Salvation | Rebirth

Wild was wandering the halls of the Royal Orphanage, his steps soundless yet with an echo at the edge of his hearing. He passed window after window, every single one displaying the same thing: leafless trees and bushes all covered with something gray, could be snow or could be ashes. The walls were leeched of color, showing the same drab gray as the outside, plain and boring, with no designs or texture to speak of. The floor could only be called wooden out of the feel of it, and even then just barely - the grain was all directed the same way as if made by a machine in a factory.

He walked and walked and walked, step by step by another step, each movement taking him closer to... where? The halls remained the same, the scenery was unchanging, and he could only walk forward not knowing what was beyond but expecting the same.

A door opened up to the outside, yet there were no birds singing, no wind blowing. There was nothing but complete and utter silence, oppressive and heavy to the point of silencing his heartbeat, making him unable to hear it. He blinked yet didn’t, breathed yet no air moved.

He couldn’t tell whether it was ash or snow. There was no taste, and it didn’t melt again his skin, black as it was.

Black?

It wasn’t his skin but the semi-solid mass that comprised his...

Soul.

He woke up, his eyes opening up to the white ceiling of his bedroom. There was gentle tapping of rain outside the window. He had a feeling it was before his regular waking up time. There was something about the quality of the air around him, but it was not the smell nor the visual appearance.

Wild got up and stretched, chasing away the last wisps of sleep. He turned to look through the window, and perhaps there was something about the air - there was a thick blanket of fog, merging the sky above with the ground below not far from the lake shore he could usually see out of his bedroom. He, as if in a trance, opened the window and inhaled a deep lungful of damp morning air. It was almost completely still, but the quiet rustling of the leaves with every small gust of wind made it look alive instead of dead like in his dream.

Wild wondered why he dreamed what he saw. Magic was real, so why couldn’t odd visions be a part of it? He knew plenty of fictional stories featured cryptic dreams as an element, and there was distinct possibility his own would not be spared from it. There was perhaps some humor to be found in the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, in a magical story. As a child, he would have certainly been extremely excited about it all, and now... there was no excitement even though it should have been there.

However, the day he appeared in this world was the day he died on Earth - it wasn’t something he thought he would ever be excited about.

He went through his morning routine and went outside, meeting no one on his way there as it was too early for most to be up. The fog seemed to swallow every sound, and his steps were quiet and lacking an echo as he stepped outside. The pale grayness of it all seemed to swallow him as well, the building of the orphanage disappearing behind him as he walked further and further away from it.

Wild was looking around with open wonder on his face, having not seen fog in a long time. How did it work? He knew clouds were water, and if a cloud was close to releasing it, it would be darker. But why were the clouds white? Of course, water vapor was white, so that made sense, but then why were rain clouds darker? Could the fog likewise darken and then release rain of some kind?

It had been a long time since he bothered with questioning the world around him and how it all worked. Undoubtedly he had asked his parents why the sky was blue and why the grass was green, even if he didn’t remember it, but he thought himself past those childish questions. At one point, perhaps, he believed himself knowledgeable enough about the world to not need to ask any more questions. Wondering why clouds were white and rain clouds were gray didn’t bring water to drink or shelter to hide from the rain. Thinking of the reasons why various plants had all those different colors didn’t put food on the table. What use were any of those questions to him then?

There were things in the world far more important and immediate than the very nature that surrounded him. Nature simply was - it existed, and that was it. Humans, however, not only existed but made decisions that affected others. Humans could think while nature only was, not performing an action or determining an outcome before chasing it but simply being. He could perhaps influence it, change how a river flowed by digging a new path, break a tree before it grew into one that would need an axe and a saw to fell. However, why would he do that when humans were always his biggest concern and his most immediate threat?

He could hear voices in the fog, undefined and muffled and with a direction hard to determine. If he was right, just a couple short sentences were exchanged, and now he could not hear where they came from.

A thought came unbidden - what if this fog was unnatural? Magic could break minds and tear souls, what was mere conjuration of mist to it? Perhaps the voices were from some kind of an attacking force, another group desiring to take over the Royal Orphanage for their own ends.

Wild would be foolish to venture any further into the fog, but something pulled him in, something from within him. One of the voices carried a note of familiarity, and familiarity, he knew, could be good, especially in this world.

