“Well, this could hardly have gone better,” Whiskey muttered to himself, as he finished reading Mercy’s note. “A lot quicker than I would’ve expected a three-legged pony to go about doing things, though . . .”
That ‘three legged pony’, as you so eloquently called her, is your friend. You know, the one who, in all likelihood, saved your dumb life when you collapsed from whatever sickness you had? The same pony who made sure you, drunk as a monkey, got back to the fort when you wandered off that one time? Seriously, can you stop thinking of ponies, ponies who are your friends, no less, as pawns? Or are you always going to be like this, Whiskey?
Whiskey sighed as he slowly sank his face into his hooves; the horrid little voice that worked in the background of his mind, constantly judging, always made itself heard. It would never pay attention to his justifications, on why, yes, he had to divorce from personal relationships when constructing these sorts of ideas: after all, his rationalization went, one can’t afford to think of individual soldiers when fighting a war. Same principle applies here, too. . .
Not that the excuses helped alleviate the pings of pain on Whiskey’s conscience. Everyone was a critic, even himself.
Especially himself.
His hoof wandered, on its own accord, to the bottom shelf of his desk. Slowly, hesitantly, as if it were weary of getting caught and punished, it slid the drawer open and withdrew a clear bottle filled with an amber liquid. It was at this point his mind became conscious of what he was holding, and with a raised eyebrow he considered the liquor.
“No time like the present to celebrate,” he eventually grumbled, circling to face the door as he bit off the bottle’s stopper off and spat it to the ground. “What’s the worst that could-”
Happen, Whiskey finished in thought, as the door to his study slammed open. He reflexively dropped the bottle, and when it shattered upon the ground his sorrow was comparable only to a grieving widow’s. And then he was confronted by a close up image of Staunch’s face, which, unfortunately, is not something one should be forced to endure without the considerable power of alcohol.
Whiskey nearly tumbled out of his chair, his legs getting caught with each other as he tried to rise to attention.
“What in Tartarus do you think you’re doing?” Staunch bellowed, glancing from the shattered bottle to Whiskey’s face.
“At this particular juncture, sir? Mourning the loss of a good malt,” Whiskey said in dead seriousness, his face still somewhat forlorn from this deprivation.
“You’re late for wall duty,” Staunch said in a gravely tone, after spending a moment giving Whiskey an uncomprehending look.
“What are you talking about?” Whiskey said, taken aback. “That’s tomorr. . . oh. Oh.”
Well, that’s a first, Whiskey thought to himself. Late for duty? What would your mam say? Well, besides throw the book at you? And possibly the entire bookshelf? Well, admittedly, she’d have done that regardless, since she was honestly a bit of a terror, but that’s beside the point. . .
Staunch’s eyes softened for a moment, before he growled, in a far more sympathetic tone, “You forgot to take your petrification into account, didn’t you? A day of yours is gone.”
Whiskey groaned for a moment as he mulled over the issue; he hadn’t been on wall duty for a while, if only to solidify Remedy’s belief in the curative properties of granite, but to first complain about being cooped up in a hospital room and about being under constant supervision, only to completely forget the one time where he could just stretch his legs and just think about where to plan this great big project of his without someone tagging along like an over-insistent nanny . . . the actual mistiming was merely embarrassing, true, but the shame of blundering like this on such an important topic . . .
Whiskey raised a hoof to his forehead and sighed angrily.
“It’s just a drill, really. . .” Staunch said, clearly trying to relax his voice, and achieving, with great effort, the softness of sandpaper. “I could take your shift for today if you still don’t feel good,” he continued, clearly misunderstanding the reason behind Whiskey’s consternation.
“No! No, I just . . . don’t like being off. You understand, surely? Be fine for the most part, but flub the time where you’re needed. . . Yeah,” Whiskey said, glancing at the ground to hide the self-loathing that he was certain would be betrayed in his eyes, “I’ll get right to it, Captain. Sorry.” He took a few steps to the door before his path was blocked by Staunch.
