To be on the peak of a mountain ridge felt like being king.
King of what? Some said it felt like being king of the world; a few said it felt like being king of the skies. To feather, for that moment it was as if he were the king of his own soul. It meant not he had complete control over all aspects of his person, it just meant he had a certain mastery over himself. What’s the point of growing up when we aren’t even ourselves when we get there?
Alone. He was alone—being king oftimes repelled everything else away. Not a bird, not a pony, not a creature in sight. The only living things he could see up here was himself and the grass, the trees, flowers. It was a quiet existence. It was only often broken by the rustle of flora.
The sky was at dusk; the light of day was escaping this part of Equus, the moon creeping to dominate the purple canvas that was the night. He saw the sun departing downwards as if it were the creator leaving momentarily for their daily reprise, their rest. It must not be easy to create everything and maintain it that way.
Feather Dew sat on his camping chair as the transition began to happen, the sun disappearing into the horizon, its rays spinning and fading away, the stars aiding the ascension of a new moon. Were the stars like the people raising their deities up? Or was it the other way around: the deities raising up his people?
Taking a sip of juice from a mug that rested on the wooden planks under him, Feather’s coat danced from the breeze as it passed by him and the tower, presumably the last of the chilly gusts that would come from the valleys between the mountains. At night, cold air came down from the mountains, and during the day, it arose in pursuit of greeting heaven, perhaps?
It was interesting to see how it worked, natural weather. Pegasi did a lot of those functions—he knew that—but it was oddly strange to see nature take matters in its own hooves, creating both the wind and the breeze. There was something to that, watching nature create things. It was more real than anything people could create.
Nature was the paintbrush the creator used to impart natural beauty upon the world. God was the artist, nature was his pencil, the oil pastels, the charcoal. But as Feather watched the ether settle into that familiar boysenberry, he wondered what the art was. Was it the creator? Or was it his hoof? Was it the paint brush or the medium that was used? Can it be all things but none of them at the same time?
“You should come inside; the nighttime has arrived.”
Feather heard the voice come from inside, calling to him. An intuition snuck into his soul somehow; he couldn’t disobey, couldn’t run away. The stars made themselves clear, and it was as if they urged him to follow those whispery words. With a final glance to the premature night, Feather left the lofty balcony to enter the firewatch tower.
It was a cozy place, a fireplace by the side, books and drawings scattered about, a small table that carried pots of flowers. Through large windows he could see in all directions, the mountain ridges and trees near and far, framed like a painting by the window frames; it was a firewatch, after all, and one needed to be able to see all around them to spot even the smallest of forest fires.
Speaking of flames, Feather found her laying on a delicate carpet by the fireplace, basking in its warmth and radiance, her back turned to him. He could only make out her faint silhouette under the obscurity of the fire, it being the only light source of this isolated structure, her gold mane ties glinting like the spark of the crackling embers.
Silently, Feather sidled and settled into the fluffy carpet—it reminded him more of a soft comforter. As he looked on to the flames and felt his breathing lose its pace, Feather was returned to the quiet once more. He didn’t even know what to say.
The fire crackled as the two remained in their silence, the light of the moon as vague as ghosts.
“When I was younger, I had learnt that fire was the force that bridged this world to the others, a transformative energy that had the power to both create and destroy. I have heard stories from far flung lands of ponies being able to use fire to create weapons from metal. I have heard stories of entire cities, forests being burned by ravaging flames caused only by a single spark. And from then on I understood that even the most mighty of nature’s tirades can come from things so insignificant, that which ponies take for granted before it’s too late.”
Feather could see the glint of her mask under the light of the fire, the details of her mane under the watch of Equus’ companion. She was somehow closer, staring into the flames with a mirth hiding in her expression. Her eye reflected the twinkle of lost stars.
“I liked to do this when I was younger—I still do. I like to camp with my friend Rainbow Dash sometimes in the outskirts of Ponyville, and we would read books or just talk by the campfire. Other than the celestial objects in the sky, the fire was the only thing we had.
“She’s not the type to be introspective, but there was a smallness to her as she regarded the cosmos, a melancholy. She asked me, ‘Why do stars burn so bright but be so insignificant in the grand scheme of things?’
“And I said, ‘Even one peasant can inspire a hundred despondent kings, can they not?’ Perhaps even a lonely flame is enough change for an endless, cold universe.”
