Previous Chapters
Close
Prologue600 words
The Same House5,149 words
Somewhat Earlier4,486 words
Much Earlier4,592 words
Telephone Telephone4,537 words

Telephone Telephone

“Gilda.”

I was young.

“Gilda.”

I was young and I didn’t know anything about anything.

“I’m glad we’re learning this today, but it’s very important that you pay attention.”

“Sorry, Tirgum.”

He just smiled, patting my head. “That’s quite alright, my dear.”

I was living in Canterlot. The refugees had been there for nearly a year already, and Tirgum had taken to teaching me some basic combat drills. We stood in a small, empty courtyard, behind one of the large buildings of the palace. The stone floor was overgrown with green vines, and tree roots dug into the tiles.

Mostly, before that point, he had taught me self-defense, close quarters combat. But today, he had something different.

“Gilda, this is a stick.” He held out a long, wooden stick, partially wrapped in oilcloth.

I giggled a bit. Tirgum smiled. “No, it’s not really just a stick. This is called a ceveli-Talona, or ‘training-sword’. We’re going to be using it in today’s lesson.”

I brightened a bit at that. “A sword?”

“No, just a practice sword. But we might get to a real sword eventually, if you practice well.”

“Okay!” I bounced up and down on the ground, I was so excited.

“Wonderful. Now, I’ll need you to stand like this...”

It was a cold morning.

Gilda was standing alone, on a flat rock outcropping, a few miles east of Cloudsdale. There, on the barren surface, was a black scorch mark, faded, but still stubbornly visible, even after all these months.

She repeatedly damned that damned book and that damned passage and her damned pride. A fucking pyre. But it had felt correct, and she had gone through with it. Tirgum shouldn’t have been without his culture, even at the end.

Gilda’s mind trailed back to Rainbow’s words, last week. How... had he found me? How did he, one of the best warriors in the city, avoid the battle?

What did he want me to do?

Gryphon funerals were very intimate affairs. Typically, one individual, rarely two, would take the full responsibility of the mourning and burial process. Said individual would not communicate with the others who mourned the dead, carrying the final burden of their closest companion in place of the deceased, so that the rest of the survivors could weep in peace.

Gilda had not really taken to that part of the customs. She spoke and talked and confided in Rainbow Dash regularly, in the weeks following his death. Gilda tried, she had, to keep to the customs. For Tirgum. But in the end, she had gladly given over to her own sadness.

On that note, it was fucking freezing oh my gods why is it so cold

Gilda took to the air, her large wings pushing her off of the ground, taking her back home to the city in the sky.

Flying was one of the few things that Gilda always, undoubtedly, indisputably, liked doing. She couldn’t help but smile as she reached altitude, and began to gain speed as she gilded forward. Cool morning air rushed past her coat, the cold bite no longer seeming to matter. The wind was exhilarating, and the freedom of movement was invigorating.

She coasted to a glide, laughing softly to herself. Dawn mist was hanging over Equestria, and the sun was just peeking over the horizon, casting long shadows and a tentative warmth into the air.

Gilda enjoyed the scenery for a moment more, before coming in to Cloudsdale proper. The city’s arching cloud pillars were inviting, and she flew towards them with a steady content.

Gilda walked up to the front door of her house, removing a key from her satchel and inserting it into the lock. As the tumblers turned, a memory floated into her mind.

“Stand like this, Gilda. Now, take the sword in your hands. Both of them.”

She pondered over the image for a moment, then glanced inward, toward the house. Where is Tirgum’s sword?

Tirgum’s sword was a very solid fixture in her day-to-day life, growing up. Tirgum was always practicing with it, or cleaning it, or telling her to practice with it. And most recently, it was in his hands when he-

No, Gilda, don’t think about that.

Shaking her head, Gilda went inside the house. Tirgum had slept in the back room, and she hadn’t bothered going inside, or even opening the door for three months. With a determined canter, she proceeded through the narrow halls of the small home, and arrived at the plain, white door.

