Dust knew he was out of his league the instant he entered the swamp. He had told himself the likelihood of faltering at this step of the journey, despite being the first and easiest of the many that lay ahead, but saying such things even a thousand times is nowhere near being the same as actually faltering.
As his hoof crossed the shaded border between the dark swamp and the sunny, golden fields behind him, he could feel the resolve in his heart disappear into nothingness. The ground beneath his hoof squelched as he took another step forwards, this time draining him even further of his bravery. The darkness ahead seemed to repulse him, telling his insides to flee, as if it were he maw of some great beast which he stood at the edge of. With the warmth of the sun at his back, and the ice cold depths of the swamp looming beyond, every instinct told Dust to step back and never return. For a moment, he almost did just that. But a voice inside him reminded him why he was here, and a small portion of his previous resolve returned.
Trying not to shake, the grey pony entered the darkness. In a few moments, his hooves were covered in mud, and he had to be careful not to kick some up onto his cloak. With the light behind him, it soon became so dark that Dust could barely see and inch in front of him. A unicorn might have lit here horn then and there, but Dust hadn’t been born with such endowments. Nor had the creator given him wings, which would have made transportation in the moonlit sky a viable option. Instead, Dust reached into his satchel, and pulled out a small lamp and lit it. It’s orange light reached through the shadows, painting the gnarled trees around him with the color of flames and dancing shadows.
As Dust stared at them, he realized just how old they were. Their trunks were almost crocodilian in their appearance, with rough, hard bark and long, winding roots which seemed to form a web of hard wood. Their branches disappeared into the darkness above, but Dust could only imagine that they were just as long. He shuddered as he thought about what might live in their branches, and moved on.
As he continued on his path through the thickening trees, he began to notice some plant life on the ground. Small, blue flowers poked through the spaces between the roots of the trees, a strange beauty in the otherwise ugly setting. Dust’s eyes widened, however, as he recognized the pants as poison joke, a toxic plant he had run into once before. Dust steered clear of the patches of plants, his eyes flitting from one place to another as he went on.
Suddenly, his hoof sunk deep below the mud, pulling his body with it. Dust sank up to his shoulders in the pool of quicksand, his torch extinguishing as it hit the moist ground, plunging him into the darkness. Gasping for breath, Dust struggled to climb out, only to find that he sank further into the mud the more he struggled. Soon he was only neck high in the mud, gasping for breath as the pressure closed in on his chest.
Dust stopped struggling, and lay in the quicksand. Desperately, he called out for help, though he knew no one would hear him. He tried again, his words echoing through the dark. He waited, hoping that maybe someone would reply.
He was about to try calling out again when he heard something in the distance. He realized in astonishment it was the sound of footsteps, and called out again as loudly as he could for help. He heard the footsteps stop, and called out yet again.
“I’m over here!” he shouted, and waited for the sound of footsteps to return.
Instead, all Dust heard was silence. He tried again, and when he still heard silence, a new kind of dread filled him. It was if something was just standing there, listening to him, sizing him up. Too late, Dust realized what he called might not have been rescue, but something else entirely.
When the sound of footsteps returned, it was in the thundering form of something rushing towards him at immense speeds. Dust’s eyes widened as he realized what was happening, and in vain he began to struggle once more. The pounding of feet on the mud floor grew louder and louder, until it echoed in Dust’s head like his own heartbeat. Within moments, he could feel hot breath against his face, the pounding of feet replaced by the snapping of jaws. Gritting his teeth, Dust closed his eyes in the darkness, preparing for something darker still.
Suddenly there was shout, and the snapping of whatever beast stood before him stopped, replaced by whimpering and soft growls. Dust opened his eyes, and saw in the light of a torch what it was which was that was so close, and who had stopped it from eating him alive.
The creature in front of him was impossible large. In fact, when Dust first saw it, he thought it might just be another tree. But as he moved his eyes upwards, he saw signs that it was something else entirely. Its skin, while made of bark, bristled in some places like fur. The legs that supported the massive creature were made of twisting tree trunks, and yet moved as if made of flesh. And it’s head, which at first glance might have been mistaken for a misshapen old stump, now resembled the terrifying visage of a wolf, sporting green eyes and sharp, wooden teeth.
Dust stared, awestruck, until the creature felt his eyes on it and turned, snapping it’s jaws at him once more. There was another shout, and the beast resumed it’s whimpering, huddled stance. Dust turned his head as best he could in the mud, and looked at the figure who approached.
