//------------------------------// // LVIII : Travelling Alone I // Story: The Steadfast Sky // by Greytercakes //------------------------------// The Steadfast Sky : Travelling Alone I The Grey Potter http://www.fimfiction.net/story/11495/The-Steadfast-Sky http://cosmicponyfiction.tumblr.com ~Celestia~ I walked above a river’s embankment, mind-numbingly focused on every fall of my hooves. With every step, I sank ankle-deep into the muddy grass, which squelched loudly as I struggled to keep walking. My coat hung off me in stained brown clumps, and loose hairs stuck and itched around both sides of my face. I could feel just how greasy my braid had gotten, yet I didn’t dare take it out. There was yet more damage to be done in a forest of entangling branches and sticking burrs. My beautiful long tail was already a rat’s nest of nettles and pieces of bark, I was certainly sparing my mane the worst of it! Goodness, if I just had a comb… Numbly, I glanced down at the wide, mighty river, wondering if I was past the rapids yet. Yes, this looked like a shallow enough spot. I could see the rocks at the bottom now. Carefully, as smoothly as my aching legs would allow, I slid down the grassy overhang and dropped into the frigid, knee-deep water. It splashed up on my stomach, droplets cooling my hot coat. I could feel the tugging river current already taking a powerful effect, chilled blood pumping up my legs and inching into my torso, almost painfully. I grimaced. Closed my eyes, and sunk quietly into the water. My knees slid on the slippery rocks, but I could already feel the hot grease and mud slide off my body, the chill quickly becoming refreshing instead of shocking. For a moment, I just let the river wash over it. It was a strangely comforting pressure, satisfying some curious, childlike part of me. I nudged a knee back and forth on the water’s surface, splashing about, just on some dull instinct. I wasn’t really here to play anyway. I had one more important thing to do. I dunked my head under, and my loosely tangled braid slopped gently around me. With a little nudge of order magic, the twigs and burrs peeled off and drifted downstream. I separated the grime, tugged the hairs back in place, tried to cleanse and refresh my hair with the spells I had learned. But without soap, without a comb, without whatever other magic the servants were putting into my hair, my braid never stopped feeling greasy and messy, never stopped coming apart in knotted tangles. Being free of debris was one thing. Looking nice under these conditions was another thing entirely. And it was completely infeasible to cast these spells every time I got a little dirty. I rose and took a shuddering breath, body shivering under the frigid water. I tugged my braid forward, and felt my roots tugging unevenly at my scalp, a mirror to the pull of magic in my horn. I squeezed my eyes shut, and cast before I changed my mind. There was a ripping sound, and the sick smell of burning hair. I squeaked as heat singed my scalp, and quickly ducked back into the river. I resurfaced, shivered, and quickly did the same for my tail. Hairs plastered my shoulders and thighs, gripping and refusing to admit they’d been let go. But I watched as the wet, pink clumps drifted downriver, slowly unweaving and vanishing from sight. There. What’s done is done. Long hair is just too impractical out here. I’ll grow it back someday. I swear, I will grow it back. I washed myself thoroughly, picking at hairs and ordering the mud off me the best I could. Only once I felt well and truly clean did I have the courage to try and look at my reflection. It was horrible. My hair was awful and uneven, the cut looked atrocious, and the ends were a wet mess. It looked burned, because it was burned, and I dreaded what color it might be once it dried. I needed a brush. I could have bought one, if I had thought to bring any bits with me. No, if I had just thought to bring my brush with me. No, no, if I had thought to bring any supplies with me at all. I sighed, pained. Maybe in the next town I could get a job. Maybe I could be a baker. I watched blankly as my reflection began to shiver more violently, then finally burst into tears. I’m being quite serious here. I watched my reflection as if I was watching a stranger, even as my very own eyes went gummy and blurry. I watched it break down and swipe at tears and heard it sob at how unfair everything was. And yet, all I could think, staring at this illusion of myself, was this: Oh for goodness sake, Celestia, stop crying. Because, of all things, those were the most frustrating moments. Not with my lack of luxury, but with myself. I was exasperated with my own weakness. I used to be able to do this. I used to just rough it in the woods and not even care. I thought about