The Last Human: A Tale of the Pre-Classical Era

by PatchworkPoltergeist


The Iron Tooth & the Oilskin


It is midwinter, maybe. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

Winter seems to get longer with every year, and inside the mall, time seems to stand still. The kid figures it is still winter because snow muffles the light streaming down from the sky window and he must wear his fur coat at night so his shivering won’t keep him awake. Sometimes he wonders if winter is getting back at them for last year, when the light bulbs came alive and gave them an indoor summer.
 
Soil coats his hand as he roots out little turnips from the garden, arranging them in a plastic basket next to the runty tomatoes. A garden shrinks when it comes indoors, but the kid knows that a tiny turnip is better than a frozen one. He is sowing seeds to replace the vegetables he’s harvested when he hears her.
 
“Hey, kid. C’mere.”
 
He dusts the dirt from his pants and goes.

It used to be she came to him instead, coming forth in her tall, quick way like a car rushing past. Ma always spoke to him that way as they loped in the shadow of crooked iron and crumbling bricks. Her syllables cracked like a whip and fell with her pace. The two of them never sat and talked; it was better to move when you spoke so you never wasted air or time. (“The world’s always moving, kid. You’d better keep up.”)

Ma uses his name all the time but only calls him ‘Kid’ when it’s important. She’s always done that, even when he rode in the papoose, strapped against her like a quiver. Neither of them really knows why.

The cough started a few months ago. At first, they were dry and harmless as falling leaves, the sort that often come from chilled air and leave in a few hours. Except the cough never went away, and eventually came in thick, swampy gasps that tried to tear her chest apart. When those coughs came, his mother crawled into one of the mall’s many hollow holes and slept under the watch of pale faceless dolls that dotted the building.

The kid wanted to follow her, of course, he was worried and wanted to help. But she’d seen that coming. She knew the mall, like the rest of the city, better than he did. She pulled down a thin, flexible gate from the ceiling, once used to keep out thieves, to seal her from her son.

“You can’t come near me,” she’d told him. She only lifted the gate to get at her food and drink when it was brought to her, and only then when the kid was far away. Lately, all she’s done is sleep. Sleep and cough and wheeze. The kid wished she would scold him for loafing around or scold him about his sloppy hunting.  

So now when his mother calls, voice lamb soft and briar rough from a cough-worn throat, the kid hears. From the other side of the mall, he hears and he comes.

She is where the kid left her, rolled up in a cocoon of blankets and pelts, just as she’s been for weeks. The only difference is the bars are gone and she's awake, looking at him. Tawny eyes huge and bright in her dark face, worn thin and haggard like January branches. A puff of dark, coarse hair branches like smoke around her head. The kid and his ma used to joke she should hunt at night, because her skin would melt into the dark.

The bars are not there. She must have rolled up them up and tucked them away while he was in the garden. The kid brightens at first; it must be a sign that she is feeling better. But the wet coughs and the wheeze in her voice tell him she’s not.

So then, why is the gate up? The kid’s steps become slow and hesitant.
 
The kid’s ma leans against the wall. She sees understanding slowly unfold across her son’s face, making him look younger than he is. This conversation will age him, she sees that too. The mall is getting dark; dusk approaches and the kid didn’t scrape snow from the skylight yet, the lazy scoundrel. But even in the dim light, she sees the shine of his eyes, getting shinier with every timid step he takes. The kid chews his lip, ducking his head into his shoulders, but he never breaks eye contact and he doesn’t pause once. She’s proud of that.
 
A futile surge of maternal instinct rears up in her. She wants to comfort him for what’s coming and apologize for the hurt he’ll soon carry. If she loved her son any less, she would hug him.

But love him she does, so when he is a few feet away she holds up a thin finger and wheezes, “That’s far enough.”
 
 “Do you want me to get anything?” the kid asks her. He’s still growing into his adult voice and it often cracks. “The tomatoes came in good and I caught a rabbit yesterday. You can have them if you want.”
 
His mother shakes her head and sits up. She stares at him a moment and says, “Tell me how to filter water.”
 
The kid frowns, confused. He’s known how to clean water for so long he doesn’t even remember learning how to do it. “But I already know how to—”
 
“Tell me anyway.”
 
“Use a cloth or sand to make a filter. Or you can boil water instead.”
 
She smiles. “Good. Now tell me how to make a fire.”
 
For two hours she drills him on everything he knows. How to care for brooding pigeons, how to skin a hare, how to barricade buildings, how to greet newcomers and how to scare them away. How to pick locks and open cans, how to treat injuries, how to know when he should run and when he should fight. How to scamper up buildings without a ladder, how to set trip wires, how to mend sweaters, and how to handle dangerous animals and people. She drills him until his voice is nearly hoarse as hers.
 
Finally, she asks him, “How do you dig holes in permafrost?”
 
Her child is not stupid. In their city, there is only one reason to dig frozen ground. A sob wells up in his throat.
 
