//------------------------------// // Chapter 8: Mr Manticore // Story: Millennial Heartstrings // by The Apologetic Pony //------------------------------// The yew creaked, reeling to the new found dead-weight that hung from it; I still couldn’t bear to look up, beyond the fallen chair in front of me. Even though, I knew, the form above me thought, no more, breathed, no more, smiled, no more. His writhing had finally ceased. Sometime, I managed to compose myself enough to turn away, I went to the cemetery again, trying to twist myself into some kind of acceptance of his death, as I should have been, quite easily able to do. But this time, I couldn’t. It was a long flight, for such a short distance. The graves were still there, naturally, though I found myself somehow surprised by them, naively expecting them to disappear now that Charlie was, gone. I flew over the entire thing to find the son’s stone, I did. It was as far as it could possibly be from his mother’s -- within the same grounds. Here lies Jacob Westbrook. I stood before it for a while, looking upon the tragedy of mortals, though eventually, I slumped myself against its cold touch. Or, perhaps, more accurately, the tragedy of immortality, bearing witness to it all. Charlie wasn’t going to receive any acknowledgement of his death, barring some unpaid debts. Like so many others, he’d deserved to make a mark on this wicked place, it would be a better Equestria if he had. But, of course, he hadn’t, his chance to be denied under insurmountable circumstances -- as if I should have ever thought he had a chance! He, was just one, among so, so, many others. Yet this, was the only death that hurt so much, burning with a melancholy beyond an imagination’s scope. The heartstrings’s mercurial melody was dead, a single strand, broken and the musician found herself to be devoid of all inspiration. Once more, looking over that precipice, that holy, peaceful, precipice. Was your death really so simple, Charlie? Why wonder -- it would make no difference. At best, I’ll die with your memory in me, none will know of my, no -- our suffering. Conflict stirred, the inevitability of my eventual suicide leaned over me, fighting against some powerful, irrational will to live on. Strong enough to implore an endurance of this cruel torture. Even a goldfish would wonder why it bothered to live in such petty existence if it could. I thought I’d be just like him, none would know I’d ever existed, just as a shadow lurks in the dark. No cremation, no burial and the remains of us not to be discovered for hundreds of years. The scars, would be gone then. As much as it hurt, I moved on quickly. I had to, else I lose all hope there was to be had. I did, later, as it turned out. Such is the inevitable end, for we, ageless, beings. Interrupting my brood, some irritant in the form of an old grey unicorn with glasses came along. ‘Are you alright my dear chap?’ Well, isn’t that nice of you, complimenting my sex like that, I'm utterly flattered, seriously. Cheers, mate. He raised a hoof to lower his glasses; his eyes flicked to the inscription behind me. After a moment, the nameless one decided on ...something. ‘I see.’ He walked off. I’m glad he saw whatever he saw, weirdo. Every now and then, my thoughts pass through Charlie’s domain, crushing me as they did so. The cold of winter drove me to move, I did, so back into the woods I went. Flying down south, again, to Whitetail woods, I wanted to talk to Father. Though any pheonix would have done, really. Someone I could share my pain with, without killing them. All I found were empty nests and hibernating bears. Where were they: surely we weren’t so sparse? Not since the great war! My usual contacts were fast asleep in the winter, so I tried some local otters instead. They could more or less understand me but were pretty chilled about the whole thing, to start with, at least ‘Naw, we haven’t seen any of you round here for a bit. You guys doing alright?’ I told them why I was asking them in the first place: ‘I don’t know, you tell me.’ They appeared to be rather stunned at that, so much so, they felt it necessary to huddle together; whispering to each other, before confronting me. After they’d finished their “discussion” they all blankly stared at me. Quite unnerving, having a myriad of pitch black eyes peering at you like that. ‘We don’t know, but one of you left some feathers behind’ ‘Show me.’ All of them silently pointed to a tree behind me. Somewhat confused by their sudden unity, I flew up to the greenery they’d directed me to and looked for the distinctive bright red streaks. I did find, though they were unusually high for a place to sleep or the like (traditionally). There were three: one plume, one wing, one tail. By the sisters, I hadn’t expected that. Resisting against breaking down right there and then, I checked back behind me, only to see the black orbs staring back at me, still. They didn’t know what this meant; I wasn’t about to tell them, those undeserving idiots. Temporarily putting my bitterness aside; without looking back anymore, I picked up all three feathers in my beak, taking flight as swiftly as I was able, leaving the befuddled otters behind. When I was sufficiently out of sight, I had the impression, that I was trying to cry, but there were no tears left to spare and my heart already hollowed. As I continually wrestled with a hollowing of all emotions, I searched my distant memory for who was the owner of the once proud appendages. Not my parents, certainly, I would have recognised them instantly. The desire to end me pervaded every single attempt I made at recall, but I was on the cusp of remembering it. Then it was slipping, slipping, away... I stupidly thwacked my head against a tree in frustration; drawing blood as I did so. It didn’t complain, because it was a tree. Who are you? You leave me, choosing to let yourself drown in the ocean, committing the ultimate act cowardice for one of us, who burn on, for each other, but for you, no more! Immediately, I cringed at the hypocrisy, or was it the taste of my own blood? I couldn’t tell. Some of it dripped off my beak, splattering itself onto the three feathers, diversifying the hues of red. And then, I remembered. I’d fought alongside him, back in the day, when we fought a war we didn’t want to fight. That’s where I first met him, both of us were bloodied and wracked under a god’s magic, a god known today, as Dischord. Likely, the reason it was so hard to remember him from then, not that I wanted to remember then, not that any living mortal did remember, then. All of us, were infused with an artificial bloodlust; the event; the core of all our legends. Most pony legends too, at that. Normally considered the separation between the heritage and modern, for we who had lived through it all. What was his name? He’d told me later than our first meeting, it was... By a tyrannical Celestia, AGAIN, I was to be interrupted. This time, by a Manticore that had decided it would be funny to roar at the king of the jungle. Being torn out of a trance-like recollection, was similar to being plunged into deathly cold water and then held down in it for a few minutes. Apparently, the Manticore had found its satisfaction, chortling as I tried to recover from the dramatic change of temperature. ‘Go away, or eat me.’ I said in monotone, trying to drive him away as quickly as possible, I didn’t feel like moving till the imprints of the stars had disappeared completely. But he continued to roll on the ground, apparently, finding infinite amusement at my shock. So trying a tact, I muttered: ‘Preferably the latter.’ That got his attention. Good. Though I honestly wouldn’t mind if he did, I held no hope for such a thing. It wouldn’t kill me, he’d vomit me as soon as I turned into ashes, but the rejuvenation would have helped clear my head. Annoyingly enough, these creatures, though typically stupid, were too kind to eat one of us. I decided to call him ‘Mr Manticore’, for lack of a better name that implied his terrible sense of humour. But I had to keep it to myself, else he’d probably laugh at that too, even worse, tell me his real name. Mr Manticore noticed the blood on the tree, the blood on my head, the blood on the ground and the bloodied feathers. Though not profusely anymore, I was still bleeding. ‘You're bleeding.’ ‘No bloody kidding.’ The inadvertent pun triggered more nonsensical laughter. Oh dear. ‘You're funny!’ ‘You’re not.’ He frowned at that, as someone with typically bad humour would do: unable to laugh at themselves. Not to say that it was necessarily his fault, he had a small brain, after all. ‘You want me to eat you?’ ‘I do.’ ‘Do you taste good?’ I leaned forward, offering the blood on my head. ‘Taste.’ Apprehensively, Mr Manticore moved his head close enough until I could feel gusts of warmed air against the wound. Without warning, I was slapped by a big, fat, moist, tongue, that only caught but a gout of the blood it was supposed to be aiming for. ‘Twas forceful enough to knock me flat: I was not amused. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the effort would not be worth the reward, that I should just fly away, defeated by the hero known as Mr Manticore. How disheartening. ‘Now eat me.’ ‘You no taste good.’ Thank you Mr Manticore, I learnt something new today! Perhaps, in the future, our blood, with the right ingredients, will be concocted into a deadly poison. Death by bad taste. ‘Then go away.’ He looked up and put a paw to his chin, as if he were considering, some, deep philosophical question. ‘No!’ My god. I prepared to leave. ‘May I ask, why, you wanted me to eat you?’ Wow, alright, where did the sudden eloquence come from? Not only that, but Mr Manticore's voice had, changed, to a tone that suggest much more intelligence than a pea-brain should have. ‘Because I’m bored.’ That should be simplistic enough for him. I unfurled my wings, to leave him and the ground behind. I was just about to, before my lower half was immobilized between two large paws. ‘Can’t one ever find a sophisticated discussion these days?’ ‘You're one to talk! Now let me go!’ ‘If you won’t leave I will.’ He was mocking me now. This was proving to be impressively bothersome. I was curious, no doubt, but my dead comrades identity was worth tenfold then spending time with some, persistent manticore, even if it were ever so slightly smarter than its brethren. ‘...fine’ Mr Manticore made a goofy grin before letting me go; I lowered myself back down to the ground, fed up. ‘I’ve heard my back is a comfortable place, you know?’ ‘I bet the ground is more comfortable.’ There was a brief silence, as the tension flowed out of the atmosphere. We both sat down, I, against the same tree, he, opposite me. His long scorpion tail trailed behind him, curling around his left side. ‘I’m--’ ‘No, you're Mr Manticore, thats your name, Manticore.’ ‘What?’ ‘Nevermind.’ He accepted he was to be forever flummoxed on the matter. ‘Sorry about before, sometimes it takes me some time to snap out of the “dumb beast” act. They tease me, if I don’t do it when they're around.’ He yawned, exposing massive canines half the size of me. ‘Do they now?’ ‘Yeah. But, you won't, will you?’ I snorted in amusement at the idea. ‘No, I won't.’ Mr Manticore sighed in relief, at that. ‘You, er, hit yourself on that tree behind ya?’ I nodded slowly. ‘Sorry ‘bout that.’ ‘It was deliberate.’ ‘This?’ Unbelieving, he stuck a claw where the impact had been, overshadowing me, who was beneath it. ‘I was trying to remember something.’ ‘Oh.’ Mr Manticore removed his claw, leaving behind a hole in the bark. ‘You shouldn’t have done that to the tree.’ He didn’t seem to realise what I was referring to. I looked up, to show him what he’d done. He came, he injured, he apologised. By giving it a great, big, hug. His momentum was enough to shake several leaves off. The cream-coloured fur on his underbelly hung above as he embraced. ‘Sorry tree.’ Good intentions would get some of us, somewhere, but not in the world of Manticores, I suspected. ‘You scared me back then. I don’t appreciate it, I was deep in thought’ ‘Thought about what?’ ‘A dead Phoenix.’ ‘A friend?’ ‘Distant one, yes. I had nearly remembered exactly who, before you disturbed me. ’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘Me too.’ The pause that followed helped convey my suffering. ‘You can go now, I wouldn’t have come, if I knew.’ ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t have. But I don’t want to move, I didn’t ever, want to move.’ ‘In that case-’ He stood up to his four paws, looking into the distance. ‘Would you care to give me your name, a name, before I go? I hear your kind make it a habit to go by many.’ ‘We do.’ I idly searched through the archive of the all the titles I could remember I’d been given. Even though, I knew, which one I’d give him. ‘Philomena.’ ‘Philomena it is then!’ He boomed. Even when spoken excitedly, it sounded harmonic, that name. ‘Goodbye, Mr Manticore.’ At last, I was alone again. Free to think. Free to remember. Free to mourn.