“Hey, it’s not your fault Mercy got hurt. No one could’ve predicted what could’ve happened, and, by the Alicorns, Whiskey, you were stoned for that particular misadventure! Er. I mean-”
“I know what you mean, Captain.”
“And enough of that ‘Captain’ nonsense! We’ve been friends since we were colts; I’m just Staunch.”
There was a lull in conversation as Staunch glanced at the significant pile of tile-mushrooms stacked in the corners, and he stared at Whiskey for a moment, who simply shrugged.
“And how about we eat together, all of us, like the old days?”
“Half of us are gone, Staunch.”
“Just means we have to be together all the more.”
Whiskey opened his mouth to reply with something like ‘I’ve got some work to do, but maybe next time’. He had long since determined that was what he would say, if this situation should ever come up. Thus, it was to his great surprise that he instead said, “I’ll see you all after my shift.”
For a brief moment, Whiskey considered recanting his promise, but the thought swiftly withered into ash when he saw the grin on Staunch’s face.
Just like old times, eh? I really hope not; most of our little escapades ended rather poorly from what few I remember. . .
And for a moment, as Whiskey exited the rooms and walked towards the walls, a part of the mask cracked, and he smiled briefly despite himself.
***
There were just some odors that are good to have around: the gentle baked-good sweetness of cinnamon-rolls, the savory smell of spaghetti, or, to some ponies, the sharp clean smell of crushed mint. Everypony has their own preferences, of course, but there was no denying that sometimes, there’s just a rightness about a particular aroma.
For Ginger, that was, well, the rather pungent tang of freshly grated ginger. There was no real reason behind it, no subtle nuance in her life that compelled her to grind a little chunk of the plant every day to maintain optimal scent saturation; it just smelled good to her, and frankly, no pony really complained about it.
Well, no pony except Mercy. She thinks I don’t notice her tone of voice or the way she looks at my food, Ginger thought, as she calmly withdrew a bulb from her pantry. I wonder if I should break it to her that I had, instead, used Turmeric in the last dish. Her head would probably explode from that revelation; I think she actually tastes spices that aren’t there. . .
The only noise in the entire house, besides the muffled snoring of Mercy somewhere back in the guest-room, was the gentle crunching of Ginger shredding the plant. And even that ceased, as Ginger dropped the grater with a click into the sink.
I’ll have to clean this soon, won’t I? She thought, as she grimaced at the built up pile of dirty dishes. She spent a moment simply measuring the sink, before finally shaking her head and heading towards the communal watering hole, snagging a couple of buckets as she left the kitchen. She spared a glance at the backpack that was resting on the table, something of a discussion piece when Ms. Neato had visited while Mercy was off walking around town, before trotting past it blithely.
It was early, that strange time where stars begin to fade yet the sun has yet to appear. Or orange, or whatever abomination of food and nuclear fission Discord had altered the star to. He’d change it back, eventually, when he forgot whatever had made it funny in the first place, just like he had with the moon.
Probably.
One could hope.
Ginger held her breath as she saw the light begin to reach from below the horizon. Surely, today, today the sun would-
Nope. This time it was an onion, shedding sunlight in a manner only possible by preternatural means. Ginger tore her eyes away from the celestial vegetable, her eyelids watering slightly, and continued her walk to the well.
I should’ve, Ginger thought as she hooked one of the buckets to the rope and started spinning the crank, really just let Neato help me with this. Of course, it’s not really right to let visitors do chores around the house.
She tugged the first bucket free, placing it on the ground carefully so it didn’t spill. The second bucket was sent down into the darkness of the well.
And she’s kind of a slob, which means she’d probably be of no help anyway. You’d think, with a name like her’s, she’d learn the basics or something. . .
And then the second bucket was up, and it only took a few minutes for the newly ladened Ginger to trot back to her house.
Where Mercy was frantically looking through her bag.
Ginger spared her agitated sister a glance before sliding past the mumbling pony into the kitchen. She glanced once more at the pile of dishes, sighed, and started to work, carefully using the water she had so she wouldn’t have to make a second trip.
