Chapters “Come on! What’s the harm in a harmony?”
I blinked. The landscape of lower Canterlot narrowed, then widened before me, blending into a colorful array of verdant green, wooden brown, and several bright tones offered up by wildflowers.
“Just a few notes in time?”
The last word faded in my ears, and left a dull, lonely feeling.
“Not now, sis. It’s just not in my heart right now.”
We came upon the well near the center of town, and I began pedaling the bucket up. She kept on her pleading, skipping around the well throughout, “Why not? Is something wrong? Did I say something? What?”
I sighed, but not audibly enough to be heard over the creaking of the time-worn crank, “I just don’t have a harmony in me today.”
Her hopeful visage quickly turned to one of frustration; her nose scrunched up, and her eyes turned down. “Come on, you’ve said that for years! It’s your talent, why don’t you use it?”
I remained silent, hefting the bucket and carefully tipping it into the water jugs. Slowly, I filled two of them until I could see my own blank expression in each. Once the draw bucket was empty, I lowered it back down, waiting intently for the echoing splash to reach my ears, and started bringing it back up with a new load of water.
“What will it take to get a note out of you? Just a phrase?”
I still held my tongue, and closed my own eyes to avoid what I knew would come. She stopped herself across the well from me and showed me her doleful eyes, “You know I can’t sing as well without you there! Can’t you do it, just for me?”
I excused myself from answering by filling my mouth with the handle of the drawing bucket, and pouring its contents into the last of our jars. In seeing this, she turned her eyes back to the ground, resignedly. “Let’s go.”
My sister, who now looked dejected as she plodded along behind me, was named Melody. She was a white mare with a curly orange mane that bobbed around whenever she moved. She always tied her hair with two white ribbons, which complemented her bright silver eyes. She was aptly named; she could melt hearts, gather crowds, and open minds with her voice, if she wanted to, even though she was hardly of twelve years.
However, I might not say the same of myself. My parents named me Mellownote at birth, approximately 200 years after the banishment of Nightmare Moon. Around her age now, I had found my mark: a single whole note. Yet, for six years since, I have not sung. When I wished to do so, my voice failed me. Even when I thought to hum to myself, the tune escaped me. I, myself, was grey, with a sooty black mane, and green eyes.
My family lived on the outskirts of Canterlot, at the base of the mountain that the city was built upon. The town was simple: a collection of wooden buildings, all of the essentials to allow for a simple life. Our farms kept a steady supply of food going to the upper city. We did not mind the work. For most of us, farming and gardening was our talent, which was ever-apparent this time of year: the springtime. Fields of wheat and grain spread out for miles out from the mountain’s base, and flowers on trees and in deep brown earth bloomed in vivid color, almost seeming to light up my stone grey coat.
A voice found its way to me through the murmur of the surrounding crowd, “Mellownote! How is your mother? I haven’t seen her in weeks! She’s not too busy, is she?”
I turned to see a lavender-colored mare with a sunflower mane and a soft expression, “She’s alright, Miss Bloom. We’ve just had a high demand recently, and she’s trying to make the most of it.”
The lady nodded, then said in her warm voice, “Give her my regards, would you?”
I smiled. The town was always warm with its greetings, and I hoped that it might never lose that charm. Similar voices called out from the soft clamor along my way through, and I returned each in kind. Throughout, Melody kept her eyes downcast, and offered nothing but the occasional nod to the passers-by that would wish to entertain her. Soon enough, we were greeted by our home.
About my family, we are all pegasi. My mother was a baker, and my father was as well, until he died six years ago of a virulent fever. How my sister and I ended up as singers, despite our mother and father being bakers, is a common enigma. We have come to accept it, rather than question it.
I passed on the regards of the town to my mother, who replied, “Bless their hearts.” I unloaded the water jugs, while Melody, whose heart was reinvigorated by mother’s, went to her and asked, “Mom, did you make an extra roll? Can I taste?”
“I may have, but then again I may not have. Did she behave herself out there, Mellownote?”
I smiled to myself and nodded, “Well enough. She didn’t make too much of a ruckus.”
Melody giggled, and kept on, “See, Mama! Can’t I have one?”
Mother gave a soft nod, and grabbed a roll off of a shelf, which she had made sure was just out of Melody’s reach and tossed it over to her. She then turned to me with a large basket from the shelf and asked, “Mellow, could you be a dear and take these up to the city? We have a few deliveries to be made, and nopony will turn down their bread if it’s a little early!” She inched in closer with a mischievous smile, “And sometimes, they end up needing a bit more than they thought if you give it to them while it’s fresh, and the smell drifts all about.” She finished with a wink, then handed me a basket, which was filled with crisp and fresh smells, and adorned with a bright red bow.
I walked outside with the basket and took off into a fuzzy blue sky. It was unusual for me to be making the delivery runs, but what I had said to Ms. Bloom before was true. Mother was busier than what we all thought to be normal. Soon enough, though, I forgot about the delivery, and focused solely on flight.
The sky was wide open, and all was rather quiet. I began to think about my mark. It was so strange and unfair, as if there had somehow been a mistake on its decision. Before it, the house was vibrating with humming of two young voices, separated by perfect fifths and major thirds, sometimes even sixths if the romantic conflict fit the mood well. Now, though the house was silent, only occasionally resonating with a single voice.
The room was dark, the doors closed. He lay there, motionless, like a mockery of the busy life he once lived. I could not move myself to speak, only to cry. He had taught me everything: how to fly, how to bake, even how to sing. His face, once vibrant, now only showed small traces of his former vigor, such as the creases left behind by his smile, and the wrinkles beneath his soft eyes. I turned and left, unable to bear the sight of my father any longer.
Yet, as I came through the door, my innocent little sister, Melody, stammered, “M-Mellow, your mark!”
I frowned in confusion, then turned around to see a simple ellipse on my flank, that horrible bittersweet memory forever imprinted into my heart.
“Hello? Are you alright?”
I shook my head, and dropped the basket, “Sorry. You ordered three loaves?”
“Err, yes. Thank you.” He took three of the loaves from the basket, and shut his door.
A heavy breath escaped my mouth. It was not unusual for my thoughts to take me over, but I never could get accustomed to it. There were no more familiar scents below the pretty red bow: I had made all of the deliveries without any sort of recollection. Fearful, I hoped to myself that I had not made mistakes with orders, even though I never had before.
I turned my head up to see it was night, now. The Mare in the Moon frowned down upon me, and the dark sky washed my coat to a deep, dark grey. I walked my way towards the edge of the city, enjoying the scenery. The moon’s rays reflected off of the garish Canterlot buildings; they had a sort of charm to them, though I was mostly used to the simple wood structures and thatched roofs of lower Canterlot. These in the upper city were fantastical, dreamlike, as if directly from the imagination, accounting even for the odd shape of thought.
My own thoughts did not last for long. Out of the silence of night came a sound – a sound that rent through my mind, shattering memories of silver eyes and white ribbons. I felt it through my bones, especially the hollow ones in my wings. It made my knees weak with fear and tension, and sent me running, though I knew not from what. It was a roar that challenged the night to outshine it, and promised doom to whatever might object.
Out of the castle, I could see a swarm of gold metal and buffeting wings, undirected and confused, feeling as I had felt: that the roar had come from everywhere. I lifted myself off of the ground as well, and the whimsical tones of the city blurred about me as my wings defied the ground below.
Once more, the sound rent through my eardrums, breaking past reveries and tearing through my heart, which was then ignited by the faint sound of hissing flame. I flew faster now, unable to see the reddish-orange hues anywhere besides subtle reflections in the sky. I glanced back at the swarm of guards, which seemed to be flying downwards.
NO! No, no, no, no!
The remaining road sped its way under me, and the edge of the dreamy city rolled out from underneath to reveal a sea of fire, an inferno stretching out from the base of the mountain, which appeared now like an enormous tree trunk, assailed by vivid color. As I turned to face it, a wave of choking black and grey enveloped me. I closed my eyes and shielded them, unable to bear such luminance in the midst of a night, nor the harsh, billowing smoke that brought more soot to my sooty mane. I flew back to the edge of Canterlot, wondering what I might see in the fires, if only I could look at them. Would the guards fight it? Were they as powerless as I was?
I lied down, unable to watch, only left to listen to the fierce roars again and again, shattering every last bit of my innocence, my ignorance, my bliss, my home.
No, no, no, no!
“Son? Hello?”
I started awake at the noise, and shook my head, hoping to throw off the drowsy haze over my mind. I opened my eyes to see a golden-clad, black-coated pegasus, staring intently at me.
“Do you have a home?”
My heart sunk into the abyss of yesterday, and I saw once again the same fiery blaze, burned into my eyes. I looked behind me to see the very edge of the cantilever city, and my wings turned with me. The guard called after, “No, wait!” Still, I pushed off and dove over the city’s edge.
Yet, instead of verdant fields and spots of color from bright blooms, I witnessed only charred timber houses, and withered brown fields. My breath stopped, and my wings locked. Wind began to stream past my feathers, as I began an involuntary dive, leaving trails of white when I shot through the clouds, and sending cold shivers down my back. Behind me, I could hear wings beat faster. The sound of the air buffeting through and past my ears grew more frantic, trying to warn me of the solid fate below. As the same wind lashed past my eyes, it viciously swept away the slightest traces of tears. The colors below me began to blur, and I closed my eyes.
When I closed my eyes that day, I knew not what I had expected to avoid. The ground was still below me, and my wings still locked. With my eyes closed, I could still feel the wind begin to spin me around and flip me over, flinging me about in apathy. With my eyes closed, I could still hear the guard’s desperate shouts somehow, over the sound of wind brushing through my coat and mane. With my eyes closed, I could still smell the scorched earth and charred wood below. Perhaps I expected the ground to come swiftly, and I would have been on the other side, whatever that was.
The wing beats drew closer, and soon they were below me. I felt a cool metal and a soft coat under me, and I felt my body push into it as it tried to pull me out of my grim dive. The wind started to hit me from the side, rather than from below, and I began to open my eyes. Split across the middle were two fields: one of golden-brown, and the other of blue and blotches of white. The body beneath me shuddered and jarred me off, and I careened through the field of gold, striking the ground which wreaked bitter havoc against my hide. Each time I tumbled against the ground, vivid color was thrown about my view – mostly red. After a good number of skips over the ground, I finally touched down for good, crushing a line of golden grain where I landed. All of my thoughts dissipated in favor of informing me that the hard landing had, in fact, hurt.
I lay there for what I was informed later were only a few minutes. I would always recount them as some of the most confused and pained hours of my life. Near the end of these hours, I heard a groan, and a rustle, with a couple of metallic scrapes.
A voice finally groaned, “Aaghh . . . hey, you okay?”
The words seemed to bring me back to reality; I felt my body again, and realized I could try to get up. I wormed my hooves under myself, and pushed up, gasping at the effort.
“Whoa, whoa. Cool it. No need to rush. Nice and easy.”
The guard came into view, his armor having lost its gleam – and some of its shape – in the dirt. From a few points on his hide glistened deep crimson. He shifted himself under me, and took me sideways onto his back.
I found the breath to make a snide remark at my savior, “You sure aren’t taking it ‘nice and easy.’”
A set of short breaths escaped him; I took them as laughter. He replied, “And you sure aren’t one for first impressions.”
It finally occurred to me that I had been obscenely rude to the guard. Pathetically late to the point where it meant nothing, I sighed, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve never been much for pity either.”
A silence pervaded the air, and I stared at the ground slowly pass by as the guard bore me through the field.
He broke the silence first, “So.”
“So,” I answered.
The guard let out a mix of a sigh and a grunt as he shifted me just a bit up his back.
“What is your name?”
I feebly answered, “Mellownote.”
He snorted, “I’m not sure how jumping wing-locked over the edge of Canterlot is mellow.”
I found no means of response. It was hardly a joke I could laugh at.
Sensing my discomfort, he continued, “My name is Fine Line. I’m a poet – off-duty that is.”
My boggled mind worked out a simple question to at least keep the silence at bay, “Why become a guard?”
This time, his laugh was audible and genuine, “To help those who just can’t seem to help themselves.” With that, he gave a short buck, sending me an inch into the air, and knocking the air out of me.
Ignoring my short gasps, he continued, “Besides, I can’t get inspiration from sitting around in my home, looking outside.”
The black-coated stallion looked off into the blackened area next to Canterlot’s mountains. He spoke gravely, “It’s terrible, what happened.”
I could not bring myself to look at it, and simply choked out, “Were there any left?”
Fine Line shook his head, and my heart sunk. “The same thing happened all over Equestria last night. A dragon or two went and destroyed as many crops as they could, and then left. Celestia is organizing the army, but with so many crops destroyed, we’ll be crippled.”
I could hardly believe my ears. Equestria had not heard of dragons for centuries. Why would they suddenly attack en masse? “Do we know anything about why they did?” I asked.
He shook his head again and said, “I’m not any sort of high rank, but as far as I’ve seen, the ones that are don’t know anything either. It was just out of nowhere.”
There was a short pause, where he coughed, due to the smoky haze that had settled over the valley. After expelling a few black gusts, only to breathe in more, he continued, “This is my last day here in Canterlot. They’re sending me off at dawn tomorrow, but they didn’t tell me where. I figure they don’t even know yet. By the way, you never did answer my first question.”
My face contorted to a look of confusion, then pain as he shifted me about on his back again. “What?” I asked.
“Do you have a home?”
I forced myself to look up at the burned village just half a mile away now. Tears came to my eyes, made bitterer by the smoke, and my voice broke, “That’s what I came down to find out.”
The black stallion fumbled for words for a moment, then hung his head, in almost an ashamed way, “I’m . . . sorry. I . . . I just figured you had jumped over for innocent curiosity. Did you . . . ?” His voice drifted off, and, he turned to look me in the eyes.
In those eyes, I saw something. It was more than just concern, more than just condolences, more than sympathy or pity. In his eyes was a true and honest empathy. They spoke the rest of his question to me, and broke my silence.
“Yes, I had a family. They were all down there.”
The eyes blinked almost viciously, as if to hold back a tear. “They thought there were no survivors. How did you get out?” he asked.
My eyes returned to the village, and I could not seem to pull them away. “I had been up in Canterlot all day, delivering bread. I was just getting ready to return that night when it came,” I replied.
He turned his eyes away from me, finally, and said, “It starts so fast, but lasts so long, doesn’t it?”
I nodded, almost numbly, as tears began to stream down my face. I noticed Fine Line began turning to go far around the village, rather than taking me near it. “Do you want to talk? About them, I mean?” he asked.
The question swirled around my mind, and managed to hit down every last barrier between the grief inside, and what showed on the outside. The tears ran freely now, and I was racked with uncontrollable sobs. If I had been able to see Fine Line through the watery blurs over my eyes, I would have seen his own tears run down his face as he remained silent. I choked to inhale, and gave a series of shallow gasps to exhale. I went on like this for a good hour or two, letting my feelings pour out over this poor empathetic stranger, until we reached the base of the mountain.
We rested there for a while in silence. Fine Line let me off his back, and sat down with me in the grass to rest before we went up. Our scrapes had the beginnings of scabs, and we were careful not to re-open them. Many spots on our body had turned to an odd color of red or blue at the points we had hit the ground with. Fine Line looked no better for wear than I did. Our eyes were red, and the short hair of our faces was streaked many times over.
There was nothing to distract my mind that day. There were only miles of open field, a mountain, and a smoldering village for my eyes, and the smell of smoke for my nose, and dead silence for my ears.
After a short while, Fine Line stood up again and asked, “How do you feel?”
It took a short while for the words to register, but I answered, “I can carry myself. Thank you.”
With that, I pushed myself up, and began to walk up the mountain. He followed me, always staying just a bit behind. “My sister’s name was Melody,” I began.
Fine Line didn’t hesitate. “It’s a beautiful name. Did she sing?” he asked.
“Yes. We both did, but I had stopped years ago,” I replied.
Behind me, I could see Fine Line looking at my mark. “Was it not your talent? Are you better with instruments?”
My head shook bitterly, “No, I was a singer, but I couldn’t sing.”
His face scrunched up in confusion, “What? Why not?”
Hefting myself up a bit of a ledge on the trail up the mountain, I answered, “I just couldn’t. There were no words. It really hurt Melody not to have a partner.”
Fine Line climbed up the same ledge, showing far more ease in the act, and grunted, “Umph . . . I’m sorry. Do you have . . . ugh . . . any idea why?”
Grimly, I answered, “I guess I stopped after my father died.”
My companion hung his head low and stared at the ground. He began to shuffle a small rock along with us, unable to respond. Both of us had drank a fresh cup of cold reality that day, and while I would hardly call it a likeable experience, it forges bonds that years of friendship could never create.
In the silence, I could hear the breeze whistle through my ears. I began to pay more attention to the scenery again. On the side of the mountain that we were on, I could no longer see the village. There was only a bright and beautiful view of the valley. There were miles of green grass, ringed by a variety of mountains and hills. Wildflowers still bloomed. Small animals still scurried, shaking the grass ever-so-slightly more than the wind.
How could life look so beautiful on this day? Did it not know anything beyond the present? Did it not realize the souls it had taken and scarred only the day before? Was life even in control of itself?
Fine Line broke my reverie, “So, what happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
He continued, “What about the future? What are you going to do when we get up there?”
I looked forlornly up to the city on the mountain. I had no family or friends there. I couldn’t join the army. I was not any sort of fighter. Nobody needed a singer during a war, much less a singer that couldn’t sing. “Maybe I’ll bake. My parents were bakers,” I finally replied.
The guard shook his head, “Not with the wheat fields burned down, you won’t.”
I sighed; he was right. Defeated, I returned, “I suppose I’ll just take life as it comes. Maybe move to some other city and work at a factory.”
He nodded this time, “That may not be a bad idea. Canterlot doesn’t really have any factories, and you sure aren’t in any condition to go out and fight those dragons with me. In fact, we’ll probably be saying our farewells once we get up there.”
The truth, I think, has always been something of an antagonist to me. It waits for a moment of weakness, and brings me out into the light, naked and squirming, and blinds me with its supposedly-enlightening radiance. Just above, the sun’s own radiance was just passing the climax of its journey through a hazy sky. It had been a very long morning, and I felt that those ahead of me would be just as long. It was just one more brutal truth that had to be accepted.
It occurred to me that I had never taken the mountain path before. My parents would rarely take it when they had a large shipment to deliver, but they never took me along. Perhaps under other circumstances, I might have enjoyed nature for what it was: something beautiful.
I may have even tried to sing.
Fine Line spoke, “I wish we had more time to learn about each other. We could be great friends.”
This truth, out of all of them, was rather comforting, but bitter to the taste. The operative word was “could.” Soon enough, I would be alone again. I suddenly wished for this climb to last so much longer, despite my aching body. Yet, as soon as the thought formed itself, upper Canterlot’s shadow fell down on the trail. We were not far from the colorful city. I peered over the edge to see just how high we had climbed, and it made me dizzy to be so high up, yet planted firmly on ground.
My friend continued, “It gets better, you know.”
I stopped and turned around, “How? Nothing changes.”
He answered, continuing in front of me, “You will get stronger.”
I moved to follow him now, “That’s hardly any consolation.”
He returned, “As I said, I’ve never been keen on pity. You were ready to die today. I saw it when you closed your eyes while you were falling. I’ve felt the same before, and I helped you. Now look at yourself. You’re walking on your own again, thinking about the future, not just how much it hurts now. I’ve helped you do in one day what took me many months to do.”
And just like that, truth struck at me again, knocking me back on my hind legs. I asked, “What was all of that, then? You cried just like me.”
He craned his neck to face me while he walked, “Sometimes, we have to remember the past, and it hurts us when something reminds us of it. I remembered my past so I could walk you through this day, and prepare you to walk by yourself tomorrow.”
