Author's Note

"The Root of Silence" was originally written for a Quills and Sofas speedwrite event.

It takes place right around Chapter 1 of Rekindled Embers.

Content warnings include profanity, discussion of sexual acts, alcoholism, mentions of domestic violence, and some descriptions of bodily fluids

The Root of Silence

The very first time Raspberry Ice propositioned Deep Root was on the very same day they met. Within an hour, even.

“Hey. So, wanna fuck?”

“Wha…?”

“You’re cute. I’m gorgeous. It’ll be fun.”

“Uh. No thank you.”

In the months ahead he hated himself for that ‘no thank you’. Not because he was upset he’d turned her down. But because Deep Root was supposed to be an adventurer. An explorer. The kind of kirin they’d write storybooks about, a hundred years from now. What kind of bad-flank adventurer talk was ‘Uh, no thank you’?

At least Raspberry had been nice about it all. For an instant after his no, he’d been worried she’d react poorly. But the thestral mare merely shrugged and smiled at him.

“Okay. Want some booze?”

He’d turned that down, as well.

For the opening lines of his (hopefully) brilliant and storied career as an adventurer, Root was not doing so well. A bit boring, perhaps.

And it had all started so well, too.

When Deep Root left Treeholme, he’d been in high spirits. His father and mother, his sister, and even Umbra Flare had come out to say goodbye, and to cheer him on. That bit had burned a little. Didn’t they remember why? They’d been there, during his confession. His apology.

His shame.

It was a testament to their love for him that he saw none of the recrimination or accusation in any of their eyes. They only wanted to see him succeed.

“You are always welcome here, son,” his father, Elder Yellow Leaves, had said. “You always have a home. The Great Tree will shelter you in her branches forever.”

Despite the circumstances, and Deep Root’s own self-imposed exile, he’d been hopeful.

The kirin had traveled for three whole weeks before he happened upon another sentient creature. The savannah was full of all sorts of gigantic fauna, many of whom thought Root would be good to eat. He had enough control over his magic that a little spark of fire dissuaded most large predators, though. Still, his heart soared when he saw the colorful tops of the thestral caravan’s wagons. He made sure to approach in the open, walking over the savanna grasses with his head held high.

The thestrals saw him coming. A few of them kept their hooves on long, bayoneted rifles, but when it became increasingly clear that Root meant no threat they came out to meet him. It was Root’s first time meeting ponies, and he was pleased to see that they were much like he was, though they lacked scales and horns. Their wings, in particular, were quite beautiful and fascinating to him, especially when a gaggle of colorful thestral foals began flitting about him in the air, bombarding him with curious questions about where he came from.

“Who’re you?”

“Why do you have scales on your bits?”

“I’ve never seen a pony like you before. Why’s your tail poofy at the end?”

“What makes your horn split like that? Hey, can you float things like a unicorn?

Root obliged the last by juggling a few rocks through the air.

For their part, the bat ponies were happy to welcome another traveler to their campfires. Food and bedding were cheap, in Root’s estimation; all it cost him was a night’s worth of stories about Treeholme, about the Great Tree itself, and about his kin and family.

It did become a little awkward when they asked why he had decided to leave the Kirin behind.

“I’m not quite sure, but I think it’s my destiny,” Root said vaguely. Even though it was true, it sounded a little silly and dishonest. He was sitting at the fire with seven thestrals, including their caravan leader, a pony called Eyepatch. He was middle aged with multicolored fur, including a ring of white around one eye. “I couldn’t stay home any longer. Something was calling me out.”

The thestrals nodded in understanding, and Eyepatch reached out to pat him on the shoulder. “We know the lure of the road, son. We understand it well. You’re welcome to travel with us, for as long as you like - assuming you don’t mind pitching in.”

“Not at all,” Deep Root said. Labor wasn’t a problem; everypony in Treeholme did their part, even the Chieftain's son. “But where are you headed?”

“Nowhere in particular,” Eyepatch said vaguely, waving a hoof in the smoke of the campfire. “We don’t like to stay in one place for too long. We follow the whims of the Many-Faced One, and we travel wherever She guides us.” Each of the thestrals at the fire looked upward at the cloud-spattered sky and the sliver of moon that shone up above, while making a strange motion with their hooves; first they touched their foreheads, then their hearts. “The zebras allowed our ancestors to come to these lands, centuries ago after we fled Equestria. We don’t like to overburden the land with our presence by staying in one place too long, in gratitude for their hospitality.”

“Thestrals came from Equestria?” Deep Root perked up at that. “My own people left there, as well.” This was his reason for leaving. He wanted to know the story. He had to see his people’s ancient home, someday. He had to find the Stream.

