Into the Fire

by Zach TheDane

Rating: everyone
Tags: Tragedy, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad
Length: 8258

Torn from his family and homeland, a unicorn from Saddle Arabia seeks a safe haven in Ponyville, where he finds redemption in a way he had never anticipated.

Gevarel had never felt safe in his life. From foalhood he had learned to watch his own back, to be constantly vigilant against his worst nightmares. And he had become very good at it. He was sure he had escaped from the nightmares... until that night.
Now, even after escaping, the nightmares still haunt him as memories of the past. Will he find redemption? Or will the nightmares he had been running from his whole life finally catch him?

Published 2013-03-29 20:20:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-03-29 20:20:02 UTC

Prologue

Slowly, sleepily, the young stallion pulled the covers over him even tighter; his eyelids clenched shut in restless sleep. His room was cold, but he was sweating, beads of moisture forming on his temples and forehead. His horn glowed unintentionally with magic the way it did when he was dreaming, casting a pale blue glow over his face. In the dim light, his black coat was almost invisible, broken up only by the stripes of white that twisted around his body and streaked through his mane. Without his horn, one may have mistaken him for a zebra initially; with his exotic accent and penchant for greeting ponies by kissing them on the cheek, he certainly did not look the part of a Ponyville native.

Small grunts escaped his white muzzle as he turned over once again, dreaming of things unknown to the rest of the world. His eyelids fluttered faster as his breath quickened; he moved more erratically under the sheets that were now soaked with his sweat. His horn glowed brighter now, casting his entire bedroom into an ethereal haze. Suddenly, with a spark of magic, the fireplace on the far side of the room blazed to life, tongues of fire consuming the dry wood and sending smoke up the chimney. The fire blazed brighter and hotter than normal, being fed by the unicorn’s magic; the room grew warmer rapidly, and it wasn’t until his entire house was pleasantly warm that the magic stopped.

All was still; the fire was crackling slowly now, replacing the blue glow with a friendlier red one. The unicorn lay on his bed, sprawled out on his back with the sheets in a pile on the floor. The only sign of movement came from his eyes, which were still dancing frantically under their lids. His breathing was quick and shallow for a while, his broad chest rising and falling as if it were being pushed down on. His legs were spread out over the sides of the bed, the gold bands on his front legs clinking together rhythmically with each release of breath. The dancing light of the fire glided over his black and white coat, revealing his muscular frame and short, disheveled tail with a white streak that matched the one in his mane. He stayed stone still, his groaning silenced, as his eyes suddenly ceased their seizure; with a sharp and loud gasp, the unicorn awoke, his eyes snapping wide open.

Waiting for his heart to return from the ceiling, he stayed on the bed, his chest heaving with the loud breaths he was trying to quiet. After sufficiently calming himself down, the unicorn finally moved to look at the clock on his dresser. He sighed at the late hour and turned himself over, dragging his taxed body off of the bed and over to the fireplace. Unceremoniously, he lowered himself into a sitting position before the fire; drops of moisture fell to the floor in front of him as he stared into the flames, but they were no longer sweat. He blinked away the tears from the corners of his soft grey eyes and sat quietly, a mournful expression pulling down at his face.

It’s 1:30 A.M. again. Another night wasted. These things never seem to let me sleep in.
The unicorn sat in front of the fire for a long time, doing nothing but staring into the light. Every once in a while he would mindlessly play with one of the bands on his legs, never once taking it off. The firelight shone off its finish, making the gold look as if it were red hot. Looking back at the fire, the unicorn lit up his horn to squelch the flames, then hesitated. There was something mesmerizing about fire, even if it terrified him. Its dance was fluid and hypnotizing, much like that of the dancers from his homeland. It was both warming and burning, useful and destructive all at once. It could keep you alive on a frozen night and it could engulf almost anything. Almost…

He shook his head and blinked quickly, breaking the spell and clearing his head. Standing up promptly, he paced in front of the fireplace, his slow steps clicking softly on the wood floor. His head hung low, and he mumbled something in a different language as he finally settled once again in front of the fire.

“Tesbah ala Khair. May you be blessed by all those who come your way,” he whispered. With one last sigh, the unicorn lit up his horn and squelched the flames, plunging his house back into darkness.

Of Khubz and Sagat

The hot air blew slowly around him, stifling his breath. On this heavy wind was carried the smells of the marketplace: fruits and vegetables, freshly baked khubz bread, the sweat of the vendors and patrons and the smoke from the ovens. The commotion from the market square was rowdy and boisterous as usual, with ponies gathering around vendors waving their bits in the air and shouting their haggling cries over each other. Carts were pulled through the crowds and entertainers of every sort set up their stands to make a few bits, adding to the disorder even more. It was an average day.