The worst part is the brush, Ginger thought as she scrubbed with the afore-thought-of instrument. I always get a crook in my neck when I use the darn thing. She dipped the brush into a bucket, swirled it around for a moment to get loose bits of food off it, and craned her neck to continue her cleaning. A few moments passed, and gradually Ginger unconsciously settled into a routine, blithely ignorant of the growing desperation in the next room over.
Until a scream of absolute rage rang through the house, and a saddle bag was hurled from the living room into the kitchen. The sack, barely in one piece after the savage assault Mercy had levied at it, hit a wall and exploded. Papers fluttered in every direction.
The effect, however, was rather spoiled when Mercy, in the process of walking into the kitchen, caught a loose bit of paper with her false leg and slipped.
“Are you alrigh-” Ginger began, but she took a surprised half-step back when she saw Mercy’s expression.
Slowly, like some terrible creature from a bygone era, Mercy arose, twitching slightly. Her eyes, bloodshot, looked on the verge of murder, and the countenance on her face was something that only a mad artist could ever hope to replicate, and even then only when particularly unhinged.
“What happened to my stuff?” Mercy seethed, her words bubbling out in a nearly incoherent mess even when she was able to force her mind to function beyond a high-pitched keening rage. “You. Your friend. My saddlebag. Where. Is. My. Stuff?”
Ginger blinked for a moment before her mind assembled the garbled noises into words, and blinked again as she stared down at Mercy’s wooden leg, which was now pressing against where Ginger’s breast met her throat. She looked up at Mercy and raised an eyebrow.
“You’re going to calm down right now, Mercy. No pony is going to hurt you . . . unless you don’t get your leg away from my throat. Then we might have some problems.”
Mercy stared at Ginger for a few moments, her eyes bleary and slightly confused as she stared first at Ginger and then at her false-leg. Then, slowly, Mercy’s eyes focused, and she retracted her wooden leg carefully, a look of shame clear on her face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“You were angry and irritated. I’ll live, so everything’s fine. You said a paper was missing? How about we both look for it?”
“I think I checked pretty thoroughly earlier . . .”
“Well, then this is nothing more than an excuse for you to help me pick up your garbage. It’ll give you a second chance to look over everything, at least.”
“But-”
“You live in my house and, even if it’s with great reluctance, eat my food. You’re helping me pick this up, now.”
***
“. . .and that, evidently, is how bats and dolphins see in the dark,” Selim finished, his arm tired after gesticulating wildly for several minutes from crudely drawn diagram to crudely drawn diagram.
Bilgames, to give him credit, was trying to look attentive. His eyes, however, had started to droop comically by the end of the lecture.
“Interesting, Selim. However. . . this . . . ‘echolocation,’ as you call it. . . why’d you bother telling me about it?” Bilgames shifted his weight in his seat slightly, with the same look of unease that always followed Selim suddenly, and enthusiastically, talking about a subject no one had any knowledge about.
“Hey, you said you wanted to know if I had any recent visions, and I told you the most recent.”
“But it’s frankly not useful at all.” Bilgames paused for a moment, then smirked as an opportunity for teasing came up. “Much like your visions as a whole, actually. . .”
“Excuse me?” Selim shot back, incredulously. “Crossbows, anatomy, trebuchets, learning how fire and lightning aren’t the same thing at all, and how people need to wash their damned hands before treating sick or injured people; you’re calling my visions useless?” By the end of his list, Selim appeared on the verge of either hyperventilating or bursting an artery.
“True, true. But what have they done for us recently?” Bilgames replied, with a barely concealed smirk.
“Oh, so now the windmill is no longer recent?” Selim paused for a moment, reading Bilgames’ expression carefully. ”. . . you’re trying to get a rise out of me, aren’t you?”
“No, no, of course not, that’d be immature and wholly unprofessional,” Bilgames’ said, with a goofy grin that was the very definition of immature.
“. . .”
“Okay, that was a barefaced lie. I can’t help that it’s fun to heckle you.”