His ma brings down her brow and stares at him harder than she ever has. “Don’t.” Her voice is a dagger, bright, sharp, and cold. “Don’t you dare. Not now. You do not have time. You still have things to do, you hear me? Listen to me, kid. It is winter. The river is frozen, the ducks and fish are gone, and you have to work.” Her bony shoulders tremble from the effort of keeping her upright. “You are going keep your fires stoked, your birds warm, and your garden growing. It might be a cruel thing to demand, but winter’s mean by nature and neither of us can do anything about that. You are going to bury me and then you are going to water your garden, and then you are going to scrape snow off the skyli—LOOK at me, kid. Look at me. You are going to live. You are. Wait for spring. You can cry then. Not now. You will not waste your energy on tears. Do you understand me?”
 
“…Yes, ma.”
 
She blinks at him slowly and settles back against the wall. “Well, then?”
 
The kid takes a long, steady breath. “Go to the empty lot and build a fire. The fire will melt the frost and make the soil soft. I use a hatchet or a pickaxe to break it further if I have to. And then I get the shovel and I dig.”
 
His mother’s smile glints in the dark. “Good. Very, very good. I didn’t raise an idiot. Now, sit with me a while. We can watch the sun go down.”


The human woke and pulled his arms into his tunic against the autumn chill. His breath came slow and hard and his chest was tight as if someone had sat on him all night. It was also the best sleep he’d had since Conemara.

For the past month, under cover of cornfields and tall grass, sleep only came in small dozes and daytime naps. It was not so terrible after he'd gotten used to it. Being the last one asleep and the first one awake gave him long, lovely hours with his own self for company. He explored the land around him, found night birds to watch, or fished until the moon was pulled down by cornstalk fingers.

The morning the human dreamed of his mother, tawny scrub splayed as far as he could see. There was no cover at all and yet he’d slept from dusk till dawn. The Caulkin Mountains framed the horizon in a line of jagged teeth nipping at the sun. Both were very good signs.

Star Swirl sat in the grass not far away, half his face obscured by fluffy pink bedhead. He had his head in his hooves, glaring at his notebook as if it had offended him. After several minutes of grumbling, he put the notebook away and sighed.

The human rose and went to meet him. “Good morning. Do you know far into the year we are?”

“Week into fall, as of today. Harvest season started the day before yesterday for most of the Earth Pony Nation, unless my almanacs are wrong.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Why? Is there a deadline we need to meet? Or perhaps a human ritual that comes with the equinox?”

He shook his head. “It’s just that I think today is my birthday.”

Star Swirl nickered in amusement. “You think? You don’t know for certain?”

“I’m not sure of the exact date, but I know it’s a week after the equinox.”

“Many happy returns t’you, then!” Heartstrings rushed up behind them, fresh out of sleep, and nuzzled the human’s hand. “How old are you now?”

The human wiggled his fingers and did some quick arithmetic. “Five years past twenty. In another five years, I’ll be middle-aged.”

Star Swirl frowned. “But you’re only a few years older than I am. How could you possibly be middle-aged?”

He just shrugged. “I’ve never heard of anyone in recent history living past sixty-five. Not that I know many people to base it on.”

Heartstrings shooed away this morbid talk with a flick of her hoof. “Nevermind all that, we ought to celebrate! We can have some fun in town, maybe fetch a wee cake—”

“I don’t think the locals are in the business of cakes,” Star Swirl pointed out. The human sagged his shoulders.

“A present, then!”

The human wrinkled his brow. “Why?”

Heartstrings laughed at that until she realized the human was still staring at her, quite confused. “D’you really mean you’ve never gotten a birthday gift? Ever?”

“I managed to stay alive for another year, isn’t that gift enough? I don’t think I really need anything else on top of that, and besides, there’s nothing I really want.” He blinked slowly at mares’ eager face. “...I’m getting a present whether I need one or not, aren’t I?”

 Heartstrings winked. “A bright one, you are.”

The human held up a finger before she could go further. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not go into town and just meet you here in the afternoon.”

“All by yourself? On your birthday? Won’t you get lonesome or bored?” She spread a hoof over the field. “Naught but grass an’ brush out here.”

The human knelt to eye level, though his eye was not on the ponies, but the ground about their hooves. The dirt was pockmarked by tracks of animals that passed during the night. Near his pack lay shells from the bag of pecans he’d planned on eating for breakfast. “Pony towns are a bit crowded for my taste, Heartstrings. I’ve spent twelve birthdays alone, one more won’t hurt. I’m sure I’ll find something to do.”

He traced two fingers over a hoofprint in the dirt. It was cloven, but the dewclaws were set too wide for a deer and looked nothing like a sheep or goat’s. The edges were still soft. “Star Swirl, do pigs know how to talk?”

“I don’t believe they do. Why?”
     
The human grinned. “Just wondering.” No, he wouldn’t be bored at all.


Three knives he had.

The first was squat, broad, and jagged-toothed. Not fancy but reliable all the same. The second was a dagger, long and thin with all the hunger and meanness of a cornered rat. The third was longest of all of them, stretching half an arms’ length, was neither lean nor fat but a happy inbetween and the best of the knives. It was the oldest of the three, lifetimes older than the human, but it still shone bright. It only left its leather sheath when it had work to do, work higher than cutting branches or skinning pelts. It had only one job and it did it well.  

