//------------------------------// // Desperate Souls // Story: Dissonance // by The Plebeian //------------------------------// “Get up!” An incredible force sent me into the air, further confusing me in my groggy stupor. “Come on, Mellownote! Bright! And! Early!” Dewdrop punctuated each of the last three words with a solid buck to my mattress. If the mattress was aware, it might have felt traumatized by these ponies so thoroughly abusing it. My eyes shot open just as he was about to give the mattress another solid kick. “Enough!” I shouted, cruelly beaten into a state of clarity. Dewdrop let his back hooves fall back down to the ground and turned to face me directly. “Good, you’re awake!” he said cheerily, “Come on, we’re going to go out and get breakfast, and there’s no free breakfast out there for late-risers!” Mornings were not my time of day. However, it was very hard to argue with Dewdrop, who seemed to have more than enough energy for both of us. I threw off the drapes and sat up, blinking a few times trying to keep focus. Without waiting for me, Dewdrop rushed out of the window. I stood up, wavering a bit as the fuzzy world came into focus, and then dove out after him. He was waiting just outside, and he hardly stayed in the spot long enough to say, “Come on!” before he darted down into the city. We curved around a few buildings until he landed at the corner before a plaza. “Now, Mellownote,” he said, adopting a mockingly serious tone, “I can guarantee you that after yesterday, a lot of shopkeepers can use some extra help. Help the grocers, and they’ll probably give you some food. Anyone else will give us a bit or two. If we can get breakfast and just a few bits, we’ll get something for your first day. Got it?” I nodded, “Yes.” “Good! Let’s go.” I could tell Dewdrop could hardly contain his enthusiasm as he adopted a casual walk around the corner. I followed suit with an amused smile. As we entered the plaza, I saw exactly what the youth was talking about. Many of the shopkeepers were older, and I was willing to bet their sons or grandsons had been their helpers before yesterday. Dewdrop whispered back to me, “Pick one. Earn your keep,” and then started off towards one of the grocery stands, which seemed to sell lettuce and cabbage. The vendor seemed very relieved to see Dewdrop. I looked around the scene and spotted a baker’s stand. A good roll or two sounded very good at that moment; even the fresh scent reminded me of home. I trotted over to the booth, and the old stallion tending it took notice. “Uh, I’m setting up shop right now, son. Come back in a bit and I’d be happy to sell you something. Now, where were those – ah, here!” I tried to push past his distracted manner, “Actually, I was wondering if you wanted any help.” He perked up his head, and stuttered, “Oh, oh, uh – let’s see. Yes, you came on a great day to help; I’m running down to my last bit of wheat since that dastardly dragon came. I need you to run to the granary down the bend. They’ve got at least a good half-year supply in there. Here’s three bits. Get me a bushel of wheat, will you?” I nodded, taking the money, and walked towards the granary. I at least knew where that was; my mother would send me there on the days when we needed just that little boost of stock for the day. I flew over to the building, which resembled a widened spire, fitting in well with the typical Canterlot buildings. A bulky-looking stallion sat on a bench at its entrance. “Hey, there. What do you need?” he asked. “Just a bushel of wheat,” I replied. “Sure,” he said, and disappeared into the granary. Shortly after, he came back out with a neatly-wrapped and generous-looking bushel of wheat. “That’ll be two bits, please.” I gave him the two bits and picked up the bushel, taking it carefully and putting the last bit the old stallion had given me just under the binding of the bushel, safe and sound. I took off with the cords of the bushel in my teeth and returned to the old vendor, whose visage brightened as I approached. “Thank you kindly, son! I would have gone myself, but I’m just not as speedy as I used to be, and I can’t leave this cart alone with any peace of mind.” I dropped the bushel at his feet, then fished for the extra bit he had given me. “They only asked for two bits. Here you go,” I said, offering the little gold piece to him, but he shook his head. “No, they ask for three bits, son. It’s the fine price for a bushel of wheat,” he replied, winking, “However, I’d be happy to give you a couple of rolls for your service.” I graciously accepted, and took two rolls from the cart. With a soft “Thank you,” I walked over to the center of the plaza, where Dewdrop