//------------------------------// // X: The Calm Before The Storm // Story: A Prose By Any Other Name // by Jarvy Jared //------------------------------// The house, after a few days of working, was now in much better condition. Prosa had managed to rig a hose up to one of Ponyville’s hydrants, letting him wash away most of the dirt and grime that covered the wooden exterior. The grime that had remained had to be removed by brush, which he had done the day before. He had spent most of his bits on paint and wood alone. He had fixed up the porch ceiling, putting in new, stronger wooden posts to support the roof. Any weak boards on the porch itself had been removed quickly, replaced with stronger wood made from mahogany trees. The paint had been set to the side while he waited for the house to dry. Inside, the structure had been polished completely. Dust had rose in ample amounts, but Dusk had been quick to open a window and shoo it out. Now the furniture was shiny and clean, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction in his work. The windows’ blinds had been dusted off, the glass repaired, but he still kept the barriers in place so as to reject anypony wishing to take a closer look inside. The door had also been repaired, the knob polished to golden perfection. The stallion now sat at his desk, the blue quill in his hoof and two white scrolls before him. The room’s lamps had been turned off, but he could still see around. His flank vibrated, but he ignored it, knowing that nopony was watching as he wrote. The quill dabbled in the inkwell once more, and as he set the tip down to the point, a faint glow emanated around the darkened room. The first scroll had been sent a few hours before, arriving at his window by a messenger bird, as arranged. It was asking a simple question: how everything was, if he needed anything, and so forth. He had placed the scroll on his desk, and was now penning a response back. So far, the plan is coming together, he wrote in silence. The ponies here have their misgivings, but I’ve been able to get by without much incident. I can only hope that I last long enough for all of this to blow over. He mused for a second on how much he should say. Time was of the essence, and he knew that writing too much would be exceptionally dangerous. Writing too little, however, could also mean disaster for the entire operation. I’ve managed to compensate for the days I was unable to perform my operation, he continued writing, frowning as he recalled the feeling of the needles against his arm. So far, blood has been stable. I should be able to send them out soon. Deciding that was enough, he rolled up the scroll and walked over to the window, opening it. A quick whistle, and a bird flew by, glancing at him. He gave it a few encouraging whispers, before presenting it the scroll. It nodded, taking the object into its beak and turning, flying away quickly. He sighed. This, though rather mundane, was to be his life now; he had better get used to it. A bit of him still hungered for the excitement of his past, but he was quick to shoot it down with feelings of shame and guilt. I made a promise not to fall into that life again. Turning, he walked out of the room and down the stairs, the floorboards creaking quietly under his weight. He made his way to the front door, opening it and stepping outside. The late morning sun shone brightly in his face, and he squinted under the harsh light. He stepped off of the porch and walked over to where the paint cans were. There were five cans in total. He had spent a majority of his bits on the paint alone; getting the right greyish-brown had been quite difficult. Luckily, he had managed to acquire the right amount of taupe from a paint shop in Ponyville. He eyed the house with a bit of apprehension, seeing how long it would take to repaint. He glanced back at the paint cans, the metal handles at the side and glistening in the sun. He sighed, knowing that the task at hand would be tedious and tiresome. He picked one of the brushes that lay next to the cans, and bent down, intending to flip open the first can. “Hiya, Mr. Prosa!” a squeaky voice shouted, surprising him. He nearly yelped, and he accidentally grit the brush even harder in his mouth, hurting his bottom jaw. He dropped the brush and whirled around, eyes flashing fire in annoyance—but let out a sigh when he saw who it was. “… Miss Sweetie Belle,” he addressed, trying to stay somewhat calm. Looking at her, he saw that there were two other fillies—one, an orange, pegasus pony, the other a tan, earth pony with a pink bowtie—who were trailing behind her at a slight distance. The two regarded him with slightly nervous stares, while Sweetie simply smiled at him. “Your friends, I presume?” he added, pointing a hoof out at the others. The young filly turned, seeing her friends still a bit of a distance from the stallion. “Come on, girls! Mr. Prosa won’t bite!” He couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the