Three knives, all of them iron and fierce and clever and his. The human sucked in the brisk air and nodded to himself. And three is a good, strong number. I only hope they’re enough.

He knelt in the high grass behind a grove of scrub trees listening to the pond water ripple. Through the branches, he watched the rise and fall of a bristly hill as it breathed. The human hadn’t expected it to be this big. The pigs he’d seen in books were knee-high and smooth-skinned, but the ridge of this animal’s back was just shy of pony height. The boar had no softness, save its shiny nose and eyes. The human had never seen a pelt like this before; he’d followed its path through a bramble bush but thorns didn’t seem to bother it at all. The tusks were nearly the length of Star Swirl’s quills. Pigs in books didn’t have those either.

There was no time to dig a pit, no good trees for snares or trip-wires and he had no nets. In retrospect, he should have brought his staff along. I really hope three is enough.

The wind changed. The snout wrinkled in the air, then snorted it out. The boar lifted his head. The hard hairs along his spine went needle straight.

The human wished he knew more names of his ancestors, he’d run out of ones to ask luck from. Oh, well. The third knife winked from its sheath. Even if he didn’t have their names, one of them had given him this knife and that would have to be enough. Dust sprayed under his boot as he stepped from the trees and ran.

The rush of hooves split tawny grass like a duck on the water. The tip of the knife caught the boar’s flank as it rushed past. The human knew this not from the blood on his blade but the squeal. The hide wasn’t impenetrable, that was good at least.

The boar grunted low and charged. If there was ever a chance to retreat and catch rabbits instead, it was long gone now. The man skittered to the side and lashed out at the grey blur, but didn’t connect. He raised himself high and jabbed his dagger down into the ridge of bristles as a tusk dug into his thigh. The boar turned as the human flinched, driving the dagger deeper into its back. He clung to the handle and tugged; it barely moved. The human had missed the spine and hit a nerve instead.

The human’s foot slipped and twisted under him as he ducked away from the thrashing boar. Falling backwards, he bounced off a low tree and the ground knocked the air out of him. Instinct curled his body inward as he brandished his best knife, useless unless the pig body-slammed him. He heard a low grunt and looked up to see tusks rushing to split his stomach open. The little jet eyes glittered, enraged. The thin little dagger stuck out of the bristles like an acupuncture needle. The ground rumbled and the air stank. The human wheezed and winced against the pain in his leg as he dragged himself some useless inches to the right and braced for impact.

A shadow passed overhead. A black blur fell into the scrubland and bounced off the boar’s back like a skipping stone, then arced back into the cold sky as the boar screamed. It happened so fast the human wondered if he’d somehow hallucinated in his excitement. Only when the boar flailed and shook its great head the man saw the blood and gory crevice where a beady eye used to be. Half-blind and mad with pain, the boar thrashed and thrusted pointlessly, the creature it wanted out of reach. Above, someone laughed, absolutely delighted.

A griffon hovered in the sky, black-furred, white-feathered, and long in talons. He circled the human and the boar once, low enough to see the gleam in his orange eyes. The human stood on wobbling legs, still breathing hard, and scowled. Was this creature his competition or his own predator? It didn’t matter either way, he’d worked too hard for this boar. He found it first, he injured it, it belonged to him. And besides, he wanted his dagger back. The human drew his best, longest knife and braced his legs. This creature wouldn’t take his boar or his life without a struggle.

Grooves in the human’s boot dug into the dirt as he threw himself at the boar. The iron blade dug long and deep into the pig’s side. Not deep enough. The tusks wheeled about but the human was already darting in the opposite direction. He slashed a bristled flank as he went by. The boar rounded on him to charge when claws raked across its back.

The griffon veered low, waving his tail expectantly. He moved his gaze from human to boar and back again. A smile broke on the human’s face as he finally understood and rushed the boar. His knife slashed at the bristled sides. The human retreated and the talons came down. The talons lifted, the knife struck again. The griffon caught the boar’s ear and held it as the iron knife slid into the pig’s soft stomach.

The boar’s ear tore as it bolted, already under the griffon’s shadow and the human jogging close behind. He wasn’t sure if humans could outrun boars, but it hardly mattered. The human had a longer stride, better endurance, and was uninjured. Exhaustion and injury did most of the work for him. The dark griffon dived lower, the grass hissing underbelly fur until his running paws met the ground.

Ahead, the boar stumbled. The hunters met eyes, nodded, and picked up speed.

The animal was tackled from the left and pinned to the grass, talons digging into its face like a vice, keeping those tusks at a safe distance. On the right fell a two-legged shadow and a metallic gleam. For an eternal second, the air was alive with squalls and struggles and stank of blood, sweat, and upturned earth. The knife older than all of them struck the boar’s heart and it was over.

The human’s legs wobbled as he crouched, leaning on his arms as he caught his breath. All at once, his thigh remembered it had been struck, his legs remembered it had been weeks since he last sprinted, and the chill came back into the air.

