A Dolorous Soul

Chapters

Somatic Senescence
Apparitions And Annals
Evening Echoes

Somatic Senescence

Time Turner awoke with a horrific gasp.

The stallion’s eyes flew open, and his chest heaved as his lungs struggled to provide enough oxygen. He gulped for air in between hyperventilating pants, and his heart frantically hammered away in his chest. The pounding in his ears consumed his entire consciousness.

Gradually, Time Turner’s panic diminished, and his breathing relaxed as the fragments of his dream faded from his mind. The stallion’s body felt like molasses as he sat up from the bed and propped himself up with his forelegs. His sweat-soaked back clung to the sheets, the moist fabric heavy with his perspiration. He squinted, gritting his teeth, and glanced around the bedroom, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the diffuse early morning light. The bedroom was silent, but the stallion could make out a songbird's serenade just outside, beyond the curtains.

Time Turner let out a sigh and tossed the mauve covers from his body, momentarily shivering from the frigid morning air. He swung his hind legs off the bed and slumped at its edge. The stallion lifted his head a few degrees, and his eyes wandered to the nightstand.

His vision landed on the clock, an ugly thing he had cobbled together from whatever gears and pieces could be found. It was missing the minute and second hand, and lacked anything to contain the escapement mechanisms. In the dim light, Time Turner could just make out the lonely hour hand was slightly past the numeral V.

The groggy stallion shook the last remnants of sleep from his head and cleared his throat as he stood up, smacking his lips. The drone of rolling glass grated his ears as Time Turner failed to avoid a collection of bottles next to the bed.

One bottle lazily wheeled into the corner and clinked against a pile of debris. There, in a mangled heap, lay another timepiece, its brass mechanism entrails strewn about. The once elegant and intricate relief of two ponies embracing lay fractured down the middle, the wood split in twain. Time Turner didn’t even spare a glance as he passed, hooves softly tapping on the wood floorboards and then clicking sharply on the ceramic tile upon entering the bathroom.

A severely middle-aged stallion stared back at Time Turner from the mirror. Azure eyes pierced the darkness, bloodshot and puffy, with a hint of yellowing noticeable in his sclera. His light mocha fur was scruffy and stuck out randomly at odd angles. His mane and tail were wiry and ragged, and even his cutie mark had lost its luster. The brass hourglass was dull as if it had gained a patina. If the light was just right, one could make out the peaks and valleys of Time Turner’s ribcage.

Ignoring the cup of toothbrushes, the stallion grabbed a mane brush from the counter and attempted to wrangle his long, unruly mane. As he quickly and roughly brushed, it caught a snag and twisted awkwardly out of his grip. The piercing clatter was deafening in the cabin's pervasive silence.

Time Turner closed his eyes and released the air from his lungs through his nostrils with a measured, even breath. The stallion glanced around the sink for the brush but couldn’t see where it had fallen in the shadows. With a click of his tongue, he turned to the shuttered window and reached up to the slats, the gray morning haze finally illuminating the tiny bathroom.

Momentarily blinded, Time Turner grimaced and stepped back to face the sink. A crescendo of splintering wood pricked his ears, and his heart skipped a beat. The stallion looked down to find the fallen brush under his hoof. He froze as a column of ice shot down his spine. His eyes met with the intricately carved handle, now at an unsettling, off-kilter angle. The gilded rose motif had cracked in two.

Time Turner slowly brought his head to the floor and reverently picked up the pieces in his mouth. He deposited them delicately on the counter beside the sink next to a matching mahogany brush with a clockface relief. He stared at them for a moment, Time Turner’s eyes tracing the jagged edges of the fractured rosewood along the broken golden filigree.

Abruptly, he turned away and walked out to the bedroom. His grooming abandoned, Time Turner tousled his black mane as best he could and turned the corner out into the hallway. His signature green bowtie sat alone on his dresser, and his bed was left unmade.

The stallion shuffled through the barren hallway, devoid of any embellishments or adornments. He approached the basement staircase, the scent of gear oil and sawdust seeping into the hall from his workshop. Down below, a few dozen chronometers lay scattered about the claustrophobic dungeon. The shelves were mostly barren, but a few contained various timepieces, clocks, and even the odd sundial or moondial. The walls above the shelves were lined with various schematics, plans, and diagrams for all kinds of chronometers and projects.