Across the square in a narrow alley, away from the bustle, the little colt and another pony stood in the shadows; the elder of the two was much larger than than the foal and wore a black turban that wrapped around his head and mouth. His coat was a ruddy reddish-brown with a grey and black straight-cut tail; on his flank was a cutie mark of a curled snake, poised and ready to strike. His eyes were dark brown, almost blending in with his black pupils as they surveyed the motion of the crowd. He was cunning and quick, with a tongue that could seduce even the most intelligent pony to follow his direction and the fangs to punish those who would not. At the moment the tall pony had his front hoof resting over his shoulders, a gesture that would have been seen as affectionate if it had been from anypony else.

“Here is our opportunity, my student; show me what you have learned.” His voice was smooth and even as he spoke softly into his ear. “It is the one on the left, at the khubz vendor. See his bit pouch?” he said, removing his hoof from the young colt’s shoulders and pointing out toward the crowd; at one of the first vendors on the left of the square stood a tall grey earth pony thoroughly engrossed in his bartering. Hanging from his saddlebags was a rather full purse, tied all too loosely with a simple knot. The colt looked up at the older pony and frowned, working up the courage to speak.

“Me? You want me to do this? I thought I was coming to watch you…” His voice trailed off as he looked down at the dirt. His voice was soft and lacked assertion, and he knew it; but there a quality of mourning in it that surprised everypony he met. It was the voice of a foal who was perpetually lost, searching for home.

The older pony said nothing right away, but must have been smiling under his turban the way his eyes were gleaming. “No, no, my son, my Gevarel,” he said with mock pathos. “This is your turn! I want you to show me what you can do—show me what I have taught you.” He gave the colt a gentle nudge towards the mouth of the alley, stepping back to watch.

Gevarel stood still for a moment, staring at the oblivious grey earth pony. Hoping for one last way out of his situation, he turned back to his mentor and said, “Forgive me, sayyidi, but I do not think I can do this. Maybe I can watch you once more and practice back at camp?”

The earth pony’s head rose ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing in disgust. Casually, he stepped over to Gevarel’s side and bored his dark eyes into the colt. With no warning, he rose up his hoof and shoved Gevarel into the wall of the alley, holding him there and lowering his head directly to eye level. “Do not disobey me, dog!” he hissed. “I know what you can and cannot do, and you will take that stallion’s purse and bring it to me!” With one last shove against Gevarel’s side, he withdrew and stood back again, waiting for the colt to obey. Gevarel coughed, struggling to get his breath back and regain his balance. With one last pleading look at the older pony, he turned and walked slowly toward the market square.

He quieted his mind and calmed his nerves consciously, remembering all of the techniques he had been taught by his mentors. The grey pony was fairly close to the entrance of the alley, making his getaway easier, but there was still enough room between the two of them that he couldn’t just levitate the purse off of the stallion and toward him without a thousand other ponies seeing it. Surveying the area around his target, he noticed several places he could hide in waiting, several of which were perfect for a small pony like him. Aware that his mentor was still watching him, he took one last deep breath and walked into the market square. Immediately he was bombarded by the crowd, almost getting swept away by them multiple times. He was shorter than most of the adult ponies in the throng, but his agility made his small form able to weave under and through them easily. Without much effort, he reached the khubz vendor on his left and hid himself from the already distracted eyes of the patrons by ducking behind a group of barrels next to the stand. From his position he could easily see the grey pony and his loaded bag of bits jangling as he motioned at the baker. Gevarel could smell the fresh bread even more now, its nutty aroma mixing with the smell of what seemed to be apples coming from the barrels he hid behind. If he wanted to, he could have taken two easy steps to the grey stallion and grabbed his purse right then, making sure he was out of sight before anyone saw him. He too wore a turban around his head and muzzle, white rather than black, but his unique coloring made him easy to spot in a crowd of any size. No, he was smarter than that; grabbing and running was for the street gangs and the urchins of the city, those who weren't clever enough to use any other means than quick hooves. Forming a plan almost immediately, Gevarel backed away from the barrels slightly and used his magic to quietly pry the top off the one nearest to him. While holding the lid up, he simultaneously levitated a small apple out of the barrel and moved it toward him; after returning the lid to its original place, he examined the apple. It was small, but that was exactly what he wanted.

