//------------------------------// // Chapter 8 // Story: Of The Last Millennium // by BlndDog //------------------------------// Chapter 8 Her teeth chattered incessantly; they were probably half their original length by now. The pungent odour of rotting wood and flesh and swamp gas numbed her sinuses and mouth all the way down her throat. Her voice, in the few times she did speak, came out raspy and low, and seemed to go straight into her own ears to be warped and fragmented before getting lost in the next thunderclap. She lay in her dripping alcove, looking not unlike a tired old dog. Her half-lidded eyes peered out-of-focus into a shifting brown world. For two days the foul rain fell. Sometimes it came down in sheets, sometimes mixed with jagged hailstones, but it never stopped. Her whole body itched, and whenever she scratched a mass of hair would come off on her hooves; at this rate she would be completely bare in another two days. Something big hit the leaky roof with a sickening wet crack, but Scootaloo didn’t get up. Just another frog, probably. Morning Rain had made it all the way to the end of the gorge before he collapsed, blood and mucus pouring out of both nostrils. By then the storm clouds were already building up in the north, looking like great blotches of blood in the dying light. He was hot to the touch, but his coat was completely dry. Scootaloo built the first shelter on top of him, plucking his wings to seal up the holes left by the knotty, dry twigs that were the only building materials in the arid southern waste. Her own shed was assembled with more care but fewer feathers, and protected her only from the falling debris, but even that was preferable to sharing with… The mangled remains of a rat, recognizable only by a bit of tail, plopped down in front of her, splashing her face with putrid water and old blood. Scootaloo blew a raspberry to clear her lips, and shuffled back an inch in hopes of escaping the downpour. Some time ago, when there was a short lull, the filly had ventured out from her hiding place. The air was saturated with the stench of decay, but she could see the edge of the storm in the north. A sickly green ribbon wove through the sky, disappearing beyond the rim of the distant canyon. It was as if a floating river had opened up, draining the stagnant contents of the Clydesdale Bog onto the parched red desert. The little creek of the Gorge had gone subterranean miles and miles ago, and Scootaloo had been thirsty enough then to stomach mouthful after mouthful of the puddles around her. Her innards were tight knots; once again she fell on her side, writing and moaning. The vegetation in the area was equal parts unappetizing and disturbing. The water had softened the ancient black bark of long-dead trees, peeling them back in stringy strips to expose cores of dense, white wood. Scootaloo tried a few chunks, but they were so tough and foul-tasting that she might as well have been chewing the soles of her (brother’s) boots. The last she saw of him, Morning Rain had not moved a muscle. His legs had swelled to almost twice their usual size and large bald patches punctuated his waterlogged coat. His open mouth caught whatever water dripped from the sill of his roof; such a stench wafted from his shelter that Scootaloo stayed a metre back the whole time. He was still alive at that point; his chest rose and fell quickly, each breath so deep that his clearly-visible ribcage threatened to tear through his skin. A weak shriek of pure terror, coming through the pit-pat of the storm as if from a great distance reminded her that the colt was still there. Serves you right. While Rain slept without waking, Scootaloo once again found herself keeping an involuntary vigil. With each clap of thunder she heard the ghost of a brutal lament. The wind that made the roof creak over her head had a pulse, as if great wings were fanning the desert-turned-swamp. In every flash of lightning she saw shadows on the land: the profile of a beaked head; the tips of a hundred pinions; a pair of four-toed feet big enough to lift mountains. Whenever her eyes drooped a louder boom roused her. The shaking of the earth did nothing to ease the cramps in her stomach. Day was night, and night was total blackness. At times Scootaloo thought that she was asleep, but the dampness never left her for a second. The angry sounds of the storm burrowed deep into her mind, so that she perceived in them terrible curses and threats spoken in an ancient tongue. Another flash, and it appeared. Six pairs of lidless black eyes in a bloody skull, each one clear as crystal. Bits of fur and muscle dangled off the bone of the muzzle. Jaws full of jagged saber teeth so long that the mouth could never close. A black neck, this at least looking healthy. The rest of it was just a bleached skeleton, completely clean to the tip of its pointy tail. The thing stood taller than Princess Celestia, and paced with a supple, silent grace. Boom! The front half of a blue pegasus colt was draped across its spine; one of his wings had been completely torn off, and blood poured continuously from his mouth. Scootaloo turned her head, afraid as always to let it out of her sight. Like all the other times it circled her with the steadiness of a clock, never getting any closer. Over many hours the ring of blood deposited in its wake would grow thicker and darker, unaffected by the downpour until the apparition disappeared. Water rippled and sand crunched under its ivory hooves. Scootaloo bit down on her tongue. It hurt. The rain seemed to be dying down. The monster had somehow acquired another companion: a purple pegasus with a short white mane and a somewhat chubby build. His wings were