basic cleanliness, sure, but I wasn’t this broken up about it. When did that change? When did I change? ~¤~ I knew a part of me would hate sleeping outside again. I knew a part of me would hate eating grass and drinking river water. But it was what I had to do, and there was no sense in complaining now. It wasn’t really worth the tears, but sometimes I cried anyway. That’s simply the pony I still was. To distract myself, and to create a meaning for this foray in the woods, I began to reflect, and inquire of myself some answers. The first question was “What did I do wrong?” which seemed just shy of “What did I do to deserve this?” so I discarded the thought immediately. I will not indulge myself of any more whining. Decided. Fact.  A better question was “What do I do to fix it?” That’s goal oriented. That is a way out of this self-inflicted meditative journey. Yet, these queries didn’t seem to lead to any answers. Only more questions. What do I do to fix this? Well then, what was broken, and who broke it? Was this my fault? Was this the fault of Apple and Blueblood, who were using me for their own ends? Was it a mix? Was it none of them? Should I be looking for Luna and Discord? Avoiding them? Should I go back to Canterlot? Go somewhere else? Was there somewhere else I wanted to be? After hours of wondering circles around myself, I finally realized where exactly this trip was going. Nowhere, and fast. I demanded myself to narrow down the inquiries to something big and soul-search enough so that, when I found the answer, I’d know my ‘quest’ was over. Maybe because it reminded me of my sister, or of my own time in the light of the sun, but it took me a night of staring at the disturbingly empty sky to really have it come to me. Am I confused because I’ve lost my purpose? Because I’ve lost the meaning of my cutie mark? It had appeared to me under such vague circumstances, I never felt like I had a firm grasp over what exactly it meant to me. Clearly, it’s just unhealthy to not know your own cutie mark. That’s akin to not know your own desires, your own wishes, and your own destiny. So, after more intense thought, I happened on the question: “What ideal does the Sun represent?” Yes, that sounds about right. Sounds vaguely philosophical, like some kind of Zen riddle. So I suppose I should start thinking up an answer. Alone. Out here. While I gag on wild grasses and tear burrs from my mane. It was that very same night that I started thinking this was a really dumb idea.   ~¤~ Days came. Days went. I was still in the woods, and still asking myself the same question. Oh, I had come up with answers, but none were particularly profound, nor associated with enough fireworks to be real answers. Because, gosh be darned, I guess that’s what I’m waiting for now! For the heavens to open up and really tell me “Yes, Celestia. You got it. Good job.” More than that, the more and more I asked and examined myself, the less and less it felt like there was going to be a good answer. See, I thought I’d really try and get to my roots. Figure out what made me. So I looked hard and well. I thought and I thought and I finally came to the answer I had all along: I hate myself. But then I thought even harder, and the answer became more refined! You see, I’m a pretty complicated mare. So there was a lot of things I hated about myself! And, because all I could do in these blasted woods was think, I even named and color coded these horrible fractions of a tramp! First, there was Snippy. She’s the one who finds everything wrong with everything and is stubborn as a bull. She’s the one declared my friendship with Discord dead, the one who constantly refuses to compromise, because compromise is a dirty word. So she’s like me, but with a green mane. Because I never liked green as a mane or coat color. It’s the color of plants, not ponies. Ah yes, those kind of thoughts probably originated from Princess. The posh purple-haired queen of all the forests in the land. I bet she’ll start crying about how unfair all of this is any moment now. Aha, there she goes now! Whoops! But she shouldn’t have to worry, blue-mane Martyr is here! She assures us that this hike is all worth it, because it’s deep and meaningful and we need to better ourselves. Previous achievements include: throwing myself at Canterbury because gosh darnit, we’ve got to at least try to get ourselves killed! I didn’t like any of them. I didn’t want to be any of them. I didn’t want to be stubbornly against anything I didn’t agree with. I didn’t want to be attached to the materialistic lifestyle of the elite. I didn’t want to throw my body away in some high-minded ideal of self-sacrifice. But if I stripped those all away… What exactly was left? The meek little baker who just lived every day hoof to mouth. That’s