With calculated precision, the young unicorn focused his attention on the grey pony who was finally beginning to reach an agreement with the bread maker. Gevarel smoothly used his magic to open the mouth of the purse, revealing a large quantity of bits that came up to the very neck of the pouch. Gevarel’s horn glowed brighter as he focused his magic onto the coins, pulling them out carefully to keep them from clinking together. As the last bit escaped, he moved the apple toward the purse and slipped it lightly into the opening, closing it as easily as he had opened it. With the large pile of coins hovering next to Gevarel’s head, he watched as the grey pony turned his head to look at his money pouch. Seeing it still bulging, he shook his head lightly and returned his attention to his argument. Gevarel let out a pent up breath, but didn't stop to rejoice in his success. Sneaking away behind the barrels, he hugged the walls of the square, keeping his prize out of the view of anypony who may have happened to glance his way. Soon he was back at the mouth of the alley, walking toward his mentor who stood back in the shadows. The older pony’s eyes lit up ever so slightly at the sight of his student’s loot, which hung loose in the air surrounded by a cloud of magic. Quickly, not wanting to hold onto the money any longer than he absolutely had to, Gevarel opened his mentor’s saddlebag with his magic and dropped the bits in unceremoniously.
“I did it,” he said, his voice utterly devoid of victory. “Let us go back to camp now.”
The earth pony opened his saddlebag and looked inside, counting the bits gleefully. “Yes, my son, you have made me proud! Let us go back to camp; tonight you may do what you wish!” With that, the older pony led Gevarel away back through the alley, away from the noise and commotion. Although he couldn’t hear it above the din of the crowds, Gevarel knew that somewhere in the cacophony was the surprised cry of a stallion who had just realized his loss. The thought made him hate himself. Not daring to cry, he followed his master, his dragging hoofsteps kicking up dust into the warm desert air.

The camp was as it always was. Ponies of all shapes and sizes milled about; some loading and unloading carts of goods, some lazing around their tents playing card games or sleeping, and others yet meeting with “clients” outside the prying gaze of the public. Gevarel steered clear of those. Thus was the way of living with a Trade Caravan: the less you knew about something, the less trouble you could get into if it went south. And Gevarel made sure he never asked questions; the things his mentor made him do ate him up enough inside without getting involved in other ponies’ dealings. That though made him stop, forcing him to remember the stallion he had robbed earlier. The ease with which he had taken all that money made him sick, and he wished he could just run back to the market and give everything back, begging for forgiveness.

I didn’t want to do it, Assayed. Truly, I didn’t. Please forgive me. My master, he—
Gevarel shook his head hard, forcing the thoughts out of his mind before trotting along once again. Moving through camp, he decided to join a casual group of ponies gathered around the camp musician. A thin turquoise unicorn with wild grayish-white hair and a cutie mark of a quarter-note rest, he was peculiar to say the least. His antisocial personality and habit of mixing up words and sentences made him a bit of a sideshow amongst the members of the Caravan, but the unicorn didn’t seem to mind. He was always happy to play music for any ponies who wanted to hear, and he was impressively good at it. There wasn’t an instrument yet that he couldn’t play, and he played them all well. His full name was Melodious Etude, but most of the ponies in camp had taken to calling him Mel for short; Mel was Gevarel’s beacon in life, somepony he could talk to without fear of being called weak or useless. Neither of them ever did anything with other ponies in the Caravan besides each other, and it didn’t help Mel’s reputation when he was seen with the young colt nobody liked.

Currently Mel was sitting on a stump, playing a beautifully sad song on a long flute. He used his magic to cover the holes so his hooves were free, but his eyes were closed tight as he breathed into the instrument, producing his signature beautiful music. Gevarel sat behind the majority of the crowd and watched him in admiration, wishing to be able to make music so well. He hung his head down and sighed; all he could do was sneak and steal.

At the end of the song, Mel looked out over the small crowd and locked eyes with Gevarel. A smile crossed his face when he saw him, and one of his yellow eyes slipped over across its socket, settling nicely in a position that made him look halfway cross-eyed. Gevarel chuckled; Mel’s lazy eye was one of the reasons he enjoyed talking to the stallion so much. After dismissing the small group of ponies, Mel walked over to Gevarel, levitating his flute back into his tent without looking.

“Salam!” he said heartily, kissing Gevarel on the cheeks in greeting; his higher-pitched voice betrayed his levity, a happiness he always had after playing a concert. “It is good to see you again, my friend. I trust your practice with Pit Viper went well today?”

Gevarel flinched inwardly at the mention of his mentor’s name. “It wasn’t a practice, Mel,” he mumbled.

Mel cocked his head to the side. “Oh, I am sorry. Am I mixed up again? Did I forget what ‘practice’ meant? That happens sometimes, you know. Like yesterday, when I forgot what ‘left’ meant. That was a confusing day…”

“No, Mel, you’re okay,” he assured his friend as they walked into Mel’s tent. Immediately Gevarel was greeted by the familiar presence of Mel’s menagerie of musical objects. In one corner of his tent was a row of flutes and other woodwinds, while in another was a shelf of lyres and harps of all sizes and shapes. His bed had harmonicas and several small drums on top of it, leaving only his worktable clean. That was Mel, though; go figure. “I thought it was going to be a practice today. I was counting on it…” Gevarel picked a clear spot on the rug and sat down, digging at the floor with his hoof. Mel sat down beside him and gave a knowing nod, throwing his hoof around the colt’s shoulders. Unlike the touch of his mentor Pit Viper, Mel’s was welcomed, even comforting.