stripped down to the bones, and he appeared to be clinging on with his exposed ribs. A third figure was taking shape as the thing passed in front of her for the third time. It tilted its head slightly in her direction, and its three right eyes jumped in their sockets to meet the filly’s gaze. A hairless, dark body with blood and pus running from its pores; bare, decaying wings; legs bloated to many times their normal size; liquefied innards sloshing around like a nightmarish balloon… The hands of the little clock sitting to her right spun like a top. Hours. Days. Months. Eternity passed her by in blinks. Her shelter blew away in a gust, leaving her completely exposed to the rain that fell and fell and fell. The creature and its wretched riders moaned and screamed, weeping with the sky. Scootaloo screamed. Scootaloo whimpered. The circle was diffusing quickly. She watched as the stain turned from black to red to pink before fading to mud in the puddles, and kept watching until she could convince herself that it had never been there at all. Nothing stirred beyond the dripping edge of her roof. Her clock was gone. I don’t have a clock. But she was no longer lying on her side, either. The downpour had slowed to a drizzle. With a grunt Scootaloo pulled herself out of her alcove, her bowels roaring in protest. She circled around the front of Morning Rain’s shelter, staying even further back than before. The smell had grown worse; the filly gagged violently, for once thankful for her empty stomach. The colt’s legs were swollen to magnificent proportions. His neck was stretched out towards the exit, as if he too perceived the stench and wanted to get away. His mouth was opened wide, and the rapid rising and falling of his chest told of just how little air was getting through. The worst were his eyes. Glazed-over, half-lidded and out of focus, they silently begged the desert for mercy. It was too bad he couldn’t look skywards. The scent of the water seemed reasonable after that. Though she kept her mouth shut, drops did flow into her nostril and down her throat, depositing their stench which rose into her mouth and settled on the tip of her tongue. Over time the “rain” had become muddier; Scootaloo only hoped that the bird would leave once she drained the swamp. Lightning flashed, followed immediately by thunder. When the filly opened her eyes again there was a smouldering patch of parched grey earth not twenty metres to her right. All around her trails of crimson traced the subtle grooves of the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, something was moving. Clenching her teeth and narrowing her eyes, Scootaloo turned. “Muh… UH! UH! NNNNNAH!” Her sad little shacks looked like piles of wood in a fire pit. The colt’s screaming soon died down, and though she stood long after that as if rooted in place... There’s nothing out here. Nothing. The murky brown water flowed around her hooves, wicking into the remnants of her (brother’s) boots… Why am I still wearing these? She forced herself to walk, keeping her eyes on the ground. The storm had picked up everything from the bog; leeches and worms squirmed along aimlessly, dead rats and frogs and bits of shattered turtles littered her path, but there were other things too: pale roots and tubers punctuated the filth like little nuggets of gold, and she even found chunks of bushes with little muddy leaves that were leaves nonetheless. Scootaloo scooped up the tiny bulbs; their sweetness was just enough to mask the water and grit. She didn’t care what they were exactly; a few were astringent and bland, and she must have eaten more than one maggot, but it felt good to be eating something again. For a while she just walked and chewed, her back slowly growing numb from the freezing downpour, until a cascade of thunder reminded her of her place. The world around her was brighter than day as brilliant white bolts split the sky again and again. Scootaloo stared in amazement at the point in the sky where they all originated, her gaping, root mash-filled mouth catching a few drops of filthy rain. All she could see was its (her) majestic silhouette, black on a white featureless background. Despite the growing intensity of the downpour Scootaloo sat down on the wet ground and closed her eyes. It felt as if they’d shriveled in their sockets. She chewed slowly, feeling the lump moving around her mouth before it slid down her throat. The rain turned to mud. The drops stung her nose, sending tiny sharp flecks bouncing against her eyelids and forehead. When she dared to look, Scootaloo could barely see anything through the shifting brown haze. Through flash-blinded eyes her own hooves looked like dark green blobs; lumpy shapes were circling lazily like big fish in a small pond. With squinted eyes Scootaloo retraced her steps, dragging along any vegetation she happened to stumble across. Stringy stems and roots wrapped around her legs like snares, all their delicate-looking fibers feeling like well-made cord. They crept up past her (brother’s) boots, weaving into her matted coat. The slimy, grit-filled drops built up on her back, coating her wings with a layer of earth that was soon felt in her knees. Her mane sagged with the added weight, and by the time she found the camp again her scalp ached as if her hair was being ripped out by the roots. She’ll bury me alive! Her shack was only a stone’s throw away, piled twice as high as before from the downpour of dirt. She dared not stoop even a little, for the buildup on her back was heavy enough now to crush her. Taking one last deep breath, Scootaloo pounced for the nearer shelter, fumbling over a sickeningly-warm body and barely avoiding the filth in what little space