was waiting. “Not bad for a beginner. I’ve got two extra bits, and you just got one. Two more and we can get the surprise!” A smile played across his face, and he seemed ready to leap into the air at the thought. Instead, he shouted, “Follow me!” and galloped over to another stand. I followed at an easy trot, and watched as Dewdrop engaged our next target: a mare running a vegetable stand. “Well, I’ve already got the stand set – oh. Is this young man with you?” The mare, who had a mint-green coat and leaf-green mane looked at me curiously, and then at my flank. Her eyes lit up and she said, “Well, there may be something your friend can do for me.” Dewdrop turned to me, confused. “What?” he spat out. She continued, “You see, my daughter just left yesterday. She’s off to be a nurse. She used to hum or sing a tune around the house. Would you sing me something? It’s rather dreary without her voice to fill my days.” Dewdrop smiled, “Oh! That should be easy. Come on, Mellownote!” I gulped, looking between the kind eyes of the mare and the eager eyes of Dewdrop. I could hardly refuse now; they had well-enough pinned me under their expectations. I had to try. An old love song slowly worked its way into my mind. The cadences, the chords, the emotion flowed through me, and I found a certain peace that I had not known for a long time, a piece of me I had left behind too long ago now. I closed my eyes, and let the words ring. If I have never loved you truly Then tell me why, when you are near, the stars are brighter If I have never loved you truly Then tell me why your honest smile prompts me to mine And as the hearth glows And the world grows Into a wonderful scene And though the storm calls And the night falls I can scarcely believe You chose me I opened my eyes to see the mare. I could tell she knew the song, and her eyes were tearing up. Still, the features making up her visage urged me on to sing the last lines. I had never been fond of the last lines. And though I know we can’t last forever My fervent love, my mourning dove, we’ll try together And when, in the end, things don’t get better You’ll be my love, I’ll help you find your way home “Th-thank you dearie,” she said, her eyes still watery. She embraced me for a moment. “It makes things a bit better,” she added. With that and a soft smile, she let go and slid two bits over to Dewdrop, who accepted with a bright smile. “Thank you,” I said. “You two keep safe.” Dewdrop was already trotting away when I took my eyes off of the mare. He craned his neck to look at me and called back, “Come on, Mellow! Why are you always so slow?” I sped up to catch up with him. “I’m not in any sort of rush. You see more when you slow down,” I replied. Dewdrop rolled his eyes. “But it takes so much longer to get where you’re going!” he groaned. “But the journey can sometimes be greater than the goal,” I proposed. He shook his head, “I’ve got it all figured out. The less time I spend on the goal at hand, the sooner I can move to the next!” “And when do you stop and appreciate what’s around you?” I asked. “Sometime, Mellownote, but not now,” he replied heartily. We turned onto a main road, and I saw the citizens of Canterlot slowly trickling onto the streets. Their spirits seemed dampened: their eyes ringed, and their heads held low. Dewdrop hardly seemed to notice, waving at a couple good-heartedly, with a bright smile. For some, the smile spread, and others went on just as they had been, hardly noticing the youth. Did he notice? I could not be certain. Perhaps the lens he saw the world through had a different tint than my own. Perhaps his world was full of excitement and adventure, with blurring at the edges so he could only look ahead. Perhaps his room was lit by a grand crystal chandelier, and his bed was great and plush, with a massive comforter blanket and a cloud-soft pillow, and his walls painted with vivid scenes and lined with shelves of a multitude of books, ranging in size and color and content. Perhaps that was the world he saw. Perhaps that was the world that was, and my lens was the one that warped reality out of proportion. Dewdrop turned into a building I recognized as the Upper Canterlot Library. I followed after him, and was immediately belittled by its massive shelves and outrageous scope of texts and tomes. Dewdrop eagerly walked – a word that I use very loosely in his case – over to the front desk, where an old mare smiled warmly at his approach. As she looked behind him at me, her eyes narrowed in confusion. Dewdrop ignored her befuddled glance and asked, “What do you have for five bits today, ma’am?” She waved her arm jokingly around the entire library. “Anything from that