“He finally made you do it, did he not?” Mel said, sounding almost as disappointed as Gevarel. The colt nodded slightly.

“He never told me he was going to make me start working here, in Saddle Arabia. He said we were going to wait until the caravan left the country. He lied to me, Mel.”

“Mmhm,” Mel hummed deeply. “And you are surprised?”

“Not at all,” he replied bitterly. “But that doesn’t mean I ever wanted to do it. You should have been there, Mel. The stallion he made me rob—he was carrying a lot of bits; he did not look very rich, and that could have been much of his savings. And it was so easy! It was like taking kanafeh from a filly!” Gevarel had started out talking slowly, but now was talking faster and faster, trying to make his words keep up with his brain. Eventually, though, his tongue would not cooperate, and he chose to stop talking and bury his now tear-stained face in Mel’s neck. “Why am I made to do this?” he choked, not caring that he was crying like a schoolfilly. “Why did he make me?”

Mel did not say anything right away, preferring to wait until Gevarel was finished sobbing. “Your sadness makes me wonder,” he began, “what would have happened if you had decided not to do it. Surely you could have told Pit Viper that you had simply failed.”

“He would not have allowed it,” Gevarel said flatly, trying to be vague.

Mel’s eyes grew angry at this. “Did he not give you the option? What could he have done if you had failed? If you had gotten caught?” Gevarel shrunk back from Mel slightly at this, and he could see the older stallion’s eyes widen in realization as he looked up. “I see,” he said simply, withdrawing his hoof. Mel turned himself in front of the colt, staring at him as best as he could with his one good eye. “Then he truly did not give you a choice.”

Sniffling, Gevarel nodded weakly. “I do not know what I should do, Mel. I cannot bear to do the things Pit tells me I am supposed to, but I am afraid of him. He hurts ponies without a second thought, and I am not special.”

“I know, my friend, I know,” he replied, rubbing his head with a hoof. “It is bad enough that you must be here in the Caravan in the first place. The fact that your mentor is that kalb Pit Viper cuts me deeper than you can understand. If only I could leave here, I would take you with me, Rohi… I want nothing more than for you to be free.” Mel said nothing for a long while after that, and the two ponies sat in silence as the evening wore on.

Finally, Gevarel could not help himself any longer. “Mel?” He asked softly. The green unicorn’s ears perked up. “Why do you stay here? You are a grown stallion. You can do whatever you wish, can’t you?”

Mel sighed, forcing a lame smile. “Unfortunately, my friend, I cannot. I joined the Caravan long ago as a naïve colt looking for adventure; once you are in the Caravan, however, they do not let you out so easily. I play their music and travel with them because I am forced to, but I want nothing more than to be free of them. We are quite similar that way. The difference with me is that my decisions were made too long ago to change. Yours, on the other hoof, are not.”

Gevarel narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

Mel shrugged, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. “Nothing at all, my friend. I am simply a crazy stallion with a lazy eye who is obsessed with his music. Now, I believe you were telling me how easy it was for you to take that stallion’s money. Unless I am mistaken, which is entirely possible.”

Gevarel smirked, catching on to his friend’s insinuation. He knew Mel well enough to guess what he was saying by now.
“Now please, my friend, it is getting late, and I have music to attend to,” he said dramatically, winking in the least subtle way possible. “I have much…much…” Mel frowned, his eye dropping to meet the corners of his mouth.

“Practice?” Gevarel offered.

“Yes, that is it! Practice! I have much practice to do. I think.” With that, Gevarel left his friend, walking out into the cool night air as the last hint of sunlight disappeared below the horizon. He smiled slightly to himself as he thought of what he was about to do, and with one last look at his friend’s tent, he sneaked off through camp.

“Like I said, mudir, the eighteenth shipment never came in. It seems as though our client is holding out on us.” The stallion’s voice was deep and slow, betraying an obvious lack of intelligence. “You want me to wring it out of him?”

“No, Granite, I want you to teach him a lesson. I cannot have my clients believing that just because we are leaving town, they do not have to pay their debts.” Pit Viper spoke calmly and confidently, slowing his words for the sake of his dimmer partner. Red Granite certainly wasn’t an intellectual addition to Pit Viper’s entourage, but his muscle could make even the toughest of deals work out in Pit’s favor. A huge red stallion with flecks of black on his coat and a dust-grey mane, Red’s cutie mark was simply a large round rock; whether it was referencing his strength or his intelligence, however, Gevarel had never figured out.

“Leave it to me, mudir. I’ll have him squealing like a filly by the time we leave tomorrow, begging to pay you interest.” Gevarel couldn’t see Red’s face, but he could imagine the cruel smile the earth pony wore whenever he was told to “persuade” somepony.

