Walls of Water, Sky of Earth
Chapter 1: Dwellings
Come now, let me sing you a song.
Once, twice, three times, the picks and hammers come down, all beating a rhythm to our silent songs. Each one unique and filled with equal amounts of underlying tones of despair and despise. The words of this hymn we cry not with word, but with action. Long ago, the verbal cries were stifled and suffocated, both willingly and forcefully. Throughout the hours, days, the months and the years, the tones of the may song change, but still, the same voice remains. A voice for freedom, a song for redemption and perhaps most of all, a song to forget. But yet even as we get lost in the constant drone of actions and the constant din of our foul songs, the darkness forever remains among us, hovering above us like a vicious taunt.
A constant reminder, of our past homes.
Once, twice, three times, again and again the whips and blows have rained down upon us. White hot streaks of pain etched into our backs and sides, scars and marks that seem to define us.
A constant reminder, never to disobey, to never to stray from the lines.
All around us these songs play, and on the air the smell of unwashed bodies and fetid earth mingle with one another and permeate our senses. A foul taste of bitter memories and past fights stay their-selves upon the inside of our mouths. A cold and unsettling iron taste that refuses to wash itself out no matter our efforts.
Cold ground drenched with sweat and moisture surrounds us, remaining steady and strong beneath our hooves. A terrible sight of wounded bodies and faces etched with terror and rage are all that greet us in the light. An air of deadened emotions buzz around us like many lazy moths, fluttering towards some far off light in the distance that grows ever distant, flying for hours on end to get to it. Needless to say, the light never gets brighter or closer, only further and dimmer.
Through the light-less rests, the air carries whispers of family, friends and elders all silently calling out to one another, praying the voice that calls back is the one they know and love. The air carries whispers of hope, of sustain, and of the forlorn figures in the surrounding darkness, all seeking an answer to their song, their questions, their prayers and their hopes. But it all can boil down to one word, one single word uttered on the silent breeze
'Why'.
In the darkness of which we are so used to, one might notice a pleading melody amongst the air, humming around us like the delicate wings of hummingbird, soft and consoling, seeded and caring, and sung by a broken chorus of these many voices around us. Constantly playing. Ever evolving.
A single song, to aid us forward one more day.
Just one more day.
It is here that we dwell, and here that we have lived for quite some time. How long have we been here? Have we been forgotten? Does this 'war' still wage on or whatever they say excuses such terrible actions? All questions with no answer, save one. The same answer that is a constant howl in our ears, reminding us of the years past of pain and regret. As if we simply couldn't forget on our own. That answer is shouted from the high and low in its wicked simplicity, burning our ears with each mention...
"Get back to work, you worthless scum."
Sometimes a 'For the glory of the mighty sun' is added to the end of their answer, but that is rather rare. Oh the irony, the terrible irony that the light we so tirelessly and agelessly preserve is something perhaps many of us have forgotten.
But I remember it, and I remember it well. The bright, ever shining light that would pierce the tree-tops and warm us with her tender gaze. The light which we would pleasantly work by, play under and create under. I remember the brilliant spectacle of a glorious sunset as the proud and pale moon arose and the stars pierced the cold blanket of the sky. I remember the dawn of that fateful day, as the preparations finally led to our wonderful celebration.
A chill burrows down my spine as I remember of a lady at the celebration who was expecting. Each time I think of her I wonder, I hope, I pray that I was wrong in the way I remember her. If I'm wrong, what would happen to the child? Would he be sent away? Sent above to a safe place, but live a life without their mother? Without a father? Without a family?
A dreadful thought, but one that may be all too real, a thought that I would love to forget and not believe to be true, but one that firmly plants itself in the back of my mind. I remember many other things from that one day, I remember the smells of the sweets, the fresh baked goods and glistening bowls of ripe fruit. I remember the knitted blankets, the ribbons, the streaming colors flying high between our houses. The happy faces all greeting one another with glowing eyes and smiles oh so wide.
