//------------------------------// // II ~ The Nameless Mountain // Story: The First Second of Eternity // by Sledge115 //------------------------------// II The Nameless Mountain The next thought that passed Galatea’s mind was that it was a preposterous question. She knew who she was. That is why she was here, once was there, and would be, for eons to come. The thought to follow after that was to reflect upon it, just for a moment. But a moment could be a very long moment, and she knew not how long she’d been thinking for. She looked up, and the Sun was still where it was. That was good, she presumed. She had not dwelt on this very long. She was Galatea, Scribe of the Stardust. Her duty was to watch, learn, and protect. And that was it, she presumed, nothing more. And she has watched and learned what she could from this world. Nothing did slip from her mind, for she was rational, and her memory eternal. She remembered every moment of her life, all that she had observed, and each of the creatures she had observed. Perhaps, then, the answer lay in the question itself. That is to say, perhaps she ought to change the question into something more palatable. So she sat up straighter, and cleared her throat. “Where am I?” Better. And then she recalled it easily. She was in the Far East, where pleasantly shaded, light pink flowers bloomed in Spring, and water trailed down from the mountains, from where every little drop collected into lush, hot springs. The hesitation passed. Her confidence returned. And as it should, her duty continued. Yet even as she braced herself to take flight, a moment’s doubt caught on to her anew. The very first question she’d asked was not truly answered. Perhaps, she mused, she ought to ask it again sometime. And so, she was off, flying West, onward to familiar ground. * * * * * Many, many Moons passed, before Galatea discovered one gift of hers that Mother had not told. She had flown, across oceans, as she usually did, when a storm loomed on the horizon, and she took the time to land, and to cross the barren, volcanic lands. She winced upon landing, feeling the rocky terrain beneath her hooves. Her sweat dripped and evaporated in the fiery air. And her thirst persisted, as she went on her way. But she was not alone. She heard a terrific roar, and hid behind a volcanic rock, listening to the crashes and roars continue unabated. There, she poked her head out, to gaze in apprehension across the barren, ashen landscape, and saw the monstrosities.   They were large, scaly, and their breath was like fire. Each of them burned upon the other. One was red, the other an ashen grey. Mighty wings sprouted from their backs, and both their feet ended in large, sharp claws. Their snouts were long, much like a crocodile’s, though narrow and arrow-like as a snake’s. Their golden eyes glowered with hatred and malice, as they tore at one another with their snapping jaws. Galatea waited, watching their altercation for some time, while each kept tearing not only into the other, but the land as well, rendering it racked and scorched. At last, one of the creatures fell in a heap, growling, but its sounds were quieted by a claw pressed against its neck. Then the victor, the dark red of the two, spoke, in a low and terrible voice. “Leave, for I have claimed this land,” the creature snarled, “and if you ever return here, I shall have your head.” The victor bared its teeth, and the loser scuttled away. And this was Mother’s Gift, she realised – Galatea knew right then, that she would listen and understand the languages of many. What she understood now was to turn and walk away, without the creatures knowing. She flew, and did not stop for a long time. * * * * * The great dragons, she later learned,  were not the only races. And neither were they the only ones capable of speech, for there were many, many more.  But there were none like her, and it troubled her so. Not the griffons, creatures of the air, with great wings, cruel beaks and the body of lions. Nor the Reindeer, elusive and mysterious, those that trod the air. Minotaurs and Diamond Dogs, shapeshifting Changelings and secretive Kirin. All the races that created holdings of their own, grouped together into clans or villages or even cities.  Yet none of them were eternal. None were unchanging. They lived, fought, bled and died, fighting for land and other such petty needs. They did not see the bigger picture. None ever had. They fought for land, for wealth, for glory, or to defend their ownings from those who would rob them.  