The Wanderer

“Ya really said that to ‘em?” Pal asks incredulously. “Even knowin’ what he does to people? How’d ya even make it outta there without somethin’ a’ yours gettin’ broken?”

“I mean, if he hurt me for real, Ambrosia would’ve probably banished him… Or made him sit and watch us.”

Gruff, infectious laughter echoes down the pitch-black prison block. Some time after you had been dropped back off by Heavenly Virtue, all of the wall sconces had simultaneously been extinguished, plunging you and your new friends into an almost complete darkness. If not for the dim moonlight slithering in through everyone’s frosted panes of glass, you might’ve been well and truly blind.

Instead, the only thing you can see apart from the small, intrusive moonbeam is Hearth’s faint silhouette, dashed against the black like an abstract painting. Everything else about her is inky, blotted out of view by the darkness as she lays on her cot - it makes you wonder what she looks like when she’s not covered in injuries.

Pal’s laughter dies down, and amid the touchy silence, he speaks up once more.

“So, you’re, ah… gettin’ taken to the city in the mornin’?”

You heave a dread-laden sigh into the open air.

“Yup. Don’t think I’ll be able to weasel my way out of it, either.”

“Shit…” Pal grunts, shifting about in his cell. “Maybe I’ll think o’ somethin’ before they come to take ya.”

The hope in his voice is entirely for show; he just doesn’t want you to spend the rest of the night dreading your future.

“I wouldn’t waste your time, Pal.” You deliver the words gently, but there’s no reply all the same - just the dull roar of the incessant wind outside.

Hearth hasn’t said anything in a while, and you start to wonder if the events of today have finally caught up with her.

“You still with us, Hearth?”

She shuffles slightly, and her outline undulates in the darkness, presumably turning around to face you.

“Yeah,” she replies, her downtrodden tone just barely croaking over the white noise. “Just… trying to stay calm.”

The events of the day have definitely caught up to her at this point. Poor mare’s about three words from crying, if the waver in her voice is anything to go by. You want to reassure her, but what good would it do? You’re not even sure you would believe it at this point.

For now, all you can do is just hope that some facet of the Royal Guard isn’t too far behind. Preferably led by one or two very angry princesses, but that might be asking for too much.

“Are you…” Hearth chokes out, cut off by a sniffle. “Are you going to be okay?”

You chuckle, feeling around in the dark for your own mat to sleep on.

“Not at all. I’m not exactly keen to be a terrorist’s plaything, if you couldn’t tell.”

A grimace crosses your face as the events of earlier flash through your mind.

“…But if I have to commit to it to get out of this alive, then so be it.”

Silence invades your dingy sanctuary once more.

“You got somebody back home, Anon?” Pal asks after a while, eager to lift the mood.

You have a feeling that if you did have someone back home, your previous conversation wouldn’t have been the best lead-in, but he gets an ‘A’ for effort.
“Nah. I was thinking about it, though. Being back in Ponyville would’ve definitely given me the time for it.”

“Ohoho, you definitely had someone in mind, didn’t ya? Who’d ya have googoo eyes for?”

“Nobody yet, Cupid,” you reply, laughing openly at his phrasing. “Was just more open to the idea, that’s all.

“No idea who Cupid is,” Pal replies, “but I know ya gotta have at least considered some o’ the girls around ya. Or dudes, I don’t judge.”

He’s not gonna let up, is he?

In the interest of solidifying his trust, you dig deep and think of old feelings long since past. Even though they’re not current, they might still serve their purpose in getting you through this conversation without too much embarrassment. It wouldn’t even be that bad, but Hearth’s from Ponyville - any mare you can think of, she probably knows, or knows of.

“I mean… one or two. One of my coworkers in Canterlot used to be really sweet on me, but you know what they say. Company ink, and all.”

Pal waits in anticipatory silence for your second answer; even Hearth has turned over in her cot to better listen to you.

“Had a thing for a school teacher from Ponyville once, too, but that was just a little crush that lasted a week or two, nothing serious.”

“Cheerilee?” Hearth responds, a slightly positive shift in her tone.

