To see it as it burns now twists my stomach and the reminders of those we lost flood my mind. We had fought wars over the land and created cities amongst the debris of the fallen. The spoils of victory were never so Pyrrhic. History was never written in so much blood. The golden eras have long since passed, and how long until society is raised up from the ashes of our once great land? The memories of this war will long since pass and the history will never be recorded. Hopefully. There's too much pain, an everlasting soul-eater.
I walk along the edge of a sinkhole, the gaping abyss yearning for some poor fool to trip. I have plenty of leeway between the edge and my safety wall, but my paranoia has long since kicked in as I'm pressed up against a destroyed concrete wall. With a light kick of my front-right hoof, I send an average-joe rock over the edge and count the seconds.
1...2...3... Clack!
I hear a whisper of an echo reach my sensitive eardrums. It worked in the films - a suspenseful scene where our hero would be looking over a cliff-side, barely catching himself from a deadly drop as measly pebbles slid to their untimely doom. I don't know the math off the top of my head to figure out the distance of the drop, but I'm guessing it would hurt but not kill me if I landed the right way. It was midday, too, so I possibly see the bottom. I still wasn't taking any chances. Luck hadn't been in anypony's favor.
My side began to tingle, a sign I needed to re-treat and re-bandage the area. I turn my head as best I can; I still have a perfectly functioning neck. I catch the blood-soaked wrap from the corner of my eye and I cringe, not wanting to view the damages. I had been working my best to combat the blood loss, but day by day I felt weaker. The bleeding loss of blood runs cold. I quicken my pace as best I can to the closest safe ground, breaking into a quick gallop gladly leaving behind one obstacle.
It was almost rehearsed as I grabbed the knot in my mouth and gave it a tug, letting the improvised gauze fall to the burnt grass. It was uncomfortable to sit on, but I needed to get in my sack. The wound was mostly dry but still needed protection against infection. Ungracefully I applied an aloe-like gel with care and strung what remained of my rags around my waist. The dry field I rested in did not provide me with the supplies I needed, but the weeds sown in small patches showed me that life continued where I only saw the dead, even if it was slightly parasitic.
I guess my pessimistic mood was not helping. I had long given up trying to see the positives when it was no longer of use - how would it matter when everything was not in your favor. I guess I was alive, albeit slowly dying in an abandoned, destroyed environment, carrying a sack filled with low food and little clean water, and always little to no company.
Occasionally I would come across a pack of scavengers, picking through the abandoned yet familiar homes. I let them remove the possessions of the dead and they let me pass by, secretly wishing they were able to strike me down and loot what little I owned. What mattered to me had long since disintegrated into the past, and I was living with my shattered personality, holding my name as the only thing dearest to my heart - so in the end, what they pulled from me was of little use.
These hills would have been a lovely sight, had I been here when the grass was green. It had become a battlefield, and the telltale signs of war had destroyed the nature. I no longer saw a point in reminiscing on what could have been and focused solely on pushing forward, fighting the memories, travelling with little purpose.
***
Again, today was another tiring, mediocre trip through paradise. I was in no hurry so I lay in the corner of a torn down building to rest my eyes, a small dirt nap. I was numb to the gravel digging into the flesh on my lower back. It was neither particularly very warm or sunny, and I woke to a dash of an autumn breeze teasing my nose. The clouds were beginning to gray, but the smell of rain was pleasant. I looked to the sky and imagined what great pegasi were once in control of the weather here.
I did carry with me an old map from before the war, the image fading on a stained burlap. It was hard to tell where I was, a collection of cottages in the hills. There was no point in keeping track with my precise location on the map, but it was a nice keepsake and a bartering tool had I come across any survivor settlements. I tested a few doors along a rough track that wasn't even maintained when the inhabitants of this tiny town bustled along the streets.
That was rather inaccurate. I estimated no more than 20 homes here, only a handful on the southern end which foundations still stood strong. To no avail did were any locks open and I was left in the cold to await the rain. An attempt at me bucking a door open crossed my mind, but I was no strong athlete. My talents as an earth pony had been focused elsewhere, not on strength. Several homes had chunks of stone carved out of the architecture, large enough for my bag but not myself. I stored what I could for later and did what I could to stay dry.
My options at shelter for the night were limited - basically my average night. I couldn't trust the strength of the bombed-out homes so I avoided the ruins. One home had a thatch awning over a gravel walkway which I settled with. I dug at the ground with my hooves to clear a relatively comfortable patch for my rest. I made a mental note that I needed to trade at the next settlement for what could pass as a travelling bed, be it anything from a sleeping bag to a tarp.
The sun had not yet fully set and it always bothered me to sleep in the daylight. Perhaps I could look for a traveler deposits, an honor system many of those who had set out on hoof like me used to potentially help a future passer-bier. If you happened to locate any obviously-hidden goodies, it was expected of you to replace what you take with any items you carried but had no use for. I had come across only one in my journey, a sack wrapped with vitamin-packed energy bars brilliantly placed in a dry storm drain. It was extremely generous and a waste of value for the previous customer, though travelers who had given up hope and realized their end was near would often begin placing all their belongings close to their final resting place. I shuddered to think of the poor soul that had succumbed to a loss of faith. Alas I could not find anything, though I really didn't give the search much effort without anything to trade.
Wandering the town, I imagined it's former residents lollygagging about and not living their lives to its full value. It sounded cliche to think this, but you never really appreciate what you have till it's curled itself up into the dimensional matter of some other reality, permanently gone from your life. I longed for the days of relaxing, but now every moment had to be dedicated towards pulling the simplest scraps together just so you woke up the next morning with some resemblance of sanity. Again I realized I was thinking too much, hoping for mere shadows of had been.
That's when I heard it - the beautiful grind of an instrument's bowstrings. At first I had dismissed it as hallucinations (I did a horrible job at keeping myself hydrated) but the music in the back of my head only grew louder, the tone pleasing to the ears. That's what made it easy to find, as I had no desire to run from music of my dislike. My mind placed it behind the door of a home situated close to the center of the village. Funny how I walked by earlier and didn't hear a peep- wait!
My heart began to race, wishing that any kind of sentient being - even a Griffon, damned be my unapproving attitude of that race - was holed up here. An inspection of the front porch revealed nothing and the windows were boarded up. I wandered around to the back, focusing on the string quartet. I wasn't much a fan of classical music, but enjoyed a lovely fast-paced peace when I was calm (it sounds a little moronic, but that was just the kind of thing I liked to kick back to).
Nothing, and I wanted to avoid knocking on the door. There was a strange feeling nagging me to keep to myself. I couldn't quite place it, and filed it in my brain under 'YOU'RE THINKING TOO HARD, AGAIN'. This time was not wasted though, and I was ready for the night. Nearby my dirt bed was a dying apple tree, but I managed to scavenge a hoof-ful of ripe crab apples for a bedtime snack and some large leaves for comfort. I decided my scars could hold on their own and pulled off my bandaging for the last time so the skin could breath in some fresh mountain air. The fruit was small and sour, but every bite exploded with taste. I sighed, savoring the brief moment with a sensation that all was right with the world - which I obviously knew was not true in reality. So I snuggled down with my memories and drifted off relatively worriless.
***