Wild was no longer a rock in the river but dust in the air as it absorbed moisture and fell down just like he was now absorbing floating thoughts. For now, they were too undefined, scattered throughout the air, but he could feel where they came from, and so he headed that way, making sure his steps were quiet. The damp of the grass and the thick fog were on his side as he moved, the sense of two separate minds growing closer and more defined, enough so that he could once again become a rock in the river, the thoughts floating by without clinging to him. There was no maliciousness there as far as he could sense, so it would be his duty to keep his own mind away from the thoughts he should not have been privy to in the first place.

In front of him, a blurry shape came from the fog, solidifying soon into the familiar shape of Artful, who was sitting on a stool underneath a wide umbrella on a pole stuck in the ground. He was sitting with his back to Wild, a canvas in front of him. Behind the canvas, sitting on a different stool, was a changeling, who was facing Wild, their eyes closed and their posture relaxed.

Wild tensed up, stopping in mid-step. He quietly put his hooves down, his eyes unblinking and aimed straight at the changeling, his mind open and absorbing the thoughts.

Artful’s thoughts were a constant flow of decisions and questions about how to proceed with the painting he was making, as well as hoping that he picked the right one for the moisture not to affect it much. The thoughts of the changeling... there was something there, somewhat foreign, and there was a sense of calm, but Wild couldn’t grasp it.

He slowly released a breath he barely didn’t realize he was holding. There was no malice from the changeling and no fear from Artful. Whatever was going on, it was... fine. However, Wild would not be so foolish as to leave. He sat down to watch the two, just in case. Perhaps it was an irrational fear, but he couldn’t help but feel... twitchy about the changeling’s presence.

Artful hummed from time to time, adjusting his posture as he used a brush in his mouth, slowly working from barely defined shapes to something clearer.

“Feel better?” he asked as he put some more paint on the brush.

“Uh-huh,” the changeling answered, their voice carrying a sort of insect-like quality to it, an undercurrent of a buzz perhaps, “But, um, you didn’t have to wake up this early just to, you know, keep me company.”

“I didn’t have to, but I chose to,” Artful replied softly, then a few seconds passed in silence as he painted and the changeling breathed deeply.

“What if someone finds you with me?” they asked, their eyes still closed.

“It’s not like I’ve been quiet about defending changelings,” Artful replied, “It’s not the first time someone spews hatred at me because of something.”

Wild wondered how Artful could be speaking so calm about it. If what Wild understood from the news was correct, the anti-changeling sentiment was relatively widespread and the tempers were high. Artful didn’t look like someone who could fight back very well. Perhaps Wild could offer him... something. Some training, perhaps? Wild wasn’t exactly a martial arts master outside of swords, but he could perhaps still help. Offer some sparring, maybe. It would likely be a good idea if Wild looked up hand-to-hand - or, in the case of ponies, hoof-to-hoof - combat and got into that part of martial arts. It could be rewarding, it could definitely be helpful, and he would perhaps be able to help Artful not get into trouble.

Why he cared if Artful got into trouble because of his own words or actions, he didn’t know. However... people like Artful didn’t deserve to be hurt. It would only be a good thing if Wild ensured that or, if failing to do that, at least did something about it.

Considering that there were proposals to brand changelings, perhaps Wild’s thoughts about ponies being relatively harmless were foolish. At the very least he learned about it before he became the target of it.

“Um... would you mind if I ask why?” the changeling asked.

“Why someone said hateful things to me before?”

“...yeah.”

“My biological parents didn’t like me,” Artful put it bluntly, “Not because of anything I did but because of who I am. And I, ugh...”

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to tell me,” the changeling quickly backpedalled.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just... not the best memories,” Artful chuckled humorlessly, “I didn’t come to the Orphanage until I was eleven. And...”

There was a long pause then as Artful mixed some paint for just the right shade for the changeling’s outside, which Wild couldn’t determine the composition of. It wasn’t skin but neither was it fur, and it was somewhat glossy and hard-looking. Certainly insectoid in nature, but he didn’t know the term for it.

“My biological parents hated me,” Artful said, a surprising amount of anger in his voice, “They wanted a filly and got a colt, but they just... didn’t want to accept that because I had the wrong body.”