“Very good then. Now, about the matter of our route to Los Pegasus…”

From outside the burgundy tent, Gevarel could hear everything the two stallions were saying. He guessed they were standing at the large central table of the shipment tent as usual, discussing their departure of Saddle Arabia. The thought made him shiver; he had never been out of the country in his life. In his seven short years, all of his memories had come from Saddle Arabia. They were not particularly good ones, but the thought of leaving his home to travel across the land with Pit Viper was enough to choke him.

He couldn’t remember his life before the Caravan; he was told he was just a tiny foal when they came and took him away from his parents. From what he had gleaned during his days of eavesdropping and sneaking about, his parents had been strong-armed into paying for “protection” from the caravan. Insurance is a funny thing, he remembered Pit Viper telling him once; if a pony pays for my protection, nopony will lay a hoof on him or his family. But if he cannot pay, I am not responsible for any… misfortune that should befall him at the hands of my associates. Somehow, Gevarel’s family had been unable to pay for Pit’s protection, and the ruthless trader had decided to make an example of the family. Whether Gevarel came into his hands through dark dealings or straight kidnapping, he didn’t know, but Mel had always told him not to think about it too much; he had Mel as a friend, and that was all that had mattered at the moment. The more he thought about it, the more Gevarel suspected his friend was trying to spare him from hearing something unpleasant, but he didn’t care. When a pony is raised by the likes of Pit Viper, he is used being told he is unwanted.

Even when he was doing well, Gevarel was never rewarded, never praised. It was perfectly clear that Pit wanted Gevarel to be his own personal cat-burglar, and he pushed the foal to his limits teaching him spells and techniques that would allow him to achieve that goal. After countless nights spent learning transparency spells, mastering the art of levitation, and being taught how to move in total silence, Gevarel had become even more adept than his teacher at going unnoticed; this success, however, gained him no approval from his mentor. The only thing that could get Pit Viper excited was failure, and in that sense it was never a good idea to get him excited. Gevarel winced as he thought of the bruises he had nursed after botching a mock house robbery or failing to pickpocket one of the camp members. But despite the constant derision, the colt had always had the comfort of knowing he wasn’t actually stealing anything. The bits he lifted from camp members were always returned, and the jewelry he burglarized from tents had always belonged to Pit Viper anyway. But today—today was different. His heart had nearly stopped at Pit’s first insinuation that they were going to try Gevarel’s hoof at a real theft. He had panicked, having purposely repressed the thought that such a day would ever come, but he knew now that Pit Viper was truly going to put him to work for good.

Me? A thief? A professional pickpocket? Gevarel felt sick. The thought that he, a foal who had been stolen in the first place, was going to steal for others was something that finally made him face up to his worst nightmares. He was cornered now, unable to shelter himself with the shield of time. It was time to make a decision, and he knew it. He was not a thief, and he was fully certain he could never be one. With a deep, calming breath, Gevarel emptied his mind and let his reflexes take over; it struck him as supremely ironic that he was about to use the skills he had learned from Pit Viper against him, and he let himself smile slightly as he slid through the bottom of the tent.

He had been right. There in the center of the room, about eight yards in front of him, were Pit Viper and Red Granite discussing their travel plans for the following morning atop a round table covered in maps. Stacked all over the floor of the tent were crates and barrels of goods the Caravan carried with them, the majority of items having been undoubtedly stolen from somewhere at some point. There were exotic rugs and tapestries leaning against boxes, antique vases and weapons lying on beds of hay in their open cases; it would have been an interesting place for Gevarel to explore, had his mentor not spent the majority of his time in the tent.

“I dunno, mudir, maybe we should wait to leave for another day or two. We can be packed up real quick-like, but I think we might be better off—”

“I do not pay you to think,” Pit Viper snapped, cutting off the dull stallion. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get through our window of opportunity to Los Pegasus! Do you have any idea what kind of money we can make there?”

Gevarel listened intently as the two went back and forth, sneaking up behind a pile of crates that smelled of stale hay. Not wanting to risk being seen, he contemplated trying an invisibility spell on himself, but gave up the idea quickly; even with heavy practice, he had never been able to make anything bigger than an apple invisible for any significant amount of time. Settling on his own natural talents, he silently crept up on top of the stack of crates, being sure to stay well out of eyesight of either pony. From this vantage point he looked out across the tent, scanning each table and flat surface for his target. It took him a few moments of searching, but his keen eyesight eventually found its mark. There, on an antique saddle rack on the far side of the tent, hung Pit Viper’s saddlebags, bulging with the bits he knew were still in the pockets. Gevarel smiled hopefully; knowing now where he was going, he carefully made his way across the tops of the crates, making almost no sound as he hopped from stack to stack. His small size was a definite advantage in going undetected, as any older pony would have been hitting his head on the top canvas of the tent with each jump. He paid close attention to the interactions of the ponies below him, making sure to look for any indications that one of them was about to move or change position. Their debate was seemingly keeping them busy, but it only took one glance in the wrong direction for Gevarel’s progress to be ruined. Crate by crate the colt made his way around the tent, skillfully weaving over and around the unorganized cornucopia of wares. Any other pony would have been sweating from nerves by this point, being so close to the gaze of the ponies he was trying desperately to avoid; but not Gevarel. He had long ago learned the art of shutting out distracting thoughts, replacing any doubt or fear with instinct. At present his only focus was on those saddlebags, and nothing could turn him away from that goal.