The pony before him was shrouded in a skin cloak, bound by tree fiber ropes. Most of her body was covered by it, save for her head, giving Dust a good impression of her overall appearance. Her fur was a startling white, like milk, as was her mane, which was cut short. Her eyes were a similar, milky color, save for the pupils, which contrasted with the rest of the body like dark holes in her face. Around her neck, the mare wore a small charm of some sort, a bone fang with acorns and feathers tied with it in a large, ugly clump. Dust could not see her hooves, as they were covered in mud, but he imagined that they were just as white.
The mare barked another word at the plant-wolf hybrid, sending it scurrying into the depths of the swamp. Turning to Dust, she produced a small rope, and tossed it to the edge of the pool, holding one end in her mouth.
“Can you grab on?” She asked between her teeth. Dust nodded, and with some effort was able to grip the end of the rope firmly in his mouth.
With a loud grunt, the white mare pulled back, her hooves sinking into the mud as she did so. Dust began to feel himself slide upwards, out of the mud, and he moved his legs to lend some effort to his escape.
After about a minute, Dust was out. Pulling his mud encrusted form onto the solid floor, he lay sprawled out, panting for air. The mare walked over to him, and helped him up.
“Who… who are you?” Dust asked between each wheezing breath.
The Mare didn’t answer. Rather, she turned away, beginning to walk into the darkness from which she had emerged. Stumbling after her, Dust tried to call out, but his words came out in an exhausted mess of sounds, with lungs too weak to form the proper words.
“hEY… wot a sc…” he gasped. The mare continued on, not giving him any sign that she had even heard him.
“Wac- gak – whur r yu…”
Dust stopped, realizing he would be wasting valuable energy trying to talk, and decided to follow his rescuer in silence.
For what seemed like forever, Dust followed the white mare, gasping and panting all the way. Many times he tripped over sharp branches and twigs, cutting and bruising himself, his vision too blurred from a lack of oxygen to see clearly. How he never managed to walk through a patch of poison joke was beyond him. In his mind, Dust had almost completely forgotten about why he had entered the swamp in the first place. All he could think about was the white blur in front of him, and the safety it would surely lead him too.
Eventually, a light appeared in the distance. Dust collapsed, too exhausted to continued, chunks of dry mud sliding off his sweat drenched fur. The mare turned now to look at him, and picked him up. Carrying him over to the light, she placed him down and reached into her cloak.
Dust felt something being pressed against his lips, and drank as a cool liquid entered his mouth. It was sweet and cold, and as he gulped it down between gasping breaths and coughs, his vision began to clear.
When he had stopped gasping, the mare tucked away the small, glass bottle clutched in her hoof. She stooped down to meet Dust, and spoke for the first in hours.
“I’m sorry I had to do that to you,” she said. Her voice was soft, and seemed to chime like bells in the night air. “But I had to make sure you were truly determined in your goals.”
Shaking, Dust got to his feet, and looked the mare in her eyes. He was fuming now, his exhaustion fueling anger at the mare.
“What… in Hades… are you… talking about?!” he said. “What goal? I’m just trying to survive right… oh god, my sides … now!’
“There’s only one reason anyone comes to this place anymore,” the mare said, a look of sincere regret flooding her eyes. Dust saw the look, and the flames in his heart dimmed a bit.
“And what, might I ask… would that be?”
The mare raised her eyebrows, clearly confused. She pointed to a behind her fire, and spoke.
“To see the seers, of course. Isn’t that all there is here anymore?”
Suddenly Dust’s reason for entering the swamp in the first place returned to him. His eyes widened, and he looked to the fire, where four old figures sat hunched over.
Dust turned to the mare, and asked the first thing that entered his mind.
“They’re… they’re the…”
“The seers?” the mare asked. “Yes, they are. They like to be called the Grand Priestesses of Ever free, though, or at least that’s what they want me to call them. I don’t like to disappoint so... never mind. You can go talk to them, if you want. They love new company. Just don’t mention the way they speak, and you should be fine.”
Dust hesitated for a moment, turning his gaze back and forth between the mare and the seers, before taking a deep breath and stepping towards the fire.
The four old seers sat around the fire, mumbling strange things to each other. Though he couldn’t make it out over the crackling of the fire, Dust swore it almost sounded like they were singing. As he grew closer, he could see they were all mares, like the one behind him. Unlike her, thought, they all bore dark, black stripes across their white coats, and were completely unadorned.
One of the mares turned to him, and beckoned him over with a hoof.
“Come, young one,” she said, “and share the fire. You need not fear us, nor our ire.”