all that was left. A something that was less than nothing. A something that could have never earned the distinction of a sun as a cutie mark. I sighed loudly at nothing, because… Goodness gracious. Loneliness has driven me bat-barking crazy. ~¤~ I trundled alongside that river, mentally and physically exhausted. I was privately nagged to death and swimming in self-loathing. There was no answer in these woods. There was no escape either. There was just walking, followed by more walking. Princess sniffled about the state of her hooves. Snippy demanded that she stop weeping about things that can’t be fixed. Frustrated and hungry, Snippy smacked Princess. That’s when Martyr stepped in. She glared at Snippy, declared that it’s not nice to hit. Hurting people isn’t a solution. Why don’t we all hug and talk things out over tea? Well, Snippy said, for one thing, all the tea was imaginary. And Snippy is sick to death of drinking imaginary tea. And for another thing. In my head, I watched as Snippy swelled in size and anger. I’m even more sicker to DEATH’S death of talking. Hitting people is now the best and ONLY solution. A smack down began playing out in the back of my mind. Princess was still crying about the state of her mane, Martyr was still whining at the imaginary blows, and Snippy just smacked and smacked them, acting like the angry little foal she was. And the little Baker in me just watched, mildly interested in anything that broke up the monotony of trees forever. This is dumb, Baker thought. This is so, so very dumb. I was so, so irreversibly and cripplingly alone. Snippy snorted. Pity party, table for four! Why don’t you— Wait. I looked up from my feet, head finally, forgivably quiet. Did I smell smoke? I raced along the riverbank, slipping and sliding in mud, powered forward by the very idea of civilization! What in the world I’d do there, I hadn’t the faintest clue. Princess had her own ideas, of course, but they were all ridiculous things, like a real bath or a gift of oat cakes. Just a road under my feet, a hard place to walk, that would be lovely. I turned a bend, and saw a collection of docks in the distance. There was even a little stone bridge. Sun above, it was a big enough town to have a bridge of stone! I laughed. I cried. I… I stopped right in my tracks, just as soon as I saw the banners fluttering over that bridge. The symbol of the black alicorn. A town under the domain of the Shadow Stallion. I mean, I knew all towns fell under his rule. But now a very eerie memory was bubbling to the surface of my brain, something Apple had said to me in my first day in Canterlot. “He can neither look for you, nor see for you. He does not know your name, your cutie mark, and beyond that.” I touched the empty space on my neck, where my element used to hang. “This will keep you safe from all evil, right?” It was something I hadn’t thought of in all my days in the woods, and Snippy assured me it was a very dumb thing to not think about. Each and every town posed a very real threat. My appearance was no secret to the Stallion, and I no longer had the marble city of Canterlot to protect me. I also didn’t have an Element, but I doubt that would stop the Griffins from grabbing me… I stared at the bridge. Stared at the image of the black alicorn waving in the breeze. Princess sniffed, then quietly mumbled, ‘What use is a town to a pony with no purse anyway?’ “Heya, yeh okay down there?” I nearly fell into the river from surprise. A voice! Close! I’ve been spotted! And my coat is a mess! That’s a stupid thing to think! Where did it come from?! I didn’t have to look hard. Up the muddy embankment and standing just outside the tree line was a muddy blue, blank-flanked colt staring right at me. “Okay?!” I squeaked. “Um, yes, of course, why do you ask? I’m completely fine!” He didn’t move. If anything, he came closer, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Of all bizarre things, he said, “Yer not carryin’ the plague, are yeh?” I stared up at him. “Plauge? What plague?” Goodness, is something starting to go around now? He shrugged, “Any kind a plague. There’s all sorts, innit?” “I don’t know?” I replied, “Do I look like I’m sick to you?” “Yer all muddy an’ wanderin’ in the woods like a sick filly.” He frowned at me. “An’ you got a really funny bump on yer forehead.” “A funny bump?” I looked up, but of course I couldn’t see a thing. “Yea, that spiral thingy righ’ ‘tween yer eyes!” I didn’t know which part of me wanted to laugh, and which wanted to cry. “Why, that’s just my horn you silly colt!” “A horn?” He sniffed. “Jes uni-corns got them a horn.” Snippy grew indignant. “Yes, and I have one because I’m a Unicorn.” He stared at me. “Yeh sure?” “Quite certain!” Princess proudly declared. He was silent for a moment more, quietly judging me from on high. “Ain’t never seen no uni-corn running ‘round in the mud.