The knob turned and the door slid open without a sound. Inside, the lights were off, but it was still visible by the ambient light, coming from the hallway.

A plain bed, neatly made. More bookshelves, albeit with less books than in the living room. A small closet, a bedside table. A pine dresser. And atop the dresser, a broadsword, poised neatly atop a display rack.

Gilda trod gently into the room, her feet making silent sounds against the oriental carpet. She reached out and grabbed the sword with one hand.

The blade’s hilt pressed into her hand, giving a familiar weight and feel to Gilda’s arm. She subconsciously adjusted her poise to better compensate for the instrument in her hand, the feel of the sword running from her wrist to her shoulder to her hips.

The sword itself was unique. An otherwise plain, steel broadsword, with an otherwise plain, leather-wrapped hilt. However, copper wires and iron clasps, positioned regularly around the hilt, guard, and base of the blade, distinguished it from most other weapons.

Gilda could not help but smile to herself. She turned the blade in her hands, admiring the craftsmanship, and reveling in the warm memories it brought. A small amount of light glinted off the sharp metal.

Turning it over in her hands, Gilda was about to depart, leaving the still room to its silence, when she noticed something else.

On the base of the small display rack, there were numerous small items, piled casually by Tirgum. A few receipts, a ticket stub, a bottle cap. Spare change. And a small, unassuming, brass key, on a short loop of twine.

Gilda took the key in her talons, looking at it as she dangled it from the twine. It spun freely in the air. The key was nothing astounding, a round head and a seven-pin tooth, but upon the head there was a small, stamped number.

2941

She peered at it, curious. “So is this for like a safety box or a...”

She trailed off, suddenly acutely aware of how out-of-place her voice sounded, in such an otherwise silent room. Depositing the key in her satchel, she quickly turned tail, and exited to the living room once again.

The door to the empty bedroom swung shut without a sound.

Back to the relative safety of the living room, Gilda settled into an armchair, Tirgum’s sword across her lap, and inspected the key more closely.

After several minutes of inspection, she returned no more information than she had gleaned from inspecting it before. A brass key, 2941, string.

The numbers weren’t a mere serial number, however. The depth of the engraving and the style of the letters implied that it was a label, indicating what it was that the key opened. So, that was something she got from examining it more.

Maybe it’s a safety deposit box, she thought. Anyway, I bet the ponies at the bank could tell me what it is, even if it’s not that.

Gilda glanced downwards, spying the sword on her lap. A sudden sense of duty overcame her.

Maybe I should sharpen this.

She blinked. After a moment, she deposited the key to her small satchel, then returned the blade to her hands. Running a claw along the edge, she judged the sharpness. Not much use in the past months, so not bad. Could be better.

Gilda rose to her feet, sword in hand. On three legs she moved to the kitchen, and quickly rummaged through the shelves until she found what she was looking for. Taking the whetstone in hand, she placed the blade sideways, across her arm.

Without ceremony, she gently placed the stone to the edge, and drew it across the length. A satisfying grating sound, of stone on metal, cut through the house. Gilda smiled, then repeated the action.

After several minutes, paying close attention to all four edges of the blade, she held it up again. It gleamed in the light, playing off of the copper wires and steel engravings. Another test of the edge with a claw proved that it was once again capable.

Experimentally, Gilda returned to her feet and swung it through the air. The motions, a few months out of practice, returned to her fluidly, giving a comforting warmth to her joints.

The action of cleaning and caring for the blade suddenly made it feel real, like more than a memory. Gilda fetched the key from her pocket, and looked at it.

2941

The mare at the bank was remarkably effectual about the whole thing. “We don’t have that box here, hun.”

Gilda raised an eyebrow at the pony behind the teller’s booth. A young, pink mare, with a shiny blonde mane. She regularly blew bubbles with the gum in her maw.

Gilda drummed her claws on the table. “You don’t? You didn’t even check, how do you-“

“Listen,” she said, her mouth smacking on her gum with every breath, “I’m sorry to hear bout your dad, miss, but-“

“He wasn’t my dad,” Gilda suddenly interrupted.