A few partial workpieces sat in various states of completion on Time Turner’s workbench. They lay scattered on their sides, an explosion of mechanisms like fallen leaves covering most of the tabletop. Everything, from the gears and cogs on the bench to his head magnifiers and calipers, had a thick coating of dust.

The stallion furrowed his brow, and he pushed the door shut with a huff. The faulty latch scraped shut, and the thud against the door jam echoed down the hall to the kitchen.

Fresh and vibrant yellow lemons sat on the kitchen counter, standing out among the earthen browns of the rustic wooden cabinetry. Time Turner snagged the bagged lemons and the specially acquired pouch of poppy seeds in his teeth and tossed them over to the cutting board; the citrus aroma tickled his nostrils. He pulled the rest of the necessary ingredients to make pancake batter out from the cupboards and set them to the side with a bowl. The hollow clunk of the cabinet doors echoed around the tiny kitchen.

He let the batter sit as he tossed a log into the stove to catch on the orange glowing coals. He gently deposited three dollops of batter onto the buttered pan with a wooden ladle. The gentle sizzle as they cooked tickled his ears. A few minutes later, the sweet aroma of butter and bread filled the room. He stacked the finished golden-brown pancakes onto a plate and sat himself at the old oak kitchen table. His wooden chair gently creaked as Time Turner pulled himself closer and settled in.

Sunrise peaked in from the window over the sink as the stallion studied his breakfast. A fine mist of steam rose up and caught the sunlight, and flecks of poppy seeds freckled the surface. He picked up his fork and knife and slowly cut a piece from the fluffy stack. As he cut through, his ears flicked from the muted clinks of the silverware. He brought the slice to his mouth, hesitating only briefly before he chewed his bite mechanically. His sky-blue eyes were locked on the empty seat across from him as he continued to precisely cut and consume each bite of his meal, piece by piece.

The high-pitched clatter of the dishes rang in his ears as he placed them in the deep, country sink. He left them sitting there and opened the ice box across from the stove. He pulled out the red and yellow tulips he had foraged the day before and headed back to the hall.

He turned and faced the cabin’s front door. There, his old saddlebags were hanging from the rack beside it. They were well-worn and had served him well throughout their lifetime. Once, it had been a proud olive green, but the sturdy waxed canvas had darkened with the ingress of dirt and grime. The light beige straps had frayed slightly at their edges but had never failed to bear weight. A story told in dozens of little scuffs and tiny nicks of the countless dutiful house calls to repair the clocks and timepieces scattered throughout Ponyville.

He went to lower his bags down and place the flowers within when another bag fell from the rack and crumpled to the floor. A dull thunk reverberated through the floorboards as the contents met the ground. Time Turner stumbled back, looking down to inspect what had fallen. On the floor lay a much less dirty duplicate of his own bag. Its olive green canvas was still vibrant, and the ivory straps looked pristine. The hori-hori was rocking slightly, its cupped six inch blade reflecting a beam of light back and forth across the ceiling. The polished ash handle was immaculate, a small rose engraved on it, and its sheath was stiff and inflexible. A nicked, dented, and slightly rusted trowel lay beside it. The handle was a rich mahogany with scrapes and gouges along its length. The hilt held a small rose medallion in the pommel.

Gingerly, Time Turner placed the tools back inside and returned the bag to its hook. Without looking, He reached back for his saddlebags and quickly smacked the latch for the door. He stepped out into the bright morning sun, walking past the empty garden as he began his trot to the Canterhorn Mountain.

Apparitions And Annals

Time Turner trotted north along the trail. The grass had been tamped down flat over years of travel, and the exposed dirt had become smooth and firm like dried clay. It was easily wide enough for two ponies to trot side by side, though no one else ever traveled this far from town.

The sun high above had burned away the morning fog, and the path ahead was now brightly illuminated—even through the forest canopy. Some of the leaves on the trees had already transitioned to their autumn colors, the golden yellows and vibrant oranges gently whispering in the breeze as Time Turner passed. When a strong wind blew, the trees would come alive, their leaves dancing as if they were the flames of a campfire.