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Least, no uni-corn that didn’t have no plague in ‘em!” “Well, I can tell you that I do not have any kind plague, and I am wandering around in the mud, because, well…” I stared at my hooves, feeling Princess wince as they sucked with each step. Distracted, Martyr decided that perhaps this was time for a direct answer. She said, “I got very, very lost.” But the colt wasn’t buying it. “Ain’t no uni-corn ever got lost. They gots magic spells to guide them! Unless you was…” “I am not plague-ridden,” I Snipped. “In mean, what disease makes you want to take a nature walk?!” He shrugged. “Brainy-type plauges.” “Oh. Clearly. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important places to be…” I struggled up the chunky, overhanging embankment, and saw a little dirt path that was running parallel to the road. How long had that been there? No wonder I looked crazy, walking in the mud when there was a perfectly viable path not three feet away. The colt scampered back from me as I approached, keeping his distance and watching me closely. Probably still thought I was diseased. “Yer not going into town, are yeh?” he said. “Oh, I don’t know.” I glanced back at the bridge. At the banners. “I suppose I’ll have to at least pass through…” “No!” he blurted out. “Yeh can’t! Yeh might have—“ “I’m telling you,” Snippy barked, “I don’t have the plague!” The colt stared at me, face blank and eyes wide. Then, in a moment more he charged down the dirt path and vanished into the hidden village streets. I rolled my eyes. As if this would stop me from… wandering… somewhere. For just a moment more, I struggled to decide on my direction. Should I keep following the river? Should I walk on the road? Martyr thought I should suffer the lack of roads, but then Princess started whining about how much her legs hurt from the mud. Then the thought occurred to her that following the road meant that she’d be all muddy with a terrible manecut in front of other ponies. I could feel my body flush with embarrassment, and already started eyeing the treeline. No wait, I could wash up in the river, and then very carefully— The colt returned before I could even move, this time with an older stallion following curiously behind him. Princess felt embarrassed enough to bolt right then and there, but Snippy slapped her for being ridiculous and — Oh, they’re right in front of me now. The little colt skittered around the stallion’s heels, shouting, “Check her, pa! Check her!” “Hmm… Excuse my intrusion, ma’am.” He gave me a slight bow, smiling lightly. “The name is Trout, and I s’pose you’ve met my son Minnow. May I have your name?” “Ehehehe.” I glanced at the banners again, still darkly flapping in the distance. I wouldn’t dare to tell the truth. If they were looking for a Celestia, if my name was floating around… But was my family name in the air? I had never thought to use it. Despite Martyr’s objections, Snippy rose up and lied for me. “It’s Helios.” Trout nodded. “That’s some fancy name you got there, Miss Helios.” He stepped closer, almost too close, looking me in one eye, then the other. “Are you feeling alright?” “Perfectly fine!” Princess snapped. He smoothly ducked his head a little, looking up at my face. I blushed. “Which direction you coming from, ma’am?” Trout asked. “I um…” Snippy shouted in my head NOT CANTERLOT. “P-ponyville. Accidentally left the road, got lost…” “Pretty sideways route from Ponyville.” He looked over my shoulder. “What direction r’you headed?” “Stringhalt,” I said automatically. The little colt peered around his father’s legs. “Is she clean?” “Yep. Next to godliness,” he stepped back and smiled. “Sorry ‘bout that ma’am. We get alotta traffic coming and going to The Sanatorium. So my son just done what he thought was right.” “No trouble…” Princess did a sort of cowering curtsey, wanting to appear polite and courteous, but also so very ashamed of the mud staining her coat. Martyr ignored her. She had a question. “There isn’t a plague going around right now, is there?” Trout shook his head. “Nah ma’am, not at the moment. But we still get all kinds looking for the best healers.” He nodded at the fact, sure of himself. “‘Nuff that we got ourselves a bit of a protocol.” Martyr was puzzled. “Wouldn’t they go to Canterlot for the best healers? Canterlot is a hotbed of Unicorns and magic.” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t know, ma’am. Guess when most folk want healing, they think of a healing place first.” “I suppose so…” “Anyway, feel free to come and go from Ambleville as your please.” He waved behind him as the village hidden by the trees. “We’re well equipped for the travelling type.” “I suppose I would very much like to but…” Again, Princess whimpered in my head. “I have no money.” He nodded knowingly. “Jes as well then. Hope you make it alright to Stringhalt.” He started to turn and leave, but then, he stopped. Looked back at me, and not in the eye. No, he looked just above it. “Sorry for staring, hope it’s not too rude to ask…” “Yes…?” “Yer a Unicorn, right?” Princess curtseyed again. “Of course.” “What kind? What magic can you do?” When I didn’t respond right away, he continued. “See, aint never seen a Unicorn that wasn’t sick or a doctor. But you’ve been roughin’ it out in the woods, so I was kind’ve hoping…” “Hoping…?” Hoping for what? What was he asking? Wild ideas were tossed around my head, until, of all myself, Baker finally spoke up. She reminded me of something I had forgotten. She brought up one of my earliest memories of the place. Of a shopkeeper stunned by my aura, and scrambling to get me working for him. “Oh!” I exclaimed, laughing. “Right! I’m sorry, since I’m from, well, Ponyville, I see Unicorns come and go all the time! But… they’re pretty rare out here, aren’t they?” “Well, we got the healers, they’re nice.” Trout said, “But the nearest practical Unicorn’s half a week’s walk away. So, please. You don’t have any money, so I gotta ask.” He gave me a collected smile, trying to not seem too eager. “Do you got any practical magics?” All parts of me immediately asked, “What exactly counts as practical magic?” ~¤~ A lot of things apparently counted as “practical,” and there were a lot of things I could do as well. At first, Trout asked me to do things I never thought of. Some of it was careful, refined, and delicate work that was difficult for Earth Ponies to do with their clumsy hooves and mouths. I was asked to patch the weave of several straw baskets and do a bit of fine sewing repair for a delicate cloth (Trout admitted that the most he could do was darn). Others, it was tasks that weren’t impossible for Earth Ponies, but made easier with help from a unicorn. I was asked by a neighbor to thoroughly clear the dust from high and hard to reach places in his ceiling. Another asked me to tear out a few empty Barn Swallow nests, big muddy things that were nearly impossible for the pony to knock and pry loose from his roof. Princess kept rearing up inside me, embarrassed for the state of my coat, disgusted at being reduced to cleaning. But some part of me, probably Baker, quietly shushed Princess back down.Because when townsfolk realized that I knew the magic of law and order, which included the fixing of broken objects and the thorough separation of materials, oh, that’s when the dam burst. Of course, I had never put my magic to practical purposes in Canterlot. I knew the magic in theory, but had barely practiced the arts outside of the classroom and the occasional accident. But now ponies were shoving all sorts of objects on me. Broken heirlooms too personal to toss. Carts too complicated and too expensive to fix. Nets the Earth Ponies could have fixed themselves, but were dragged and dropped in front of me, just to see me weave the threads back together. Many ponies wished I had arrived sooner, before they had tossed or repurposed their broken items. While many more gloated over their patience on waiting for miracles. Halfway through the day, through jokes, a dare, and a lot of pressure on the owner of the local tavern, I was lead into the bar and told to “magic it clean.” When I asked for a bucket, the local ponies scattered and tossed four in front of me, ranging from repurposed barrels to a steel kettle nearly the size of a washtub. It seemed enough, so I dragged two of them inside, and I got to work. Now, what I really did wasn’t exactly ‘cleaning,’ but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Ponies gasped and chattered behind me as the room filled with light, pressing up to the doorway and pushing their noses through the open-air windows. With immense concentration, energy, and a severely burning headache, I separated all the dust, dirt, rocks, and organic sludge from the floors and furniture. The matter hovered above every surface, each particulate hovering in its own thin layer, like thin lines of sedimentary rock. Still holding it in place, I willed each matter in turn into the buckets. My horn ached after the display, and I could feel it beating red hot for nearly an hour afterwards, but the crowd whooped and cheered behind me, impressed beyond belief. There were a few they asked of me that seemed either beyond my depth, or warped by their lack of knowledge about magic. The obvious first question was if I could turn dirt into gold, which was clearly laughed away. There were a few things that seemed almost folksy, very vague things I didn’t know if there was a spell for. As a fishing