“Was it all some sort of façade, then, just to cheer me up?” I stammered.
He laughed a bit, “Don’t worry yourself with that kind of thinking. Everything I did for you today was straight from my heart. Now, though, with our paths readying to part, I’m here to teach you how to stand alone.”
As if on cue, we turned one last stony corner to see the path leading straight into the city. Fine Line continued, “Just do me one favor, Mellownote: do not remember me for our parting today. When you dived off that ledge today, you took me down a path I never thought I would walk down again.”
The mountain path became a road. Fine Line was beginning to seem miles away now, and yet I could see him; he was only a few feet away.
He went on, “I wish I could see your future. Somewhere in your way is a happy ending, Mellownote. I hope I get to hear about it. Maybe I’ll write a poem.”
Colorful, whimsical buildings began to pass by us. It was so unfair.
“Always remember me, Mellownote.”
I was shivering. The sky turned a bright hue of reddish orange as the sun’s journey was almost complete. Fine Line’s eyes still sparkled with that same empathy, and I knew mine were glazed with fear. “Please . . . don’t go," I whispered, "I’m not ready.”
“Be brave, Mellownote. You know I can’t stay.”
I watched as the black stallion, coated in slightly dented armor, walked down the street. The sky turned from bright red to a deep and star-speckled blue. I was alone.
As the moon lightened my coat and mane, I felt a cold breeze drift by, and shivered. The city was quiet and its lights were flickering out one-by-one through the windows. I looked to my left and right, and saw only the buildings, and the long shadows they cast across the alleyways. As I looked down one of those dark distrusting alleys, a fearful frown passed over my face, and I walked instead along the empty streets lit by moonlight and the occasional soft glow of a lantern, throwing shadows as the fireflies inside buzzed about.
As the mare in the moon glared down at me, I felt the weights of today and yesterday tug me down at the ground, enticing me to sleep. I looked around, but saw only the hard concrete and marble that made up the city. “No easy rest for the restless,” I sighed to myself.
I walked towards a small arcade that held up a set of adjoining buildings. The long archway was the only semblance of shelter in the open city. I brought myself just under the entrance to it, and curled up against one of its support beams on the wall. The stone-cold structure made me start to shiver, and I felt the last bits of my energy drain trying to keep myself warm. Still, the moon was kind, and a cold sleep eventually took me into its depths.
It was white. Everything was white.
The ground beneath and the sky above were white. That was everything. There was no light, no shadows, but I still could see that all was white. It was a strange sanctuary. There were no walls. The ground was flat, and as I looked on to the horizon, I imagined that it might have no end.
And therefore, there was none.
I walked for hours, it felt. I could hear only the soft sound of my hoof beats against the strange floor – a dull sound, without an echo. There was no way to go. I knew it was a dream, but I could see no goal to it. It was just an empty plain, on which I could walk, or perhaps sit if I desired. The dream seemed to have no preference. It responded to neither.
It occurred to me that I had never taken a breath. I inhaled deeply through my nose, and nearly choked.
I smelled the sweet smell of grass, of bread, of spring flowers, as well as ash, sweat, and dust. In my mouth, I tasted the metallic tincture of blood and gold. Coughing, I stopped my aimless trek to sputter out the cruel air, but for every breath I choked out, I was forced to breathe in twice more. I couldn’t stop breathing now, for I had already started. The taste and smell were renewed with every gasp, and in the short period between them, the senses would sourly die down. I was left with my eyes towards the ground, trying to filter the bitter mixture out of me.
Above, a light began to emerge from the white sky, slowly brightening, forcing me to close my eyes. Yet still, it grew brighter and brighter, and shown red through my eyelids.
I woke to a red sunrise, just breaching over the top of a building to find my eyes. I raised up my hoof in defiance of it, then gave up bitterly. Morning could not be fought. My body ached, both from the crash and, I expected, my choice to sleep against concrete. I turned and spat, though the foul taste of the dream was no longer lingering in my mouth. Far off, I could hear the splash of a fountain echoing through the other end of the arcade. As I felt the dry, fetid confines of my mouth, I imagined my breath alone could scare another pony off.
I rose up and started off at a slow trod in the direction of the sound, but something caught my eye. Sitting on the ground just before me was a bright red apple. I glanced around curiously, but no-one presented themselves. Whether or not it was a simple gift or beggar’s alms, I decided I would be thankful. I ate it in a mere couple of bites, and then turned towards the sound.
The morning was yet young, and the citizens of Canterlot were still in their homes. I could hear muffled conversation as I passed a couple of buildings with open windows, though I did not strain my ears to try to listen. The fountain’s soft roar was revealed in full as I rounded the corner of the arcade’s wall. It was larger than I had imagined, with many of its streams reaching at least twenty hooves in the air. It sat in the middle of a grand plaza, which was, at the moment, deserted. I closed the gap to the fountain and washed the foul breath out of my mouth, then began to quench my thirst in its basin.
As I drank, I realized my breath was not the only thing that would steer somepony away. I looked at my coat and mane, both of which were riddled with green and brown stain from the crash and the walk up the mountain. I took a cautious look around, but found not a single pony to watch me. Nervously, I stepped into the fountain.
Immediately, the chill of the water made my muscles tense against the frigid cascading streams. As the water met my dirt-spattered coat, it left a clean dark grey spot, shimmering with droplets of water. I felt a certain roughness leave my mane when the water splashed over my head. I got used to the water, and was able to get the dry dirt and grass stains out of my coat. It felt wonderful to be clean again. Perhaps I thought it might wash out my memory as well as it did my body. I suppose it had distracted me well enough. After all, the water was still near freezing, and remembering such only made it feel colder.
Satisfied in my job of cleaning myself up, I jumped out of the fountain, and shook myself to send tongues of water shooting out at every thinkable direction, particularly from my mane. I smiled to myself, amused that I had before thought I could be subtle. The ground around me had gathered a puddle of water, and conspicuous streaks stretched out from the puddle from my shake-drying. Still yet, some water clung to me, slowly depositing at my feet and making fresh marks on the ground as I began to wander through the streets. There was no chance of hiding my reality, and no point in trying.
Other ponies began to filter out of their homes, most of them giving me quizzical glances, and some even looking somewhat disgusted. It hurt what little was left of my pride after sleeping on the streets. I didn’t mourn my pride, though. It had never been my child to nurse. Still, the sun quickly dried me off, and I began to become another member of the crowd. I did not know which way I was looking to walk; I knew only that there was a lot less to do while sitting still.
After enough time of walking around, most of the buildings of Canterlot looked the same, however opulent. I began paying attention to the people instead. What I found wasn’t surprising. Almost all of them looked as lavish as the city around them. Although I felt a pang of jealousy for their lot in life, I could hardly hold it against them.
Or could I?
Most of the city-goers were female; that observation ricocheted around the inside of my head for a while before the connection was finally made with Fine Line’s words just the night before. The army was leaving today. I stopped a moment and looked around, as if I’d have by chance wandered straight into the Canterlot barracks. I was – quite predictably – disappointed.
I began receiving the inquisitive glances once more, as other ponies passed me. They seemed to be walking in the same direction, and like any good city-goer, I began to walk in the same direction, mindlessly following the pony in front of me. Soon enough, the sound of collective hoof beats began to wear on my ears, and the walk felt excruciatingly slow, though I had never regarded my own canter as particularly speedy. I imagined that the wind took its leisurely stroll faster than this crowd’s banal pacing.
The wind never needed directions. It just seemed to nudge others on in its own, whether that was for them, directly against them, or in some direction they would never think to travel on their own. Today, the wind flew with us, but did nothing to speed the crowd. I pondered if it actually was speeding the grouping along, and they were truly slower than this on a usual day. The thought felt inexplicably horrid.
I wrinkled my nose. This would not do. Minding the members of the crowd that had fallen in next to me, I pulled out my wings a bit, testing my muscles. There was a small ache as I pulled them to full span, but I expected they would hold. I leapt up into the air, sending heavy drafts down into the crowd, causing feeble protests, and sending a couple of extravagant hats spinning off the heads of their owners.
Excuse me for not feeling pity for the poor souls below.
In the air, the crowd turned into more of a colorful current. I followed the flow to the barracks, over which flew a set of purple, sun-emblazoned pennants. A sizable crowd had gathered below, and I could hardly hope to find a place to land on the ground. I craned my neck around, scouring the rooftops for a decent space. My eyes rested on a small, flat rooftop occupied by a single, muted light blue pegasus that seemed to be watching me. I swept over to him and landed beside His eyes, which were a soft green, were wide open, but he did not at all protest. As I settled myself and folded my wings, he took his gaze off of me and returned it to the crowd without a single word.
So he wasn't one for jovial greetings. I could relate.
I also turned my view to the congregation below. The crowds trying to filter into the small city square had ground to a halt, and most of their members were beginning to sit down, content with their places. Others seemed still discontent, trying to inch and squirm their way through the others, much to the aggravation of all parties involved. In one case, I noticed a stallion was particularly discontent, and a mare in front of him equally stubborn. The stallion became more animated in his efforts and frustration. I could not hear what he said, but it got the mare to stand up. For a moment, he was graced with a triumphant grin, but only a moment before he was graced with the two back hooves of the mare, who then sat down with a smug, vindictive smile. I laughed, and even though I was genuinely entertained, the laughter felt hollow. The other pegasus looked up at me questioningly, and I stammered, “Did you see . . .? Oh, I guess not.”
I returned my view back onto the crowd, slightly embarrassed now, even though the other seemed smaller and younger than me. I felt his eyes on me for a few moments before he too returned his view to the crowd.
“You don’t talk much,” he remarked.
“And you do?” I replied, my bitterness still leaping a step further than my mind.
The soft-blue pegasus lowered his head for a moment, then picked it back up. “I suppose not. I guess I’ve never met anyone else who was quiet like you are.”
“Sometimes, there’s just nothing to say,” I proposed to him.
He nodded, “I guess that’s it.”
A cold, bitter wind blew past us, slipping through my feathers and mane to send chills through me. Beside me, I could see my acquaintance’s feathers quake, and his muted dark teal mane carry with the wind, but he sat still without a single shiver. A short fanfare resounded from the barracks, and a massive swarm of pegasi, clad in armor of gold and steel, flooded out of its central courtyard into the air. Some were in groups, carrying platforms with supplies or other large loads that were covered in tarps. The crowd below began cheering, but I was squinting, trying to find the one soldier I actually knew.
Next to me, the pegasus asked, “Looking for somepony?”
“Yes.”
“Family?” he asked.
“No.”
“So a friend,” he affirmed.
I nodded, trying to stay focused on the crowd.
The stream of soldiers still issued forth from the barracks, and I was astounded that the building – however massive it was – could hold so many. I was glancing at every soldier at once, and occasionally I would see a black coat, but how was I supposed to tell from down on the rooftop whether it was him?
“I couldn’t find anyone in that mess,” the other remarked.
My head tilted a bit in confusion. “Do you not have anyone in there?”
He shook his head, “No, I don’t have anyone.”
I gave up my search of the skies. The young one was right, there was no way to pick out anyone from the swarm. It was too dense, too uniform. I returned my focus back to my company. “Where is your family, then?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied.
For a youth, he was very cryptic. He hadn’t seen them? I asked solemnly, “You live alone?”
He nodded dispassionately, though he kept his eyes on the swarm of soldiers, which was beginning to peter out. “You’re alone, too,” he reminded.
At first, it confused me that he would know such a thing, but remembering how I had been acting around him, I decided it wasn’t all too difficult to guess. “Yes,” I conceded, “I am.”
He continued, “You look like you've been having a rough time with it.”
“Yes, I have.”
The other took on a sympathetic visage. “It gets better,” he offered.
“I’m still waiting.”
He looked at the swarm for a bit, then back at me, “Neither of us have anything left here, do we?”
I shook my head, “No.”
“Good,” he said, standing up and testing his wings, “we can go to my place, then.”
“What?”
“Just follow me – err – what’s your name?”
“Mellownote”
“Right. I’m Dewdrop.”
With that, he leapt off the roof, away from the show, and I quickly got on my feet and leapt after him. As I fell in behind him, I looked back to see the last bit of soldiers flying from the barracks. When I craned my head back around, I didn’t see Dewdrop anymore; instead, a garish building was in his place, and approaching me quickly. I broke a sharp turn, sending buffets of air at the building and managing to throw a couple of its windows open. I caught sight of Dewdrop again as I pulled out of the turn. “I usually fly with my eyes forward, Mellownote!” he shouted back with a grin.
Color rushed to my face, even as it was buffeted by a chilling breeze. I picked up my speed to keep up with the soft-blue blur ahead of me named Dewdrop. He led me through every little tough corner and cramped area, which gave my wings quite a heavy workout after yesterday’s accident. He even flew us low into a small tunnel, where he could barely fit his own wingspan, and I was desperately flapping my wings at half span trying to stay airborne. He began to fly us towards another old building, but didn’t swerve out of its way. Instead, he hugged his wings against his sides and carried himself through an open window at the top with his own momentum. My heart leapt, and I closed my own wings just before darting through the same window. The room inside blurred at the sides of my vision, but a large white form dominated my vision as I careened straight into it.
It was a soft impact, at least, and as I plunged face-first into the white mass, and came to a very abrupt stop, I heard a poorly suppressed chuckle off to my left. Once the white mass absorbed all of my momentum, I fell out of it, my mind and vision spinning. As I lay on the floor, a soft-blue blur with a dash of teal came into view. As I regained my wits and my eyes their focus, I could see an amused smirk on Dewdrop’s face.
“Welcome to my – err – home.”
I shook my head back and forth, and then rubbed it with a hoof. I propped myself up to see I had flown straight into a sideways pile of mattresses, placed just for an unsuspecting visitor such as myself. I turned myself over onto my feet and took a more thorough look around the room.
The room was rather small, only a few meters wide and long. The walls were covered with a soft brown wallpaper, of which the sylvan patterns had long since faded. On one side of the window I had speedily entered through was a blue drapery. Above, a small brass chandelier hung, with jars of fireflies resting on the candlestick holders. The floor was wooden, save for a worn red rug in the center. In a corner next to the window sat a wrought-iron bed frame, complete with a mattress, and what looked like the other side of the window’s draperies for a blanket. Against all of the other corners were scanty stacks of books ranging from myths and legends, to the fundamentals of magic, to guides on lock picking – which I took at face value. In the rays of sunlight from the window, I could see a fresh cloud of dust that I assumed had come from my impact with the mattresses, and subsequent landing on the floor.
Completing the image was the blue-coated youth, proudly smiling in the center of the room. “Now,” he said matter-of-factly, “I’ve never had visitors before, but if there’s anything I know, there’s always room for a friend. Is that alright? Are you my friend?”
It took me a moment, as I was still taking his humble quarters. “Huh? What?” I stammered.
“Are we friends, Mellownote?”
I had had not even known him for a day, but I could hardly refuse his earnest, pleading gaze. I tried to give him an equally-sincere smile, “Yes.”
“Good, now I’ll have to clear a spot for you to sleep. I don’t have an extra bed, but if we move enough of these books, we’ll have enough room to take one of the mattresses down. Oh, and you can have the other set of drapes. Right! The mattresses are a bit stiff, but they’re sure better than that arcade.”
I perked up, “How did you know I slept under the arcade?”
“Oh, I – err,” he faltered, as color rushed to his face.
“Were you spying on me?”
“Well, uh, I wouldn’t say spying. ”
“What, then?”
He smiled, “Well, I was just going out for a little flight, when I saw you lying under the archway. Now I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, I don’t own this place. It’s just an abandoned rundown little attic. Nobody owns it.
“Now, I’ve seen all of the homeless ponies around the city. You were new. I didn’t know if you’d just been thrown out or anything, or even if you’d had a bad time with other homeless ponies in the alleys yet, but I left you that apple to show you we’re not all bad guys.” Dewdrop braced himself with one eye open, as if expecting me to become a raging beast.
I was dumbfounded. “How old are you?” I asked.
“Fifteen,” he said, “but my birthday is in a week or so!”
So I had been coaxed off of the streets by none other than a boy, just two years younger.
I swallowed nervously, “How long have you been on your own like this?”
Dewdrop sat down on his bed, “A few years, I think seven now, but I’ve had this sweet little nook for six of them.”
“Oh. What happened?” I asked.
“What? Oh, why am I on my own? Too many mean kids in the orphanage. I ran away.”
I cast my eyes to the ground. “So you’ve been an orphan all your life.”
He shrugged, “Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. I do fine enough on my own.”
I kept silent. He did seem to be pretty self-sufficient; he had a home, a bed, he didn’t look starved at all. In fact, he looked more than satisfied with his home.
“So, what about you?”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“How long have you been on your own?” he pressed.
He had been open enough with me, I supposed. “A day,” I answered.
Dewdrop winced, “It wasn’t that dragon, was it?”
I nodded, and his happy countenance turned to solemnity. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” he sulked.
“No, it’s quite alright,” I said, “It’s a truth I’ll have to get used to telling. Besides, you told me your own.”
Dewdrop stared at the ground a moment, pondering, and then said, “No matter! You’re not on your own anymore. You can stay here with me.” He topped it off with an excited smile.
“So, I’m being adopted by a fifteen-year-old colt,” I joked.
“Hey!” he shouted indignantly, “I’m practically sixteen! If you’re going to make fun of me for being independent, the window is right there.” He gestured at the window with one of his front hooves. The sun was edging into the view of the window, readying itself to lower under the city’s skyline. It surprised me how quickly the day had passed.
I turned my attention back to Dewdrop, “Sorry. I just thought it might sound a bit silly. I’d love to stay here with you.”
Dewdrop made a little show of regaining his composure, and reacquired his excited smile. “Great! Help me move some of these books.”
He started kicking at the books scattered around the floor, and shuffled them into the corners to either side of the mattresses. I joined him, attacking the books at the right corner next to the window, throwing them over with my teeth in a mixed action of care and haste. A couple of titles came through my vision: Realms beyond Equestria, The Crystal King, Unusual Uses for String Volume III, A Collection of Poetry. “Where did you get all of these?” I asked.
“I buy them from the library when I have some extra money,” he answered nonchalantly, while flinging the last few books onto his bed, having piled the other corners so high that any more books thrown on would simply slide off. He then pushed the foremost mattress over, and it landed on the floor with a resounding thud. “Now, he continued, with a mischievous grin, “You’re going to have to be more careful about flying in. We’ve only got two mattresses for you to crash against, now.”
“Fine,” I said, and we pushed the mattress against the right corner next to the window. Dewdrop stood up on his hind legs and fiddled with the drapes on the window until they finally unhooked and fell to the ground. He ceremoniously threw the drapes over the mattress and gave me an excited smile.
“There,” he said, “nice and cozy.” He stood up on his hind legs again, and placed rags over the firefly jars on his chandelier while he continued, “Tomorrow will be a big day, Mellownote! I’ll show you all the nice people around, and we’ll be able to read together!”
Dewdrop pulled the window shutters in just as the sun had disappeared behind the buildings. He jumped into his bed and pulled his drapery sheets over himself and motioned to my bed. “Come on, the sooner we get to sleep, the sooner we can wake up!”
I smiled at his enthusiasm, and fell down into my bed. To be sure, it was far better than the street. As I pulled the covers up, I wondered just how Dewdrop found so much happiness all around him. It reminded me of Melody, the way he would so quickly flit between emotions, and how positive he would stay throughout.
I realized I had spent so much time denying Melody that same innocent happiness, however involuntarily, by being unable to sing. I frowned in my bed, and turned to look at Dewdrop – who was rolling about, trying to find a comfortable spot – then turned back around. Perhaps this was fate, giving me the second chance at being a big brother. I had to learn.
I had to do a better job of it this time.
“Get up!”
An incredible force sent me into the air, further confusing me in my groggy stupor.