As the stallion trotted along, he glanced occasionally from left to right at the autumnal hues surrounding him. One streak of color caught his eye. A dash of red just poking out from a branch high to his right. He wandered closer to the tree, an inexplicable thread of curiosity pulling him in.

Time Turner slowed to a stop and focused his attention on the odd outlier. He realized that he was not looking at a part of the tree; rather, he was looking at a creature—a cardinal. He thought it looked like a female. The males are always fully and more brightly colored to attract a mate, while the females usually have minimal red plumage along their head and tail with a dull brown down. This cardinal was quite different.

Much of the plumage on her head was burgundy, which matched the almost maroon tail feathers. Her body was also much more lightly shaded than most females, closer to a light beige than brown. Time Turner cocked his head to the side and squinted at the curious oddity that was perched before him.

The stallion had never seen a cardinal anywhere quite like this before; he felt a strange draw to it. As Time Turner approached, mesmerized by the newcomer, he felt something underhoof, but he was too slow to stop. He winced as a crisp staccato snap shot through the forest. The diminutive avian spooked, and she flew off with a flurry of wings. The sounds of flapping quickly faded as she retreated into the canopy.

Time Turner's posture deflated and his ears splayed out, a strange weight pulling on his heart. A heavy sigh escaped his muzzle, and he turned back to the trail. Up ahead, the Canterhorn Mountain peeked through the trees in glimpses, but the stallion's blue eyes were locked to the ground directly in front of his path.

Time Turner heard the gentle babbling and burbling of the water before he saw it. The tree line suddenly broke open to a pond with a small stream feeding it from the mountain. The water shimmered and danced with the light of the azure sky above as he trotted over. At the shore, the stallion could see most of the way to its bed. The iridescent scales of the fish glimmered and flashed as they darted back and forth under the surface.

Time Turner reached down to the edge and picked up a flat stone. He brought it up to eye level, examining it by tilting it left and right—turning it over in his hoof. Its edges were smooth, rounded over by its passage through the stream, and both faces were remarkably in plane. The stallion lowered his hoof and gave the stone a couple of hefts, glancing between the stone and the water. He took a few steps back from the edge, brushed some dirt off the stone's surface, and balanced on his rears. He pulled his foreleg back and tensed his muscles, ready to spring.

With a grunt of effort, Time Turner whipped his leg around, hurtling the rock forward. The stone sailed out over the top of the water, quickly losing height. It skipped just once before tumbling through the water with a kerplunk. He furrowed his brow as he dropped back to all fours. Glancing left and right, the stallion selected another similar stone. He returned to his previous stance and once again drew his leg back.

A single splash was all that disrupted the water's surface. Time Turner slowly dropped his hooves to the ground again, his eyelids drooping. As the stallion let his head sink low, he spotted something in the dirt where he had just gotten the failed skipping stone. A glint of color among the earthen browns nestled in the coarse gravel of the bank. Raising an eyebrow, He reached down and pawed it from the dirt.

The stone was opaque with rough, irregular sides, no bigger than an acorn. The stallion brought the raw gemstone to eye level, his eyes narrowing in focus as he scrutinized it. It was a Rhodolite, judging by the light raspberry color. Time Turner looked down again at the depression he had pulled it from and glanced around, looking for any more. The gem had no others around like it—It had been alone. The stallion let his eyes wander the shore again for a moment before he pocketed the gemstone in his bags and walked the short distance back to the forest's edge.

Just before leaving the pond, Time Turner stopped at an old oak tree. Its branches cast a large, wide shadow around it and the tree was easily over seventy feet tall. At its base, partially buried in the ground, rested a large flat rock. On its top, a cairn of twenty stones was piled a couple of feet up. The bottom shale shards were wide and flat, with green and brown moss covering half of their gray surfaces. The stones and rocks grew progressively smaller, forming a pyramid-esque spire as the pile rose up with less and less moss adorning them.

Time Turner pulled the rhodolite out from his bag and gently balanced it on the top of the stack. He stepped back and stared in silence at his addition. The gemstone somehow flickered in the shadow of the tree, a tightness rising from his chest as a dark vignette clouded his vision.

