A stallion lives on the side of a mountain that stands in the middle of a flooded world. His origins are unknown, his nature of the world unknown except for the water that tops off halfway up the mountain. Near the top, encrusted in rock and crystal, lives the unknown stallion.
His home is small, comfy on his own words. It looks old, it looks traditional, it looks how a house should look like. The house harbored only one floor. It had a kitchen, living room, and bedroom. Windows helped the stallion determine the type of day he was going to experience. Sunny meant a good day, rainy meant a bad day, it never snowed, and stormy meant the end of the world.
The house meant everything to the stallion. It was one of the few things that brought him joy in a life as mundane as can be.
He would wake in the morning, and he would grab his pick, backpack, and rope by the bed. He would walk outside, and come out of his tiny cavern, look at the sky, tell the day, decide from there. On sunny days, the more popular day, he would whistle as he would walk to the edge, a song he could not remember but could not forget. He would stare at the sun, and it would wake him, and he would look down, and look at the water through sun spots in his eyes.
The edge of his entrance jutted out far, and housed a knob of rock at the end. The stallion would tie the rope around the knub, and climb his way down the mountain. He would hold his pic and mine at crystal he thought alluring. He would store the crystals in his bag, and move on.
And he would venture further south down the mountain to catch jumping fish that he could spear with his useless horn. He hated doing so, as he had an innate fear of the water, but it would provide dinner.
This would only last until the afternoon, where the stallion was restless. He had nothing to do. He wished that when he ever came to this mountain and however this house was created, it would have housed books. The living housed only a sofa and an empty bookcase, which mocked the stallion. Books to the stallion represented meaning in the meaningless world, and he felt nostalgic. He knew somepony who loved books, that much he knew. He wondered where they were many occasions. He knew not what they looked like, sounded like, or were like, but he knew they liked books.
The bookcases would instead hold the stallions' crystals, and they became a type of story for the pony. The weathering marks would talk about struggle, the clear glass of perfection. The stallion thought of a world of crystals, beautiful shiny crystals living together, so clear that the sun would shine through them and would make beautiful mosaic art through the town.
In these afternoons, the stallion would sit on the sofa with these imaginary scenarios in his head. He would then get up, and sulk around the kitchen. He would look at himself in the reflection of the sink, but never turned it on. He would wonder if his horn had magic or used to have magic or never even had magic, and wonder what the meaning of it all was. And he would then look at his bag of crystals and dead fish, cry, and look out the windows to the cruel world, and walk to his bedroom where he would lie for minutes before repeating these actions.
Eventually, he would store the fish in the fridge save for one, gut it, cook it on the stove, and eat it. He would throw the guts off the side of the mountain. And then, almost immediately, he would sleep.
This cycle continued until one indistinct day where he saw something in the water, pressed up against the mountain. He argued at himself whether or not to actually see the body, but eventually, the idea of seeing something knew overwhelmed his fear of water. And so on this rather sunny day, the stallion eased himself down the side of the mountain, sweat on his brow, determined to see what was near his home. The water sprayed at his face, and he winced. He got close enough to see it was a mass of gray fur. The stallion cocked an eyebrow before another splash of water sprinkled his eyes. His bottom hooves were dangerously close to the water. But the fur moved. Curious, the stallion leaned his pick down, and pulled the fur up.
Like a log, a dead unicorn floated to the surface. The force of the pic caused it to turn, and stare at the stallion. The eyes were gray, and the face was almost a skeleton. The eye was still there and it looked right through the stallion. With a gasp, the stallion felt himself lose grip and eventually fall into the water.
The stallion felt the cold splash of the water, and he opened his eyes to see nothing. The water was black nothing, but he felt something brush his leg and he was afraid it was his memory of his book-loving friend trying to pull him down with it. And he felt something brush his leg again,a dn this time the stallion felt as though it was a demon. He splashed around, convinced that he would die. He opened his mouth and he tasted death.
His hand brushed rope, and with deteriorating strength, he pulled himself up, and scrambled up the side of the mountain, no pic anymore.
The stallion sat in his living room, mind turned off. He didn’t know what happened, and he was bored. He picked up a piece of quartz and he rubbed it until he remembered that nothing meant anything anymore.
The sounds of waves soothed him to sleep. He had a dreamless slumber.
