//------------------------------// // Chapter 7 // Story: A Pony Born to Fight // by WyvernQueen //------------------------------// My scream is piercing, and I have no doubt that all of Ponyville heard it. I’d actually be surprised if the noise didn’t reach Canterlot by the time I ran out of air. Out of nowhere, a hoof smashes into my face, and the unexpected blow sends me sideways, cutting off the cry for help. My vision goes black, and as I’m about to pass out I can hear subdued conversation that I assume is between the two creatures. “What are we going to do with him?” The first speaker’s voice is surprisingly female, and laden with pain. “We could kill him and drag his body into the woods. That would be fair, for what he did to you.” The second voice is male, but surprisingly neutral for what he’s suggesting. The female, I work out, is the one I bucked. “No. As much as I’d like to, we can’t kill him. It would take too long—ponies are probably out of their cozy little beds already. We got our information, anyway. Just leave him; maybe he’ll bleed out. His shoulder looks pretty bad.” I hear slow hoofsteps as one of the two walks to stand over me. I don’t move my head, or give any sign that I’m awake. Playing dead (or unconscious) is the best course of action right now, not that I’m able to do much else. Still, something must alert the creature standing over me, because a hoof slams into my shoulder, sending my world into blurs of red and black. Pain is everywhere and is inescapable, burning the color of fire. For what seems like forever I forget who I am and why it hurts; all that matters is that it does hurt. Then the black surrounds me like a blanket, dulling the red until only embers smolder in the twilight of sleep. My limbs are so heavy. I can’t move… What happened to him? Did anypony see? Oh sweet Celestia that’s a lot of blood… The words sound muffled, as though I stuffed my ears with cotton, but I can still tell that the speaker is female, her high pitched voice tinged with panic. We need to get him to the hospital now! Does he have any family? Does anypony know where he lives? The second voice is very much so male, a gruff and professional voice that is not in the least deterred by the blood that scared female pony. I feel myself get lifted and put onto something a lot less soft than the grass I previously occupied. It’s a lot less prickly, though, so I don’t complain. Not that I could—my voice doesn’t seem to be working, although I can feel each raspy breath that I take out of habit. Around me, shadows begin to writhe and take shape, but as soon as I look at them they dissipate into nothingness. The darkness has slowly begun to morph into a dark gray, and that into a light gray. When the light has grown so that it hurts to look, I close my eyes, which I had been holding open with sheer willpower. For what feels like years all I can see is red through my eyelids. There are no sounds, no smells, and the ground is made of something that feels like nothing—not hard, not soft, not cold or warm. And then there is a change, a very subtle change: all of a sudden I can feel a slight breeze that ruffles my fur. The air smells of wood and paper, things that I am not intimately familiar with but know all the same. The ground is cold now; a slight chill that permeates my body and sends shivers through me. And when the light finally dims, I open my eyes. Because I’m lying on my side, I see everything at a slant. It takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing, but when I do I’m left with more questions than answers. Closest to me is a table, of which I am only able to see four legs. The light wood contrasts the dark shelves behind it, filled with books. None of them have titles, just different colored bindings. The floor is hardwood, the light green of immature trees which bends slightly under my weight. It isn’t uncomfortable at all, really, just a little cold. Small drafts float their way across the wood like a stone skimming over water, clinging to my coat and soaking into the floor. Why in Celestia’s name would anypony take me to a library in the condition I’m in? Am I hallucinating? Curious, I try and lift my head, waiting for a sharp pain where the creature slammed a hoof into my face. Nothing. Not even the slightest throb of a bruise. Experimentally, I twitch my injured shoulder, searching for any sign of the attack I was a victim of. But it moves, and unless they put me on some serious medication, I don’t feel a thing. Actually, medication might explain the library, which I’m pretty sure is a hallucination. I go to check my forelocks for I.V.s, but there’s nothing. Twisting my head around, I try to get a good look at my shoulder, and from the sliver of skin that I can see, there isn’t a gash or stitches. Now, magic is a wonderful thing, but it can only go so far. Deep cuts, like the one I received, would have scarred and left internal damage. Damage that would take months to heal properly. Damage that I don’t seem to have. I roll over, gathering my hooves beneath me, and stand slowly. The top of the tables comes into view, as do the bookcases, which seem to go up forever. Even craning my neck back doesn’t reveal the ceiling of the library to me. My gaze travels over the covers of the many, many books crammed into the shelves and settles on the huge pile of paper stacked on the table. I’m about to move when I hear mutterings from behind the wall of white. Leaning to the side, I peer around the