little section, Dewdrop. Who’s your friend?” He turned, as if surprised that I had been behind him the whole time. “Oh, that’s Mellownote. He’s from lower Canterlot,” he said nonchalantly, as he started to walk off to the fantasy section. “Wha- Oh. Oh, my,” the librarian stammered, and then turned to look at me, with a gaze that resembled a mix of horror and curiosity. She stood there, dumbfounded for a moment. She sized me up more than a few times, as if she expected, perhaps even wanted me to vanish under further scrutiny. “I’m so sorry,” she finally said, lowering her head. An echo returned to my ears, “I’ve never been much for pity.” It was a strange inclusion Fine Line had made. Yet now, I think I could see it clearly. A woman feeling sorry for me did not help me. Dewdrop had helped me, and not out of any sort of sympathy, but out of some strange curiosity and friendship. It was at that moment that I realized sympathy was a greater mockery than apathy. While apathy is similar to ignorance – a blissful dream that neutrality is affordable – sympathy is an acknowledgment of disparity, but without the will to do anything about it. Sympathy is idle opinion: apologizing, but still unforgiving. I turned my eyes to Dewdrop and replied firmly, “Don’t be.” She blinked, and then lifted her head up. Although she still wore a nervous frown on her face, her body seemed a bit more at-ease. “How long have you known Dewdrop?” she asked. “A day, give or take,” I replied. She shot an inquisitive glance, but I stared on at Dewdrop, who was beginning to climb one of the sliding ladders. “You?” I asked. “Many years,” she replied, “I taught him how to read and write.” Dewdrop paused in the middle of his ascent up the ladder, his eyes seeming to be fixed on a book far to his left. He raised one of his hind legs against the side of the enormous bookcase and gave a gentle push. The ladder slid perfectly into place, and he reached straight forward, seizing a faded-blue book. “He’s never come here with a friend before. It’s unlike him.” She paused, opening her mouth, and then closing it again indecisively. Finally, she continued, “He would always proclaim to me that books had so much more to say.” She looked between Dewdrop and myself, scrutinizing us both with equal discernment and thoroughness. As Dewdrop climbed down and rejoined us, book awkwardly resting between his teeth, she let the effort go, and smiled at Dewdrop, as if her entire questioning of me had actually been a strange façade of her true nature. “Let’s see that there,” she said as the text was dropped on her desk, but then almost recoiled at the sight of it, “Oh, how did that book get up there? I don’t think this is the kind of book you’re looking for, Dewdrop.” The colt shook his head. “This is definitely the one I want.” “I’m – er,” the librarian fumbled, “just not sure you’d like it. It’s not any sort of adventure or anything. It really shouldn’t have been on that shelf.” I tried to catch the title of the book, but the gray-maned mare put her hoof over it, readying to pull it away. Just as quickly as she had reached for it, Dewdrop firmly pressed his own hoof into it. The librarian gave off the faintest silhouette of a strange despair. “Don’t worry,” Dewdrop insisted, “I didn’t pick the book for the section it was in, ma’am. Besides, how could you know I wouldn’t like it? I’ve never tried anything like it.” The librarian lifted her hoof, her mouth open, ready to provide her reply. However, Dewdrop seized his opportunity and deftly swept the book over to his end of the counter, throwing our five bits onto the counter in exchange. The librarian paused, her eyes frozen on the bits. She closed her mouth, and slowly lowered her hoof, her face a portrait of confusion and bitterness. Still, she kept her last rebuttal to herself, and instead looked between me and the small gold coins bitterly as we passed back through the doors of the Upper Canterlot Library. * * * I followed the young pegasus as he darted once more through the window of his home. This time, I made sure to slow just before floating through. Rather than the first impact being my face against Dewdrop’s mattresses, I felt the hard wood floor under my hooves. The colt smiled at my caution, and dropped himself and the new book onto his bed. He beckoned towards me and urged, “Come on, we’ll read it together.” “Right now?” I asked, “What’s the hurry?” “Why wait?” he returned, “Do you need to do some sort of book-reading stretches or something?” He finished with a short chuckle, and I felt a bit of color rush to my face. “Fine then,” I said, joining him on the cot, “Let’s get a start on it.” He pulled the book in front