Going home.
Not the home I had been making for myself in Clover, home to Griffonstone. Home to my parents.
I might not be a full gryphon, but I certainly had their pride and it stung a great deal to go back in failure, though my parents certainly wouldn’t see it that way. They had offered it twice already when I came back from Kirea. I had refused then out of, again, gryphish pride. Although the Sylvanian side wasn’t short on that either.
But that was then; I had all my EEF pay and a good lead on a roommate, a couple of folks who had realized the same thing I had while in the war. Sure I was down an arm but the EEF had still covered the bill on the replacement, they certainly weren’t going to cover this. And I wasn’t so prideful as to refuse a safe home now, or their offer to pay for the train.
The passenger line to Griffonstone is one of the least used these days, it doesn’t even run as a daily service anymore, only alternating days. Most folks just rent a car from Seaddle instead of waiting for it. But that option was for those long on cash and short on time, a position I was unlikely to be in for a long while. Not after what I’d lost in Clover. Not with what it was still going to cost. Walking again was easy next to this.
An empty train car was a mixed bag tonight. At least it meant no one was going to bother me with small talk; small talk that would invariably drift to one of two things, why I had antlers, or where my other… my other… dammit, where my other wing went. They’d fitted the socket in Clover but I hadn’t gotten the prosthesis yet, and won’t until Griffonstone where I can get the money for it. And I really really really do not want some dumb foal asking about it right now.
On the other talon, the Griffonstone line runs through some of the deep winterlands, where you can look out the window and see nothing but black, gets dark enough even to see the stars again. Staring out into that makes you wish for company, something to break the silence and emptiness or the sound of your own thoughts. Worse, get far enough into it and the aether just… goes dry and still. Dad and the older deer used to talk about how the magic of the forest felt like summer rain, gentle and refreshing. A reminder that life is all around you. If that was so then out here was as barren as the peaks of Cerulea. And no matter how much unicorns call it their “second sight”, closing your eyes doesn’t make the feeling go away.
My brother was waiting for me at the Griffonstone station. It had been what, 4 years since I saw him in person? Not since before Kirea. He hadn’t changed a bit, same dyed hair, same perfect antlers, all his original limbs… The look of deep concern in his eyes was new, though not entirely unexpected. How else would one look at their little baby brother just come home missing an arm and a wing but with concern and pity. He tried to hide it but I could hear it in his voice as well. Gryphons might be better known for their eyesight but he always forgets I have a deer’s hearing too. I could hear each word as he rushed towards me, “Oh Garbhán, what happened to you?”
I won’t lie, I needed the hug. Síorghlas was tall for a deer, especially a sundowner, but ‘gentle giant’ was practically invented to describe the guy. He had a way of hugging you that seemed to envelop your whole world. I think that’s the first time I really felt safe since I was deployed. Long as I can remember he’d had a pretty big protective streak, even after I was big enough to stand up for myself. I always thought the meat thing would have been way worse if not for him. And even as I had gotten older, and bigger, and healthier, he always looked out for me. And I hadn’t realized until now how much I missed him.
So we walked, we talked, and the world felt right, if only for now; and before long we came to my parents’ home. Peregrine Lane was probably the biggest Sylvanian enclave north of Canterlot. Big enough that the road sign had a second sign under it reading Lána Éan Deoranta. It wasn’t what most ponies would call a “good neighborhood” but it was a good community, the kind that actually looked out for each other. The kind where they make sure kids aren’t going hungry, and believe me that came in handy when I was growing up.
Even if it’s not a “nice neighborhood” it’s a nice home. It’s an older townhouse that got repurposed as three units, with my parents living in the middle floor. I still remember when they finally bricked up the windows because I’d started using them as a shortcut to sneak in and out and it was driving up the heating costs. I get it now but roots I was a little shit about it back then. I kinda suspected they’d be waiting for me at the door, none of us really like making a scene in public. And there was no way this wasn’t going to be one.
They say that smell is the best sense for bringing up memories. Dad uses this juniper scented body wash, he finds it amusing given his name, the only place I’ve ever smelled it is on him. I don’t even know if that’s what juniper actually smells like, but it smells like home. Smells safe. If a hug from Síorghlas was the world put right, then the one from dad was the sun returned. There, in my home, in dad’s arms, in mom’s wings, can you blame me for crying?