“Come on, Mellownote! Bright! And! Early!”
Dewdrop punctuated each of the last three words with a solid buck to my mattress. If the mattress was aware, it might have felt traumatized by these ponies so thoroughly abusing it.
My eyes shot open just as he was about to give the mattress another solid kick. “Enough!” I shouted, cruelly beaten into a state of clarity.
Dewdrop let his back hooves fall back down to the ground and turned to face me directly. “Good, you’re awake!” he said cheerily, “Come on, we’re going to go out and get breakfast, and there’s no free breakfast out there for late-risers!”
Mornings were not my time of day. However, it was very hard to argue with Dewdrop, who seemed to have more than enough energy for both of us. I threw off the drapes and sat up, blinking a few times trying to keep focus. Without waiting for me, Dewdrop rushed out of the window. I stood up, wavering a bit as the fuzzy world came into focus, and then dove out after him.
He was waiting just outside, and he hardly stayed in the spot long enough to say, “Come on!” before he darted down into the city. We curved around a few buildings until he landed at the corner before a plaza. “Now, Mellownote,” he said, adopting a mockingly serious tone, “I can guarantee you that after yesterday, a lot of shopkeepers can use some extra help. Help the grocers, and they’ll probably give you some food. Anyone else will give us a bit or two. If we can get breakfast and just a few bits, we’ll get something for your first day. Got it?”
I nodded, “Yes.”
“Good! Let’s go.”
I could tell Dewdrop could hardly contain his enthusiasm as he adopted a casual walk around the corner. I followed suit with an amused smile. As we entered the plaza, I saw exactly what the youth was talking about. Many of the shopkeepers were older, and I was willing to bet their sons or grandsons had been their helpers before yesterday. Dewdrop whispered back to me, “Pick one. Earn your keep,” and then started off towards one of the grocery stands, which seemed to sell lettuce and cabbage. The vendor seemed very relieved to see Dewdrop.
I looked around the scene and spotted a baker’s stand. A good roll or two sounded very good at that moment; even the fresh scent reminded me of home. I trotted over to the booth, and the old stallion tending it took notice.
“Uh, I’m setting up shop right now, son. Come back in a bit and I’d be happy to sell you something. Now, where were those – ah, here!”
I tried to push past his distracted manner, “Actually, I was wondering if you wanted any help.”
He perked up his head, and stuttered, “Oh, oh, uh – let’s see. Yes, you came on a great day to help; I’m running down to my last bit of wheat since that dastardly dragon came. I need you to run to the granary down the bend. They’ve got at least a good half-year supply in there. Here’s three bits. Get me a bushel of wheat, will you?”
I nodded, taking the money, and walked towards the granary. I at least knew where that was; my mother would send me there on the days when we needed just that little boost of stock for the day. I flew over to the building, which resembled a widened spire, fitting in well with the typical Canterlot buildings. A bulky-looking stallion sat on a bench at its entrance. “Hey, there. What do you need?” he asked.
“Just a bushel of wheat,” I replied.
“Sure,” he said, and disappeared into the granary. Shortly after, he came back out with a neatly-wrapped and generous-looking bushel of wheat. “That’ll be two bits, please.”
I gave him the two bits and picked up the bushel, taking it carefully and putting the last bit the old stallion had given me just under the binding of the bushel, safe and sound. I took off with the cords of the bushel in my teeth and returned to the old vendor, whose visage brightened as I approached.
“Thank you kindly, son! I would have gone myself, but I’m just not as speedy as I used to be, and I can’t leave this cart alone with any peace of mind.”
I dropped the bushel at his feet, then fished for the extra bit he had given me. “They only asked for two bits. Here you go,” I said, offering the little gold piece to him, but he shook his head.
“No, they ask for three bits, son. It’s the fine price for a bushel of wheat,” he replied, winking, “However, I’d be happy to give you a couple of rolls for your service.”
I graciously accepted, and took two rolls from the cart. With a soft “Thank you,” I walked over to the center of the plaza, where Dewdrop was waiting.
“Not bad for a beginner. I’ve got two extra bits, and you just got one. Two more and we can get the surprise!” A smile played across his face, and he seemed ready to leap into the air at the thought. Instead, he shouted, “Follow me!” and galloped over to another stand. I followed at an easy trot, and watched as Dewdrop engaged our next target: a mare running a vegetable stand.
“Well, I’ve already got the stand set – oh. Is this young man with you?” The mare, who had a mint-green coat and leaf-green mane looked at me curiously, and then at my flank. Her eyes lit up and she said, “Well, there may be something your friend can do for me.”
Dewdrop turned to me, confused. “What?” he spat out.
She continued, “You see, my daughter just left yesterday. She’s off to be a nurse. She used to hum or sing a tune around the house. Would you sing me something? It’s rather dreary without her voice to fill my days.”
Dewdrop smiled, “Oh! That should be easy. Come on, Mellownote!”
I gulped, looking between the kind eyes of the mare and the eager eyes of Dewdrop. I could hardly refuse now; they had well-enough pinned me under their expectations. I had to try.
An old love song slowly worked its way into my mind. The cadences, the chords, the emotion flowed through me, and I found a certain peace that I had not known for a long time, a piece of me I had left behind too long ago now. I closed my eyes, and let the words ring.
If I have never loved you truly
Then tell me why, when you are near, the stars are brighter
If I have never loved you truly
Then tell me why your honest smile prompts me to mine
And as the hearth glows
And the world grows
Into a wonderful scene
And though the storm calls
And the night falls
I can scarcely believe
You chose me
I opened my eyes to see the mare. I could tell she knew the song, and her eyes were tearing up. Still, the features making up her visage urged me on to sing the last lines.
I had never been fond of the last lines.
And though I know we can’t last forever
My fervent love, my mourning dove, we’ll try together
And when, in the end, things don’t get better
You’ll be my love, I’ll help you find your way home
“Th-thank you dearie,” she said, her eyes still watery. She embraced me for a moment. “It makes things a bit better,” she added. With that and a soft smile, she let go and slid two bits over to Dewdrop, who accepted with a bright smile.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You two keep safe.”
Dewdrop was already trotting away when I took my eyes off of the mare. He craned his neck to look at me and called back, “Come on, Mellow! Why are you always so slow?”
I sped up to catch up with him. “I’m not in any sort of rush. You see more when you slow down,” I replied.
Dewdrop rolled his eyes. “But it takes so much longer to get where you’re going!” he groaned.
“But the journey can sometimes be greater than the goal,” I proposed.
He shook his head, “I’ve got it all figured out. The less time I spend on the goal at hand, the sooner I can move to the next!”
“And when do you stop and appreciate what’s around you?” I asked.
“Sometime, Mellownote, but not now,” he replied heartily. We turned onto a main road, and I saw the citizens of Canterlot slowly trickling onto the streets. Their spirits seemed dampened: their eyes ringed, and their heads held low. Dewdrop hardly seemed to notice, waving at a couple good-heartedly, with a bright smile. For some, the smile spread, and others went on just as they had been, hardly noticing the youth.
Did he notice? I could not be certain. Perhaps the lens he saw the world through had a different tint than my own. Perhaps his world was full of excitement and adventure, with blurring at the edges so he could only look ahead. Perhaps his room was lit by a grand crystal chandelier, and his bed was great and plush, with a massive comforter blanket and a cloud-soft pillow, and his walls painted with vivid scenes and lined with shelves of a multitude of books, ranging in size and color and content. Perhaps that was the world he saw. Perhaps that was the world that was, and my lens was the one that warped reality out of proportion.
Dewdrop turned into a building I recognized as the Upper Canterlot Library. I followed after him, and was immediately belittled by its massive shelves and outrageous scope of texts and tomes. Dewdrop eagerly walked – a word that I use very loosely in his case – over to the front desk, where an old mare smiled warmly at his approach. As she looked behind him at me, her eyes narrowed in confusion. Dewdrop ignored her befuddled glance and asked, “What do you have for five bits today, ma’am?”
She waved her arm jokingly around the entire library. “Anything from that little section, Dewdrop. Who’s your friend?”
He turned, as if surprised that I had been behind him the whole time. “Oh, that’s Mellownote. He’s from lower Canterlot,” he said nonchalantly, as he started to walk off to the fantasy section.
“Wha- Oh. Oh, my,” the librarian stammered, and then turned to look at me, with a gaze that resembled a mix of horror and curiosity. She stood there, dumbfounded for a moment. She sized me up more than a few times, as if she expected, perhaps even wanted me to vanish under further scrutiny. “I’m so sorry,” she finally said, lowering her head.
An echo returned to my ears, “I’ve never been much for pity.” It was a strange inclusion Fine Line had made. Yet now, I think I could see it clearly. A woman feeling sorry for me did not help me. Dewdrop had helped me, and not out of any sort of sympathy, but out of some strange curiosity and friendship.
It was at that moment that I realized sympathy was a greater mockery than apathy. While apathy is similar to ignorance – a blissful dream that neutrality is affordable – sympathy is an acknowledgment of disparity, but without the will to do anything about it. Sympathy is idle opinion: apologizing, but still unforgiving.
I turned my eyes to Dewdrop and replied firmly, “Don’t be.”
She blinked, and then lifted her head up. Although she still wore a nervous frown on her face, her body seemed a bit more at-ease. “How long have you known Dewdrop?” she asked.
“A day, give or take,” I replied. She shot an inquisitive glance, but I stared on at Dewdrop, who was beginning to climb one of the sliding ladders. “You?” I asked.
“Many years,” she replied, “I taught him how to read and write.”
Dewdrop paused in the middle of his ascent up the ladder, his eyes seeming to be fixed on a book far to his left. He raised one of his hind legs against the side of the enormous bookcase and gave a gentle push. The ladder slid perfectly into place, and he reached straight forward, seizing a faded-blue book.
“He’s never come here with a friend before. It’s unlike him.” She paused, opening her mouth, and then closing it again indecisively. Finally, she continued, “He would always proclaim to me that books had so much more to say.” She looked between Dewdrop and myself, scrutinizing us both with equal discernment and thoroughness. As Dewdrop climbed down and rejoined us, book awkwardly resting between his teeth, she let the effort go, and smiled at Dewdrop, as if her entire questioning of me had actually been a strange façade of her true nature. “Let’s see that there,” she said as the text was dropped on her desk, but then almost recoiled at the sight of it, “Oh, how did that book get up there? I don’t think this is the kind of book you’re looking for, Dewdrop.”
The colt shook his head. “This is definitely the one I want.”
“I’m – er,” the librarian fumbled, “just not sure you’d like it. It’s not any sort of adventure or anything. It really shouldn’t have been on that shelf.”
I tried to catch the title of the book, but the gray-maned mare put her hoof over it, readying to pull it away. Just as quickly as she had reached for it, Dewdrop firmly pressed his own hoof into it. The librarian gave off the faintest silhouette of a strange despair.
“Don’t worry,” Dewdrop insisted, “I didn’t pick the book for the section it was in, ma’am. Besides, how could you know I wouldn’t like it? I’ve never tried anything like it.”
The librarian lifted her hoof, her mouth open, ready to provide her reply. However, Dewdrop seized his opportunity and deftly swept the book over to his end of the counter, throwing our five bits onto the counter in exchange. The librarian paused, her eyes frozen on the bits. She closed her mouth, and slowly lowered her hoof, her face a portrait of confusion and bitterness. Still, she kept her last rebuttal to herself, and instead looked between me and the small gold coins bitterly as we passed back through the doors of the Upper Canterlot Library.
* * *
I followed the young pegasus as he darted once more through the window of his home. This time, I made sure to slow just before floating through. Rather than the first impact being my face against Dewdrop’s mattresses, I felt the hard wood floor under my hooves. The colt smiled at my caution, and dropped himself and the new book onto his bed. He beckoned towards me and urged, “Come on, we’ll read it together.”
“Right now?” I asked, “What’s the hurry?”
“Why wait?” he returned, “Do you need to do some sort of book-reading stretches or something?” He finished with a short chuckle, and I felt a bit of color rush to my face.
“Fine then,” I said, joining him on the cot, “Let’s get a start on it.”
He pulled the book in front of the two of us side-by-side, and I was finally able to see the title, The Point: Reflections of Mighty Quill . The book itself looked to be two to three hundred pages. Indeed, its topic was nothing like the collage of books scattered in the back corners of the room. Dewdrop pulled the front of the cover over, and flicked past the first couple of title pages to the beginning of the text. “Read it aloud for me?” he half-asked, half-commanded.
“Why?”
“I tried reading this book before,” the colt admitted, “but it didn’t make sense. I thought maybe if I heard it in a different voice, I might understand it.”
I looked at the words scrawled over the page. It was hoofwritten, and as I flipped over to the title pages, I noticed the author’s signature. The name Mighty Quill rang a bell, but I couldn’t tell which toll rang through my head. “You couldn’t read the handwriting?” I asked.
“I could read it,” he answered, “but I didn’t understand it, even when I read it aloud to myself. The words were empty.”
I submitted, and flipped back to the beginning.
Why have I set forth to write this book? That very question is the one I set out to answer by writing it. It may seem redundant, but you will understand soon enough, reader, that there are few things that have ever been necessary that are done. Do not be daunted, for though we are not able to converse face-to-face, I hope to help you however I can to understand what I have committed to these pages. Perhaps along the way, we truly will meet, on some middle ground, or perhaps even on my own grounds. However, the contact of this book against your hooves is as close as I will get to trying to meet you where you stand. After all, I have yet to read a book that was written to passively agree with all of its readers.
“Wait.”
“What?” I asked.
“What was that supposed to mean?”
“What part of it?”
“That ‘meet you where you stand’ part,” he said, “What does he mean he won’t meet us?”
“Oh,” I said, “It’s an expression. He means he’s not trying to say something his readers already know.”
Dewdrop blinked. “Okay,” he said, “It’s only a bit less garbled than I remember. You’re reading it a lot like I did, like you’re only looking at the words.”
I offered him a confused look, and he continued, “You know, it’s like how little fillies and colts read: toneless. That’s how I read it, because I didn't know what I was trying to read. You know, though! Read it like you know what you’re reading!”
“I’ll try,” I said.
There is a certain question we all ask ourselves, and that is why we start and end a day with hope of a new morning. What makes us push forward? What purpose do we serve? The quest I have taken up is to understand. Understanding goes far beyond the simple knowledge, which flows around the world in the form of little free facts and instant gratification at the thought of knowing something new. What purpose does knowledge serve, though, if we make nothing of it? A pony that only knows everything may as well not exist, if he only bothers to know it. He is nothing more than a living encyclopedia, reciting only what is written. However, if one understands, he expands beyond the fact and reaches into theory. Understanding is a connection of knowledge to emotion, to the mind, and while many things seem straightforward, I assure you, there are few things we understand, and finding new understanding is not a feat easily undertaken.
I was reading with my own voice now, and I felt a strange connection to this profound writer, as if he were directly using me to speak to this young, curious colt. I glanced at Dewdrop for a moment, and he was smiling softly, staring forward at the scratchy script of Mighty Quill. He no longer wore a look of confusion, but rather happy discovery. It was an odd book, but with a certain intrigue, as if its author was trying to reach out to curious readers just like Dewdrop. I continued to read on to him, and he never bothered to interrupt me again.
* * *
As the sunset cast warm light through the room, Dewdrop broke out of his trancelike listening. We had burned through a good fifty pages in the afternoon, and the words echoed around my head, striking chords and tri-tones where his ideas touched my own. Dewdrop’s stomach rumbled, and he suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, wow! We read straight through dinner time!”
He threw a small slip of parchment between the pages we had landed on, and slammed the book shut, setting it down on his pillow. “We’ll just have to see what we can find. Most of the restaurants that offer leftovers for free should be closed by now.”
Feeling his anxiousness radiating all about, I stepped off the bed, freeing him up to do the same. He gave a short “Come on!” and leapt out the window. I followed, and watched as some lights in a couple of buildings flickered out even as we flew by. He was flying low, looking about for opportunity, but as we passed plaza after plaza, his face grew more and more disappointed. Though the scents of food still drifted from the restaurants, the seats and tables were deserted, and the lights dimmed. Dewdrop would spare them a glance, but he did not slow down. He began to call back, “You see, this is why we stick to a schedule.”
I was unsure whether he was berating me or himself. Regardless, I am certain the message was well-heard by both of us. His words were punctuated by the dimming of more lights all around us. He was beginning to slow down now, resignedly. The red of the sky was slowly being replaced by deep blue, with bright white light. He flew lower and lower, until he finally landed with a gust against the cold stone under his hooves. I followed suit, and he began to look between the darkened buildings with a look of concern. It could hardly help that my own stomach was beginning to turn over.
Dewdrop was at a slow canter now, and we began simply meandering through the streets. “What a bother,” he said, “It’s been a while since this has happened.”
“What did you do last time?” I asked.
“Skipped dinner, but we already skipped lunch today for that book.”
“Oh.”
We passed an alleyway, where I spotted the warm light of a fire, next to which two stallions sat. Dewdrop did not even turn his eyes to look at them. “Why not ask them?” I asked.
“I don’t really talk to the other homeless ponies, especially at night,” He said matter-of-factly, “They keep to themselves, and I keep to myself,”
“What good does that do?” I asked.
“Weren’t you ever told not to talk to strangers? I’m not a big pony, Mellownote, and I’m not a fan of flying away for my health.”
He had a point. “Why did you talk to me, then?”
“You’re different.”
He did not bother to elaborate, and a silence pervaded the air. I wondered just what made me different, that he would find me worth making friends with. Maybe it was simply that I was new.
A second rumbling of my stomach broke my reflection, and I began to look around for some sort of option. Rising above many of the archways and colonnades lining streets was what I recognized as the granary. I pointed and asked, “What about there?”
“What?” Dewdrop stammered, “Oh, the granary. We don’t have any money. Besides, I don’t even know if anyone mans it at night.”
He was so innocent, I felt guilty to have even suggested the place. Still I persisted, “I know, Dewdrop. We can just take a bit of wheat to last us through the night.”
Dewdrop turned to face me, “You mean steal a bit of wheat.”
“Well, yes.”
He stopped for a moment, sweeping his head around for a panoramic of the city, and then lowered his head, “Fine. We’ll check it out.”
We wound around the wide streets without another word. As we passed by an alleyway, I saw another group of homeless ponies around a small fire. One offered me a smile, and I shot a nervous smile of my own back at him, but kept on with Dewdrop. The moon was frowning down upon us, glaring all over Canterlot with its pale light. I wondered if the mare in the moon was able to tell anyone of the things she saw late in the night, the two young ponies setting off under her light.
It was justified, was it not? The granary was meant to provide food for Canterlot’s citizens, after all. After what I had gone through, did not fate owe me something, even just this slightest retribution?
We came upon the granary, and there wasn’t a pony in sight. Dewdrop looked about nervously. He tested the handle on the door, which was expectedly stiff. “Well, there goes that idea.”
“Wait,” I asked, “didn’t you have a lock-picking book in your little collection?”
Dewdrop flinched, “Yes.”
“You’ve read it, right?”
“Fine, fine. You win.”
He reached into a small bag he had slung around his neck, and fished out his picks. Fumbling around with them in his mouth, he pushed them into the lock and began shifting them ever-so-slightly. I kept looking on back and forth, but nothing presented itself to bother us on the cold night. With an audible “click,” Dewdrop pushed the door open. It swung freely and silently, to my relief, and we walked in. The pale light filtered in through the doorway, and I picked out the bushels of wheat. Dewdrop followed behind and asked dolefully, “Couldn’t we have just asked somepony?”
“Who, Dewdrop? Nopony is around.”
A firm voice penetrated the air from behind us, and made my hair stand on edge and my wings buckle, “I beg to differ.”