of the two of us side-by-side, and I was finally able to see the title, The Point: Reflections of Mighty Quill. The book itself looked to be two to three hundred pages. Indeed, its topic was nothing like the collage of books scattered in the back corners of the room. Dewdrop pulled the front of the cover over, and flicked past the first couple of title pages to the beginning of the text. “Read it aloud for me?” he half-asked, half-commanded. “Why?” “I tried reading this book before,” the colt admitted, “but it didn’t make sense. I thought maybe if I heard it in a different voice, I might understand it.” I looked at the words scrawled over the page. It was hoofwritten, and as I flipped over to the title pages, I noticed the author’s signature. The name Mighty Quill rang a bell, but I couldn’t tell which toll rang through my head. “You couldn’t read the handwriting?” I asked. “I could read it,” he answered, “but I didn’t understand it, even when I read it aloud to myself. The words were empty.” I submitted, and flipped back to the beginning. Why have I set forth to write this book? That very question is the one I set out to answer by writing it. It may seem redundant, but you will understand soon enough, reader, that there are few things that have ever been necessary that are done. Do not be daunted, for though we are not able to converse face-to-face, I hope to help you however I can to understand what I have committed to these pages. Perhaps along the way, we truly will meet, on some middle ground, or perhaps even on my own grounds. However, the contact of this book against your hooves is as close as I will get to trying to meet you where you stand. After all, I have yet to read a book that was written to passively agree with all of its readers. “Wait.” “What?” I asked. “What was that supposed to mean?” “What part of it?” “That ‘meet you where you stand’ part,” he said, “What does he mean he won’t meet us?” “Oh,” I said, “It’s an expression. He means he’s not trying to say something his readers already know.” Dewdrop blinked. “Okay,” he said, “It’s only a bit less garbled than I remember. You’re reading it a lot like I did, like you’re only looking at the words.” I offered him a confused look, and he continued, “You know, it’s like how little fillies and colts read: toneless. That’s how I read it, because I didn't know what I was trying to read. You know, though! Read it like you know what you’re reading!” “I’ll try,” I said. There is a certain question we all ask ourselves, and that is why we start and end a day with hope of a new morning. What makes us push forward? What purpose do we serve? The quest I have taken up is to understand. Understanding goes far beyond the simple knowledge, which flows around the world in the form of little free facts and instant gratification at the thought of knowing something new. What purpose does knowledge serve, though, if we make nothing of it? A pony that only knows everything may as well not exist, if he only bothers to know it. He is nothing more than a living encyclopedia, reciting only what is written. However, if one understands, he expands beyond the fact and reaches into theory. Understanding is a connection of knowledge to emotion, to the mind, and while many things seem straightforward, I assure you, there are few things we understand, and finding new understanding is not a feat easily undertaken. I was reading with my own voice now, and I felt a strange connection to this profound writer, as if he were directly using me to speak to this young, curious colt. I glanced at Dewdrop for a moment, and he was smiling softly, staring forward at the scratchy script of Mighty Quill. He no longer wore a look of confusion, but rather happy discovery. It was an odd book, but with a certain intrigue, as if its author was trying to reach out to curious readers just like Dewdrop. I continued to read on to him, and he never bothered to interrupt me again. * * * As the sunset cast warm light through the room, Dewdrop broke out of his trancelike listening. We had burned through a good fifty pages in the afternoon, and the words echoed around my head, striking chords and tri-tones where his ideas touched my own. Dewdrop’s stomach rumbled, and he suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, wow! We read straight through dinner time!” He threw a small slip of parchment between the pages we had landed on, and slammed the book shut, setting it down on his pillow. “We’ll just have to see what we can find. Most of the restaurants that offer leftovers for free should be closed by now.” Feeling his anxiousness radiating all about, I stepped off the bed, freeing him up to do the same. He