The griffon’s red and white head peeked over the boar’s shoulder and watched him recover. His yellow beak lingered close to the dead ear as if sharing secrets, talons flopped lazily over the bristled chest. “You are not bad, little lord. Have you never killed a pig before or are you simply out of practice? When you attacked the spine, I wondered if you had missed or were only a novice. Speaking of which…”
 
The stiletto dagger sailed over the corpse, landing at the human’s feet. “There you are! Your iron tooth, blunted but otherwise safe and sound. It’s a foolish venture to attack a creature when you are not prepared, but you are also quick and fierce and not an idiot. Of course, you may not be foolish at all, only very brave. There is often little difference with your sort, if you don’t mind my saying so. Now! Heads or tails?”

The man stared up at him for so long the griffon began to wonder if he should try another language. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Do you want heads or tails? Top or bottom? I did a great deal of work, but you were there first and you are the one that killed it, so you get to choose. You may also slice him open if you like, but I’d be better suited for it. But I lay claim on the heart. For as much work as I put in, I’ve a right to it.”

The human made a face. “You’re welcome to it. You can have most of the organs if you want if I can get most of the meat.”

“Your call, but my father always told me with a warm pair of eyes in your stomach you’ll never miss what’s coming.” The griffon swished his tail distastefully. “Then again, if I remember right, it’s the custom of your folk to burn all the blood and flavor out of your food.”

The man’s head bobbed up to meet the griffon, nose to beak. “You know of my folk?” From the airs of happy novelty radiating from the griffon’s feathers, he suspected the answer already. In unison, they both said, “From songs and stories.”

The griffon’s feathers puffed at his shoulders, giving him the look of wearing a frilled collar and he made a tittering whistle. “Yes, indeed. Lanky bald things with no claws but plenty of mettle that ruled the world. How you did it I don’t know and I’m not sure I want to.” He nosed the boar onto its back, slid his claws down the soft belly, and split it open like a messy parcel. Steam rose into chilled air and the griffon clacked his jaw in anticipation. He made the whistling sound again and rooted his face in the boar’s chest. “But any beast so puny that holds a grand lordship like that is worth remembering, don’t you think?”

The man smiled. “I think so, yes.” He took his broad toothed knife and joined in the red harvest. “Is that why you decided to help me?”

“’Course not. I’m not in the business of charity. You want to get yourself gored that’s your business. I don’t think you know how to fly, I could have stolen off with your pig and I don’t think there’s much you could have done about it except screw up your face and stomp your feet.”

The griffon’s great black wings flapped madly as he struggled with the rib cage, finally tugging out a great red mass. All his feathers puffed with delight as he rolled the heart around in his mouth, then swallowed it whole. “Ahhh, that’s the stuff. Let me remedy your question with one of my own: why did you set out to kill this big mean fellow here? There are shining fish in the pond, fluffy bunnies in their holes, and fat geese in the sky. Why this one?”

The human, up to his elbows in sticky redness, glanced up and said, “I was sick of rabbits and I’d never eaten a pig before. I didn’t think it’d be so…” With a sweep of his hand he summed up the fallen creature: bristled armor, steadfast legs, tinderbox temper, scimitar face. “So this.”

“But you must’ve gotten a good look at him before you ran at him. You could have changed your mind. It would have been smarter to change your mind.”

“What, I’m going to spend all morning tracking it and just turn back? The boar was there and I still thought I could do it so I did it. You shouldn’t start something unless you intend to finish.”

The griffon nodded to himself. “And that middle reason was mine. I saw your hunt, it’s been some time since I ate boar, and it has been so long since I hunted with a partner. My nestmates are no fun, they don’t like hunting land creatures anymore. I ask you, what’s the point of having legs if you never stretch them?” He craned his neck down in a conspiratorial whisper, “I think they’re all just frail in the gizzard on account of rumors of rocs.”

The human glanced at him, slightly amused, and went back into his work. He fetched his pack, still safe in the stubby mostly useless trees, where kindling and a carving knife waited for him. As the griffon tittered and growled in delight of lungs and livers, the human carefully built his fire and roasted his meat. For a time, neither of them spoke and enjoyed the simple pleasure of their spoils. Neither of them acknowledged the gathering audience of buzzards and a fox that watched and waited for them to finish.

"We are much the same, I think," said the griffon.

"Oh?" The human did not look at him but frowned at his poor carving knife. It was very good for harvesting does and hares, not so much for tough boar skin. All of his knives suffered and dulled today. "How'd you figure that?"

"Why, look no further than what surrounds us, little lord!" He snapped up some entrails and shook excess blood from his feathers. "Observe this scrubland; observe what we two have painted in the glory of our hunt. The crimson tinge on the grass and the scarlet trail that drags behind us, the stickiness squelching beneath our feet. Together we are red and full and happy. We are proud in our talons and iron teeth, as well we should be. It is no easy task to conquer a boar of this magnitude baring tusks longer than winter." The griffon rolled his shoulders and stretched his long body in the sun. "By the by, were you going to take those? The tusks? I think your sort likes to collect things from what they kill."

The human poked the long yellow tusk and flinched at the sharpness of it. If he had dodged in the wrong direction, a different creature might be strewn out in the grass right now. "I don't know. I don't make many things and this is the first time I've killed a boar. I might make a knife, but I have enough of those. You can have them if you like."

