Early Summer, 145 A.L.R
It was the million dollar view: the sun slowly rising over Central Park with its open green lawns, manicured trees, and slowly meandering sideways. The stallion took it all in from his lounging position on the city bench: just the park, himself, and his thoughts. The last he was trying to kill with his breakfast in a bottle.
The stallion took another swig, feeling the amber liquor burn its way through his guts. He really wasn't thinking of much of anything. It was why he drank, so he didn’t have to think. Thinking hurt. It also contained memories; memories he would rather not think about. So he drank. And sat on this bench in the early morning light, content to ignore those around him.
Once more he raised the bottle to his lips, but this time nothing happened. Raising the bottle up, he peered inside as if it would reveal some hidden reservoir of liquor that gravity was otherwise denying him. With a practiced motion, he sent the bottle spinning off into the void behind him. There came a crash and a tinkle in reply.
And so he went back to sitting, watching and waiting: waiting to stop thinking, to stop feeling; waiting to die.
Celestia’s sun, which had kept him warm these last few hours, was suddenly gone. The stallion inched open one reluctant and dirt encrusted eye. A pair of ponies blocked his view of the celestial body: matching blue caps and jacket, one mare, one stallion, with the mare before him and the stallion observing.
The mare wasn’t bad looking: white coat, pink mane, could have used a little makeup. Too bad she was a spike head or else he would have to take her seriously. Damn good thing she wasn't griffon. As it was, the mare kept shifting her weight between her back hooves, while her eyes held his gaze.
“Hello Sweetheart,” said the drunk stallion with a sly grin, “You dont look like the hooker I ordered, but if you’ve got the time, I’ve got the bits.”
“Sir,” she said in a sweet voice, “please go pick up your bottle or I will write you a ticket for littering.”
“Oh really?” The scallion slowly righted himself, planting his hooves solidly on the cement. He fixed his gaze squarely on the blue pair in front of him. “How about you go for it, tits. Probably pretty good at it from all the kitchens you’ve cleaned.”
The mane's reaction was subtle and immediate: her eyes narrowed and her weight shifting forwards as she bore down on the scoundrel before her. “Sir,” she started, the sweetness replaced with a hard edge. “I’m going to give you to the count of three.”
The stallion tensed, hooves stitched for a weapon that wasn’t there, hadn't been there in ten years. ‘Go ahead,’ he thought, ‘light that horn. Find out how fast I can put you down. Just like a Yule, that sick and twisted mare.’
Yule, with her white coat and green mane. Yule, with that cheeky grin that never quite reached her eyes. The same Yule that was staring right at him, eyes boring into his own, saying those same haunting words “sit back and enjoy that ride”.
The mare was talking, her lips finally syncing up with the sound he was hearing, “One…two…” She stopped as a hoof gently resting on her back. She glanced back into the face of her partner and his nearly imperceptible share of his head.
“Good morning, Hickory,” said the male officer in a low, steady, and threatening voice.
And like that, Yule was gone. Because she was dead. He had set the charge himself. No one had walked out of that explosion.
“Good morning yourself, um…” replied the stallion, as he peered through bleary eyes at the officer's shiny brass name tag. “Officer Core?”
“Be nice to the rooky,” warned the officer.
The second officer was a threat: a big earth pony with a lean body, broad chest, and clearly the tallest of the three of them by at least several inches. Unlike his partner, he looked ready to knock some heads. And a set of scratched and dented war shoes backed him up.
The stallion, now identified as Hickory, thought for a moment. It wasn’t easy, trying to work past the liquor and years of dependency, but it was there. A spark from two functioning brain cells led to a long, drawn out groan. Finally, Hickory learned back, visibly relaxing.
The mare cleared her throat and stood up as tall as possible; it was not very impressive. Eventually she said, “please move along, sir.”
“And where would you like me to go,” asked Hickory, almost disappointed as the tension started to fade.
“Anywhere but here.”
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Many hours later, Hickory found himself on the finest cardboard furniture Manehatten had to offer. The twin layers of cardboard were stained, but otherwise serviceable. It did let him sit comfortably while reclining against the brick masonry of the little cafe behind him.