The two of us turned around in unison. In the doorway behind us, moonlight glinted off of golden armor, and lit up a deep red coat and short black mane. In one of his hooves was a long spear, with a black feather tied to the tip.
He looked between the two of us, eyes narrowed. Dewdrop was frozen in place, eyes wide and legs stiff. The guard eventually let his gaze settle on me. “We are at war, boys. The last thing this city needs are thieves.”
The guard hefted his spear over his shoulder to point it at me, and I was forced to look into his eyes past its shaft. “You, how old are you?”
I was paralyzed, and it took me a moment to move my mouth to make words, “Eigh- Eighteen, sir.”
“Any family?”
My ear twitched. “No.”
The soldier smiled, “Good, you’ll make a great addition to the army, then.”
I stared incredulously at him for a moment, then shouted, “What?!”
His stone face showed ho sympathy, and I began to wish for even just a morsel of feeling in him. “We guards are cut thin already; we can’t watch over some thieves. There will be plenty of men to watch you in the army.”
Dewdrop shouted, “You can’t do that!”
The guard turned to Dewdrop. “And why not?”
He stuttered for a few moments, then cast his head back down in defeat.
Noting the dejected look on Dewdrop’s face almost victoriously, the guard turned back to me, “Your friend, how old is he?”
I was about to answer, but Dewdrop answered, “I’m eighteen.”
The guard fired a piercing glance at him. “I did not ask you.”
Dewdrop looked at me, his eyes casting his emphatic request at me through the light of the moon. I knew what he was trying to do. Even though we had only just met, though we were an odd fit, he did not want to leave me. There was something in me he saw, I knew now, something he thought was special. It was something he could not bear the world without, now that he had felt it.
He wanted to join me, and I understood that I wanted the same.
Narrowed eyes stared into mine now. “Well?” the guard persisted.
“Yes, he is eighteen,” I finally said.
“He doesn't look it,” the guard insisted.
“He’s a runt,” I said just as harshly, “What do you care?”
I could tell the soldier knew that I was lying. His eyes were stained with stiff skepticism, but he only said, “Very well. You will go together. Hooves. Now.”
Dewdrop and I both offered our front left hooves, and he placed a clamp on each, attaching the other ends to his own back legs.
“Wings,” he droned, pulling a short rope from one of his bags. The two of us flexed our wings, and he tied my wings to Dewdrop’s. The whole time, I refused to take my accusing glare off of his eyes. He, in turn, refused to acknowledge it.
With the two of us effectively restrained, he started out of the door. We were forced to follow, as the chains pulled us forward. As we came out into the street once more, he commanded, “Shut the door.”
Dewdrop turned sharply, grasping the handle with his mouth, and slammed it shut. The thud rang from the building, piercing the silence of night. The guard shot a derisive glance at Dewdrop, whose own eyes only showed defiance.
“Save it for the dragons, kid,” the armored stallion said, and then yanked his right-back hoof forward, tugging the vexed colt out of his stance.
We began another long walk through the streets of Upper Canterlot. Its imposing, bright-colored buildings now felt to me like some sort of mockery, casting shadows over me even in the night. I glanced at Dewdrop, who had already lost his fervor, and now wore a look of pained resignation as he trod along with us. He noticed my scrutiny, and offered me a short smile. I returned my own, hoping it would reassure him. He lowered his head back down and looked at his front hooves.
I turned my gaze back to the stallion in front of us. Never before had I truly hated somepony, but this one had no feeling, no compassion. Was it only because he had caught us that I hated him? No, I thought, there was something that made me hate him in particular, that made my blood boil when he spoke, and made me itch to bind him in his own chains. It was his disposition. He could hardly care less about what would happen to Dewdrop and me. He just wanted us gone. He was a guard that did not stand for justice. I wondered just what good purpose he could serve in anypony’s life with that sort of attitude.
Still, he was my captor. Why? Whose side was fate on? After all, I could hardly believe any of this to be coincidence. My life had fallen apart so perfectly and quickly. I thought about the teal colt next to me. Even with wings tied and a hoof in a chain, he would not recant his decision to join me. Why did fate tie us together?
The pale moon continued to shine above, watching as these two souls were led onto a new path, unlit by its rays.
Another new day. I was getting tired of them. They were going by faster than I could take them in, and so many new sights passed me by. The days were all slipping away, right out from under my hooves. There was simply no defense against time. I suppose it was only after I woke up on these new days that I realized that I had lived almost the exact same day for the entirety of my young life.
The sunrise was early; we were far enough off the ground for the sun to warm over our feathers and sleek coats without protest from the mountains around. By then, the stark silhouette of Canterlot’s towers had long since disappeared behind us.
I craned my neck to look at the other pegasi that were flying with me. They carried on their faces solemn but determined looks, some paired with piercing eyes that cut into my own as I swept over them. On my right wing was Dewdrop, whose expression was indecipherable – his eyes set forward, and his face blank. Over his back was slung a small bag. I knew it to contain the book by Mighty Quill, and a tattered blanket. I had brought nothing with me, for the plain reason that I had nothing to bring.
The others around us, about sixteen pegasi, were late-coming volunteers. As far as I knew, they thought Dewdrop and me to be of the same nature as them: joining in the name of Celestia, hoping to defend their families and land.
And why wouldn’t they? With the recent events, I thought I would more than happily kill dragons. I’m sure I looked the part of a soldier: scraggly, with an air of grim silence. However, I could hardly claim to be fighting for anything. I fought for what was no longer there, for something that fighting could not bring back.
As I think back, I believe I understood the inconsequence of my will for revenge, somewhere in my heart of hearts. Still, I entertained it, fed it. It was something to drive me forward, or in some direction. Anything was better than sitting still.
So I thought.
As the sun began to rise over the peaks, its light was cast over the verdant fields of the Foal Mountain Valley. Through a thin fog, I could see the camp we were moving towards. Small tents pockmarked the grass in reddish-tan rows. Plumes of smoke rose from inlets all around, turning the fog a darker grey. I shifted my ears about to catch the sound and hear a faint metallic clamor past the staggered wingbeats around. As we neared it, I tasted the foul air. The soldier leading us shouted back, “I would advise you all to get used to the smell of smoke.”
We began our descent, and the grey mixture trailed at the edges of my wings where it was not already split by the soon-to-be soldiers in front of me. As we neared the camp, its activity came into focus. At what I figured to be the southeast edge, I could see a row of targets set up. Opposite to them, a line of unicorns stood with hooves planted widely and firmly into the earth, their horns aglow. Bright beams shot out from a few of them, scorching – and in one case disintegrating – their wooden targets. Other unicorns in the line looked far more strained, with beads of sweat trailing down their faces; their blasts were far more erratic, sometimes leaving the target unchanged, other times setting it aflame, and still other times blowing the entire targets apart, sending their charred fragments across the fields.
I shuddered.
We alighted down into a dugout area, where a single golden-clad pegasus stood in wait. After folding my wings, I lifted my head to look at him. His face was mostly obscured by his helmet: an old-fashioned full helm, complete with ornate silver trimming. Only his grey eyes were visible under the extravagant helmet. The shadows it cast made them seem miles deep. He surveyed the group before him, and then slowly, his gaze settled on Dewdrop, and narrowed. A voice echoed out from his helmet, unexpectedly smooth, given his broad build and countenance.
“Gentlemen.”
The group snapped upright to attention, some of its members only just noticing the figure. Still the golden-clad stallion kept his gaze firmly on Dewdrop. The colt met his gaze, though I could see his distress in the contact. His eyes were wide, and he was in a tense stance, his back legs locked.
The masked stallion then looked at me. With the glance he told me that he knew Dewdrop was with me. He knew Dewdrop was not old enough to be a soldier. And in those harsh, accusing eyes . . .
I saw pain.
He broke the gaze and spoke once more to the group, “I am Bastion, your captain and instructor. I expect you to refer to me as ‘Sir’ or ‘Captain.’ No, I have not fought dragons before. However, I assure you all, I’ve fought many a battle more than you, and there is a simple rule to fighting. Can anypony here guess?”
He swept his eyes over the silent crowd, then answered himself, “If something can be known, it can be destroyed.”
A pegasus behind me shifted his feathers uncomfortably. Bastion spared a glance at him, then turned around. “Follow me, men,” he said, in a low tone that made my spine shiver. He walked slowly, feigning a relaxed gait. “Now,” he said matter-of-factly, not bothering to turn to address his audience as we tromped behind him, “We have not been issued much time to train you all. Expect long days. Once you know the fundamentals, it’ll all be practice.”
* * *
I became what was called a stinger: a soldier whose job it was to take fate into hoof, and like a small child carelessly roll it around and play with it, bouncing it, testing it to its breaking point. My role was simple: fly in, and with sharp attachments on my front hooves, hurl myself at a dragon so quickly that it cannot respond, and punch holes in its armor-like scales through sheer momentum.
The pegasi as a race were typically regarded as direct-conflict soldiers against the dragons. After all, we could meet dragons in their own field. Unicorns could use magic to fight from the ground, and earth ponies could operate war machines, but we were essentially the front-line expendables. It was the card fate had dealt to us. There was nopony to blame for our lot. After all, we hadn’t picked the fight. We were just pulled along for the ride, holding on for dear life, all the more dearly forfeit.
As for Dewdrop, his size was – quite thankfully and duly – minded. He was a barb shooter. He would have launcher contraptions attached to his sides – just under his wings – and it would be his job to be able hit a dragon with small, barbed bolts, even when both his squad as well as the dragon were all swooping through the air at once. It was a high-pressure, low-personal-risk sort of post, about as far out of harm’s way as a pegasus could be. Of that, I was incredibly thankful.
I had quickly grown used to the smoke, as I had been advised. It came partly from the campfires, but mostly from earth pony forges, which always droned on the sounds of bellows, the hiss of freshly-made steam, and the harsh pang of metal against metal. The unforgiving grey vapor drifted over to me even now.
I scooped up three small clay discs – two blue, one red – into the folds of my feathers and wound up, spinning in a practiced dance, pivoting as quickly and broadly as I could while keeping balance. I gave a final push, and let the momentum shoot away the small quarries straight up into the air. They flew fairly close to each other; it’d be a tricky shot. A metallic whir came from above, followed by a sharp whistle that zipped by far overhead. I heard a solid “thud,” and could see a bright gleam attach itself to a blue disc. As the discs fell back to the ground, I heard an exasperated sigh from above.
“Don’t worry, Dewdrop. They make it trickier than the real thing so it’ll seem easier when we’re out on the field.”
“Yeah, it’ll be real easy once I’ve got a dragon trying to cook me,” the teal-maned pegasus snorted in reply. He swooped down into my view, over to the discs. He looked woefully at the dart, then pinned its victim to the ground as he extracted it. He tossed the discs one-by-one to me with his mouth, and I wedged them back into my left wing. He loaded the dart back into his left launcher – the left was the one he most needed practice with – and swept himself back into the air in a gust that blew my mane back.
I readied my stance once more, but gave a slight twitch as I heard a jeer just ahead of me, from another pair training their barb shooting. “Bah, you got me!” a pegasus laughed, having seen his companion’s bolt hit one of the blue discs.
I knew Dewdrop was watching them at the moment; I could feel it, and I seethed at the pair for making such a joke of the symbolism. I waited a moment, knowing it would take a bit for Dewdrop to regain focus on the task at hoof. A good two seconds passed, and I went through the same rehearsed movement, flinging the disks into the air. They flew in a wide spread; it was an easy shot to take.
But no shot was taken. The disks fell back down to the ground, gracious for a respite. I turned my eyes up, but there was only the blue sky to see. I swiveled around until I could see the muted-blue pegasus plodding back into the camp, head hung low.
I ran, scooping up the discs into my bag, and chasing after my friend, calling after, “Hey! Wait up!” As I caught up, I could see more clearly his watery eyes. “Dewdrop, let me help you!”
He stopped, and heaved a heavy, shaky sigh. “Mellownote,” he said, barely audible, “I had a nightmare. A terrible nightmare.”
Nightmare? We had only been at the camp for three days. He was almost sixteen years old; a bit old for nightmares to be bothering him, I thought. I nearly made a remark about it, but caught myself.
It was not only fear on Dewdrop’s face. There was shame, the shame of not maturing fast enough to suit me. I halted myself, and instead asked, “What happened?”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“If you tell it to somepony, it’ll seem less real,” I proposed.
“Not for my good, Mellownote,” he said bitterly, “For yours.” The last words, however whispered, rang through my head, dislodged my misconceptions, and made my heart skip two beats. As I looked at this poor colt, I found myself speechless.
“Do you still want to hear it?” he asked faintly.
I thought for a moment. I was more worried about putting Dewdrop at ease than soothing my own uncertainties. Still, the way he chose to preface it made me worry. How was he protecting me? I stopped myself before I could fully ponder that and answered, “Yes, I want to hear it.”
Dewdrop began walking the perimeter of the camp, with me beside him.
“First, there was a blank white field.”
I shivered to myself.
“It went on for an eternity. I was lost in it, but I saw you. You were coughing, sputtering something out. I tried to come and help you, but then the ground disappeared. We were falling, and my wings didn’t work, and you had your eyes closed.
“We fell like that for so long, but it was still horrible all of the way down. When we finally hit the ground, there was a little candle between us. I tried to go over and wake you up, but the candle fell over on its own. When the flame hit the ground, fire appeared all around you. I- I watched you burn. I watched you . . . die.”
He turned to me, his face the image of distress. He needed some sort of affirmation, but I could only think of my own dream of the empty field, how quickly his had dissolved. I frowned deeply, trying to discern the meaning of such a dream. I puzzled over the details: the empty space, the falling, the candle. It certainly was no comfort to hear that I was consumed by flames, either. Whether it was literal or figurative representation, I could not see it as anything but a dark and foreboding.
“Mellownote?”
I woke up out of my reverie. My hooves were planted firmly on the ground; I had stopped. Dewdrop had halted just ahead, his eyes still watery with longing for resolution. I recovered my slow trot and said, “The important thing is that it’s just a dream. We’re both still here for each other, right?”
He followed in stride and said, “Well, yeah, but I’ve never had any nightmare like that. Just the little childish ones with the monster chasing me, or something like that. This was different. It felt real, like it’s still happening now. Have you had something like that? Where you woke up from a dream, but you feel like it’s still happening?”
My step faltered a moment. It would only worry him more if I told him about my own dream. I had to skip over that bit. “Yes,” I said slowly, “I have, but it was a long time ago. I don’t remember what the dream was about anymore.”
Dewdrop sighed, then asked gloomily, “It’s not going to get better, is it?”
“What?”
“We’re not even in battle yet. We’re just training and I’m already losing it!”
“You are not losing it, Dewdrop,” I affirmed, “You’re just worried. It’s alright to be worried. Everypony is worried around here.”
“Are you?”
“I’m especially worried.”
From the center of the camp came an incessant ringing from a small bell, coupled with a hearty shout, “Dinner’s ready!”
Dewdrop’s ears perked up, “Dinner sounds pretty nice.”
I nodded. The very thought of food made hunger creep its way into my mind, rudely pressing its way past my concerns about Dewdrop. He seemed satisfied with my answer, at least for the time being, though, giving me a short smile that barely traced the edges of his lips. We started back towards a row of tents into the camp. From either side of us, soldiers-in-training began to file onto the path, many spotted with dirt and grime.
We were quickly at a standstill, halted a good distance away from the cooks’ stand. Already, the salty, robust scent drifted over to me – vegetable stew. Although the cooking in the camp was typical, I was always hungry enough for it to be a fine cuisine.
Not that I had ever eaten fine cuisine.
The line sped along, and I was soon met by Colt Slaw, our illustrious single-order chef. I noticed that while his apron had done a fair job of protecting his body, his tan-haired face and light-brown mane were blotchy with the contents of the enormous pot – or cauldron, as I would call it – giving me a humorous preview of my meal: carrots, onions, green beans, corn, and potatoes in an exciting brown broth.
“Ho there, whatshisname and runt!”
I rolled my eyes. “At least Dewdrop doesn’t still go by the name of ‘Colt.’”
The chef feigned an appalled gasp, then chuckled. “So, what’ll you be having, then?”
Dewdrop threw himself into the fray, “I’ll have some apple pie with lemon tartlets!”
“Close enough!” shouted Colt Slaw, shoving two brim-full bowls towards us, which served to smear another coat of the stew on his booth. “You may have to use your imaginations a bit, but I’m sure I put what you’re looking for in there somewhere! Next!”
The two of us trotted away from the stand and – out of an unspoken assent – set out towards the outskirts of the camp, our speech hindered by the bowls in our mouths. The forges had stopped their incessant noises for the short time it took for their workers to inhale their dinner, and the clangs, twangs, swooshes, and jeers of warriors in training had died out, if only for a moment. Mealtimes had become my favorite times of day, just for the luxury of silence.
The tents receded behind us in favor of the valley’s rolling fields, pockmarked with wildflowers and holes from misfired barbs. We sat down, and Dewdrop seized the first word, “He calls me a runt.”
“For stallions like Slaw, it’s a term of endearment.” I explained, “He’s not looking to hurt you.”
Dewdrop frowned. “Why would you use an insult as a name for somepony?”
“Well,” I hesitated, trying to think, “I suppose it’s just a way to joke around, among good friends.”
“Colt Slaw isn’t my friend,” Dewdrop replied abruptly, “I haven’t even known him three days.”
“It only took one day for me,” I prodded.
He rolled his eyes, “Come on, Mellownote. You’re not the same.”
“How ever not?” I scoffed in between slurps of my soup.
“For one,” Dewdrop began, a sardonic bite creeping into his voice, “you’re not some soup-spattered stallion sloshing gruel at me.”
I snickered, “And here you are, moping about him calling you a runt!”
Dewdrop’s smile morphed into an amusing mixture of shock, confusion, and realization. His mouth was left agape, and his ears flopped down. I watched amusedly as he stammered, trying to find justification for his mockery of the chef. Eventually, he adopted an indignant frown and spat out, “Well he started it!”
I let it go for the sake of Dewdrop’s dignity. He had learned from his mistake already. He drained his bowl, perhaps to excuse his silence.
What the librarian had said was beginning to make sense to me. Dewdrop did not attract friendships, simply because he did not look very far for them. Instead, he let others come to him, prove themselves worthy of his companionship. With Dewdrop, first impressions were everything. How sleeping on cold cement marked me as worthy was beyond me.
Dewdrop gave a long sigh, having finished his stew. His eyes took on the same downcast look as before dinner. “You said you were worried,” he began, “what are you worried about?”
I kept my eyes locked on his. “I worry about us. I worry about you. War isn’t something young stallions like us should get into, even if we’re dragged.” I glanced over at a forge as it began to bellow smoke and resound with its metallic clamor. “I’m afraid it’ll destroy us, Dewdrop.”
“What about the others?”
I shook my head, “We can’t worry for everyone, Dewdrop. It’ll only break our hearts in the end. We watch out for each other, because we’re all we have. All those others, they have something to come back to when it’s over.”
“We’ve got my place.” Dewdrop piped up, “And when we get back, we’ll have you singing on the streets until the princess herself hears you!”
I smiled. “Thanks, but I don’t think that’s what I’m meant to do.”
“Then what do you think you’re meant to do?” he asked, “I mean, you’re a singer, aren’t you? Shouldn’t it be your dream to sing yourself up into those fancy Canterlot towers?”
Other forges began churning out their plague-like vapor, reinvigorating the swirling haze above the camp. I answered, “If every singer had that dream, we’d just be a big royal choir. Where’d the fun be in being a singer if, in the end, we all would be singing the same songs?”
I glanced down at Dewdrop’s flank, but it was bare. I hadn’t paid much attention to it, nor bothered him about it. He was very old not to have his mark, but I figured he already knew it. Reminding him might just frustrate him.
