“Forgiving does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory. Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future.”
Lewis B. Smedes
Dusk Prosa had been dead for nearly a week. His body, though nonexistent, had been buried in the flow of time. Every bit of energy he had ever expended had been released, rendering his corpse little more than a memory. No funeral was held; there was no body to be buried; and neither relatives nor friends would show up, for they were as nonexistent as the deceased himself.
That did not mean that Dusk was fully gone. In a certain town in a certain house, he remained at the back of the certain mind of a certain stallion.
This stallion stared at his reflection, carnation-pink eyes staring back at him. His mane, a slate-blue with bright-blue highlights, was unkempt. Picking up a comb, he dragged it across his scalp, brushing the hair back. He placed the comb down and twisted the sink’s knob, letting the water flow. He washed his hooves, before dumping a few cups of water onto his head, feeling the liquid wash through his mane. Grabbing the towel, he gently dried his hair, though not enough to completely remove the water. He placed the towel at the side, before grabbing the can of hair gel that lay next to the sink. He opened it and drew out a small pile of the gel, before rubbing it in his mane. He pushed and pulled and caressed, until his mane was back in its usual shape. He washed and dried his hooves, looking once more at the mirror.
A stallion of about twenty-eight now looked back at him, eyes intense and strong. His pewter-grey coat was somewhat damp, and his mouth was locked in a small, neutral frown. He nodded, seeing that he looked ready.
He walked out, trotting back to his room, the wooden tiles clacking beneath his hooves. He entered, flicking on one of the lights. The amber glow revealed his Cutie Mark: a blue quill pen in front of a black inkwell. A symbol of a writer.
He walked over to his bed, glancing over what lay on top. A navy-blue vest sat next to an ash-grey cloak, both neatly folded and pressed. He grabbed the vest and buttoned it around him, the feeling of cloth familiar and comforting. He then picked up the cloak, keeping it folded, and walked over to the desk.
On the desk was a brown saddlebag. The pockets had been opened, the original contents—syringes filled with his blood—removed and in a safe place. He silently thanked Doctor Irons and Nurse Redheart for their earnest cooperation in that endeavor. He bent down, peering inside one of the pockets. A small jar, filled with a grey-ish muddy substance, was labelled as ILLUSIONARY MUD. He nodded to himself, then placed the cloak in another pocket. He closed the openings, letting out a short breath.
He did not put on the bag, however. The week had not ended; he was simply preparing for tomorrow.
Closing his eyes, he reflected on the time that had passed on by. It surprised him how much had changed in a mere six days following his return. Ponyville had been quite shocked to learn who exactly he was, and those six ponies and those three fillies had eagerly re-welcomed him to the town—the pink one, most especially. The day of his return, Pinkie Pie had thrown a huge celebration, and, while he did not consider himself a partygoer, he had admitted that it was the most fun he had in a long time.
That fun did not come without its fair share of troubles. His return meant a resurgence in his reputation, and therefore his fame; and he found it somewhat annoying.
He opened and his eyes, a soft smile across his lips. Annoying as the troubles were, he couldn’t help but think that they were a reflection of the life he had freely given up all those years ago. For so long, he had lived in anonymity, despite being famous; it was as if he lived a paradox of a life. To the ordinary, such a life would have been impossible; yet he had gotten by, through sheer willpower and intelligence to match. The complicated matters of ponies, involving gossip, wants, and complaints, were deeply embedded in his past, no matter how much he ignored them. Hearing similar matters in this town reminded him greatly of that time. A sense of nostalgia swept around him, though it carried a touch of coldness.
His smile remained small as he trotted out of his room, his mind blasting away the former thoughts. For now, he had one more day of freedom left; one more day to enjoy life. Before he had to delve once again into the complicated matters of ponies on a personal level.
The scars of his past remained; becoming Dusk Prosa had not at all removed them. They were as hidden as the former stallion; but, with his demise, they returned, back with a vengeance and thirsting to bring him down. He would not let his mistakes ruin him, though; he had found too much to care about to let them try.
The three fillies, the six ponies, the town… he had not considered that, after enough time, he would call them friends and home. He cared for them, and they, he sensed, for him; it would be dishonorable to let his past ruin this new present.
Present. Today is a gift. He nearly chuckled at the pun. He had not been this witty in years. It surprised him to no end what time had done to him.
“Mutantur omnia nos, et mutamur in illis,” he said softly as he made his way downstairs for a light breakfast. “All things change, and we change with them.”
His name was Opacare Prose, the author vanished and returned; and he was a changed stallion indeed. And he was determined to enjoy this newfound present, even if he only had one more day.
For a certain unicorn, that one week had been a week of complete change in Ponyville. No longer did the ponies look at the newest resident with wariness. Now they peered at him with wide, awed eyes and stares.
Truthfully, she sometimes found herself doing the same.
It amazed the alabaster unicorn to no end how far Dusk had gone to preserve his anonymity. She could not imagine the amount of trepidation and anxiety the stallion would have felt, leaving Manehattan a month ago. Putting his past behind, in a futile attempt to start anew; as well as to protect those closest to him.