“Oh,” the changeling opened their eyes and, immediately, spotted Wild, produced some sort of a high pitched noise resembling a squeak, and promptly fell off the stool. Artful, in his own surprise, almost put a streak across the painting as he turned around.

Silence fell on them as Artful looked surprised at Wild’s presence, the changeling hiding behind the stool as if it was a sturdy castle, and Wild...

Wild puzzled out what Artful meant when he said what he said, as well as what Wild could say now. If he got it all right... Artful was transgender. That was... something Wild had never had to think about.

“Hello, Wild,” Artful greeted him, his voice calm, “Jade, remember I told you about Wild? He’s against the nonsense nobles are trying to pull off.”

“Is he?” the changeling, Jade, peeked from behind the stool.

Wild swallowed and then nodded. No matter what, branding was not something he could allow, as powerless and helpless as he was in the face of whatever nobility Equestria had. Even if seeing the changeling made him feel odd, he couldn’t just throw his convictions away because of looks or species.

Wild had never, to his knowledge, had any inclination to hate on people for looking different. He himself was different, he knew what it was like to be disliked for both what he chose and couldn’t choose. In certain places, his very existence was illegal and would spell death for him if someone heard of him being gay. Even in the USA where he lived, attitudes towards people like him were less than welcome.

His father had taught him some facts about what it meant to be gay in a world that hated gay people, and Wild knew branding was not the farthest people would resort to in their blind bigotry.

Wild found that he could... emphasize with both Jade and Artful, although Artful, to Wild, did not look like a transgender person. In all fairness, however, Wild had never known a transgender person, and perhaps magic had a hand in this as well. To him, Artful looked like a stallion, and to continue to think of him like a stallion wouldn’t take any additional effort.

jade and Artful were now waiting for something from him, yet he didn’t know what to say, so he stood there awkwardly, trying to figure it out. He was eavesdropping, which he believe was not a thing that people took lightly. However, how would he apologize for it? And did this Jade even understand sign language?

“Is everything alright?” Artful asked, his brows furrowed slightly not in anger but in... concern?

Wild nodded, then made some aborted gestures before he figured out how to convey that he did not intend to listen in. He paused after that, then signed that he would keep their secrets and that he had no issues with either of them.

Wild thought that he could perhaps speak - saying words to Precision felt so liberating - but, with the situation being what it was, he wasn’t certain he could, and so he didn’t. Instead, he awkwardly gestured a question - what were the two of them doing before he came in? It seemed like a safe question to ask at least.

“Jade likes to meditate sometime, and I was invited along and decided to paint them,” Artful explained, “To be honest, I couldn’t just skip this mist, it’s too beautiful not to paint! And Jade definitely lives up to their name,” he then turned to them, “You really do look lovely.”

“Um, thank you,” Jade blushed as they slowly and carefully settled back on the stool, “But... I, um, don’t think I can meditate anymore.”

Wild suddenly felt bad for them, and so he gestured that he could leave, that he didn’t intend to interrupt anything. To himself, he thought of how alone this fog could make someone feel, and some people would definitely enjoy the perceived privacy of it, perhaps even a comforting feeling.

Wild then paid some more attention to the changeling and noticed that they indeed looked... perhaps he wouldn’t call them lovely - not the kind of word he ever really used to describe anyone, it felt awkward - but Jade certainly didn’t look like the other changelings. They had no holes in their legs, their body was not gray but had a green hue to it, and their eyes were a nice emerald color, certainly living up to their name. If Wild were to guess, he would say that Jade was a healthy changeling.

In response to his question, Jade looked uncertain, and Wild allowed just a bit of thoughts to get to him. The situation certainly grew more awkward - Jade didn’t want to tell Wild to leave because they felt it would be somewhat rude, but Wild had also been rude by listening in, and Jade would really like to go back to meditating without being aware that someone that was seriously hurt because of changelings was around.

Wild then gestured that he was hungry and would be eating breakfast. Afterwards, he turned around and left, allowing the fog to swallow both Artful and Jade as if they were never there.

Wild didn’t know whether breakfast was even served yet - it was far too early. And, in truth, he did wish he could stay if only to watch Artful paint. However, Jade didn’t want him there, and so the right thing to do was leave. Artful, after all, didn’t belong to him alone - surely he had plenty of his own friends, certainly better ones than Wild who was a mess and an idiot and an awkward moron and-

Perhaps it was for the best that he left indeed.