The crackle made it seem as if it were alive, imparting its heat to all those around it. Was this how it felt to be those first people, the ones who had just discovered fire? It was something they wanted they didn’t know they wanted. It felt alive because it could die.
As Feather beheld Crystal Jade, he was made aware that he was more aware. Like fire, everything would die: he would die, his friends would die, everycreature he knew and didn’t. Jade already has. Her life ended, but she found herself not by the pearly gates or the mouth of a burning lake. She was a ghost, wandering through dimensions and dreams.
“I know what happened to you.”
Jade turned slightly. She didn’t seem surprised. Her lips formed a calm melancholy, still partly a silhouette in the illumination of the heavens. Jade flitted her lashes, her eye barely sparkling a tear.
“Am I a myth? A story?”
Feather could do nothing but simply nod.
Jade was firm, solid. She didn’t stand down from the regality of her pose, yet there was a slight sadness that stirred. She didn’t say a word, looking weak but strong, proud yet unsure, nervous but accepting of the inevitability of everything. All the things that have to be said have already been said.
Feather knew he hadn't done one thing, though, and he wasn’t even thinking as he stood and seated next to her. Her coat had that supple appearance still, her mane radiant and mysterious, though there was something about her that he couldn’t overlook, some little thing that he couldn’t point his hoof at. Yet it meant everything.
As she tucked her hooves to her sides, setting her cheek on the carpet facing away from him, Feather knew that it was time.
He came closer still until he felt his barrel brush hers, as soft as he thought it would: lissome, impossibly so, how was this real? His heartbeat pealed in its cage that was his ribcage, and yet despite this he could sense a rhythm that wasn’t his own. Hers.
She did indeed have a beating heart, but it brought him great pain as he realized that it felt weak, barely clinging on. It was the heart of a dying foal.
Feather took his hoof and wrapped it around her. He felt Jade seize at his actions, the muscles of her torso tightening. As he massaged her coat, though, she seemed to ease into his gentle embrace, her breathing slowing to a mere crawl. Her cry was as gentle as angels' tears.
He wrapped his hoof around her neck this time, bringing her closer. It surprised him when she buried her face into his coat, allowing him to discern both the cold of the serpentine and the warmth of her cheek. It was the instinct of somepony who hadn’t felt the embrace of another for a thousand years.
The mountain wind was delicate, the cold of the beginning dusk sweeping across all of Bocoltá. Lights from buildings and lanterns scattered across the expanse that would have otherwise been a void of darkness under the illumination of hazy moonlight. It would have been like looking out into the sea from a beach during nighttime, a desolate expanse so dark yet brimming with unforeseen creatures.
To think that an expanse as large as the sea could even exist shook Feather’s spine a tad. He was young when it happened: the little colt’s parents were sound asleep in their quarters when he slipped out, trodding the beach with the help of tiki torches. They barely gave him any help in guiding him through the sand, and it was absolutely useless in lighting the sea.
The sea. Little Feather looked back at it. It only stared back at him. Other than the unhelpful moonlight, little Feather saw nothing at all, a pitch black so dark he wondered if he would eventually turn blind had he stared at it too long. Despite being unable to make out a thing, he heard the crash of invisible waves, the rattle of pebbles. What was going on under the sea in places that were barely even real?
Perchance it mirrored Bocoltá at the moment; despite the throngs of nighttime still clear, despite the world still being unmoving and obfuscated, there was life. The stars of Bocoltá flickered. It indicated the presence of living organisms, a hive mind that reached from corner to corner of the Bocoltán plateau.
Despite the sea having a lack of light, Feather found the connection between it and Bocoltá—or any other city, for the matter. They were both filled to the brim with living things, regardless of whether they had made their presence known or not. It felt both empty and jam-packed at the same time.
He wondered if there was somepony staring back at him at this very moment in Bocoltá. It was such a large place; there had to be somepony looking back at him, at this peak. How was he so sure of this? He didn’t know whether it was true or not, but he had the feeling. He wondered if Bocoltá stared back at him the same way the sea once had.
“Hey, Feather, River Moon and I were waiting by the docks until you slipped out of nowhere.” A pause. “Is something wrong?”
Feather turned, regarding her with a shake of his head. “No, Twi, nothing’s wrong. I just found myself here; I wasn’t even really thinking about it.” He returned to the view.
Feather heard her not for a moment until she spoke up, “It’s quite the scenery, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And it’s beautiful,” he added courteously. “I don’t know when I’m coming back to this place. It only seemed like yesterday when River and I first came here.”