“I know,” the teal-maned youth said, “you want to keep the conversation going, ask me what I dream about. Well, I don’t know. I haven’t really found a dream good enough to chase yet.” He glanced down at his flank. “Then again, I’m sure you already guessed that.”
I smiled, “Is that why you read all those books?”
Dewdrop nodded, allowing a trace of a grin to flicker on the edge of his mouth, “Yes. I think whatever my adventure’s going to be, it’ll be in a book somewhere. I just have to find the right book.”
* * *
I had become used to the weight on my forehooves now. They gave me more momentum, so long as I could work up the force behind them. I was fast with them. Not the fastest, but more than fast enough to have a chance.
A unicorn below shouted something, though he was too far away for me to pick the exact wording up. Soon after, a cloud of red-glowing vapor zipped past me. This I was familiar with. I took off at an odd angle, losing sight of it for a moment: you could not put puncture force behind a pursuit. I needed a heavier impact. I cut a hard left as it veered right. I pulled about, and could see the cloud just entering my vision. I whipped back my wings and threw myself into a corkscrew, pointing my hooves – my weapons – straight for my target. It was mine, disintegrating about me as I flew straight through it. Even as I pierced my target, another glowing cloud zipped behind me. Heaving a gasp from the effort, I spun around in place and launched myself at it. The air tasted foul as I darted through my quarry. A third target zipped by, then a fourth, and fifth. I flew left, down, right, left, up, down, and around. With each breath, I wondered how such filthy air could keep me flying, could give me the strength for my next dash.
I gave a frustrated shout as I punched through another cloud. My ears twitched about, and my eyes scanned wildly for my next victim. However, I heard only a short murmur from below, and saw only the swirling mass of haze I had disturbed in my frantic flight.
I glided down, and saw that the two unicorns controlling the clouds were just as exhausted as I, with the same sweat dripping down their faces and the same bloodshot eyes aching for respite. Bastion, helmet and all, was also awaiting me on the ground, his emotion hidden behind the cold mask. His voice echoed out, “Nice work. I’d say you’re just about ready for the real thing.”
I shivered as I landed. The eyes that were shadowed behind the helmet scrutinized me. “Don’t be so squeamish, son. You’re fit as can be. I’ve made heroes out of far lesser talent than yours. Just trust me, and I’ll make sure you and your friend get home without a scratch.”
I gave him a questioning glance, and he indulged it, “Yes, I know your backgrounds. Doesn’t matter much to me. You’re both good in my book, so long as you follow my orders to the point.” He paused a moment, glancing at the two unicorns, who were readying to train another stinger. “Another thing,” he added, “I want you to watch over your friend. I’ve watched plenty of young stallions go down, and it’d hardly help me to watch another.”
“I watch him well enough, sir,” I replied, to which he gave a grunt and turned around to watch his next trainee.
I plodded off through the rows of black-stained reddish-tan tents towards mine. As I reached it, I drew one of its “door” flaps to the side to see Dewdrop sleeping on one of the small bed mats on the floor. I walked in and fell onto my own mat, to which my legs gave a thankful groan. The sun was just beginning to set, and fatigue was wearing away at my eyelids.
Indeed, the days were long, but I had a friend to weather them with.
A horn blared a bold note for morning. I started awake, groggy as usual. I looked over beside me to see Dewdrop turn his head up from his book, check the page number, and then close it. How he could manage mornings was beyond me. Even as I stood, I felt a few bones give an audible “pop,” which warranted a smirk from the blue colt.
“Rise and shine, Mellownote,” he chuckled.
“Right, that’s happening,” I scoffed.
Dewdrop flashed a smile at me and then turned around to pick up his barb shooter harness. I found my own stinger assemblies and put my forehooves in, craning my neck down to tighten the straps with my mouth. In-between my tasting of the rough leather straps, I glanced over at Dewdrop. In a fluid movement, he pulled his harness over himself, and began tightening his own straps in a rehearsed fashion.
I frowned for a moment, then returned to the fitting of my own armament. I unlocked the forward part of the mechanism, so I could walk with the beastly contraptions on. I took a couple of test steps in place, and the spikes swung around freely as I lifted them up. It was quite a bother to walk with them. If I was not careful, the spikes would swing under my hooves as I put them down, impale the ground, and almost inevitably cause me to trip.
Dewdrop threw on his bag, filled to the brim with his barbs, and we trotted out of the tent. I took off first into the air, and my companion followed behind. From above, we could see the other drowsy trainees filtering into the central area, wherein lay the glimmer of Bastion’s helmet, along with the form of two other ponies beside it: the unicorn and Earth pony captains. Dewdrop and I lazily glided into the clearing, landed, and sat down in the pegasus section. While Bastion’s expression was – as always – hidden behind his helm, the other two generals had adopted a graver expression than their usual stone faces. Their brows were deep-set, and the edges of their mouths turned down. I wondered whether Bastion wore the same emotion on his face under the mask, or if what lay behind was just as mask-like as his shimmering surface.
I was left in that wonder while the others in the camp crowded around. After a few days of watching the crowds during gathering times, I had estimated the camp to hold about one hundred and twenty to one hundred and fifty trainees, along with its trainers and chefs. The entire colorful assembly now crowded Dewdrop and me shoulder-to-shoulder, with hardly enough room to shift my hooves without jabbing either Dewdrop or the mare to my left. I sighed impatiently, warranting an annoyed look from the pony in front of me, whose neck I had just sent my fetid morning breath onto. I nearly apologized, but held my tongue to keep from sending my breath straight into the irritable pony’s nose. After a second or two, he turned back around, and I heard a faint snort from Dewdrop.
After the entire crowd had settled, Bastion shouted, his voice bearing a metallic echo, “I am afraid that the training is over, soldiers. We have received word from Fillydelphia that we are needed to reinforce the regiment already stationed there. You all will pack up your tents and whatever belongings you have, and we will set off by noon. Pegasi will fly straight for Fillydelphia. Earth ponies and unicorns will follow behind through the Foal Mountain pass.”
He paused for a moment, and a few murmurs drifted up from the crowd. The mare next to me shifted her wings around uncomfortably, prodding my ribs. The unicorn captain spoke up in a rough voice, “Take only what you need. Anything else slows us down. The pegasi are expected to arrive this evening, and the others tomorrow morning. We expect each of you to do your parts to reach that goal. Understood?”
A resounding “Yes sirs!” came in reply, and the gathering began to disband. Dewdrop and I waited a bit before we actually had enough room to take off, in which time I was unwittingly kicked in my forehooves, whipped with a tail, and slapped by three pairs of wings. Once I had enough space, I leapt up, and Dewdrop took the immediate freedom of space to leap after me. He did not falter anymore in flight. He was entirely accustomed to the launchers under his wings.
I frowned again at the thought. Was it good that he was adjusting so well? Should I want him to learn war? I wanted him to know what he needed to pull through with me, but to what point? At what cost? Dewdrop was all I had anymore. I had to keep him safe, not just in flesh, but in spirit as well. If I let the war mar him, I could never forgive myself.
But could I possibly keep him innocent? Such an effort, even then, seemed laughably futile. I suppose his innocence was something he was willing to lay down for me, this strange and gloomy pony. What did I sacrifice in return?
We landed by our tent, and I turned to Dewdrop, who was already starting to tug at the tent stakes with his teeth. “Dewdrop?” I prompted, and he paused his gnawing and looked up curiously, “Yeah?”
“Can I talk to you in the tent for a bit, before we take it down?”
“Oh, I guess so”
He ducked into the tent, and I followed behind, dropping down onto my bed mat and letting out an involuntary sigh. I noticed that even with his wings folded at his sides, the small launchers poked out from under them, glinting in the sunbeams that leaked through the tent’s door flaps.
“Um,” I began, silently berating myself for not thinking the talk all the way through, “I don’t want this to be easy for you, you know.”
Dewdrop tilted his head, “What? Barb shooting? But you helped me-“
“No,” I interrupted, “not that in particular. Just war. I don’t want you to get used to it.”
I paused. Outside we could hear the bustle of the camp packing up. Dewdrop looked at his hooves, and I at mine for a moment before continuing, “Soon enough, we’ll be out there, fending for each other. I. . .” I stuttered, “I just don’t want you to lose yourself in it.”
Dewdrop avoided my gaze for a few moments, leaving me tense and unsure, wondering if I had used the right words. He then lifted his head and spoke, “Only if you promise to do the same.”
I smiled, and put my right hoof over my heart, “I promise.” Dewdrop mimicked the motion, “Then I do too.”
From outside, we heard a rough billowing of cascading cloth as a tent went down. Dewdrop’s ears perked up, and he smiled, “Now can we take this tent down?”
I chuckled in reply then started to roll up my bed mat and blanket. Dewdrop did the same, and then stuffed the book and his blanket into his bag.
“You were reading the book alone this morning,” I remarked.
“Oh, yeah,” Dewdrop hesitated, “it’s starting to make more sense to me, but I still want to keep reading it with you.”
“All right.”
He learned quickly, that much was certain. We took everything out of the tent, and pulled out the stakes, causing the thing to fall into a reddish-tan heap. Dewdrop gathered the support sticks while I folded the cloth, and soon enough, we were left with two bags for our beds, and one for the tent. I took up the tent and my bed onto my back, and Dewdrop handled his bed and bag of barbs, a book, and a blanket. All that was left of our little home was a spot of dirt slightly less trampled than the path that ran along it. I kicked a bit at the dust, and watched it float away on the wind.
“So that’s it, then,” I said, turning to Dewdrop, who had also taken to staring at the empty spot.
“Yep,” he affirmed dully, “that’s it.”
Many others had already finished packing as well, and had headed towards the edge of the rapidly-dissolving camp. The two of us followed suit, trotting towards the congregation of pegasi, most of which were taking the time to secure their belongings for flight. I took two lengths of rope from a pile lying in the middle of the group and began tying up Dewdrop’s bags under him. I looped the knots over his back, around, through, and-
“What do you think it’ll look like?”
“What?”
Dewdrop persevered through my stalling, “Whenever you think about what our first battle will be, what do you picture in your head?”
He had a strange way of asking questions I could not prepare myself for. The question halted my hooves in midair, and I flapped my wings for balance a couple times before returning to the task at hand.
“I suppose I see the two of us together, watching out for each other. The rest is a swirling, fiery blur. Every once in a while, a dragon would emerge, and I would sting it, or you would hit it just in the right spot with a barb.”
I had one knot firmly tied, and I went on to tie a second around his neck. He returned, “Isn’t that a bit too perfect a vision?”
If I truly had a creator, he gave me no help in answering this poor colt. I stammered for a bit, then ended up firing back, “Should we look at reality instead?”
“You told me the other day to look towards the future, Mellownote. Now you seem just attached to the present as I was.”
And just like that, Dewdrop’s words became a hazy mirror, showing me a strange part of me I had not thought was visible. I could only gape at the colt’s keen perception. He saw me, straight down to my core, and the question rose back up in my mind. This time, I posed it to him, “Dewdrop?”
“Yeah?”
“Why am I your first real friend?”
A ghost of a smile drifted across Dewdrop’s face, followed by a frown of regret. “You aren’t,” he said, with a frail and wavering timbre creeping into his voice.
“But the librarian-“
“She didn’t know me before I left the orphanage.”
I felt a bitter mixture of emotion rise up. I felt glad that I was not the only friend Dewdrop ever had, but also guilty that I had brought it up so arrogantly, as if I were the only one worth his friendship.
He continued without my reply, starting to smile again now, “Her name was Felicity. She actually named herself that when she heard of the word. She just loved the sound of it. She was a unicorn, just a bit older than me, with a grey coat and blonde mane. She’d been with me before I could even remember.”
I finished tying the knot, and began tying my own bags up to myself. Dewdrop kept on talking, occasionally holding down a knot while I pulled. “The others liked to pick on her, too. Her talent was simply being cheery, and they just chewed it up and spat it out. I can’t quite blame them. Being abandoned by or deprived of the ones who are supposed to love you most . . . it’s a bitter taste.”
My ear twitched as I pulled the first knot over my back taut, and he added, “. . . but you already knew that.”
I nodded, “Go on.”
“She loved talking to me, though. She knew I felt the same as she; they picked on me because I didn’t know my talent yet. I was the only one she could be happy around, and she was the only one who seemed to like me. She named me too, you know. They had called me Frailfeather, but she called me Dewdrop instead. She told me that I sparkled like how the grass sparkles in the morning.”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“The same thing that happens to any filly in an orphanage with the brightest smile. She was adopted one day, and I never saw her again. She was so excited. I was excited too, until the door closed behind her. Just like that, she was gone. I stayed for a couple of months afterward, but there wasn’t anything left there for me. Felicity was gone, and I was left with a bunch of other ponies just as bitter as I was.”
Dewdrop paused to pull the other knot taut around my shoulders and then continued, “At the time I found you, I had some happiness of my own to share, and you looked like you needed it. It didn’t matter much that you were older, or more critical than most ponies I’ve met. You needed somepony.”
He gave another pause, sizing me up, “Then you surprised me. You flew out and sat with me. I was confused at first. I wondered if you had somehow snuck a peek at me when I left the apple. You didn’t say anything about that, though. You just sat there and watched with me, trying to find your other friend in the crowd. I found out you weren’t all that different from me, although maybe a bit farther down your path than I was down mine. You had let all your guard down, left your mind exposed. It wasn’t about pride or modesty with you. You’re just as curious about who you are as I am. That’s why you’re my friend, Mellownote; you let me learn about you, and you want to learn about me.”
The knots were tied, and we stood still for a moment. I was fixated on his clear green eyes, which reflected back the other side: a brilliant land, where we could make up our own destinies, free from fate’s demanding grasp. Perhaps they were verdant plains or lush forestry, perhaps a pond viewed closely or the heart of a deep fire. There was indeed a vivid, hearth-like glow to them, made up of the young stallion’s fantasy, the ideal.
A far-off call, laden with a metallic timbre, reached us, “To the skies!”
The two of us with the army of our company leapt up, and we were soon en route to the next battlefield.
* * *
The skyline of Phillydelphia was low, consisting mostly of its factories’ smokestacks. I was hardly joyful to be reunited once again with their billowing product, greying once again what I had only known to be clear. The color black was painted over the ground surrounding the city, and in haphazard strokes through its center. It was a city of black and grey, despite the color of its inhabitants. Industry was at its heart, and the rest of the city, the housing surrounding the factories, and the ponies that filled them, seemed like an afterthought.
A beleaguered camp stretched around the beleaguered city. The reddish-tan tents were well-stained with the city’s flying colors, and the same commotion that we had grown used to in the Foal Mountain valley – the sound of metal striking metal, the crackling of magic and weapon-fire, and the grinding of war machinery – welcomed us as we flew in. We were received warmly by a few other pegasi who were on their breaks, but otherwise, our arrival was simply a change of scenery. The dirt was still just as trampled, and the skies as grey.
When we landed, Bastion immediately walked over into a larger tent – most likely that of the other captains – leaving the rest of us to sit around for a while. Dewdrop and I were silent throughout, as we had been for the flight, both content with what we had already discovered of each other, mulling it over in our minds. We took short glances at our surroundings, although there was little of interest. I noted that the tents were in clusters, rather than our previous neat rows. A few more greetings were exchanged with passer-by soldiers, but our wait was mainly silent and still.
Finally, Bastion emerged with another older-looking stallion, and a scroll. His rough voice boomed, “You have all been assigned your squadrons. Those of you who are not filling vacancies in the squadrons already here will form your own. Find your partners and set up your tents with theirs.”
The captain nailed his list to a wooden post next to the large tent, and we gathered around to read it. The crowd surged, then slowly thinned as new soldiers learned their assignments, until finally Dewdrop managed to weave in close enough to read the list, with me just a few feet behind in the thick crowd. When he found our names, he squirmed a bit in the middle of the crowd, then agitatedly shot up above them to escape. I followed suit and joined him.
“So?”
“We’re together in 19th squadron,” he said bluntly.
“Alright, good. How are we supposed to find them?” I wondered aloud.
Dewdrop looked around, then replied, “There don’t seem to be any markers. We can just ask around.”
I nodded, and started towards a nearby cluster of tents, where a tan-coated pegasus was building a fire pit. “Hey, a little help?” I called. The stallion glanced up at us, then asked, “What do you need?”
“Where’s the camp for 19th squadron?” Dewdrop asked.
“Well, if I remember correctly, it’s right under your hooves,” he answered, snickering. “You two must be our new stinger and barb shooter. I’m Tinker.”
“Oh. I’m Mellownote, and this is Dewdrop,” I said, tilting my head towards my friend.
“Nice to meet you. You two both seem rather young to be out here,” Tinker said, offering a hoof. I shook it, and answered, “As young as it gets, I suppose.”
“The others are out right now, but you can set up your tent already. We’ll all introduce ourselves at dinner.”
I nodded and started tugging at my knots. The bags fell to the ground, and I unpacked the tent, laying it out to complete the circle of tents around the fire pit, in which Tinker was starting to burn some dry leaves to get a fire going. Dewdrop and I stomped the stakes into the ground, and then pushed up the middle supports. Within a few minutes, we had our tent set up with the sleeping bags inside it, ready for use. It stood out from the other tents in the circle, being yet unstained by the grey that loomed over the camp.
I looked up from our completed home to see that the sun was edging its way towards the horizon, streaking the grey clouds with golden-red linings. A bell rang far off, and Tinker departed saying, “I’ll get dinner. You two make sure the fire keeps going.”
We both sat and warmed ourselves at the fire. “What do you think?” I asked.
Dewdrop shrugged, “There’s not much to go on right now. He seems nice enough.”
I nodded, “We’ll see at dinner, I guess.”
We sat in silence a short while before a pair of voices began to rise above the bustle of the camp, approaching our cluster.
“. . . and what I don’t get is why we don’t just up and strike back!” rang a feminine voice.
“We just don’t have enough momentum yet. I’m sure that once we have enough power to drive forward, we’ll make a push,” said a stallion in reply.
Dewdrop’s ears swiveled to catch the sound, and we both turned to face its source: a white mare with a bright red mane and tail, and a proud gait; and a leaf-green stallion with a bright yellow mane and tail, and kind eyes. They stopped as they came between the tents, and the stallion paid us notice, “Hey, look, the new guys are here.”
The mare turned and looked us up and down, an intense, cutting scrutiny that made me squirm. A sudden silence pervaded the air as her pale grey eyes sent a deadly gaze at my own green eyes. I met the gaze reluctantly, trying my best to appear calm. As soon as her assault started, it ended, and she continued to walk forward with the stallion as she had been before, giving an expected remark, “You two look a bit young to be here.”
I was becoming tired of the shallow observation, but the stallion butted in before I could respond, “So am I, but I turned out well enough, don’t you think?”
The mare smiled, “Right, Sweetsprout. You’re already a cold, merciless killer. You can’t fool us with that cutie mark.” She gave a playful slug to his shoulder, and he winced a bit before smiling.
I gave a cursory glance to the subject of interest: a pair of tulips just about to bloom on his grass-colored flank. The stallion, Sweetsprout, turned to us with a warm smile and said, “Pardon our belated introduction. I’m Sweetsprout, and this is Red Wake,” he said, gesturing to the fiery mare, “What are your names?”
Dewdrop took the opportunity to speak up, “I’m Dewdrop, and this is Mellownote.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Sweetsprout, as the two sat down around the fire. “Have you met Tinker yet?”
I answered this time, “Just a short greeting before he left to get dinner. He said we’d all chat later.”
“Since Tinker already knows who we are, we can just introduce ourselves now,” Sweetsprout said, “Do you want to start, Red?”
“No, no, Sprout. You’re a lot better at first impressions. I’d just scare them off if I started,” she said in reply, adopting a smile and rolling her eyes.