“Ages ago, son. It’s ancient history. Nopony bothers much with the old stories, except maybe Raspberry Ice.” Several of the bat ponies around the fire chuckled. “Good luck getting a story out of her right now, though. At the last zebra village we stopped near, we made some good trades for a few barrels of nice smokey whiskey. I doubt she’s even capable of standing up at the moment.”

But Root had gone to meet this Raspberry Ice. And she was only about half as drunk as the others had joked.

Raspberry Ice stood by herself, at once a part of and separate from her people. She sat on a small bluff, looking out over the plains with her long rifle leaning up against her shoulder. Her unkempt blue mane feathered about in the light breeze that danced over the grass covering the bluff. Next to her was a large wooden flask. The breeze brought with it the sharp tang of alcohol long before Root got to her.

He paused, not saying anything, taking a moment to try and block out the painfully familiar scent.

“Hey,” she called out without turning, when he didn’t come any closer. Her voice was slurred, and she swayed a little as she looked behind her. “Oh! You’re that dragonpony cutie that showed up.”

“Kirin,” he corrected, stepping forward up the bluff. “I’m Deep Root.”

“Raspberry Ice,” she grinned. She held out a hoof for him to shake, and nearly unbalanced herself and fell over in the process. “Oops. How can I help ya, Rooty Tooty?”

“It’s Deep Root,” he said patiently. “And I’m on a quest. I’m looking for information about my people’s ancient home. Equestria. Legend says we left there a thousand years ago. I was just going to travel by myself until I reached a zebra city, but I happened upon your caravan.” He pointed back at the fire. “Eyepatch said I should ask you about it.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m the Equestria expert, for sure,” Raspberry giggled. “What do you want to know?”

“I’d settle for how to get there,” Deep Root said, and Raspberry burst into a wave of drunken cackles, pointing a shaky hoof to the east.

“Keep going that way, then swim a bunch,” she said between gales of laughter. “There’s a whole ocean between you and them.”

“Is there somewhere I can hire a boat?”

“One of the zebra cities, maybe,” Raspberry said. “But you don’t wanna go there.”

“Why not?”

“How many stories do you dragonponies tell about what happened in Equestria?”

“Kirin. And very little. Something about a cult that took over, after the goddesses left?”

“That’s about right. Listen, Rooty. You, uh, you’re still so fresh from your hometown I can smell your mamma’s milk on you, ya know?” He blinked a few times in confusion. “Sorry. Idiom. You’re not worldly. And you’re cute and interesting, so I’ll make you a deal.” She stood and stretched. “You travel with Eyepatch’s caravan for a few days. We’re heading southeast, so it’s kinda in the right direction. When it comes time to peel off, I’ll come with you.”

“I don’t have any money,” he said carefully, and Raspberry burst into another wave of giggles.

“I’m not asking for any. Just keep being interesting, and I’ll stick around. Nopony around here seems to care about Old Equestria, so it’ll be nice to have somepony around who’s interested in the same stuff I am.”

“Okay. I guess.”

“That’s the spirit, Rooty,” she stumbled to her hooves, her rifle dropping carelessly into the grass as she ambled over and put a hoof around his shoulders. He tried not to recoil from the smell of alcohol, but it wasn’t that bad. Underneath, she smelled like fresh dirt and mare. “So, you wanna fuck?”

The second request came weeks later. Running for their lives seemed like an inappropriate time to be discussing carnal relations, but Root had long since learned that Raspberry Ice had a unique sense of timing and appropriateness. It was something he had grown to appreciate, even though he didn’t participate.

“Hey Root?” she panted between hoofbeats, their legs pounding the beaten dust of the road as they fled. “I got a question for you!”

“Can it possibly wait until angry minotaurs aren’t chasing us?” He spared a glance over his shoulder. The posse was still headed their way.

“Nah, it’s super important.” She was slurring again. She’d been drinking. Of course she had.

“Go… ahead,” he panted. The minotaurs were closing. He could see the moonlight glinting off of their axes and metal-lined clubs.

“When we get out of this alive,” she paused for heavy breathing. “Do you wanna bang? Ya know, sexy times?”

He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

“Isn’t that… what started all of this?”

“He wishes,” Raspberry Ice growled darkly. “Damned minotaur punk thought flirting meant he had an invitation to grab my flank. I might have dumped my beer on him.” She swore. “Waste of a good beer. Minotaurs brew the best lagers.”

“You…” Root hadn’t heard the whole story until the blades and clubs had come out. “Huh. I didn’t realize.”

He turned and stopped, planting his hooves on the ground as a half-dozen angry bovine bipeds barreled down on them.

“Uh, Rooty? What are you…”

“Okay, you bastards,” he snarled. His anger coiled like a snake in his gut, spinning and twisting and begging to burst free. It hadn’t since that night, long ago. As the magic of his fury churned in him, he flashed back.

Cries of fear.

The smell of alcohol.

