//------------------------------//
// Meet 
// Story: On We Go 
// by I Am The Night 
//------------------------------//

	
"Strangers are just family you have yet to come to know."

~Mitch Albom








That Late Night

From The Perspective Of The Lone Girl




I could have killed him.

A part of me told me so. "Kill him. Like the other bastards."

When I saw the stallion from afar, the one who fought against those monsters - he was definitely not looking or aiming for a battle or a fight. He just wanted to get on his way like everyone else.

It becomes clearer when you see that so much, but so rarely.

And they wanted him dead...for refusing?

But he wasn't going to take it laying down.

He fought. I was impressed from so far away. He fought and kicked and used their own bodies to his advantage.

All of that, and a broken leg.

He had to be a soldier. I just had that feeling.

When he was hurt, I had to act. He was going to die otherwise.

I never gave that lasting coward a chance.

I gave him hell until he was gone like the rest, and when I turned back to the fighter...

He was almost out cold. Bleeding, but he would live.

"You'll be alright," I said to him. I knew he could hear me, even just a little.

And that was when I noticed his clothes.

Standard uniform, property of the Royal Service.

An old service, long gone now - but he still chose to wear the thing.

I couldn't lie, I still did the same thing.

Once he was unconscious, I started and scavenged through his things, hoping to patch him up right there, even if just for a moment. I was able to find a few bandages - big enough to stick them right over his wounds, and just enough until I could find the proper treatment.

But I couldn't slap it on him.

Not with that arrow sticking through his shoulder.

He was lucky it was only his shoulder.

I pulled it out with no hesitation. He screamed for seconds, and he was out again.

Or rather, he was never awake to begin with - instinctive screaming.

I would've screamed too.








That was hours ago. I carried him into the nearest house and I made sure we were not exposed to the outside world. I checked each individual room to be sure there were no threats, or at the very least - no graves that I happened to be disturbing.

I laid him on the couch in the living room and started rummaging through my bag and his for more medicine. In his bag, I was able to find  a few rags, rubbing alcohol, and even a small bottle of penicillin, which seemed to be half full by now. It looks like it hasn't been opened in weeks.

With care, I slowly pulled off his bandage. He squirmed even when out.

His wound was still dripping blood, but not as much as before.

Taking one of the rags, I grabbed my canteen and dripped a bit of water onto it. Gently, I was able to dab the rag a bit on the wound, cleaning it of blood. The stallion shifted unconsciously, but all I could do was hold him down just a bit and keep dabbing until it was moderately cleaned. Once it was clean enough, I looked again into his bag and found a small roll of bandages. I unravelled just enough and ripped it off, then began to wrap it around his body until the blood could no longer seep through.

He breathed calmer after that - but I wasn't done yet.

I moved lower to his leg. 

Bear trap, I thought to myself. Had to be.

And I wasn't wrong. His leg wasn't extremely mangled, but it was definitely bad. Definitely a broken bone - no surprise with bear traps.

He could be able to walk on it, sure - but that would only make it worse, for sure.

With a sigh, I got up on all fours and went back further into the house. The nearest door to me was that leading into the kitchen. I inspected the wood, the texture, its strength.

"Good enough," I said to myself.

With all the might I could muster, I pounded the door until it came off its hinges and dropped down onto the floor. The crash was loud, but when I looked, the stallion was still sleeping.

I'll call him a soldier when I know he really is one.

I looked in the nearest cupboard and was lucky enough to find a hammer. Who still puts tools in a pantry?

I started smashing away at the wooden door, breaking pieces of it apart, but making sure the pieces were small and long enough to make a splint. I always hated splints, though. Wearing one back in high school, I can remember when it was such a pain in the ass.

But walking with a limp was better than not walking at all.

Eventually, I gathered up the right size of pieces and started gathering some bits of string and small rope. When I had what I needed, I headed back over to the stallion. He was still out - it would make this easier.

Kneeling back down over his leg, I first did the same routine I did to his shoulder - cleaning the cuts. He squirmed again, but was soon calm again, and the bleeding was much less than it had been. I bandaged it up as quick as I could and got started on the splint.

I placed the wooden pieces side by side against his leg as close as I could without causing him any pain. Using the string and rope, along with some tape, I was able to wrap them around the wood and the leg at least a few times, just enough so that it would stick even if he moved.

It took a couple of minutes to set it properly, but when it was done, his leg was completely straight, and the splint was working as intended. He subconsciously relaxed, indicating I had done it right.

With one quick check, I knew I had taken care of the damage. Whether or not it would heal quickly was entirely up to time itself. For the moment, all that was left was for him to wake up. He doesn't seem like the kind who would kill at any opportunity, and if he was a soldier...

Well...it'd be nice to have someone about again.

So I chose to wait.

As I've already said, that was hours ago. By now, the sun had gone down, and the outside world had gone dark. In the early days, whenever I'd look out the windows of a house and looked out to a town - it would light up in all sorts of ways. The ponies would be wandering about, music would be playing at least somewhere, and everything would just seem so...alive.

But now, when I look out the window - or rather, through the wooden planks nailed onto the window - the town is as dead as the night. Not a single light shines through any house. Nowadays, a light that shines in a town is typically a fire recently started. It doesn't even have to be from a survivor - it could just very well be natural or from a storm.

That's how Canterlot fell, at least. A lightning storm, a ravenous plague, no fireponies to put out the fire, and whatever's left of the capitol starts rolling down the mountain by the morning, with nothing but smoke and charcoal to follow, and for several days afterward.

It was quite the sight.

As I sit in the living room, on a chair by the couch, the clock ticked nine in the evening - though it'd been days since I wound my watch, so it could be off. The stallion was still unconscious, but he seemed to be looking better. He was definitely sleeping peacefully now.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my radio. It wasn't mine, really.

It was...hers.

Felt it would come in handy.

I turned it on, and as usual, all I would get is static. Whirring and whistling of the noise, but no voices or sounds of civilization coming through. At this point, it was no surprise. All of the stations near here went down in the first few days. Only a few stayed working long after the power died - until they went quiet, too.

So I had doubts that any stations were still working anymore.

But I had to try. I had to.

Unity has to be out there.

It has to be real.

I just had to keep looking.

The signal was there, waiting for me somewhere.

I just had to-...

He started to move.

He was waking up.

I tensed up just a bit. What was he going to do? Attack? Greet? Stare?

Carefully, I put the radio on the table beside me and looked at him, my hoof hardly above my knife - just in case.

But he didn't attack. It seemed he didn't want to.

He looked confused, because he started to look around the place: The walls, the floor, the ceiling, even the boarded windows and the paintings that hung on the walls. He did this for just a moment.

And then he froze. I knew it because he could hear me.

Hear me breathe.

He slowly turned around, his own breaths frozen.

And our eyes locked.

Him to me.

Me to him.


And so we meet.