//------------------------------// // Mercy // Story: Landsick // by redsquirrel456 //------------------------------// The wagon jolted as it went over a large rock. Nothing broke, so Trails kept driving. For a gem-powered land vehicle jury-rigged from spare parts and a minecart, it certainly was fast. Not fast enough, though. Nothing was. His hooves gripped the wheel tighter. His eyelids fluttered, but he forced them back open. If he closed them, he would see it. The fire consuming the town. The screams of the dying. Gertie’s stare, angry, confused, sad. A child’s eyes in the head of a beast. A human mind in the body of a bird. Asking him why. The past lurked in the shadows of his mind, thrown into sharp relief by the flames. Old voices whispered over his shoulder. Regrets enough to pave the road all the way back to where he had come from. Back to the Tower that he left it in flaming rubble before taking his first true steps in the new world. He remembered staring into the flames next to steady old Myrluk and frail, frightened Caspian. Too shocked by the cold grip of freedom to run just yet. The others had scattered already, or died in the Tower’s collapse. The wasteland plain was deathly silent save for the crackling of the fires. Where will you go? Myrluk asked him. Far away, said Trails. Try to fall back out of the world like I fell into it. Wizards do not forget or forgive, Myrluk told him. If he survived-- He didn’t, Trails had said, almost screamed it. The Tower was done. The experiments were done. The wizard was done. All that was left was to wander until his feet found their way home. Trails had gotten at least one of those right. He remembered Caspian with his big blue eyes begging Trails to join him, to go back to Abyssinia. Surely the wizard would never think to look there. Surely there was nothing that distance and time could not fix. But Trails never had enough of either not so long as the Knight was after him. He pushed the pedal a little harder. A little harder. The weather calmed by the time he reached the bottom of the mountain, but the sun only peeked through small breaks in the clouds, like holes cut in ice over deep water. Gradually, mist came up from the ground and settled over every low place, but as long as Trails had a compass pointing east, he was content. He chanced a glance over his shoulder. No more smoke. Maybe Dust hadn’t burned down after all? What did it matter, he wasn’t going back. He sighed and looked ahead again. Another village behind him, another slew of deaths he could have prevented. If you’d stayed behind, this would’ve been over a lot sooner. Wouldn’t that have been nice? Would the Knight really kill you if it caught you? You’re wanted alive, Trails. He breathed deeply, trying to force the nagging voice away. It stayed coiled around his shoulders like a snake, hissing in his ear. Why let the Knight keep causing chaos when you can just stop any day now? How long until you find the next village? Until it catches up again? How long until you let yourself become part of the collateral damage? He smacked himself. Intrusive thoughts not worth considering. He had transportation and a goal getting closer every moment. Don’t think about them. Don’t think about any of them. Just the road ahead. Ever onward. When he finally found the courage to stop for a time, Trails did so at the crest of a knoll overlooking much of the valley. He hopped out of the wagon and stood on his hind legs, raising a hoof to shade his eyes as he peered into the vast distance ahead. The valley beneath Dust was a hard-bitten land of small shrubs and carpets of sedge and dry grass, rolling over little hills and spilling into ravines that broke up the rocky terrain. Golden shafts of sunlight pierced the slate-grey sky, traveling across the wasteland like searchlights. A scraggly river wound its way southeast, parallel to his route. It snaked back into the mountains some miles off, carving a path between the peaks. It flowed eastward there, probably all the way to Terminus. He reached back into the driver side window, searching for his canteen. He needed a good stiff drink, and the bubbly not-quite-soda the Gizmonk had smuggled out for him had just enough kick to masquerade as alcohol. He pulled out the canteen and gave it a shake. Empty; what rotten luck. He must have guzzled it down in the panic of his escape. Cursing, he walked round to the the rear compartment of the wagon, and reached blindly inside. His hoof felt wood, cloth, metal, feathers-- “Oh, jeezus--!” Trails yelled, tripping on his tail as he staggered back, falling hard on his rear. Gertie’s mud-streaked face poked out of the wagon. “Oh, you gotta be kiddin’ me!” Trails growled, jumping to his hooves. “You ain’t supposed t’-- this ain’t a-- ah, consarn, dad-blammed--!” “I’m sorry,” Gertie whispered, but Trails wasn’t listening. He stomped the ground and made strange, bitter noises that might have been curses, but he was too angry to even think of what to say. Words tried to come out, but they just got gummed up in his throat. His father called it ‘choking mad.’ When he finally turned back to Gertie, who looked contrite as a sinner on Sunday, he was in no mood to forgive. “You!” he said, pointing at her. “You need to get the hell outta my wagon right this instant!” “You have to drag me out,” Gertie said. Her voice shook like a loose leaf. “I can’t fly, Trails. Really, I can’t. I can’t go back.” “You hornswoggled me!” Trails snapped. “Waitin’ until I’m miles outta town with the Grim Reaper’s fiery cousin on my tail like this, I suspect you’d’ve waited until we were all the way to Terminus before sayin’ anything!” “I’m sorry,” Gertie whispered. She stared at the ground, front talons curled up beneath her and tail coiled tight around her hindquarters, trying to make herself as small as possible. “I have nowhere else to go.” “You think you’re the only one with that problem?!” Trails said. “Did you not see the flamin’ monster tearin’ up the town?!” “It killed my friends, of course I saw it,” Gertie said, unmoving and unmoved. Trails’ nostrils flared. He felt a rush of extreme anger he didn’t like nor knew where it came from, and it balled up in his hoof and he almost felt ready to punch Gertie right in the face. But he didn’t do any of that. Instead he stomped away, grinding gravel underhoof, and counted to ten. He didn’t hate that she was being stubborn, or that she was justified about it. If Trails had been in her place, he might have done the same thing. No, what got his goat was how much she reminded him of himself. Scared, alone, certain they would stay alone. Looking at her felt like looking into a mirror, and nowadays he hated mirrors. He turned back and snorted. “Ya really can’t fly?” She turned and showed her damaged wing. The line of burned flesh scored into her hide made him hiss through his teeth. Feathers were still crinkled and black, burned into the scarring in some places. She tried to flap, but all that got her was a wince of pain. “All right, don’t move,” he said. “Jus’ lay there. I’m not too good with surgery, but I’ve treated some wounds in my time. Lemme have a look.” “It hurts,” Gertie whispered. “A lot.” “It’ll hurt a lot worse without bandages and some disinfectant,” Trails muttered, looking the wound over. “Which I’ve got some of, thankfully. I learned this back when I was stayin’ with a doctor in Brayzil, y’see. Nice ol’ antelope travelin’ the world like me. Ended up as his assistant for a time, makin’ rounds to farms and fancy villas. This one time we got called out to help this tapir, gone an’ hurt himself trying to cut down a hedgerow with some cockamamie scheme...” He kept talking as he pulled out a doctor’s bag from beneath extra blankets, bidding Gertie to stretch herself out and relax as he prepared his tools. One thing he had learned was to keep the patient distracted from the pain any way you could. “... Darn near took his leg off, poor fool,” he said around a pair of forceps in his mouth, plucking out charred feathers. A scalpel cut away dead flesh, and the disinfectant washed away the rest, leaving an angry red gash across Gertie’s back. Gertie winced every time he touched her, and cried out during the cleaning, but she kept her eyes on Trails almost the whole while, and didn’t struggle. She watched him with quiet reverence and deep gratitude that might make him flustered if he noticed, which he did not. It was one reason he was such a good assistant to the old doctor; he never let the patient distract him. Their animal eyes disturbed him deeply back then, so he learned how to ignore them. “That’ll do it,” he said at last, giving the bandages one last tug. “For now, anyway. It’ll sting like high hell, but the bandages’ll hold up.” He stepped back, dusting his hooves off. Gertie looked up at him, her chin on the floor of the wagon. The sun had finally broken through the clouds, and a breeze picked up his mane, the orange-red locks dancing like fire. He peered eastward, then over his shoulder. Somewhere far off he thought he saw a sharp glint of light, harsher than the sun, moving along the floor of the valley. Getting closer. “Thank y--” Gertie said before Trails shut the door in her face. Trails hopped into the driver seat, kicking the wagon into gear again. He turned towards a scar of cleared ground that hinted at a road leading into the mountains, likely put down by the miners before their livelihoods vanished. A few minutes later, Gertie poked her head in through the hatch to the rear compartment. She looked nervous. Trails looked forward, leaning his head on his hoof and bracing his elbow against the driver side window. His free hoof gripped the steering wheel with a distinct nonchalance, like he didn’t care if he lost his grip any moment. “Thank you,” Gertie said. “No one’s ever treated me that gently before.” “What?” Trails asked, raising his head. “Nopony ever… didn’t nobody patch anyone up on your ship?” he asked. Memories of his time on the griffon ship hit him, and the disgust came soon after. “Surely with all that fightin’ they do…” “No,” Gertie whispered, eyes wide and haunted. “Griffons hurt each other a lot. Nobody ever picked anyone up, or gave you bandages. You did it yourself or you went to the ship’s doctor, and if he wasn’t drunk he’d berate you for wasting his time if the injuries weren’t severe enough.” Trails hissed through his teeth. “Wonder that ship stayed in the air,” he muttered. “... Yeah,” said Gertie. She waited for Trails to say something else. He did not. “What are we going to do?” she asked. “Nothin’,” said Trails. “Because soon as I am able, I am gonna dump you on the side of the road, and I will keep going with my original plan.” “... Oh,” said Gertie. She