I remember the anticipation buzzing in the air, the smoky wisps of steam rising into the sky from the fresh baked sweets, our eyes on the horizon as we all noticed the arrival of many. We thought it to be our family our friends, returning for the harvest and memorial of a time long ago. But instead, all that we saw was the blinding light of reflecting armor, glaring at us, blinding us. I remember that haunting sounds of beating hooves, and the unsettling whistle of the wind that they seemed to carry with them. I remember, that day, as they dragged us from our homes.
Just as many others, I doubt their reasoning behind their actions that day, I suspect they are not who they say they are, what they say that they protect us from. They spoke of threats, of a call to arms that was sweeping across the lands to face these threats to not just the kingdom, but us all. But life was so happy, life was so vast, and people were happy. Not just us on our land, but any who passed by our way or anyone whom our roaming fellows would see in towns and cities. But now it seems, most faces down here are devoid of life, faces attempting to live in the past, to hold onto a distant and fleeting memory of the homes that they knew, yet instead are walking amongst corpses.
One might ask then, if all there is to our thoughts of them is doubt and feelings of hatred and rage, why follow them? The answer I think would be is fear, and curiosity. When we first laid eyes and heard what they had to say, we were skeptical. They carried documents with royal seals, and wore shining armor that we knew was of the royal standard To the normal eye they were all honest, if not harsh in their delivery.
We had trust in them, we were skeptical, and defensive, perhaps even rash, but still had a sliver of trust, and that is what we in the end acted on. Though, such a drastic and demanding change to the way that we live might not be met by any with a simple nod and smile, especially not after that loud and demanding tone that still echoes in my mind. While the majority of us did not outright trust them, most grudgingly accepted, not wanting a conflict that we would be stomped under. Others, others just didn't know what to think and followed blindly. Others however, fought, not believing these strangers, not taking the advice of their family and friends quite so readily.
They cried foul, treachery, lies. Tension escalated like a roaring fire, continuously fed by the lies they believed to be thrown at them, like logs to a bonfire. They tore the document and spit on the ground at these many unfriendly faces, and walked away from them with a harsh warning. Blows were exchanged. Some seemed prepared for this, though the whole most certainly didn't want this to happen. Many injuries later and once everyone had settled down, our words finally got into their heads, and on that day we left. I can say one thing for sure, they had a determinate look in their eyes, but something else as well, something I've yet to find an appropriate word for.
Over time, doubt has settled rather firmly into our minds, most of us keep quiet though, hoping and perhaps scheming. However, we know not any way out of these depths, we have either been here for so long as not to know, or those who may have known have forgotten in their panic. We were not taken by such force as to not know the route to the underground, but as we entered the depths there was scarce lighting. The walks took for what seemed like the better half of a day, cold sweat beading down our faces in hurried lines.
In the darkness, our eyes were like lights as we all huddled together. To this day, I believe I saw others, other eyes in the distance. I suppose it would be wild to think that we were the first, we know that we were not the last, but how many may have come before us? How long have they recruited, and how many? Just how big must this threat be for such action? More questions come to me, more and more ,all seeking an answer, but again, they only cry out into a dead silence, carried on by whispers.
But perhaps, in this darkness, most thoughts are most on home and family. Not all are under the more terrible circumstances as I, most were on travels or at a cabin, small areas that none would notice the missing too quickly. Though, after the first day it would already be too late, they cover their tracks well it would seem. While most are missing family, seldom, if not none, can say they were ripped away from them at a young age and forever separated.
For this, I will never forgive them.
I could never forgive these soldiers, if that is what they are, for those many first months and onward that I, and others, have faced is a fate no soul should face. In those first months I was spared some indignities and work load of the others. They don't seem to be opposed to some kindness, though brutal to their workers at times, they are flatly against murder. Though, weather this is kindness, or reluctance to dispose of a corpse or lose workers, remains to be seen.
Aside from the trickles of kindness, I was still subject to the blows of others. I was terribly frightened, I could barely heft my tools for chipping away at the rock, and was eventually tasked with the job of pulling carts of materials off and on. They assign you to multiple spots with bare-bone instructions. They would give me a small cart to pull along rusty and worn tracks, the cart was only small in comparison to others. I would carry tools, ore, rock, metals and gems along the short tracks. The materials were more often than not bagged in worn and dirty burlap sacks, hastily tied with frayed rope.
