Scraps and Baps

by B_25

Alive and Well on the Friendless Voyage

Load Full StoryNext Chapter

Alive and Well on the Friendless Voyage
B_25

There came the pony, wearing his iron mask, able to see but unable to breathe.

He limped into the the carriage. Calm music filled his ears and a golden glow blinded his eyes. The iron spheres of his mask were small, covering his lids, revealing only his iris. They were green. They were once bright.

And the party carried on.

The stranger in the iron mask limped across the lounge. It was vast—the biggest carriage on the train. The tables and chairs were filled with chattering friends. In the corner, unicorns sat along the counter of the bar, most drinking from fine glass.

And, at the end of the other side of the carriage, laid a floor unlike any other. Griffons danced here, underneath the glittering ball, beneath the banner the crossed across the ceiling. The Grand Voyage.

The stranger in the iron mask came to a table—one empty of life but filled with drinks. He took his seat, grabbed an empty drink, and brought it to his lips: feeling the glass clink against the iron. Smaller holes were scattered across where his mouth was supposed to be, giving him the tiniest amount of oxygen to breathe.

“Is this seat taken, young one?”

“No.” His breaths were heavy and his voice was light. Every word he spoke came out muffled. “Be my guest.”

“I think that I shall.” The elder took to her chair, groaning while she did so, until she took her seat. It was like a great exertion for her to do so. “Age is never kind on the old, let me tell you. Promise me to never get old?”

The stranger gave a strained chuckle. “That... won't be a problem, ma'am.”

“Good. Glad to hear it!”

The stranger swallowed.

“You sound parched,” the elder went on. “Would you care for another drink? They have everything here, you know. Everyone is free to help themselves to whatever they please: apple juice, orange juice, grape juice—“

“I'll... pass on the... juice.”

The elder frowned. “It's impolite to interrupt your elders, young one.”

The stranger didn't apologize.

“Would you like to hear a story?”

The stranger wanted to know everything about her, so he nodded his head, bearing the weight of the iron mask the whole way. It pained him in a pleasant way, the iron mask, one that was indescribable even to himself.

“My husband and I met on a train like this. It was a train, now, though it wasn't as big as this.” The elder coughed as she begun her tale. “It was a two story train. I worked on the top floor. He worked on the bottom floor.”

The stranger nodded despite the weight and the pain.

“One day, we... bumped into each other by accident! I was carrying a tray, he was wearing a suit, and we've been nothing but trouble to each other ever since.” The elder shook her head, smiling, the full story stuck inside her mind. “He's at home now. Too old to make a voyage like this. We knew it was for the best.”

The stranger wanted to speak, but his lungs ached from the lack of air. Every word had its own price, and as of late, he had run dry. So he sat there, silently, underneath the iron mask, glad that the elder couldn't see his expression.

An expression he couldn't see himself.

“Well then, I must be going.” The elder stood up at once, far faster than when she had sat down, driving fear into the stranger's mind. “You have been very pleasant company aside from a few unsavoury moments. To the new land.”

The stranger nodded again—painful, but easier than words.

And the party carried on.

Time went by. The stranger didn't notice. He tried to think, to reflect, to analyze that which he felt, all to invent naught. The weight of the mask disturbed him from his thoughts. Staying in place meant the mask would sink him into the ground.

So he got up and carried on, along the red carpet, in-between the groups of passing ponies. His throat was dry and his lungs still burned. Walking deprived him of air more than talking, but for whatever, he enjoyed the pain of the former slightly more.

“Seat isn't taken. Sit down.” The stranger stopped at the voice, glad to have done so, and spun around. It was a unicorn, one with a broken horn, hunched over a sparkling drink. “What are you waiting for? You're taking up space and wasting time standing here. Come, come. Sit down. Do something now.”

The stranger stood around only for a second, wondering if active was better than inactive. However, knowing he was under harmful gaze, obeyed like a slave, taking his seat next to the broken unicorn.

“Good good. You've taken action. That's better than nothing.” The broken unicorn didn't look at the stranger, instead beating his hoof into the wood of the counter. The knock roused the bartender, who came over, wearing a vest and all. “Keep. Two drinks. Whisky. Not sweet.”

The stranger did not drink and also did not object.

“I was a bartender once.” The broken unicorn looked over at the iron mask. “I tell you that? One of the first jobs I had. Well, before washing dishes. Stopped washing dishes when I was old enough to serve drinks. You get what I'm saying?”

The stranger did not nod.

“You seem like you should be washing dishes now. It'll be good experience. Gives you something to do and build up to.” The broken unicorn shook his head. “You work hard. I worked hard. Making drinks all night, showing up to school in a vest, sleeping during a test.” He whistled. “I worked hard, boy. And so should you.”

“The... mask,” the stranger barely said. “It... weighs... a...”

“It weighss nadda. You put that on yourself.” The broken unicorn shook his head and crossed his hooves over his scarred chest. “Speaking to a ruler that way? That was your work. Bad work ethic while we're at it.”

The bartender came back with two filled glasses.

“Don't think that punishment bars ya from workin'. Ya need to work.” The broke unicorn cupped his cup of whisky. “It's the only thing consistent in this life. You work hard: you get rewarded, if only in your own way. Sink hours into a friend, and then they can always walk away.” He downed his drink, rendering his throat dry. “Marry a mare, only for her to be a whore.”

The stranger swallowed.

“We're all off to new land, all of us.” The broken unicorn slammed his glass against the wood harder than what the stranger would have liked. “Doesn't matter who or what you are. What came before? It doesn't matter. We're all going to new land to explore. We're gonna make a new world.” He started into his empty drink. “And all we gotta do is work for it. We'll have towns and cities for it.”

The stranger spoke, “I... love you... and hate you... admire you... reject you...”

The broken unicorn replied, “Drink your drink or your words don't mean jack shit.”

The party never stopped.

The strange once more went through it all. He stopped in his limp, the lights above now dim, the frost on the windows quite trim. The world beyond the train was unseeable, though it felt grand, from inside the warmth of the lounge.

Beyond the pane of glass, tracks could be seen in the past, snaking behind a mountain they had already passed. Higher and higher, the train was rising, slowing in speed but gaining in altitude. None questions their direction; all enjoyed their distraction.

“Are you kidding! That story is mad, madder than mad, jokes.” The heavy griffon stopped in his sway. He was on the floor, four other griffons next to me, all forming half a circle out on the dance floor.

Next Chapter