gave a short “Come on!” and leapt out the window. I followed, and watched as some lights in a couple of buildings flickered out even as we flew by. He was flying low, looking about for opportunity, but as we passed plaza after plaza, his face grew more and more disappointed. Though the scents of food still drifted from the restaurants, the seats and tables were deserted, and the lights dimmed. Dewdrop would spare them a glance, but he did not slow down. He began to call back, “You see, this is why we stick to a schedule.” I was unsure whether he was berating me or himself. Regardless, I am certain the message was well-heard by both of us. His words were punctuated by the dimming of more lights all around us. He was beginning to slow down now, resignedly. The red of the sky was slowly being replaced by deep blue, with bright white light. He flew lower and lower, until he finally landed with a gust against the cold stone under his hooves. I followed suit, and he began to look between the darkened buildings with a look of concern. It could hardly help that my own stomach was beginning to turn over. Dewdrop was at a slow canter now, and we began simply meandering through the streets. “What a bother,” he said, “It’s been a while since this has happened.” “What did you do last time?” I asked. “Skipped dinner, but we already skipped lunch today for that book.” “Oh.” We passed an alleyway, where I spotted the warm light of a fire, next to which two stallions sat. Dewdrop did not even turn his eyes to look at them. “Why not ask them?” I asked. “I don’t really talk to the other homeless ponies, especially at night,” He said matter-of-factly, “They keep to themselves, and I keep to myself,” “What good does that do?” I asked. “Weren’t you ever told not to talk to strangers? I’m not a big pony, Mellownote, and I’m not a fan of flying away for my health.” He had a point. “Why did you talk to me, then?” “You’re different.” He did not bother to elaborate, and a silence pervaded the air. I wondered just what made me different, that he would find me worth making friends with. Maybe it was simply that I was new. A second rumbling of my stomach broke my reflection, and I began to look around for some sort of option. Rising above many of the archways and colonnades lining streets was what I recognized as the granary. I pointed and asked, “What about there?” “What?” Dewdrop stammered, “Oh, the granary. We don’t have any money. Besides, I don’t even know if anyone mans it at night.” He was so innocent, I felt guilty to have even suggested the place. Still I persisted, “I know, Dewdrop. We can just take a bit of wheat to last us through the night.” Dewdrop turned to face me, “You mean steal a bit of wheat.” “Well, yes.” He stopped for a moment, sweeping his head around for a panoramic of the city, and then lowered his head, “Fine. We’ll check it out.” We wound around the wide streets without another word. As we passed by an alleyway, I saw another group of homeless ponies around a small fire. One offered me a smile, and I shot a nervous smile of my own back at him, but kept on with Dewdrop. The moon was frowning down upon us, glaring all over Canterlot with its pale light. I wondered if the mare in the moon was able to tell anyone of the things she saw late in the night, the two young ponies setting off under her light. It was justified, was it not? The granary was meant to provide food for Canterlot’s citizens, after all. After what I had gone through, did not fate owe me something, even just this slightest retribution? We came upon the granary, and there wasn’t a pony in sight. Dewdrop looked about nervously. He tested the handle on the door, which was expectedly stiff. “Well, there goes that idea.” “Wait,” I asked, “didn’t you have a lock-picking book in your little collection?” Dewdrop flinched, “Yes.” “You’ve read it, right?” “Fine, fine. You win.” He reached into a small bag he had slung around his neck, and fished out his picks. Fumbling around with them in his mouth, he pushed them into the lock and began shifting them ever-so-slightly. I kept looking on back and forth, but nothing presented itself to bother us on the cold night. With an audible “click,” Dewdrop pushed the door open. It swung freely and silently, to my relief, and we walked in. The pale light filtered in through the doorway, and I picked out the bushels of wheat. Dewdrop followed behind and asked dolefully, “Couldn’t we have just asked somepony?” “Who, Dewdrop? Nopony is around.” A firm voice penetrated the air from behind us, and made my hair stand on edge and my wings buckle, “I beg to differ.” The two of us turned around in unison. In the doorway behind