filly’s enthusiasm, flashing his teeth and only further intimidating the other two. Seeing this, he dropped the smile, regarding them with an indifferent glare. The orange filly, after a moment of hesitation, took a tentative step forward. As she looked up, Prosa could see that she wasn’t that afraid of him. Her eyes had a spark of curiosity in them, which drowned out any fear she might have had. She tried for a smile. “Hi! I’m Scootaloo!” she greeted, holding out an orange hoof. He glanced at it for a second, before leaning down and taking it with his own pewter hoof, giving it a gentle shake. “Charmed, Miss Scootaloo” he said simply. He looked at the tan filly, who had averted his gaze. He blinked, realizing that she was probably a bit fearful under his intense gaze. He looked away from her, but keeping her within eyesight. “And you are?” he asked. “Uh… Apple Bloom,” she muttered. His lips did not so much twitch at the awkward response, but inwardly, he saw an opportunity to ease the tension. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss ‘Uh Apple Bloom.’” The elicited a few giggles from the trio, and he nearly let out a satisfied sigh. “You don’t have to call us anythin’ fancy,” Bloom said. “And together, we’re the Cutie Mark Crusaders!” they chorused. “On a quest for our Cutie Marks!” Slightly caught off guard by their cry, he let out a slow breath. He turned back to Sweetie Belle, who had not lost her smile through this all. “How exactly did you find me?” She shrugged. “It wasn’t too hard. The way you were talking to Rarity and Pinkie; it sounded like you wanted to be alone. So I thought, you’d be somewhere more secluded.” She placed a hoof on her chin. “But I didn’t think you’d like the houses near the Everfree, because of… well… the wolves.” She looked up, and he nodded slightly, before continuing, “So, I thought that you’d like the house at the edge of town, on the road to Canterlot!” He narrowed his eyes. “And how exactly did you know about the house?” She smiled sheepishly. “I tried to get my Cutie Mark in real estate by helping Mayor Mare out. That house came up a few times.” He nodded again, before falling into an intense silence. He regarded the strange fillies with a darkened stare, almost as if he was examining them closely. Despite Sweetie’s enthusiasm, even she felt a bit small under his gaze. “You’re smart, that’s certain,” he commented, regarding Sweetie with a softer gaze. His voice, however, seemed to grow more irritated. “But, did it occur to you that perhaps I wanted to be alone for a reason?” The fillies shared a look that suggested otherwise. He turned away, facing the house. “I wasn’t expecting guests anytime soon…” he murmured. When he said no more, Sweetie looked down, a bit dejected. She had hoped that Prosa would have at least had the decency to tell them that they weren’t wanted— Her thoughts were cut off by the stallion suddenly sighing. “Well,” he said, turning and facing them, a small smile on his face (that this time did not scare the others), “you’re here now. Not much I can do about that.” Seeing the white filly’s face light up when he said this made him feel something resembling an ache in his heart. He guessed that it was a feeling from a long time ago, back when life hadn’t gotten so complicated that he had to— He mentally shook his head, diverting his mind from its current thought course. “I could probably use some extra help,” he added. The fillies looked up at him questioningly. He pointed at the paint cans. “I doubt I could paint the house quickly on my own. But, if you’d like…” His voice trailed off, though his unspoken question was still heard. “Sure thing, Mr. Prosa!” Sweetie chirped cheerfully. “We could get our Cutie Marks in house painting!” She grabbed the other two fillies and dragged them over to the cans, ignoring their surprised protests. They flipped open the cans and, after grabbing some of the brushes, began recoating the house with taupe paint. Dusk soon joined them, and what they lacked in size, they made up with energy. For every cubic foot in height he covered, they did at least twice as much in length. The image, however, brought up a painful memory. One that he had fought away for a while. He winced as if in pain, as the image of a young colt being forced to work in a polluted factory raced across his mind. “Mr. Prosa?” a voice called, bringing him out of his thoughts. He turned, seeing Scootaloo standing in front of him with a slight frown. “What is it?” he asked. She pointed at the upper section of the house. “How are we supposed to paint that section? None of us can reach it!” She glanced at him, adding, “Er, no offense to your size.” He nodded. “None taken,” he said, frowning thoughtfully. He thought about taking the fillies up on top of the porch roof, but decided against it; the wood still needed replacing, and he figured that they might end up breaking it with their weight. After a moment, he said, “I have an idea.” He faced Scootaloo, placing