 "Fierce and generous. What a lucky fellow I am." The griffon took a tusk in his beak and with a few short tugs, it came away. "The creatures who could best us are few, especially when we travel in numbers. And yet, for all our boldness, we two have lost our lands to bright little flat-toothed ponies."

The man chewed his meat with no response or opinion but something flickered in the human’s eyes, wheeling away and burying itself before it could be seen.

The griffon saw, of course. They see everything that runs. “See those snaggle-tooth crags in the distance?”    
 
“You mean the Caulkins,” the human said. “I’m bound for them.”
 
“Are you? Interesting.” He washed a paw with his greyish pink tongue. “The mountains you call Caulkin, the red scrub you see about you, they belonged to my clan not long ago. My great aunt fought three days and three nights to win it. My father was hatched there, as was his father before him. My nestmates and I were conceived there, yet we were born many, many miles away. This is the second time I’ve seen these lands now ruled by ponies.” The griffon snatched the boar’s liver and shook it a few times before swallowing. “Ponies of the earth, no less.”
 
“Do you resent them for it?”
 
The crest of feathers fluffed and fell at the griffon’s neck. “Sometimes. But I am not a sore loser. That is simply the result of lost wars. The pegasi won the crag and by right they may do what they wish with it. If they wish to waste it on wingless nags, that’s their business. There is always the chance of reclamation, after all. We may win it back one day, we may not. Time will tell.”
 
The griffon hopped over to the human’s side of the boar. Side by side, the human had a new appreciation for his size. The two of them sat exactly at eye level. “If you ask me, if either of us should be upset it is you. Your kin claimed this place before mine, and far, far before the uppity little horses. They galloped over your continents in rainbow herds and simply took them for their own. But you lost no wars, you had no quarrels, you laid no wagers. I don’t think you even had the chance to defend what was yours. It is a disgrace.”
 
“I’m sure it wasn’t done on purpose,” the human protested.
 
“An egg dropped by accident still breaks.”
 
“There’s no fault in living in abandoned houses. The world changed, that’s all. Looking at pony towns, even I sometimes forget the land used to belong to someone else. The world’s changed,” the human repeated. “It happens.”
 
The griffon’s orange eyes fixed on the human’s, storm cloud wings slowly spreading behind him. “And who changed it, little lord? Who charts the moon’s course? Who tells the grass to cover your cobblestones? Who calls down the rain to rust your iron and flood your streets?”
 
The human had no response for that.
 
“I have seen it, you know. I have seen the iron towers where your kin once feasted and played and nursed and murdered and built. It still stands, but the little ponies grow bolder, explore it further, smother the pavement with grass, and rot the place with each hoofprint. It is a day’s walk from here; you ought to visit before the kudzu strangles it.”
 
The griffon fished around what was left of the boar, harvesting what spare parts he’d not eaten and gathering them tightly in his paws. The buzzards broke and scattered as he beat his wings once and rose into the air. He squinted at something in the distance, growled low in his throat, and then looked back down.

“Believe what you wish of the ponies, your life and feelings are your own. But I think you know better. Go to the Caulkins, little lord. Know that I wish you all the luck in the world.” He glanced over his shoulder at the snaggle-toothed crags in the distance. “You will need it.”

The buzzards filled the hole in the sky where he once had been. They waited until the griffon was a safe distance before they eased into the grass.


Heartstrings leaned in her seat, happily counting the coins on the table. She still had plenty left over, despite the high price of the human's gift. The wonderful thing about minstrels was they were constantly in demand. Not everypony on the road needed fortunes told or fences mended, but there were always songs somepony hadn't heard since foalhood or a mare whose spirits needed lifting or a colt who longed for news.

Arriving in the midst of harvest season didn't hurt either. You'd be hard-pressed to find a grouchy earth pony during harvest season. It was likely the reason why the price was such a bargain, considering the crazy inequine measurements.

"Pardon me." A freckled apprentice not grown into her mark peeked over Heartstrings' shoulder. "It’s almost done, ma’am. Miss Gabardine sent me to ask about the color. You never specified."

Heartstrings frowned. She was confident in her choice of cloth in the way of length, weight, and versatility, but had no idea what colors the human favored. "Hmm. Star Swirl?"

Star Swirl turned a page with his nose. He tapped a hoof on the table, glowering at the notebook and muttering to himself. Something about rainbows and witches.

"Star Swirl."

Silence. More page shuffling and hoof taps.

Heartstrings tapped his horn tip. "Star Swirl!"

"What." His eye never left the page.

"What sort of colors does he like?"
 
A minute passed. Then two. Heartstrings asked again, in case he hadn’t heard.

Star Swirl shrugged. "Color's fine."

“Tisn’t what I asked, lad.”

“Okay.”

Heartstrings sighed. It was like pulling teeth with this colt. She’d never managed to wrench more than six syllables from him. When they traveled he was always on the human’s opposite side and giving off snide looks when he thought nobody was looking. Heartstrings tried friendly conversation, smiling, singing ballads, apologizing, antagonizing, sharing food, complimenting his coat, and complaining about the weather. She was lucky to get a side glance. The way he went on, a pony would think she’d dropped his cat in the well and set his estate on fire.