“Yep! She’s really sweet, but it was just a passing feeling after I helped her with some paperwork.”

“That’s nice an’ all,” Pal interjects haphazardly. “But I was referrin’ more to the here n’ now.”

“That would be nobody, then.”

“Aw, come on! Ya can’t see yourself bein’ all tangled up with anybody ya know?”

Your gaze flits back over to Hearth amidst your interrogation, hoping for an easy out.

“Hearth, please get me out of this.”

To your dismay, though, she’s waiting with bated breath for your answer - she’s even sat up straight, exhaustion seemingly a thing of the past. You swear, somewhere in the blackness, you can see a demure smile peeking through over tear-stained cheeks.

“Come ooooon,” Pal goads, his sheets audibly shifting. “If ya had to pick.”

Were it so easy. You’re just… not like that, insofar as browsing the market is concerned. Really, you hardly do any browsing at all. If you had someone you truly felt something for at the moment, this would be so much simpler. Relaying a truth is far easier than manufacturing a lie on the spot.

In your haste to find an answer suitable for your ravenous audience, you slide onto your sleeping mat and lay your head back on the bunched-up blanket that serves as your pillow. You sigh into the open air just as an idea graces you - you’ll mold in your head an ideal mare, and leave the name ambiguous.

“There is someone, actually.”

“Who is it?” Hearth asks, her pale blue outline inched slightly forward in anticipation. “Is it somepony I know?”

“Could be. She knows a lot of ponies, honestly, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“She got a name?” Pal asks, sounding like he’s on the edge of his seat.

“She does, but the only way you’re gonna get this out of me is without it.”

“Ah, screw it, fair play. Now tell us about ‘er.”

“I mean, she’s…”

What? What is she, Anon?

“She’s been there for me for a long time. I don’t really know why she didn’t pop into my head earlier, honestly.”

Okay, that’s a good start, but what else? Christ, you didn’t think your well of creativity would run dry this fast.

What else could you-

Your job!

“Even when I quit my job and ran back home, it was like nothing changed. She still wanted me around, even though I didn’t really have any prospects to think of.”

Hearth coos at the dedication of your would-be marefriend - seems like she’s the type to appreciate highschool sweethearts.

“She a looker?” Pal cuts in, seemingly irritating her with the shallowness of his question.

Thankfully, answering that seems to come naturally to you somehow.

“She’s got no idea how cute she really is. She’s got these little bangs that hang over her eyes, and every now and then when she hasn’t had a haircut in a while, she’ll have to blow them out of the way and it’s just… look, you just have to take my word for it, okay? I’m not really good at this sort of thing.”

That isn’t necessarily true - it’s just that your ability to go off-the-cuff is now thoroughly depleted. Mercifully, Pal’s deep chuckle seems to signal the end of his friendly tirade.

“Oh, I believe ya, buddy,” he relents, warm tones of nostalgia in his voice. “All that trippin’ over what you’re tryin’ to say… Reminds me o’ how I was when I first met Kalliope.”

You were believable? Oh, thank God.

“Is she your wife?” Hearth asks, looking over in the direction of his cell.

You wonder if she can see him from here. From what you can tell, most of the cells are spaced far enough apart so that a prisoner can only see the individual in front of them.

What is he, you wonder? Pony? Griffon? Hell, maybe even a dragon?

“Ohoho, ya don’t even know the half of it,” Pal replies, wistful in his remembrance. “I met ‘er a good while before the Ambrosia gal n’ her cronies took over…”

The night crawled on.

Stories of love, of loss, and of better tidings were passed back and forth between the three of you, and in the frigid desolation of that damnable hallway, the tender threads of new friendships were weaved into the world. Said world was, of course, indifferent to such a development.

Here you all lay, still in your cages, your fates still at the mercy of your doggedly fanatical captors.

For now, though, it doesn’t matter. In your restless apprehension of the day to come, you feel glad to have known them, even for the short time that you did. Perhaps your stint with them, however brief, will join your greater array of comforting memories - a solace amid your new, pre-dictated life.

