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// Chapter 1: New Awakening 
// Story: Dead Hearts 
// by Flutter Bloom 
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Chapter 1:


How long the stallion remained in unconscious stasis, he could not know; that bitter slumber, within which the endless nightmare of traversing an unending corridor held sway over his mind. What he could know, though, was that muttering voices had broken the grip of his mental plague and forced him awake. Searing, blinking light pierced his fragile vision as his eyes snapped open with sudden awareness.
Finally able to comprehend current events, the grip of hooves upon his own limbs commanded his attention, holding him tightly as if strapping him to the bed. His heart pounded against his rib cage, eyes erratic in their analytical efforts. Attempting to take the forms of the ones who held him in, still leaden-struck from its extended inactivity, the stallion's brain failed him.
Then—
His errant gaze fell upon a familiar sight. A brief perusal of his still-encumbered mind brought forth the memory of his savior. Standing by the chamber’s entrance, she waited for him. Her own eyes widened, pupils contracting upon her first sight of his broken, beaten and scarred form. He conclusively reminisced upon their meeting; the small figure, shaking with fear-rimmed curiosity at the noise, unsure if it threatened her or her sanctuary. He reflected briefly on the idea of flight, not for the first time—at least until grim anxiety gripped him at the thought of his confiscated bag. He felt his heart skip as his understanding of the area around him sluggishly purged in an intonation that was not his, the tone bellowing for the object he lusted after.
As his throat tightened, his slowly recovering mind fought to filter out his fears. Maybe he should ask—maybe they weren't hostile? Reaching a decision, unusually against his character, he settled on negotiations with his captors. He had stopped fighting. Hadn't he? He didn’t feel any of his limbs move nor twitch—indeed, his only physical feeling consisted of the resilient rise and fall of his chest, painfully perpetuated by a burning set of lungs. His tail twitched; turning his attention to something less grim his roaming eyes darted over to his captors, his coma liberators.
He perceived a young mare, seemingly respectful and blue-eyed. The shade was unfathomable: Aqua? Cerulean? Turquoise? Whichever was true, they sparkled like stars in the night. Swallowing hard he opened his mouth, succeeding only in hacking up dollops of iron-fouled red. Then he felt it—warm fluid dripping down his neck. Once more, he and the filly traded gazes, eliciting uncertain fear from the latter.
Could anyone see her? The child? Was it only him? Surely he was going insane. The possibility existed, to be sure—more like to affect him than another. The mare with the aqua eyes reacted swiftly to the blood, cleaning up the sudden deluge that spattered out of his mouth. Once more, he found himself nervous beyond control. Eyes on the ceiling, anxiety consuming his heart, rational thought failed him while he drowned in self-pity. He craved his beloved satchel more than ever. Though in truth, he perceived not the danger those... items could bring to this place.
His focus shifted from the ceiling to the small space. Sensing his direct stare, the filly partially hid herself behind the door  again. Ever staring, brilliant pale rubies that glistened with innocence—a far cry from those forest lurkers. Those translucent-winged insectoid, mutant hybrids. These poor ponies, ignorant to the dangers that lay in wait outside their peaceful halls. Fraught with danger, he'd journeyed to his destination, bearings unknown. Yet now with that magical burst, here he was.
A bristly throb journeyed from his mouth down, unhinging him from his stares and derailing his train of thought. He recoiled from the mare, dodging her hooves, resulting only in rolling against the other one with a rough, firm grip.  His eyes soon adjusted to the lighting of the new angle—that’s when he realized the one he had rolled into was a black-shaded male, who now grabbed him forcibly. Emerald green bored into his vision, lightly tinted with a hint of blue. His messy mane boasted a tone of blood orange. A rather odd looking combination—not one he ever wished upon himself.
"Morte Fleur, why did King Sol ask us to help him? He doesn't even speak. So far he has only fought us," the colt grumbled, his tone harsh as if scolding a child. The stallion’s heart sank. "We don't know what he is or where he came from." Black and orange clashed as their owner looked down at him.
"Hesperus, cease," the blue-eyed mare snapped as she eased off him. "There must be a reason, yes? Our lord orders everything for a reason. He desires our 'guest' be clean and presentable for when he analyzes the package's yield."
"We should at least heed his name. Art thou not curious to what intentions lurk in his... mind?"
A cough was heard from the unidentified stallion that remained laying down. The stallion simply listened as the mare moved between him and Hesperus. Morte was more interested in the one laying in the bed and not the one she was fighting with on... odd terms.
"I better trust this stranger than trust a colt who knows not the contents of a simple package."
"You're just like your mother."
"Be still!" a voice boomed from the doorway—another stallion, causing Hesperus and Morte Fleur to drop their bickering. The stallion on the bed looked back to the door. He searched for the filly, alas, she had vanished. He felt his mind leaving the safe-haven known as “sanity.” He couldn't deal with at all; could this pony wrapped in shiny gold and shimmering dark metal help him refrain from descent into madness?
Hopefully, yes.
Morte moved, revealing the color of her coat to the unnamed stallion. It resembled the dark of coal, accented by white strands in stark contrast to her mane of sky blue. Everything about her screamed freedom, or at least the desire for it. Her coat rippled lightly with her consistent breaths. The stallion closed his eyes to ignore her. She held no lingering interest; he was more interested in the mysterious while filly with the pink eyes. Ere long he’d closed his eyes, the grating sound of the metal door snapped up his attention. Another colt stood, eerily menacing.
"King Sol summons the stallion," he declared with solid eye contact. A cold chill manipulated his spine at the sight of the fierce, armored one. Patches of murky brown showed through gaps in the plating. A quick glimpse of the armored one's tail gave him an informed guess as to the color of the matching mane, that of fine grains of sand.
The eyes were what frightened him most—eyes of the most vicious red.
"Fine, take him. Be gentle, though, he's not yet healed. Undue stress and motion shall not aid his recovery in any way." Recognizing the mare’s words as a warning to himself as well as his escorts, the stallion resolved to obey her recommendations. "Take him and begone." Her eyes remained focused on the window, having not moved since the red-eyed pony’s intrusion.
The armored one nodded, approaching the already-standing stallion. Fear was his foe and pain his unwilling partner as he rose from his bed. Unbidden popping and creaking greeted his ears and his blazing nerves; hardly surprising, considering his earlier injuries. He probably broke a rib or two, cracked a bone in his leg, chipped his horn perhaps? Once standing, the armored one waited for him to walk. Devoid of speech, the stallion paced tentatively out the door and into the hall, the menacing gold and black suit behind him.