The Loved One

by Valkyrie Paw

Rating: teen
Tags: Sad, Romance, Tragedy, Slice of Life, Dark
Length: 1041

A pony had a loved one, but he is now dead. She tells the story of their love.

You always have a special somepony. There's perfect love hidden beneath the anger, blissful harmony under all the stress.
But what happens when the one you love is dead? Eyes blank, hooves limp, and skin frozen like the pavement in winter.
What if you had a secret that you shared with no one? What if you had to tell the story of your love, when you couldn't share it with your friends?
What if… What if… What if there were hundreds of other, faceless, nameless ponies to share the story with?
Well, nameless faceless ponies, here's the story.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-11-01 03:40:01 UTC

The Beginning

[Author's Note]

Well, hello there! Whether you've stumbled onto this story by misfortune or by recommendation, this is here to stay. I love this story personally, it's nice to share pain- and sometimes, not my pain, but pain that becomes real by writing about it.

NOTE: This story is sad, and in some places may contain hints of sexual nature. For Halloween, and my first crush :)

Do you know what it is like to run? To run for your life, your parent's life, your lover's life? Not run for shoes on sale, the hottest new outfit, or your cheap vase breaking on the floor?

When you run for a loved one's life, you run. Every muscle in your  body is numb with shock and fear. The most severe and the most weak of pain is ignored utterly, put aside as nonsense. Your lungs are on fire from running, but you don't care. Your heart is about to burst from your breast, but you don't care that you can hear your pulse in your ears as loud as the roar of terror in your scrambling brain. Your own hair flies in your face, gets tangled on your eyelashes, blinding you. Tears sting your eyes as fear fills your heart and powers your legs, and a lump in your throat the size of a baseball chokes you and should've killed you.

Your hooves clop on the cobblestone. Your wings or horn are useless, looked with terror. Every ounce, every shred of energy is put into your legs. The sparking, now flaming urgency in your brain impresses, brands into every nerve and cell in your body one word. Run. And then, you see the person you're trying to save. Just a brief glimpse is enough. All reality lifts off your shoulders, and you're crying with joy, not horror at what could've been. You go forward to embrace them, to laugh with them at escaping Death.

But no one can escape Death when his mind is made up.

You're restrained by someone as you try to see them. They whisper gentle, soothing nonsense words to you, and lead you away from the person you were trying to save. You go back, but they herd you back, until you're far away enough that they can talk to you privately. As they lead you away, your legs shake, your hooves click, and your body is surging with adrenaline. But you know, deep in your heart, from the first whisper, what has happened. You know the one and only reason they don't let you see them.

The person you tried to save is dead.

Let that sink in. The one you ran for, the one you cried over, the one you laughed with, the one you talked with, is gone. Eyes unblinking, hooves unmoving, and every brain cell has shut down. The one you might have even had sex with- the one that was your foal's father or mother- is dead.

When the realization hits you, the world flips on its side. You cry, you cry because of the unfairness. Why did Death take them away! This was so cruel, so unkind, so unjust! And you were seconds too late. That's when the second realization hits you.

You could've saved them.

Shame past what any mortal should feel swamps you. You cry harder, bawling at your small, weak existance. And you want to give up.

You cannot give up life. After this sadness, a magic stops you from suicide. You can't kill yourself. On purpose, anyway.

Cutie marks vanish after your loved one's death. Sometimes, they never reappear, even after death. If you no longer have motivation to do your talent, why should you have it in the first place? Is the logic behind this. More often, however, your talent carries you out of your grief. Out of your pain. And your cutie mark comes back.

But also, your cutie mark can come back different. My cutie mark did. Those glowing, sky-blue diamonds held a pencil behind them. I would've lost my cutie mark forever... Except for Opal, fashion, and a secret, burning passion for the written word. So, naturally my writing and art talent bled through my soul onto my flank.

My coltfriend, lover, soon-to-be husband died the day he proposed to me. Golden Shield died in a fire in the Canterlot Guard Station, and managed to get his boss, Shining Armor, and Twilight's brother out of it in time, but died of smoke inhalation. I had those swift, precious seconds where I believed he would pop up, eyes glowing, and kiss my cheek, declaring his love for me. Shining Armor told me, tears in his eyes about his death. I ran home, all the way from Canterlot, and locked myself into my boutique, where my cutie mark vanished. I wrote obsessively. I wrote about everything. I drew cartoons, I painted careful images of Sweetie Belle, I put in every word, every emotion I'd ever felt about Golden onto canvas and paper, but it wasn't enough.

It was just me, sharing my secret sorrow about my loved one. About THE loved one. The one that had died saving someone else. My lover, the taker of my virginity... The one who shared my passion for fashion, the one who I hoped would be the father of our foals...

But he died. And the guilt nearly killed me. None of my friends know. Sweetie Belle has told them I'm away in Las Pegasus for the time being... Thank you Sweetie Belle... I plan to tell them eventually, show them this book... I planned lots of things, I planned to show my writing talent to them, I planned, I planned, but I don't have the courage to do.

So, I'll share my story with you. Countless, faceless ponies who don't know me, who don't know my name or my secrets, who can't even guess what color my coat is...

I'll share it with you.

Here's my story, locked and intertwined with the handsome, humorous stallion who stole my heart and all my love.

If he can hear me, this is my gift to you, Golden. My last scrap of love I can muster, shown to the world.