“Sure,” she continued, nodding. “But anyway, it’s an obsolete cause. I think it would be fruitful to continue your endeavor elsewhere, hon.”

It was quite amusing to hear such vocabulary uttered with such an accent as this pegasus had, but Gilda was too annoyed to laugh. “And why is that? How do you know that-“

The mare rolled her eyes. “We’ve only got about a thousand boxes. They’re numbered 001 to 999.”

“...Oh.” Gilda’s ears flattened in embarrassment. “Well-“ she huffed, wringing the key’s string around her talon. “Fine. Bye.”

“Wait, wait.” The mare held up a hoof. “Look, Miss, I can say with a fair amount of certainty that that’s the key to a mailbox.”

Gilda raised an eyebrow. “Mailbox? Mailboxes don’t have-“

“They do at the post office.”

Gilda blushed, embarrassment catching her off guard once again. “O-oh. How do you know this is one of those keys?”

The pegasus smiled, either oblivious or kindly ignoring Gilda’s discomfort. “I have one myself. ‘Cept the number, it could be identical. See?” She raised up another key, on a curly pink keychain. It was the same make, size, and color as Gilda’s, but bore the number 1764.

Gilda looked down. “Oh, uh, okay.” She paused. “...Thanks, I guess.”

The mare smiled. “Don’t mention it, hon. Need directions to the post office?”

Gilda scowled. “No.”

The mare tightened her lips a tad. “Well, okay then. Have a nice day, Miss.”

The Cloudsdale Post Office was one of the more extravagant public buildings to grace the cloud city. Being one of the centers of pegasus commerce, and one of the oldest buildings in the city, it was decorated with many swooping arches, and lots of fine filigree.

Several private delivery services owned and operated from central sections of the Post Office. Pegasus mail was the fastest way to get mail delivered, and it could turn into a very lucrative business. Next-day delivery was the slowest selection available, while some services could get your package across the country within the hour.

For the right price.

Gilda walked in through the high cloud pillars, and to the section of private mail boxes. Each delivery company that located itself in the Post Office has a section devoted to mail boxes, and each type of mail had a different key.

Unfortunately, Gilda didn’t know which company. She walked up to the nearest delivery window (Manehattan Parcel Services) and held up her key. “Hey, do you know which office this is for?”

The pegasus looked at it. “Yeah, that’s Equestrian General.”

Equestrian General. The most basic, limited, and unremarkable delivery service available. Packages and letters could sometimes take up to a day and a half to reach their destination. The only upside of the business was that, as a government department, standard postage was only five cents.

Gilda moved to the Equestrian General office, then headed directly for the mailboxes. There were several more than she had expected, but Gilda quickly returned to the task at hand. She proceeded down the rows of boxes, all stacked one atop the other, until she arrived, finally, to box 2491.

It was small, only about a foot in length, and maybe six inches deep. Gilda inserted the key, and turned, which (to her relief) opened the lock and allowed the drawer to slide free.

Gilda slid it open and looked inside. Four letters, all addressed... to her, lay at the bottom.

She scooped them up, and examined each one. There were three, which had her name typed, and were quite thin. Each of them was also dated one per month, for the past three months. The fourth had her name, hoof-written, and was quite a bit bulkier.

Each envelope came from the Equestrian Finance Bureau.

Back at home, Gilda put the letters on the kitchen table, lining them up in a row. She set her bag down, sat in a chair, and proceeded to open them.

She decided on opening the large, hoof-written one first. Gilda tore the seal easily with her claw, and pulled out three folded pieces of paper. The first paper was a letter.

Dear Gilda X,

We regret to hear, that your father, Tirgum X, has passed away. This letter has been sent to indicate our condolences and alert you that the Finance Bureau will cease sending his support checks, as per Section 4 the GAR of 955. Included is a small boon of severance, to aid you in your time of grief.

Your own support checks will continue monthly.

The Finance Bureau wishes you a pleasant wake and a happy evening.