None took the time to look upon their land they lived on, and appreciate it. None took a pause to contemplate their world and build upon it. All was to be built, and torn asunder eventually, when the fires of war came to their homes, to a chorus of the cheers and battlecries of raiders and pillagers. Many times did Galatea see blood shed, of the adults and children alike, when they could not stand. And those who did stand, so often did they find themselves pressed into labour, toiling away at the fields until their bodies withered away. So Galatea did not try approaching them, and she watched, and watched, as the lands were torn in battle, from the griffon lords in their marching hordes to towering Minotaur chieftains, battling for supremacy throughout the lands. Only the Reindeer shied away, yet even they did not come to help, preferring to remain in their forested domains, turning a blind eye to take care of their own. And there were things that stirred in the dark. Hydras and chimeras, manticores and serpents of the seas. Nameless things that gnawed upon the world beneath which they dwelt. Terrible creations from a bygone era, older than even she. After a time, Galatea turned away, and she did not want to think much of the world. Duty commanded her otherwise, nevertheless, and even as she approached the forest she called home so often, it lingered in her mind. * * * * * “I am tired,” Galatea declared one day, and almost as soon as it had left her lips, she regretted it, for she had not minded it nor thought of it so strongly before. But the days and nights had grown lengthier in her mind – and sooner or later, time would become her prison, where once it had kept her company. She paused, stopping in her trek. Now she was near a forested mountain, and in its shade did she find some respite, sitting down upon a rock. A dark thought passed her then. Was it not already her burden, to be dictated by time? She did not even know how many cycles had passed since she’d left that cave where she’d opened her eyes. She did not know how many little birds had hatched, grown old, and perished. She did not know how many trees had been planted, grown, and fallen apart. All she knew was that she was tired, very tired. Galatea laid down upon the grass, pawing at the ground impatiently. This was not expected of her, whatever expectations she held for herself. She should not be waiting for so long. She had places to see. They needed her presence, after all. ‘And yet,’ she thought, still pawing at the ground, ‘what more is there to see, truly? Death, either made deliberate or left natural, suffering from all walks of life…’ The little voice in her mind that was not hers told her to shake it off. That it was her duty. Which it was, of course. None questioned it. So, perhaps, she should not question it so thoroughly… Yet…  ‘So many little birds, fallen upon the fields, old and young and in-between,’ she thought morosely. ‘On and on the story goes…’ And time… Time was the eternal question. How long, she questioned, has she been doing this? How many decades, how many centuries… How many millennia had passed, from when she had stepped out of the cave that sheltered her. How many more little birds and drakes and griffs would perish and fade into dust, with the passing of time, whose fate she would have to bear witness to, with few words ever spoken. Galatea gritted her teeth. It was unbecoming of her, she told herself. That’s what she told herself, over and over again. But try as she would, she questioned it – how much longer she had to go? It had never been her duty to keep track of time. Now, however, she wished it had been. She looked up in time to see a little bird, its beak sharp and plumes black, with a red crest, fly past, and land upon the patch of grass before her eyes. The little bird did not mind, nor seem to notice her presence. From Galatea’s observations from the years past, this was not a native bird. No, this one and all its ilk were of the sort to migrate, twice a year, North to South. And now it came to rest at the mountain, as it usually does. It rested there, preening its wings, without another care. And Galatea didn’t like that very much. “What do you want?” she hissed, fixing a hard glare upon the bird. “Have you come to mock mine presence?” It did not notice her, like many others. It tended to itself, uncaring of the seething, frustrated watcher nearby. “Fly, little bird,” Galatea at last spoke somberly. “That is what you, and your kind do, isn’t it? Fly freely, to wherever you so desire. Leave me.” It did not, much to her disappointment. It chirped, and chirped, calling for a mate of its own. And even as her frustration mounted, Galatea could not avert her eyes, for duty called upon her, just like it always did. How she wished that she too could fly, truly fly away, by her own will not bound by whatever greater purpose lay ahead of her. It hadn’t taken long for the bird, now quiet, to hop closer to the rocky side of the mountain. And, even as Galatea approached it, gently, the little bird began to peck. Not upon the nearby trees, no. It tapped its beak upon the rocky outcrop, on, and on, in a rhythmic cycle. Galatea sat there, watching the bird, and her tail flicked back and forth from left to right. The bird’s pecks chipped away at the rock, little by little, letting tiny cracks form, and grain-sized pieces of it to fall away. A rock was not eternal, Galatea knew that. Much as she’d have liked to compare herself to the unmoving, unyielding rock, the latter was still at the