…

You hope everyone back home is alright. Twilight and Spike probably aren’t taking it very well…

Oh, how you miss them with all of your heart. What a cruel thing, to have them all back again, only for it to be robbed from you by happenstance. You’ve still no small amount of hope that they’ll come for you eventually, but it seems as if you’ll have some rather unpleasant stories to tell by then.

Oh, well. Maybe it’ll build character. Who knows?

You fix your restless gaze to your pitiful window; if you squint, you can see Luna’s full moon somewhere in the distance, its glittering light somehow seeping through the intensive frost covering the glass. Would that she could see you through that pale orb…

Your eyes wander back over to Hearth, whose sleeping form hasn’t moved an inch since an hour or two ago.

It must be one or two in the morning by now. Your companions haven’t made a peep, other than the occasional stir of their sheets, or somnolent sigh. You’d like to follow their lead, but try as you might, your brain won’t rest - knowing what’s in store for you tomorrow, it can’t.

As your thoughts race along, however, you just barely hear something over the sound of the howling wind outside.

Tip, tap, tip, tap…

Bare flesh stepping along damp concrete, each impact spaced far apart from each other. An apprehensive frown takes hold of you. Who would be down here at this hour? The rhythm is erratic, too - stopping and starting seemingly at random.

Slowly, almost achingly so, you sit up in your makeshift cot, careful not to make any noise as you listen out for anything else. Your eyes have adjusted ever so slightly to the blackness, and you can see faint outlines of your surroundings.

All is still for a moment, including you.

Tip, tap, tip, tap…

There it is again, coming from somewhere down the hall to your right. You rest yourself against the back of the cell, breath catching in your throat so as not to make any noise.

Tip, tap, tip, tap…

Ever so slightly louder.

It’s drawing closer.

You wrack your brain trying to figure out who this could be. It’s not hoofsteps, so that rules out your little sadist, or Ambrosia.

Tip, tap, tip, tap…

The hall in front of you is still empty, but the steps sound just out of view. Your heart pounds in your chest so viciously that you’re afraid the uninvited guest might hear it.

Tip, tap, tip -

A silhouette.

It creeps in from the right, standing tall and blotting out the crepuscular rays from outside.

A biped.

You can’t judge its height accurately from where you sit, but if you had to guess, it’d probably come up to your shoulder if you were standing up. The sizable cloak it’s wearing makes it impossible to discern what species it is for now. It stops just outside Hearth’s cell, peering in and giving her a once-over as she slumbers, blissfully unaware of what’s taking place. The stranger shakes his head before turning around soundlessly, not even a rustle from its cloak.

As it makes its way over to the bars of your cell, it freezes just shy of them. You can’t see underneath the hood it’s wearing, but you know it’s locking eyes with you.

The blood in your veins runs cold. Do you say something? Wave, maybe?

You deign to move your hand shakily from its resting point against the floor, showing your palm to the stranger as a sign of good faith.

“H-Hello?” Your greeting falls from your mouth as a whisper, no louder than its steps from earlier.

It doesn’t move, or say anything in response for a few moments. Suddenly, though, its tensed shoulders relax, and it comes right up to the bars of your cell. A four-fingered hand wraps itself around one.

“You’re one of the new ones, right?” he says in a whisper even softer than yours. “From the train?”

You go to stand, placing your hand against the wall for support as you stretch out to your full height.

“Yeah?”

He sizes you up when you come closer to the bars, hood subtly nodding up and down once or twice.

“I figured. I overheard some guards talking about an ‘alien captive’ when I made my way in.”

Made his way in…?

“Who are you?”

“Unimportant,” he deflects. “Have you seen a phthalo green male unicorn anywhere in this prison block? Lengthy sky blue mane, gray eyes? Cutie mark of an ornate crystal flask?”

“No, sorry. The only time I left my cell was with a blindfold on.”

“Damn…” he curses, looking down at the floor of your cell. “He has to be here. This is the only place I haven’t searched.”

He drops his hand from the bar and backs up, casting a cautious gaze down both directions of the hall.

“Are you here to rescue us?” you ask, chest filling with hope…

“I’m sorry, but I’m only here for the unicorn.”

…only to be replaced with disbelief.

“What…? You’ve got to be fucking with me, we need help!”

