An Alicorn's Birthday is just a Number.
Timken Bearing laid in bed, taking his time to wake up despite having gotten plenty of sleep the previous night. Today was a day off for him. A day to relax and enjoy life instead of working his rump off.
The alicorn stretched his wings out, twisting, turning, and popping every tendon. He did the same with his legs and barrel. After ten minutes, he laid in bed, wings splayed out as he stared at the ceiling of the tiny one-window room. Staring up at a single small poster that held the logo of the company he owned. The Timken Railroad Company.
Timken sighed. Pushing himself upright, he felt his bones creaking. Stepping off the bed, he wobbled a bit as his body got used to standing. Without wasting time, he opened the door, finding himself in a narrow corridor. To his right, several doors to several small rooms. To his left, through an enclosed gangway, a long yet beautiful lounge sporting many windows for observing the surrounding scenery. Wood was the theme, with comfortable leather seats, wool carpets, lamps, and even an upright piano creating a space that could be claimed as the pinnacle of luxury. After noting the observation deck beyond the lounge for a split second, he turned and slowly walked down the corridor. He opened a specific door at the very end and entered a tiny bathroom.
He stared into a mirror, stared at an alicorn staring back at him. A green, unnaturally small alicorn with an unkempt golden mane, wearing black pants and an orange sweater. Unnaturally small according to many ponies he'd met over the decades. Ones that said he should be twice their height instead of exactly at eye level. When asked why, they would always tell him of a white alicorn who stood at least three meters tall. It was meant to be a tradition that alicorns, nay, gods, were meant to be much taller compared to their mortal counterparts.
Of course, in over two decades of traveling, he had never seen pictures, drawings, or ever met this white alicorn. Only the descriptions of a white alicorn whom they could never properly put into a drawing.
How was it tradition if he was the only one?
Timken sighed. The dumb thoughts and those ponies were annoying. He enjoyed the unnatural smallness. It let him build things without having to worry about other creatures not being able to use it properly.
He grabbed a brush and brushed his mane into something more presentable. A minute later, after the flush of the toilet, he walked out. He continued across the corridor and opened a door leading outside. He was immediately punched in the face by cold weather. He didn't mind. He pushed through, climbing down a small ladder and onto a heap of crushed stone.
The area outside was nothing but forest. Behind him, a long passenger train sporting a beautiful green and yellow livery similar to his fur and mane sat parked on a lone track. Each passenger coach had six axles, bringing uniqueness and status to each. The rearmost coach, the one containing the lounge, had a covered observation deck that sat against a buffer. Nothing fancy, just a simple buffer that lined up with the knuckle coupler to keep the train from falling off the end.
He started to count the number of coaches as he walked down the length of the train. Five, ten, fifteen, eighteen top-flight luxury railcars including a kitchen car, dining cars, sleeping cars, and baggage cars. At the front of the luxurious train sat a luxurious green steam locomotive. It's a massive engine, garnering a length of 34 meters from the front of the locomotive to the back of the tender. Beneath the silver front of the locomotive were four small wheels, followed by eight huge wheels connected by rods of different lengths and widths that sat beneath the massive green boiler. Behind these wheels were four more wheels that sat beneath the gigantic firebox of the locomotive, making the locomotive into a 4-8-4 under the Whyte Notation.
The pinnacle wheel arrangement of steam power, as Timken called it.
In the center of the cab, just beneath a window, sat the number 1111. It was extruded, being melded to the cab, and is painted in gold.
Timken tilted his head. 1111. That felt familiar. Not because this locomotive was his first, but because one of these days it was going to be...
November 11th.
Today was November 11th.
Timken was a little surprised. Today was his birthday and he didn't even realize it. His 42nd birthday.
He let out a dry chuckle. "The answer to all things."
He climbed into the locomotive, suddenly feeling cold even as the warm air of the cab hugs him. He pulls the firebox doors open, revealing a large, yet quiet fire that releases hot air into his face. He sat down and stared into his locomotive's maw, the thought of his birthday now on his mind.
Three days from now would mark the 14th anniversary since he left home. Since he left his country. Since he took his train and left everything behind.
"Why can't you just give us money?!"
His dad's voice rang out in his head. The one sentence reminding him of how he always had to cherry-pick good memories of him with a fine filter.