Time Turner gasped as a cacophony of flapping snapped him from his trance. He stepped back, looking up into the branches of the oak tree to the source. A female cardinal had perched above him, letting out a tweet and chirping at him a few times. The stallion took a half-step forward and squinted at the avian arrival. His eyes widened as he recognized the light beige down and the burgundy head crest. The mysterious red follower fell silent and shuffled closer to the trunk, but did not flee as he approached this time. Nonetheless, Time Turner stopped his advance, and the two pairs of eyes locked each other in a stare.

After a moment, the stallion turned his head back to the cairn and gave it one last look before he stepped back onto the trail to the Canterhorn. The cardinal inched herself away from the tree trunk and watched as he departed for a moment, before dashing to a tree just behind him. Time Turner looked back at his feathered shadow a few yards back and slowed to a halt. He turned around to face the songbird, head leaning to the side and an eyebrow raised. The bird matched his head tilt and stared back at the stallion. He took a step towards it and the cardinal took a matching hop backward. He took a step in reverse and the avian flitted forward.

Perplexed, Time turned back to the north with his head over his shoulder and kept his new companion in sight. Resigned to being followed, he recentered his gaze forward and picked up his pace to the mountain. The colorful critter followed not too far behind.

Out of sight, the crowning garnet on the cairn caught the waning afternoon sun and dimly glowed a strawberry red.

Evening Echoes

Time Turner's sides heaved in and out as he crested the edge of the small ridgeline overlooking the valley far below. The sun had not quite yet reached the horizon, and the valley was tinted in monochrome amber light. His fur had become lathered in sweat under his saddlebags, and his hooves were dusty and gray.

His little companion had tailed him up the mountain, following close behind. At first, she had stuck to the trail, scurrying closely along the mountain face as he continued to trek up the slope. As the stallion climbed higher, she had perched on his back and buried herself tight in his brown cocoa mane. It was as if the avian was afraid to fall.

As Time Turner reached the ledge, he retrieved the flowers from his saddlebags and released the straps. He let the sack fall to its side, walked over to the edge, and sat down. His feathered friend darted out of his mane and took a perch on a rock by the mountainside. He placed the tulips just in front of him, right along the edge of the cliff, where the ridge suddenly ended in a jagged and rough radian.

The stallion lowered his head and gently pawed the fractured ground as he cleared his throat. His gentle, baritone voice cracked and broke as he spoke.

“Ha-happy Birthday, Roseluck.”

“It has been quite some time, yes?” He drew in a slow, measured breath, “I… brought you flowers. Red and yellow—your favorite colors.”

Time Turner sighed as he continued, “I had wanted to grow roses, but I could not seem to make them grow like you did. They would just wilt and shrivel up. I suppose I lack the gentle finesse of a flower pony.”

His eyes held no joy as he let out a mirthless chuckle. “I wish I had learned more from you in the garden. Perhaps then I could possibly grow something myself instead. I make a poor botanist.”

He heaved a sigh and lay down, head on hooves in the rocky dirt, staring out into the distance.

“I… I miss you, Rose.”

“I miss you so much.”

A droplet darkened the stallion’s foreleg.

He sniffled and closed his eyes, “I miss staring into your chartreuse green eyes. I miss laying my head between your big fluffy ears as we cuddled. I miss your barking laugh when I would tell a joke. I miss your impish grin and waggling brow when you would enact some type of mischief on me.”

“Your voice—” he drew a shaky breath, “—I would give everything to hear your voice again.”

He opened his eyes and gazed out to the golden horizon.

“I had stopped taking commissions and started drinking. The girls would come to visit me occasionally. They would try to cheer me up—take me out to lunch or breakfast sometimes. Otherwise, I would just stare into your garden. Hours would turn into days, days would turn into weeks, and weeks would turn into months. For an eternity, I sat there and watched your garden die.”

Time Turner shook as a convulsion shot through him.

Taking a shallow breath, he continued, “After the first year, the only one left who would visit was Daisy. One night I found a bottle of Appleloosan whiskey in the closet that you must have gotten for our anniversary. I cannot recall what happened precisely. My memory only started working again when I woke up in Ponyville General a few days later.”