For a time, Heartstrings worried that she’d done something to upset him. The fancier unicorns were so easy to offend, after all. They’d a thousand rules for politeness and ten thousand ways to break them and the rules varied depending on the family’s rank.
But it wasn’t just Heartstrings. Star Swirl gave the barest minimum of attention to every pony he came across before diving back into his notes or taking shelter behind the human. The human was the only creature he ever spoke to or smiled at. It was getting old.
 
Heartstrings stuck her neck over the table as far as it would go. “Ahem.”
 
Star Swirl blinked slowly at the sudden shadow over his notes. His ears flattened against his head as he rolled his eyes up at her. A sigh dragged out of him. He arched a condescending pink eyebrow. “Is there something that you want?”

“I asked what colors the human liked.”

He blinked. “Why?”

Heartstrings inclined a hoof towards the tailor’s shop where they sat. “Garments have colors. We need to choose one. I thought you’d know what colors he favors, since you’ve known him for longer.”

“Oh.” Star Swirl buried his nose in the notes again. “He likes green.”

The apprentice nodded and dashed into the backroom.

Heartstrings sighed. She strummed her lyre, eventually easing into the opening chords to The Flutter Queene’s Court. Good choice of song. Just long enough to fill another hour with nopony to talk to.


"Ah, now that’s a sight!" Heartstrings held the gift high with her magic and rubbed her cheek on the lining. “Oh, and the inside’s softer than a bonny bairn’s ear. Isn't it wonderful, Star Swirl?"

Star Swirl mumbled through the pen in his teeth.

The tailor adjusted her monocle. "Indeed. Oilskin is the wisest choice for a promenade through the Caulkins. The lining ought to be enough to keep the cold out, come winter. 'Course, it'd be wiser to not go at all, but there's no reasoning with fools." She shook her head. "Weather’s a beast up there; random rains, lightning going every which way, winds that don’t know if they’re breezes or maelstroms, sleet for no good reason. The pegasi up there just laze about all day letting clouds do as they please and the Hegemony still has the nerve to take rations from the rock farmers. Letting the snow wassets crawl all o’er the place. ‘Tis a disgrace.”

Heartstrings only hummed brightly as she placed the present in her saddlebag. “We’ll keep watch for that, then. Look alive, Star Swirl. We’re off.”

Fifteen minutes past the city walls, Star Swirl seemed even quieter than usual, if such a thing was possible. He bent his neck at the sky as he walked, the line of his mouth lopsided and wrinkled.

Without looking from the sky he asked, "What is magic?"

Heartstrings knitted her brow, pulling her saddlebag close. She could not tell if this was an accusation or if the lad was asking himself rhetorical questions. “You should know the answer to that already, methinks. That’s your house’s whole purpose, isn’t it? Spells and stars and the like. Don’t know why you ask the likes of me.”

Star Swirl snapped his eye to her. “Humor me, then.” He thought a moment and added, “Please.”

Heartstrings shrugged. “I never put much thought on it, t’tell the truth. I know it’s something a unicorn uses to move things about and I know that I use mine for making music, mostly. I know the sweet joy it gives me every day and the warm, smooth tingle in my horn with each lyre pluck.” She nodded to herself. “It’s a good feeling. Like going home.”

 “And what else?” Star Swirl was looking directly at her now, his desperate eyes framed by dark circles. It made him look twice his age.

The old mare twitched her ears, confused. “What else? What else is there?”

Star Swirl shook his head with a scowl and a sigh. “I thought as much. Typical.”

“Oh? And what’s that supposed t’mean, then?”

Star Swirl rolled his eyes at her and scoffed, trotting on ahead.

Heartstrings flattened her ears and dashed to catch him. She dug in her hooves, abruptly cutting him off. “Look here, ye wet-eared stripling. I may not have good breedin’ and ye might not enjoy me company but that gives ye no right to treat me like some common coxcomb that spat in your oats.” She gave an unladylike snort. “Don’t give you rights to lure me into questions ye already know I don’t have the answers to either.”

Star Swirl flicked his tail and shook his head with a dismissive sigh. “You’re right. T’was a mistake to even ask.”

“Why? Because I’m too ignorant t’give answers you’ll accept?”

“Yes!” he snapped. “Yes, that is precisely why. You and every other glass-eyed pony in the Kingdom. Ignorant and... and glad of it!”

“That’s tall words for a hollow unicorn, Star Swirl.” She edged her face close enough for them to bump noses. “Come, soothsayer, why don’t you lecture me on what magic is?”

Once that might have hurt Star Swirl, but he'd long since accepted his lot in life. It sat upon his shoulder, whispering as he studied through the night. Hollow. He heard it in the scratch of quills on parchment. He tasted in the binding of books he carried, not levitated. He saw it in the piteous eyes of those who knew but never spoke of it. Hollow. Hollow. Hollow. 

But with his every movement, Star Swirl knew better. His bells twitched in the breeze whispering, You are not. You are not.

Still, to hear it aloud from Heartstrings made him shrink into his cape. He kicked into a canter, his ears full of his own hoofbeats and tinkling bells. He glanced to see the seafoam-colored pony not far behind. To Heartstrings or to himself, he said, “I cannot tell you what magic is. Not truthfully. I don’t think anypony can.”

