//------------------------------//
// Where We Came In 
// Story: ...Or Was It All Just A Dream? 
// by AnchorsAway 
//------------------------------//




The EMTs had found her at the edge of the forest. 
The relentless storm that arrived in the early hours of morning had pounded upon them from all directions. It was only when they had the old mare in the back of the ambulance, and had removed her ragged cloak, did they discover the elderly unicorn had wings. 
Now, everypony at Whispering Pines General was watching her through the old mare's window: the doctors, the nurses, the janitors, and even the patients. All had come to see for themselves, to look upon the mare resting beneath a swath of blankets. 
Many would not believe it, even with the proof right before them. Others couldn’t even remember the name for such a creature. For alicorns were nothing more than folklore — ancient mythology relegated to fables. Nopony had actually taken them to be real. 
But she was there, right before their eyes. A living, breathing (if struggling) alicorn. 
She did not have long now; nopony needed to see the doctor’s reports and lab work to understand that. 
A deep grey saturated her mane in leaden streaks. A coat, once brilliant alabaster, hung from her frail frame like a sun-washed rug. It was etched with deep wrinkles, the mare wearing her age. 
The alicorn lifted her head, mustering the strength to look out at her audience. They sat pressed against the glass, little whispers passing between them, their eyes never leaving her. A few snapped pictures, but they were quickly scolded by the nurses nearby.
With a tired sigh, she rested her head once more. She did not have the strength for such spectacles, not anymore. In fact, she was only concerned with one pony for the moment —  the one sitting before her, a pen and pan clutched in his lap. 
He was a middle-aged stallion, the first few specks of grey peeking through his light stubble. If he was just as amazed by her presence, he didn’t show it. He was more occupied with jotting down notes on his pad of paper, his eyes sliding across the pages as he peeked over the rim of his glasses. 
“Quite a time to caught outside,” he finally said, setting his pen reverently atop his legal pad. The storm was still raging relentlessly, the rain painting the windows with wet murals of droplets caught by the howling winds.
"So—he—talks," the old mare managed, sounding the words out, her voice a gravely rumble of horseness and phylum. 
The stallion gave his glasses an unnecessary clean with the corner of his cardigan. They were already spotless. “The medics said you were on the verge of hypothermia," he recounted. " You’re quite lucky somepony stumbled upon you and called for help.” 
“I suppose — I am,” the mare spoke, her throat working up and down and her jaw shaking with each syllable. Her voice was surprisingly sweet and soft, soothing to the ears behind its many years. She was drawn to the clouds rolling across the covered sky, a roiling blanket of wind and rain, then back to the stallion by her bedside. “I’m so sorry dearie,” she apologized in a motherly tone. “My memory isn’t what it used to be. What did you say your name was again?” 
The stallion adjusted his glasses, placing the frame back atop the bridge of his snout before pulling his chair closer. “I’m Pen Stroke,” he replied, crossing one hind leg over the other and leaning back. 
“Oh, right,” the mare feigned, a wrinkled hoof wavering over her bottom lip. “Though, I suppose you have already told me that." 
She turned back toward the window, milky eyes alighting upon the town below them. Their lights burned bright in the nestled foothills, standing out against the storm. "This place? What is it called again?” 
“You’re in Whispering Pines,” Pen answered dutifully. 
“Strange,” the mare pondered, “how such places change over time. For even the ground beneath our hooves has changed so much here as well. The mountain — once the highest in the land — I believe once stood here. Now weathered away to little more than hills,” she said, studying the valley ringed by towering pines. “And you work in this place?” 
Pen jotted down a few notes first. “Yes,” he answered, with hardly a hint of emotion. He was a blank slate, a featureless expression hiding any hint of sentiment beneath. “I’m one of the psychologists on staff here.” 
“So they sent you in here to talk to me?” the old mare accused him half-heartedly. "Come to pester an old mare? How could I not have guessed." 
“We can talk, if that is what you want,” he offered with a shrug. 
“But that wasn’t what I asked,” she chided him, catching the hint of deeper intentions in his voice. 
Pen couldn’t help but relent. “Yes,” he admitted. "The department heads want me to try to converse with you. To discern who and what you are, if you so choose to cooperate.” He turned to look at the scores of ponies watching the two of them. “But I can understand if you choose not to,” he said, levitating the blinds closed. They were alone. 
“I’m an old mare,” she chuckled dryly. “What do you hope to hear in our short time together?” she wondered. Even she was blissfully aware her hour was upon her. 
Pen spread his hooves over his lap. “That part is up to you," he cleared his throat, brushing away an imaginary speck from his notepad. "We believed your kind was nothing more than myth before this morning. Perhaps you can leave us with something to recount of an alicorn,” he suggested.
"An account of an alicorn," she scoffed, interrupted by a mild cough. “Where would I even begin?” she sighed deeply, recomposing herself. Her eyes fluttered with an unseen heaviness, though she pressed them open. “I have walked this ground for countless moons, seen mountains rise from the ground only to crumble to dust. I wouldn’t even know where to start.” 
“Perhaps with a name?” Pen offered, turning to a fresh sheet on his pad. “You could tell me who you are.” 
She waved a hoof. “Even that has been lost to the ages. It was so long ago that somepony called me by my own, that even I have forgotten.” 
“That’s ok,” he assured her. “Maybe you can just tell me a story?” 
“A story?” she asked skeptically. "Excuse me, young colt, but I don't think you're here just for some story from an old mare like me."
Pen wasn't swayed; the pony never flinched.
The alicorn gave a heavy sigh. "Fine," she glibbed. "What kind of story did you have in mind?" 
“Whatever you want," he shrugged. "Doesn’t have to be a memory or even something that actually happened.” 
She narrowed her glazed eyes. “Why? Why do you want to hear the mindless ramblings of somepony who can’t even remember what she had for breakfast?” 
Pen softly tapped his pad with his writing utensil, his lips pulled into a thin line. “Perhaps it's because I believe somepony who has walked the earth for centuries might have something interesting to say.” 
The alicorn gave a sly chuckle. “Only centuries?" she rattled. "My little pony, you really have no idea what I am, do you?” 
“I’m all ears,” Pen assured, taking up his pad. “Where would you like to start?” 
The old mare searched in her hooves, wringing them loosely. “That’s a hard one,” she admitted. “My earliest memory – it is all so blurry.” 
“Take your time,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “It sometimes helps if you picture yourself there.” 
The old mare closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the sterile hospital air. “I was running,” she finally said after a minute. “We were running, my sister and I," the alicorn recounted, drawn into the trance of the memory. Her eyes fluttered, half-closed.
"And the world — it was on fire.”