“Dust halted for a second, startled by the mares’ choice of words. Had she just rhymed to him? He stared at the four seers awkwardly, before making his war to the fire and sitting between them.
“Good, good!” said the seer from before. “You’re not frightened by our speech. So few can listen, so few can we teach!”
“Quiet, Zoka,” said a squat, older seer at the other edge of the fire. Unlike the Zoka, who was young and lean, this seer was fat, and grey eyed from age.
Zoka rolled her eyes, and laughed.
“I do what I want,” she said, “and I always mean well. This child has a question, our duty is to tell. So tell, dear Zabza, what will he do, if none can speak, and the blame is on you?”
Zabza huffed, and leaned back in her place. Turning to Dust, she spoke again, this time to him.
“Tell me, child,” she asked, raising an eyebrow, “who might you be? We do not speak to strangers, especially not me.”
“Yes,” said a third seer, whose eyes were an emerald green. “Who are you? What is your name, what do you do?”
“What do you like,” said the fourth seer, whose hooves were a strange purple, “and what do you hate? Who was your father, who is your mate?”
All four seers spoke now simultaneously, their voices echoing through the trees in a haunting chorus.
“What is your worth, you who will die? You can’t cast spells, nor ca you fly? So what do you seek, and what will you do? But first of all who are you?”
Dust took a step back, trying to think. They wanted to know who he was, so why couldn’t he tell them? He tried to think of something, anything, to tell them, anything to tell himself who he was, but nothing came to mind. It was as if his identity had its core torn out.
Frantically, he stripped off his cloak, and glanced to his flank, hoping his cutie mark would help him. What he saw there frightened him beyond words. Where his cutie mark should have been, there was only a dark smudge, a twisting ink blot which shifted on his fur like blood in water. The fire seemed to roar as he did this, and in its depths he thought he saw the bones of someone else, another seer long since dead. Crying out in despair, Dust shouted the only thing he could.
“My name is DUST!” he shouted. “That’s my name! That’s who I am! I… I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ELSE!”
There was a moment of silence. The four seers looked gravely at Dust, their eyes focused on his flank, where the dark, twisting shadow clung to him like a parasite. Then, from the silence, Zabza began to chuckle, her voice growing louder until she was cackling into the night.
“Quite rich, quite rich!” she said, ignoring Zoka’s hateful stare. “We knew what you would say! No pony bares a mark anymore, not long since the Last Day!”
“What… what does that mean?” dust asked, his voice shaking with fear. Zoka turned to him, placing a warm hoof on his shoulder to comfort him.
“The curse,” she said. “You bare it like the rest. All ponies know this mark, they wear it like a vest. It strips them of their gift, their art, their flame. It drains them of their life, all but their name”
“That is why you’re here, no?” asked the green eyed seer. “To find a cure? A way to cleanse yourself, to make your soul pure.”
Dust felt something inside him light up when she said that, and he knew she was right. He nodded, stepped forward again into the light.
“Many have tried,” said the seer with the purple hooves, “to do what you desire. None have succeeded, consumed by her fire.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dust. “Is there actually a cure? Can I really fix this?”
“Yes,” said Zoka. “It can be done. In a kingdom long fallen, the curse can be undone. Where the sun once rose, and the moon once fell, a queen rules the damned, in her own private hell.”
“She did all this,” said Zabza, now grim. “Though not on her own. She has the cure, deep in her bones. Take it for yourself, then you’ll be free. Your race restored, your soul put to ease
Dust took another step into the light, ignoring the blackened bones at the center of the fire, and stared deep into Zoka’s eyes.
“Where – where is this kingdom?” he asked. “The one you say this queen lives in?”
Zoka took a deep breath, and pointed to the white mare, who sat by a small hut which Dust had not noticed before.
“She’ll show you the way,” Zoka said, “And send you there. That’s all I can say, lest…”
But before she could finish, Dust was already gone, walking over to the mare by the hut. Zoka sighed, and turned to her sisters.
“What would mother think,” she asked, “if she knew what we did?”
“She’d kiss us for our effort,” said Zabza replied, “and laugh at her kids.”
“Well, she’s dead now,” said the green eyed seer “Dead and gone.”
“Her body is ashes,” said the purple hooved mare, “but her light still shines on.”
With that, the seers focused back on the fire, mumbling away their chants, older than the trees that surrounded them, and sang songs their mother taught them long ago. And their eyes grew blank, and their minds began to wander, as they stared into the fire, and the black bones that lay there.