The heat, the cursed, beautiful, hideous, lovely, wonderful heat.

Flames exploded up and down his body, and his voice ripped out of his throat in a snarl.

“THE LADY SAID NO. YOU TOUCHED HER WITHOUT PERMISSION, AND NOW YOU OBJECT TO HER DEFENDING HERSELF!?”

He hated every second of the pleasure coursing through his body. He hated how much he loved the terrified looks on the minotaur’s faces. The reflection of his flames in their eyes was beautiful. The fear he could see dancing in the flames was like a drug. He drank it all in like a bitter, yet succulent poison.

“What are…” the one in front snarled. His friends hesitated, but kept moving forward.

“TURN AROUND, GO BACK NOW, AND NOPONY GETS BURNED ALIVE.” He poured his rage into his magic, and the flames grew higher, blackening the dust around him. The front minotaur pulled back, recoiling from the heat. The others weren’t moving forward any longer, murmuring in terror.

He took one step forward. Then another. Tiny tongues of flame licked at the road beneath him, consuming blades of grass.

A single rifle shot roared into the darkness, and the dirt at the lead minotaur’s feet sprayed into the air. Root spared a split-second glance behind him; Raspberry’s rifle tip pointed towards their pursuit, it’s bayonet glinting in the light of his flames as it swayed back and forth.

“Whoops,” she laughed. “I meant to hit your ball sack.”

The minotaurs broke. A little singed pride and spilled beer wasn’t worth a fiery death, or worse. Root watched them go, carefully, until he could no longer see the glint of his flame in their armor. Then, with a sigh, he slumped down.

“I meant it, you know,” Raspberry said into the silence that followed. “I’d screw you silly right now. You’re really hot. Smoking hot, I’d say.”

This time he joined her in her laughter.

“Sorry I poured out all the booze on that ass. I should have saved some for you.”

That stopped his laughter dead.

The third time she asked was in the massive port town. Jubilation was a beautiful melting pot of cultures, filled with zebras and ponies, minotaurs and dragons, even the odd diamond dog.

It had taken them nearly a year to get there. They’d tried asking the fabled collector Mlinzi the dragon, but he’d driven them out with fang and fire. They’d gone next to bargain with Queen Nadia of the seaponies, but she’d refused to even meet with them. Finally they’d spoken with Annika Garamundi, The Noble Rose, scourge of the Equestrian invaders. Annika hadn’t been able to help, either, but she’d directed them to Jubilation.

By now, Raspberry Ice had taken plenty of time to fill Root in on why his dream was an impossibility. Equestria really was nothing like the old legends; it was a place of sorrow and hatred. Certainly not safe for a non-pony like him. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn more about it, and about his people’s history. And Jubilation was a port town, where all sorts of goods and products came to be traded.

Goods such as old books.

The bookseller they found was wealthy. Almost astoundingly so. Turned Page was a young zebra, but he had already amassed a veritable fortune of tomes, all stored in his expansive library. It was open to the public, though burly zebra security guards at the entrance made sure that library patrons didn’t become book thieves.

“You know,” Raspberry said between two very tall, very secluded bookshelves. “Nopony can see us here.” She pulled out one of her many flasks, this one small and metal. She pulled off the lid and offered it to him, watching him intently as he shook his head. With a shrug, she drank. “Wanna do something naughty in the library?”

“No thank you,” he said with a smile. She never seemed that mad when he rejected her.

“Um,” she took a long drink from her flask. “I gotta ask. Am I bothering you? By asking? Because I’m not teasing you. I am really interested.” Her ears pinned back, and she seemed to shrink. “You’re not gay, are you? And I’ve just been harrassing you this whole time…”

“I’m not gay,” he said. He wasn’t sure if there was a word for what he was. Attracted to anypony, as long as he felt connected to them.

He was attracted to Raspberry.

“Oh. Okay.” He could see a spark of hope in her eyes, and she took another pull from the flask. “Um. Good.” Her eyes narrowed in concentration. “Can I ask why not, then?” her eyes widened again in panic. “Not that you have to say if you don’t want to. I don’t wanna push.”

“I…” he glanced at her, then at her flask. Something in her eyes lit up with recognition, and she put the flask away.

“Nevermind,” she said brightly. “Let’s find a book on your homeland.”

He remembered the night that led to his self exile, but only barely.

The scent of alcohol was there, like a haze over everything he could see, a brown haze that made everything darker. He remembered the feel of it, the sour-sweet taste of the beer they’d been drinking. Then the cider, then the whiskey. He didn’t even remember what the argument was about. But he remembered the hooves flying. Not his first, but his next.

Then came the flames. Hot, burning. His flames. Umbra’s flames..

Their house, on fire. Ash and smoke, bitter and choking.

The alarms and sirens. The shackles. The drunk cell at the sheriff’s office.