He continued staring at the fire as he thought about the past. The memories were rusty. Some of them made him wonder if he was even remembering them correctly.
"No, we're not doing his birthday, because he's too selfish to give us his money!"
Timken's forelegs tensed. That was him eavesdropping on his dad arguing with his mom. He had only had his locomotive for several months by that point and was making great money with it. Way too much for a seventeen-year-old moron like him. Something everyone in his family had realized.
He scooted closer to the fire, trying to get warm as he cherry-picked warmer memories from the past.
"I can't believe it! Congratulations! I never knew you could make so much money doing that!"
That was his uncle when Timken had mentioned how much money he made in his line of work. A bit of a deadbeat, but the stallion was such a joy to hang out with.
He was the first and only pony he actually gave his money to. Consistently, anyway. The thought had Timken driving a small train of memories about his uncle, one that soon ended as he transferred back to his birthdays.
A void started to pang his heart as he recounted those he could recount. He always felt like such an idiot as he aged. As a colt, he always wanted this toy, that train set, all the different things a colt wanted. Things of innocence, things of pure entertainment. But as he grew older, he found himself wanting less stuff and only money. Money for the steam locomotive he was building.
1111.
He started to feel bad. His birthdays weren't fun anymore. They felt empty each time, as there were few presents on the table since all he wanted was money. It felt like nobody cared about him. He'd tried to ask for new things, even things that might get his dad to actually attend, but...
"Why do you always have to be so bucking retarded?!"
Timken's body clenched at the sentence. More specifically the final word. The sudden shift into anger gave him strength to stand up and climb out of the cab. Extending his wings, Timken flapped and flapped, finally getting into the air without the practiced ease he normally had. He flew along the tracks, away from his train, charting a course to the nearest town.
It was a half-hour fly to Daylight, not that he was going very fast. The town was small. Not the most interesting despite many houses being made of bricks and wood, but it had a bakery that sold cakes. It was exactly what he needed. A place that sold cakes.
He landed in front of the place that sold cakes, then invited himself in. A little bell rang as he was hit with the smells of freshly bakes goods. He looked around at bread, cookies, donuts, everything a colt would've dreamed of buying. He walked up to the counter, taking several seconds to stare tiredly at the cakes parked behind glass. All different shapes and sizes, most were ready to be given lettering right then and there.
He couldn't even remember the last time he had seen lettering on one of his cakes. The most he would get was happy birthday. As time went on, the cakes went from one properly sized cake to two smaller cakes that always came without words. All because prices had been on the rise, but not anyone's wages. Not that his family was poor, of course, being entirely middle class, but the rising prices had just...
"Sir?"
Timken looked at the mare across the counter, who wore a small smile. "What?"
"How can I help you?"
"I'm looking for a birthday cake," he replied with a bored tone.
"Great! Take your pick. We have the selection here and we also do custom cakes," the mare cheerfully replied, waving a hoof along the counter.
"Can..." Timken stopped to think for a few seconds as he looked over the selection. "Can I have... a custom cake?"
"Sure! What do you want?"
"I want..." Timken's horn lit up. On the table, a small picture materializes into existence. It was the logo of his company. A green paralellogram with a T, a C, and R's criss-crossing through each other. "This."
"As something on top, or a custom shape?"
"The shape."
"What flavor?"
"Vanilla."
"Anything else?"
"No. Just vanilla."
"Alright! What size? Who is this for?"
Timken sighed as he put a golden ingot on the counter. "Small. I can't eat a lot of cake."
The mare is surprised at the ingot, but doesn't question the unusual payment. "Oh! Is it just for you?"
"Yes," Timken snapped, a bit more rudely than he meant to. The mare frowned at this. She grabbed a notepad and began to write the basic order down. She even took the little logo Timken had given her as reference.
"I want that one." "That one is way too expensive."
That might have been the one time he had ever been able to pick out a cake.
"So... how old are you?" the mare quietly, tentatively asked as she finished the order.
"42," Timken quietly replied.
"Mid-life crisis hitting you?"
"No," Timken replied again, not realizing what the mare said was an attempt at a joke.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Honey, I know when a mid-life crisis is-"
"This is the first time I've had a proper birthday in over a decade, okay?"
The mare recoiled from the way Timken snapped at her. She saw the hate-filled look in his eyes and couldn't look away. Frozen for a few seconds, she steels herself. "I see. I'll make your order. You can sit down and wait or check back in an hour."
