//------------------------------// // Crawling Back to You // Story: Wind and Stone // by Ruirik //------------------------------// “How the Hell did I let you talk me into this again?” Carver growled, walking through the rocky crevice carved into the earth safely under the ash choked air above. “Cause you’re an idiot and so am I,” Pathfinder answered, clutching at his aching side with a hoof. “We have to get Rain, Summer, and Wind back.” Every second of riding on Carver’s back was agony. His healing side seared with a burning agony.  The pain made him want to cry; to drown himself in the undiluted wine Summer had been pouring down his throat seemingly every hour of the day. Yet no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn’t.  Rain was all he could think of. Ever since that horrible quake had shaken the continent, smoke from Feathertop choking the air from the mountains to the sea, Finder had been consumed in his worry for Rain.The consuming pain was nothing he wouldn’t overcome for her. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for this damned ash,” Carver complained, climbing over a pile of rubble with a grunt. “At least if we can’t fly in it, then neither can the griffons. Then again,” he paused, jumping down from the top of the rubble pile with wings spread to ease his landing. “It means we could run into a patrol blind.” Pathfinder shivered on his friend’s back. Instantly his mind was drown in those vivid nightmares. “Carver, promise me one thing,” Finder said his voice dropping to a whisper.  “Yeah?” “If we are cornered by griffons...don’t let them take me alive.” Gulping, Carver could only nod. Resolving to change the subject as quickly as possible, his mind raced for something, anything, to distract the colt. “Hey, make yourself useful back there. Open up my haversack and double check what we have left for supplies. I don’t think we’re gonna get a chance to hunt or forage much with all this ash.” Managing to just barely keep the flashbacks at bay, Finder quickly busied himself with the request. On reflex he tried to stretch out his wing for the task, only to hiss sharply at the protest of his mending bones. After a moment to compose himself his hoof popped open the bag, Finder shuffling through the contents with a pensive frown. “We’ve got…” another pause, Finder pulled out what was left of the wine flask Summer had left him out of the bag. He gave it a little shake, hearing the telltale slosh of liquid inside, and promptly took a sip. Shuddering at the burn, he reached forward with the flask offering some to Carver. The older pegasus took it in a wing, took a quick swig, then passed it back. “A little more wine, some bread that’s harder than your skull, and a few chunks of salt fish, and one last bottle of water.” Carver chuckled. “I guess we should thank all that marching we did in basic. Or maybe I should just be glad you’re lighter than a small cloud.” “Yeah, yeah,” Finder rolled his eyes, corking the wine flask which he tucked back into the haversack. “Come on, if I’m right we’re at least in the area they should be.” “How can you figure that, Finder? The maps are completely worthless now. Or did you not notice the giant crevice in the middle of the continent we’re walking in?” “The maps need new lines, but the overall land is the same,” Finder countered feeling a confidence he never had before. “This used to be the Clawdine Forks, it led from the mountains south of Nimbus directly into the heart of Cirra. Remember the lectures we got in basic about the Cirran defeat that happened back in the era of Roamulus?” “Well there’s no river anymore,” Carver complained, wings flitting in irritation. “Just this damned chasm.” “But the path is the same. We’ve even passed by some of the tributaries already. If Rain is trying to come back without being able to fly through the smoke she’d have to pass through here.” “I hate it down here. The walls are too close, it’s making me feel trapped.” Pathfinder let his eyes drift up looking to the steep walls of the canyon. “I don’t know, I think it’s kinda comforting.” Carver twisted his neck to look at his passenger. “Kid, I think all that wine has gone to your head.” “Can’t get surrounded if they can only come at you from one direction at a time,” answered Finder with a shrug. “Can’t really escape either.” Finder shivered, and the two fell into silence again. Much as he wanted to walk, Finder knew he never would have made it out of Discentus’ sight without his friend’s help. He’d always be grateful to Carver for that, whatever might happen. The two found an overhang and made camp for the night. The salt-fish and bread were split into modest portions and eaten in companionable silence. Finder slept tucked under Carver’s protective wing. After a few hours of rest the pair were off again, Finder awkwardly climbing onto Carver’s back with a fair bit of difficulty.  