CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
THREADS IN THE LOOM
Nasta yawned, leaning back against the wall and stretching like a tired housecat. His wife had gone to bed, as had most of the household. He took the opportunity for a good scratch and looked at himself in the mirror. He’d have to get that haircut at some point, for he looked a right mess. A good shave as well wouldn’t go amiss. The air outside was freezing tonight, the sky as clear as crystal with the tiny pinpricks of stars twinkling like silver fires in the heavens.
He smiled to himself, taking out his pipe and loading it with the last of the tobacco. Hopefully, the traders would be coming through again soon. In fact, word was going around that one had already come to town, so things were definitely starting to look up. With the lord’s men here at last, the situation would be remedied in no time, and they would be able to get their lives back to normal without the upheaval of moving to one of the larger towns.
Nasta walked to the side door, slipping out into the night. It was cold but deliciously refreshing, with a crispness that tingled his skin. The house and garden were in darkness except for the lanterns lighting the path to the gate. He felt safe here, relaxed for the safe time in… how long? He took a draw on the pipe, watching its blue smoke curl away to disappear into the ether. It was a nice blend; next time, he might buy the whole cask of it, so long as he could hide it from Petal and the children. They didn’t approve of such ‘smelly’ habits, as they called it.
Shrugging it off, Nasta rubbed his bare feet for some warmth. He might like it out here, but it was still damned cold. His breath mingled with the pipe smoke, wafting out over the stone lanterns. Their yellow lights made him think of the lanterns carrying the souls of the dead across the river, the river that would lead to the land of the dead. Blossom and Willow were already there, and he’d see them again some day, but not for a while yet with any luck. And he’d been lucky so far, very lucky, unlike those young ones in the forest. He shuddered. That shadow in amongst the trees, the way it had darted amongst them, taking them like death itself had come to claim them.
Nasta gave himself a shake. Why was he thinking like this? Was it that… thing, that witch that Rush had been hiding? Maybe, but it would be dead soon. Lord Ire would see to that, and as for Rush himself? Well, hopefully without the influence of that creature, he may eventually come back to himself and rejoin the village as a proper member of society. Goodness knows how long that beast had been influencing him for!
Sighing, Nasta took a draw on his pipe. It was time to go in; the air was a little too bitter for comfort now. A few more seconds and—
What was that? Something moved, a shape in the darkness. He watched in silence. The door was nearby; if it was… oh gods!
“Nasta?” A shadow, darker than the rest, appeared out from behind the ornamental bushes. It wore a wide hat, a cloak, and had no discernible features other than its voice.
“Cray? Is that you?”
“It is.”
“Good gods, what are you doing in my garden at this hour?”
“Nasta, look, I don’t have time…”
“—Not this again!” Nasta exclaimed. “Cray, come on, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but come into the light so I can at least see you, man!”
The figure shook its head. “I can’t. It… It knows, Nasta. It sees.”
“What does? Cray, this is really strange. What’s going on?”
Cray’s voice sounded strange, strained. “Listen to me! Nasta, please… you must…”
“Yes?” he allowed cautiously.
“Tell my wife and daughter… tell them… I love them.”
“Cray?” Alarm bells began to sound in his mind, but he quelled them for now.
“Please, Nasta!”
“Yes! Of course, but you can tell them yourself, can’t you? I don’t understand…”
The figure stepped back into the shadows, blending into the background like he’d never been there. Nasta froze, staring out into the garden.
“Cray?”
Only silence greeted his words, silence and the faint sound of snow falling from the disturbed branches.
*****************************
Thorn checked over his armour. Most of the dents were from old blows, but there were always new ones to knock out. The village armourer had done an excellent job repairing this set, so much so that even his father would have been proud of it. To wear an old warrior’s armour was to wear a part of them, their memories, their soul, and honouring that memory in battle was extremely important to all thestrals. It was a belief that was heavily ingrained in the psyche of their people.
Before a battle, Thorn would clean the scarred and battered protective plates reverently, polishing them, checking equipment straps and buckles. The girth strap was a little worn, he noticed, but it was still serviceable. Most of it was, for that matter. Out here, he couldn’t maintain it as well as he’d liked, but it was a small thing.
He stared up at the night sky, saying a prayer to the goddess. Whether she could hear him from a world away, who could say? She seldom came to his dreams, but the times she had, he’d never forget. She was simply exquisite, a pristine beauty with a coat as black as the void, her mane and tail a magnificent rippling cascade of stars and constellations. Her armour gleamed as brightly as her eyes and teeth, her war scythe quick and deadly. All the warriors loved her—stallions, mares, it didn’t matter. Nightmare Moon was the warriors’ goddess, one whom they all deeply respected and would gladly die to defend.