“Fine, then. I’m 19 years old, raised right here in Fillydelphia, where I run a flower shop. After a couple of dragons sent streaks of fire through the city, I thought it’d be better that I go than others who have families to watch over. So, I enlisted and met Tinker and Red. I’m a barb shooter, and I’m still waiting for my first battle.”
Red Wake smiled, “He’s A-okay in my book. Don’t let those kind eyes fool you. He’s quite a crack-shot. I’d let him try to shoot an apple off of my head, but that’d be a waste of an apple.”
“What she means to say is she thinks she’s got a pretty good apple working behind those sharp eyes,” Sweetsprout shot back. Red Wake gave a snort in return.
“Always the humble one.”
The soft thud of footsteps sounded behind us, and Tinker knelt down next to us, placing a metal pot of vegetable stew onto the fire. “Did I miss anything?” he asked.
“Just Sweetsprout’s introduction,” Red Wake replied, with a hasty tone, “I guess it’s my turn. I’m from Canterlot, ex-royal guard, 24 years old. I’m good at fighting for others. The only reason I quit the guard was because they didn’t want to trust me. Didn’t like my personality, I guess. The moment I heard of the war, I saw a chance to go do something with myself, rather than just standing at doors, weapon over my shoulder. I could actually put my talents to use. So, I signed up. Your turn, Tinker.”
Tinker smiled, “You were just itching to just be done with it, weren’t you?”
Red Wake nodded in mock solemnity, “First impressions just aren’t easy when your specialty is fighting. At least you and Sprout did something before enlisting. I just have one less thing to talk about, when talking about myself is hard enough.”
The tan pony kept his knowing smile as he began, “I’m a blast-spearman on the lines, but outside of this mess, I’m an inventor. I grew up in Baltimare, where I have my home, along with all my little whatsits and doodads. Don’t ask me about masterpieces, though. I haven’t made anything extraordinary yet. Anyway, I chose to be here; I figured the more pegasi we have on the field, the less soldiers we’ll be likely to lose. Just know that I’m trying to keep you all in mind.”
I glanced at Dewdrop, who seemed to be relaxed enough. A faint smile touched his lips as he began his own introduction. “My name is Dewdrop. I’m a barb shooter, and I’ve been an orphan since before I remember, and I still don’t know what I’m meant to do.”
Red Wake cocked her head, “Really? Eighteen’s quite the age to be looking for your talent.” Dewdrop looked as if he were about to respond when she added, “Just promise me not to discover your talent is combat. You’re too cute for it.” Dewdrop paused for a moment, giving Red Wake a strange look, to which she turned an apathetic shrug. He made an effort to regain himself.
“It’ll take me a bit to get used to you all. I’m not the most talkative pony out there. I’m always ready to help, though.” Dewdrop finished with a warm, convincing smile, then nudged me.
“Oh,” I fumbled. I had not been preparing my own words in anticipation, although it seemed like the others had not either. I started, trying to mimic a voice at ease, “My name is Mellownote. I’m from lower Canterlot.”
Tinker’s ears perked up, “Did you say lower Canterlot?”
“Er- yes”
“I thought lower Canterlot was wiped out,” Red Wake added.
“Yes, it was,” I managed to say firmly. I had acquired a somewhat defiant look in my eyes, I imagined. I was tired of letting the thought hurt me.
Meanwhile Sweetsprout wore a look of concern and pity – oh, pity – and asked solemnly, “Are you the only survivor?”
“Yes.”
The leafy-coated stallion stared at the ground for a moment, then smiled a special smile. It was a warm, hopeful smile that managed to lift my head a couple of inches, and my spirit a couple of miles. The pity was gone. Sweetsprout looked straight into my eyes and uplifted me, “You’re here, though, and I’m willing to bet your friends and family live on in you. So long as you’re with us, they’ll never be lost.”
“I couldn’t have said that nearly as well,” Tinker added, “He’s right; you’ve got us with you now.”
I managed to smile, “Anyway, after that I wandered around upper Canterlot until I met Dewdrop here. We’ve been inseparable since. That’s about it.”
Red Wake tilted her head, “What brings you two to the battlefield, then? You both seem a bit tame.”
I fumbled. If I told them the truth, we would lose their trust, which would put all of us in danger on the battlefield. I thought as quickly as I could, but Dewdrop answered first.
“Neither of us had anything to lose.”
I held my tongue. There was a lot of truth in the statement for me, but he had a quaint life: one of simplicity. Did he not value his little home, which he had so proudly introduced me to? I wondered to myself whether he believed his own words.
“Well whatever the case, you have us now,” said Tinker with bright, sparkling eyes, “We’re all a family.”
“In a cute, dysfunctional way,” added Red Wake with a smirk.
I looked between them and asked, “Is there a head to this family?”
Sweetsprout nodded jovially, “Yes. As of right now, we have five.”
“We seem to work better as a team,” Red explained, “We’re all important to each other’s survival. There’s not a single captain I’ve met that can make up a plan before a battle to take down a dragon. We take the battle as it comes, and we all watch out for each other.”
“That reminds me,” Tinker said, perking up, “If we’re going into battle, we have to learn how to-”
A barbaric roar soared across the night sky and shattered Tinker’s thought. The three exchanged glances with each other, then ran into their tents for their equipment. Dewdrop grabbed his bag of barbs and loaded his cannons. I rose into the air and flicked down the latches on my stingers, locking them firmly in place, ready for christening. The roar evolved into gouts of incredible, blinding light which threatened to bring back the ferocity of the sun, advancing in haphazard clouds, taunting our hopeful little hearths, “I will always shine brighter.”
At times, I wondered whence the value of innocence was founded. When was it valuable to be oblivious, naive, blind? What makes a young mind purer? I have wondered without avail. I simply assumed it was fact. Dewdrop was innocent before, because he could never understand – through practice – the weight of his barbs. Little red discs did not stare back, did not bellow in pain, did not bleed. He was trained to shoot, not to kill. It was I who would be his mentor in the latter.
The rest of the squadron leapt up to join me, Tinker sporting a spear with a cannon-like attachment at its end, Sweetsprout a set of barb shooters, and Red Wake a rifle. Tinker sped ahead of the group and shouted back, “We’re short on ground forces! Let’s make up for it!”
With that, we sped off to the source of the gouts of flame, a strange notion that seemed to defy all forms of sense. There was an odd thundering sound that rolled over the plains. I looked for clouds, but saw none but the ever-present clouds of smoke over the city. I shook the thought out of my head, and focused on my flying.
We were on course to meet the dragons halfway, keeping them at hoof-length away from the city. The fiery streaks ceased for a moment, shrouding our attackers in shadow. Red Wake called back, “When we get in there, we stay together. We’re only useful as a team! When in doubt, follow whoever you can, and never hover in place!” She craned her neck back around, just as the light from a far-off errant flame played across her mane, and lit up her fierce smile.
The dragons loomed closer and closer. There was hardly a half-mile between us now. The thundering grew louder, and as the moon cast its gaze over the battlefield, I made a frightening discovery. The light shimmered in the dragons’ wings, and as we neared the front of the pack, I could see myriad shimmerings behind, which alone seemed to outnumber the stars, a brilliant and horrible shine that threatened to lure me into its strange beauty. It was not thunder that grew and assaulted my ears.
A bright green streak from an unseen source arced into the glinting mass, and another roar, keening and mournful pierced the night, and a much brighter arc of flame shot as furious rebuttal from the dragons. Tinker aimed his spear towards the mass and flicked a hammer on its end. A similar bright green arc flew out from the barrel on the end of the spear, obscuring the night in its emerald brilliance, for a moment outshining the moon and the dragons’ brilliant scales. I saw a short glimmer where it struck, and knew it was a solid hit, but still no shadow had yet fallen from the glimmering mass. Tinker reached into one of his saddlebags and pulled out a small glowing orb, and loaded it into the end of his tool of reckoning. He shouted to nopony in particular, “No harm in trying!”
We were a mere 100 meters from them now, and Sweetsprout took the lead for a moment, banking so that we did not meet our armored foes head-on. Deafening roars and grave shouts saturated the night air, as our colorful amalgam met the shimmering, thundering shadow. As we entered the fray, the moon’s light was blocked out, and I was found trusting only the flitting, hazy forms of my new comrades, soaring between massive forms that I could only get a glimpse , a shallow reflection from. We banked hard up and down to keep from getting caught in the mad blitz, though why we had thrown ourselves straight in was still a mystery to me.
Suddenly, a bright yellow arc leapt out from one of my teammates, illuminating on one side a pure white coat and a blood red mane, and the other an enormous eye, which was rent open unforgivingly by the savage beam. Sweetsprout and Tinker broke the dodging streak to assist the target that Red Wake had so cruelly marked. Dewdrop followed suit, and I started to circle the frightening form. From this piece of shadow emanated a somber cry, followed by a stream of purifying fire, aimed for Sweetsprout. The youth’s vigor overcame the half-blind dragon, however, and Sweetsprout twisted and darted about, unsinged.
I was just watching, watching the others do their part to cut away at the dragon’s defenses. Tinker was able to cut an oozing red streak down one of the dragon’s wings. Sweetsprout sent a barb straight into the bridge of the dragon’s shout. Dewdrop, like myself, seemed to be circling, like a rat too afraid to secure its meal. A harsh, feminine shout somehow reached my ears, “Whenever you two are ready!”
I gave a short glance at Dewdrop’s face, as light from energy blasts and fire played across his wide eyes and his wide-open mouth. Better me than him. I did a corkscrew, arcing over the dragon’s massive head, then threw myself forward in a practiced deadly grace, hooves forward, just a bit slack, ready for impact. I felt my first strike connect.
I first felt the force of death drain itself from my hooves, my stingers pulling from me the grim momentum. Death then left my knees, then my shoulders, leaving a heavy, burning ghost behind. It drained itself from my neck and my hips next, leaving them rigid in absolute shock, stiff in absolute terror. It continued on up to my jaws, the base of my wings, and my hind legs, which all twitched from the sudden absence of its driving force. Finally, death left my eyes, my wings, and my tail. My wings became those of a freed soul, my tail a black flame which had just flickered itself out. My eyes were what directed death to its latest arriver, as I stared helplessly on into the incredible profusion of red streaking out of the skin under the strange iridescent scales. My ears heard death’s heralding call, a chorus of cracks under my hooves.
I closed my eyes, hoping that death was finished with me, and kicked myself up off of the dragon, extracting my stingers. I had struck it straight at the base of its skull. I reared and spun around for a second strike, but the dragon’s wings had already stretched out limply. Our first shadow descended, leaving streaks of red water behind it. An alien voice echoed across the new void between us, “Nice hit! We have to keep moving!”
I shook my head, and whipped myself back into our little formation, with Red Wake in lead position. There was no longer a battlefront. There were only groups of pegasi engaged in the destruction of their own shadowy foe. Red Wake fired off another bright gold bolt, striking a dragon – which was already occupied with its own diminutive strike force – at the base of one of its wings. A cheer came from the formerly-occupied squadron as the crippled dragon could not help but spiral down to its inevitable demise. Red Wake gave the victorious cry of a hunter in reply.
“That’s two, team!” shouted Sweetsprout.
We continued to dart between scenes of fire bathing small flitting shadows and bright beams sending light into the dimly-lit night. The constant flashing of battle had become my moonlight, my navigator, and I hoped to myself that perhaps the fire was but a clever illusion, casting the very shadows it seemed to burn. I would have liked to think that. I shut out the screams and yelps of the higher timbre, calling them whistlings of the wind through a multitude of desperate wings. Sweetsprout marked our target this time, firing a barb at an even larger dragon than we had faced before, its head alone approximating five times my body size. The diminutive dart found its way into the shadow’s wing, but did little to affect the massive thing’s path.
The group split off into every direction around the dragon, beginning our morbid loops of death. I turned myself downwards, soaring under the dragon’s underbelly. I saw the flashes of a few of Red Wake’s rifle shots and one of Tinker’s green blasts, but not where they had struck the beast. I flew under him, and then behind, where I took my opportunity with the dragon’s back turned towards me, and propelled myself forward with a vindictive flap of my wings. I embedded my great metal enders into the dragon’s lower spine, and saw that its scales were brilliantly white. It bellowed in pain, but death still did not pay the fiend its dues. I extracted myself as the dragon craned its neck over, twisting the rest of its body in turn to see his bold opponent. I avoided meeting its gaze, for fear it may be the last thing I ever saw, but flew straight for its head, hoping to give an additional strike to its lower jaw.
The dragon’s head did not waver as it observed me, a small little speck advancing up its back. A desperate call echoed against its scales, “Watch out, Mellownote!”
I turned my eyes up into the dragon’s abyssal mouth to see a short flickering. My eyes widened, taking in the foreboding beginnings of a flame that could drown the world in a cruel, scorching light. I tried to flick myself aside, using my experience with swift turns, but the dragon was fast for its size, angling around and craning his neck to keep me in his own deadly gaze. Seeing my efforts in vain, I decided there would be only one solution. I returned to my original course, looking the beast in the eyes this time. They presented to me nothing but an incredible depth, reaching down beyond the depths of the ocean, beyond the depth of space, deep into the unfathomable depth of the mind. Into those twin abysses I cast to him a promise, pointing my hooves forward.
I saw the embers begin to ignite into full glow, but a steel grey glint flew through the fray of our oaths, and into the dragon’s maw, where it coated itself in embers, and continued on through the roof of the bright cavern. The incredible depths of the dragon’s eyes grew hazy, and the flame that would be the world’s reckoning flickered out. The last ember faded, and the great white shimmering beast became strangely limp. The wings ceased their additions to the thunder, and the diamond mass fell helplessly to the earth. I turned around to see the flickering light of battle play across the face of young Dewdrop. His eyes were wide, and his mouth slightly open, as if about to let out a terrible scream. His head slowly tilted down, following the dreadful form as it met the ground, and cloaked itself in a cloud of dust and dirt.
He had done it. Just as I had hardly a moment before, he had taken his chance. I had taught him. I had shown him, and he had learned.
Never before had I been more ashamed a teacher, as the day my student took my example.
A cheer from Tinker broke our trances, “Beautiful shot, Dewdrop!”
So it was beautiful.
Dewdrop shook his head, throwing out a stormy haze that I could see building in his eyes. He pulled another barb out of his bag, and loaded it into the empty launcher under his right wing. Without a word, he chased after the rest of the squadron, and I after him.
However, as I tried to focus on that flitting blue form, an incredible and omnipresent voice broke through all of the battle’s uproar, “Fore!” I watched in a sense of confusion and awe as all around, pegasus vanguards dove down, away from their quarries. It did not register to me in that moment to do the same. I could only stare in a naive, pensive stupor.
A thunderclap and a lightning flash came to accommodate the thundering of the dragons’ wings. Just as the flash dissipated in the night, a new deadly light, a new breed of fire took form no more than fifty metres away from me. The fire seemed eager to flee itself, cruelly illuminating its canvas: an impressively-bright set of mint-green scales. I watched the cruel consumer reach out further and further, until I saw it reflect off of two faint sparkles – through which I could see no indignation, no determination, only an incredible fear – which the fire then expunged, painting over it with its char black.
Just as the explosion had fully consumed the dragon, I felt a wave of heat, and an even stronger pulse of raw force knock me away from the cruel scene, kindly turning my head away. I flailed for a bit, tail over wing before I was able to stable myself once more.
But that blue blur was gone. My wings nearly locked, and my eyes grew wide, darting about desperately to catch sight of Dewdrop, but I could only see the other squadrons returning to their opponents. Then, just as the heat of the blast nearly died, it seemed to rekindle around me. For a split second, I felt it grow, until I realized it was gathering from behind me.
I had hovered still.
A primitive fear took over my body, and my wings finally did lock. I fell helplessly, tumbling down to see a glittering of shadow that even the flickering fires could not illuminate, save two burning yellow gems. They were cruel eyes, not like those of the dragon that had been consumed in the earth ponies’ own deadly flames. I could not look away from these, either; only stare into them, as they began stealing something from me, which I could not put a name to. I could feel my heart rate slow, and my eyes fade slowly until I closed them.
I felt the wind tousle my mane and tail, and pull my wings up. I tumbled over to face the wind that was rushing past, trying to make way. Behind me, another wave of heat gathered, preparing to extinguish me.
I smelled a mixture of fire powder and smoke, though the rushing air did its best to dilute it with its traces of purity.
I heard behind me a rumbling, growling tumult from the dragon’s maw through the whistling of the wind around my ears and feathers, and the firing of countless bolts and beams, and cries of fear; I opened my mouth to join them, but could hear only a dry whimper.
I opened my eyes once more to see rolling plains, dimly lit by stray beams of moonlight. I wished to close them once more, as I grew closer and closer, but I could not. The wind rushed into my eyes, and tears streaked the fur around my eyes.
But there was something left; that night, I saw a different, happier ending. However distant, impossible it seemed, it was something neither the ground nor the fire behind me could offer. It was not release I sought any more. It was redemption.
I fought against my locked wings, slowly pulling them out against the rushing wind, causing me to wobble and tumble even more. The ground rushed closer, but I continued to rally against my own innate fears. I gave them a flap, two, and the ground began rushing under me, rather than towards me. A bright light and a wave of heat surged from behind, and I immediately swerved upwards, and dared not pause to look at the flames that devoured the air below, for they rose with me, hoping to snatch me up, illuminate me, then leave me extinguished. I darted left and right, and although the cruel light was able to singe the end of my tail before the eddies of wind carried it off, I eluded its cruel grip.
The gout of flame stopped, and I climbed desperately up, rushing to the fray, which had thinned considerably. The golden eyes behind were just as determined, though; I could still hear a vindictive whooshing of air just beyond my own desperate wingbeats. My wings and lungs began to ache, which only made me double my efforts, hoping to lose my fatigue in the deathly race. I broke into the fiery fray, darting helplessly between the battles. Yet still, the shadow wove its way through to pursue me. Another set of embers built up in its maw, and I had everywhere to run, but nowhere to hide. I craned my neck to look back and saw the purifying light build up in its throat, and it began to surge forward. I could only stare into the dazzling light.
It ignited, but not of the shadow’s accord. Instead, a venom-green beam struck the embers, calling forth an incredible and brutal show of light, of which some flew from the mouth, most made jets from the nostrils, and the rest scorched the dragon’s insides. The yellow eyes flickered for a moment, and another shadow – one of the blackest I had seen without its illuminating eyes – fell to the earth.
I spun around to see a familiar tan-coated and soot-smeared stallion, blast spear level with his eyes. A wisp of smoke trailed from the small cannon, and he loaded another green orb into the end. Tinker broke a smile as he jeered, “Making new friends?”
I heaved a sigh, “I think I have enough.”
He gave me a short wink, then turned around and pushed off. I flew after him, dodging the trace bits of fire and stray beams that escaped the surrounding battles. The flashes and smoke made my eyes water, but I could not lose focus again. Soon enough, I could see white, blue, and green blurs circling a bright red dragon, which seemed just large and slow enough for them to continually evade. Without a thought, I pointed my hooves forward and threw a savage gust behind me. The dragon had not noticed me yet, but kept turning to try to face the swift red and white streak that was Red Wake. Before I knew it, I was careening towards the dragon’s back, rather than its underbelly. I closed my eyes, and prepared for impact.
The impact came, but rather than feeling the familiar jarring against my shoulders, I felt a small bit of resistance, and then a loose dragging across the rest of my body. I felt strange, wet, and confused. Was I inside the dragon? Curiosity opened my eyes to see a clear night sky. I turned around to see and hear the great red beast roaring in pain, and Tinker staring at me, a baffled expression on his face. Sweetsprout stopped circling as the dragon held still, and fired a barb, which embedded itself into the base of the dragon’s skull. The roar ceased, and the dragon began its long fall. As it drifted and tumbled, I could see a stallion-sized hole in the leathery membrane of one of its wings.