Wild felt a bit of a flush come to his cheeks as his mind focused on a different thing. Like how Artful looked half-turned, a brush in the corner of his mouth, his eyes looking at him not with anger but with concern, and-

Wild squashed everything else, pushing it down and down and down until he could pretend it wasn’t there anymore. He could perhaps accept that he was coming out of the shell of his own making a bit, but he still needed it, and he couldn’t think of, he couldn’t dream of, perhaps, hugging at least someone and not just Luna, although Luna’s hugs were good but there was something missing and...

Wild sighed deeply as he walked alone. His life was a mess, he was a mess, and this day started out all wrong with a stupid dream and walking in the fog and then being an eavesdropping idiot like he was a child who needed to know everything and so entirely incapable of minding his own business.

His stomach growled, and he decided it would indeed be for the best if he focused on food, which was a bodily need he could satisfy without thinking about it.

Wild got an assortment of fruit as well as some porridge for breakfast and sat down to eat in the mostly empty cafeteria. He thought back to the day before, when he talked to Doctor Fay for the first time. What he heard... it was a relief, that much was true, but he was still waiting for... something. There was that irrational fear in the back of his head that Luna would talk to him and reveal that, no, Doctor Fay was wrong, ponies did leave the orphanage at certain age mandatorily. He knew this wouldn’t happen, but he couldn’t help but think it anyway.

This, this gave him time. How much, he didn’t know, and he didn’t believe he would simply be allowed to stay as long as he wanted. This uncertainty, more than anything, pushed him towards taking action. He couldn’t allow himself to relax, not yet, not until his future was more certain, not until his future was secured and assured. He couldn’t allow himself to drift aimlessly, even if every step forward came slow and painful and anxiety-filled and more and more and more.

Wild had a goal and he had to reach it. To reach the goal meant to act. He reminded himself of the revenge he had taken - it required planning and it required action. Without the first, he was doomed to fail, and without the second, he wouldn’t succeed. However, that situation was entirely different, barely could be called short-term. He got lucky, he knew it. Despite malnourishment, despite the constant stress, he struck back and wasn’t captured by either his tormentors or the police. He knew the possibility, yet he acted anyway, overcoming his anxiety to do what he needed and wanted to do.

Getting education and getting a job were... different. He had not gotten a good education, and he couldn’t say he was good at anything that could earn him money. As for what he wanted to do... he didn’t know. Whatever childish desires he had had when he was younger could hardly be applicable, and he had forgotten all about future plans once everything was collapsing around him.

Fortunately, he was directed to a person who could perhaps help him - Steady Hooves. Supposedly, this mare gave some sort of job advice. Career advice? Whatever the case was, she was the person he could write to. That could likely be easy enough - his writing wasn’t very good still, symbols the Equestrian language used not coming to him naturally just yet, but it was serviceable as long as he consulted books on proper grammar as well as a dictionary. Unfortunately, he expected that the letter would take most of his day, considering that the focus of his language lessons had been understanding speech and communicating with others using signs. Naturally, there was plenty about reading, but writing specifically was the least important thing.

After getting done with his food, he put the tray away and, instead of going to write the letter, went to the kitchen to help with cleaning the dishes. He knew he was delaying it, yet he could easily justify it to himself - it was far too early to do anything serious yet. He had time.

“Sure, go ahead,” a familiar cook told him once he expressed his desire to clean the dishes, “Load’s not terribly high yet, but we’d all appreciate if you stick around until the end of breakfast. Do you remember how it’s done here?”

Wild dug around his memory for a bit - he did remember he washed the dishes once, but it seemed like an eternity ago. In the end, he shook his head instead of trying to puzzle out what exactly he remembered.

“Alright, I’ll remind you,” the cook easily agreed to help him out, showing him three basins. The cook went through the sequence of cleaning, and Wild’s memories of doing it returned. After the explanation was done, Wild nodded his head and gestured that he would have no problems doing it again and that he would remember it.

He got into the rhythm of washing dishes. Big chunks went in a bin to the left of the sink, smaller chunks were removed in the first basin as Wild used a generous but not excessive amount of soap. Once that was done, the dish was moved to the second basin where the soap was washed off. After that step was complete, Wild dipped the dish in the third basin, swished it around for five seconds, and then put it on the drying rack. Rinse and repeat, one after the other, dish after dish, with various pauses in between as dirty dishes came in at irregular intervals.