After what felt like hours of painfully slow progress, Gevarel was standing directly over the saddle rack on the top of a tower of crates. The two bickering stallions were only about five yards away from him now, but he had picked the perfect angle that would almost block both of their lines of sight. Red Granite stood on the far side of the table, almost facing Gevarel, but Pit Viper was both blocking his view of the colt and arresting his attention. Pit himself was standing dangerously close to the saddle rack, but had his back totally to Gevarel, making this the best possible scenario for him to quickly slip in and make off with the saddlebags. It wasn’t easy by a long shot, but it was his only option. Slowly, with painstaking care, he made his way down from the crates on the rear side, putting him on the ground between the cargo and the tent wall. After regrouping and lowering himself as much as possible, he half-crawled between the crates and out toward the saddle rack, his heart beating faster and faster as he gained ground. He was almost out from between the crates and was preparing to cast a levitation spell on the saddlebags when, to his horror, Pit Viper interrupted Red for the last time.

“I will say it once more, Granite; I am not staying in Saddle Arabia one more day. Our prime season in Los Pegasus starts soon, and we have milked this place dry. We have been preparing for this day for ten long years, my friend, and I will not see it delayed. Now please, allow me to gather my things. Tonight we shall pay a visit to this client of ours and have a very persuasive chat with him.” Gevarel froze, adrenaline flooding his entire body. He felt panic begin to seize him, but he pushed it away and thought furiously for a solution. If Pit Viper took his saddlebags with him now, there would never be a chance to get them back. He needed to grab them tonight, or his last opportunity would walk away forever.

Suddenly, an idea came into his head. It was risky and half sprung out of panic, but it was the only thing he could think to do. Ducking back behind the crates, Gevarel activated his magic quickly. His horn glowed bright blue as he cast the invisibility spell, and he prayed the light wouldn’t be seen by either of the two stallions. Focusing his magic intensely, he finished the spell faster than he ever had before; by the time he released the magic, he was sweating and panting from the effort it took. Peeking out through the gap in the crates, he saw Pit Viper as he turned to the saddle rack to retrieve his bags. Gevarel couldn’t see the rack himself, but the look of pure surprise on Pit’s face told him that his spell had worked. He silently cheered as he crawled further out, revealing the fruits of his spell-casting.

There the two ponies stood, staring at an empty saddle rack on which previously hung saddlebags filled with bits. Red Granite didn’t seem to understand his employer’s surprise as he stood there, eyes half shut with a dopey expression.

“Wha-” Pit Viper stuttered, “Where—where are they?”

“Where are what, mudir?” the brawny stallion drawled.

Pit viper’s already reddish muzzle flushed even redder. “My saddlebags, idiot! They were hanging right here? Did you move them?”

Red cocked his head slightly. “I don’t believe so. They are not here now, though, mudir.”

Pit turned to the stallion in anger. “Of course they are not! Where did they—” Pit Viper’s eyes grew even bigger, realization dawning on his face. “Ibn kalb,” he growled. “That little ibn il-Homaar! He stole them from right under my snout! Granite, find my little protégé and drag him to my tent by his ears. Don’t be gentle.”

Granite’s cold grin sent chills down Gevarel’s spine. “Gladly, mudir.”

With that, both ponies galloped out of the tent, leaving their maps scattered across the table and, more importantly, leaving the saddle rack untouched. His heart stuck in his throat, Gevarel trotted out into the open, watching as the previously invisible saddlebags rematerialized in front of him. He knew full well what he was about to do, and didn’t regret it one bit; but he still hesitated, realizing the true gravity of his situation. After doing this, there would be no going back to the Caravan. He grew dizzy thinking about it. He would never be able to see Mel again, and that thought above all made him wonder if he could really do it. He began to doubt his decision even more, certain he could not go through with it, until he remembered the words of his friend: If only I could leave here, I would take you with me, Rohi… I want nothing more than for you to be free.

With that final thought, Gevarel steeled himself, levitating the saddlebags off of the rack and tying them around his waist. Not daring to be seen exiting the tent through the front, he made his way to the rear and slipped out underneath, galloping as fast as his short legs could take him toward the market square.