A wave of nausea overcame me, and my vision blurred. I gagged, but held it down, and tried to don a weak smile as I glided back to the group. As Dewdrop caught sight of me, he gave a radiant smile, which was shortly replaced by a grimace.
“Err. . . Are you all right, Mellownote?” Sweetsprout asked, his voice breaking a bit.
One last thunderclap tore through the night, and illuminated a dazzling green dragon, sending it reeling back, then helplessly tumbling down. A few cheers rose up from the pegasus soldiers. We had won.
“I’ll be fine,” I returned, hoping it was not a lie.
Red Wake gave me a friendly shove. “You’d better get cleaned up. You’ve got more red in your mane than I do.”
I did not laugh.
“You just had to go through its wing,” rang a young, irritated voice. An icy bucketful of water splashed unforgivingly over my back.
“Well, it’s a lot more daunting to hit moving targets when you’re the projectile, Dewdrop. I closed my eyes.”
We were a few miles from the camp, out on the sandy shores of the Silver Sea, which lined all of eastern Equestria with rolling tides and pleasant foam and, as was made painfully clear to me, very cold water. Dewdrop glanced over at a distant glow that stretched around the sleeping Fillydelphia. “We could be having a good time with Tink and Red right now. Instead we’re having the grossest little beach party even I could imagine.”
I rolled my eyes. “Dewdrop, both of us have been in Canterlot our whole lives. You’ve never even seen a beach party.”
Sweetsprout returned from the shoreline with another full pail and called out, “Don’t worry about it, Dewdrop. It’s an older crowd over there. We’d be out of place, probably blushing at all the stuff being said.”
“It beats trying to rinse dragon’s blood,” Dewdrop retorted.
“Good point,” Sweetsprout conceded, “Remind me again why you can’t just take a swim in the ocean, Mellownote.”
“I can hardly imagine the sea wants this blood any more than I do.”
“Ugh, that stench!” Dewdrop groaned, “I wouldn’t blame the sea. You’re just lucky I’m your friend, Mellownote.”
“I sure am,” I scoffed with a mischievous smile, then rubbed his nose with one of my dripping red forehooves, to which Dewdrop reeled back a bit, his eyes crossed in complete horror and disgust at the red spot on his nose, then snatched the pail away from Sweetsprout, and threw out its frigid contents into my face. He then scrambled with his hooves to try to wipe off the stain.
“Now see,” I said, after spitting out a few streams of salt water, “that didn’t help get it off. You would have been better off dunking water on your own head!”
“Gah! Now I’ll never get this smell out of my nose!” called out a distressed Dewdrop. He seemed a bit too preoccupied, scrambling to splash more water on his nose, to have even heard me. I decided it would be a lesson for a later time.
“Anyway,” I continued back to the prior discussion, “Sprout’s right. All those soldiers will be drinking in either merriment or sorrow. I’d much rather be out here, where the only things we have to worry about are a stain and a stench.”
“Hay, I’m just glad we all got out without a scratch,” Sweetsprout proclaimed as he took another pail into his mouth, “Well, a few singed hairs for Mellownote, but otherwise . . .”
“Dragon’s blood and singed hair?” Dewdrop exclaimed, “I think those dragons are just out to make you the worst-smelling stallion alive, Mellow.”
Sweetsprout threw another bucketful of water on my back, and the red washed out to reveal a pure dark grey. “There, all gone. Take a swim, Mellownote, or you’ll never get that stench out. I’ll go back and cook dinner the rest of the way.” He paused, then turned and asked Dewdrop, “Do you want to come with me, or stay with Mellownote?”
“I’ll stick with Mellownote. We’ll meet you in camp.”
Sweetsprout nodded with a smile, then took off towards the hearth-like glow of the camp.
I plodded to the shore, hooves, knees, shoulders in the water. I heard other hoofsteps break the calm eddies behind me. I took a deep breath, then plunged my head into the starry black sea, for a moment listening, feeling my heartbeat – along with a fainter pulse behind me – feeling the currents tug at my mane, my tail, and that ever-present sound the sea makes, as if everything is rushing endlessly, tirelessly, to make the waves and tides, to mimic and distort the starry skies into something strange and unrecognizable, to cleanse the stench of blood in exchange for nought but a bitter taste.
To soothe the shock of battle, break down the strange pretense that was so boldly, willingly played, to whittle away at the black tinge collected in our coats, to carry traces of the moon’s diligent yet inactive watch, to roll the coarse sand back and forth around our hooves, to wash away blood after blood after blood, the ocean did rush.
I rose out, gasping at first, but my ears kept on listening as before and, faintly, heard soft sobbing behind. I turned around to see Dewdrop, head bowed low, eyes watching the cold water flow around, though his stare went far beyond the sea. He lifted his head to look at me, and the moonlight revealed the twin streams below his eyes.
“It was all over you, Mellownote.”
“Better me than you.”
Dewdrop almost seemed to smile, before he was overcome, sobbing hopelessly. I trudged over to him, and helped him to the shore, my wing over his back. “Let it out.”
We sat down in the wet sand, where the waves would occasionally tug at our hooves. Dewdrop’s grief could hardly relent, and as he wept over my shoulder, I simply remained silent. I could not be weak anymore; I had to be strong for him, and yet every time I tried to form the beginning of some word, it was lost a moment later. Instead, Dewdrop spoke first, “I looked it in the eyes. Right as I shot it, I was looking into its eyes, and it didn’t hate you or me; it was only afraid, in that last moment.”
I remembered those deep black pits, but nothing of the fear he talked about. I had been looking into its maw for its final moments. Had it truly been afraid? I asked, “If he was afraid, why did he attack with them? Why didn’t he leave?”
“Maybe . . .” Dewdrop began, in a near-whisper, “They all made him go with them.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Why don’t we leave?”
“We’d be deserters, condemned to death.”
There was a long silence, save for the rolling waters. Dewdrop did not cry any more, but I imagine that it was only because he had no tears left. Dewdrop spoke once again, “We’ve only started, and I’m wondering when it’ll be over.”
“It’ll be over soon, Dewdrop. Just let the days go by, and we’ll be out of this soon.”
Dewdrop gazed at the moon, searching for something in the depiction of that dark mare. “Why us?”
“I was asking the same question right before I met you, and now you’re getting pulled along with me. With the others, that makes five of us, all getting dragged, squirming into light or darkness; I can’t tell.”
“What do you think of them?” Dewdrop asked, hoping to distract the two of us from the thunder that still rolled through our minds.
“I don’t know. They care for us, I think, but I don’t know what to think of them yet.”
“They’re kind enough, but I don’t think they’re like us.”
“And just what are we like?” I asked curiously.
“The two of us see something. I don’t know what it is, what it does, but it’s there, pushing us, leading us somewhere.”
“Fate?” I suggested.
“I don’t think She likes that name.”
“She?”
“I think it’s a She,” Dewdrop explained, “and whoever She is, I think She’s very sad.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you some other time, Mellownote. I think we’re keeping Sweetsprout waiting.”
With that, he stood up, and turned towards the soft glow of the camp. He spoke as he stretched his wings, “One day, we’ll have to tell each other what we see, Mellownote. I’m still trying to figure it out.”
I thought on his sentiment for a bit, then returned, “I’m still just opening my eyes.”
* * *
Sweetsprout’s ears perked up a bit in anticipation of our arrival, though his back was turned to us. Over the crackling fire before him rested a bubbling pot of stew. We alighted down into the ring of ruddy, sooty tents, and silently sat beside him.
“Good news, Mellow,” Sweetsprout began, his eyes fixed on the fire, “I couldn’t smell you coming.”
I gave a soft chuckle. “That is some good news,” I said, tapping the stew pot with the tip of my hoof, “And it looks like you’ve got another snippet of good news to come.”
Sweetsprout smiled, “Yes, the stew’s been done for a while now. Fetch a couple of bowls and we’ll have at it.”
Sweeping a few of the small wooden bowls into an upturned wing, I took the ladel in my mouth and poured out three bowls, although my wing shuddered at the stress, and a few drops found their way into my feathers. I winced for a moment, then slid my wing out from under the bowls before shaking it out at my side. The others took their meals silently, and I sat down once more, and ate.
It was delicious, of course, though I knew not if it were my taste buds or my stomach that told me so. The dinner was silent, so I assumed the Dewdrop and Sweetsprout agreed.
Although I cannot well describe how sustenance feels after a battle, I have a very close feeling that is far more understandable. Imagine being trapped in a mire for days. You finally find the edge, at which borders a beautiful field of the brightest wildflowers you’ve ever seen. The colors, the smells, the fresh air: all changes at once.
So it was all right to be silent. We all deserved a bit of silence, after all. There are moments when silence, perhaps apart from the sound of a crackling fire, is all that keeps your thoughts at bay, as if even the mind is afraid to raise its riots in fear of being heard.
The silence was not to last, though. It was never meant to. Soft hoofbeats and two shadowy forms approached from beyond the fire. Soon, a tired and worn voice reached us, “You all feeling right?”
I nodded slowly, as did Sweetsprout; Dewdrop merely stared on at them, though Tinker seemed not to notice. He and Red Wake sat down across from us, Tinker staring on into the fire, and Red Wake squinting a bit, trying to make out our expressions despite the leaping shadows.
“How was the party?” Dewdrop asked innocently.
Red Wake spoke this time, “Not that much of a party, really. Nopony could seem to get their minds off of the battle, whether they were spinning tales about how a dragon’s flame missed them by just this much . . .” at which Red Wake gave a mocking impression, putting her forehooves up and slowly closing them together, “. . . or just staring off into the distance. Shellshocked.”
Tinker had poured their meals meanwhile, and began to slurp his. After Red finished, he chose to change the subject, “So how was the beach?”
“Smelly,” I answered, “But the water felt great.”
He smiled at the reply, “I’ll have to go there sometime. I could use a nice cool swim. Hell, I’d even like it cold.”
“We could all go together, sometime when we’re off-duty,” Sweetsprout suggested.
“I’m up for a swim anytime!” Dewdrop chimed in.
“I’m in,” Red Wake added inbetween gulps of stew, “How about you, Mellownote?”
“Of course,” I said, “It’s not like anypony has plans anyway.”
Sweetsprout nodded, “It’ll be good just to relax a bit.”
He may have had more to say, but a new set of heavy, metallic hoofbeats approached from my left. A steel voice called out, “How fared 19th squadron?”
“5 soldiers, 10 wings, and 20 hooves, sir,” rattled Tinker.
“That’s the best report I’ve heard so far,” Bastion remarked. I may have imagined a small glimmer in the grey eyes recessed within his helm, but I did not pay it notice. Already, the metal-coated captain had departed to continue his census.
The following silence was an abomination, slowly working through our minds the implications of Bastion’s simple statement. We had flown in and out of the fray with but singed hairs. Like foals, we would dance and jump around a pit of fire, hoping, even expecting not to burn.
And why should we not burn? We kill as well as dragons do; we fought to the very last drop of ashen blood. We have brought our fires, our thunder, our scales, and our claws to battle. We were dragons in everything but size, which we made up in numbers.
“So,” Tinker began, halting the tumult with a jarringly-soft word, “Is everypony . . . okay?”
I stared blankly into the fire. Not okay, but strong enough, maybe.
“Yes,” I answered.
Sweetsprout nodded slowly. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“I’m fine,” Red Wake muttered.
Some time passed before Dewdrop answered, “I don’t think I’m okay, but I can figure it out.”
“Well,” Tinker said, a hint of sympathy in his visage, “we’re all a team, and we’re here for each other whether we’re in the fire or around it.”
A smirk grew on Red Wake’s face. “Well, I’m glad we have somepony here that’s good with words. I care about all of you too, but I’m just not an expert at showing it.”
Sweetsprout nodded in mock solemnity. “We noticed.”
I was the first to laugh, and the others immediately joined in. It felt real enough; perhaps I was fine after all. I wondered if it looked as real as it felt. The laughter subsided before I could wonder any further, though, and Red Wake gave a joyful sigh.
“I needed a laugh. Too many sad soldiers, serious soldiers,” she paused for a moment, “drunk soldiers.”
“Not everypony gets to be lucky,” Dewdrop said.
“I know, I know,” Red Wake answered, “I just wish we could forget that, just for one second; just between battles be happy and then be sad once it’s all over with.”
“Easier said than done,” I returned.
“Yeah, well, at least I can. I guess it’s just me,” she murmured, almost to herself. She looked up to the sky for a moment, then spoke again, “It’s late. We should all get some rest.”
The decision was evidently unanimous. We all rose, Sweetsprout doused the fire, and we were all soon in the confines of our ruddy tents. I let myself fall onto my bedroll, and immediately felt soothing sleep wash over the uproar of troubled thoughts.
* * *
The morning was unforgiving. My body ached. My head ached. Even my eyes ached from the firelit night. My muscles screamed in protest as I moved my hooves to push myself up out of bed. As I stood, I could not help but release an audible groan. I dared not stretch my wings, bearing in mind the swift banks and dashes throughout the battle. I looked over to see Dewdrop’s bed mat empty. I rubbed my eyes, then walked outside.
The sun struck me first, and mercilessly. The assault of midmorning light stopped me in my tracks, forcing me to lift a hoof against the dazzling beams. While I adjusted to the light, I breathed in what I recognized to be the scent of fresh fruit. I lowered my hoof to see Red Wake sitting next to the fire pit, eating an apple.
“Good morning,” she said plainly, “breakfast is served if you want some.” Not waiting for any confirmation, she opened a bag at her side, removed an apple, and tossed it to me. I wearily caught it, as she added, “Honeycrisp, too, if you’ll believe it. I thought the generals already ate all the good stuff.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, before biting into the apple. It was certainly as delicious as she made it up to be. I ate it in a few bites, and sat down quietly with Red Wake.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
“Dew and Sprout are out around camp, and I think Tinker’s still asleep.”
I cocked my head. “What are Dew and Sprout doing?”
“Not sure,” she replied. “They were gone when I woke up, but I assume they’re together. Dewdrop doesn’t seem like the kind to go off on his own.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“You’re kidding! The only other time I’ve seen you two apart was last night.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but realized I did not have any sort of reply.
“He looks at you like you’re a hero, Mellow. I’ve been saving lives for years, and nopony’s ever looked at me like that. What did you do?”
“I’ll tell you when I find out,” I replied, a smile forming at the edge of my lips.
“Well, how did you two meet?”
“Believe it or not, Red, he took me in.”
“I sure don’t believe it. You’re both kids!”
And yet as I told her more of our past week, and thus our entire history, her gaping mouth and wide eyes turned to a soft smile. The more I talked, the more unreal the story seemed to me, but I merely kept telling, and she seemed to listen well, occasionally nodding, or smiling at the few parts of Dewdrop’s antics I had described.
“Well,” she said after I finished, “I wouldn’t believe you if I’d never seen the two of you together. I can’t say I’ve ever had a friend like that.”
If she was sad at her realization, she did not let it show. She just kept her smile, and stared at the ground for a while.
“So what’s your story, then?” I asked.
“Hm?”
“Well, you said you were an ex-royal-guard.”
“Oh, that story,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I suppose I owe you a story, but this one’s not nearly as charming.”
“You see, when I joined the guard, I already had the cutie mark and everything, and I was ready to protect people. Royal guard should have been the perfect job for that, yeah? Well, instead of actually doing things, I was posted at venues to stand still and look tough. Here I was, chomping at the bit to make something of my skills, and yet whenever something important came up, nobody wanted me on the team!
“And you want to know what they trumped up when I asked about it? They said I had no self control! I don’t know what sitting still means to them, but to me it means just looking tough, not actually helping somepony. So, since they just wanted to waste my skills standing at doors with a spear, I left. Protected a few important ponies around Canterlot for a while. Not glamorous, but at least everypony trusted me to do my job.”
She opened her mouth several times, but seemed to imagine my replies to her unsaid statements, and shut her mouth before the words could escape. I was able to gather enough.
“So this war is the best thing to ever happen to you,” I prompted.
She lowered her head for a moment, donning a self-deprecating smile. “Well, it’s a place where I have simple orders, and nopony telling me to slow down, or sit still and pretty for the crowd. I’m actually doing something for once, and I feel like maybe by the end of this, people will look at me like I’m a hero. I’ll have actually fought for something and someone. Just with you guys, I’ve helped out more than I ever did with the guard. So, yes. The instant I heard a whisper of war, I asked ‘where,’ not ‘why.’ I fit in here better than anywhere else I’ve tried.”
Her face took on a reddish hue and her voice a harsh timbre as she spoke, and as she finished, she turned her icy gaze at the ground. I cautiously put an assuring hoof on her shoulder. “I, for one, am glad you’re here.”
It was one of the most sincere things I had ever managed to say.
Red Wake lifted her head up and smiled, “Thanks, Mellow.” She sighed, took another bite of her apple, and her face returned to a calmer complexion, her voice to a mellower melody. “It’ll take a bit more than a single other voice, or even a battalion, to convince m– them that I’m right.”
“What, then?” I asked.
Silence.
“Maybe an army. I don’t know,” she admitted finally.
A long, exaggerated yawn escaped Tinker’s tent, and a baggy-eyed, wild-maned stallion emerged. “Yeesh!” exclaimed Red, “You look like death, Tinker.”
“A good-morning would suffice,” Tinker grumbled, rubbing his eyes with a clumsy hoof.
“Good morning!” she teased.
“Ughhh.” Tinker dropped down with a thud next to Red Wake, and she rolled an apple his way. He took a moment to stare at the apple blankly, then bit into it absentmindedly. His eyes were glazed over, and he stared off into the sky behind me. I shifted uncomfortably, but his gaze did not falter.
“Don’t worry. Tink’s just not a morning pony.”
Tinker rallied a confirming “Mmmph” through the bits of a bite nearly too big for him to chew. When he was finished, he lay face-in-hooves for a while and asked, “So, how is everyone feeling?”
“Feeling fine,” I replied. Aches and conversation so far had subdued any recollection of the night before, and I was just fine with that.
“Well-enough,” Red Wake answered, “but I’ll be bored soon, I think. You can only relax for so long and be happy about it.”
“Speak for yourself, Red,” Tinker returned jokingly, “I could relax all day. When I’m tired of relaxing, I’ll take some time off and relax my relaxing a bit, then I’ll get right back to relaxing again.”
“I’m not sure whether to be jealous, or concerned.” Red Wake smiled, and prodded Tinker with her forehoof, which made his baggy eyes widen for a moment, though besides looking confusedly at his side, he gave little reaction. “Just a bit more interactive than a rock,” Red Wake concluded with an expectant gaze. Tinker merely grunted, and a wide grin spread across Red’s face.
“Where are the others?” Tinker asked groggily.
“No idea,” I answered, “I’m surprised Dew didn’t wake me up.”
“They’re probably just roaming around the camp,” Tinker said dismissively, “not that there’s a whole lot to see.”
I frowned. “I guess I’ll go out and see what they’re up to.”
“By all means” was his reply.
So, I leapt up and – upon being reminded of my aches – let out an abrupt groan. I heard Red Wake’s keen voice echo from behind, “. . . and don’t hurt yourself!”
What a novel idea.
Despite my muscles’ protest, I kept rising in hopes of a full view of the camp. The smoke from the forges, however, obscured the armada of coal-stained tents, forcing me to fly lower. As I lazily glided along, I was greeted with fleeting glimpses of familiar faces from the training camp, though marred with gashes from massive claws, or patterned red by gouts of flame. I had the wonderful relief of moving too fast to focus on any one for long, letting each face leave my mind as quickly as it entered my sight. They were not forgotten, only . . .
Ignored, I supposed. I ignored them. What were they to me, after all, than faces I could recall? I did not know them, nor did I notice how many of those familiar faces I did not see. They may as well have been an empty space. I felt a tinge of sympathy, perhaps, when I saw a burnt face or a mangled wing, but I knew, and they knew, my sympathy did not matter.