I would cry night and day, the tears barely distinguishable from the cold sweat that would streak down my face from all those hours upon hours of work. Sometimes I would simply break down crying, crying to the sky for my mother, my father and my brother. I would cry myself to sleep most nights, and while some offered me comfort in kind words or challenging the guards so that they'd leave me alone or instead take my work load for me so I could try and look for my family, I was still sad and alone for quite some time.
Eventually, the tears subsided. My eyes would always seem to burn, and I no longer had to cry myself to sleep, I would be too tired not to almost pass out. I found little more tears to shed, but would have a constant feeling of emptiness inside. As if a terrible rend was slashed into my chest yet too away less flesh than a part of my spirit. My thoughts are always on them, even if I no longer cry perhaps as much. My thoughts are also on our old home, it seems like ages ago that we were taken. What of our forest above, our land above, who will tend to it now?
It's been so very long...
Yet, despite this seemingly unending time from home, we dare not take up our tools and rise up against these many who leave us in the shadow of their beloved sun. We know what becomes of those who disobey, their screams occasionally echo through what we can only think is the night. Their armor is strong, their cruelty never seeming to break, our tools are dull from work and we are oh so tired.
So tired...
It would seem I am one of the few to remember the surface as well as I do, at least among the people who have stayed as long as I, but even then that seems to blur with time. Perhaps others remember it but simply wish not to remind themselves of brighter times. Back then, my parents pleaded that I was simply a child, what use could he be to the war effort, or whatever else they said so long ago? The short answer is little, to no shock. Yet, the beatings and fury rained down upon me nonetheless. Was it perhaps ten years ago that we were taken from our lands?
I suppose that would mean I've spent half of my life down here, but that sounds impossible almost, I would love to think it would be shorter but I certainly feel old and word, like an ancient stone being chipped away at. Time passes down in these depths in crawls and blurs, moments lasting hours or days, days seem fleeting at best. By the time a week has passed, it feels like as many months as days have passed, and yet it was all in a blink of a moment. It's an odd feeling, and one that it seems I'm not the only one to suffer from. After all of this time, I'm actually surprised of how much I remember above, but perhaps more so, how vivid some, if not most, of it is.
I remember the fragrant mists of the mornings in the summers. I remember the smell of the wild forest around us, and the strange flowers that grew all around us. But all of this, all of this seems so distant now. An ever-fleeting memory growing more and more distant with each passing day. Under the irregular hours of work and only the partially constant light of magic to guide our eyes, it could be night time right now. I'd like to think that the sun is up above though, waiting for us, ready to sing us her song and break us free for this prison. Such a thing never seems to come though.
Perhaps today would be my birthday, how old would that make me now I wonder. I was perhaps 10 or so, it's hard to remember, when they took us away, and during a celebration no less. There was shouting, weapons drawn in anger, what little magic we had was raised in defense and our Pegasi friends hovering above menacingly. At the sight of the pain from our family and friends, those who were not already swayed gave into their demands. Some of the few who rebelled still remain from that day that have not been beaten so much as to forget the fire that drove them to rebel, or simply are held under the watchful eye of the guards.
I wonder of that celebration sometime, of the family and friends of ours that were out there gathering supplies and such that we had not had on hoof or ready. I wonder if they saw us missing and spread the news all around, or are doing their very best to search for us now. I wonder if they never made it, and befell the same fate as all of us.
I wonder, if the sun is as warm and kind as I remember it. It's so cold down here.
Down here, memories tend to blur, time normally does that to memories, but here the process seems to be rather quickened. Some get lost in the past and live in ignorance, their minds picking and choosing what to believe and what to remember, but this is still no pleasant ignorance. There is no smile upon their faces, no friendly demeanor that betrays the nature of their surroundings, just a deadened face, and distant eyes. I hope to never become that way, so much so I rather actively work against it.
