nothing tensing up in any way. He wasn’t tethered, wasn’t anchored, he just was. In the mirror, he looked at himself, and he was met with what he expected.

His soul was black, smoky, and somehow pony-shaped. There was an odd red glow to it, and there were cracks shining with it all over. He had a pair of glowing red holes where his eyes would be were he in his body. They didn’t blink and neither did their size or direction limit his awareness and not-quite-vision. He made a move to open his mouth, and his head stretched in a similar motion. If he focused, he could make his teeth seen, a stark white against the black, but it took some kind of effort to keep them there. Without it, they disappeared, leaving only the odd black smoke that comprised his soul.

A black soul with red cracks like unhealed wounds. It felt fitting, somehow. Why was it shaped like a pony, however? At this very thought, it shifted into something more vague, something undefined, although his two eye-like holes remained. It didn’t shift into a humanoid shape but neither did it return to the pony shape until he stopped putting effort into this thought, at which point he reverted to it.

Did he no longer think of himself as human? Perhaps it was true, from a certain point of view. He had gotten used to his body, had gotten used to how it moved and behaved and what needs it had. He didn’t think he preferred his pony body over his human one, but that was a bit of a lie. He looked far more handsome, far more pleasant, even softer in his pony body. Perhaps it was his deeply hidden inner child that would’ve been delighted at meeting talking ponies. The child-him would have hugged them, feeling their soft fur, and would have talked all day long with them about magic and about unicorns and about you can control the weather? That’s so neat! and so many things that his adult self pushed away.

He was no longer a child. And he was an angry child too - he would have pushed the ponies away, he just knew it. Besides... he didn’t deserve the kindness. The child-him had long been dead, gone far before his human self ceased to exist. Dead and buried.

Wild didn’t like looking at his soul anymore. The thoughts it made arise inside him... he didn’t want it. With just a slight nudge of effort, he slid back into his body and opened his eyes. It felt far more natural, and he enjoyed breathing, enjoyed feeling, enjoyed the... well, perhaps he didn’t enjoy the slight dryness of his mouth. He needed to drink some water, and then relieve himself. Or maybe do it the other way around. Either way, his body had its needs, and he needed to take care of them if he wanted to be anything other than a black soul with bloody wounds.

The meaning of the circle was clearer to him now. A soul was eternal - life and death didn’t mean much to it, just a part of the infinite cycle. The color black was perhaps for his soul, although the red cracks were missing. Perhaps a different version of him would’ve cried at having a black soul - he, on the other hand, wasn’t surprised. He knew he had done a good thing by killing those that he did, but the ways in which he did it... well, he had always been violent. This violence, he knew without a doubt, was a stain on his soul. A part of him protested - surely his soul wouldn’t be black because of it? He was no rapist. He was no dictator. The number of his kills didn’t even reach double digits, let alone millions that some people had killed directly and indirectly. Was what he did enough to earn this stain, the color of black that was the void?

There were meanings of a circle, of course, those that could be true but which he didn’t accept, wasn’t ready to accept. A black circle could represent the ending of a cycle, heralding the beginning of a new one. It could represent a transformation, an emergence of a higher self. Yet he found it resonating more with the negative parts, parts that he would have never overlooked - a black circle could represent pain and grief. He knew there was much pain, and perhaps a lot of that pain could be defined as spiritual even if it came to him in the form of more physical hurts over the years. And grief... there was much he grieved, in the privacy of his mind. He grieved who and what he could be had things had simply been better. He grieved his parents, taken far before their time. He grieved even for the world he hated, the world that killed him, the world that had taken everything and everyone from him.

That was when he decided to return the books about symbolism back to the library and forget about it. His talent mark was connected to life and death, to his soul, and that was all he decided he needed to know.

On the third day after receiving his talent mark, he returned to the hospital wing, a folding chess board in a bag slung across his chest. He borrowed it from one of the common playrooms, which he had never visited before. Perhaps he would visit them as a child, and some things looked like fun, but he knew he would feel awkward about it, so he didn’t.

“Hello, Wild,” Nurse Fairheart greeted him, “Do you need any assistance?”

Wild shook his head, then signed a question about whether Lina was there and was taking visitors.

“She’s outside right now, I’ll ask her if she’d like to see you.”

Wild patiently waited as Nurse Fairheart went outside. This day was supposed to be just slightly cloudy and not very windy, so it was a decent day to be outside. Wild wanted to go outside himself, sit in the intermittent sun for a while, but that felt a bit too lonely. Soon, the nurse returned, telling him that he was free to visit Lina.