paper to try and get a good look at whatever is hiding behind them. When I don’t see anything, I peek under the table, but there are no hooves or claws or tails, nothing to suggest that there is actually a living creature there. I take two steps to the side and one forward, trying to get a good look on the other side of the paper wall. When I do, something lands on the ground with four thuds, and the mass of papers are swept aside by magic, piling themselves neatly against the walls of the room. This gives me clear view to see the pony that now sits at the head of the square table. The pony is scribbling furiously in a small gray book. I guess that she’s female, given her slim figure and long mane, which falls into her eyes. She doesn’t look at me or even acknowledge my presence, so I take one hesitant step forward. As I do, she jumps from her chair straight into the air, flaring wings that I hadn’t noticed. She flies upwards at dizzying speeds, stopping once or twice to pull out a book from the higher shelves. When she comes down to my level, she breezes past me, six books held in her magic field. “Uh, ma’am?” I try, trotting after her. Finally she whirls around, and it’s only by pure luck that I see the small dart fly towards me. I hit the floor and feel my mane ruffle a millisecond later. From behind me, where the dart went, I hear a thunk, and the alicorn nods. “Blue. Thought so. Green coat, purple mane, blue eyes.” This makes no sense to me, but I’m a little more wary of this strange dart-throwing mare. Her gaze shifts from wherever the dart landed to me, and her face lights up. “Ghost! Knew you’d come around. Hold on—just gotta do this.” A quill comes over and starts writing in a light green book, going so fast that I’m afraid of it starting a fire. While the quill is writing, the mare darts to ten other points in the room, taking down books, making marks on some of them, humming a small song that I don’t recognize. A little stunned that she knows who I am, I speak hesitantly. “Ma’am, what’s your name?” I ask, trying to get a look at her Cutie Mark. She moves too fast for me to see it, flying over me in a blur of gold limbs and white hair. “Don’t have a name. No need—takes too much time. Call me whatever.” Skidding to the head of the table again, she picks up the gray book there and reads what is written, murmuring to herself. Then, in a flash of magic, she’s by me again, catching the green book that has been writing itself next to me as it falls. “Someone once called me The Writer, don’t remember who. He had a box, though, a blue box—helped me organize my library. Didn’t get his name, didn’t give one. He knew the value of time. Duck.” My reflexes save me once again as a dart whizzes past me and embeds itself into the wall. The Writer scowls, fluttering her wings. “Brown won’t do. Gray, maybe green. Not purple—silver! Name, name, name…” She points to me. “Give me another name for music. Any name, just hurry!” Put on the spot, I stammer the first thing that comes to my head. “Uh, symphony.” Nodding rapidly, The Writer pats me on the head (a gesture of approval, I think, not one of condescension) and writes in a small pink book that is exactly one page. Snapping the book shut, she flings it at me, pointing towards a small space in one of the bottom shelves. The book fits perfectly, flanked on either side by books that are the same width but not the same color. When I turn around, The Writer is sitting at the head of the table again, organizing books by thickness, stacking them into haphazard piles that lean but do not fall. By the time I reach her, she has flown up and grabbed at least twenty more books, muttering under her breath words that are too soft for me to hear. I trot towards her, stopping mere feet away, close enough to see her eyes flick across the page she’s reading. I stand there silently until she starts and snaps the book shut, throwing it high in the air. I warily watch the blue book’s arc until, to my amazement, it slides into place on a bookshelf. When my gaze travels downwards, The Writer is still sitting in her seat (which surprises me somewhat), and her eyes are fixed on my face. “Do you know where you are, Ghost?” Her voice is still rushed, but the distraction is gone from it. I hold her full attention. “A… library?” I try, covertly glancing around for a clue of some kind. She laughs lightly, standing and gathering the books scattered across the table with her golden magic. “Not exactly. It just appears that way to you as a way of rationalizing what’s happening.” With that not-at-all-cryptic answer, The Writer spins around and begins to file away the books by thickness. With my mouth slightly open, I stand rooted in place until she turns again. Upon seeing my stationary form, she frowns and says, “Are you ready to leave now?” “No! I still don’t understand what’s going on! Where am I? What is this place? How did I get here?” My sudden burst of noise doesn’t startle the Writer at all. In fact, she nods approvingly and sits again, picking up a light blue book and a quill on the way. “I can’t explain everything to you. You need to ask questions that I can answer directly instead of making me struggle to give you an overview. The answers to your first questions are as follows.” Snapping shut the book, she tosses it as she did the other, and I track it unconsciously until it, too, slides into place on a shelf not so far above my head. “You’re in a place that isn’t on the physical plane or in the land