“And one day, you will have it,” he replies, undeterred by your desperation. “My window is too tight as it is, and you are not critical to my mission.”

“Is there a rescue team coming after you, then?”

“No. Even though this compound is smaller than the others, we lack the numbers for such an operation.”

On a deeper level, you get it. One misconstructed plan could spell disaster for a small team - you just got done living through that.

On a surface level? Fuck this.

“So we all have to just sit here on our asses getting beaten into submission while we wait for you to show up again?”

Your temper flares as you press yourself against the bars.

“Do you even know what they’re doing to us?”

The stranger turns back to you, his attention captured by the vitriol in your whisper.

“Intimately,” he responds flatly. “And it will get much worse before it gets any better. You will persevere, though, I’m sure.”

What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?

He moves to continue down the hallway, but only gets an inch or two before you call after him with a hushed voice.

“How the fuck is anything supposed to be worse than being that bitch’s concubine?”

He stops in his tracks, doing a double take before returning to the front of your cell again.

“Concubine?” he whispers, confusion strikingly apparent even in his breath.

“Yeah. She’s taking me with her to the ‘mecca’ tomorrow, wherever that is. Apparently, I’m supposed to be her husband, according to her fairytale cult bullshit.”

Even without seeing his facial features, you can sense his utter confusion from under the black hood. He casts his gaze warily to and fro before locking eyes with you once more, saying nothing the entire time.

Without even the hint of a warning, he backs away from you and continues meandering down the hallway, barely a sound to his movement; it’s like he’s floating, really. Not that you care, of course. You’re far too busy being livid.

“Hey! What the fuck? I’m not done with you!”

You whisper-shout after him, but he pays you no mind as he continues checking the cells for his target.

Well, that’s just fucking wonderful, isn’t it? Your one avenue of escape - your only way out of this - and he’s not even here for any of you.

Some luck you have, Anon.

You back away from the bars, steaming with indignation. The temperature in your cell has easily gone up a few degrees in the wake of your incoming shit fit. A brief rumble in your throat capitalizes your dissatisfaction as you lean against the Pal-adjacent wall of your cell.

God damn it, Anon, just… breathe.

The stale air of the prison hall fills your lungs, quelling your deep desire to shout your grievances at the stranger.

“Anonymous?” a timid voice calls out from your right. “What’s going on?”

Glancing up, you see Hearth stirring in her cot, rubbing her eyes and squinting to see you.

You feel for her; this is the last thing she needs to wake up to.

“Rescue’s here, and it’s not for us.”

She frowns in confusion as she shakily rises to her hooves.

“…W-What?”

Down the hall, you hear the unmistakable click of a steel lock being twisted. The shriek of a cell door opening rings out for but half a second before everything falls silent once more. He must’ve found his guy.

Hearth’s eyes widen with caution, as if the very noise were compelling her to shrink back into the corner of her cell again. She stands firm, though - out of curiosity or courage, you can’t tell.

“What do you mean? W-Who’s here?”

As if to answer her question, the stranger strides into view from your left once more, albeit with a four-legged plus one. His description of the fellow was apt, but it left the overall condition of the stallion up to interpretation.

Judging from how thin he was, you guess that he must’ve been here for a long while; it might be the lack of light playing tricks on you, but you swear you can see his ribs through his fur. He already looks to be of a thinner build, judging by his facial structure, but malnutrition must have been a factor in his current state.

If you thought Hearth was roughed up, this guy is covered in injuries. Scabbed-over lacerations here, heavy bruising there, and if you squint, you can see that one of his eyes has a subconjunctival hemorrhage. A silver, oblong contraption is fastened tightly to his horn, adorned with several low-profile locks. You can’t make out the finer details, given how dark it is, but you surmise that it must be some kind of magic suppressant.

He’s dressed in some kind of shabby robe, but with a heavier coat over the top - probably courtesy of the biped, who hands him a bottle of silver, faintly glowing liquid. Without a moment’s hesitation, the unicorn downs it, some of it overflowing and dripping down his chin. As he stops to properly drink without spilling, the biped strolls up to your cell once more, stopping just shy of the bars again.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice still a flat whisper like earlier.

