And so we wandered on, never looking back. That’s not to say, others didn’t look back. We received a similar reaction from every town we stopped in, ‘How did you get those scars?’ He did not tell the secret. Occasionally, they were mistaken for natural markings; were complemented for their beauty, it’s rare to see scar tissue -- some didn’t recognise it. Often, not remarked upon at all, but the microgestures of discomfort that I’d gotten to know so well, surfaced every time... Never, did I perch on his back, without material between flesh and claw again, but, crucially, the frequency of the hallucinations dwindled; its effect remained as potent. We traversed all the way back to Whitetail woods; from there turning north, heading yonder, towards Yanhoover. I was surprised not to encounter any phoenixs during this time, as Charlie’s speed was far slower than I’d normally travel and we were covering a fairly wide area. Especially my father, he favoured Whitetail; it’d be the first place I’d expect him to go after I was taken. None of his feathers were there, which was more than a bit odd. But I was sure he was fine. Even Charlie gathered the impression of the lacking birds. I morbidly thought, maybe we were being culled by Celestia herself, as some kind of sick preparation for Nightmare’s relatively distant return. It was not beyond her. I left several feathers behind of my own, just to reassure myself, I was no survivor. The slow journey did eventually end up at Yanhoover, slow as in, ten years of general exploration. We kept up a fairly regular routine, spying a Manticore every now and then. At least they had some intelligence, enough for me to convince them Charlie wasn’t food. One would hope those stupid sharks had given up by now, for a siege could only last so long.
In that time, Charlie grew old. And a beard. Hatchets aren’t very effective at shaving, you see. Quite an amusing and seldom seen image, a pony with facial hair. Already in his late twenties when I met him, and the average life expectancy for ponies back then was only around forty years or so. Plus, living in the wild, undoubtedly aged him faster than it would have. Mind you, it did make him the part of the worn traveler. In wisdom, he had yet to cease being amazing. Nor had he given me a name, beyond terms of endearment, for that matter. If I was lucky, I’d learn a smidgen more about him and his upbringing, before, he too, faded into memory. The rucksack did last the whole time though; it became creased with the imprint of my claws, which he liked, eccentrically enough. Somewhere along the line, he mentioned his family name was Westbrook.
I’d not been to Yanhoover since its founding, so it was a novelty to visit, alongside the bonus of my companion’s familiarity with it. The place was remote before, and still was, remaining relatively unaffected by Celestia's tantrum some three-hundred years ago. It had developed a culture of its own, so I was overjoyed, when I found it was a pleasant one. The buildings were of dark blues and dull greens, that were a little particular, for that age. As was to be expected, so far from the capital. The psychedelic pinks and yellows that infected the entirety of Equestria didn’t come until later, fortunately. A sheet of light mist covered Yanhoover; it were as cold a town I’d ever been to, primarily, because it was so far north. Though it was also in the midst of winter: Hearth’s Warming Eve was approaching.
Upon our arrival, we planned to do what we did every time we stopped off at a town. Locate accommodation (one of his friend’s or otherwise), go to a bar, he’d drink moderately, most of the time, take a miniature tour of the place, eat; crash. But, this time, Charlie was enveloped in heavy nostalgia, but, not in the usual sense. The joy that would normally come was somewhat ambiguous. When we first saw its outline he, quite literally, shook in his hooves; when we first stepped on its streets, he cried -- not happily. I knew him well enough, to be able to easily read his ambivalence. Something like, despite his admiration of the place, he knew something dreadful awaited him there. A past gone by, in the least pleasant of ways. Tears rolled down his face, I tried to comfort him while resting on his back. I tried by gently nuzzling him, running my beak through his mane. But the shaking went on, not, out of mirth. Never, in our ten years together had I see him in such a state of distress, poor guy. I went so far as to wrap my wings about him, inadvertently concealing the scars, though more importantly, giving him some warmth in this, cold, cold world he’d stepped into. I hope it did, anyway. When I did, I could feel his heartbeat, thumping strongly in his chest; next to my head. As well the gradual contraction; relaxing of his abdominals with his breathing: it came out in gouts of beautiful semi-frozen water vapour. I thought on how glorious it was, to be alive.
He stopped after to trotting to who-knows where in Yanhoover, I wasn’t able to tell, for my eyes were buried deep, in his coat. The straightening in his neck told me to look up, told me see what he saw. Three tombstones:
Here lies Allan Westbrook.