of dreams; you could say that it’s an island in the sea between the two. It’s hard for ponies to come here, even Luna, because to do so you have to be either really hurt or deep in a coma. You’re part of the former.” Eight books slam themselves on the table in front of her, making me jump slightly. The Writer seems used to it, though, and simply opens the books and writes (with her hoof, no less; that takes talent) furiously in each, transitioning from book to book without a hesitation. Her answers produce more questions, and before I can stop them they pour out. “So who are you? What are all these books for? Why aren’t I hurt like I am in—in real life? Is this a dream, or a fantasy?” The last question elicits a dry chuckle from the golden alicorn. “If this is what your fantasies look like, Ghost, then you need some help. I don’t have a name—never had time for one. The blue-box-pony gave me the name of The Writer after he helped organize my library. There were fewer books then. Speaking of the books, they’re…” Her voice trails off as her brow furrows in concentration. “Erm, how do I explain this to you? The Haymaru tribe of horses, to the north of Equestria, believes that everyone is born with three special things. A heart, for living; a soul, for loving; and something they call the Gesatura, the Book of Life. Their book is the color of their pelt, and no two books are alike. Upon birth, the book is given to Yuumura, the god of life, who writes their destinies in the book. When the deceased gets to the afterlife, he presents it to them and asks them if they’re happy with their life. If so, they stay at his side for eternity. If not, he sends them back to the land of the living to live a better life.” I look at the blue book caught in the Writer’s magic and then back at her. For a moment I’m confused; why is she telling me this? And then it clicks. Oh Celestia, she can’t be serious. There’s no way she can be serious about this. The Writer must see the rising comprehension on my face, because she nods and murmurs, “That’s right, Ghost. All of these books are the destinies of living creatures. Ponies, Zebrae, Horses, Griffons and many more. Many, many more.” No. Nononono… I’m not in control of my fate? Is that what she’s saying? That I’m a puppet, dancing because she pulls the strings? I stagger backwards, falling spread-eagled to the floor with a whump. Alarmed, the Writer drops the book she’s holding, and it clatters to the floor in front of me. The words are written in black ink, darker than the night sky. …he whirls, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of me pinning down the struggling mare. My mouth curls into a half smile and I whisper, “Go.” He stumbles forward, making it to the other side before the inevitable happens. They’re safe, I think in relief. Now to make sure that they’ll be safe a while longer. I bear down, with all my weight, on the mare beneath me to make sure she doesn't struggle free. Ropes snap and hiss as the frayed ends part ways. And just before the bridge collapses, I stare my almost-sister in the eyes and try to tell her, via facial expression, that it isn't her fault. That it’s my choice to perish here… The words twist and fade, the library growing dark in my eyes. The Writer speaks, but her words are warped and unintelligible, and when I close my eyes all noise disappears. When I force them open again (I’m so sleepy…), I’m lost in a fog of nothing. My limbs feel like blocks of stone, and so does my body, but somehow my lungs inflate and deflate, pushing air out and sucking it in again. After what seems like years, my shoulder starts to hurt. It feels like a block of ice sitting on my shoulder, so cold that it burns. It gets to the point where, if I had control of my vocal chords, I would hiss and scream in pain. The side of my face starts to throb as well, matching my heartbeat. A blinding light pierces the fog I’m lying in, and my eyes snap shut instinctively, squinting against the harsh rays. Hollow echoes reach my ears, a jumble of voices that become clearer by the second. He needs blood, now! Does anypony know his next of kin? Or where he lives? For Celestia’s sake, does anypony in here even know the stallion’s bucking NAME? The deep male voice reverberates through my bones. I feel really woozy, like the few bits I can remember of being drunk. I’m not nauseous, thankfully, but my thoughts dissipate with every throb of my face. He has no records at the hospital, no I.D. either. I sent a runner to Twilight to ask for any housing records he might have that include his name. This voice is softer, more hesitant, and female. My forelegs begin to tingle, like they fell asleep, and the pain in my shoulder steadily increases, until it feels like somepony is sticking hundreds of needles into my flesh. It’s so intense that my forelegs start to spasm. I don’t care about his name, because if we don’t stop the bleeding then the only place he’ll ever need it is on his gravestone! Sedate him now! This voice is raspy, as if the speaker got punched in the throat recently. Through the pain of my injuries, I feel a small prick on my upper foreleg (I can’t tell left from right, so it could have been either). The burning immediately fades, to be replaced by the images that reside just under the surface of my conscious. Wounds, blood and gore greet me like old friends, welcoming me back into the world of war. And when they finally exhaust themselves, the blackness of deep sleep envelopes me.