remained under the feather-lined roof. She turned around, stepping on her brother as if he was just a hideous, squishy rug. The wood overhead groaned as sludge continued to build up; big black blobs fell from the sides of the roof, making wet squelches as they hit the ground. The world outside had turned pitch black; even lightning could not penetrate opaque sheets of earth. Scootaloo flopped down on the wet, squishy ground, not caring what might be beneath her. She felt as if the entire bottom of Clydesdale Bog had been dredged up and piled on her back. There was no room in the shelter for her to shake dry, not that she was strong enough to attempt it. Scootaloo waited in the darkness, her cold wet shell sapping away all her body heat. For a while she tried resting her head on her brother’s back to take advantage of his fever, but the feeling of his bloated flesh and heaving ribs coupled with the smell made that arrangement unbearable. Finally, when the roof settled down and claustrophobic brown light began to filter through, when the entrance was all but sealed and thunder was heard again, Scootaloo started grooming. The chunks in her mane didn’t come off easily; she would have left them alone, had her neck been strong enough to lift that slimy crown. In the end her mane was more brown than purple, and itched worse than ever. With all her strength she extended her wings, breaking the thick carapace into two halves that fell away with a little bit of shuffling. These pieces felt like giant slugs as they slipped down her sides. The stuff around her forelimbs was held together by a mess of stems and roots. Scootaloo bashed her hooves against the ground to loosen some of the pieces, and then tore into the fibrous mass with her teeth… Bitterness as she’d never tasted before made her jaws fall limp. Quickly coming to her senses, Scootaloo spat and scraped her tongue on her teeth, clearing her throat too in case some of the juices managed to diffuse that far. Minutes passed, and at last the filly let out a sigh of relief. She didn’t feel dizzy or numb; no more than she did before, anyways. With shaking hooves she traced the stems that were wrapped around her ankles, but she only distinguish the coarsest of features through the thick soles of the boots. Monk’s Hood? It had to be. Scootaloo struggled to recall Zecora’s lessons, but images from hikes with her father filled her mind instead. “One leaf can kill you. These leaves are easy to recognize, and this root doesn’t look too appetizing, right? You’ll also know by a taste test; I’ve heard that it’s the bitterest thing you can expect to find north of San Palomino, so it’s a lot worse than black coffee. It’s real easy to tell by the flowers; this early in the season, if you want to eat anything just run it by me, okay?” She managed to pull the loop of vegetation off her left front leg, and held it firmly beneath her right. A thought was forming in her mind; a passing notion that clung to her brain like mud to her body, recruiting her misery and fear and even… Morning Rain kicked forwards with a groan, nearly diving into the mud piled up against the entrance. Scootaloo could feel the patches of bare, flaky skin on his side. She stroked the rough ring beneath her hoof. Rubbing her muzzle against it, she thought she could feel a five-lobed leaf in that fibrous mess. The colt exhaled slowly; it sounded to her like he was blowing through a straw. Three black eyes peered through the little slit to the outside world. Scootaloo shoved the ring through that slit, expanding the opening. The thing retreated just in time to avoid a faceful of poison. “You eat it!” She yelled. The words felt right in her throat, but she heard nothing. “Do your worst you… whatever you are! I’m not afraid of you!” With gritted teeth the filly stuck her head out, her eyes narrowed against the grit in the air. The ground was raised a foot and a half from its initial level, and the roof was completely immovable. The lean-to had turned into a burrow. There were no puddles now; just a dark mess as far as the eye could see. Scootaloo drove her hoof into mud, grinding the poisonous coil until she was sure that she’d never see it again. Then she put her weight into her front hooves and pushed with all her strength. The entrance widened by about an inch. She tried to lift herself to ground level, but the opening wasn’t big enough to accommodate her shoulders. The filly kicked and heaved, straining her neck skywards and sucking in her ribs, but she couldn’t get out. The mud wasn’t runny anymore. Soon it would be sturdy as a brick wall. When she dropped back into the shelter, she was met with three inches of water around her ankles. Her brother was submerged to the top of his head and blowing bubbles through his nose. Scootaloo hesitated before she dragged him roughly to the opening, wedging his neck between the ground and the roof. His legs flopped uselessly in a sick parody of standing. Resting her forelegs one on top of the other, she managed to keep her muzzle above the growing water line. Tears, sweat, water… who even cares anymore? The worst pins and needles coursed through her limbs, completely immobilizing her. The water reached her chin. The roof cracked. A gust of dry, fresh air surrounded her. Scootaloo gasped, and tasted the sterility of Ghastly Gorge. “Scootaloo, are you okay?” Is that… A cold shoed hoof slid under her belly, and all the pain there went away. She kept her eyes closed as she was lifted out of the water. “Scootaloo, please talk to me.” She thought she knew the voice, but even her exhausted mind knew that that was just impossible. Scootaloo felt another body beside her, this one warm and well-groomed and smelling