It was dark, but Gevarel was used to navigating with little light. The desert air that was so stiflingly hot during the day was now sucking the heat out of him, making him shudder as he galloped down the Saddle Arabian alleys. He knew the market square would be mostly empty, and there was almost no chance the grey stallion from earlier would be there, but there was one thing he knew from observing Pit Viper pick pockets in town so many times; somepony he knew was always there, no matter what time of day it was. In a matter of a half an hour, he made his way into and down the same narrow alley he had been in that afternoon, coming out into the now empty market square. Several dim lamps lit the streets, casting eerie shadows over the abandoned vendors' stands. There were no carts this time, no entertainers or bartering ponies; if he didn’t know any better, Gevarel would have guessed the market devoid of life. Not bothering to look for anypony else, he bolted straight for the khubz stand, trotting behind it and interjecting a bright “Salam!” between pants. Just like he had figured, the bread maker was dozing against the wall of his stand, snoring the night away. At Gevarel’s greeting, however, the baker woke up violently, jumping in fright.

“Oh, forgive me, assayed, I—” His words caught in his throat as he remembered his thoughts from earlier that day. I didn’t want to do it, Assayed. Truly, I didn’t. Please forgive me. My master, he—

“Aphth—” the baker spat, still regaining his ability to speak. In the dim light, Gevarel could just make out the elderly stallion’s features; with a coat a shade darker than white and a cutie mark of a loaf of khubz, the stout pony wore a red bandana on his head and round glasses on his snout. “What are you doing here at this hour, foal? My shop is closed! Come back tomorrow!” he walked over to Gevarel and began pushing him out into the street, wheezing with exertion until Gevarel spoke up.

“No, do not misunderstand me, assayed. I am not here to buy bread from you.”

The old earth pony stopped pushing Gevarel and stood still, cocking his head in confusion. “Not here to buy bread? Then what in the name of Luna are you doing here?”

Gevarel lowered his head in shame, emotion rising in his throat. “You do not happen to remember selling to a tall grey stallion this afternoon, do you? One who possibly has lost his money?”

The baker narrowed his eyes, staring at the colt. “You are one of the ponies from the Trade Caravan, are you not? What do you know of missing money?”

Gevarel wished he could have hidden himself under the dirt. “You did serve this pony then?”

“Na’am. Yes, I did. But answer my question, foal.” The stallion’s voice was firm, but lacked the malicious undertone Gevarel was used to from members of the Caravan.

Slowly, Gevarel looked up at the vendor, tears now flowing freely down his white muzzle. His voice was thick with his signature mournful tone as he began, “Oh, do not return me to my master, assayed! If Pit Viper knew what I was doing, he would certainly—” He choked on his words, not wanting to voice his mentor’s manner of abuse out loud. “Yes, I stole the money from the stallion today; I did not wish to do it, though, you must believe me!” The sobbing colt motioned to his saddlebags as he levitated them off and dropped them at the bread maker’s hooves. “I have brought back everything I have stolen. There should not be a single bit missing; please, I beg of you, return this to its rightful owner. I cannot leave here without knowing I have made things right.”

The elder stallion stood stoic for a long while, unreadable. “I see,” he finally replied. “This is the doing of that dog Pit Viper. I should have known that kalb would have foals doing his work for him.” Bending down to look at Gevarel, the khubz vendor wore a look of compassion the colt had only ever seen from Mel. “Did he threaten you into stealing from this pony?”

Gevarel looked into the stallion’s eyes with shock; nopony besides Mel had ever been so straightforward with him, and even Mel was sometimes hard to take seriously because of his oddities.

“Did he threaten to hurt you?” he asked again, his compassionate face taking on a determined aura. Gevarel nodded miserably, breaking down into tears once more. Without warning, the baker put his hoof under the little colt’s chin, lifting it up to his level. “If you have returned to me all that was stolen, I can assuredly return it to the stallion. He is a regular of mine,” he added casually.

Gevarel’s ears perked up, a heavy weight lifted off his heart. “Thank you, assayed. This is more kindness than I deserve.”

The old stallion chuckled, putting his hoof back on the ground. “We do not deserve kindness, young one. That is what makes it special when it is given.”

Gevarel pondered the old baker’s words and was about to speak until he heard a noise coming from the alley behind him. Jumping up and hiding behind the khubz vendor like a foal, he had thoroughly abandoned all sense of courage and instinct he had felt when taking the saddlebags. “Pit Viper,” was all he could say as he and the stallion backed up against the khubz stand.

“Gevarel!” came a loud whisper from the dark alley. “Rohi! Are you here? It is I, Melodious!” The high-pitched voice grew louder and clearer as the stallion entered the market square, calling out his name. Then, seeing the colt, he called out, “Rohi! Here I am, on your… your… um…” he stopped galloping suddenly and put a hoof to his head, thinking.

“Left,” Gevarel offered impulsively. A grin spreading across his face, the colt ran to his friend and took his face in his hooves, kissing the lazy-eyed stallion on the cheeks. “What are you doing here?” he questioned. “Pit Viper and Red Granite are probably out looking for me right now!”