I state many things over and over in my head so that I may never forget life above, or a fond memory or event, I fear for how long we might stay down here. I fear that I myself may forget many things some day, that I will dissolve within some false truth. Some of the other ponies indeed have forgotten or at the least have blurred the lines between reality and what they believe. It mainly seems to be the ones who have stayed longer than I, and oddly some of the newer arrivals. But others, others simply don't care anymore, no matter how long that they've been here, new or old. I suppose it is a bit of a new habit of mine to look at things from perspectives of others, see how they view things and notice little defining actions of theirs.
When I was younger and back home, I noticed things around me fairly quickly, one of the first things was that the others around me were different, not in a bad way mind you, just something I learned and saw. Some around me flew, some cast dazzling spells, and then there was me, and those around me that shared my origin. The origin of the Earth-ponies. Our family has always tended to the ground and forests in one way or another. From the gardens here and there tended by my mother, to the fields cut and tended to by my father and brother. I however, never shared this talent of theirs, I was only decent at it and it was not what I quite enjoyed, or at least not as much as they did.
Another thing I noticed and was quickly told about, was the marks that my family and friends had, and my lack of a mark at the time. I was told these were things called 'Cutie Marks' and they appeared when you discovered your special talent, what made you, well, you, that gave you your special place or niche in this world. I tried to follow in the footsteps of my family and learned what they did around the fields and forest.
My mother bore the mark of a trowel and flowers, she raised up amazingly beautiful gardens from the strange plants around us. Wherever we were, she would always have one growing and in full bloom. From dawn to late afternoon she would work away at the plants around her, and tended especially to her garden. She would smile as she worked, whistling a strange song as she did. She once said there were words to it, but she never could quite get them right. The tune however, she knew by heart and would sing, hum or whistle it away as she worked with a smile.
As she smiled in her work, the plants always seemed to smile back in a natural appreciation.
My mother once tried to teach me her ways, I learned the song fairly quickly, she said it helped with her work. I never could quite raise something so colorful as her from the seeds she gave me, and the plants never quite smiled back at me. It became clear to the both of us, this was not my talent. Sometimes though, I still hum that song as I work. I hum it to remember, to go on, and to hope that one day, my mothers voice joins mine in song. But my talent was not hers.
My talent lied elsewhere, in a rusty old box laid upon a shelf.
I learned that my father was marked with a scythe, he would cut scores and swaths of hay, stalks and plants that we would need to feed those around us. He was also a swift fellow, precise, but careful. I never could lift that old thing, so I never really helped him much, save for maybe pulling something for him or just tying up loads for him . My father would defend us from the beasts of the night and those who wished to traipse on our lands unannounced and uninvited. We were not fighters though, what few we had were Unicorns and Pegasi, and even then they didn't make a living off of it.
Dear friends we all were, if someone was in need and had an honest heart we would help them without question. Now, that's not to say that many people came by, few ever did, but when they did my mother would look them in the eyes with her warm, honey sweet gaze, and in an instant seem to peer into their being. A soft judgement made, she always said what her mother told her as a young filly 'You can always look a fellow in the eye, and know what they're thinking or how they are, know what's what, it just takes a little bit of practice'.
A soft smile would always be upon her lips, like a pleasant stitching upon a lovely silk quilt.
My brother was marked by a pulley-style plough. He's a strong willed fellow and my elder by a few years. I never could pull that thing right, even with his help. He was one of the ponies who fought back, who resisted, and one of the many people I long to see again. They say they put most them away, away with where the others go, the ones who would constantly defy them. At night, or what we may assume to be so, we hear screams of the broken echo throughout the distance, a terrible sound that forever will haunt my sleep.
The sounds I can scarcely describe, a myriad of the broken laden with pain, with little remaining, save for the will to hold on for just another day.
Another day to spit in the face of our captors.
Another day of hoping to see their family
Just another day.
Within my dreams and inside these screams, I hear not my brother, never anything close to him. Then again, what does someone whom you haven't heard for so long sound like? How can you pick out one voice among a chorus of the broken? My brother has always been there for me in my times of need, cheering me up with a playful 'chin up fellah' and sharing a good laugh through my tear- streaked face. Maybe... maybe if I find him I can be there for him as well. I'd like that.