Traffic in this business district was modest. The ponies were generally compassionate and left him alone. The tin can at his feet clanked as a bit was dropped into it. Once the pony was gone, Hickory quickly transferred the golden coin to his pocket.
Sobriety was not-so-suddenly bucking on his mental door. The tasteless, odorless liquid wasn’t helping. If the blasted waiter in the cafe could bring him something else besides bottled water, he might be able to go back to enjoying what was left of his day. Unfortunately, judging by the weight in his pocket, he was only half way to his next bottle.
His can clanked again, but this time as someone kicked it; the tin went spinning across the cement and bounced off the brick wall.
“Go get a job,” said the offending pony over their shoulder.
“Go buck yourself,” hollered Hickory as the retreating flank. He raised his hoof in a rude gesture. The exchange helped a little, but did nothing for his sobriety. That could only be accomplished through bits. Other pony’s bits.
The can now sat well out of reach. Hickory flailed a hoof at it but to no avail. “Celestia damned punks, kicking my can,” the stallion muttered to himself as he started to get up. Then a fire bloomed in his back and he sat back down. “Oh, damn it all to Taurus”.
“I’ve got it,” said a mare and the can floated over in a blue ora.
Hickory only grunted in reply.
“You could be nicer,” continued the mare.
Hickory looked up to the pesky voice and its owner who just wouldn't go away.
The waiter who had been bringing him water was gone, replaced by this mare. She was cute with her teal coat and bi-colored pink and blue mane. She wore a white apron over a little pink blouse and dress. The mare was a little older than he preferred but gentle on the eyes.
“Well,” started Hickory, as he searched for something snappy to say, “I could be nice if I had a bottle in front of me.” He proffered his empty tin can with what he hoped was a winning smile. “How about it? Make me “nicer” for a generous donation of 15 bits?”
The mare only gave him a look: a mix of pity, understanding, and compassion. Hickory hated that look. It was the same look his mother would give him. Like he’d disappointed her or something.
“No,” she finally said, “I’ve seen too many good stallions drink themselves to death.”
Hickory grunted and went back to learning against the wall.
A moment of silence, as much as can be found in the city, ticked away between the two ponies. The mare finally said, “how about you come in. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
Hickory raised an eyebrow. “You sure? I’m not exactly customer material. Probably stink pretty bad too.” As if to emphasize his point, Hickory sniffed his own pits and grimmest as what his nose detected.
“I’m the owner, and I choose my customers, smelly or not,” stated the mare with a smile. “Besides, you can’t smell any worse than I did after the Battle of Mare’s Mountain.”
The cafe was small but open, with plenty of exposed red brick and rough wooden beams. Ten empty tables and assorted chairs filled the space. A lack of customers left plenty of spots to choose from. Hickory selected a seat with his back to the wall and a view of the door.
Soon enough a plate of cheese sandwiches appeared. The mare sat in the seat opposite with a cup of tea. Hickory took the sandwiches with a grunt of thanks and began to eat.
The mare took a quiet sip of her tea before saying “My name’s Cinabun. Pleasure to meet you mister…?”
Hickory chewed for a moment and then swallowed. “Hickory,” he said and went back to eating.
Another sip of tea, another question: “How are the sandwiches?”
Hickory paused with the foodstuffs halfway to his mouth. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? But she wasn’t and seemed to be waiting for his response. “It’s not a veggie brick,” he said flatley.
His comment elicited a burst of laughter from Cinabun. The mare shook and shuddered as she clutched her sides. Her teacup and its contents slothed while the mare precariously remained upright. “Not a veggie brick,” she heaved as she wiped the tears from her face. “That's a good one. Anything’s better than that. I had way too many in the service.”
Cinabun took a minute to compose herself: straighten her blouse, clean up her spilled tea and fetch a fresh cup. Once ready, she lifted the cup with her magic and took a long, delicate sip. “Did you spend time in the war? I served with the Hundred and Third Supply Company. Oh, the stories I could tell,” Cinabun said wistfully. With a sigh and another sip, she asked “what about yourself?”
