//------------------------------//
// an epilogue  
// Story: The Fall 
// by waste 
//------------------------------//

The day has cleared. A sea of sunlight and clouds trawl in the sky. The shovel bit into the hard earth, spat out piles of soil and grass. Chrysalis takes the time to wipe some sweat from her brow. Two bodies wrapped in canvas. One grave. She drops the shovel. A handle of pale wood, shadowed with dirt and use, shadowed with age. Wasn’t he convinced that crater would be her grave, in that long ago of pain and green blood? 
Well he was wrong. 
He can’t extinguish the pain obscured in her scars, gnarled lines of flesh and ordeals. 
He won’t toil those orchards that blaze lurid with red, apples permeated in the branches of brown. 
He can’t use his hideous sense of humor. 
He thought he was funny.
Even when dying.
She weeps. 

To stop the weeping is to choke and clench your eyes. So she covers her eyes and coughs out a surrender to her devastation. Her tears are status quo now; they run down the trails left by precursors. Remnants of lament sliding on paths of lament. 
A Half hour of this.

Weariness from the sadness and brokenness that settled in the niche of his absence. Take another breath chrysalis, still the blood inside your veins. She holds her breath. The world proceeds to stay silent for her. Then she releases her breath and nothing is released. 
First things first, she kicks the guard’s body into the river. The body, surprisingly light, flies on a surface of liquid blue and ascends into the river’s current departing with its own black red blood. Blood diluted in the water and then that was that.
Second she cradles his body. Wrapped in canvas and her love. As if he’s sleeping she lays the body down reverently. Her face is an open picture of dulled agony, no crying because she’s fatigued by the effort. There is no fear or pain she can’t face now because this is the worst of it. If his presence made her weak his absence makes her dementedly strong. 
Rather than missing, she treasures.

The grave is the crater, dug into a little further. There are more blankets at the bottom, and its heartbreaking that she still wants to make him comfortable. I wish I could step through this haze of words and artificial light, I wish I could comfort her misery, that empathy could transcend this abrupt sharpness of words on a screen. 
Don’t hurt chrysalis, don’t ache.
But I can’t. This story was already made before I wrote it. She can’t hear the author’ voice. Her life is hers and not mine to write. It could never be changed. I’m sorry. 

She unfolds the canvas and kisses the crown of his head, then the eyes, then the lips. The shovel shaking soft cascades of soil on to him. She covers him in a blanket of earth and lets him sleep. She sobs for an hour saying his name. Then she looks at the farm. Then she looks at the note. Erratic curves that forms an address. Etched into wakeless paper.

Her wings quiver. Her eyes in far off places. The sky, an abyss. Her wings carry her.
She rises.

*************************

Equestria has changed so much. 
Canterlot has retained its beauty but has become baleful. Posters line all of the quaint old-town buildings, latch themselves to the nervous looking apartments and the brash looking clubs. Ugly hateful posters using words like ‘Destroy!’, ‘Hunt the enemy!’, ‘Our right, our way!’ all of the posters made of red paint and exclamation marks. The stain of nationalism and extremism.

The earth pony rolls a pinch of griffon fire-weed into a scrawl of rice paper. He lights it watching the ash echo off the side of the table he sits in. Then he takes a drag, more a habit then a pleasure. The waitress drifts by, willowy and young with green eyes.

Another earth pony Joins him at the café, sits at his isolated table. She’s young, probably indoctrinated and sculpted from propaganda. He thinks. She holds him in fierce eyes that are blind in its righteousness. Would she be a baker, or a hair stylist in the old equestria? 

“I’m here to join the NESA”
“Tell me what it means girl”
“National Equestrian Security Administration”
Another drag, another fervid breath of smoke or ash.
“What’s your name?”
“Perteks”
“What?”
“Perteks”
“Weird name kid”
“I’m here to join the NESA”
“Alright, calm down”

Military rally in the distance. It troupes past them the stomp and pompous of military regalia. She sits there entrapped by the sight of it. She pulls a salute, a giant grin on her face. Celestia, what did they do to your brain kid? Another drag.

“Tell me what the changelings mean”
“They mean the infiltration of systems of government. They mean the infiltration of royalty itself. They mean the overwhelming of Celestia herself. So for two years since the wedding has taken place the NESA was. made. The equestria expeditionary army hunts down the changelings outside of equestria. NESA hounds down the changeling enemy hidden inside of society.”

Class A brain washed. He shakes his head, a bitter smile assembled. She stares there leaning forward, enthusiastic. This kid is a story in itself at how much equestria has changed, that total victory is a defeat. He shakes off papery cinders from his rolled cigarette. Stares at its brevity. Kills it on the table. The orange hiss of a dying smolder.

“Kid. Changelings mean a threat that is invisible and could be anywhere and anyone. This means that certain ponies can detain others for acting strange, for acting like a changeling. Then ponies are detained for not thinking right, because they would hamper the efforts to destroy the changelings. Then ponies are detained for no reason.”

A smoker’s cough.

“The common ponies call the government weak and unwilling to protect them. The elites of society call the government ineffective, a new order should take it’s place. Everyone says that Luna and Celestia should take it easy, let the ponies sort out pony issues. So they both look on as fear and autocracy slowly take place. I think their ashamed of us”

Her stare turns harder, colder.

“Then armies are sent out to secure land and resources, for the ‘glorious war effort’. Wars are waged and we win them, we take from our neighbors and get closer to the changelings. Changelings that are found are taken to god knows where, a camp in the north some say. Then traitors and ‘harmony traitors’ are sent there as well.”