Star Swirl looked at Heartstrings again, his face too old and his eyes too young. “Listen,” he said. “House Galaxy’s studied and practiced magic for longer than anypony can remember. My parents studied for decades. I studied magic for years. All I learned was this: we have no idea what magic is. None. Because we do not care to find out.”
 
His canter kicked into a gallop, as if he could outrun his frustrations. “Ponies believe magic is for moving the sun, the moon, the quill, the needle and the thread. Magic is always practical; it must always do something, accomplish something and what it accomplishes must always be useful. Magic is never allowed to be. Magic is never for magic’s sake.”
 
Heartstrings panted to not lose sight of him. “What’s the matter with that? Isn’t practicality enough?” She practically had to yell over the wind and distance. “We’ve what we need already. Why seek more if we’re content?”
 
“That’s the problem, right there! We are content to languish in ivory towers and till our fields and harvest our raindrops and nothing more. And we never aspire to be anything more. We know our purpose when it etches itself on our flanks and we are content. Content in...” Star Swirl faltered, short of breath. “Content in a sterile vase where nothing grows. We move the heavens with magic, yes. But what else can magic do? Without a set purpose what will it do? In fact, why have magic at all? Humans were fine without magic, so why do we have it? Magic mends stitches, plucks lyres, and lifts inkpots. What else? What is magic for?”
 
Star Swirl slowed to a walk. He didn’t have the stamina for long gallops even on a good day; ranting theses on top of it left him burnt and gasping. The chilled air clawed his throat as his thin barrel heaved. Star Swirl plopped in the grass and waited as the mare caught up with him. “I think... I think that is what I really want to know. What is the purpose of wizardry, Heartstrings? What’s magic for?”

“I can’t say that I know, lad.” Heartstrings stood above him, breathing hard but far from exhausted. “I hope ye aren’t plannin’ another sprint like that anytime soon. I don’t think either of us are the athletic type.”

“Why... why aren’t you tired? Aren’t you thrice my age?”

Heartstrings grinned. “I jogged. What, you think I’m running meself into the ground just because you are? Runnin’s for colts and fillies, they’ve all the time in the world and everywhere to be. I have half your time and nowhere to be, so I can take all the time I please. We’re going to the same place, after all.”

 Heartstrings looked behind as they went on into the scrub. “We covered a grand distance with that exercise. We’ll be back at camp soon. Before we get there, I’ve a question of me own.”

“And that is?”

“Who is Pyrite?”

The stallion’s pink eyebrows shot up.

“So you know of him?”

“I worked under him for three years. A wretched old cob who’d no fiefdom so he lorded over a carnival instead. Pinned titles to himself like storebought medals.” Star Swirl chuckled to himself. “Called himself ‘the Bold’. Titles are only earned or given, never chosen, and the truly great unicorns are titled for what they wear or how they speak. It’s supposed to keep us grounded. I thought of telling him he’d chosen a foolish title but I was happier with my jaw unbroken.”

It was Heartstrings’ turn to raise her eyebrows. For the first time, she noticed the notches in Star Swirl’s right ear and the unusual scars upon his muzzle.

“He didn’t much care for me. Cozen told me it was because I smiled too much and my coat was too bright. Nothing his carnival touched came away happy. He was the sort of pony that only wore a smile after stealing yours.” Star Swirl flicked his ears in thought. “After a certain point, some ponies give up on their happiness or their futures and take comfort in dragging down everyone else’s instead.”

“Where is he now?” Heartstrings asked.

“Last I saw he was in the jaws of a she-manticore. Why?”

Heartstrings ducked in closer and lowered her voice, as if the grass had spies. “On the night I met the human he kicked me out of my sleep. He kicked so hard, I think he might have broken one of my ribs if he hadn’t gone to bed without shoes. I looked to find the human thrashing in his sleep like a hooked trout. I had my horn lit t’see what was happening, but when he saw me.... ”

She looked over her shoulder guiltily. “Star Swirl, I never knew that a human’s little eyes could stretch so big. He pulled in all his arms and legs like I was going t’steal them, buried his face in his knees and he wouldn’t stop shaking. I was afraid he’d suffocate, he was breathing so hard. I’m amazed it didn’t wake you. As I tried to calm him down, he demanded of me where Pyrite was, though in the middle of doing so he seemed to remember he was safe in the wildwood. Still, his fingers didn’t leave his neck until he fetched the comb and gave his hands something else to do.”

Star Swirl hummed to himself, remembering the human’s aversion to sleeping on the ground.  

Heartstrings swished her tail. A few blossoms were still braided into them. “I tried playing songs to ease him, but he cringed from my horn’s light like attercops in the sun.”

Star Swirl pricked his ears. Now that he thought on it, the human always held his staff close whenever Heartstrings played her lyre or levitated objects. After the first week together, Heartstrings and her aura moved out of the human’s line of sight when she played. He remembered the relief upon the human’s face as he discovered he could break spells with a touch.

The unicorn paused mid-stride and fiddled with his beard. “He’s scared of magic.”

“Aye.”