mercy of the elements. More enduring than plenty, but at the mercy nonetheless. Evidently, even this primordial stone could not withstand the bird’s routine, small as it was. And when it finished, leaving hardly a trace of its beak upon the rock but tiny, grain-sized debris, Galatea nodded in understanding. The bird’s beak had been sharpened, if by a little. And the rock, made ever so infinitessimaly slighter, too. Galatea looked up upon it, seeing the mountain’s peak touch the sky, and she returned her gaze to the little bird. It looked at her, yellow eyes wide and curious. Galatea raised an eyebrow, and cleared her throat. “Tell me, little bird,” she asked gently this time. “How long will it take, for this mountain to be ground to dust?” The bird said nothing, and soon it spread its wings, and flew off to where it was needed. But it did not matter, nor did it bother Galatea much. It told her enough. And now she knew what to do. * * * * * It had begun simply enough, as all struggles do. First, she had walked, across to the other side of the nameless mountain. Four thousand paces across, she counted. Then up the mountain she went. This she was less certain of, that was true. Another four thousand paces, she estimated, and that was good enough. She returned to her spot, where the bird had left her alone, and set to work. She started off, naturally, by pulling a hoof back, and striking the rocky outcrop. Upon impact, the immediate surface promptly crumbled into a powdery dust. Galatea paused before thinking to strike once more.  ‘That won’t do,’ she thought. Too hasty, and the whole mountain would be dust, blown away in the wind. So the next time she struck, in the outcrop next to it, she was gentler. This time, the stone cracked – but held its form. And through the tiny cloud of dust that blew upon her face, Galatea felt a tiny smile tug at her lips. Galatea struck it, again, and again. Each strike was weaker than the last, until she felt the right pace. But she did not mind. The mountain would be dust in many thousands of years, or further beyond. She did not know this, for it was not her duty. But she would carry on, need it take an eternity. * * * * * Little by little, with each chip off the mountain, Galatea’s duty continued. She did not know when it would end. Only with the mountain’s end would she consider her task finished.  She switched hooves often. Left, or right, whichever suited her preference at the moment. They served her well. Sometimes she’d turn around, too, and a tiny part of her wanted to burst out laughing, when she chipped off larger parts with her kicks. And this did bring her comfort. The creatures that came from the North, beyond the frozen shores, did not, by much. How could they, truly, when they were so alike her, and yet so distant still in body and mind. Ponies were their name, from what little she could hear from their language, hooved creatures of many colours, grazers harmonious with the land on which they trod and lived. And they were as diverse as they could be, with three tribes. First among the three, for they flew where others walked, were the pegasi, as they called themselves. They reached far and wide, establishing fortress cities up among the clouds, far and beyond the reach of the other tribes. And through the beats of their mighty wings, they proudly defended their homes, casting the weather as needed. Next came the unicorns, and through their horns they channeled the magical forces around them to an extent far greater than any of the three, as they willed it. In their ivory towers, they looked down upon the other two, for their control was certain, and they needed no other company but their books and their arts. The last were the earthponies, with no wings nor horns to call their own. Strong, hardy, yet also gentle with the life that thrived within the soil, they drew the least attention from the other two, toiling away in their fields and villages. But it was their food the pegasi and unicorns depended upon, and this was the begrudging truth the other tribes knew not to question. Each had their duties, that was true. The unicorns closely safeguarded their knowledge. The pegasi watched over the land from high above. And the earthponies built their homes, and fed the people.  Here, Galatea at last saw herself. Beings that nurtured and shaped the land, and guided their lives with their own will. She was all three, by her horn and wings, and the gentle touch of her hooves upon the land. And yet they were not like her, after all. They passed on as time went by, like all things. And the more she noticed, the more Galatea knew that they were much like any other people, for they bickered and argued – and fought, though they were kin to one another, and to herself. With each burning field, and fallen soul, and petty argument, they drifted further apart from the tasks bestowed upon them by their gifts. To squander a gift, Galatea thought, was a crime. After a time, Galatea returned to the mountain. * * * * * Many thoughts passed Galatea’s head