My brother had always helped me with so much, in all truth he's the reason I got my mark. He'd never take full credit for it, just said that we both did it, but I could never have done it without him. Then again, he always said he could never have done it without me. All in all, it was a team effort I suppose.
My mark is one of a rusty toolbox with a wooden handle, a few scraps a tools, and that carries a story in it. In those days in our home, my parents had me and my brother fixed up an old looking toolbox from scraps around the home. When it was finished, were so proud, it was one of the first things we made together. The boxes' weight was more on one side than the other, we had ran out of certain materials fairly quickly, too quickly for it all to be made of one type. The handle spun a little in its' place when toyed with, and the lid never quite shut right. Still though, the box was something we made, and we did it as a team. Mom and dad were so proud, they not only gave us some of our dads' older tools, but when the others went into town, they asked them personally to grab a few new tools and materials for a project.
Inside the box on a normal day was; a hammer, a screwdriver, a wrench, and many nails and screws, with a few bolts, some even made at home with the help of others. Eventually I learned how to use all of the tools and more that wouldn't quite fit in the old thing, everyone was so very proud of how quickly I learned to use them properly. They offered at one point for us to be able to make another one with the right materials but we both said no, and they seemed to understand. At one point I even got to fix my brothers' plough when it hit a deep rock and a few bits got knocked loose. It needed a new blade too, which he and a family friend fashioned up. Really, we were all family and friends, all so close, all so seemingly separated from most large towns. We made our own place in that forest, and what a lovely forest it was.
Shades of green, amber, purple and orange. So many colors, but in my mind they are all stained red with hate. Some stay the same, but more and more, I remember the sky being oh so gray and dark. Down below here, everyone seems so different. Those I work around have their coats stained by beatings and bludgeons, and by many cold rests upon the rocky floor. We are gifted few things, we have bad tools, raggedy and homely stitched clothing and little else, save for maybe a friend to talk to. The only other thing that comes to my mind is pain, which they are quite generous with.
My coat took after my father and my brother was the same, though a few many tints darker. My mane was once the color of a dark, amber clay with honeyed lines. My tail was the same. I inherited many things from my parents, my golden toned eyes from my mother, as well as the lines in my hair. The mass of it came from my father. I still remember that golden honey coat of my mother, so warm, so comforting. In these depths below would I recognize her? Would her eyes keep their luster all the same?
What of my father? Would his strong foreleg come around me in the usual way of comforting once more? Would he share a loving embrace with me once more, stroking my mane and saying that everything would be alright?
I often fear that nothing will ever be right again.
We work, we eat, we sleep, and rarely a word is shared largely. On occasions when guards are asleep, we are told tales from the elders and those who have something to tell. Oh yes, more come, every so often I notice new faces, not dirtied by long ours of work and grime. They come with tales of their journeys, of the great expansive sky, of their small town or lovely home and such. Mostly for me, anything from a new fellow has a chilling undertone to it, bearing a reminder of the lives we all once knew, and there are many stories that have been told.
The merchant travelling from a far city to sell his goods. The cartographer, making a map of new territories and such to be published for his home and all, a caravan travelling home, the wandering bard trying to make a living, the hermit in the Everfree, and many more stories still.
Oh, so many stories. It would seem that tales flow here like a trickling stream, and come to a dark new chapter amongst these depths, and close, never to be dusted off like so many old tomes in a library.
Our story began long ago, and it seems to all trace itself back to one, well, 'unfortunate event' would be an understatement. Back what feels like an eternity ago, our family had a few generations upon a fine piece of land, it was nothing lush or fancy, but it made us what we needed. We set up an inn and a few areas for trading as we weren't too far from a well enough known road. We were a rather nice throw away from most towns or settlements, but we enjoyed the silent agriculture, friendly trading, pleasant lands and the not-too-silent life.