“Was there anything you wanted, or did you come here simply to torture me?” Selim asked, sighing.
“Well then, straight to business then. I need you to take care of two things for me; firstly, bury some magical artifacts-” Bilgames started, before being cut off by Selim.
“They’re reactive, aren’t they?”
“Most of them are simply stone, brother. I mean, one is most certainly reactive-” Bilgames tried, again, before the inevitable interruption.
“You’re going to be the death of me one day, you realize that?” Selim interjected. He breathed deeply to continue on his tangent, before, Bilgames, looking slightly worn, cut him off.
“Shut up and let me finish. I want these things buried as far away from here as you can comfortably wander. The second thing is that I want you to look at another artifact Uruk got us, a tunic, and see if you can fine-tune the magical effect.”
“Wait. You want me. . .” he paused to let Bilgames speak.
“Yes?”
“The fire and lightning thrower of the family. . .” again, there was a pause from Selim.
Bilgames’ expression of irritation was nearly priceless to Selim, and the younger brother grinned when, yet again, he spotted it on Bilgames’ face. “Look, Selim, just spit it out if you want to say something.”
“Fine, fine. You want me to try and fine-tune something Uruk made? I’m relatively certain, just from what I’ve heard thus far from this batch, that if I so much as sneeze at it, this magic tunic of yours will catch on fire. And I’m not exactly that good at controlling what I do. . .” Selim gestured for a moment, before continuing with, “I basically do lightning, fire, and moving things. I’m not so hot on the actual magic bit; best I can do is warp already existent fields, but even then, a hard push does mostly the same thing . . . albeit not to the extent I can do it, but still. I’d probably destroy this garment of yours.”
“Luckily, it’s resistant to most types of harm; it stitches itself back together.”
“Oh.” Selim gave it some thought, before asking, “Is that the primary effect?”
“Absolutely not.”
Selim rested his chin on his hand for a moment, looking contemplative. Finally, after roughly ten seconds of silence, he spoke.
“Ah, the primary effect must be where it launches a pair of hidden blades into my eyes.”
“Quit your whining.”
“I can’t help but notice you didn’t refute my point.”
“Just trust me, Selim. I’m not going to put you in a situation you can’t get out of. Worst case scenario, I’ll probably get as hurt as you.”
There was a moment of silence as both brothers thought about that particular statement. Both came to the same conclusion; it utterly failed to be reassuring.
“Frankly, Bill, that’s not exactly how I want to die.”
“And here I thought you were such a death seeker,” Bilgames said, sarcastically.
“Well, there’s a hell of a lot better ways to go then ‘die next to dying family member’.”
“True enough.”
“As a matter of fact, I can think of one right now. It’s called ‘old age.’”
“Look, if you sincerely don’t want to help, you don’t have to. But I’d appreciate it if you did.”
“. . . fine. Any order you want this done with? I mean, I personally would love to go for a walk, seeing as how I should’ve been discharged about a week ago. . .”
“Well then, first take care of the reactive artifacts. Gods forsaken things might kill us all if we don’t dispose of them soon. . .”
“Delightful. And then the tunic?”
“And then the tunic.”
***
Neato.
Mercy didn’t recollect that name from her childhood; they must’ve been a new family that moved in, after she joined the military.
Strange. If one were going to become a thief or a spy, there would have to be better locations to go than a backwoods little village like this one, she thought as she advanced upon the house carefully. This logically doesn’t make any sense. Though . . . I can’t say I expect much in the manner of brains from a pony like this; left a trail a mile wide, to say the least.
Still, a degree of prudence had been trained into Mercy; discretion was the better part of valor, in these situations, and if her lack of haste were any indication, she didn’t envy the idea of dealing with a cornered and desperate traitor.
For a brief moment, she pondered aloud, “Why don’t I grab a couple of others? Storm this place in force?”
And just as quickly, she shook her head.
Might be others in town, and even if there aren’t other traitors, I don’t really enjoy the potential for frontier justice, she thought as she crept closer to the ramshackle building. And who knows? This might be a simple, funny mistake.