then, when she arrived at her spot. Plenty of them vague. Others, she was more certain of. She was not like these people, in certain areas. Where they bled, she did not. Where they starved, she could not. But appearances could be deceiving. And she knew just enough that she looked much like them. Galatea looked down upon her hooves, then her sides, circling in her spot. And when she was done, the decision had been made. It was yet another gift from Mother, for her to have been blessed with the knowledge of the magical arts. Rudimentary, true, but this sufficed. Enough to know of this spell. Her horn glowed a pale grey, like her mark, and she was enveloped by the aura. And a change did come over her, rare as it was. Her ethereal, flowing mane and tail fell inert, her dull, pale grey coat turned lighter, and her stature was reduced, to a third of her height. The unicorns wielded the magical forces, like she did, casting spells with their horns, and keeping records. The pegasi flew far and wide much as she preferred, protecting the land and watching over it. But few would notice an earthpony. And now she looked like any other farmer or worker. Few ever took notice of those that built the foundations, those who worked the fields and put up dwellings. It would suit her needs just fine.  Galatea looked down upon herself once more. Smaller in stature, with neither horn nor wings. Yet her soul’s mark remained. Her mane hung limp, its once-shimmering black now faded. But then she raised her hoof, and saw that it was still chipped and worn. She smiled at the sight. Another reminder of the duty she carried, the tasks she must undertake. The troubles and strife that engulfed her kin did not trouble her that much, she mused, as she reared to strike the outcrop once more, with all the strength of an earthpony. Whatever they did, it was her duty to watch. And what else could she do but follow Mother’s orders and guidance. She struck the outcrop. Her duty would take longer from hereon, for an earthpony’s strength was lesser than hers. But she had time, Galatea knew. All the time she’d ever need. * * * * * The years passed, and Galatea’s duty continued, with each sight she kept in her mind, and each strike of her hoof upon the outcrop. The spot she had chosen changed over the years, naturally. A nook was beginning to form. And that was good. Time had passed, and it again gave Galatea comfort to know it continued to do so. Here, with her disguise, she could change, too. She would starve, often, forcing her to forage further. She could walk among her kin, though she preferred to observe from a safe distance. And when needed, she would regenerate, reverting back to her true form to heal any ailments. Yet, Galatea found new comfort, through her little pony-form. She lived, when she previously could not. Where she once was numb in feeling, she no longer was. Every sensation, every sting, every touch of the grass upon her hooves and running water through her coat, she felt that much more vividly. Her duty continued. But so did life, and Galatea found that good, truly good, for she understood. Timeless she may be, but there was a new vigor to her. Then, change came yet again to the land. Where the seasons once held balance between the four, one season did grow and last longer by every passing year. And when Winter’s hold upon the land grew, the balance was upset. And the land suffered for it. It had begun with the snow, piling high and thick each passing Winter. Then the ground began to freeze over, beneath Galatea’s hooves. Saplings froze beneath the hard soil. Eggs no longer hatched, nor did little birds come down to settle. And the snails froze and perished in their shells, for even their hibernation could not outlast Winter’s wrath. So cold it was indeed, that Galatea could no longer assume her little form, to her great pain. And even in her true skin did she feel the bite of the cold. Each Winter, longer than the last.  But with gritted teeth, she pressed on. Even when temptation grew to turn away from the land, to wander to where dragons dwelled and griffons fought, she remained, roaming, and watching. And still her kin bickered amongst themselves, led astray by the leaders they had trusted. Blame fell upon the earthponies, for withholding food. The unicorns, for shunning the others and withholding their arts. Pegasi, for their effort or lack thereof in ending the harsh Winter. Disappointment was a familiar feeling, but it did not change its unwelcome nature. “How much longer must I do this, Mother?” Galatea asked aloud, above the howling winds. No answer came, nor would it ever. She looked down at the spot of mountain she had struck so many times before. Where it was once a flat surface, it was now a large nook, large enough for her to rest within, protected from the elements. “I shall continue, until this mountain is dust,” she pledged, “however long it may take.” The wind did not answer. With a heavy heart, Galatea carried on, chipping away at the nameless mountain, for ponykind’s strife