“‘Tis poor choice of phobias.” Star Swirl sniffed the flax flowers at his hooves. Flax didn’t grow in these lands twenty years ago. Princess Tourmaline sent baskets of flaxseed and indigo to the Earth Pony Nation as a sign of goodwill (and to encourage dye production). The tailors and artisans tended these fields thrice a year to ensure the flowers flourished. Rainfall was guaranteed twice a month under the Wingtip Treaty. “He might as well be afraid of air or birdsongs. Magic doesn’t just live in the grooves and spirals of alicorns, after all.”

Heartstrings looked down the path to the spot where the human would meet them. There was a dark shape in the sky too big for a pegasus and with too many limbs to be a bird. Instinctively she moved closer to the other pony. “It’s not like we can pick and choose what frightens us, Star Swirl.”

“I wish he’d mentioned something earlier. Mayhap we could do something to ease him. A lesson on the common functions of sorcery or the elemental structure of—”

“If he wanted you t’know his plights, he’d have said something,” Heartstrings said. “Actually, I’m not even sure if I should have told you. Let him deal with it as he pleases.” Changing the subject, she patted the package at her side. “I’m glad we got him this. He gets so cold these days.”

Star Swirl hummed, a little perturbed that his idea was cut off before it went anywhere. He wasn’t sure when it became “we” either. He had nothing at all to do with the gift outside color suggestions. “Well, if he’s still wandering about in the dead of night, there’ll be plenty of use in it.”

The dark shape came closer. Heartstrings shrank into the grass and pressed herself against Star Swirl’s cloak so suddenly he nearly tripped over her.

The red and black griffon passed over their heads and circled once, long and low. Low enough for Star Swirl to see the griffon’s feathers were white and not red. A great hunk of entrails shimmered in its claws. Its movements were strong, deliberate, and almost lazy. It wanted to be seen. A fiery, glittering eye blinked at them and Star Swirl felt Heartstrings’ breath stop.

The stargazer set his hooves in the dirt and stared back at it. The only part of him that moved was his dark cape and bright beard waving in the breeze. Something wet dripped from the griffon’s talons and into the stallion’s mane. He felt it sink into his scalp. Star Swirl did not blink.

The griffon circled again, growling like an empty stomach before it lifted out of sight in the cloud-bitten sky.

Star Swirl snorted, slashing the empty air with his horn. “Caitiff.”

“It came from the east,” Heartstrings said. In the distance, not far from their camp, buzzards drifted like ash in the sky. The east was where they’d left him. “Star Swirl, ye don’t think... the griffons don’t eat humans, do they?”

“They might. But that fellow was unmarked with nary a feather out of place. Against our human, a griffon would be lucky to escape with a limp.”

Heartstrings stood, brushing the dust from her saddlebags. “I suppose that’s true.” The two of them went on a little way before she said, “I’m sorry, by the way. For calling you hollow. I know that you’re not.”

“That’s alright.”

The human met the unicorns as he was coming back from the pond. He shivered from the chill in the air and his own dripping hair, but his step was light and he was already smiling before he saw them. A fox trailed behind him in cautious little steps. The human didn’t seem to notice.

“Hello. How was town?”

“It was very nice,” Heartstrings chirped. She balanced on three legs as she pulled the parcel out of her saddlebag and offered it to him. “How was your boring empty field?”

“Not boring at all.” The human jostled his pack against his shoulder. “I enjoyed myself.”

Star Swirl inclined a hoof towards the fox. “Have you made another friend?”

“Hardly. The little menace stole from me and now it won’t leave me alone.” He shook his fist at the scavenger, who only sat and yawned. “I ought to make it into a pillow.”

Star Swirl stretched his neck. In the distance, he could just barely make out the blanket of vultures swamping the bones of some unlucky creature. “Ah, I see.”

The human squished the side of the bag experimentally. The softness of it surprised him; the way Heartstrings went on about music he’d half expected her to give him a violin. As the unicorns watched, he pulled out a cloak long and green as the Knave’s wildwood, eggshell white along the edge. The outer fabric was sturdy and its slick softness reminded him of duck feathers. The lining was thick but soft as rabbit ears. The pockets sewn into the sides were perfect for keeping combs, lockpicks, and knives.    

Immediately he tried it on. It clung and warmed him like a sweet memory. Neither the bewildered tailor nor Heartstrings knew exactly how long it ought to be and had overestimated the length. It fluttered at his ankles and dragged along the ground when the human didn’t stand at full height. The hood draped over his eyes and when he bent his head nothing of his face could be seen at all. If he wished, the whole of him could hide in these mossy folds, nothing could see him if he did not wish it.

The unicorns peered at him, twitching their ears curiously.

“Well? D’you like it?” asked Heartstrings.

A breeze picked up, the cloak flared and snapped against the human but he felt none of it. He felt more woodwraith than man. The lower half of his face split into a grin. “I do.” The human scratched Heartstrings behind the ears. “Indeed, I do. This is a very good present.”

Star Swirl nosed the human’s other hand. “I helped,” he pointed out.
 
Heartstrings smirked. “Funny, I remember you sitting in the corner for two hours in a sulk.”  

“I picked out the color. It counts as helping.”

The human chuckled and rubbed Star Swirl’s ear. “Well, I do like the color.”