Her expression deepened as she threaded the needle into one of her cloths. His intentions were pure in nature; but they had come with dire consequences. His best friend, Raven Lock, was dead; and, if the stallion was to believed, it was Mayor Grifford Finch’s doing. Based on what Dusk had said at his trial prior to his death, it seemed that the Mayor had less than benevolent notions. Of course, this was all assuming that Dusk was a valid source, and while Rarity had believed the stallion to be a pony of his word, a small bit of doubt still remained in her heart.
She bunched up the fabric, pulling a vertical line down the center. In the past six days, she had come to know the author in a different light. No longer was he this mysterious, hard-to-reach writer; he was a pony, just like any of them, albeit with his own eccentricities. Living at the edge of town made some ponies evaluate that he was crazy; and, in light of the recent events, perhaps that could partially be true. He seemed to enjoy such rumors; when Rarity had brought it up at one of their luncheons, he had an amused smirk on his face. Truly, he was strange; but then again, it was a familiar strange. A paradox.
She had pointed the fact out to him the following him day, and he responded with a quick lecture on oxymorons and living paradoxes. It was fascinating, hearing him talk; evidently, he had learned plenty in his time at the Canterlot School of Excellence—the sister school to School for Gifted Unicorns. She still marveled at the fact that he was able to recall lectures and lessons from eighteen years prior!
It constantly surprised her as well that, technically, Opacare never formally graduated. While he had earned enough credits to graduate and get his major and diploma two years before he left, he officially was a school drop-out. By that fact, he officially had not completed his education. Not that it mattered, she supposed; he was smart enough to get by without the included bonus of a certificate. And he was skilled enough to delve into his passion of writing.
He could have been a doctor, with his experience in the medical field. He could have been a chemist, with his ability to create that special mud… yet he became a writer, because his soul yearned to tell a tragic story.
To the ordinary pony, such a motive would have sounded strange, perhaps even morbid. Admittedly, Rarity found it quite dark. But who was she to question the motives of an artist? Especially one as accomplished as Prose? Besides, his creations, while they held darker undertones and were intended as thought-provoking material, did not directly reflect the pain he felt inside. And his outward demeanor also did not seem to always reflect that anguish. Certainly, he wasn’t much of a “smiler,” as Pinkie put it, but he was generally amicable to be around.
Rarity supposed she had Sweetie Belle and the Crusaders to thank for that. For some odd reason that neither side could fully explain, the fillies had become the closest to the stallion, and he to them. Sweetie seemed completely obsessed with Opacare, finding him exceptionally fun to hang out with—so much so, that sometimes she would barge into his home with the Crusaders just to get him to teach them something new. It was an odd friendship; Prose admitted not to having many. Yet Rarity couldn’t help but notice that Prose smiled more when he was around the fillies. Almost as if they taught him how to really feel happy.
In that sense, their relationship was often considered teacher-student in nature. But it wasn’t always clear who took on each respective role.
She thought over her other interactions with the newly returned author. He was by means ungentlemanly; his parents had taught him basic etiquette, and he did have a slight formality to him, not unlike the regals of Canterlot. She supposed it had to do with him living in the capital for eight years, and in the company of a police detective and his soon-to-be wife and singer. Raven Lock and Jade Sonnet…
Whenever she brought them up, his eyes would inadvertently become distant as he remembered. It made her feel guilty, seeing him like this. He was, after all, now mostly alone; his oldest friends had passed away. Now all that was left was Grifford Finch—but even then, he seemed unwilling to consider him anything closer than “an old associate.”
She shook her head. It wouldn’t be right to be thinking such depressing thoughts. She turned off the machine and held the cloth up with her magic, inspecting it like it was a work of art. Which, according to Opacare, it was; she had put work into it, and therefore her soul, and by that extension, it was art.
“Art isn’t just writing or a painting. Art is the embodiment of the soul, the only true way for one to express the entirety of himself, on the physical plane, and in such a way that, eventually, others will come to understand.”
He was eloquent, thoughtful, charming, intelligent, and deep. He was terse, chilling, aloof, shallow, and oblivious. He was a living paradox; one that, Rarity could not explain how, had become ingrained in Ponyville’s lore.
A faint heat traveled to her cheeks. Was she feeling something for the stallion? She shook her head quickly. No, that couldn’t be it. It was only somewhat cold in the Boutique, and her body was reacting to try and warm her up. She wasn’t feeling anything for that author, despite how unorthodoxically enchanting his enigmatic demeanor was…
Thought trailing away, she placed the cloth to the side, letting out a slow breath, before moving onto the next one. Her eyes briefly glanced up at the calendar, her frown replaced with a beaming grin.
Tomorrow, Sunday, she was leaving for Manehattan. Over the course of the week there was going to be a huge fashion expo being held in the city. She couldn’t wait to go; she might be able to drum up some business, perhaps even tutor under some of Equestria’s finest seamstresses. She could expand her craft, make it into the larger business world.
Her smile widened as she remembered one other detail. A surprise, an early birthday present, for Sweetie Belle. It had taken a little coaxing but, after much hard work, Rarity had what she needed to give her sister a grandiose gift.