“Hi!” Lina greeted him immediately as soon as he was close enough, a crooked smile on her face, “Good to see you again! Didn’t think you’d visit after you were out of here.”

“I... decided to visit,” he replied awkwardly. In truth, he wasn’t ready to face anyone or anything else at the moment. Coming to the relative familiarity of the hospital wing was a relief, in some odd way. Visiting Lina, in particular, felt like a right thing to do, and it added to the sense of familiarity. Perhaps, for a moment, he could pretend like the Nightmare didn’t grab a hold of him long enough to bring him to them and attempt to kill him and consume his soul.

“Oh, and you got a talent mark since you left!” Lina thought at him, her voice joyful, “Congratulations! What’s it for?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he replied, his tone firm. Then, he added, “I am... figuring some things out.”

“Fair enough, I guess,” Lina shrugged, “So, how’s it going? Hope you’ve been free of any migraines. I sure know I wouldn’t handle them well.”

“I am well enough, thank you,” Wild nodded. In fact, so far, he hadn’t had a single headache, let alone anything debilitating. As far as he was concerned, it was a good thing, “Would you like to play chess with me?”

“Oh yeah, bring it on!” Lina grinned as widely as she could, “I will get into a chess club once I’m out of here. I mean, sure, I could go now, but it will be embarrassing if I shit myself there.”

Wild just shifted uncomfortably, deciding not to address the last statement. instead, he set up the board. As far as he was able to ascertain, chess rules and figures were essentially the same as human chess barring some minor differences like the exact shapes of the figures.

“Have you played chess much?” Lina asked as they each made their first moves. Wild decided to use the black figures. Felt appropriate, considering the color of his talent mark - the color of his soul. His move was always the second one, reacting to what happened. Revenge, fighting back, it was all him.

“No,” he replied honestly, “It has been... a few years.”

In truth, he hadn’t played chess much since he was around the age of ten, perhaps eleven. His father played chess occasionally, but it wasn’t something that passed down from him to his son. However, that wasn’t the point now - Wild simply wanted to provide Lina with some company, kill some time himself, and perhaps take his mind off of... other things. Chess would challenge him, take his attention, his focus.

“Alright, I’m gonna be easy on you then.”

“No,” Wild replied immediately, “I must learn. Do as you would always do.”

“If you’re sure,” Lina shrugged.

In fact, it was what Wild believed he needed. Being challenged but not in any dangerous way. He needed to accept failure. He had already accepted the ways he had failed previously, but even then resentment lingered. Perhaps chess wasn’t exactly the right tool to deal with it, but... he had once been quite competitive as a child and hated losing. It was a flaw of his he retained and was aware of even when the intensity of it decreased over time, and he hadn’t had many opportunities to experience failure that didn’t involve bodily harm since he was a kid.

“I’ve heard you’re good with swords,” Lina thought out after a while, “I can’t wait to move again myself. Though, I am more of a sports person. I love hoofball. Or just kicking balls, whatever. It’s fun.”

“I am... good with swords, yes,” Wild answered, “But I will be better.”

“I hope you’ll be better with chess too,” Lina teased, “You’re about to make a really stupid move. Take a closer look.”

Some time ago, any sort of criticism would rankle at him. He had learned to be better than that. Besides, Lina wasn’t doing it in any malicious way, so he let her tone slide, and there was no resentment, no hurt.

“Can you tell me what’s it like to do sword stuff?” Lina asked some moves afterwards, “Is it like dancing but, you know, violent?”

“I don’t know, I have never danced,” Wild shrugged, “But it is... it makes me feel good. It is just... good,” he finished somewhat lamely, then shrugged, “I can’t explain it in words well,” he paused for a moment, then, self-conscious, added, “I am still learning the language.”

“Oh? What country are you from?”

The country he was from didn’t exist in this world. He cursed at himself for admitting to something like this - he was now used to the idea of Luna knowing more than anyone should, but that didn’t mean he could let his guard down. He wanted to kick himself - he also admitted to having played chess a few years ago. If Lina knew anything about his supposed backstory, she would have to be stupid to miss these inconsistencies. However, fortunately, there was something he could say.

“I... don’t want to talk about it,” Wild replied, shuffling a bit, nervous.

“...Fair enough,” Lina shrugged, “Oh, by the way, check.”