Thorn ran a whetstone along the blade of his axe. The goddess had visited him whilst he’d slept the night before the battle at the river valley, whispering to him of how she would favour those who would fight bravely for her. He’d felt his heart surge, his strength and power increase to the point where he knew he could take on the very world if need be, single-hoofed. He knew it was her influence, her way, but he would have worshipped her anyway. Her smile was one that would melt the heart of any stallion, those eyes… he shuddered and grinned foalishly to himself.
It was a relief in some way that he had to kill the boy. As much as it pained him, though, he had to be stopped so he could fulfil the wishes of the goddess. The boy’s attacks against the humans would bring retribution, and it could very well lead to the death of them all. Time, he knew, was running out.
Ghai had returned to the governor’s residence. Thorn had escorted him there and watched him as he was suddenly engulfed by a swarm of concerned staff. There were some other warriors there as well; ones who looked out of place somehow. The way the staff had given them sidelong glances or walked around them made him wonder if all was as it should be, but Ghai appeared unconcerned. Probably, he was just relieved to be home.
Thorn shrugged. He’d taken a shine to the young human, and as alien as he appeared, he was still a warrior at heart. Whether he himself believed it or not was immaterial. When the time had come for Ghai to show his mettle, he had not been found wanting. He held the axe up and nodded to himself in satisfaction. It would do. A shame Ghai wasn’t here, really. He would have happily fought by his side. The young warrior would have made a good student.
His thoughts drifted back to the goddess. He hadn’t dreamt of her nor heard her voice once since coming to this world, and that worried him. If she had no influence here, how was he going to get home? Perhaps the gods of this world would send him back if he appealed to them, but Ghai had said that nobody here had ever seen them! Unthinkable! What sort of deity relies entirely upon believing they exist, when they could be there walking amongst them and receiving their adoration? Thorn shook his mane. It was a strange world, this one, very strange indeed. He didn’t like it, but it would be time to go soon enough.
The wind blew through the forest, creating small eddies of snow that swirled around the small camp. Ghai had helped Thorn with a map of the area—his ability to draw was really quite remarkable. Those small claws, or ‘hand’ things, were very useful indeed. He looked down at his hooves, inspecting them and snorting. These were the hooves of a warrior; strong, precise, and capable of crushing skulls. By comparison, humans seemed rather soft to him, but maybe it was because they were so hairless. How they’d survived as a species was remarkable!
He yawned and leaned his weapons against a tree. He preferred these to that strange ‘bamboo’, as Ghai had called it. These were more familiar, even if they were more reminiscent of Equestria than the Beyond. They made him feel a little more secure. The fire had burned low, and he would keep it like that until morning. The boy would be making his move soon—he could sense it, feel it in his bones. The tension had been building steadily and eventually come to a head. What would happen next, he couldn’t say, but he would be there when the time came. And come it would.
*********************************
Rush awoke to loud hammering from outside, the sound echoing off the buildings and filtering through the narrow window of his cell. To him, time had become only a concept here, with just the scant light that made it through the vent to go off. He’d lost track of how long he’d been there. Was it days? Weeks? He lifted the wash cloth and gave himself a wipe down. At least they looked after him, after a fashion. They were far more interested in the princess, with that Lord Ire character talking to her for hours on end. They were always so quiet, just on the edge of hearing, so he couldn’t make out enough of their words to tell what was being said.
Tia would recount the conversations to him afterwards, but that young man was scheming at something. He knew it; he could feel it inside. The way he kept spending time with her, sneaking around—that damned fop was planning something! It would make sense as well, this ‘plan’ with the cage to use it to attract the thestral down to the village where they could kill it. Oh, quite ingenious! Rush snatched up his clothes and began to put them on with a lot more force than necessary.
He knew what was really going on here. That boy was after Tia—it was in his eyes. He lusted after her, desired her, and that cage? That was to put her in there so he could steal her away like a thief in the night back to his castle. These ‘lords’ were all the same, untrustworthy womanisers, flitting from girl to girl like some damned butterfly.
He clenched his fists, feeling his heart beating faster and faster, anger beginning to surge through him. The boy would leave him there, there to rot in that bloody cell. That, or kill him of course. Lords and their ilk weren’t squeamish about disposing of unwanted loose ends, and Tia’s ties to him could so easily be severed. One quick stroke of a sword, a thrust of a dagger and all Ire’s problems would simply disappear.