-Lessie Smiles, Finance Bureau, Canterlot Offices.

Gilda re-read the letter three times. “Not my father,” she grumbled, but only half-heartedly.

...Wait, monthly checks? Does that mean-?

Gilda grabbed one of the letters, and quickly tore it open. Inside was a single check, addressed to her, for- Wow that’s a lot of bits.

Opening the other envelopes, she confirmed that these, too, contained checks, each for the same amount per month.

Gilda was floored. So this is how he afforded the house? And, well, food. And anything, I suppose.

In retrospect, it was a bit peculiar that Gilda didn’t know what he did for a living. She had just assumed the old gryphon was rich.

Gilda sat there for a moment, pondering the existence and contents of the papers she now held in hand. “Wow, this is... wow.”

Two other papers remained unread, the two papers included with the letter from Lessie Smiles. She picked up the one closest to her. It was another check, for a bit more than the others. In the notes section, Lessie Smiles had penned ‘my condolences’.

Gilda added it to the others before picking up the next paper. It was of a considerably thicker stock, and the grain of the paper felt rough under her sensitive talons. The top of the letter was embossed with deep red ink, and the rest was written in formal calligraphy.

Gryphonic Aide Rulings - Section Four, In-Country Aide

“Article Five

If a Gryphon citizen-in-refuge should die, whether through natural or unnatural, though unintentional, circumstances, the funding mentioned in Article Two will be terminated. A boon shall be given to immediate relatives, up to but not exceeding eight-thirds of the typical funding, at the discretion and financial ability of Equestria at the time of death.”

Officially Duplicated Portion of the GAR, certified and ratified, Lessie Smiles, 999.

Gilda puzzled over the contents for a moment.

...I guess it makes sense, she thought, that Equestria would have protocols for dealing with refugees. But they have a separate set of rules for gryphon refugees, specifically?

She looked at the paper again. Rules that were made in 955?!

The Gryphon Genocide hadn’t begun in 955. The Gryphon Civil War hadn’t even begun in 955. Something here was not right.

Gilda shook her head. Why should I care? she thought. This is nothing, it’s perfectly fine.

...Right?

The young gryphoness drummed her talons on the kitchen table, staring intently at the letters.

Gilda saw two options before her. One, the most appealing one, said forget about it. Take the money. Take a vacation, maybe. Wait around a bit, move to Ponyville.

Two. She could dig just a bit deeper, and see what this was about.

Gilda sighed. One one hand, she didn’t want to look into this. She didn’t care. Gilda just wanted to fly, and read, and have a good time with Dash. On the other hand, she felt as though if she were to leave this behind, she would be abandoning Tirgum. Abandoning the gryphon who raised her.

Gilda slumped back into a chair. “Uunnngh. You’re dead, you old coot. Can’t you just leave me hanging with shit like this!”

The room did not answer. Gilda sighed.

How would I learn about this thing? Whatever it is.

Contrary to the belief of almost all who knew her, (except for Dash) Gilda read, quite a bit. It was an irritating habit she had picked up from Tirgum, and she was often embarrassed to be seen with a dusty old book in hand.

She had, however, read most of the information on the later history of the Gryphon Empire. Particularly after Tirgum’s death, (when she had found herself grasping at straws for Gryphonic burial customs) she had scoured down every piece of the Cloudsdale Library she could for information. There was no mention of these GAR.

Gilda thought back, trying to remember when she had made the voyage from the Republic to Equestria. What had happened? Had anyone mentioned these rulings? What were other gryphons saying about-

Of course! Realization struck her. I can just ask someone else!

Nearly giggling with glee, she practically leapt across the room, towards Tirgum’s dusty bookshelves. I don’t know anything, but I’d bet diamonds to donuts that another gryphon does.

Quickly, she found what she was looking for. A slim, spiral-bound book, a light blue in color, easily fitting into her palm. The words Address Book were embossed on the front, in a tacky, fake-gold lettering.