“I remember Daisy standing over me when I finally came to. She said ‘I can't watch you destroy yourself anymore.’ Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she said, ‘You aren't the only one who lost someone they loved. I've tried to help you, Turner. I had hoped that, eventually, you would pull yourself together and move on. But you're like a ghost. You haunt all her favorite places. Eat the food she loved. Listen to her music. It's almost as if you’re trying to become her. That was bad enough! But then to run around Ponyville chasing some figment of your imagination in a drunken stupor? We had to have the guard come out and take you. You wouldn't stop yelling her name!’”

“She grabbed the vermillion tulips someone had sent me and hurled them at the wall above my head. ‘You’re a disgrace, Turner! You're an insult to her memory and a pathetic excuse of a stallion. Now why don't you make like a real ghost and disappear.’ She glared at me with a fury I had never seen from her before.”

“As she left, she said, ‘I don’t want to see you ever again.’ That was the last time I saw her.”

He sighed and idly drew lines in the dirt. “Being the town drunk had thoroughly ruined my standing in the community. I expended most of the savings on alcohol, and I started taking ‘odd jobs’ from anypony who still held a modicum of pity for me. Nopony wanted my designs anymore, not that I could stand the sound of ticking clocks regardless.” He glanced at his saddlebags lying a few feet away.

“Did you know that, Rose? I can feel the tick of time as the planet hurtles through the universe. I feel the prick of every moment that I have been forced to exist without you. Do you know what that feels like, Rose? Every second is agony. Every minute, a century. Every hour, a millennium. Every day, an eternity.”

“Being drunk was a convenient cover, but there is not enough ethanol on Equus to excise the pain. I used to be so angry. I was angry at the girls, I was angry at Celestia, I was angry at Luna…”

“I was angry at you…”

“I was angry at you.”

He rolled to his back and stared at the deep orange sky above him.

“How could you have left such a gaping hole in me? Why would you steal my heart and soul like that? Why did you have to die!?”

Time Turner growled as he sprang to his hooves. He stomped the ground and clenched his eyes tight.

“WHY DID I KILL YOU!?”

His bellow bounced off the mountain and filled the valley below. Birds in the forest flew from their perches in the canopy as the echo rolled through the trees, the cardinal cowering behind the boulder that she had perched on.

Time Turner let his hinds fall to the dirt, and he slumped forward. His neck bowed, his head inclined to the ground. Teardrops hit the dust at his hooves and left specks of mud in the dirt. Tremors and convulsions raced up and down his body, threatening to collapse at any moment.

“I k-killed you… F-from the m-moment we departed the cabin that morning, I h-had killed you. I just… did not know it yet.”

“I let you take the lead, just as you always insist. I loved how you would prance around and tease me, egging me on with your antics. I was too distracted to even think about the edge of the cliff. I should’ve known we were too close. I should’ve tested the soil. I should’ve waited longer for the rain to dry. I should’ve chosen a different spot. I should’ve—”

The stallion opened his eyes and looked up. His blurry vision traced the jagged shear line.

“I should’ve saved you.”

Tears streamed down Time Turner’s cheeks as he said, “I can’t remember what your smile looks like. All I see now is the moment of terror on your face when the ridgeline gave way. That piercing wail still haunts me. Even Luna is unable to banish it for long.”

The cardinal poked her head out from her hiding place and glided down to land behind the stallion. It cautiously edged its way over to sit beside him. A choked sob wrenched its way out from the stallion’s throat. The little songbird nuzzled into his side as he shook.

Time Turner gasped at the touch of the cardinal. “Oh Rose, my rosa rubignosa, I can’t live without you. You brought so much love and joy into my life. Everything is dark and cold now. You were the light of my life, as bright as the sun!”

“I loved you with all my heart…”

“And then you were gone.”

Time took in a shuddering breath as the sun dipped below the horizon. The entire countryside was plunged into darkness as the moon began its ascent. He looked down the jagged cliff face onto the rocks and moonlit valley below. The broken stallion let out a keening whine as he scooped the cardinal up to his chest.

“Rose,” he whispered.

“...”

“Did I ever tell you I was afraid of the dark?”

Author's Note

Huge shout out to RadBunny for pre-reading this! Without them, I wouldn't have had the courage to post this.

THANK YOU SO MUCH!

Fun fact: This was actually written before the prequel Petrichor