Ponies would come and go, not too many stayed, but here and there a few began to settle down with in time. We usually didn't think much of those that passed by, preferring to let them be on there way as they desired. Sure, we would know when we were being cheated or know if someone was ill-tempered, but only after they did something that would obviously make us think this. But, unlike my younger father at the time, my mother had a way with reading faces, but more so, eyes. Should could tell by a cursory glance, or a good look in their eyes what they were up to, and one night she was most unfortunately, dreadfully right . She saw an evil in a groups' eyes, in their attitude and demeanor, they were bad business she said, if anything they needed to keep an eye on them.
She was of course, correct. It would seem that they were giving a look around, sizing up the workers, our friends, and even my father at one point. They rented a room, bought a meal and the next morning, more of their friends were there. They apparently liked what they had seen, and wanted it for themselves. The fighting was done with words as well as actions.
After enough fighting and wounds, we decided it best to pack our things and head out, they were at the least kind enough to allow us some of our things, though they were tormentingly selective. None remained to stay behind, we were all to leave that night, or face further violence which we were ill-equipped to face. As the story goes; as we walked off into the distance of the night, some of them noticed something rather readily. They noticed that a small group had separated themselves from us, to where, we all knew. Faces shown darkly in the pale moon light, full of concern as they looked around to see just how many had ran off.
In the distance, a bright light drew our attention and broke our string of thoughts.
In the distance, a blazing light shown bright against the darkened sky. A fire was set upon our old home. They trotted with haste, leaving some of the more older ponies behind to guard the young and our few belongings.
When they had arrived, those who had so viciously ran us out were fleeing frantically to the forests. My brother wiggled free from the distraction of the burning flames and went to chase down mother and father. As he reached nearer to the heat, the intensity of the roaring flames made him sweat and worry, it was a stark contrast from the cool night air.
He shadowed the adults as he maneuvered between the tree line surrounding the road and our land. He saw his mother and his father next to a partially collapsed building. There were hurried screams and shouted directions. There, before his eyes and among the flames, a terrible sight was burned into his eyes.
Among the rubble and still burning wood of a small home, now serving as tinder to these terrible flames, he saw his elder sister, trapped beneath a beam. She cried out in terror and pain, hooves grasped forelegs and pulled. Hope shone like a light in his young eyes. But then, a terrible noise was carried on the winds and blew the light out as quickly as it had sparked.
There was a terrible snap, and a scream of warning. There, that night, he watched in shock as his parents were rammed aside in a hurry from a friend. He was the only one to hear the warning above the cries as a section of roof made its decent. There, before all to see, a child, a sister and a friend all in one, was buried below a weight of flames and wood.
Tears welled in his eyes, as he witnessed this terrible sight. His father was burned badly, his mothers soft eyes were now melted and frantic as she frantically tried to shake free of their grasp. She screamed to let them go, to get her baby. She screamed that there was still a chance, but the cruel truth was still there.
They walked her away, tears running down their faces. She was the only child that remained unaccounted for. Others were in the open, admiring their handy-work. My brother slid down the coarse tree trunk, and cried.
A hoof soon fell upon his shoulder in comfort, and he looked at the figure through tear streaked eyes. He couldn't make them out but it said only one thing.
He said that the others were worries, and asked him in a kind and consoling tone to come with him. He couldn't bring himself to dry his eyes to get a good enough look at them, and said only to them that he was scared.
The pony nodded and led him along through the trees as he cried and gave him a gentle nudge in the right direction. The pony tried to show compassion and kindness to him and bowed their head low in respect as he went off to join his parents.
They caught him in a loving embrace and cradled him in their arms, obvious relief and still ebbing tears finding their way from their eyes. He looked back to gaze one last glance once the tears had settled to a dull ache and a rending of his young heart, one last glance at the pony who had found him.
There was nothing.
He spoke of this pony as his guardian, his protector. A spirit which would you in your time of need, someone sent from the princess herself, or maybe from something else. He spoke of them with reverence and the more and more he thought, he thought the voice sounded strikingly like a stallion. Not anyone he knew, but as he grew older he recognized the similarities.
I wonder where they are now, when we need one of them the most.
While I cannot say that there is any guardian, rescue party or even army coming for us in the near future, I can say one thing, with utmost confidence. Something has came down here, arrived or shown its face after so long, and caused something to happen, of what specifically though, I'm not too sure.