faintly of not-quite-vanilla. “Pr… Prin…” Her teeth began to chatter the moment she relaxed her jaw, prompting the sweet-smelling mare to hold her even tighter. “It’s okay. Just rest for a bit.” She did as she was told, shivering despite the warmth that now surrounded her. With deep breaths she filled her lungs with clean air, trying to forget the reeking trench from whence she had been rescued. “Princess Luna,” she mumbled, finally opening her eyes. “You…” The dark blue mare seemed even bigger than usual. The white of her eyes glowed against a backdrop of tiny glittering crystals. Her brows were furrowed, but not in disappointment. “I’m sorry,” she said, setting the filly down on a patch of dry clay. She kept her magnificent wings hovering at her side radiating pleasant warmth. Scootaloo looked to her right, at the hole that was filled with black water glistening in starlight. Past its far rim she stared across a perfectly flat landscape. “I can’t get to you,” Luna said, her voice almost cracking. “I don’t really know where you are, and…” “What do you mean you can’t get to me?” Scootaloo snapped, hopping to her feet. Her legs didn’t hurt anymore, and puffs of dust rose from her dry, crusty coat. The alicorn before her rippled like a reflection in a pond. Her jaw fell open. Scootaloo felt angry tears welling in her eyes. Her closed eyes. “This is the best you can do?” She screamed. “You’re a princess! You can fly! You can teleport! You can… I don’t even know what else you can do! And now you’re telling me that you can’t get from Canterlot to Ghastly Gorge? Even I can do that! I DID DO IT!” A silver-shoed hoof came to rest on her shoulder. Scootaloo glared at the princess, wiping her chin intermittently. Her hoof always came away dry. “I just don’t know where you are,” Luna said, more gently than Scootaloo thought possible. “I don’t have any excuses, I know. I’ve failed you and Rain both. I’m sorry for that, Scootaloo, but I’m here now.” “You could have been here days ago! Where were you when we were still in the Everfree Forest? Where were you last night? You could have said something…” The filly was cut short by a fit of coughing. “Listen to me, Scootaloo.” The tenderness in her voice wasn’t completely gone, but her urgent undertone convinced the filly not to argue. “You have to leave. I know you’re near the edge of the San Palomino Desert. I can’t get into your brother’s dream, so I can only assume that he is not well. It might be days before anypony can reach you, and I know that you won’t last that long.” “Oh, I can last longer than that,” Scootaloo growled, feeling rather winded. “You’re not worried about me, you’re worried about Morning Rain! He’s… he’s your daughter’s son, so he’s your grandson I guess. Well, he’s not my brother anymore! He's not my problem anymore! He’s just a winey foal who doesn’t care about anypony but himself! He dragged me into this mess, and he’s going to pay for it!” “That is up to you to decide,” Luna said. “I can’t demand anything of you, Scootaloo; you’ve done more than enough. I know this past week has been difficult for you, and the next hours will be worse still. But if you are to survive, you will have to get going now. Find the railroad. That’s your only hope.” The princess’s eyes shone brilliant white, drowning out the dreamscape. Scootaloo sat bolt up, coughing and gagging. Her whole body was submerged in the icy pool. Residual warmth from the dream faded quickly, and already pain was returning to her legs. She expelled a few more drops from her lungs, and stood to her full height to look through the opening at the dreadful world outside. The rain seemed to be clear again; just a gentle drizzle compared to earlier. Morning Rain was still wedged in the exit. He was alive at least, and the rain on his face seemed to have helped with his fever. Scootaloo yanked him out by one ear and unceremoniously dropped him into the puddle, her only concern being to keep his nose above the water line. Then she began digging, pushing down on chunks mud. It was slow work, and more than once she felt her hooves splintering. With sweat on her brow and a parched tongue the filly emerged, soaked to the bone and trembling. Get up. Get up. Her own lean-to had collapsed from the weight of the mud, leaving only a triangular hole just big enough for one of her hooves. She reached in, probing as far as her tense muscles would allow. There was no airspace beneath that roof, only water. She could feel something tickling her leg like a sprig of some water plant, and a thinner, stiffer string as well… The waterlogged package came through the opening with a pop. Scootaloo tore through the remnants of her cape and searched the dripping coil for the tip of the cord. Finding it at last, she quickly unwound the whole spool. There wasn’t much left after building the rafts and lean-tos, but she thought it would be enough. Enough for what? The knife hurt her teeth, and the taste of the bog had soaked into its unvarnished wooden handle. The first section was as long as her body. Scootaloo held one end under a hind leg while she twisted the other, coiling it to a more useful gauge. Useful for what? Lightning flashed. Six eyes scrutinized her every move. When she finished, the filly stuck the blade into the ground with a twist of her head that left her dazed. Still not satisfied she put her entire weight into the hilt, driving it down like a stubborn pike. With three loosely-twisted ropes hanging across her neck Scootaloo returned to the unconscious colt. The sky lit up, and she caught a glimpse of the cliffs that marked the abrupt end of the gorge. That’s north… sort of. Where is the railroad? She stood at the entrance of the dark burrow