us, moonlight glinted off of golden armor, and lit up a deep red coat and short black mane. In one of his hooves was a long spear, with a black feather tied to the tip. He looked between the two of us, eyes narrowed. Dewdrop was frozen in place, eyes wide and legs stiff. The guard eventually let his gaze settle on me. “We are at war, boys. The last thing this city needs are thieves.” The guard hefted his spear over his shoulder to point it at me, and I was forced to look into his eyes past its shaft. “You, how old are you?” I was paralyzed, and it took me a moment to move my mouth to make words, “Eigh- Eighteen, sir.” “Any family?” My ear twitched. “No.” The soldier smiled, “Good, you’ll make a great addition to the army, then.” I stared incredulously at him for a moment, then shouted, “What?!” His stone face showed ho sympathy, and I began to wish for even just a morsel of feeling in him. “We guards are cut thin already; we can’t watch over some thieves. There will be plenty of men to watch you in the army.” Dewdrop shouted, “You can’t do that!” The guard turned to Dewdrop. “And why not?” He stuttered for a few moments, then cast his head back down in defeat. Noting the dejected look on Dewdrop’s face almost victoriously, the guard turned back to me, “Your friend, how old is he?” I was about to answer, but Dewdrop answered, “I’m eighteen.” The guard fired a piercing glance at him. “I did not ask you.” Dewdrop looked at me, his eyes casting his emphatic request at me through the light of the moon. I knew what he was trying to do. Even though we had only just met, though we were an odd fit, he did not want to leave me. There was something in me he saw, I knew now, something he thought was special. It was something he could not bear the world without, now that he had felt it. He wanted to join me, and I understood that I wanted the same. Narrowed eyes stared into mine now. “Well?” the guard persisted. “Yes, he is eighteen,” I finally said. “He doesn't look it,” the guard insisted. “He’s a runt,” I said just as harshly, “What do you care?” I could tell the soldier knew that I was lying. His eyes were stained with stiff skepticism, but he only said, “Very well. You will go together. Hooves. Now.” Dewdrop and I both offered our front left hooves, and he placed a clamp on each, attaching the other ends to his own back legs. “Wings,” he droned, pulling a short rope from one of his bags. The two of us flexed our wings, and he tied my wings to Dewdrop’s. The whole time, I refused to take my accusing glare off of his eyes. He, in turn, refused to acknowledge it. With the two of us effectively restrained, he started out of the door. We were forced to follow, as the chains pulled us forward. As we came out into the street once more, he commanded, “Shut the door.” Dewdrop turned sharply, grasping the handle with his mouth, and slammed it shut. The thud rang from the building, piercing the silence of night. The guard shot a derisive glance at Dewdrop, whose own eyes only showed defiance. “Save it for the dragons, kid,” the armored stallion said, and then yanked his right-back hoof forward, tugging the vexed colt out of his stance. We began another long walk through the streets of Upper Canterlot. Its imposing, bright-colored buildings now felt to me like some sort of mockery, casting shadows over me even in the night. I glanced at Dewdrop, who had already lost his fervor, and now wore a look of pained resignation as he trod along with us. He noticed my scrutiny, and offered me a short smile. I returned my own, hoping it would reassure him. He lowered his head back down and looked at his front hooves. I turned my gaze back to the stallion in front of us. Never before had I truly hated somepony, but this one had no feeling, no compassion. Was it only because he had caught us that I hated him? No, I thought, there was something that made me hate him in particular, that made my blood boil when he spoke, and made me itch to bind him in his own chains. It was his disposition. He could hardly care less about what would happen to Dewdrop and me. He just wanted us gone. He was a guard that did not stand for justice. I wondered just what good purpose he could serve in anypony’s life with that sort of attitude. Still, he was my captor. Why? Whose side was fate on? After all, I could hardly believe any of this to be coincidence. My life had fallen apart so perfectly and quickly. I thought about the teal colt next to me. Even with wings tied and a hoof in a chain, he would not recant his decision to join me. Why did fate tie us together? The pale moon continued to shine above, watching as these two souls were led onto a new path, unlit by its rays.