the brush against his ear, securing it. “Grab a paint can and hop on my back.” She gave him a questioning look, but did so, placing the brush behind her ear and putting the can on his back. He began backing up, nearly moving all the way down to the road. “Mr. Prosa?” Scootaloo asked, but he ignored her, focusing on the house. “Hold on tight,” he said. Before she could respond, he accelerated into a full gallop. She squeaked but held on tightly, hooves clasped strongly around his mane. Just as they were nearing the house, he jumped up. His hooves hit the wall solidly, but did not break through. He grasped at the space between the planks, managing to hold on tightly. Scootaloo gasped as she saw the position they were now in. They hung onto the side of the house, with Prosa keeping his belly flat against the side, ignoring the paint that smeared his midsection. The can nearly fell, but he caught it with his fluffy tail. The others looked at them in shock. “Couldn’t ya have just used a ladder?” Apple Bloom asked. “Don’t have one,” Prosa grunted. The faint ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Besides, that would have taken the fun out of everything.” Scootaloo giggled at the statement, slightly making the stallion wobble. “Careful!” she warned. “I don’t want to fall!” “You girls finish the bottom section,” Dusk ordered Sweetie and Apple Bloom. “Scootaloo and I will handle the top.” The two nodded, leaving the hanging ponies alone for the moment. Scootaloo began coating the upper half, with Prosa doing a little with the brush in his mouth. He moved across the wall so as to help Scootaloo paint, getting more taupe into his fur coat. He didn’t mind it, though; the mess made would all be worth it, should the house end up looking decent again. Due to the positioning of the boards, however, he couldn’t move vertically; something that Scootaloo was quick to notice. “What about the topmost part?” Scootaloo asked, pointing to the section right above them. “Got a plan for that, too,” he grunted. He motioned for her to hold on tightly. He took a deep breath. It had been a while since he had to perform this particular trick. Then again, it had been a while since he had to scale any large buildings without a rope. He suddenly arched his back and flung his body upside down, making the orange filly squeak in surprise. His legs landed on top of the roof, while his head pointed down. Scootaloo hung onto his back tightly. The paint can was tossed over, landing on the roof. He was just about to suggest Scootaloo to use her wings to balance herself, when he realized something. He frowned. “You can’t fly, can you?” he suddenly murmured. Her eyes widened. “How’d you know that?” “You’re not painting while hovering.” Seeing her dejected look, he added, “That’s not a bad thing, you know.” “Yes, it is,” she said. “I’m the only pegasus who can’t fly.” Despite the uncomfortable position, he strived to glance at her. “I can’t fly either. Yet here I am, clinging to the side of the house.” “Only because you jumped—” “No, it was because I wanted to overcome a physical limitation.” He briefly sighed. “I can’t imagine what it means to not be able to fly when you should; but let me tell you this. No matter how hard it is, you will find a way.” “Really?” “Maybe one day, someday; maybe not, perhaps never. It is important, however, that you still try. Understand?” She stared at him for a few seconds, before nodding. “Good,” he said. “Now, how about you start coating the walls once more?” “But how?” In answer, he suddenly plucked her from his body, digging his hind hooves into the roof so as to root himself in position. “Ever try painting upside down?” he said, making her giggle slightly. So it went about that they covered the topmost section of the house in rich taupe paint. Sure, there were more conventional ways of painting, but it was as Dusk said: Where would the fun be in that? After some time, they had completely covered the house in paint, restoring it to a more colorful glory. Dusk slowly lowered Scootaloo back to the ground, then did the same with the paint bucket, before lowering himself off of the roof with a thud. The fillies couldn’t help but giggle at his appearance; his slate-grey mane had more than a few splotches of brown left in it, the blue streaks quickly darkening. He glared at them, making them stop laughing. “You don’t look as great either,” he said. They looked down at themselves, realizing that they, too, were dirty. Scootaloo looked at her flank expectantly, but let out a sigh when she saw that no Mark had formed. The other Crusaders let out similar disappointed sighs. Dusk sighed. “Bathroom’s inside, second floor, door to the left. Get yourselves cleaned up.” “Then what?” asked Sweetie Belle. He glanced at the sun, seeing that it was settling into its afternoon phase. “Lunch,” he said simply. And I’ll have to perform my operation again soon. They entered inside, the CMC and Prosa traveling upstairs. While the fillies