Wild fairly quickly lost the game after that, but he was relieved that Lina was seemingly willing to let the issue go. She could be a bit too straightforward, especially about herself, but it appeared she was willing to back down on things if told to do so directly. Wild could appreciate it, and so he stayed to be defeated in chess a few more times.

On the fifth day after receiving his talent mark, he made himself go to the Martial Arts Club. He was welcomed back warmly, which made him try not to fidget under the attention. At least it was a good kind of attention, even if it didn’t make him all that more comfortable. He would much rather prefer to... what, exactly? Be alone and unimportant? He chased this thought away. It was true that others saw him as a hero for what he did during the Invasion, and he had some time to get used to the idea of it, but... plainly speaking, he didn’t like it. Any decent person in his position would have tried to help others escape. But, perhaps, not just anyone would stand back and intend to sacrifice themselves for others. Wild did just that and paid for it. He didn’t know whether he was motivated by a selfish desire to die for a good reason or a selfless desire to help others.

When he fought in a duel now, there was something different about it. His steps were more sure, his sword moves more precise. He could almost see what his opponents would do before they did it. It wasn’t reading their body language, he was sure of it. As he fought, he realized that it was difficult to concentrate on letting thoughts go past him instead of through him. He ended up catching thoughts and intentions, and he realized it made him frighteningly effective at predicting how to move and where to strike to bring his opponents down. He didn’t like relying on it, didn’t want to rely on it, so he did his best to be a rock in the water. Water passed by, not disturbing him. Unfortunately, it required some amount of concentration, and it wasn’t something he could spare in the middle of a duel. So, he grit his teeth and continued doing his best with what he had, resigning himself to more meditation to get his ability under proper control.

At the end of the club session, he went for a jog as usual. He should’ve felt amazing after it all, and yet... there was some sort of hollow feeling that kept him from it. It was as if he just went through the motions, simply moving his body according to how it was needed. Whatever enjoyment he should have gotten from the training simply wasn’t there. As he ended his jog, it made him feel frustrated. He should have been happy about training again. It was good for him. And yet it seemed as if everything was muffled somehow, lessening his enjoyment into nothingness.

Artful was there watching the club from the side. Wild got a distinct impression that he had been there mostly for him, although he had a notepad and was drawing some sketches.

“I’ve to see how warriors move to properly draw them,” he explained it when Wild approached him, showing him the sketches. They consisted of a single pony each in a middle of one move or the other, “You’re really good at it, um, so yeah, it’s perfect for this kind of thing.”

Wild shrugged. He didn’t really do art, but he could see the point.

“By the way... You’ve been a bit out of it during the whole thing. You alright?”

The warm concern made Wild feel a bit tingly yet also awkward. He shrugged once again. Whatever this feeling of numbness was, he would deal with it. Wouldn’t be the first time, wouldn’t be the last time.

“Ah, have you ever tried drawing or painting?” Artful asked, seemingly changing the topic. Wild shook his head, “It’s fun to do, though it requires time to learn. But, uh... would you like to join me in the Arts Club? M-maybe you’ll end up liking it. It’s actually starting pretty soon today, so we can go right away. If you want, that is.”

Wild thought about it. On one hand, he didn’t really want to do it, considering that the peak of art he had ever done was drawing stick figures. When he was young and rage comics were all the, well, rage, he could also draw a passable trollface. He made some stupid comic once or twice, never really getting anywhere. He even forgot what they were about and, if he was honest with himself, they just weren’t important. Now, he believed it was a waste of his own life, but then his life had been a series of bad events one after the other, so what did it really matter?

He decided to agree to Artful’s suggestion. Maybe it would help improve the way he felt.

“Hello, welcome!” the Art Club head, an older earth pony mare, greeted him cheerfully. Artful told him her name was Colorful. It was she, in fact, from whom Artful got the name idea for himself, “Are you here to paint, to look at people painting, or to be painted?”

Wild shrugged in uncertainty, but then signed that he came to look around. Privately, he thought he wouldn’t be very good at art, and it wasn’t really where his passions lay - if he had passions in the first place. He had, at one point, wanted to be a singer. Unfortunately, he didn’t consider his voice to be anything better than mildly unpleasant, and his difficulties with speaking sealed the deal.

“I’ll show him around,” Artful said. Thankfully, Colorful knew sign language as well, so it wasn’t a problem for her to understand Wild.

“Alright, you’re welcome to stay as long as you don’t disturb anyone,” Colorful told Wild, “I’ll make time for you if you’ve any questions, okay?”