"I'll sit down," Timken replied. He turned around and walked toward a bench, then turned again and sat down.
He stared blankly at the floor, unmoving, getting lost in his thoughts. A few ponies glance at him, growing a little uncomfortable and even concerned at the sight. Timken never noticed them.
"Oh right on, Timken! I'm proud of you!"
His grandma's voice was the first to ring through. It wasn't even about his birthday, it was just some point in time where he told his grandma how much money he had made in a day. His grandma was amazing, if a bit delusional about politics. Something that, to this day, Timken never cared to have a part in.
He chuckled dryly as he remembered the fights his grandma and his grandpa would get into.
"We know how much you love machining, so we all bought you this!"
Timken's mom's voice came through from his 17th birthday. The birthday where everyone decided to pool their money and buy a hydraulic press. It was small, only able to press things that were a third of a meter in diameter, but he had to have been the happiest teenager in the country when he saw it.
He used that press to make the last few parts he needed for his locomotive. Valves, gauges, levers, just a few small yet crucial things he needed to safely drive.
He thanked himself for keeping that press.
His mind jotted back to the time he finished the locomotive. When he first blew it's whistle and became what he was now. Building that locomotive was the best thing he had ever achieved, yet his heart feels voided as he remembers how much of his childhood he had lost because of it. He spent so long working, so long planning... He asked for more utilitarian things as the birthdays went on. Either more expensive things or just money. His birthdays became hollow. The one thing anyone should look forward to, hollow.
"If you stopped asking for all these expensive things, you would get more presents.
"But I'd rather have these than anything else!"
His own voice echoed through him as he talked to his grandma.
"Then you aren't getting as many presents as you used to get!"
Timken sighed as he recognized how stupid he was back then, feeling his heart grow ever more voided.
"I don't think he should get a birthday!" His dad's voice rings through again.
"This is your son's eighteenth birthday!" His mom's voice yells back.
"Ever since he got wings and a horn, he's been a selfish retard who refuses to give us money when he makes so much."
"Timken makes so much because he's not paying off a house! He's not paying bills!"
"And he should be! We should start making him rent!"
"Why did you hate me..."
"He will NOT! Not when he's only seventeen!"
"He's eighteen in a few days!"
"So?!"
"He has a stable job! He's paid more than me!"
Timken gritted his teeth. His job had been anything but stable. He had his own company, but it was a company of one. One pony, one locomotive. Him and 1111. He pulled trains for other companies and that was it. It was freelance. Something that could spiral any day. He just happened to be lucky in that ponies praised how bloody powerful and modern his locomotive was.
"Just because he has a stable job doesn't mean he has to pay us!"
"Then why doesn't he pay for his own food?!"
"Because it's what he's used to!"
"Well the retard needs to get used to buying his own food from now on!"
"I DON'T BUY MY OWN FOOD BECAUSE NOBODY MADE IT A RULE!"
Timken's voice screamed at his dad. One of the rare few times he ever stood up to him.
"And you're a retard because of it!" his dad fired back as he watched Timken walk around a corner.
"No I'm not!"
"Yes you are! You're a retarded equine being who can't give back to their family!"
"Screw you! What's wrong with me not paying you all money?!"
Timken wished the language hadn't been more colorful than the way he was remembering.
"Honey, SHUT UP!" his mom's voice snapped as she stepped between Timken and his dad.
"MOVE," his dad snapped.
"I'm not letting you talk to him like this right before his birthday!"
"Timken?"
"I can talk to him in whatever way I want!"
"Timken Bearing?"
"No you can-NOT!" Timken replied.
"Timken Bearing?"
Timken snapped out of his thoughts, shaking his head as he looked up at the mare behind the counter. "What?" he lazily asked.
"You're gonna have to wait longer. We're backed up with orders."
"That's fine."
Timken sighed as he laid down on his side. More waiting. It was fine by him.
"Because you're a retard."
He pursed his lips at his dad's sentence. Retard was his favorite word to use against him.
He laid there, unable to think about anything but that interaction for a few moments. He changed it a little, thought about the different ways he could've attacked it. The situation felt so real. Almost too real, given how long ago it happened.