Rush walked over to the pillow and felt for the bamboo package. It was still there, waiting. If he had the opportunity, if he could…
“Damn them!” he swore, delivering a savage kick to the wash bowl, sending it crashing across the room. With a cry of anger, Rush delivered a punch to the wall, his despair and desperation overtaking his reason and calm. He wasn’t an animal to be caged, to be kept away from the light! He was supposed to be free, free to run, to roll in the grass, covering himself in the fresh morning dew! Lord Ire and his lackeys were the real animals here. How could they keep him in here? How could they?
Rush’s eyes filled with tears, his helplessness drowning him in sorrow and grief. He should have told Tia to escape the house when he saw the villagers coming. She stayed because of her connection to him, her feelings for him, and because of that, it was all coming apart. Tia’s home, Equestria, needed their princess. She should be there now, with her ponies, but instead that rat Ire was going to keep her as his personal plaything!
“Are you alright, Rush? I heard a crash.”
Celestia’s voice drifted in from the next room as Rush paced back and forth, too angry to speak, too furious at himself to even contemplate speaking to her.
“Rush, please?”
She knew, she could sense the conflict and pain in his heart. Over the short time they’d been together, Celestia had become increasingly aware of the connection she’d begun to share with Rush. In some ways, she was connected to all Equestrians, to all her ponies, but Rush was different. He’d been separated from his home, his true home, all his life. Born in an alien land, a prisoner in a body that was not his own.
She was frightened for him.
Rush’s true self had been awoken by her mere presence, simply by being in the company of another Equestrian. From the beginning, she’d suspected there was something more to Rush, especially after having seen glimpses of his ‘other’ self in the netherworld, but the revelation that he was an Equestrian was something that had brought her both joy and sadness. The thought of him being here, all those years, alone… it tore her heart in two, bringing tears to her eyes. She’d once called him a ‘lost foal’, and how true it was.
Celestia lay her head on her outstretched forelegs. Rush’s reaction to the news that he wasn’t human, that the living, breathing, two-legged creature he saw every time he looked in the mirror or down at his body, wasn’t what he was meant to be, had not surprised him as much as she’d thought it would.
She tried to think how she would have felt. To be told one day, or to discover for yourself, that you weren’t really ‘you’ after all. It was unthinkable, terrifying! Surely he must be having some sort of internal conflict, some deep-seated fear that would eventually surface, yet Rush had appeared to accept it all as readily as a duckling taking that first plunge into water. If anything, he had actually welcomed the news as confirmation of a deep-rooted suspicion that he didn’t ‘fit in’ with the rest of the world, that he was different somehow. His answer to this feeling of ‘otherness’ had been to secrete himself away in the hills. How Willow, his mother, had coped with everything, she had no idea.
Although the mare had been a thief, she’d had a remarkable strength of character which Celestia admired. Rush, similarly, appeared to have inherited some of those very same traits.
This morning, however, something was different. She could hear him pacing and cursing to himself, and she had an idea why. Stallions…
Rush slumped down by the door of his cell and wiped the cool cloth across his brow, taking deep cleansing breaths. He was angry with himself, angry at being angry, and… dear gods, was he actually jealous of Lord Ire? Damn it, he knew Tia better than that, didn’t he? Still, it was the self-styled ‘ruling classes’ who had caused so much suffering in the land. They came, they took what they wanted, and left nothing but destruction and widows in their wake.
Although not his biological parent, his human father had been killed in battle, and he’d witnessed the terrible effect this had had on his mother. That was what had hurt him the most—seeing her grief, hearing her cries of despair. He hadn’t been able to do anything to comfort her, or help ease her pain. And then, when he’d been old enough, they’d sent him off to fight as well.
It was a miracle he’d survived, but survive he had, and he’d be damned if he’d ever bow and scrape before another of those puffed up power mongers. This Ire was another one, just another over-privileged child who’d happened to born in the right bed. Now this one was creeping around Celestia. What his intentions were, he didn’t know, but he didn’t trust him, not one bit.
Rush leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. His fears were running wild, taking over his ability to reason rationally, and he knew it. The excitement of finding out the truth about his birth had given him something he’d thought he’d lost a long time ago, especially after his mother had died… hope; hope and… Tia, the magnificent white mare, who had a mind and wit to match her beauty. To keep him from even seeing her was a torture that was beyond any physical suffering they could have inflicted on him. He was so close to her, and only this damned wall separated them.
Now life, fate, call it what you will, was having another laugh at his expense. He was going to lose her; he was going to be alone again, slowly withering away in this cursed place. No friends, no family… nopony.
In the next cell, a single tear fell onto the dusty floor.