Tonight, in our usual area for sleep and stories, there is an unusual feeling on the air. Through the constant ebb and flow of stories that are carried through those willing to take the risk, there is a piercing feeling. The feeling is not one of despair, not of mourning, of sustain or dread, the unfortunate underlying feelings we all seem to have forced upon us.
This feeling... it's been too long since it was carried on this air. It's almost foreign in its contrast to the normal prevailing emotions, and while not complete, there is no mistaking it or denying the familiarity of it.
Through the whispers, words of hope prevail, like seeds drifting on the wind and finding root.
In such a bleak and infertile ground on which we have walked, such seeds like this would scarcely grow, only weeds would find themselves comfortable here, slipping through the cracks and burrowing deep. Much quite a few of the things that are carried by whispers, not all of it is to be trusted. At best, it seems like you'll be grasping at straws, searching for a fruit among brambles, something that most, myself included, have learned the hard way. Yet, I can see it in their eyes, an old familiar light, one of a newcomer's hope before it is inevitably snuffed out. A light of family and joy, faint and distant but there once more. Their demeanor however, does not aptly represent what I see
Their shoulders are as sunken as they ever have been, their expressions range from the usual blankness, to distancing themselves or sorting out emotions, always conveying little to a simple glance. Their is nary a spring in their step to be had, nor a change in their slumping gait. On a cursory glance, everything is the same as it has been, bleak, dark and dead inside, and rather outside, with exemptions of course.
From my view, many of these never need to speak a single word to me, my mother taught me well. Their eyes most of the talking for them, voluntary or not. I can see the old familiar spark, the same spark that rolls and can ignite into a flame of passion, of hope, and joy. From the way things were, this tiny spark seems alight like a wildfire in comparison to things around us, lighting up their features and making me smile ever so slightly between the glances of the guards. Though, I have seen such sparks come and go, but not one quite such as this. Though each one is different, and I must have found myself saying this at one time or another in terms of these, this one is by far the most unique.
The more and more I think about things, the more it resembles the spark of a first night or week for a newcomer. They readily assume that they have perhaps two choices, live out their life here working, or fight.. But there is still a spark of hope in their eyes, the same feeling that they, with effort, could take on the swaths of guards with their friends, that they could somehow rally these many broken and rise against them.. That with their knowledge and ambition, they can plant their feet amongst the fetid ground and stand strong amongst the winds that come their way.
Ultimately in the end, they notice how poor and inhospitable for such growth this ground is, and the spark withers and slowly dies like an unkempt plant amongst as much unkempt soil. If there was anything I learned from my mother it was that eyes speak of the soul, and that for a plant to grow well, care needs to be placed. A lot of effort goes into growing crops.
Environment, conditions both in your control and out of your control like weather, and how fertile your ground can be. Water and food for everything, sunlight, relying on the friendly bees to browse your flowering fruits and crops, and quite a bit more all goes into growth of a plant just to name a few. But perhaps the biggest thing put into all of these processes, one of the most important and precious resources.
Time.
Without time, and with that the patience that comes with the slowing times amongst this strange and desolate soil, a seed would never flourish. Give it too much water, and it drowns, but give it too little, and it withers and dies. Leave it alone to itself without food or attention, and it dies a slow death. Then of course, the light around the space in which it is to grow is ever so important, and here is where the problems amass and pile themselves to a towering pile from my view, and truly astound me.
In an environment such as this, devoid of so many of these things how could anything hope to grow? The attention from the guards stifle and destroy any budding hopes for most, and yet here it is, staring me in the eyes, challenging the terrain around itself with a boastful grin and a fire in its eyes, the same fire that sparks off and finds its way into other eyes. A look that reminds me very much of my brother.
It seems to have made a tenuous rooting amid this ground, how far it'll spread its roots and leaves, is rather up in the air at this point. But perhaps what is more so left in the dark is the planter of such a seed. The inspiration, for such a spark.