facing south, waiting for another lightning strike. Her eyes still ached from the last one. Boom! The desert was flat right to the black horizon, interrupted only by a shadowy blotch. The shape looked like a tiny canker on the land, wavering at the edge of focus. Scootaloo squinted in its direction, pressing her ears flat against her head and clenching her teeth together in a vain attempt to ignore the cold. Boom! For an infinitesimally short moment she saw it clear as day. Stout buildings made of hastily-cleaned logs; bright yellow windows that glistened like stars; carriages tall and proud parked out front, retired for the night. She could almost read the clock that loomed above all this, it looking no bigger than a pocket watch. No railroad. Just that. Darkness swallowed the apparition once more, but she had its bearing. Scootaloo now turned to face her last problem. Despite all her talking, it still was very much her problem. Nothing stirred in the burrow. Scootaloo went in rump-first, landing in a pool that came up to her withers. Morning Rain was sputtering like a dry well, his gaping mouth taking in water and air together. Getting him off the squishy ground wasn’t easy, and as she rose to full height buoyancy helped her less and less. With another pony on her back, Scootaloo was slowly sinking into the sludge. “Wake up!” She yelled, but as before no sound seemed to escape her mouth. “Wake up, you big cow patty! You… You…” Freeing her hooves sapped her strength. She wanted nothing more than to sleep, but that meant choosing between a putrid pool and the icy downpour. Or that town. Definitely the town. She got to work making a harness from the ropes. Rain’s limbs felt spongy to the touch; she didn’t know how tight was too tight, nor did she care. With the long rope she strung his front and rear legs together before struggling out of the den with the free end between her teeth. The rough cords chafed like a coil of razor blades across her chest. At first it felt like pulling against a brick wall. She scrambled against the slippery mud, her head straining this way and that. Her hooves felt like they’d simply fallen off. Inch by inch she pulled, until the load disappeared all at once. Scootaloo got up immediately and struggled with the rope around her chest. Boom! With threadbare wings splayed at unnatural angles, lying on his side in the middle of a giant puddle, Morning Rain looked like something a cat spat out. He coughed weakly, draining the water from his lungs in small spurts. Big patches of his coat had fallen out, including the part bearing his cutie mark, and the skin beneath was bumpy and loose. She forced his wings closed and tied him onto her back using the long rope. Then, with a silent roar, she stood up. Her knees locked and nearly snapped the other way, but she didn’t fall. His loose flesh moulding to her back, and even it was warm no longer. Boom! There it was; so far away now, but perhaps within reach. She lifted one hoof and advanced it. One inch down. Angry screeches accompanied the thunder, and the raindrops that pattered against the back of her ears gave her a splitting headache. At first she roared right back, but little ponies didn’t have much of a roar. Her jaws soon fell slack, and she struggled to breathe under her sickening load. With each of his breaths Morning Rain’s ribs slid along her back. Scootaloo wanted to vomit, but all that came out was thick mucus that gradually crept up her throat and soon coated her mouth. Boom! Out of the corner of her eye she saw the slimy crimson face again. It exhaled through the hole that was its nose, shrouding her face with cold vapour. Scootaloo didn’t even give it a sidewise glance. You can breathe on me. I’m so scared. Boom! Something was rising out of the mud to her left. Something shiny and red caught the light before the world disappeared again. Boom! A fuzzy grey ball jumped up before her. Huge, glistening, innocent eyes met hers. Its little beak was open just a crack, as if it was about to speak. With rapid, staggering steps it matched her pace, always on the verge of asking the question. Boom! The top of its head was caved in, but the expression remained. Hissssss… Her lungs inflated until her ribs cracked, but she couldn’t get enough air. Her legs moved automatically; she begged them to stop. Her ankles rolled on every other step, but instead of falling she seemed to pick up speed. For a while she screamed, or tried to scream. Tears barely left her eyes before they were diluted a thousand times, returning to her mouth sour and astringent. The riders had dismounted. Torsos bearing faces and colours all too familiar crawled along the slimy ground, their eyes or empty sockets never leaving her. And the lightning! Great bolts pierced her head, turning her world white. Only a pegasus could survive those strikes, but oh how it hurt! Her bones clicked, every muscles in her body grew stiff, and water exploded off her coat. If her heart happened to be at mid-beat, Scootaloo felt like her chest would explode. Sometimes she was struck by a long barrage, and sometimes she would wander with her wretched companions for an eternity uninterrupted. Past exhaustion, the world seemed to grow brighter around her. She was heading for a bright fuzzy circle far off in the distance. If she could just reach it everything would be okay again. She blinked, and was suddenly surrounded by giants. Their sharp, broad hats rose into a yellow sky, and they had many big, vacant eyes. Their faces were made of countless tightly-pursed lips stacked one on top of another, all of them determined not to speak. Help me! Help me! Help me! “Help me.” “HELP! HELP!” Her sobs made breathing impossible. Her legs