Hickory looked down at his empty plate. He gently pushed the plate aside and instead doodled on the table with his hoof. Now came the part he dreaded. The part he knew was coming since the mare’s comment about being at the Battle of Mare’s Mountain.
That had been a hell of a battle: close ground and air artillery, crawling up foot by foot through exploding trees and sniper fire. Then finally holding the peak again repeated counter-attacks. And for what? To repeat it again, although much faster, several weeks later. Juniper had died on that shell blasted peak. Winter Breeze too. Too many good ponies had lost their lives trying to seize that mountain.
The stallion pushed his own feelings aside; he could marinate them later in whisky. The mare was looking at him in earnest. The day wasn’t getting any younger.
Somewhere deep inside a spark of his old self came to life. Some part that was still young and kind, and naive to the ways of war and death. The same part that had stopped him from stabbing his co-worker to death.
Hickory feld the heavyweight just inside his jacket pocket. He took a calming breath and eventually said, “I was with the Forty-Second Heavy Infantry Brigade.” This was followed by a pregnant pause, and Hickory continued, “and the First Green Cloaks.”
The teacup shattered on the stone floor; bits of porcellian scattered across the stone floor reminiscent of an aerial shell burst. But Cinabun didn’t notice her smashed cup, nor the mess on the floor. She hadn’t moved since his statement. Luckily she remembered to breathe.
It took nearly a full minute for the mare to pick her jaw off the floor. Her lips moved but nothing came out. Hickory nervously went back to doodling on the table.
“The Green Cloaks?” Cinabun whispered.
“Yes,” replied Hickory without looking up.
“The Green Cloaks who stormed the Port of Baltimore and drove the Griffins from the mainland? Those Green Cloaks? The heroes of Equestria?” The mare was nearly jumping out of her chair with excitement.
“I wouldn't call them heroes. At least not most of them.”
Cinabun realized she was standing and sat back down. She gave Hickory a long look. “The Green Cloaks,” she asked again.
“Yes,” repeated Hickory.
“The legendary Green Cloaks? Where you only got in by bravery or appointment?”
Hickory still wasn’t meeting her eyes, but corrected her all the same.“An Actor of Valor While under fire or by Princess appointment,” he recited.
Cinabun’s hoof poked at the empty air as if trying to touch something. “At the end of the war, um,” she said, thinking hard, “they had a big ceremony in Canterlot. They gave out medals to all the special units that fought during the war. Do you still have it?”
Hickory reached into his coat and pulled out the chunk of bronze and laid it on the table. He laid it on the table with a single clear note. The Seal of the Twin Sisters stared up at both ponies, worn and faded from much rubbing. The attached ribbon was dirty and frayed, even repaired with hoof stitching in some places.
More time passed in silence. “May I,” asked Cinabun. Hickory finally looked up and gave her a nod. The mare picked up the medal reverently.
Cinabun held the medal, turning this his way and that in the light. She turned it over and squinted at the inscription on the back. “Presented by Princess Luna,” she read slowly. “For exceptional acts while in the service of Equestria and the Five Monarchs, Special Unit Service, First Green Cloaks, Hickory Stump, “The Green Death”.”
She held the medal, slowly running her hooves over it as if to make sure it wouldn't vanish into thin air. They sat in the quiet of the cafe for sometime, broken only by Hickory as he slowly peeled the finish off the table with the tip of his hoof. The longer the silence, the more clear-coat was removed. Hickory was about to ask for his medal back when the mare spoke.
“Which was it,” she asked, breaking the silence.
“Which was what?”
“Act of Valor or Princess appointment,” clarified Cinabun as she handed the medal back.
Hickory tucked his medal safely away in its pocket. Finally he said, “Princess appointment.”
“Which one,” asked the mare.
“Princess Twilight Sparkle,” said Hickory, thinking back.
“What did you do,” pressed Cinabun
“Saved her life,” stated Hickory matter-of-factly.