Mel nodded rapidly. “Not just them, but the entire Caravan. It seems that Pit is angrier than I have ever seen him. I suppose he never guessed his star pupil would be able to outwit him.”

Gevarel furrowed his brow. “But why are you here? What if they see you with me?”

Mel smiled even wider. “There are advantages to being an imbecile, or so ponies say. If I had told them you were almost certainly going to try to hide the money in my tent, and it does not show up there, I can just say that I must have been confused. It happens a lot, you know. But even now they have certainly realized that the money is not there. My misdirection has bought me time, but only enough to say goodbye.”

Gevarel felt his throat tighten again. “Goodbye? Why—why can you not come with me?”

“I can make them believe you have left the city if I return to them and say you were nowhere to be found. If I disappear also, those who may have seen me walk to the market will know that I am with you. It is not much, but it is the only way I can protect you right now.”

Gevarel was crying again, but he didn’t care. “You cannot go back, Mel! You must not! You promised me, hayaati. You promised me you would take me with you!” He shouted the last line, making Mel raise his hoof to his mouth.

“Shh, Rohi, please. I promise I am not leaving you. But I cannot come with you, not tonight. Trust me when I say that I will find you again, but now you must hide. I brought you some food and money for lodging, but you must not stay here in the middle of town. Please, my friend, I beg you to trust me!” Gevarel had not noticed Mel’s saddlebags until that moment, but he looked at them and saw the pouches brimming with supplies. Sticking out of one of the pockets, however, was a wooden box about the length of his forehoof, embroidered with gold.

“What is that?” he asked, motioning toward the box with his hoof.

Mel looked at his saddlebag and back at Gevarel. “Ah, yes. These are a very special gift, my friend. We must be quick, though. Take them out and look.”

With a flash of his horn, the colt levitated the box out of the bag and opened it in front of him. The night made it hard to see, but under the glow of his magic he could make out ten beautifully polished gold rings stacked neatly on top of each other. “What are they?” he whispered, mesmerized.

“They are called sagat. They are a beautiful set of musical instruments that can be worn anywhere. With them, you can make music everywhere you go.” Mel motioned to the rings with his hoof, his face bright with enthusiasm. “You wear them on your front legs; three high, two low by your hoof. When you dance, then, they collide with each other, causing a beautiful tinkling sound. They may not fit you yet, little one, but they will one day.”

Gevarel looked at his friend, unsure how he would ever be able to repay him. “I—I can’t thank you enough for this, my friend…”

“Yes you can,” Mel said emphatically. “You can thank me by making music. Wherever you end up, Rohi, make music to remember me by until the day I see you again. But now, light of my eyes, you can thank me by running. I believe I can hear hoofsteps coming down the alley after me.”

Gevarel quickly put the box back into the saddlebag and levitated the whole pack onto his own back, its contents weighing him down. Turning around, he noticed the bread maker once more, who had been standing in front of his stand awkwardly the whole time. “Did I hear you correctly, young one?” the old stallion asked. “Do you truly have no place to stay tonight?”

Gevarel looked back at Mel, who had a worried look on his face as he looked down the alley several times. “No, I do not. But if I move now I may be able to find a haven on the far side of town where I can wait until the Caravan leaves tomorrow.”

The baker lifted his head in offense. “Nonsense! I know enough of that conniving rat Pit Viper to realize that you have had more than your fair share of hard nights. You will come home to me and my wife; there you will be safe from the prying eyes of thieves and scoundrels.”

Gevarel opened his mouth to protest, but Mel beat him to it: “That would be very kind of you, assayed. Your deed would not be forgotten.” With that, the turquoise stallion gave his friend one last embrace and pushed him over to the baker. Confused and bereft at leaving Mel, Gevarel felt tears well up in his eyes once again as the elderly stallion led him away down the street. Venturing one last look over his shoulder, he saw for the last time his best friend, grinning and cross-eyed, waving back at him before trotting boldly back into the alley.

They are called sagat. They are a beautiful set of musical instruments that can be worn anywhere. With them, you can make music everywhere you go. Gevarel felt his throat close up, but he swallowed hard and blinked away his tears in determination. Wherever you end up, Rohi, make music to remember me by until the day I see you again.

I will, hayaati, he thought. Until you come back, I promise I will.

Author's Note

Note on translation:
While everything important to the story is written in plain English, there are certain phrases in the story that are either more accurate in Arabic or more aesthetically pleasing. Here are the translations for the important words:
Khubz: A flatbread
Sayyidi/Assayed: Mister, Master
Salam: Basically means "Hi" in English
Rohi/hayaati: terms of endearment
Mudir: Basically means "Boss" in English
Kalb/ibn kalb: dog (derogatory term)
Kanafeh: A Middle-Eastern sweet pastry

If I missed any, please let me know!
-Zach