still moved of their own accord. The storm sounded tamer now; almost rhythmic. Eyvgocha. Sumponygethedoc. Her hooves left the ground and continued to kick against thin air. With the last of her strength Scootaloo giggled at the ridiculous sounds that now surrounded her. The giants had her firm in their claws. But boy did they talk funny. # The blanket was so soft and warm, and she had no strength to move. Scootaloo smiled and burrowed deeper under the covers. # At first all she could see was a greyish-white haze. Her coat felt fluffy and powdered, smelling of iodine with a hint of lavender. Her chest ached from every breath, but the softness of the bed beneath her was more than enough to compensate. Her right cheek was pressed against the pillow, and both her nostrils were completely plugged. There was a big rounded thing not far from her, pale yellow as far as she could tell. Scootaloo tried to raise her head, and immediately fell back with a soft moan. The thing moved; it had a hint of pinkish-red at one end. Those shapes looked so familiar… “Sh… It’s okay. You’re safe now.” Something touched her shoulder. It wasn’t exactly pain that she felt, but the sensation was unpleasant nonetheless. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Her haunches were sore down to the bone. Tight, stiff cloth covered her limbs, and there was some kind of shell encasing her torso as well. It was all strangely comfortable. “Affa Bwoom?” Her face felt numb and swollen; she could barely close her mouth. Her thoughts were slow as molasses, if a handful of vague notions qualified as thoughts at all. “You’re safe here, hun. Your brother’s doing just fine too.” Scootaloo blinked a few times, trying to fix her vision. It sort of worked; the speaker she now saw was a pale orange mare with a red mane and a nurse’s cap. Indistinct grey drawings punctuated the whitewashed walls behind her. Scootaloo lifted her head ever so slightly, and was immediately struck with a wave of nausea that made her grimace. “Take it easy,” the nurse said, resting her hoof on one of her patient’s. “You were in pretty rough shape; we had to give you adult doses of a few things earlier.” That voice was music to her ears. Even as she drove her head into the pillow something resembling a smile took over her anesthetized face. Scootaloo giggled, and that quickly became a guffaw. She could feel the nurse trying to hold her down as her body flopped around, each movement sending a tremendous flash of pain like an arrow from the tip of her tail right through the top of her skull. I did it. I did it. I DID IT! When the laughter finally died out two large bodies were weighing her down. Being closer to her head, the nurse heard her whimper and back away first. Apparently noticing her departure, the second one got off her hind legs and dusted himself off. “Good afternoon, Scootaloo,” he greeted, stepping into the filly’s tear-blurred field of view. “My name’s Braeburn. Welcome to Appleloosa.” He was obviously an Apple, as was the nurse. The stallion wore a stiff brown vest and a sincere smile, and Scootaloo couldn’t help but smile back. “How you know my name?” She croaked with the last bit of air left in her lungs. “Are you kiddin’? You n’ yer brother’ve been missin’ fer a week now. Everypony from here to Manehattan knows who you are. Jus’ didn’t ‘spect you ta turn up in this town of all places!” “Braeburn!” The nurse hissed. “Not so loud! You’re scaring her.” “Nah, she’s a tough one. Aren’t you, Scootaloo? Carryin’ yer own brother through a storm like that, and in the dark too! That medal they give you in Ponyville better be big n’ shiny, otherwise you’d better come back here for a proper one.” “Braeburn, please,” the mare pleaded as the bedridden filly continued to stare blankly. “She needs to rest.” “Why, she’s been restin’ since five this mornin’…” With one final shove Braeburn’s tail disappeared into the hallway. The nurse zipped back into the room and slammed the door. “Sorry about that,” she sighed, brushing stands of hair off her forehead. “Braeburn knows what he’s doing, but he really has no bedside manners.” “Where am I?” Scootaloo asked after a moment. “You’re in Appleloosa, sweetie,” the nurse explained, stepping up to her bed once again. “We’re a relatively new town, but we’re on the rail line. You’ll be back in Ponyville in two days, if all goes smoothly.” “What do you mean?” The haze was clearing from her mind, if not her eyes. Scootaloo was practically melting into the mattress. “Well, you wandered into town early this morning looking like a walking mud ball,” the mare chuckled. “We couldn’t tell what you were at first, but when we figured that out it was a quick telegram to Ponyville to tell us what to do. They sent somepony to come pick you up, and he should be arriving by the early train tomorrow.” “Who’s coming?” She asked. She tried to flick her ears, but they were taped against her head. “Somepony from the Canterlot Orphanage is what I understand. Starry Night…” Scootaloo felt her cheeks twitching. The nurse noticed the change in her patient and cut herself short. She leaned in and patted her gently on the head as she continued. “Your dad’s just fine, Scootaloo. It says so right in the telegram. He’s waiting for you in Ponyville… Oh, there there, darling. I’m sorry.” The filly continued to sob even as relief set in. She held onto the mare weakly, feeling her warmth against her face. The skeletal creature; unblinking metal eyes; a giant beak. Image after image flashed through her mind like… like lightning. She held on with all of her little strength, as if her own tears would wash her away. For her part the nurse moved onto a corner of the bed and embraced her around the shoulders