A simply, funny mistake where somepony decided to rifle through my bag and procured a, in all likelihood, incredibly vital document, before fleeing the scene of the crime back to his or her house. Yeah, something tells me that’s not the case.
A moment passed before she made a slight addendum to her thoughts.
Assuming I didn’t just forget the dratted letter somehow back at the hospital. That’d be really embarrassing.
She paused before the doors, and hesitantly raised a hoof to knock, the ‘Crack Pot Incident’, as it was to be remembered for the rest of her life, still fresh in her mind. Finally, with more reluctance than was typical, she rapped the door sharply three times and waited for a reply.
It came in to the form of whooping hacks and coughs.
Mercy waited a few seconds for the noise to subside, and then several more when it didn’t.
“. . . Hello?” said a Stallion’s voice from within, as scratchily as sandpaper. “I really can’t get up right now to answer the door. Sorry.”
“Oh. Uh, is Neato home? Or did I get the wrong house?”
“Neato? You mean . . .” it took him a moment to regain his voice after this particular bout of hacking, “you mean Incog? Yeah, no, she’s not here right now; I think she’s out . . . doing something. I . . . dunno what, really.”
“Damn,” Mercy muttered under her breath. Then her brow furrowed in confusion.
“Who are you, then?”
“Cobbler, her brother. She’s visiting me cause I got Pneum-”
Both his own illness and Mercy interrupted him.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“Dunno.”
“Alright, thanks for your cooperation. I’m sure you’ll get better soon.”
Mercy shook her head sadly as she departed.
What sort of luck is that? Well. . . if she’s around because her brother is ill, she’s probably not going to be around for much longer; maybe for the funeral, but otherwise . . . I almost feel sorry for her . . .
And then the righteous surge of anger returned . . .
. . . if she hadn’t stolen my stuff! When I get my hooves on her . . .
. . . only to swiftly depart.
. . . I probably don’t know what I’ll do with her. I don’t really know anything about this, do I? Spying for either the Chancellor, the Unicorn Princess, or even the Pegasi Commander isn’t exactly traitorous behavior; sneaky, spy-like, and definitely uncaring, yes, but not really traitorous . . .
How’d I get embroiled in all this, anyway?
She shook her head for a moment, and considered her options.
One, I can assume the best case scenario and go on my merry way. Unacceptable, that’s a terrible idea. Two, I could assume the worst, wait for her, and be incapable of stopping whatever she’s going to do while definitely stopping her. Unacceptable; can’t leave my friends in a lurch like that. Three, I could try and get Crack Pot to . . . okay, I’m not even going to finish that thought, because it’s already unacceptable. Finally, I think, I could probably get back to the fort in time if I started going now; plus, I can probably get Ginger to stick around and watch over this . . . Neato.
Almost imperceptibly, Mercy nodded to herself, before heading back to Ginger’s house.
There was a lot of packing to do, after all.
***
And this goes there, but turned perpendicular to this . . . Whiskey thought to himself, arranging a series of differently hued (and hewed) rocks into a haphazard circle, a series of symbols dug into the earth being his only indication of where to place each stone.
Wait. Eclipse’s Second Law of Thaumological Progression means . . . ah, Tartarus. It’s backwards!
Needless to say, it wasn’t going as smoothly as he would’ve preferred.
“I wish complex magic like this didn’t need so many prerequisites,” he grumbled angrily, his horn glowing again and rearranging the stones yet again into a marginally more correct set.
Of course, it really doesn’t. But even with a few associates, this is amongst the highest level sort of magic imaginable. And I don’t think, even if we had the luxury of a hundred Unicorns, we’d have enough energy to simply power through the spell, murmured a quiet yet logical voice in the back of his head. And, worst of all, we’ve only got one chance to get this right; I am loath to think about what Discord would do if he were to find out what we are doing . . .
He couldn’t help it, once he thought that. A moment was spent speculating.
Then several more, as beads of cold sweat formed on his back.