Your anger is begging you to mouth off to him, but you hold it in for now.

“Anonymous.”

Just barely, if your tone is anything to go by.

“Interesting name,” he replies, the ghost of intrigue playing at his words. He looks to the right for a brief second, checking for something, before returning his attention to you.

“Stick your hand out.”

…What?

“Why?”

“I want to shake it.”

Is this guy serious? Are you being fucked with right now? Here, of all places?

“Why the hell would I-”

“Just do it,” he interjects, glancing both ways again.

You hesitate for a moment. He’s not even sticking his hand out yet. What kind of asshole-

…

Just swallow your fucking pride, Anon. If he actually does come back at some point to get the rest of you, it wouldn’t hurt to be in his good graces.

Sighing, you head over to the bars of your cell, eyeing him sharply as you close the distance. Without a word, you offer your hand out to him between the bars. He wastes no time in sweeping it up in his… paw?

You look down, and are greeted with a hand-shaped mass of slick, gray fur enveloping your hand as his fingers curl around it. He’s only got four of them, as you saw earlier, and they’re quite a bit more sizable than yours. Padded, too; they’re oddly warm for how cold it is. A cursory inspection reveals the absence of any claws at the moment, so he can’t be a Diamond Dog.

The inner analysis is interrupted, though, when a cold, metallic object presses firmly into your palm. Your surprise is involuntary.

“Uh-?”

Before you can move past your gut reaction into a coherent sentence, the stranger turns your hand over so that it’s on top of his, and places his other hand over it. His firm grip holds you in place, and for the first time, you can finally see his eyes as he leans in further. They give off a dull glow amid the darkness of his hood. Unflinchingly blue, with vertically slitted pupils - an Abyssinian.

“The guards are in the middle of a shift change, so there are none on any of the towers, and their overall presence throughout the compound has decreased,” he explains, monotone. “You have about eight minutes before they return to normal coverage.”

“Wh-”

“There’s a hidden passage to the outside that goes under the first floor’s easternmost wall. Exit the door to the right end of this hallway and follow the leftmost path until you come up to a set of stairs - take those to the ground floor. They’re not often used, so you should be safe.”

You nod, struggling to keep up with the frenetic pace of his instructions.

“When you get down there, hug the right wall until you reach a hallway. Take it until the end, and then go through a door labeled ‘Janitorial Staff Only.’ The hatch leading out will be under a stack of pallets.”

Fuck, okay, that’s a lot to remember.

“W-What then?”

“Run for the city. If you’re quick, you’ll be too far for the tower guards to see you, especially given that it’s nighttime. The snowstorm will give you some cover.”

Holy fuck, okay. Right door, left hallway, stairs, right wall, janitor door, and then through the hatch.

Wait…

“How are we gonna-”

He removes his paws from your hand, revealing a worn-down, rusted key resting in the center of your palm.

“Master key,” he explains simply as he steps back and hoists the unicorn up onto his back. “Be seeing you, Anonymous.”

He barely even gets your name out before he and his VIP are barreling down the hallway in the opposite direction of where he told you to go, taking massive, graceful strides. Despite his greatly quickened pace, he’s still nearly dead silent.

“Did h-he just…” Hearth utters, still in disbelief. Her voice barely even reaches your ears.

Your muscles spring to life before your thoughts can get themselves in order. The key nearly falls from your hand entirely because of your overloaded nerves, but you fumble it back into a tight grip with the pin facing outwards. Legs operated by a far-away mind carry you as close to the iron door as they’ll go, and you smush yourself against it as you slot your whole arm through the bars. Your hand races for the lock mechanism, but you can’t quite get the pin into the hole…

“A little to the left!” Hearth guides, trying her best to keep to a whisper.

Alright, to the left then… aaaaaand-

Bingo. There’s a bit of resistance, but the key does eventually slide all the way in. Your fingers strain against the rough metal, but turn it does, and when the latch clicks, your heart skips a beat. Pausing for a moment to collect yourself, you push against the door…

…and it swings open, its signature piercing shriek signaling your freedom.