with one foreleg. Scootaloo would have been embarrassed, but the feeling of another living body against hers made her feel tremendously better. “There,” the mare said with a kind smile as Scootaloo hiccupped and gasped in the aftermath. “I can only imagine how tough this last week was for you. Now, you’re looking rather skinny. I’ll go get you something to eat. How does that sound?” The mention of food drew a smile from her tear-stained face. Scootaloo nodded, and even made another unsuccessful effort to sit up. She realized her mistake as the nurse reached out for the doorknob. “Don’t leave me,” she begged weakly. “Miss, don’t leave. Please!” The door opened, and the nurse stopped. “Mist,” she called into the hallway. “Go down to the kitchen and get something warm and sugary for Scootaloo. And something to drink too.” Turning back, she gave her patient a knowing look. Scootaloo let out a sigh of relief and closed her eyes again, listening to the clip-clop of hooves that approached her bed and stopped just in front of her head. Thick, fragrant vapour announced the arrival of food. A mare with a brown coat and purple mane carefully manoeuvered into the room with a steaming vat and a jug of cloudy apple juice balanced on her back. The air smelled instantly of cinnamon, making Scootaloo’s mouth water. Her wings tried to flare, but found resistance against the supportive shell around her torso. “Careful, Gala, it’s hot,” the new mare said as she slid the tray onto the nightstand. “Thanks, Mist.” In the time it took for Mist to leave the filly freed one foreleg from the heavy covers, and was struggling to pick up a spoon through the thick bandages surrounding her hooves. She was wearing fleece pajamas too; a tiny portion of her mind reminded her that it was the middle of summer. Fortunately the clattering on the tray got Gala’s attention. “I think it’ll be safer if I feed you, okay?” It wasn’t really a question; the nurse was already tucking her leg back under the sheets. “I don’t want you to burn yourself.” Scootaloo wasn’t in a mood to argue. Gala gave her heaping spoonfuls of thick, sweet oatmeal, punctuated with icy apple juice through a long straw. The filly ate eagerly, always a little reluctant to let go of the spoon, and despite her overfull stomach was rather miffed when the nurse set the utensil back on the tray and gave her the straw for the last time. All the sugar from her meal finally woke her up. The numbness had faded from her face. She ran her tongue across her dry, cracked lips and opened her mouth to speak again. “I want to see Morning Rain.” Gala paused in the middle of rearranging the tray. “I’ll check to see if he’s awake,” she said slowly before circling to the other side of the bed and disappearing from Scootaloo’s field of view. She heard a door opening behind her, and flailed her legs in an attempt to flip onto her other side. The effort made her feel sick. A few hushed words were exchanged before the door clicked shut. Gala reappeared, much to her relief. “He’s awake, Scootaloo,” Gala reported. “Before you go, I want you to know that Morning Rain isn’t quite at your level of recovery yet. We did the best we could, but he has those deep cuts in his back. The infection was really bad. You brought him here just in time, but just know that he’s not as strong as you are right now.” “He was never as strong as me,” Scootaloo mumbled before flipping herself onto her belly with a groan. Gala rushed forth to help her, but the filly was slowly raising her head off the pillow all on her own. The dizziness was quite manageable; with her ordeal in the desert fresh in her mind Scootaloo thought her current accommodations utterly luxurious. Her stomach sloshed and boiled, threatening to burst. As she folded her stiff legs beneath her body cold air crept under the sheets and swirled around her padded torso. Gala offered to carry her, but Scootaloo refused. Even with the mare gently lowering her onto the floor and the soft cushions beneath her hooves the filly hissed as her legs took her full weight. She raised on foot unsteadily, and almost immediately fell against Gala. “Just lean on me,” she offered. “You really should be in a wheelchair, you know.” “He’s not going to see me in a wheelchair.” “You just saved his life. Besides, you’re already wearing a back brace. Might as well look the part.” “Just walk,” Scootaloo growled, squinting against the pain that was creeping into her shoulders. The soft brace had some give, so that she couldn’t completely relax her back. Clearly the doctor had expected her to stay in bed. Gala guided the filly along at a reasonable pace. The doorframe, like everything else in the hospital, looked brand new. It was just a bit wider than a normal door in Ponyville, allowing the two to cross shoulder-to-shoulder. The next room was noticeably dimmer; translucent grey curtains were drawn against the diffuse light coming through the single window, making the small space seem even smaller. A single lime green steel frame bed stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a myriad of white and brown machines. Two bags of clear liquid dangled from a pristine stand like overripe fruit in autumn. Little lights on the instruments blinked red and green, but they were otherwise inert. Scootaloo followed the clear tubes down from the bags, tracing their loops and lazy curves until they disappeared into a pale lump on the mattress. Morning Rain was covered with bandages. His legs were wrapped much like hers, but everything else was so much more elaborate. The heavy plaster shell around his torso extended all the way to the base of his jaw, leaving him completely immobilized. A square window on his back admitted