Twilight’s voice came closer. “Are you going to miss it?”
Feather didn’t look away from Bocoltá for even a second. “Of course I’ll miss it. It has a way of blending its traditions and its future. I have a lot of respect for that, you know?” He truly meant those words; Bocoltá was an interesting place not because of what it was but because of what it had been, a city originally formed from indigenous peoples from the south, snowballing and eventually becoming the place it was in modern times.
He added a statement that perplexed Twilight. “I feel somehow incomplete, though.” The wind was hollow when it came between them, a reflection of the state of their souls.
“Whatever do you mean?” She tilted her head. “You’ve accomplished quite a lot already: recruiting River Moon and I, finding out where we have to go, even contacting Jade and talking with her.”
“But... she’s not here,” he said, waving at his side. “I... She looked lost. I told her about the myth. I was melancholic then, but now only my anxieties remain. What if we can’t... what if we really can’t bring her back, Twi?”
Feather felt the gust of a wintry breeze as Twilight gazed back at him. The silence that came afterwards was unsettling, yet he didn’t know what to say to break it. And it especially felt icy, a stab to the lungs. It was as if the wind was mocking them by signifying the space beside him—the space that could have been occupied by Jade.
He had to slow down. “Sorry, Twi. I just... I don’t know. There’s a world out here, and while it may not be her own, it’s a world she ought get to. It’s better than barely existing at all. I thought I was going to be confident, but...” Feather sighed when he knew not what to say.
Twilight only offered him a sad smile, putting a hoof on his shoulder. “Confidence is a trick sometimes. It’s a trick because the things that give us confidence oftentimes aren’t real at all. Confidence comes not from the world, Feather. It doesn’t have to make sense. It can be labelled foolish, sure, but that strength, that power? Only that comes from the hearts and souls of those who pursue it.”
Feather saw her under a new light. It happened every time she imparted wise words to him. “It doesn’t have to make sense because people don’t make sense.” The small curl of her lips made it seem as if all would be alright. He managed a sad chuckle.
Twilight put her hoof down and examined Feather, the wind whisking both their manes. “We’ll try our hardest, Feather; keep your chin up. I just don’t want you to become unrealistic.”
His ears flopped when he heard that last word. Unrealistic. He hadn’t even thought about being that. Feather had thought of himself as a lot of things: crazy, weird, even as a conspiracy theorist at one point. But to be unrealistic? Detached from his senses? To be unable to discern this reality from any other...
“Am I... becoming that? My goals, my ambitions, heaven’s sake, talking to Jade?”
“You’re being strong, Feather.” Twilight’s lips curled soft and sure, the Bocoltán night shining in her eyes. “You’re being strong for River Moon, you’re being strong for me, you’re being strong for Crystal Jade. But you have to remind yourself that you have to be strong for yourself, too.
“At this point, it doesn’t even necessarily have anything to do with finding Crystal Jade or being a good friend to River Moon. I feel that way sometimes, too... Having to be strong because of unfair circumstances, when everyone seems to be against you. The world can be harsh, and that can make you ruthless and unforgiving.
“So I just want you to know that... we’re here for you and you’re here for us, okay? I believe even Crystal Jade knows that.”
Feather shuddered at both her accuracy and the mention of Crystal Jade. It was an epiphany that was long due, a reminder of what he was and what he had been doing. It was scary. And yet he felt the knot in his stomach untwist and unfurl when she mentioned that they were here for him and he was here for them. That was true. That was real.
He sighed as he fluttered his eyelids, breathing. “Thanks, Twi. You always knew how to see right through me.”
She patted herself on the chest. “What’s a Princess of Friendship good for without knowing how to be good at that, Feather? A day in the job, you know-”
“Hey, lovebirds! C’mon over here! Our airship has arrived!”
The two of them turned to look at River Moon in the distance waving a hoof at them, Feather’s heart beating a tad when he heard of River calling them lovebirds which is totally not true at all!
Twilight looked confused. “Lovebirds? Why would she call us that?”
He tried to play it off by shrugging. “She acts drunk in the mornings; it’s probably the altitude. Anyway, yeah, haha, let’s go!”
Twilight went ahead to the direction of the docks, Feather finding himself alone once again. He beheld Bocoltá, the growing rays of Celestia’s sun starting to move across the cityscape, like the gentle touch of the creator blessing the world a new day. Before taking his leave, he was comforted by the mountain breeze, glancing one last time at the gleaming sunrise.