walked into the bathroom, Prosa entered his bedroom and shut the door. The fillies didn’t hear him suck in a curse as the all-too-familiar feeling of a syringe sticking into his hoof raced across his mind. “I have to admit,” Scootaloo said while they waited for Prosa to come out of his room. “Mr. Prosa is… well… kinda cool!” Apple Bloom nodded. “Yeah, Ah guess he kinda is.” “See?” Sweetie said, smiling. “He’s not so bad!” “Maybe,” Apple Bloom responded, “but Ah still think we should be careful with him.” While the two talked, Sweetie took a look around. They sat in the kitchen area, around the kitchen table, patiently waiting for Mr. Prosa. The counters had been cleaned and cleared of any messes, though somehow Sweetie doubted that Prosa even made a huge mess. The stallion had still not returned from his room, and while Sweetie had considered looking for him, she now considered the idea quite foolish. She was, after all, currently on Mr. Prosa’s supposed “good” side; she didn’t want to jeopardize that privilege. However, despite her restraint, soon her patience began to wane. That and, her stomach was beginning to complain. She glanced down at her belly, then back at the hall, up the stairs, before letting out a sigh. I wonder what’s taking him so long? While the girls were happily discussing the stallion in question, Sweetie’s boredom could no longer be maintained. She politely excused herself from the table, though the others did not notice. She quietly trotted over to the bright white freezer that stood in the front of the kitchen. Maybe I can find something to eat in here? She placed a hoof against the door’s handle, struggling to pull it open. “Uff!” she grunted, straining to pull it open. Scootaloo and Apple Bloom finally noticed their friend’s situation. “Here, let us help,” offered Bloom, she and Scootaloo coming over. Sweetie nodded her thanks. Together, they pulled hard on the handle, straining to open the sturdy door. They underestimated how much force they were together applying, so when the door suddenly swung open, they were thrown back against the marble table. Their groans quickly turned into shocked gasps as they observed what lay inside the frozen storage. The center and top sections were filled with syringe racks, each one filled to the top with a red liquid. A few puffs of smoke billowed around the syringes, coating them with a light shade of white frost. The points had been retracted, the levers pulled up and still. Each of the syringes had a tag attached to them. A closer look revealed each one read a set of symbols. She could not recognize the writing, but she thought it looked like something that Ms. Cheerilee had been teaching several older students. Cursive, she had called it. The fancy way the lines dipped and bent were fascinating enough, but she was more curious as to what they indicated. She could just make out several recognizable symbols between the illustrious lines. A zero… a vertical line... and a degree symbol? Sweetie thought, confused. “S-Sweetie Belle?” Apple Bloom stammered. “W-what is this?” “I-I don’t know,” said the white filly, eyes wide in shock. “Th-that’s blood,” said Scootaloo, surprisingly quiet. “W-why is blood in th-there?” “Wh-whose blood is it?” Bloom asked back. The fillies quivered at this newfound revelation, unsure what to make of it. The sight of the blood-filled syringes made their own blood cool; it seemed so out of place, even with a stallion as strange as Dusk Prosa. Is this what he’s been doing with the syringes? Sweetie wondered. The answer seemed obvious; yet she felt unsure. Something prevented her from truly believing that Prosa really was using the syringes to store blood. His blood? No… that would be too weird. But maybe…  Before she could take a step forward to examine the syringes closer, they heard the sound of hoofsteps coming down the stairs. “Quick!” hissed Scootaloo. “Close the door!” They nodded, and quickly shut the door with a strangled gasp. Before Prosa could fully reach the bottom and turn into the hallway, they scurried back into their seats, doing their best to look innocent. Dusk entered the kitchen a moment later, and he frowned when he saw the fillies smiling faces. “What?” he asked, confused. Sweetie coughed. “Er, nothing. Just smiling.” He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, instead going over to the stove and turning it on. He walked over to the freezer; for a second, they thought he was going to open the door, but he walked past it, opening the refrigerator, grabbing a carton of eggs. He glanced over his shoulder. “How do you like your eggs?” A few minutes later, they all somehow managed to sit at the table without looking awkward, their stomachs full with delicious egg and lettuce sandwiches (with just a pinch of pepper). Sweetie had to admit that Prosa was a great cook, and judging from her friends’ faces, they too had reached a similar conclusion. Still, though, her full stomach did not fully divert her