Another day they hiked through the winding chasm. The earth underhoof rumbled constantly with aftershocks, as though the warmth of Feathertop wasn’t sated with the devastation it had already wrought on Dioda. Thick plumes of ash from the caldera none could see anymore still rose high into the air, blanketing the world in black snow.  When the ash snow got bad Carver cut strips off their bedroll, tying them around his and Pathfinder’s faces to keep the ash out of their lungs. Hours and hours Carver hiked, Finder on his back, guiding him through the winding chasm from memory alone. When he could he scrawled quick drawings down on a small parchment he’d brought, making notes and lines to trace their steps.  That night when they camped Pathfinder preened Carver’s wings for him. Carver tried to return the favor, but the pain of extending his wings proved too great for Pathfinder. Carver waited for him to calm down, then made a sigh. “Kid, you’re never gonna heal if you don’t stretch them out every day.” “I try, Carver,” Finder protested. “But it hurts worse than when they were broken.” “I broke a wing when I was a colt,” Carver said, putting a hoof carefully on Finder’s back. He chuckled a bit at the memory. “Bone was sticking clear through my feathers! Took the medicus forever to get those set. They made me flex my wing an hour a day every day.” Finder winced, casting his gaze away from his friend. “Look, Finder,” Carver said, rubbing the colt’s back with a soft sigh. “I know it hurts,  but it’s the only way you’ll fly again, okay?” His face twisted into a pained cringe, but Finder nodded. “I...I know.” “We’ll take it nice and slow, alright? I’ll help you get it all the way out.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Pathfinder took a few deep breaths. He didn’t want to bring on more pain. But, if he couldn’t fly, then how could he save Rain, Summer, Windshear, or anypony ever again? If he couldn’t fly, couldn’t fight, then all he would ever be was dead weight. “Pass me the wine,” he said, holding out a hoof. Carver frowned, but passed the flask over. Finder pulled off the top with his teeth, downed a mouthful of the burning liquid, and passed it back. Carver took a drink as well, replaced the cap, then waited. “Whenever you’re ready, Finder.” The younger pegasus gave the wine a few minutes to get into his system before he gave the nod. Carver cut a strip of leather from his haversack, twisted it into a log, and had Finder bite down on it. Neither Carver, nor Pathfinder slept much that night. “How you doing back there?” Carver asked, grunting as he lifted himself over another pile of rubble. “I’ll live,” Finder grunted. In truth his wings were throbbing worse than they had in weeks. With Carver’s help he’d gotten both wings to full extension and contraction half a dozen times. It hadn’t come without cost, though. He only hoped the price would be worth it. “We’re low on water,” Carver said, rounding a corner in the canyon. “If we can’t find them today, we’re gonna have to turn back.” “You can if you want. I’ll stay.” “And what? Crawl your way to them?” “If I have to.” Carver shook his head. “You’re an idiot.” “And you came with me,” Finder shot back, a hint of a smile coming to his lips. Finder didn’t need to see Carver’s face to know the stallion was rolling his eye. He almost chuckled, and for a while just watched the ash fall from above. As bad as it was down in the chasm, the winds were keeping most of it out of the deep crack. He could only guess how bad things were above them for both griffons and ponies.  Not even their ancient safe haven on the clouds was safe from it. Pathfinder hadn’t even seen a cloud large enough to draw water from, much less sit on. Biting his lip, Finder tried to push the concern out of his mind. Had the whole river been redirected? What if it was cut off at the source in the mountains? All of central Dioda would dry up, the breadbasket of the Empire would be ruined. The cold realization dawned on Pathfinder. Even if the legion had already routed the whole griffon army back to Agenholt it wouldn’t matter. Cirra might win the war, but without their staples of grain and forage from the central lowlands then it was just a matter of time. He shook his head, forcing those thoughts from his mind. Rain. He needed to find Rain. For hours and hours Carver walked. The more time slipped past, the more apprehensive Pathfinder became. He had to find her. He had to save her.  It was approaching nightfall when Finder spotted something in the ash. “Carver, stop!” “What?” He drew his sword instantly, wings flaring out scattering ash across the canyon floor.  “Help me down, I see something.” “That makes one of us,” Carver groused, lowering himself so Finder could slip off his back easily. “I can hardly see the damned walls right now.” Finder ignored the comment. A brief lance of pain hit him when his legs bore his full weight, but after a moment he managed to adjust to it. He limped forward quick as he could, Carver following close behind him.  “What do you see?”  “Hang on,” Finder said, coming to a stop. He cringed, trying to lower himself a little further, and only succeeded in falling flat on his face when his left leg gave out. “Ahh!” “Finder!” Carver was at his side in an instant, helping the colt back up. “You alright?” “Yeah,” he lied, letting Carver brace him. His good hoof reached out, brushing away the inch of ash covering the floor. Underneath he saw a small, pale blue feather.  “Looks like a covert,” Carver said, plucking it up in his wing. “Must be from somepony with the same color as Windshear.” He looked over at Finder. “How the hell did you even see this thing?” “Just observant, I guess,” Finder said, brushing his hoof through the ash a little more. He didn’t find any tracks in the rocky floor, nor any other feathers. Finder bit his lip and looked up. The ash was falling, the wind above the canyon walls barely reached them down at the bottom. Yet there was some breeze which they were downwind of. Finder closed his eyes, sniffing lightly at the air. All he could smell was the sulfuric stench of ash. Not necessarily better than the constant scent of copper that his blood-stuffed nose had been full of for weeks, but at least different.  Something told him to check the ground again: a feeling from the core of his being. Finder bit his lip, took another look at the ground. He gingerly scraped aside more ash, golden eyes narrowing to focus on the uniform black earth underhoof. At first he saw nothing. But something kept eating at him, telling him to look closer. Then, like an epiphany, he saw it! “Carver, put your hoof right here,” Finder said, pointing next to a slight curve in the ground. “Why?” “Cause mine’s too small, just do it. And push down hard.” Finder got a look from Carver like he’d gone mad, but the stallion obliged him all the same. When his hoof pulled back Finder’s eyes lit up.  “A track!” He exclaimed, losing himself in the excitement, at least until the pain in his side pulled him back down to earth.  “Well, I’ll be damned. And heading east.” “They must be lost, hurry!” Finder said, pulling himself free of Carver’s grasp and limping down the canyon. “Finder, wait!” Carver called out, rushing behind the colt. “You’re gonna hurt yourself dammit. Get on my back before you open yourself up like a fish.” “We have to be so close,” Finder whispered to himself, a singular drive pushing him forward heedless of Carver’s pleading. He limped through the canyon, following the winding path and his gut. He walked when his side screamed for him to stop, he walked when he wanted to cry out in pain, he walked when when Carver’s repeated pleadings for him to rest fell on deaf ears. Rounding a sharp corner, the canyon opened to where the Clawdine used to open up into a small lake. It had been left unnamed on the old Nimban maps Dawn had shown him. There his heart skipped a beat.  Two hundred Pegasi were huddled together in the center of the opening, demoralized, covered in ash, heads hung low. Nearest to him he saw a blue stallion talking to a small group. His breath felt caught in his throat, he couldn’t speak no matter how hard he tried. In the end, it was Carver who proved to be his voice. “Wind!” He called out. The blue stallion whirled around, his eyes wide in astonishment. Behind him Haze, Thorn, Summer stood with gobsmacked expressions, and behind them… Finder’s heart stopped, her left eye was gone, hidden under a makeshift patch that was stained black with blood and ash. But she was alive. She stared at him, he back at her. He limped towards her, leg giving out after only a few paces. He saw her trotting towards him, and he forced the pain back as much as he could. He threw his right leg out, dragged himself forward. The left foreleg limp at his side, dragging a line through the ash and muck. Bit by bit he crawled towards her, with Rain running towards him. At the mouth of the opening they met, Rain scooping him up in her forelegs and hugging him tightly. “You damned fool,” she said in a choked voice, squeezing him to her breast. “I know,” he whispered back, letting his ear listen to the steady beat of her heart. He even pretended not to feel the tears dripping into his mane, at least, as long as she didn’t mention the ones soaking into her chest.