Here lies Susana Westbrook.
Here lies Kyra Westbrook.
His voice was breaking as he said:
‘That was them - th--at was bloody them!’
More sobs; the shaking became increasingly violent.
‘M-y parents may--be b--ut-- Kyra’
It began to snow, the vibrations of sorrow compounded with a very real need to keep warm. His tears were liberally scattered over the graves, but were quickly being rendered invisible amongst the snow-fall. Luckily, as long as it remained fully outstretched, as it was, my wingspan protected the majority of his mass from the distraction, allowing him but a bit more time to grieve. I continued to snuggle against him, urging the superfluidity of speech. Some ponies might have walked on by, but neither of us would have noticed.
We stood there, for a long time. My naturally sanguine wings became speckled by spots of white; my body grew numb with cold. Charlie cried, and cried and cried; I cried with him. Not for hundreds of years had I seen a tear of sadness leave these eyes of mine. Hardened by war, wearied by cruelty, desensitised from violence. Yet I mourned, over a tiny ripple, within the ocean of ages. In hindsight, I saw that I couldn’t have been mourning for my own lake, but for his pond. The same stone -- a bolder in his, a pebble in mine. He’d lost all his family in a moment and I... nothing? Perhaps, the pain in my heart was begotten from empathy and empathy alone. Really, this was, nothing. Everything, was nothing, in the context to how long I’d lived. The “present,” a meaningless term, whose vitality was lost, long ago. Would there be a gravestone for me, when I had the courage to do what needed to be done? Why, did one care what happened to themselves, after their end? Coinensess surviving in the minds of others, our goals and ambitions to be forever forgotten, evaporated into naught in the weaves of times’ minds. Like that mare in Canterlot; like Luna. Like, me.
I awoke, to the unfamiliar warmth of an interior. Charlie lay on the bed, groaning in his slumber and many empty bottles of whisky were strewn about the floor. My mind was a jumble, trying to figure what had happened. It seemed, I was flat on my back on a desk beside him. I suppose, I’d simply passed out from the cold. Well, if that was so, better me, than Charlie. Snow continued to fall outside, but, then again, it had only been a few hours. I watched the sky, mesmerised by the tranquil tinkling of the stars. They always did, though compared to Luna’s, these were dull and shallow. I stood myself up, averting my attention to Charlie’s breathing for a moment, before exiting via the window. And I found I was to be greeted by a siseable lump of snow, falling onto my back. What was I, a snow magnet or something? Chortling, I vimly hurled myself off the ledge, into space. Flight is, so sweet. The rest of the night was spent aimlessly gliding over the town: quite picturesque, I’d think. Reminded me of the old days.
I returned in the afternoon, expecting Charlie to still be wrestling a hangover, tapping on the window as I usually did. But, there was no answer. Eventually, I let myself in, only to find the same room, lacking the figure on the bed. Maybe he’d gone for a walk... There was a note attached to the door. Uneasy now, I flew closer to read it. ‘Meet me in the woods.’
So I did. I could only assume he was near its borders, not lost in the midst of trees. He was. I found that he’d dropped the rucksack down next to a yew tree that only grew this far north. There was also a rather out of place, wooden chair next to him, which he was trying to stand on to use climb onto it. But didn’t look like he was having much success in his task. He quickly turned around, and gave a relieved sigh when he saw it was only his faithful (albeit misguided) friend. Charlie had a length of rope in his mouth. Bemused, I asked what the heck he was doing,through the raising of the right wing and leaning forward (we’d developed some personal, if only basic means of communication over the years, though by then he could read my mind in effect, for the most part). Rather suddenly, he turned away from me again and asked me to tie the rope on the branch he was trying to reach, apparently. Still unsatisfied I dumbly refused, awaiting answers. He remained faced away from me and instead of giving me an explanation, dropped the rope and asked me, with unexpected bitterness: ‘What do you think I’m doing?’.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t innocent enough to be unsuspecting of the truth; he’d just confirmed it: my worst fears.
‘Now tie it.’
No.
‘Would explaining myself be any better? You know I’ll find another way if you don’t help me here.’
And I wouldn’t be able to stop you if you did. A bit of snow fell right on his nose; I squawked a little in superficial amusement, trying to revive the smallest degree of joy in his heart, but he just shook it off, utterly unamused. Lost his humor too, eh? An ill omen indeed.