With some humor, he thought that perhaps he could wash dishes as a job. It was easy enough, and it brought a certain sense of calm. He didn’t even need to get himself wet or dirty - his magical hands did everything for him, and they came with all the advantages of hands and none of the downsides as far as he was concerned.

He wondered just how good he was at washing dishes - probably not very much, considering that it was his second time doing it in the past few months at the very least. When he was a kid, he did his own dishes as soon as he was able to, although he had a rebellious phase when he refused to do so. His parents humored him then, allowing him not to wash his own dishes, but he was forbidden from using their dishes. In the end, he caved in to the need to wash his own because they grew far too disgusting to use without it.

Now, Wild did his best to ensure that the dishes that went through his hands came out nice and clean, perfect for anyone to eat off of. Nothing else would do, nothing less would suffice. And, of course, putting his physical and mental efforts both into it allowed him a reprieve from the inevitability of the distant yet almost immediate future.

Unfortunately for Wild, breakfast wasn’t the meal that produced the most dishes to wash, so he was done far too soon for his liking. He glanced at the clock on the wall - he had certainly managed to spend over an hour not doing what was actually important, and now he needed to head back to his dorm to write the letter to Steady Hooves.

It didn’t take him long to find himself sitting at a table faced with an empty sheet of paper and a pen. Just then, it occurred to him that he didn’t exactly know how to write a letter. How would he begin? Starting with ‘Dear’ felt too personal, but what other option he had? Starting with just her name felt incomplete and perhaps even rude. His future was on the line, so he couldn’t afford to make wrong first impressions. His father’s effort to teach him to present himself properly would not go to waste if he had anything to say about it despite the fact that he had not cared about it for a long time. However, the time of survival and crawling through life was over - whether he liked or not, his concerns were now long-term instead of immediate, and so he needed to do everything properly in order not to fail.

Fortunately, he remembered that there was the library - he would surely find the guide to letter composition. He placed the pen back on the table and got up, heading to the library. His steps were perhaps too hurried for what wasn’t exactly such a big deal, but he felt like he was at a time limit, like the offer would expire if he were to waste time. Unfortunately, he had already spent an unnecessarily long amount of time washing dishes, but it couldn’t be helped now.

Once he was in the library, he stopped, then browsed the catalog in search of anything that would point him in the right direction. He could, of course, just ask the librarian or any of their helpers, but he wanted to do it by himself. Thankfully, he found “Letter Composition for Successful Business” by Inked Quill in the Business section of the library, where he immediately headed. The book was still there, and he snatched it from its place.

When Wild found a place to read it, he sat down and opened it, being careful with memorizing what it said. He was immediately stumped by just how many ways a letter could be written depending on the sender and recipient, as well as a number of styles that depended on the culture and country and language.

Wild cursed at himself for not bringing the letter with him, so he placed the book down at the side table next to his seating and rushed out of the library. He made his way to his apartment, grabbed the empty letter and the pen, then returned to the library. He wanted to slap himself in the face for being so thoughtless. Thankfully, once he returned to his reading place, the book was still there, so he grabbed it and went to one of the study tables where he could write the letter. He set it down and... there was a crease in the paper, an angled one. He shifted in place for a long moment, thinking that surely it would be fine if the letter was a bit imperfect...

No, it would not be fine.

After a trip to get another, perfect piece of paper, he finally sat down to read the book and actually get to writing the letter.

All formal letters start with contact information and date. In Standard Equestrian Style, this goes exactly a hoof’s width away from the left edge and a quarter of a hoof’s length away from the top.

Wild furrowed his brows. He was somewhat aware that Equestria had once used their own measuring standards based on pony bodies, and those standards had largely gone away with the introduction of the International Standard some centuries ago, which were exactly like the system of meters and kilograms and such that there was back on Earth. Very few cases existed where the old measuring standards were still used, but apparently formal letters were one of those. Wild snorted, putting the book aside and wandering off in search of how big a hoof actually was in the old system. Surely it wasn’t just his own hoof?