His mind shifts to his 18th birthday. The worst birthday. It was... so bad. His dad, for the first time in years, actually attended. But only to smother it and get into arguments. He started arguing with the rest of the family, raising his voice and even smashing things. It got to the point where just about everyone was yelling and Timken hated it. He ran out of his grandma's house and flew back to his own, diving into his room and onto his bed.
Timken felt himself wanting to cry as he remembered the feeling he experienced back then. He cried until all his tears had been expended.
After that, he did it.
He started rounding up all his stuff and putting it into 1111 and an observation coach he had only recently bought. Even on that day, with all the pent up anger helping him along, he had been slow and dorceless. Unfeeling. Even thinking about it made him feel that way.
The next three days blended together. He was so unfeeling, so depressed during the time. He hardly ate, he hardly slept, he hardly...
Ate.
His stomach growled. He needed to eat.
Bones aching as he sat upright, Timken stepped off the bench and walked back up to the counter. The mare at the counter steeled herself again as she saw him approaching.
"Can I have some cinnamon rolls?"
"Sure, what size?" the mare calmly asked.
"A dozen bite-sized."
"I'll have it ready in a minute."
Timken stood still, watching the mare as she carefully placed a dozen bite-sized cinnamon rolls onto a plate. Once finished, she walked over the the plate on her back, then put it on the counter.
"Enjoy."
"Thanks," Timken flatly replied before biting down on the plate and carrying it to a table. The little cinnamon rolls didn't even look tasty given the mood he was in. They were just... there.
He grabbed a roll and takes a bit into it. It felt like just a bit of flavor, sustenance, and nothing more. The hollowness in his heart intensified.
He ate the rest of his roll, then ate another. He ate one whole, trying to get a burst of flavor. Something. Anything to feel happy.
"Why can't I feel happy?" he internally wondered."It's my special day. The one day that's meant for me and I'm ruining it."
Being a traveler, Timken never made long-lasting friends. He literally couldn't. He made friends, but his routine of only spending one month in a country before moving to the next effectively forbid him from making the friendships truly meaningful. He had nobody to celebrate his birthday with. He would always forget. By the time he remembered, he was already in a different country with no friends to speak of.
...
No... he never forgot. He always knew exactly when his birthday was. He just didn't want to tell anyone.
"God, what is wrong with me?"
For three years after he had left home, Timken had been open about it. Then, at some point, he just stopped. He can't remember how or why. But he just stopped. And now, he hadn't had a proper birthday in over a decade.
His face suddenly felt... off. Colder, as he realized this. Like the very blood had receded from it. He took a deep breath in and supported his head with his hooves. Then, as he slowly exhaled, he quickly sighed and buried his face in his hooves. "What is wrong with me... God da... ugh."
And so the hollowness continued. He spent hours lost in his thoughts, playing with a miniature train he had materialized.
"Timken?" the mare at the counter finally called out. "Your cake is ready."
Timken dematerialized his train and stood up from his seat. He politely brought his plate back to the counter. What he saw on the counter, after giving his plate back, was a small green and yellow present.
He was a bit surprised, but didn't show it. "Oh hello."
"I hope you like it," the mare said.
"Thank you," Timken replied, his voice hollow and quivering. He grabbed the present with his magic and placed it onto his back, then materialized a set of straps to tie it down. He turned around and made his way to the door, hearing the little bell ring before, suddenly, the mare called out to him.
"Happy Birthday."
"Thanks," was Timken's immediate, quivering reply.
He extended his wings and slowly took off again, retracing his route back to his train. He flew slower this time, burdened by the weight of his mind, making him take longer than when he flew to Daylight.
Actually, he was flying toward daylight. The sun hung low on the horizon, directly ahead of him.
"Has it really been that long already?"
Timken increased his speed a bit, but only for a short minute before returning to his slower, meandering pace. Soon, he reached his train, the sun all but disappeared and giving way to twilight. He landed next to the locomotive, taking a tiny break before taking off and flying into the cab to keep the present steady. Once inside, he lit up his horn, then used his magic to materialize a small table in the center of the cab. The table was ornate, carrying a mix of green, yellow, and orange, with edges made to look like frosting on a cake.
He unstrapped his present and gently placed it on top of the table. Then, after creating an ornate wooden chair with a small cushion, he sat down. He stared at the present, stared at the little bow and perfect wrapping. He didn't want to take it apart, but he knew he had to. It was so perfect. He didn't want to ruin it.