Gilda flicked through it quickly, opening somewhere in the center. It was blank.

She paused. What the-? Gilda had often seen Tirgum looking through this tiny book, before picking up the phone. She looked through it again.

Ah. The book wasn’t empty, per se–but it was damn close. Only the first ten or so pages, one page per five people, was filled in with black ink, done in Tirgum’s tiny, hasty handwriting.

Gilda looked through the names. Let’s see... Emergency Services? You just tell the operator that you have an emergency, Tirgum, you don’t actually need an address. She read the rest of the entry. ...’no address, just tell mare you have emergency’. Wow, Tirgum.

She read the rest. Ambergriss, that’s a pony. Curtain Call, pony, Crimson, maybe? ‘Mare who lent me her shears’. Damn.

Finally, she found a name. Vornier. 2299, Alto street.

Gilda got up, book in hand, and walked over to the phone in the kitchen. She picked the ear and mouth pieces, and pressed the button.

“Operator.” A no-nonsense voice sounded the other end.

“2299 Alto, please.”

“Please hold.”

Gilda heard a faint ringing sound, from the other end. It sounded for several seconds, before she heard a receiver pick up and answer. “Hello?”

The voice was male, and young, which surprised Gilda greatly. “Uhh, hello?”

“Yes, how may I help you?”

“Umm...” Gilda glanced down at the book. “...I’m trying to reach Vornier?”

The voice sounded inquisitive. “Vornier? No Vornier lives here, sorry.”

Gilda’s mood dropped. “What? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I...” the voice trailed off, before picking up again. “Wait a minute, that sounds like a gryphon name.”

Gilda scoffed. “Duh, Vornier’s a gryphon.”

“Oh, well then, I know just where your friend is.”

Gilda smiled. ‘You do?!”

“Yeah. Pretty sure he’s the guy who died when I got this apartment.”

Sucking in a breath, Gilda managed to reply. “...What?”

“Yeah.” the voice sounded annoyed. “Old bastard. Left feathers everywhere, took me a week to clean up. And I’m still finding them in my furniture.”

Gilda’s anger flared. “You damn pony, don’t you know you’re talking about a guy who died?!”

“Why should I care if he died? Pegasi know how to preen themselves properly, dammit!”

“Screw you!”

The pegasus hung up. Gilda flung the receiver down, snarling angrily. Damn asshole!

She noticed she was breathing heavily. She closed her eyes, and forced herself to calm down. After a few steady breaths, Gilda began to think. Alright, so, whoever, this was, this Vornier, he’s dead. Not a big surprise, actually. A lot of gryphons Gilda remembered were older than Tirgum. She was one of the youngest.

Shakily, she once again picked up the address book. Rifling through the names, it was only when she was near the end of the entries that she found another. Tulmiel, 369 Stratos.

The name struck a chord in her mind. Images of, years ago. A thin, blonde-coated gryphon, wearing a pair of thin glasses. He would often stop by the house for dinner, but Gilda saw less and less of him as she grew more and more independent, instead choosing to spend her evenings out with Dash.

Gilda allowed herself a morbid chuckle. “Heh, hopefully this one’s alive.”

She picked up the mouthpiece of the phone, and was once again greeted by the operator. “369 Stratos, please.”

“Please hold.”

The line began to ring. It rang several times, leaving Gilda to believe she would not receive an answer. Finally, someone picked up the phone.

“Hello? Who’s this?” A male voice, slightly raspy, that sounded breathless, like the owner had just run a great distance.

“Uh, hi.” Gilda paused. “M-may I speak with, uhh, Tulmiel? Is he there?”

There was a pause. “This is him speaking. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Y-yeah, sorry, you might not remember me.” Gilda chuckled. “My name’s Gilda.”

“Gilda?!” the voice asked, frantic.

“Um, yes.” Gilda swallowed. “Is that a problem?”

“Oh!” Tulmiel laughed. “No! No no no not at all! Haha.” He paused. “How are you?”