attention from the question that threatened to burst from her mouth. She so badly wanted to ask Prosa why: why there were syringes in his freezer; why they were filled with blood. Why they needed to be frozen. Why they were marked with the strange writing. Yet she couldn’t. Why can’t I? It should be something simple; all I have to do is bring up the needles! So why can’t I? Dusk stared at her through carnation eyes, his gaze searching and narrowed. Sweetie nearly gulped, nervousness welling up inside her. But as she stared back at him, she thought she could see a similar feeling behind his eyes. Is he…? “You’re wondering about something,” he suddenly said, glancing around at them. “All three of you.” “How did you know?” Scootaloo asked sheepishly. Dusk shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his seat. “You’re all staring at me.” “Oh…” He sighed. “That leads me to conclude that you’re wondering something about me.” His voice seemingly quivered between words, but Sweetie thought that was just her imagination acting up. He leaned back, fixing them with a hardened stare. “So, ask away.” They gaped at him as questions flew past their minds. Sweetie’s question kept pushing against her throat, and she nearly gave in to asking it; yet, she couldn’t. Her tongue lashed against her wishes, refusing to form the words she desired. Her breath refused to exhale, refused to vibrate the air so as to communicate. The other Crusaders looked at her in anxious silence, thinking that she would ask what was on all their minds. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Prosa raised an eyebrow. “Could you perhaps run that by me again—” Her voice began working again. “Why don’t you have a Cutie Mark?” she blurted. She gasped and placed her hooves in her mouth, blushing furiously, both in embarrassment and anger. Darn it all! Prosa blinked twice. “Why don’t I have a Mark?” he repeated. Scootaloo and Apple Bloom temporarily glared at Sweetie, but their curiosity won over their anger. “Yeah, that’s what she—we,” Scootaloo corrected herself, forging a nervous smile, “want to know.” “Why?” “Because we’re the Cutie Mark Crusaders!” the orange filly answered. “We’re always searching for our Cutie Marks!” She looked at Prosa sheepishly. “And, well, it’s kinda weird that you don’t have one.” He blinked again, before narrowing his gaze. “… Fine,” he said, looking at them with suspicious eyes. Sweetie thought she heard a hint of relief in his voice. They only just managed to retain their innocent looks. “I thought the story is rather self-explanatory, though.” He raised an eyebrow at them. “I don’t have a mark because I don’t want one.” “How could you not want a Cutie Mark?” Apple Bloom asked. “It’s every kid’s dream to have one!” He nodded. “But I’m not a kid any more, am I?” A playful smirk crossed his lips. “Oh, sure, at one point I did want a Mark. But I grew up. Things got in the way. Adult things,” he added, a bit of a dark undertone to his voice. “But you had to have discovered your special talent sometime or another!” protested Scootaloo. “But, as you saw, I have many talents. Scaling walls, gymnastics, cooking is even one of them, etcetera, etcetera.” He smirked. “I find that having many talents helps in the long run than just having one specific talent.” He leaned forward. “I could have pursued one singular talent like everypony else, certainly. In fact, I did, for a while. But, when I did that time had rushed by too fast.” He frowned. “By the time I realized what I needed, everything had gone by without me.” “What do you mean by that?” Sweetie asked. He looked at her softly. “It’s alright to try for your special talent. But I wouldn’t constantly pursue it. That just gets in the way of more important things.” “What could be more important that a Cutie Mark?” Scootaloo asked. “Many things, young ones,” he responded, addressing all of them. “Spending time with your family, for example.” He chuckled darkly. “I know I regret not spending enough time with my folks. Hanging out with your friends is another fine thing to do.” His face fell, and he frowned. “I certainly regret not doing that enough.” “Wouldn’t it be better to have a Cutie Mark, then hang out with your family?” “Would that change anything about you?” He raised an eyebrow. “Would the pony you are then, be different than the pony you were?” “She’d have a Mark,” Scootaloo blurted. Dusk genuinely laughed. “Indeed she would. Still, though, little changes about you. Sure, you have your Mark, you have your talent, but, in general, that doesn’t change who you are. Who you really are.” “Are you saying that Marks are pointless?” Sweetie asked, a bit incredulous. “Far from it, Miss Belle,” he said. “Cutie Marks are essential to everypony. They sustain your living, give you respect, and let you demonstrate what you love doing. But there is something more important than those. Cutie Marks put things in perspective.” He gazed at each of them, his voice somehow soothing, yet with a