He remembered the foul taste in his mouth. The pounding of his head. It hurt so much less than the shame.

The hospital was horrible to endure. Root was hurt far worse than Umbra Flare. But Umbra’s bruised eye and singed fur were images that would remain with Root until the very day he died.

The courts determined that nopony was at fault. They ordered counseling. Therapy. Addiction recovery. But Root knew, deep down, in a dark, angry part of himself, that he’d gotten off because of who his father was.

He’d checked the law books the next day. Surely there was more of a penalty for a kirin unleashing their flames in anger, destroying property, injuring another.

But no. It was nothing more than an ancient fragment of an ancient story. ‘The kirin who unleashes their flame in anger shall step into the Stream of Silence and surrender their voice. They cannot speak to the tribe.’

He told nopony about what he’d found. He did as the court ordered, he made every therapy appointment, and every court-mandated rehab session. But he was making plans the whole time. Perhaps no kirins followed the old law of silence any longer. But Root knew what he deserved.

His people would be safe from him. Even if he had to find the Stream of Silence to do it.

Root couldn’t find Raspberry in the bar at the Honeychime Inn. She was usually in the common room, drinking and cheering and flirting. He liked watching her, even though he’d never touch alcohol again. But the room was empty, and it seemed somehow… darker because of it.
Perhaps she had found another lead? But nights were when the bat pony mare liked to party. Maybe she was in their room.

He trotted up the stairs and opened the door. The air wafted out, and he curled his nose in protest at the smell that assaulted him. Vomit and sweat. He rushed inside, running towards the scent. He could hear the sound of whimpering from the bathroom.

Raspberry was covered in sweat. Shaking and trembling. Her own sick leaked from the corner of her mouth, and her eyes were closed. Root sucked in a deep breath before rushing over, picking her up off the floor.

“H-hey, Root. How’re ya doing?” she stammered.

“Raspberry,” he said softly. Chidingly. He was agonizingly familiar with the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. He’d done the same thing to himself. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Sure I did,” she rasped. “It’s the only way I’m gonna get you to sleep with me, right?” She laughed at her own joke, but it was a sick, unhealthy sound.

“Yeah, but cold turkey?” he sighed. “You didn’t have to.”

“I saw your eyes,” she whispered. “I finally saw, Root. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

There was an urgency in her eyes. A yearning that hid behind the haze of illness and the distraction of her shallow flirting. He wondered why he’d taken so long to notice himself. He reached up, gently brushing her damp mane from her face.

“You did it for me?” The words hurt to say.

“Yeah.” She coughed. “I was hurting you. I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“I didn’t tell you. Just like you didn’t tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“How long have you really…”

He trailed off. Root didn’t really have the words, even though he’d been in a relationship before.

“Been madly in love with you?” Raspberry finished for him. “Probably a long time. I didn’t notice until I realized I was hurting you. And I thought about what things would be like if I finally drove you away.”

Root stared at her, gently stroking her mane as she stared up at him with dazed, sick-hazed eyes. She wasn’t the one who needed to worry about driving him away. He looked away.

This whole time, Umbra’s face floated in his mind whenever he felt himself getting too close to her. His family, too. His father. The burning ruins of his home.

“I can’t—”

“I know what you’re looking for, too,” Raspberry interrupted him. “I found a book that talks about the Stream of Silence. In Turned Page’s bookstore. It’s got pictures of your kind, too. I sorta put two and two together, you know? And that’s when I realized what you were running from. And running to.”

“I’ll hurt you, too.”

“I don’t believe it,” Raspberry snorted, before a green sort of look floated in her eyes. Root gently lifted her up, so she could be right over the toilet. He held her as she was sick, flinching at the choking, retching noises, the splatters into the toilet water. With one hoof he stroked her back. “I’d fucking kick your ass if you tried.”

“Not right now you wouldn’t,” he muttered, and she laughed, coughing.

“Don’t change the subject,” she groaned, as he eased her back onto the floor.

There was a towel next to the sink. He turned the faucet, wetting the towel, before gently wiping at her mouth.

“What’s the subject then?”

“I read the book. I know why you want the Stream of Silence. Or, I’ve guessed, at least. You’re punishing yourself.”

“And you’re not, with all of this?”

Raspberry shook her head, but the motion made her groan in pain. Root held her still. Held her tight.

“No,” she gasped, her voice filtered through agony-clenched teeth. “I’m just moving past something that’s holding me back.”

The words didn’t take long to sink in. Raspberry wasn’t exactly subtle; she turned her head up to look at him, hazy, unfocused eyes on his.

“Do you…” she licked her lips and grimaced. “Do you want to know the name of that book? The one about the Stream of Silence?”

This was it, wasn’t it? Chase the past, and the punishment he had justly earned? Or move past something that was holding him back.
“No.”