“...Fine?” Gilda was a bit miffed at the friendliness. “Um, actually, I just wanted to ask a quick question about-“

“I haven’t seen you in years. Last time I was over for dinner you were out with that friend of yours. Rainbow Bolt? Rainbow Crash? Something rainbow.”

Gilda exhaled. “Rainbow Dash. But seriously, I just wanted to-“

“Have you ever met my wife? I mean, you probably met her, over in Canterlot, but you were just a tiny kid back then, you didn’t really see her that much. And me and her didn’t really hang out, so there’s no way you’d piece us together.”

Gilda growled. This idiot wouldn’t stop talking. “Listen, buddy, I just wanted to ask you a question, alright? Could you shut up for two seconds?”

“Flarewing formation.”

Gilda almost dropped the phone. “...What did you say?”

“That was it, wasn’t it?” Gilda could almost make out Tulmiel’s smug face over the phone, though the other gryphon’s voice remained steady. “It was a broadsword stance that was very unique to Tirgum. I saw him teaching you, sometimes, in that courtyard by the kitchens.”

“...Yeah.” The words ‘flarewing formation’ left Tirgum’s beak regularly as he taught her, but Gilda knew nothing about the heritage of the style. “Um, what else do you know about Tirgum?”

“Was that the question you wanted to ask so badly?”

Gilda cursed. Tulmiel hummed into the phone. “Tell you what. Why don’t you stop over by my house? I could answer your questions, and we could talk a bit.”

“Lame!” Gilda scoffed. “Oh, no way!”

“Oh, please?” Tulmiel pleaded. “I’d love to have a chat. And my wife would be there.”

“No.”

“She knows close-quarter combat. You want some first-hand practice?”

“Really? What’s her- I mean, no.”

“You don’t sound so convinced,” Tulmiel laughed.

“I don’t want to hang with some lame old adults.”

Tulmiel hummed again. “We’ll make steak?”

That gave Gilda pause. Steak. Gods, she hadn’t had steak in ages and ages. The most succulent, tender piece of food she had ever had the pleasure to eat. Her eyes grew half-lidded just at the thought of it.

“...Gilda?”

“Huh? What?” Gilda snapped back into reality. “Oh, yeah. Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I invited you over for a steak dinner and a conversation.”

Gilda drummed her claws on the receiver for a moment. “...Fine.”

“Wonderful!” Tulmiel’s voice could hardly contain its delight. “Tonight? Sometime around six thirty?”

“Woah woah,” Gilda rebuffed, “Tonight? That’s a bit-“

“Are you doing anything?”

“Well, no, but-“

“See you at six thirty! Bring your sword.”

And he hung up.

Gilda scowled, banging the reciver back down into it’s hook, she stormed back to the address book, flinging it against the wall. She angrily flopped down in her chair.

She took a few deep breaths. Gradually, she began to calm down.

She glanced at the sword, leaning gently on the side of the chair. She picked it up, gazing once again at its polished surface.

Bring your sword.

Gilda laughed. Tirgum’s sword. My sword.

She spared a glance at the clock, hanging on the wall, which proclaimed the time to be three fifteen.

Might as well go, she thought. But I should bathe before then. And deposit those checks.

With her errands in mind, she got up, and got to work.

I practiced as many times as I could. I lost count of the number of times I went through the steps, and instead focused on getting the whole thing right. The stick grew heavier and heavier in my hand, but I continued anyway.

Tirgum came out, sometime later. He was pleasantly surprised at my devotion. But he did correct my stance. “You’re not wielding a tool, Gilda. The sword is an extension of yourself, like a talon. You can’t feel it, but still vital. It’’s not like a bat, to be swung around. It’s you.”

I frowned. “But how can it be me? It’s not attached to me.”

“Lots of things aren’t.”

I kept practicing.

Author's Note:

Man, so let me tell you, spending a year crafting the perfect outline sucks, especially when you realize you like it better when you don't follow a strict outline. I'll still use it, but more as a general guide.
I don't know how I feel about this chapter. You guys?

467 views

Previous Chapters