continued, even as the snow fell. And when she was tired at last, her hooves cracked and her breathing heavy, she laid down to a long sleep, with scant hope of Winter’s end. What more could she do, truly? * * * * * One day, it did pass. Galatea did not know when it did, precisely. But as she trod upon the land, having awakened from her hibernation, she knew well enough from what she saw and felt. For the snowfall had grown lighter, the permafrost receded, and glaciers retreated. And the Spring that followed was far more pleasant than ever before. To see the seasons restored to their previous balance brought some measure of satisfaction for Galatea. For the birds came back to roost, returning from their travel, and flowers bloomed and thrived in this land of hers, as far as her gaze could see. So it was, once she had looked around, just enough, that Galatea again retired to her little nook at the nameless mountain, to mark the day as usual. Once, twice, thrice did she strike at the rock. On, and on she went. Galatea did not know how many strikes she had done for the day, when she heard the rustle and crunch of dried leaves behind her. So she turned around, and met the eyes of a pony.  * * * * * Silence fell. So sudden was the newcomer’s presence indeed, that Galatea paused in her strike, her hoof awkwardly hanging over the nook, and she did not wish to move a single muscle, nor to let herself breathe. Galatea tilted her head, and raised an eyebrow, looking him up and down. He was a stallion, she could tell from his build. His fur and mane were a welcoming light brown. His mane and tail were braided, in a style rather longer than his ilk’s, if her memories served her correctly. He wore little, only a thick jerkin and a bag that hung over his sides. On his flanks lay the mark of a red autumn leaf. She contemplated his eyes. They were a warm amber. The silence was broken by the stallion. “Ah, um… greetings!" he said, cheerfully. Galatea blinked. “I... could not help but notice you here, fair maiden.” Another pause. Slowly, steadily, Galatea lowered her hoof, and turned around to face him fully. His eyes darted down, before returning to meet her gaze. "Greetings," Galatea replied, her voice a little shaky. The Gift she’d been blessed here had long permitted her to understand his tongue. But it did not make speaking it any easier. “No one has called me anything before.” The stallion laughed, and Galatea tilted her head. “Is something funny to you?” she asked. The stallion, most curiously to her, shook his head. Perhaps he was lying, and she found that certainly off-putting. "I apologize, but my party and I have reached this mountain, seeking sanctuary,” he stated politely. He pointed to the pathway that lead into the forest. “So, we have made one. It isn’t that far from here and… I suppose I heard you… working, aye. Do you reside here?" “I reside nowhere and everywhere.” The stallion opened his mouth to retort, then closed it. He looked past her, to where her nook was. Galatea followed his gaze, and looked down upon it. The weathered rock hung over the little clearing she had made for herself, with dried leaves and soil as her bedding. She looked back at him, frowning a little. “This is not much to see,” she spoke, still stiffly. The stallion blinked, and shook his head. He gave her a smile. “That’s alright,” he said pleasantly, “but may I ask, what are you doing?” “I am grinding this mountain into dust,” answered Galatea, and the stallion’s eyes widened. Still, there was no need to lie, after all. “But…” the stallion began, “that will take an eternity, will it not?" “Perhaps it will,” said Galatea. That old, resigned feeling crept back into her. The stallion rubbed his chin, humming. “An eternity sounds awfully long,” he said plainly. Galatea raised her eyebrow, and the stallion coughed. “Come visit our hamlet," he said, that wide, cheerful smile lighting his face. “It is but a short moment's walk from here. And we could use a laborer of your strength and will.” Galatea contemplated this, briefly. This was not in the plan, she pondered. That she would have to mingle so intimately with ponykind, her charge. But then she looked down at her hooves, which were worn and chipped, and her mind began to wander… Perhaps this was what it was meant to be. And once the thought came, the decision followed. “Very well,” she said. “I will come with you.” “Oh, excellent!” the stallion said brightly. He turned to leave, and beckoned her to join his side. “Come… Ah, my name is Broadleaf Heart. What about yours?” “Galatea,” came the reply. Regret followed instantly. She was not to intervene. And here she was, getting herself very much involved in their affairs. “But you musn’t speak of it to your ilk. Do you understand that?” She expected him – Broadleaf, Galatea reminded herself – to rebuke her privacy. He merely laughed, softly and not unkindly. “If you wish,” said Broadleaf, still with that smile of his.  “Come, come. There’s much to do.” And so she walked with him, side by side, down the winding path.