I have a sister. I’m not sure what’s become of her. She told me she’d been entrusted with a new watch.
Then, she never came home.
I stopped worrying long ago.
I think for most pegasi, that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. We’ve since taught ourselves not to care about the weakest members of the flock. Oh, no, I don’t mean the helplessly weak: I still care very much about the young hearts, and those of ailing wings. Instead, there is a greater growing disposition of disdain for the... ‘deserters’.
But my sister didn’t abandon us. I know that. She’s too loyal to Cloudsdale and the flock to do something like that. She’s not foolish or hopeless enough to think there’s any future to be found in foreign skies... without the flock. She’s both strong and wise. A true warrior scholar.
By compare, I am a filly with flimsy wings, and a weak heart. I will never have a mate. I will never wield a spear. And I will never see the future. But as I remain in Cloudsdale, as I fester in these clouds, I will toil to ensure that the better part of the flock will see the future.
One day, home will be paradise.
And Pegasopolis, its name.
“I’m tellin’ ye, the flappin’ cold’s all those fledglings spit ‘bout.”
“It isn’t what it used to be, proctor. It’s not easy for me, either.”
“Was flying ‘fore when my wings were thin as drops. Wasn’t all this whimperin’ and winging on about mare’s tales ‘hind the cold.”
“Again, proctor. Things have changed.”
“Aye. Cloudsdale used to put out flyers, both great and legend. Not a bunch of earthie lovin’ grounders. And now even old Hurricane’s got half a mind to go right down to ‘em. Don’t rightly see why.”
“Even Hurricane knows we can’t hide up here forever. We’ll be the first to leave when foodstuffs go.”
“Again with the talk o’ the stores... We’ll recover.”
“Proctor. There has not been a single morn’ in the last five moons that we haven’t shared a meal together. Do you remember when you lived alone with your mate, and not a sect of the flock?”
“She—”
“Do you remember what she told you, then?”
“Aye, but...”
“Cloudsdale needs everything we can get. And now, we’re tumbling to the ground. Hurricane understands that it means we need new skies. And new skies means flying far from home. We don’t even have enough to put feathers on everypony’s wings. The foals knew weakness from hunger. Now, they learn fear from cold.”
“I...”
“The foals are our future. We need to brave on, and teach them as best we can.”
“...I s’pose you’re right, there. You’ve a good heart.”
“And you have a better memory than most, proctor. But it’s easy to get frustrated, I know. You lose sight of what’s in front of you. And that’s okay. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Lass...”
“Yes, proctor?”
“I think... I want to go home.”
“...Me too.”
My sister and Commander Hurricane were close. Twined as taut the binding of a Cloudsdale-smithed spear. Tighter than the neck of the river at the hoof of the eastern unicorns’ ‘demesne’. Thicker than the muck of the earth ponies’ farmlands.
And intimately familiar.
I don’t think it would come as a shock to most of the flock, but for those few who knew them in private, it was a great surprise. You wouldn’t expect ponies like Hurricane and my sister to get along beyond public theater.
Yet, when I asked of my sister’s whereabouts, Hurricane ordered that I never ask again. As a testament to the commander’s heart, Hurricane later saw right to apologize. Still, no answers were brought with the visit.
Knowing Hurricane, there were many reasons to not be so plainly doltish about my sister at the time, but many good reasons, too. The life of a commander, as I understood it, was far from that of a scholar like myself. There were close ties insofar as a sharp need for knowledge, but our clouds of thought were certainly in different skies. Even as acquaintances, for the respect of my flock’s leader, I did not push the issue. If Hurricane worried not for her, then why would I be compelled to worry?
It doesn’t take much to spot heartache, but it isn’t immediately clear.
And I hadn’t understood heartache, then, as I do now.
“Proctor! You’re covered in snow...”
“I was seein’ to the returning band. You haven’t heard word o’ the western flight?”
“The western flight? No, proctor. I have not.”
“Aye. Then it’s perhaps best not to know.”
“No, I insist.”
“Feathered brains’ll do more of us in than the cold ‘n hunger will, lass.“
“Is it really such terrible news?”
“...More o’ the same. Desertion.”
“Ah.”
“It’s... different, though. Something ‘bout it bothered me, deep as an owl’s gizzard.”
“...Proctor?”
“If’n you heard the flockmates you’d raised and grown old beside had abandoned ye for good, what would you do?”
“...I’d weep till I dropped to the earth.”
“Aye, lass. I reckon I’d drop, too.”
Today, Cloudsdale has passed twelve full moons since waking to the cold front without end.
Fewer and fewer patrols are set out to express the once fierce might of our domain. Worse, the words split between our flock and the earth pony farmers below are increasingly bitter. Trade has come to little more than a few carts a fortnight, though I know not why. All the while, our ponies grow ever colder, and ever hungrier.
We hover now in a city shadowed by the hardships of what the three tribes call the ‘Long Cold’.
Further still, our numbers quietly dwindle. From desertion, or worse.
But I have grown to stop crying so much. Just as I had for the sister who I could never hope to find.
No, for those still here and close, I am teaching with hope.
One day, Pegasopolis will be realized.
It must.