To take credit for this myself would be madness, while I try to help some hope or well-spirits spread from those around me with a smile, a hoof on their shoulder or soft words, it's been rather long since I've been able to do these. They soon ebbed to little more than a trickle of kindness after a near fatal... punishment. I tried to loose a restraint on someone who was having trouble breathing. My reward? An afternoon amongst my own blood until a Pegasus from a caravan dragged me aside at night, showing both shared food and hungry eyes.
He never did tell me his name, despite how much I asked. He simply said to call him Blue. That migth be his name but I feel it's more shorthand than anything else, still, I don't tend to pry. You couldn't tell straight away from the look of him, but that was the color of his coat and mane, and it was how he felt. He was a recent arrival, already midway through a trek from a total of 3 large towns that needed supplies, he was already homesick. He said it felt like a week, but it was just as many weeks. He was new in his business, thought it was a nice way to make money, meet new faces and pay for his family. The only downside, would be so much space between his wife and kids
He had a wife and two kids as I learned that night, munching on cold bread. They met in a lovely place, settled down and had a family. He said their eyes were like stars in that small town of theirs, always lit up wherever they went. He said they might light up the night sky if they really wanted to, they sure brightened up a room to say the least. They had eyes of a honey sweet sunset he said. Eyes a lot like mine.
There was a blank silence, and tid-bits of things were exchanged. I told him my story, and those of others so that he knew those around him better. I told him how long they had stayed, what to expect of them, and lastly how long I had stayed. His eyes went silent and he asked through a constrained throat.
"I- We're.... we're not getting out of here anytime soon, are we?"
I simply said all that I knew.
I told him that nobody knows.
Amongst the rocks and shadows, little was then passed between us for some time. I left him to his thoughts and stayed, searching for words that were just at the edge of my mind, words of comfort or something to help. There was little I could find.
Finally, rest was needed for both of us, and I nodded to him, thanked him for the food and said I would return the favor in any way that I could. He said it was not a problem, that I would have done the same. I would have too, no matter the consequences. As he got up, I had one more question for him. Curiosity had gotten the best of me.
I asked him why he wanted me to call him Blue.
I felt his eyes lighten, but the emotion around him stayed that same dreading feeling of staring into a bottomless hole, and readying for a jump. He said one thing more, and with that, he was off.
"My son and daughter... when I was with them they would call me, 'Daddy Blue Skies'
That was just about five years ago, we've been fairly close ever since. He was one of the first I got to really know, and form a lasting bond with.
In the beginning, there were three I got to know very well, Blue was the second, but the first was an odd fellow. He always had a sing-song nature about his steps, his hooves beat a tune and his eyes danced the song he would play as he walked and worked. When I met him within the first three months, he was the first to speak between us, and stranger still, he spoke not with words.
It was in those first few months that I learned the most, and every day I learn more, but never so compact as those. I learned that we were not the first, and that this was no small organisation of ponies, nor was this anything of a small mine. I thought it no larger than a massive bear cave at first, by now I believe it spans more than the royal city on the mountain. I wouldn't be surprised if it even lead there. I learned of how quickly those around me can change, a polar opposite of their former selves. But further more, I learned that I was one of the lucky ones.
These guards are cruel, but they're by no means dull or short of wit. The young are exempt from such a suffering at first, but at a certain age they must suffer with the rest of them. You see, after a certain point were adjustments would become infrequent and they could even ignore doing so with no real risk to our lives, we get a collar. They of course have a hook on the back for hitching or leashing us to something, or to shackle us, usually with a chain.They at one point used hoof shackles, one on each leg and chaining them all together, limiting movement speed and forcing us to take things quite slowly. They noticed just how slow it made us, and cut the chains, but still issue out to newcomers the shackles, I guess as a reminder that you're stuck here, shackled to these grounds.
The bonds are strong, resilient and old from the looks of things. Very old, and with that age they seem to gain weight, almost weighing us down further day after day. I, nor anyone else for that matter, have ever been exempt from these weights. No, that's not how I'm lucky in my eyes. I'm lucky because I had the honor of meeting and learning from one who has become a great close friend of mine, one who saved me from everything around me. His name, is Carrow, Sparrow-Song.
And we both met, with a song.