And she had Opacare to thank for that.
The work soon became dulled in her ear, her mind occupied with wishing for the future. She threaded and bunched and creased and folded, all the while thinking about what was going to happen next. Tomorrow was another day, one more day. And she couldn’t wait.
A trio of fillies made their way down the northward path, a dead stallion on their minds. But while in most cases, having the deceased at the forefront of one’s thoughts would bring out negative feelings, these three instead beamed and shone with absolute joy, oblivious to the usual negativity that accompanied such thoughts.
The death of Dusk Prosa had not, in their eyes, been a defeat of life. Rather, it was the next step in a glorious and wonderful time, and they were determined to make the most of it.
A young, white unicorn led the group, an orange pegasus and tan earth filly trailing behind her. Their smiles were wide, eyes shining like stars. The unicorn was humming something quietly, and the others were joining in on the humming. A few words slipped out between the hums; one could hear phrases such as “Cutie Mark Crusaders” hidden in the lines.
They sang and hummed joyfully as they made their way down the path, heading towards the lone house only a few yards at the side. The wear-and-tear of the days before were not reflected in its brown walls. Its windows and pillars stood strong and fast against the changing times; it seemed that not even a powerful tornado could bring down its foundations. This was partly due to the stallion inside; his inner strength seemingly passed onto the house itself, his dignity amassing in the columns. It could also be said that the fillies’ assistance added to the house’s strength and vigor.
These thoughts and conclusions, however, did not cross the fillies’ minds. The stallion inside clouded—or perhaps illuminated—their minds. Eagerly their minds wandered, thinking about what they would do.
The orange filly spoke up first. “Maybe we’ll do something daring! Like shark-riding!”
“Scootaloo,” the tan filly addressed with a shake of her head, “where on Equestria would we find sharks to ride?”
“The ocean, Apple Bloom, obviously!” Scootaloo shot back, undeterred.
Apple Bloom sighed tiredly. “Yeah, yeah, sure, because we’ll go all the way to the ocean to get a shark-riding Cutie Mark. Ah don’t think Ah really want to travel that far…”
Their little banter kept the unicorn’s smile up as they approached the house’s door. They quieted as they neared the wooden frame, with the unicorn reaching out a small hoof to knock.
Three times she did so, the sound deep and low, like it was resounding throughout the entire interior of the home. They waited, patiently, as they heard the faint clip-clop hooves coming towards the entrance.
With a twist, the knob turned; with a slight creak, the door was pulled open, revealing a familiar pewter-grey stallion. He stared at them quietly, his lips faint, but definitely curled up in a soft smile.
“Scootaloo, Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle,” he greeted.
“Hiya, Opa!” Sweetie responded. It was a nickname she had grown to attribute to the stallion; “Opacare” was a mouthful to pronounce. “Whatcha got in store for us?”
The smile widened; they didn’t notice the tiredness behind it. “I think you’re going to like this,” he said, stepping back and letting them enter. They could already hear the stove running.
In their minds it was just another day of fun; in his mind, it was one more day of fun.
“One month ago, he vanished without a trace, and I spent my resources trying to find him. Then, one week ago from today, he shows up in Ponyville?”
Grifford Finch didn’t shout, but his voice noticeably sounded of confusion and shock. Sitting in his office with him was his assistant, Swol. The tan, golden-yellow stallion was just as surprised as Finch at Prose’s reveal.
“Well, technically, he had been in Ponyville for that month,” Swol said, not flinching when Finch’s icy-blue stare shifted to him. “And he was found out in Canterlot…”
“Details, details,” Finch responded, waving a brown hoof dismissively. “The point is, he’s back…”
His voice abruptly stopped, and he stared down at his desk.
“… You’re surprised you hadn’t found him, aren’t you?” Swol guessed.
“That obvious?” Swol nodded, and Finch chuckled darkly. “Hmm. I suppose, considering how much I emphasized his return to safety, that isn’t much of a surprise.”
“Not many details were given as to why, though,” Swol said.
“Not that we need much. It isn’t too hard to guess, based on how Prose was speaking.” His voice grew colder. “To think he would go so far as to accuse the Family of wrong-doing!”
“We can thank Blueblood for that bit of info,” Swol commented, but his voice dripped with disdain at the arrogant prince’s name. “Do you genuinely think we can convince him to come back, even after all this?”
Finch shook his head. “It’s hard to say. I doubt he would come easily. But… maybe if he saw how much we need him… how much Manehattan needs him…”
He stood. “But enough about Prose. We’ve some business to take care of.” Swol nodded, and handed him his trenchcoat and hat.
“The train to Baltimare should be arriving soon,” Swol said. “We’d better leave now. How long do you think the meeting will last?”
“The meeting itself will take a few hours. But the business afterwards will halt us for a few days.” He snorted. “Honestly, it’s obnoxious how those other heads of the Family can’t get anything done speedily.” He grabbed his suitcase while Swol grabbed his own. The office door swung open, and the Mayor and his assistant soon left the building.