tapped her claws on the back of the seat. “... It’s just,” she began, “I thought--” “That I suffer stowaways? No,” said Trails. “Gertie, I’m grateful for what you did. Just about saved my life. But you ain’t meant for this journey. It’s mine alone. The Knight’ll kill you in the shape you’re in. Better if I just drop ya off an’ let you walk back. Might wanna give the road a wide berth though, it’ll--” “No!” said Gertie, surprising herself with how forceful she sounded. At first, she stared at the back of Trails’ head with grave determination. When Trails slowly turned and fixed her with an evil eye, her courage failed and she hid behind her wing. “I-I mean… no, please,” she said. “It’s a death sentence to go back for me now. The other griffons… they’ll hurt me. Trails, I can’t, I-I really… really can’t. They’ll make me Grounded and spit on me and kick me and Viktor will tie me to the b-bowsprit--” Trails tsked, shook his head. “Now listen, Gertie--” “I’ll die, Trails!” Gertie wailed, curling into a ball, ignoring the pain of her injuries as she clutched her shoulders and huddled against a crate. Her voice quivered, and hot tears stung the corners of her eyes. “Don’t you get it? I don’t have anything to go back to! They’ll call me a coward, say I have no honor left. I’m a falcon freak who ran away from battle while her friends fought and died. They already think I’m weird and small and they hit me, they hit me every day and I… I tried to be like them, I fought and I kicked and I scratched but it didn’t matter at all, it never stops, it never…!” She balled her claws into a fist and slammed the wall of the wagon. “Never stops!” she screamed, tinged with the harsh screech of a falcon. The tears flowed freely now, not just for herself but the few griffons who stood up for her lying dead in the mud, for the pain of bruises still festering beneath her feathers. “They just come at you, and come at you, always testing, always fighting, and I hated it!” She turned back to Trails, who felt her angry glare on the back of his head, and lunged forward to grip the cushion of his chair. “I’m not going back, you hear me?” she said, trying to put a snarl in her voice and only managing to gargle the phlegm and snot her outburst had built up. “I’ll… I’ll fight you! I’ll take your wagon if I have to!” She crawled further into the driver’s cabin, hanging halfway out of the hatch. Her claws kneaded the seat cushions like a cat. “You think I can’t take a pony?” She leaned towards him, snapping her beak aggressively. “You think I’m weak?” Trails kept his eyes on the road. He was quiet for a time, listening to Gertie’s angry, desperate sniffling. His ribs twinged from where the griffons had kicked him, back on the airship. “I think you need to mind your bandages,” he said at last. “Don’t make fun of me!” Gertie whined, punching the back of the seat. “I’m not,” Trails said with a sidelong glance. “Find a place to sit an’ sit still.” Gertie gulped, eyes darting rapidly. As if she thought he was a fake and some other Trails lay in hiding, ready to push her out the back. “You’re not gonna kick me out?” she asked through fresh tears. Trails shrugged, tapping the steering wheel. “Jus’... sounds like we’re in the same boat, is all. No need to kick each other over the side.” He appeared outwardly calm. In truth, he felt intensely jealous. It had been a long time since he had the sweet luxury of a nervous breakdown. He had never been good with others crying, or himself. In fact, he could barely remember the last time he let himself cry. Gertie’s meek, submissive voice disturbed him; he finally began to realize the power he had in this situation. It reminded him far too much of how little power he had once had, and the realization struck that he was being somewhat merciless to someone who desperately sought a little mercy. Surely he could let her share the back of the wagon, just for now? Surely he could just drop her off later if and when her wing felt better. A little burn like that wouldn’t keep her from flying more than a day at most. She could glide if it came to that. Then he could be quit of her guilt-free, and at least she could still make the trip back to Dust without fear of running into the Knight. He just had to stay ahead of the damn thing for a little while longer. The wagon rumbled on. Gradually, the sound of Gertie’s sniffling faded to sullen silence. Trails looked over his shoulder and sighed at what he found. Gertie had indeed found a spot to settle in next to the hatch, and lay with her head underneath her good wing. Her breathing was peaceful, and the blood stains had stopped spreading. Even with the occasional bump of the wagon over the rocky road, she did not stir. It was honestly the first time in months he had been so near someone else in such a tranquil moment. Rest was an abstract thing in his life now. When he felt too tired to go on, he simply stopped moving and closed his eyes. For a time, there was welcome oblivion, free of fear or want or choice. Other times there were nightmares of fire and blood. Scalpels and beakers. The horrible wind chime of magic reaching down into his bones, prodding at his nerves and peeling away the skin and fat. Spearing into his brain to hook memories like fish and dredge them up to the surface, where they were examined, filed, mocked. The wizard always had a smart remark