He looked around. Outside, he noticed the moon. On the moon was the Mare in the Moon. The giant alicorn head stared at him through the cab windows, casting her beautiful moonlight onto the present.
Timken steeled himself. Using his magic, he slid the cab window open to let the mare see better inside. Then, he grabbed the levers of the firebox doors and pulled them open, letting the still-burning fire within light the cab up with a warm glow. Then, looking back down at the present, he stared. Once again, he didn't want to ruin its perfect wrapping.
So, with a deep breath, Timken slowly, carefully begins to unwrap the present. First, he pulls on the bow, undoing it immediately. Second, he undoes the wrapping itself, carefully lifting it off of itself until it is flat against the table. A white box now sat uncovered, ready to be opened.
Timken looked at the Mare in the Moon, waiting for an approval of some kind. Then, he looked at the box again, and slowly lifted the top off. Inside was his cake. A small, one-layer cake that is an exact replica of his company logo. Just twenty centimeters in length and sixteen in width. It sat on a small pedestal, two candles numbered 4 and 2 in the center, perfectly presented to Timken. The little cake looked like it had so much love, so much time, so much care put into it, all for him. The pedestal was unnecessary. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve the fork and cake knife sitting beneath the pedestal. He didn't deserve a cake with so much love... so much care...
Breathing in, Timken lit his horn and grabbed a small piece of coal from the firebox. Taking care not to let any dust fall, he brought it toward the cake and tipped the burning coal onto its side, lighting the number four candle. Then, moving it slightly, he lit the number two candle. He put the piece of coal onto a corner of the table, letting it gently burn.
He stared at the burning candles, feeling the tiniest bit warmer as they casted a tiny extra glow onto the cab walls. The echoes of his family's voices rang through him as they sang happy birthday to him on his eighteenth birthday. Right before his dad ruined it all.
He breathed in deeply.
"Happy Birthday to me... Happy Birthday to me..."
His voice quivers.
"H-Happy Birthday dear Timken..."
The song broke him.
"H-Happy Birthday to meeeee..."
He quivered as he blew out the candles. Tears welled up in his eyes before streaming down his face as he began to choke. He thought about how much he didn't deserve this. How much he didn't want to eat the cake. How much of a retard he was so long ago. All the memories of regular, store-bought cakes he always got haunted him as he stared at this one. He hated it and loved it. Relished it and abhorred it. He didn't know what he thought of it.
Minutes later, he grabbed the cake knife and slowly, tentatively cut the cake once down the middle. He pushed one side slightly away, then put the knife down and grabbed the fork. He held it above a corner, staring at it like he's about to slice an animal. He took a deep breath in, crying a little more as he more closely examines the cake's details.
The fork squished into the cake and pulled off a piece. The inside was off-white, separated down the middle by a thick yellow line. Timken lifted the fork to his mouth and bites down, taking the piece of cake inside. It tasted... so good. The powder and bread and whatever else had gone to the cake was mixed and baked perfectly. Too perfectly for someone like him.
He started to cry again as he chewed. He cried as he ate his half of the perfect cake, wiping away tears with his free hoof. He does so for minutes, barely able to keep his head elevated by the end. He hated himself. Hated what he did. How hollow he made everything feel. He wished he could go back, but his dad had squandered any chance of that happening. Timken had squandered any chance of that happening. He looked far and wide, yet never found his home country. Not a single rail took him home.
He soon finished his half of the cake, licking the fork clean amidst tears before fully cleaning it with his magic. He sat the fork down beneath the cake, then looked outside at the Mare in the Moon. He knew she had watched him. She knew what he was going through.
"The other half is for you," Timken said to the mare before climbing off of his chair. He walked over to the open firebox and created two small blankets and a pillow. He folded one blanket and put it on the floor, then put the pillow on the blanket. Then, he laid down on the first blanket and covers himself with the second blanket.
He rolled onto his side stared at the firebox, finding himself crying once again about his past. It was stupid now, crying so much on the day that was meant to be his. Crying at all on the day that was meant to be his. Crying himself to sleep on his special day. Nobody around to celebrate. Nobody to comfort him. His only company was the tearful eyes of the Mare in the Moon as she accepted his gift.
Author's Note
Happy Birthday to me...