‘ Then I might as well explain it all, believe me, I didn’t want to drag into my pain, you don’t deserve that. I’m sure you’ve had enough, already.’
In pain? Dear Charlie, I shan’t ever have enough pain, I’ll only ever be overwrought by boredom and guilt for you. That, is not the ‘pain’ you speak of.
‘There was another grave, that you did not see; can’t of seen. It was-- It was, Jacob’s grave, my son’s- grave... Do you know, why, I bothered to visit those towns, long before our supplies were low? Do you know, why, I ran in the first place? Do you know, why I got myself so appallingly drunk against my better judgement, back in Dodge City -- no, it wasn’t because of my drink problem, I knew better. Of course you don’t, I’ve never even given you a name, fool. My marefriend, Kyra was pregnant with our son, our beautiful son, Jacob. She worked as a florist, in Yanhoover, no less. We used to be fine, our income was enough to keep both of us afloat. But not, a newborn foal, as realised, all too quickly. So we agreed that we’d borrow, in my name, as much money as we could, before I would inevitably leave. Leaving the funds behind, for Jacob and her, to last as long as they needed. That was me getting “chewed out by debt sharks” for you. Their rates were reasonable; the amount they were willing to loan off, was not. I promised I’d return when I could, as soon as I was able to. So, after pushing my credit to its absolute max, I left. I made sure she’d be more or less untraceable; we weren't married, nor were we officially registered as living in the same house.
'I met you, a year after, as I happened to be walking through Everfree, as you know. A creature of seemingly infinite wisdom, gave their weighty interest to just another, dull, earth pony. You were nice enough, I mean, the company was always helpful. I thought of an idea, to tell Kyra, I was alive, waiting for the chance to return to her, to feel the comfort of her and Jacob’s embrace. Any place would have worked, really, but Dodge was the nearest, so I headed there, as you know I proceeded to get myself, very drunk. Certainly wasn’t difficult, I’d had a drinking problem for years, but this was a deliberate relapse. If, I could hit the headlines, Kyra would know where I was, and the fact that, I’d still managed to evade capture from my pursuers, who I saw everywhere I went. As it turned out, it was made all the better with your intervention, not a drunk pony anymore, but one with unrecogniseable wounds on his side! Sure, it might get her a little worried, but I didn’t die; wasn’t going to die, anytime soon. Ideally, I’d have looked for something similar from her, from Jacob, even. Nothing came. It was why, I was constantly visiting a town, or city, wherever it was to be found. On the off-chance that either of them were there, in the flesh, or the more likely story in the news paper. I got chased, for far longer than I expected, persistent buggers. Through it all, in the end, I got, here: Yanhoover. What was the centre of all my hopes and aspirations, laid there. I never got to see my son’s face; out of the womb -- but as a dead tombstone, instead. My grand return, to be greeted by a buried lover and son. I don’t know how he died. I don’t know why Kyra died. All I know is that, I... want to join them.’
I bowed my head in resignation. Charlie turned round, to face me once more and started to walk towards me. I kept my eyes firmly locked on the ground, it was not my place anymore, to do anything else -- if it were ever. Tenderly, he instructed me:
‘Come here.’
He invited me onto his back, now with nothing between claws and flesh again, for one last time. No blood appeared, anymore. I obliged, trying; failing to keep impassive. Sensing my distress, he asked me:
‘Wouldn’t you want to join them too?’
Before, I’d never had the desire, to be with someone like that. Before I’d met you, Charlie.
The form underneath me, turned and started walk toward the looming chair. His hooves made the soft crunching sound of snow underhoof now, not those crisp autumn leaves, all those years ago, still reminiscent of them, though.
‘It’s okay, it'll be okay...’
Charlie stepped on the chair, and whispered:
‘You know what to do.’
I, slowly, willed myself to do as he asked, grabbing the rope in my beak. Flying, up, to the branch, was not so sweet, this time. Let go of it, tied it as best as I could manage with these talons and beak. I flew back down, onto his back again and merely gazed on, as he prepared the noose.
‘Well, this is it. You’ll be free, to do whatever you clever Phoenixs do, now.’
He said, as he placed the noose around his neck and tightened.
‘You should really let go.’
I did, hopping off him, onto the soft ground.
‘I still haven’t given you a name. I should really, now that you know me, for who I am. I didn’t think it was important, but I do owe you at least that.’
Charlie looked towards the snow-filled sky, breathing heavily, deep in his final thoughts.
‘Philomena.’
The chair fell.