for his memories. Then he would wake up, often only minutes later, a few hours if he was lucky. Eyes still heavy. Limbs still sluggish. Mind still clouded by a million tiny anxieties clamoring for attention. He almost never had time to savor that sweet revival, to appreciate that he even had a place to lay his head for a time. The Knight was never far behind. But more than the Knight, the knowing that this was not his home. The rejection of his body by his own mind, rejection of the alien soil he was intimately connected to by his earth pony body, but had never known until a short while ago. How did you rest when every bed was not yours? When your spirit struggled with magic it wasn’t born with? When your own body did not fit the shape your mind saw when you closed your eyes? He felt so very, very tired these days. Trails shook his head and sighed. He’d fall asleep at the wheel at this rate. “What was that about being Grounded?” he asked over his shoulder. “Huh?” Gertie said, blinking wearily as she raised her head. Trails felt a twinge of guilt; she must have been sleeping deeply. “Grounded,” he said again. “I’ve heard it said by some griffons, but never got the chance to ask.” “Oh,” Gertie said, sounding disappointed. Trails gulped. He felt more like an earth pony now than ever, clumsily stomping along. “You don’t have to say if it’s personal.” “It’s personal,” Gertie said, “but I guess it would help if you knew why I can’t go back to that.” Trails raised an eyebrow. “Is it like exile?” “It’s worse,” Gertie replied, eyes wide and haunted. “They wouldn’t force me away. They’d force me to stay.”  She sat up, crossing her front legs, and spoke in a tight, frightened voice. As if she could see the fate befalling her already. Trails knew what that was like, too. “When you’re Grounded, everything is taken from you. Your position, your clan name, your place in society. You can’t fly unless a superior tells you to. You’re given the least desirable jobs. Your family ignores you. You are a slave to anyone and everyone who gives you an order. I would be one of the weak among the strong. And nothing, nothing would ever reverse it. I could save the world tomorrow, and being Grounded, they would spit on me for daring to try and rise above my position.” Trails blinked, cleared his throat. “Well gosh,” he muttered. “Ain’t that just a right boondoggle. Back where I’m from a guy is always allowed to make somethin’ of himself. Why would griffons do that to each other?” Gertie sighed, scratching the floor of the wagon. “To get that, I need to explain what being a griffon is about. We love the sky. Even more than pegasus ponies.” “That’s a bold claim,” Trails said. Gertie shrugged. “I think it’s because we can’t control it the way pegasi do. Ponies can mould clouds, sculpt snowflakes, even hold lightning in bottles. Griffons are at the sky’s mercy. We can push clouds and form them, sort of, but we never built anything like Cloudsdale. We can hide in storms, but we can’t create them. We have to fight against nature, because fighting is nature. It’s the one thing we can’t control, the one thing that is absolutely, totally free. Free from fear… and especially free from weakness. That’s why we love it. And it’s why we hate everyone who isn’t as strong as the sky.” “Izzat why they beat you an’ me up on the ship?” Gertie sighed miserably. She still felt guilty about that. “Partly. Since the sky is everything to us, we also hate anything of the ground. Ponies aren’t of the sky to us, not even pegasi. They corral the sky. Tame it and measure it and make it safe. They take a griffon thing and make it more like a pony. As if that’s such a terrible thing, to be a safe little pony.” Trails might have said something about that, but he was smart enough not to. Gertie continued, “Griffons only feel safe when they’re dominating everything around them, surrounding themselves with power. We test each other to see if we can fly on our own. If you can’t or won’t fight back… what good are you? To the clan, to your nest, to yourself? If you aren’t strong, you’re just prey. And conveniently, since we already believe we’re superior to everyone else, we get to see the whole world as prey.” Trails wrinkled his nose. “Includin’ each other, huh?” “I’m a falcon, Trails. We’re naturally smaller and weaker than the hawks, the owls, the eagles. We’re above the weak, but we’re not strong enough for the rest of griffonkind. We have to fight twice as hard for everything. They say it’s for our own good. They say it’s to keep our claws sharp. But slip up like me… and they strip away even that pretense. I came from a pretty prestigious clan, you know. The Windsong. Everyone born to the Windsong is supposed to get a leg up in life. But I was born a falcon, so my family threw me into the world to fend for myself. Had to ever since.” “What about your friends?” Trails ventured, gently. “They pitied me,” Gertie said, lowering her head to the floor. “That was it, really. Everyone’s only ever shown me pity. Now I don’t even have that much. Now I have nothing.” She fell silent. Trails had nothing to say. He settled in for the long haul, and rested his hoof on the pedal. This time, when Gertie drifted back to sleep, he did not disturb her. The Knight was somewhere behind him, but he wasn’t here yet. Trails just needed a little more time. Just a little more time.