“You saved a princess’s life,” Cinabun nearly shouted. Once more she found herself out of her chair. She plopped back down in her seat.
Hickory just shrugged, saying “she probably wasn’t in that much danger, given how she is a princess and all, but she was impressed and let me ask for anything I wanted.”
“And you asked to join the Green Cloaks.”
“Yes.”
Cinabun slowly shook her head. “I bet there is a Tatarus of a story behind that. Care to share?”
Hickory started to rise. “Look, I'm not nearly drunk enough to relive that, and I should probably get going. Need more bits before nightfall.”
A stack of golden coins plopped onto the table. “Is this enough,” asked the mare.
Hickory greedily eyed the gold. He felt the weight in his pocket. Could he? Yes, he could make it another hour without a drink. He was almost there.
The stallion reluctantly sat back down.
Cinabun pulled her chair forwards and there was a crunch of broken porcelain. She looked apologetically to Hickory, “Give me a minute. I need to clean up and I'll bring us more food.
She busied herself for several minutes, leaving a nervous and reluctant Hickory sitting alone. When she returned, she brought several scones, two glasses of water and a pen and paper. Cinabun asked, “you said you saved Princess Twilight Sparkle’s life. What happened?
Hickory sighed, grumbled a little before giving in; he had already pocketed the bits and the scones smelled so good. He picked up one of the baked goods and took a bite, hiding the grimace as he slowly worked his way through buried memories.
“Where to start? Where to start,” he muttered to himself. Some memories were easier than others. How about something easy, something less riddled with death and violence.
Cinabun stared at him from across the table, hanging on his every word. The paper floated beside her, pen already scribbling furiously.
“I learned to shoot at a young age,” started Hickory, almost with a smile. “Grampa Hemlock encouraged my talent. I thought it was fun: shooting apples out of trees, bits out of the air, and mistletoe out of trees. But then Grampa started to take me on pest control missions. Then, one morning…”
Author's Note
I could use some help with editing, story direction, and thoughts and ideas
Once upon a time, in the beautiful land of Equatia, ponies worked together with other species and friendship held sway through the land. But over time, those bonds of friendship slowly faded, and species became guarded against one another. Many neighboring nations grew jealous of the pony empire, and soon words were said that could not be taken back. It would not come to blows yet, but the fires had been lit and the drummers were starting to beat their grisly tune.
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It was a cool autumn morning; a light mist clung stubbornly to the forest floor even as the sun slowly climbed its way into the heavens. Naked trees dominate the landscape, empty branches left barren and grasping. The forest was prepping for winter, yet nothing stirred at this early hour.
Neither birds nor bugs set about their business. Squires lay quite in their holes. Everything was still. Even the wind held its breath as if captivated by the scene below.
An old stallion and a young colt lay in the leaf litter. The two earth ponies bore a familiar resemblance to each other: blonde manes, broad shoulders, big hooves. The only difference being the colt had a brown coat and the oldest stallion was red with speckles of gray in his coat and mane. They wore thick hoof stitched vests to ward off the cold, but carried little else. Their saddlebags sprawled out in front of them. On top of the waxed canvas lay their muskets.
Occasionally the colt would shift as if to relieve both his anxiety or boredom. The stallion, by contrast, was perfectly still. He may well have been mistaken for a corpse if not for the light haze rising from his muzzle. Both of their attentions were fixated on the scene before them.
Ahead, at just over 100 feet, was a chicken. It clucked nervously at its forced isolation. It couldn’t get under a bush. It couldn’t get up into a tree. It knew it was in danger but there was little it could do about it. Fruitlessly, it tugged at the rope that imprisoned it and the wooden stake it was tied to. The small pile of corn and barley helped to satiate its nerves, but soon enough it would go right back to fretting and metaphorical wing wringing.
The sun inched higher. The mist reluctantly released its grip on the forest and floated higher. The chicken continued to voice its worries.
The colt slowly reached over and scratched an itch underneath his vest. Then he reached behind and scratched at his cutie mark: a musket against a blue background. The colt subconsciously started to chew on his hoof, before looking down and realizing what he was doing. He finally dredged up enough nerve to whisper, “Grampa Hemlock, are you sure it's going to come?”