It didn’t take Wild long to find a book titled “Measurement Standards: From Pre-Equestria to Modern Era”, which was exactly what he wanted. The answer to his question was easy to find - the size of a hoof was replicated one to one on one of the pages, and the hoof measurements were based on Celestia’s right front hoof. There was tradition to change how much a hoof was based on who ruled Equestria at the time - and such changes were usually once every half a century - but this was done away with some time after Celestia and Luna took the throne.

Unfortunately for Wild, he would need a ruler to accurately measure out where he needed to place his contact information and date. That was easily remedied - some writing supplies were available at any desk. He groaned as he realized that he could have easily found paper, although his own desk, for some reason, didn’t have it.

Before measuring anything, he felt an itch to read a bit further.

When writing to a member of a noble house, one must write their contact information and date at exactly three-quarters of a hoof’s width away from the left edge and half a hoof’s length at the top edge. When writing to a member of the royal family, one must step a half-hoof from the left edge and a three-quarters of a hoof’s length away from the top. When writing to the rulers themselves, the distance is a quarter-hoof width and a full hoof length from the left and the top edges respectively.

He did not expect he would be writing any formal letters to any member of nobility or royal family - he wondered if Princess Celestia and Princess Luna even had any family - but it was perhaps useful to know how to write to the princesses themselves if he ever needed to.

Finally, he measured a hoof’s width from the left edge, then cursed, his hand swiftly grabbing a nearby pencil, and then he measured it out again and marked it, and then he measured a quarter of a hoof width - no, he needed length, which was from front to pack, not left to right - and marked it very lightly again. Then he lined paper, realized that it wasn’t exactly straight, erased it all, and then lined it again, this time slower, taking his time to measure the exact distance so that everything was nice and even. He had to erase line after line when they were slightly off until he, finally, had it all lined for the contact information and date.

At this point, he wanted to be done with it, but it was far from over, and so he persevered. First line was his full name, which was just Wild, simple enough. The next line was the country - Equestria. It was a fancy symbol incorporating sun, moon, and symbols of three pony tribes. That was difficult, the symbol itself not perfect, but it would do. Next line was the settlement, which... he didn’t know. Was the Royal Orphanage counted as its own thing or was it somehow attached to the nearby village of Ponyville? He got up from his seat and went for the Book of Addresses, which he had spotted previously.

The Book of Addresses contained, predictably, addresses of various businesses, government offices, ponies, and so on that were important enough to include. Ponyville was on it, although nothing beyond its name was mentioned. The Royal Orphanage, Wild learned, was not connected to any city or town or village and was, indeed, a place of its own, although it situated on Crown Land, which technically belonged to the princesses themselves.

The next and last line was for the street, house number, and apartment number. The Royal Orphanage didn’t have streets, so he simply wrote the number of his dorm.

Finally, it was done, and had he regular hands, they would already be cramping from how much effort he put into things looking nice and neat. Fortunately, he avoided having to use a quill - as per the rules, one had to use a quill to write any important business inquiries or when writing to a member of a noble house or writing to royalty. Otherwise, thankfully, regular pens were used.

Wild looked back at what he wrote and grit his teeth - the symbols were all slanted, slightly curving to a side, as well as of sizes too different, looking not quite even enough.

He glanced at a clock and gaped - he spent nearly an entire hour looking at all those stupid rules and lining his contact information and writing it all out.

He couldn’t stop now, he had to get it done. He furrowed his brow in concentration and, under the last line of the address, he wrote the current date after he confirmed it with a glance at a nearby calendar. Then he looked back at the rules.

One must skip a line between the contact information and the date, then skip two lines before writing the salutation.

He did not skip a line.

He resisted the urge to slam the table. Instead, he got up, balled up the letter, making it crinkle under his grip, then tossed it in a nearby bin. He closed the book with more force than was probably necessary and went to put it away, breathing heavily.

He couldn’t do it. He did not want to do it. This entire nonsense could wait. He was not spending a single extra moment on it. He was done.

The letter could be sent some other time, once he actually got through with all the stupid ancient rules and idiotic measurements and lining the paper and everything.

Steady Hooves would visit the Royal Orphanage anyway, so maybe he could approach her then. He simply was not dealing with letters, not anymore, not for at least another day.

He wanted to punch something as he internally continued to grumble about it all. Thankfully, there was the Martial Arts Club training later in the day, so he would have the opportunity to let out some of the frustration inside of him.

He could deal with everything else later.