hint of melancholy thrown in. “You are so young. You are so free. You have a childhood to spend with each other, and perhaps adulthood as well. Though not as frequently,” he added with a shake of his head. “The point is, if you spend all your time searching for a Cutie Mark, then you’ll end up losing the ponies you’ve grown close to. What matters isn’t the Mark; it’s the journey for the Mark. “Tell me, once you get your Mark—” “If,” Apple Bloom automatically corrected. “When,” he corrected back, smirking, “you get your Mark, what will you do? Would you constantly do what your Mark tell you to do?” The three Crusaders shared a look, unsure of what to say. He nodded. “Exactly. You have the end goal, but you don’t know the way to get there. You don’t have the path in sight. Nor do you see the branches and trees and creatures that you will meet along the way. “Certainly, the Mark will always be important. But it is the journey, the ponies you meet along the way, that matter the most.” He looked at each of them. “Childhood is short, innocence even shorter. But value them the most, as they don’t last forever. Above all else, never lose touch with the ones who are closest to you: your families and friends.” “Of course we won’t!” Scootaloo said, grinning. “The Cutie Mark Crusaders never abandon each other!” Apple Bloom returned the cry, but Sweetie frowned at Dusk. “Is that why you’re so cold? Because you lost touch with the folks that care?” His attitude changed from slightly jovial to absolutely frigid in a second. He glared at Sweetie in silence, and she felt herself shrinking under his intense look. He clamped his mouth shut, grinding his teeth in anger at Sweetie’s question. And, just as suddenly, his coldness vanished, replaced with a look of longing. His gaze went glossy, eyes looking at—and yet, not—the filly, becoming distant and faded. “Uh, Mr. Prosa?” Scootaloo asked. The stallion did not respond. “Great job, Sweetie Belle,” mumbled Apple Bloom. “You broke him.” Prosa suddenly snorted, shaking his head vigorously. “Hmm? Sorry, I was… thinking,” he said. His voice, previously vibrant as he lectured the trio, became more guarded, shrouded in an aura of mystique. He glanced out the window, seeing that it had quickly passed noon. “No doubt that your siblings and friends are wondering where you are,” he commented. Before any of them could protest, he quickly shooed them out. “I suppose I owe you a thank you for… visiting,” he said as he pushed them out the door. “Don’t make it a habit,” he added. “But—” Sweetie was cut off by Prosa shutting the door in her face. She sighed. “I shouldn’t have said that…” Scootaloo and Apple Bloom looked at their friend. “How come you didn’t ask him about the blood?” the orange pegasus asked, Sweetie shrugged and furrowed her brow. “I guess… I want to believe that they’re nothing bad.” “Ah still think you should have asked him about them,” said Bloom. The white unicorn sighed. “Maybe. But then he might have been driven out of town. And I don’t think he deserves that.” She looked at the others. “Do you?” After their experience with Prosa, they admitted that they wouldn’t want to see this stallion driven away. Sure, he was quite strange, but there was an air of interest around him that constantly piqued their curiosities. “So,” Scootaloo said, “do we just keep quiet on this?” Sweetie nodded. “We’ll just say we went out crusading again.” The three of them walked off of the porch and onto the dirt road, heading back towards Ponyville. Sweetie cast another look at the house, seeing that the curtains had been drawn, shutting off the inside. She whispered an apology to the wind, knowing that Prosa wouldn’t hear it. Funny, Prosa thought as he closed the fridge door after he had placed another syringe in. I was certain that Sweetie would have asked me about these… He sighed. Letting them into my house was a risky move. And it figures that they, as fillies, would be curious as to what lies in here. He frowned. Still, though, asking me about why I don’t have a Cutie Mark was a turn of events I couldn’t have predicted. Nearly went all Canterlot’s School of Excellence on them. Maybe some higher power was looking out for me. He sighed, turning and heading back upstairs to his room. He opened the door and walked over to his desk, sitting in the chair. He picked up the photo frame that lay at the side, staring at it. Sweetie’s question as to why I’m so cold… only you know the answer, he thought to the picture. The smiling faces of the ponies only made his heart grow sadder. It’s not that I lost touch with those who care about me. It’s just that they were robbed before I could give them a chance. Mother, father… I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you. It had been a long time since Prosa had grieved, but now he did so, in silence. His tears hit the frame, and his whole body shook; but he said nothing, allowing himself a rare moment of weakness. I’m sorry, he repeated in his mind. I’m sorry.