A flick of an ear was all the answer the colt got.
The colt went back to watching the chicken, but it didn’t last long. After shifting in the dry leaves and rubbing his hooves together, he tried again. “Grandpa…” he started.
The old stallion finally moved; a dry rustling announced the shifting of his head enough to speak out of the side of his mouth. “You saw the tracks, Hickory,” he said in a low voice. “I showed them to you and we tracked him here. Now we wait.”
“But for how long?”
“As long as it takes,” the stallion said, not taking his eyes off of the chicken.
Hickory went back to rubbing his hooves together. He looked at the chicken, at his hooves, and then back to his grandfather. “Do I have to kill it,” he asked, trying not to let his hooves shake.
Grandpa Hemlock finally looked away from the bait and locked his hardened gaze with that of the colt. His jaw worked back and forth while he tried to find the right words. He opened his muzzle but immediately closed it again. Finally, he took a deep breath and his eyes softened. He reached out a comforting hoof. “We could,” he admitted, but he quickly moved to crush the hope he’d seen rise in his grand foal. “But it won't solve the problem. We could build better fences, make a full enclosure, even put out food, but it will still keep coming. It will find a way through and keep on killing. Its taken four chickens already. Do you want it to claim any more?”
Hickory couldn’t meet his grandfather’s eyes, instead watching as he drew small circles in the dirt. “No,” he finally admitted.
Grandpa Hemlock gently patted his younger counterpart on the back. “It’s never easy to take a life. But sometimes, there is no other way,” he said resolutely.
They lay like that for a minute, neither moving or saying a word. Then the old stallion's ears perked up and his face set into a stern frown. “Now get behind your mucket and cock your hammer, because here it comes.”
With shaking hooves, Hickory did as he was told: He pulled the butt stock into his shoulder and lined up the sights. He focused on taking deep breaths, trying to calm his pounding heart. After a moment's thought, he reached up and cocked the hammer and made sure that the priming cap was still in place. Once set, he settled into the leaves and waited.
The chicken was still there but no longer content to nervously cluck. It was now frantically tugging and flapping at the max length of its tether, wanting to be anywhere but there. The reason was soon apparent.
Out stepped a fearsome creature: big lion’s mane, long ears, leathery wings and scorpion tail. Or had been fearsome at one point. The face was hollow, eyes sunken, the once glossy coat was patchy and hung baggy from the creature's frame. The manticore stopped only briefly to glance around before making a beeline for the bait.
“Get ready,” said the old stallion, picking up his own musket. “Aim just ahead of your mark like I taught you”.
But Hickory wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes were dancing between the manticore and the chicken, and back again. He became immediately aware of the shrinking distance between the two and the gut churning choice he had to make. He knew what the manticore would do once it got ahold of the chicken. He had seen the result four times already.
Manticore and chicken.
Manticore and chicken.
One or both would be snuffed out in a movement. He, Hickory, could do it. He just had to pull the trigger. The colt reached for it but paused.
He had done it to apples: watched them explode as he shot them out of a tree, much to the glee of his grandfather, but why couldn't he do it now? The manticore was just like a big apple…but with a life. So why couldn’t he do it?
Manticore and chicken.
The time was now.
Grandpa was telling him to shoot.
Manticore and chicken.
Manticore and chicken.
And then he saw it.
Hickory pulled the stock tightly into his shoulder pocket. He took a deep breath and then released it. One more breath, and then let it go. In, out. In, out. In, and hold, and out, and hold: one one-thousand, two one-thous..and there was a barely audible “click”.
The hammer fell.
Then smoke and fire belched forth and the silence of the forest was shattered with a deafening BANG!
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Grandpa Hemlock slowly trotted up to the scene. A rather reluctant Hickory followed in his wake. The manticore was gone. The chicken was gone. Several days’ worth of work and they would have to start again.
Idly, Hemlock kicked at the broken stake where the shot had severed it. “Come on,” he said to Hickory, “let’s go get your chicken.”