He returns the stare. Just as cold if not colder.

“Changelings means that ponies in higher places can do whatever they want to defeat them. Whatever they want. Anything. It’s why the NESA exists. Here’s your badge, go to the administration building. Go slay some changelings. Make me proud.”

Perteks turns around all excited, having forgotten the other’s tirade. On purpose? Idiot he thinks. A well-meaning lovable idiot. They existed in the old equestria as well. He watches two foals run by too fast, and laughing too loud. Maybe the old equestria still lives. Maybe it can come back. He finishes his coffee. He puts two hundred bits on the table, two crisp rolls of green.
“Sir. Sir?”
The waitress looks worried. Fidgets with the hemline in her short dress.
“May I ask you a question, young lady?”
“Sir?”
“Are you heterozygous?”
“Pardon?”
“Are you?”
She hesitates. 
“No. I guess.”
“Then you’re a changeling. Isn’t normal to have a green eye darker than the other. No don’t move. Don’t run. If you run I shout and get every NESA officer down here. Just smile. Lean in a little close. ”
He smudges a little ash on the table. 
What was the phrase? 
As cool as a cucumber.
“Firstly fix those eyes, you asking to get killed? Good. Now you tell me why you’re here and how long it took to dodge Equestrian security to get here.”
“I’m here to tell a sister that her brother is dead. Took two years to get here and dodge security.”
“Curious. Where are you heading?”
She gives him a small piece of paper.
“hmmm. Alright. Wait a second.”
He pulls out a roll of paper. A pen in his hoof. A ballpoint, none of that quill bullshit.
“You follow these streets then, head out of the city underneath the aqueducts. Salute every rally, with a smile. Walk on the left side not the right side of a road.”
He gives her the two hundred bits, as well as another from his wallet.
“You use this for food and shelter. Keep to the poorer areas and don’t spend too little or too much.”
“Why?”
“Hmmm.”
“Why help me?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes”
“Because me and my collogues broke the legs and wings of twenty five changelings, filled a pit with them, killed them with fire, then buried them in that forest over there. Do you want my other reasons?”
“No.”
“Good. You can’t imagine my other reasons. What’s yours?”
“Excuse me?”
“What’s your reason?”
“For goodness. To do something right I guess.”
“Good guess. Good guess. Get out of here. Good luck.”

She vanishes into the blur of canterlot, a pinprick of changeling in a sea of ponies.

******************

She walks up an old country path. Wild grass poking through the edges. The cries of unknown creatures. The ever-free forest looms nearby, haunts of animals without names. She takes a breath, it’s a lot easier after two years. She passes a well kept mail box. Painted shell yellow. Faded. 

She knocks on the door. 

Fluttershy opens it.


Thats it. The story has no more words. This is the end. I want to say thank you to all the people that commented, faved and watched me. I also hope its okay I used your name Perteks. If not message me. Or comment.
This is the individual thanks. This will be long so skip it if you like.

Shadowabsol for funny and honest comments. As well as answers to my questions.
Gypsy simply for chatting to me.
PonyKnight for the criticism. Heaven knows I need to deflate my ego.
Inkbolt for the heartfelt NOOOOOOOO.
Spikeandluna for telling me the woes of the sad tag. I know that feeling bro. 
Perteks for the follow and the name. 
Thefluffyone for the truly encouraging comments. Thanks dude.
Miseryborn I'm sorry for killing the farmer. Please. Forgive me.
ilikepie dealwifit sorry for slapping you in the face.
Thomas R where did you get that gif?
Comrac mcarthy for sentence fragmentation. 
Markus Zusak to give life to words.
Bret Elison for a metafiction style.
You.

Watch me If you want to find out what my next story is about. The bonus excerpt for the next story is below this line.




The shotgun is disassembled and she blows through the barrel, a sliver of her breath comes out of the loader. She pumps the shotgun to check the loading mechanism. Still working. Damn reliable. She takes the saw and cuts off the barrel to the tube magazine. Next she files off the edge with a rough iron file, then sand paper. She blows off a cloud of disintegrated metal and wooded dust. It launches from the top of the freshly cut barrel, wheels to the forest floor. Unnatural compared to the green leaves and hard earth. 

“Mama. Mama.”
“Hmmm. Yes? Yes Hayden?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Okay. Mamas busy right now. In a sec. Okay?”
“Okay mama.”
She reaches over and kisses his hair then ruffles it. He giggles. Sweet smile stretched on his face. He becomes silent his eyes follow his mother’s work. The stern look of focus all six year olds use. Her hands resume movement. Her hands that tapper to sturdy fingers and smooth worked skin. Moves with confidence. 

Next she saws the stock off the shotgun. She files then sands the cut. Like a sculptor it seems as if the cut is made perfectly. Rounded and torsional, a durable pistol grip. Stockless and with a sawn off barrel the shotgun is leaner. Predatory.

Lighter, able to fit firmly in her hands. She shakes it. No clicking. No looseness. The want of killing poured into all the cracks and small slips in the shotgun.

She takes an extent of hand loaded shells. Enough shells to possess her hand. The unruly clunking of shells in to the loader. The shotgun smugly swallows five shells into its magazine. Her hands remember her husband’s hands that must have touched this gun and these shells. A remembered world shoe-boxed behind a vast and anonymous distance. How far away was earth? How much did she want to leave it?

Quite a lot apparently.