Wild nodded, and then followed Artful. Since he had a talent mark, Artful didn’t exactly need to learn like others, so he mostly just painted either from ideas in his head or from ideas presented in the club. In comparison to the Martial Arts Club, this one was far more chaotic, everyone doing their own thing, yet it was also harmonious in a certain way.

“My latest piece is just the Royal Orphanage as seen from the front,” Artful told him as he set up his space. It wasn’t meticulously organized but neither was it aimlessly chaotic, “I’ve done it before, but that was during early summer. I want to do all seasons eventually, I think. Ah, would you like to draw something too? I can help you out with pretty much everything.”

Wild signed that he would be fine just watching. He finally admitted that he didn’t think he’d make a good artist. He was good at swordsmanship - and violence in general, although he didn’t sign that - so he doubted art would be within his grasp.

“I think you are already an artist, in a way,” Artful said, then blushed when Wild raised a questioning eyebrow, “Well, um, I mean... Martial arts are art. Sure, it’s not painting or sculpting or music or anything that’s, you know, traditionally art. But, um, there’s a beauty to swordsmanship too. The moves, the subtlety of reading each other as opponents in a duel, the swiftness that a fight could be, it’s all...”

During the pause, Wild sensed some thought coming from Artful, something partially directed at Wild. He allowed the thought to pass even as it wanted to cling to him. It was not his right to read it, although, whatever it was, it caused a blush to appear on Artful’s face as he slightly averted his eyes from Wild.

“It’s nice,” he settled on saying. Wild was weirdly certain there was something else, something a bit different to it than just being nice, but he let that slide, “There’s obviously the, uh, brutality, I suppose, but there’s also grace. The natural curves a-and fluidity of the fighters combined with rigid and straight lines of the weapons, there’s just something beautiful to it.”

Wild nodded slightly, seeing his point. However, he didn’t think he agreed that it was beautiful - even though a part of him very much did agree. Martial arts were, first and foremost, violence. The goal of any martial art, as far as Wild knew, was to hurt someone else. He didn’t think there was anything particularly beautiful about it. Grunts, moans, yells, and screams of pain weren’t music. Bruises, cuts, gashes, broken bones, none of it was sculpture or painting. Wars weren’t fiction that one could enjoy reading about.

However, Wild didn’t want to turn this nice conversation into an argument about what was and wasn’t art. He suspected Artful would be very upset at what Wild could say about violence, and... Wild realized he didn’t want to upset Artful. The young stallion was nice and, perhaps, innocent, unburdened by experiences that weighed heavily on Wild. Besides, there was something about Artful’s body that was appealing.

His mind skidded to a stop at that thought as he rushed to banish it. He didn’t want to think about it. He hoped his eyes didn’t linger on the curves, hoped his face wasn’t blushing.

He. Didn’t. Want. It.

His body, unfortunately, told him otherwise.

His mind, in truth, was also against it.

But the trauma, the impenetrable wall he built between himself and what caused it, had to stand strong lest he would crumble.

He shifted his thoughts away from the connection between how a body looked and how nice a body could look to him. Even as his mind was somewhat stubborn in its insistence to stay on Artful, he could at least think about his personality instead of, well, any other thing.

Artful was, first and foremost, thoughtful in his actions and his words. Wild didn’t fail to notice that he looked at his new talent mark but didn’t speak about it, letting Wild control the conversation about it. Artful had never touched him or reached out to touch him, and Wild was reasonably sure that Artful understood the reason. Artful was a... conversationalist, as much as one could be a conversationalist when talking to someone who didn’t respond much. Artful was eager to talk about what he liked and enjoyed, and he could listen just as well.

Wild, if he was honest with himself, liked being around Artful, and that didn’t apply to anyone else. Swingblade was a bit immature and could be thoughtless, Precision just wasn’t compatible with him in some way he couldn’t quite describe, and Luna... well, he couldn’t say he disliked being around her, but there was always some sort of tension between him and her, all for quite obvious reasons. For now, he was relieved that she was away somewhere, letting him have some space for himself.

So, for now, he would enjoy his time with Artful, as much as he could enjoy anything at the moment. Perhaps whatever he felt would pass by before long... he hoped.

Author's Note

If anyone spotted an update a bit earlier, I posted the next chapter on accident instead of this one. Thankfully, I recognized the mistake almost immediately, so I posted the correct one instead.

Usually, I do some editing before I post chapters, but I have already edited the next chapter because I thought I would be posting it today, so this chapter is as is when I wrote it... some time ago.