And I did not deserve to feel sorry for them. I could not feel their agony. In fact, if anything, I would only be a reminder to them of their own disfigurement. There I was, spotless, flitting lazily over the crippled, the mangled, and the bereaved. And yet on I flew, letting myself ignore them, letting them mingle into blurs. I even stopped letting my eyes focus on them, instead just searching for splotches of teal and green across my eyes’ smudged canvas, my mind kept busy with a low, but wistful tune. By the time I caught sight of my companions, I found myself humming the chorus.
Dewdrop was bent over, kicking at the ground with a forehoof, while Sweetsprout was fishing something out of a saddlebag. I landed lightly, and asked, “What are you two up to?”
“Phhlantnn fhhlwrrs,” was Sweetsprout’s reply, through a mouthful of seeds. I shot Dewdrop an inquiring glance.
“We’re planting flowers around the camp,” Dewdrop clarified, while Sweetsprout began spitting individual seeds into the divots Dewdrop had made.
“Why?”
“It’s something to do,” he answered, “It’s a bit more satisfying than sitting in a tent or shooting targets.”
Having finished planting the seeds, Sweetsprout joined in. “It’ll brighten the place up a bit, too, help freshen the air.”
I took a deep breath, and immediately realized his point. The air stank of sweat and smoke, which had hitherto snuck just under my notice. I coughed a bit of the foul air out before commenting, “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”
Dewdrop smiled as he finished covering the seeds and said, “Help us out, then. There’s plenty more to go.”
So, I followed them to their next little stop, and dug alongside Dewdrop, and continued to do so for the rest of the day – Dewdrop was not kidding when he said there was more work to do – until we all had sore backs and dirt-coated hooves. Whenever I looked up at Dewdrop, a smile seemed to be edging its way onto his face.
And I found myself starting to smile with him.
We never did see those flowers bloom. I would miss those colors, that little hope for a single clean breath. Time goes on, however, and our foe does not wait for flowers to bloom.
The stinger blades dangled loosely from my forehooves, and light contrails followed my wings. That hazy blot slowly melded into the night’s dark blanket behind us. A happy riddance, I thought.
I made an effort to adjust the metal plates over my back by shifting my shoulders, but the armor did not budge. I sighed in mild frustration – the plating would pinch my neck if I raised it, but my neck was slowly getting sore from keeping it pointed straight ahead. Although I did like the idea of armor, especially after going once into battle without it, the heavy, shifting plates were a tool of torment outside the battlefield.
I began to ponder just what the armor would do to help me. It would only cook me more evenly if I were drenched in fire. It might save me from a little claw-scrape, but not from a solid strike. Even steel cannot stop the vindictive force of a dragon’s swipe. That just left me protection from friendly fire. It happens fairly quick. You go around to try and flank a dragon, and your squad-mate gets the guts to take a shot. Soon enough, you have a barb in your chest, or your face is half-melted by a blast bolt. As much as we would all have loved to worry about just the dragons, we had to watch our mates just as carefully. That is particularly where the 19th squadron excelled. No friendly fire. No casualties. Just a set of singed hairs.
And so, when Manehattan sent word of a battle going sour, the best squadrons were re-deployed. Gleaming new armor and some polish on our weapons, and we were in the sky. They even told us that we could leave our tents, that there would be tents already set up and waiting for our arrival. We just had to get there in a hurry. Even Bastion was redeployed, leaving the rest of his men under the generals’ command.
Red Wake, just ahead, allowed a short gust to push her back, and I pushed forward to take our squadron’s lead position. Ten gleaming ‘V’s there were, glinting in the moonlight. The wind was not in our favor, and it was evident from Red Wake’s rhythmic panting that I would not be envied for the next thirty minutes of flight.
It might have been a beautiful night. Below were flowing, lazy hills, and to our right was the Silver Sea, over which hung dreary clouds that would block soft moonbeams from catching on our armor. The wind might have felt refreshing from the ground. Not a sound disturbed the night besides the clinking of our mail and plates, the buffeting of wind against our wings.
A quiet “What was that?” found its way to my ears in the soft timbre of Sweetsprout’s voice. I turned my eyes away from the scenery to look straight ahead, but I only saw the dark sheets of a thin night’s fog. I squinted a bit, but nothing offered itself up to my eyes. Blank. I called back, “What?”
“Nothing!” Sweetsprout shouted against the wind, though I do not think he believed it himself.
I kept my vigil of the sky ahead, but it remained blank. There were several things I could wish he had seen out there. I had almost begun to count them when the disturbance made itself known. For hardly a second, a dull orange leaked through the fog, and then disappeared. Some short murmurs sounded from the other squadrons. I set the locks into position on my stingers. Behind me, I heard a few soft clicks of barbs set snug in their launchers, and clips loaded into rifles.
The rest of the flight was a crucible of anxiety. The flares of orange became more frequent; those we had seen before were merely the brightest. Harsh shouts were exchanged between squadrons. A few made short jokes, but whether they were lost in the wind or in the ears of the soldiers, nopony laughed. Slowly, the silhouettes of Manehattan’s iconic skyscrapers came into view, a few of them grimly backlit.
Bastion, who had taken the foremost position, craned his head to shout back.
“Soldiers, Manehattan is in the eye of a storm. You’re with me right now because you are storm breakers! You are the soldiers chosen by Celestia herself to save our brothers and sisters. We will shatter that storm until it rains naught but dragons’ blood! We will put an end to the fire and smoke. Tonight men, we raise the sun on our backs!”
For a moment, the moon’s pure shine found its way through the seaward clouds, and shone off of his ghastly helmet, even giving a faint glow from behind the dark eye slits. He was fearsome. He was inspiring. He was a soldier.
By then, we had passed the last hill, and the landscape opened into wide and sparse plains. The battle quickly came into full detail. There were only ten or eleven dragons left, but I saw very few pegasus soldiers in the swarm. On the ground, only a handful of heavy batteries were still firing, and the few bursts of magic that arced up from the ground seemed futile against the dragons’ onslaught. Many dragons had broken out of the swarm and begun to attack the city.
Guns were double-checked, barbs adjusted, stingers poised. The final stretch could never have passed us by slowly enough. I fantasized in those few last seconds that Bastion would call us back, let us live a while longer. Let our duty fade; the city was doomed anyway. Such a call never came, though.
Once more into the fray.
We broke formation, the front squadrons engaging the first dragons they could catch. The others followed behind me in a streamlike pattern, and I heard Tinker shout, “Pick us a good one!”
Like thread through the eye of a needle, and a needle through cloth, I weaved in and out of the swarm, looking for a suitable foe to mark, stingers forward. Dragon after dragon we passed in the writhing mass, only occasionally glimpsing a fellow soldier. Inbetween gusts from wingbeats and wanton claw swipes we flitted. Soon enough, the foe came. A brilliant purple-scaled dragon soared upward into my path, and I kept my course true.
I had held my breath, but it escaped me through sheer inertia. My legs came next, swinging forward into the spray of blood and striking the iridescent scales, even knocking a few loose. With the kick, I dislodged my blades, and gave a vicious wingbeat back, catching a few droplets of red in my feathers, and throwing me away from the fresh wound. It was a solid hit, straight in the belly, but not a single cry did the dragon utter. I gasped as I finally registered the shock that had travelled up my legs. So passed the first half-second of battle.
A vibrant red hue across my wings, bright like the orange curls I once knew. Once more into the fray, once more for her, once more for him, and once more again to avenge myself. White ribbons like the glow of the moon, up and down they bobbed, and once more into the purge. Attack and retreat, if only we could be destroyed.
What little my strikes did went unnoticed by the beast. There was a fury in its eyes, and our attack only gave it the appearance of righteousness in its rage. Bolts stung its scales, barbs stuck between the gaps, and yet the dragon showed no hint of pain; rather, a pure and bitter hatred flowed out amongst the brimstone of its maw. A deft swipe nearly destroyed the blood-red, snow-white blur, but she darted between its claws, and another yellow arc leapt into its belly, but not a flinch. Only a hot cleansing erupted from its jaws, and threatened to swallow Red Wake whole. It was my turn.
I swept in from the blind spot near its underbelly, and launched myself upward into the origin of the great blaze. My haste left me out of breath as I struck the pit of its lower jaw, and as I brought my back legs forward – or upward – to dislodge myself, I felt the awful fatigue ache over my body. I was still attached to the dragon. A searing pain shot up from the stinger spikes.
An impossible light, brighter than Celestia’s own sun. Flames all across my vision, eyes open or shut, smoke made them bloodshot. The poor village below, doomed, with my precious Melody within. I am nothing. I am ash. Green eyes met fire, and turned a sickly, cracked black. Fire in my feathers, I am light. I am the sun. I am ash over ash over ash.
The metal on my hooves held a horrible orange glow, and finally burned away at enough of the glittering armor to finally loosen. I fell limply, looking back at my work to see two eyes of flame dripping deep red through the bottom of the dragon’s jaws. The monstrous flame ended, and the eyes went dark, though a feral roar continued to stream out of the monster’s mouth. I began to scream with it, for on my hooves hung two pieces of near-molten steel. I flew faster, hoping to cool them off, but I could only wait in anguish for the orange gleam to fade. A dragon has many ways to burn.
My eyes were wide in horror. I wished to release the mechanisms, but that would mean biting hot metal. I looked doubtfully at the stingers even as the fire took to my nerves and set my brain alight. A cry sounded from a teal-blue blur behind. Once more. Blood was colder than fire. Adrenaline and anguish powered the heavy strokes of my wings, and nought but the single thought resounded on the inside of my skull. Blood is colder than fire. The stingers found the front of the beast’s shoulder, and alongside the anguish of crushing hot metal against my hooves came a hateful hiss and a reddish vapor. Even the blood of a dragon may boil. I kicked myself out, and was delighted to find that the glow was dying down. More bright streaks of yellow and green flew across my vision.
Rent from bliss. Rent from hope. So I will rend. Through my agony I avenge my agony, and through my hatred I cleanse. I am the dagger, send me true to the cold heart, and let the fire burst out over me. Let me burn, so I may burn. Better me than him. Better me than her. Better that I rend, and better that I hate, for I am the dagger, forged to kill.
Once more, and a strike to the spine, but only a chip of bone. I let out a scream. The metal was cool now, colder like the night. My roar was childish against the storm, and the blood streaked across my face. I bucked and flew out, but the dragon had hardly noticed my passion. Crimson streamed from the grim marks I had placed on him, and marring his opalescent purple scales were scores of black charred spots. The dragon continued its storm unabated, and fire still streamed from its jaws, pursuing a tan blur.
I shortly gasped for breath, but I had to keep up the assault. Otherwise, I was on the defensive, and the defensive was for all intents and purposes a sentence to unwillingly scattered ashes. “Once more,” I urged my failing frame. A weak burst and hardly an inch into its side. Once more, and a glancing blow off its neck as it turned to see me. Once more and I missed entirely, swept aside by unforgiving thermals. The flames tailed me, now, and as I darted side to side, I realized that my body had lost the will to protest. I was numb, and more worrying than the ache of my joints and the burning of my forehooves was the absence thereof. My storm was abating, yet the dragon’s was still in full swell. The deep flame held highlights of blue and green, and threatened to begin its poisonous bite on my tail. I felt my armor begin to heat up through the soft padding under the plates, and although I no longer had pain to gauge my limits, I kept on my serpentine course, and pushed on, awaiting the assistance of my squad mates.
The help came, in the form of a fleeting metallic glint and a teal-blue blur. The barb flew just over my shoulders from ahead of me, and I dove down to avoid whatever aftermath could follow. A roar shattered my focus and warred against my mind, and I felt like at any moment, my mind would lose hope, and break free of the doomed confines of my head. I felt the ache again, deep within my skull an unstable, unforgiving pain screamed with the serpent, and as I dumbly turned to face the beast, to see what could possibly have prompted its awful chorus, I felt like my wings could betray me, my eyes might close shut for my own good. If I could simply close my ears. At first, I saw no new mark, no special gleam besides the dragon’s own scales. The fires stopped now, and the great winged serpent was in a morbid fury. It began to swing wildly its claws and massive tail, and the blurs of my mates above were having no easy time avoiding the onslaught. As the beast turned its own hurricane, I began to understand. A small red dot was forming in the center of one of its eyes, and the pair seemed no longer to work in tandem. Without a sense of depth, the only option left was its wild frenzy, in hope of gaining just a bit of momentum in the battle.
I doubted I could help at all against the frenzied movements that the dragon had adopted. It was likely I would miss, glance off, or get caught in its desperate strikes. Still, I had to try, if only to ease the pressure off the others. Once more into the fray, but the fray threatened to unwind me. I could just resist the treacherous eddies of wind that carried on behind the flailing limbs, and I found myself hopelessly joining the dragon’s dance of death, endlessly waiting for my opportunity to strike. I felt profoundly alone in that storm. There was only one blur left: the hulking purple mass that threatened to break my bones in unison.
Guide blade, then strike. A dagger without momentum is merely sharp. There must be force behind to be deadly. A winding path it takes to make its new wound, through many hands shared blood. The moon’s soft light is icy and sinister on the polished steel, and come what may, what man would blame the dagger for the crime? Come death, place thy warrant.
Muffled shouts, and the beast paused. I took my short chance and swept forward, the bolt of my own storm. I shot straight for the back of its neck, hoping that my efforts would not be repaid in a poor strike, not considering the lull. I connected, and with a vicious scream I trumpeted victory. My strike used up the entire length of my stinger blades, and I felt the wonderful ache of momentum leaving my bones upon a successful strike. I paused. Over the neck I could see the dragon give out one more savage strike, aimed for a familiar teal-blue. I noticed there were two deep red dots now, one in either eye. The massive claws made a bright moonlit streak through the air. A soft green streak swept down from above and gave a valiant push against my beloved teal blue, and the streaks connected.
Silver and green make red. Red deeper than the harvest moon and the rings of an eclipse, a red more bitter than a thorned rose. This was red’s essence. This was not the red-and-orange of fire or the red-and-yellow-and-green of a field of wildflowers. This was life’s red gleam, lit by the selfsame moonlight of the silver, and delivered in gaps behind. This was death’s red ransom, carrying eulogy and legacy. The green-red comet arced down from its place among the silvery stars to meet the half-verdant plains below, and a blur of tan streaked after in pursuit.
Once more into the fray, against these obscene scales. I kicked off, and darted back in, and once more, as the dragon flailed miserably, blinded and lost. Once more, and once more, and once more, avenging blades for all, and no mercy for the murderer. The serpent was helpless now. It was mine to send to Tartarus. I screamed a shriek of victory and victory again, until I could feel the weight of its blood on my wings. It raised its head to give its last mournful keen, but I would give this beast no such honor. A sweep behind, and into the base of its skull I stabbed, accompanied by a barbaric howl. The bones snapped under the sting, and the embers of the roar flickered out. I kicked myself out, and the dragon began to fall lusterless to the Earth. The last of its violet stars twinkled out, and the air was freed of its storm.
I took five deep breaths, and blinked twice. The others began to soar down, towards a small tan, green, red dot down on the ground. I followed, and the ache began to register in full.
Ash, all ash, all charred and hopeless.
Tinker held and leaned over a poor mangled mess. Sweetsprout’s body was contorted, its spine bent awry, and its back split open by massive trenches. The wings were cut off halfway, and their remnants shattered and frayed. A tan hoof reached out, and slowly closed the eyes, which had been open in utter terror, and the mouth, formerly agape in a silent shout. Tinker’s coat and the grass around had been dyed red, though the bleeding, now, had stopped. The dented, rent-open set of armor rested uselessly on the ground beside.
“He was killed instantly,” he said.
There was a chilling silence among us, and only the storm above – beginning to dwindle, now – leaked through. I could only stare at the young body, the kind eyes drawn shut. Dewdrop, meanwhile, became fixated on the ground just before the body. Tinker slowly placed Sweetsprout down. The green met the Earth, and I thought I would be lost.
No tears came. I had lost a friend, and yet I no longer felt my heart skip when I looked upon the awful mess. he was absolutely gone, and yet my eyes ran dry. I could only stare at it. I wanted to cry, if only to prove that I could, but I simply had no tears left.
“He told me before we left,” Tinker almost whispered, “that he wanted to be buried with a seed near Fillydelphia, should this happen.”
There was an awful pause, as we looked at our stricken friend. I felt a somber lament form in my heart before I could shape the words, “I will carry him.”
Tinker nodded. “I too. Red, Dew, go on to camp.”
Though they were reluctant to leave, the two seemed too defeated to protest, and – after we gave them our armor plates – left in silence. Tinker and I carefully wrapped the fallen Sweetsprout in his blankets, and began our trek back to his home. Though I might have liked to walk, to be more gentle, a soldier has not the time to waste. So, Tinker and I traded off flying with the shell of the young caregiver. It was no simple load, and I counted the simple blessing that I was not carrying my armor along with him.
As we travelled, a bitter sunrise came from the east. We remained in silence, a reverent flight that we simply could not put words to. When we reached the plains, and could see Fillydelphia’s smoggy skyline in the distance, we landed. Our destination was met.
So he had anticipated it. I frowned bitterly, and began clawing at the ground with the stingers, leaving more streaks of blood in the soil. Tinker joined me, using his hooves to kick and push the dirt out of the pit I had started. Four hooves we dug, scoop by scoop, until there was enough room. Then, we gently lowered him in, pushed a bit of dirt over to cover him, placed an acorn in the center, and then filled the pit the rest of the way.
After we returned to camp, it occurred to me that Tinker seemed to be the only one who could find tears that night. Red Wake was distraught, but she shed no tears. Dewdrop seemed to be in shock, and I was found absolutely numb. The battle was over, and the 19th squadron had a casualty.
In burying Sweetsprout, we had ripped up the grass all around us, and red still stained that which remained.
The ribbons were lost now, caked in ash. Where once the sunny curls had bounced were scars and gashes, and so much ash. Ash like a light snow that was not cold. There was a notch, now, in the blade, where it had lost its gleam and edge, and was rendered less.
Though no tears came, mistake me not. It took everything I had to turn away from the mound that dreadful morn. Clouds of smoke billowed up from the sundered city of Manehattan, but it would survive. We were such victors, carrying stolid expressions in our city of ash. I had gathered his belongings, and carried his bags to camp. When we returned, Tinker and Red Wake engaged in their own quiet conversation. I turned to Dewdrop in our tent, who still kept his eyes on the ground.
“Do you want to talk, Dew?”
“I don’t think I can right now.”
“I’m ready when you think you can, all right?”
He nodded, “Thanks, Mellow. I. . .” he paused, “I just need to think for a long while. I can’t feel anything right now. I know it’ll come later.”
“Just when you’re ready. Don’t rush anything.”
And then we were both silent. The fires of morning slowly dissipated into a clear blue, though the clouds added their greys.
I could only imagine what had taken Dewdrop’s mind. Sweetsprout paid a life for his, with only a few days’ acquaintance. I wondered where the caring heart rested now, if it truly rested just below a seed, or if it had taken root itself, and made a greater tree.
I finally understood the heart of dawn. Dawn was for those who knew the night; the night is always blackest before dawn, just as the moon forsakes its land. I hoped they had dawn where Sweetsprout had gone. I hated this dawn.
Perhaps the most awful part of this world is that it goes on. We do not have time to take in our successes or losses, for a new day follows, and there is more to be done. The sun rises without regard for us, and the moon shines on whatever it will, with no conception of what is sacred. Time gives no solace to those truly in need. Time may heal, but it is a slow heal that stems merely from a grim acceptance, not a greater hope, or satisfying closure. Time heals our wounds by ignoring them. - Mighty Quill
When we reached camp, there were plenty of free tents ready for us.