what remained of his wings, and these were supported by rods extending from his sides. A few ruffled feathers stuck out awkwardly, and it was clear from the sporadic twitching that the positioning of his wings was less than ideal. His tail had been trimmed down, and even it was taped to a splint. The bandages extended out of the cast and onto his face, restraining both of his ears and even his mouth. As she got closer, Scootaloo saw that four dull metal hooks were latched onto his lips. The muscles of his jaw and neck contracted sporadically, sometimes causing his head to jerk and eliciting a pained snort from the colt. “It’s tetanus,” Gala whispered when Scootaloo asked. “We found some pebbles in his mouth; it’s already done a number on his teeth. This is just the tail end of it, but we gave him a mouthguard so it doesn’t get worse.” A soft plastic tube extended into his right nostril. The nurse, an older mare with a chestnut coat and blond mane was slowly depressing a bottle filled with creamy yellow paste. His eyes, clear and sharp once again, were reduced to pin pricks as he frantically scanned his surroundings. He let out a low moan as they came to rest on the glaring filly in front of his face. Morning Rain was wearing a diaper. Scootaloo fell over beside the bed and laughed. The cast; the tubes; the bandages; it was just too much! Her sides hurt even worse than before, and her spine clicked against the wood floor as she rolled from side to side. Morning Rain’s muffled sobbing only fueled her mirth. She laughed with her eyes squeezed shut until she was too exhausted to move, and then she laid there with a huge grin on her face breathing deeply and giggling intermittently. Gala and the other nurse were both standing over her when she opened her eyes. Their mouths hung open, the older nurse regarding her with a look of confusion and disgust while Gala appeared utterly terrified. Scootaloo raised herself to a kind of sitting position, resting her chin on the edge of the mattress so that if her brother were to open his eyes her smiling face would be the only thing that he would see. “Look at you now, Rain,” she drawled, sounding rather drunk even to herself. “Look at you. Are you ready to hunt those big bad griffins? It’s not far. You have a plan, after all! The best plan ever, and nothing’s gonna go wrong! Why don’t you beat them up with that stand there? It looks like it’s made of metal! Or you could just shoot that gruel right back out your nose! I bed that’ll teach ‘em!” Her volume grew steadily as the colt continued to squirm and moan. Streams of tears ran from his eyes as he tried in vain to hide his face in the pillow. Scootaloo was planning her next line when she felt strong hooves grasp her sides. “Not a word,” the older nurse said flatly as she lowered the filly onto Gala’s back. Scootaloo opened her mouth, but the nurse had already turned her attention to her patient. She stroked his side and spoke softly, but Morning Rain’s moaning only grew louder and more desperate as he continued to writhe and kick. In two long strides the two of them were back in the brightly-lit room. Gala closed door behind her and carried Scootaloo back to her own bed. Instead of tucking her in however, the mare made a pile of pillows and propped the filly against it. “Did that make you feel better?” She asked, looking her in the eyes. She didn’t sound upset, but Scootaloo’s confidence evaporated instantly. “N… no,” the filly replied, lowering her gaze and letting out a defeated sigh. “I… It’s just that…” “You don’t have to explain,” Gala interrupted, her voice gentle again. “I can tell that you’re upset with him. But he’s hurt enough already, and so are you. You’ll both recover faster if you’re not fighting, okay?” Scootaloo nodded. Her heart rate was returning to normal, and a haze was again falling over her eyes. Seeing her drooping eyelids, Gala lowered her onto her back. The filly sat bolt upright and scrambled clumsily for the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed on the creature clinging to the wall. A giant red spider, about the size of a clock stared at her with one big white eye. Its legs were linked to a wooden ring, and as the filly watched in horror it lazily flicked its mouthparts. “What is it?” The mare asked frantically, her gaze switching quickly between Scootaloo and the monster. “Kill it,” she whimpered. “Kill it! Kill it!” The spider was shifting its weight; preparing to pounce. “It’s coming for me!” Scootaloo cried, leaning so far over the footboard that she almost lost her balance. “Kill it! Kill it!” The nurse got onto the bed and grabbed the ring with her mouth. Scootaloo cringed, but the spider didn’t seem to mind. “It’s just a dream catcher,” Gala said, offering it to the filly. “It’s a giant spider!” She snapped, turning away from the thing as it approached her face. She could hear wet clicks as it reached out with its many thread-thin legs. “Okay, okay, I’ll get rid of it.” When Scootaloo looked again Gala was closing the main door into her room. The spider was nowhere to be seen. “There’s a dream catcher over every bed in this hospital,” the nurse explained as she pulled the heavy sheets over the shaking filly. “The buffalos gave them to us. They’re supposed to catch bad dreams before they get to you. I reckon it’s just the drugs still in your head making you see things. You’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll be right here if you need anything tonight, dear…” Scootaloo watched the grey light fade to black through the window of her room, listening to Gala’s gentle voice recount all the wonderful things of that summer and summers gone by. She really had no need for a dream catcher that night.