It doesn’t bear thinking about, he thought to himself, in an attempt to banish the thoughts back into nothingness. He won’t find out, and even if he does register anything out of the ordinary, well, there’s a good reason I’m getting set up so near to Everfree . . .
Does he even know what ‘ordinary’ even is? Ah, cease with the tangential thinking, you just etched Flitters’ Sub-Infinite Equation of Exponential Magic rather than her Theorem of Linear Decline. Focus before you make a mistake you won’t live to regret.
Finally, hours later, he collapsed against one of the larger stones, his breathing heavy yet clearly tinged with a significant amount of elation. In turn, Whiskey’s eyes flicked from boulders to rocks to stones that bordered on being pebbles, carefully judging the size and color of each as well as the symbols that had been carved into them.
That should help with the channeling, he thought to himself, as he busily gulped in air like a dying fish. I’ll need to maintain it, make sure pieces don’t get broken or lost, but that should be most of the heavy lifting out of the way.
Slowly, irresistibly, Whiskey felt drowsiness tug at his eyelids, and his lips twitched upwards for a moment as he thought, Yes. Enough for today; I’ll just take a quick nap, and I’ll just kip over to the fort before anyone notices I’m gone . . .
I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a part of something bigger than yourself? Goodness . . . I hope they’re willing to look past our issues. I mean, they should be able to; I just can’t . . . really comprehend the idea that Alicorns could possibly have ill will towards us. I mean, they made us, didn’t they . . .?
Whiskey’s surprisingly restful sleep was filled with winged Unicorns, and it would be with a start he’d wake up, hours later, quite late for Wall duty. . .
***
“Damnable trinkets,” Selim grunted, shrugging his load, a ladened backpack, as he advanced further into the forest. There’s always one in particular, Selim thought to himself, which always, always, digs into my back. . .
A few more moments were spent cheerlessly shifting his burden in a fruitless attempt to somehow rearrange the contents enough where the unknown spiny object in question would cease to irritate him.
Finally, with a sigh, he stopped in his trek, took off the bag, reached inside, and withdrew the only non-stone amulet. He spent a few minutes simply staring at it, watching the light reflect off the ruby segments, before carelessly chucking it behind himself and continuing onwards, now significantly more cheerful considering a chunk of metal and crystal was no longer stabbing him with every step.
It likely won’t matter that much in the grand scale of things, anyway, Selim figured, as he tremblingly pushed aside a curtain of brambles and ivy from a cave entrance with his gauntlet. Gods, I wish I could stop the twitching when I manipulate that hand . . .
It was, however, but a passing thought, and he slowly trudged down into the cave proper, towards the crystalline tree deep within.
I wish I knew how this thing formed in the first place . . . it’s not using . . . photography? No, no, the word was . . . photosynthesis? Something like that. There’s no sunlight in this place, so it clearly uses something else for energy. Maybe it eats magic? It doesn’t feel that way, though; if anything, magic is . . . richer, here. Still, it might be leeching off the magic objects I’ve been burying here; damned tree used to be made out of wood, and since Ol’ Coup himself would probably have some issues trying to find this place, I don’t think he could’ve made this thing the way it is now . . .
The bag was tossed to the earth, where it flattened into almost pancake-like dimensions silently. Selim, not noticing this, took a hand-spade from his belt and dug for perhaps ten minutes before nodding with satisfaction at the hole.
It was only as he poked through the clearly empty bag that doubt and fear percolated in his mind, and as he frantically searched throughout the entire chamber an icy sweat formed on his spine.
“Okay, okay, this isn’t too bad,” Selim muttered to himself, as he slowly patted down the backpack. “Basically still got the same job done. Yeah. Yeah, let’s . . . let’s just go with that. Magical items are gone, so it all works out.”
He thought about the implications for a moment, and whimpered softly as he realized what this job’s completion entailed.
“I don’t want to start messing with that tunic . . .”
He turned away from the tree, breathing heavily from both guilt and fear, utterly failing to notice in his haste to depart, hanging from the branches like ripe fruit, ornate crystals in the shape of the granite stones . . .