village, they asked if I could bless their boats, or their nets. They asked me if I could make the weather favorable for their gardens, or a spell to make the plants more fruitful. I told them that those were things beyond my skill, but they didn’t seem to mind. While they wished their gardens would grow better, the fishing industry was booming as ever. Apparently they sold the meat to the griffins (luckily none were present) but their primary purpose for catching fish was something different entirely. “This is our mill!” A stormy mare named Miller told me excitedly. “Year round, this is where we grind the fish we catch! The bone meal’s really good for the soil, but those Healer Unicorns ask us to process them bones special! Look!” I stared at the grindstone, all parts of me speechless. Carved down the length of the wheel l was a series of intricate runes, lighter in color, almost white on the gray granite. Studded along the side of the mill were quartz channeling stones that almost seemed to dimly glow. “That there was done by the gods themselves!” Miller proclaimed excitedly. “It’s worth thousands of gold bits, that!” I stammered, “Why…?” “Makes them bones sparkle, ma’am. Makes them something magical! Gods themselves gave my family this purpose, we changed our name to Miller for it!” I stared, my question still unanswered. Why this, and for a Sanatorium? Was the place special somehow? Sun above, the last thing I needed on my mind were more questions. I quickly shoved them out of my mind. “What do you want me to do?” I asked lightly. “See, mill grinds and grinds and grinds, every day all year. The markings are more shallow now, see?” She waved at the Runes, as if I could tell just by looking. “The bonemeals slowly getting less shiny. You’re unicorn. You can fix it, right?” I slowly shook my head. “I, I doubt I could. And even if I did, I’d be terrified of messing up. You’d lose your livelihood if I made a mistake.” I looked to the excited mare. “Have you asked the ponies at the Sanatorium to fix it?” “None cut stone, and they’re too reverent to touch it. Would ask gods, but they all long gone now. This shadow they left in charge,” she shook her head. “He no good at helping. His griffins may buy our fishmeats, but this shadow’s no good. You know?” I was appalled. “You haven’t asked have you?” “No ma’am! I may be in trouble, but I’m not stupid!” Eventually, Miller settled for letting me magically cleanse the wheel of ground-in bone dust, and that seemed to make her happy. But the wheel and Sanatorium refused to budge from my brain, the questions bubbling quietly under the surface of my personas. Was The Sanatorium connected to the First Gods? What does a place of healing have to do with them? Didn’t Generosity have a healer’s cutie mark? I remembered that fact vaguely my little picture book, long lost and left behind in Canterlot. So focused was I on Kindness and Magic, I had practically glanced over all of Generosity’s stories. So foolish, Snippy snapped. I should have focused on the entire picture! I was distracted, but the questions didn’t stop me from working hard. It was nearly pitch black before the crowd finally dispersed, and my work finished for the day. Still, I stood out in the street, a place barely illuminated by few lamps. Trout was the only one left, holding a small leather pouch in his mouth. He said quite clearly, “I’m sorry to have asked so much of you.” “Oh no,” Martyr replied. “It’s no trouble.” “Here. This is payment, given by all those who are grateful for your services.” He set the little sack into one of my tired, muddy hooves, where it instantly threatened to slide off and hit the ground. Tired as I was, I still had enough magic to lift the bag. It was heavy, but when I opened it, it seemed little more than loose change. It was all copper bits, all varying shades of worn and weathered. This was barely enough for two nights stay at a stable, and only if I didn’t buy a single thing else… Princess scrabbled at the back of my hoof. She wanted a bath and a haircut more than anything else in the world. Snippy slapped Princess and demanded we spend it on a large bag of oats and carrots enough to last the week. Martyr said it would be best to just give back the money to these poor, poor ponies and leave on empty hooves. Snippy slapped her too. Oh yes, every day’s a comedy when you’re alone in your own head. I smiled peacefully, serene and above the voices bickering in my head. I returned the poor farmer his bits, and said to him. “Please. A hot meal and a night stabled is all I require, my good stallion.” “Mistress Helios…” He didn’t object at all, hastily tucking the coins back into his cloak. “Of course. My wife makes an excellent pot pie. Here…” I’m not any of you, I thought. I’m not whatever you four are.