//------------------------------// // Chapter 6: Cast the First Stone // Story: Pride Goeth // by Zurock //------------------------------// So many long years had passed since Prideheart had last marched so proudly. One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! His hooves worked like pistons, and his body like a well-oiled engine humming a beautiful tune. Each forward step gave birth to a ripple which rolled through his cloak, washing across him and lapping at his tail like the ocean shore. High he held his head, with his face liberated from the confines of his heavy hood, and the wind greeted him welcomingly. It brushed through his thinned mane; with care, it caressed cool relief over his dragon-wound. No fatigue great or small could have stopped him. Not the aches in his legs, nor the haze of his inadequate sleep, nor the protests of his hunger (a generous apple's worth milder). He was invincible now that bliss itself followed along behind him in a steady trot of her own. He and Bookworm were on the riverside road which led directly to the old quarry. They had first meandered northwards through the forest for over two hours before they had found the river. The journey would have been shorter had Prideheart not spent a careful amount of time instructing the filly in stealthy movement. The impromptu class had hardly been high-level tutoring, but he had taught her all the essentials: flat hooves, exact steps, distributed weight; move one, by one, by one, by one, slowly. The young filly, much pleasing Prideheart, was a rapt listener when truly engaged and had shown no shame in trying her best to master the fast lesson no matter how much she had stumbled. None of her mistakes had diminished her merry laughter, and for that happy dedication the stallion had given no reprimands. By the end of the forest she had in fact improved in ability, graduating from her stick-crunching tromp to a meager stealth which was worthy of a clumsy lion cub. The guarded fortresses of the world were still safe against the new filly sneak, but it had become a real possibility that she might one day vanish from under the watchful ears of a supervising adult. Prideheart himself was not an inexperienced teacher. During the decades in Dryearth Forest he had taught the same stealth lesson to many Dryponies. Moreover, even before his self-exile he had been a volunteer instructor for the fillies and colts of Canterlot's many schools, and he had taught more subjects than mere physical training. Reading, writing, arithmetic, history; anything any foal had wanted to learn, he had wanted to teach. Most of his hours outside the duties of a Royal Guard had been devoted to those young ponies. Loving and protecting others had always been Prideheart's greatest duty; his dedicated faith to being a defender had set his life's course and had even earned him his cutie mark. But if he could have chosen any other path for himself, then it would have been guiding the young. There weren't the words to describe the experience: the heartswelling smiles they put on whenever they learned something new; the breathtaking light that came from their eyes as they felt themselves grow; the undeniable wonder of watching their potential blossom. Foals were amazing; extraordinary; beautiful! Each and every one of them! In a way, it wasn't so far off from the mission of his cutie mark: purely innocent and infinite in potential; they, above all others, had to be loved and protected. A horrific curse upon anypony who failed to dote, guard, and love every foal with all their heart! ... A horrific curse upon such a failure of a pony... After having found the river, the two ponies had followed it upstream and had come upon the road, exactly where Bookworm had predicted it would be. It hugged the waterway, and together road and river disappeared somewhere into the northwest hills. Yet more important than the discovery of the road had been the discovery of the fresh pawprints etched in the otherwise long-undisturbed dirt. The tracks had pointed up the road, towards the quarry. Again, Bookworm's prediction had been borne out so perfectly. The rediscovery of the heckhound's trail had greatly renewed Prideheart's faith and, so wonderfully pleased with his eager young companion and her accurate intelligence, he had gayfully ordered the chase resumed. Bookworm, of course, had made no objections in the slightest. And so for a quarter-hour more the two of them had been walking the riverside road, kicking through dust that hadn't seen pony traffic in a good long while, and nothing about them to survey but the river and the abundance of stone which littered the rolling hills. The rocks almost grew from the very earth like wild gardens, many of them no heavier than bricks but some clearly the children of boulders. And ahead – mountainwards – the stones only seemed to be getting larger. Prideheart's spirits were high. Happy memories found a home in him once more; lost dreams lived again; the love which had always been there, hidden, let down its hood. And all because a heart-sweet filly had seen his ragged age, his strange shadows, his gruesome dragon-wound; and had still right away called him 'hero.' His stride strong and steady, he twisted his good eye back to observe his tiny tagalong. She trailed a few paces behind, matching his speed only by scrambling her legs to offset the disadvantage of her dinkier size. Keeping up the hard effort had her in a trance; her drooping gaze always watched only her next three or four steps ahead, counting them with exhausted nods. She was huffing heavily too, a sign of just how long the hours and miles had been on her short body. After every few breaths, her tongue tried to moisten her mouth but it only ever took one heave before she was spitting dry air again. The delightful sight tugged at the corners of Prideheart's mouth, but he let show only a dainty dab of it. "How fare you, young Bookworm?" he asked her. Losing not a moment, she swept her attrition behind a tremendous smile and looked up at him. "Doing pretty good, mister!" But right away she was in her trance again, leering at the road and audibly burning her nostrils with each wheeze. "Do you thirst?" Prideheart questioned her. His grin was getting harder to hide, building a home on his face. After all, he already knew the fib she was going to answer with. Again she picked her head up, though this time she couldn't flaunt her smile as broadly as before, and she looked inwards at her shame rather than outwards at her hero. "O-Oh, n-no. I'm-... I'm okay, mister." "Hm..." At last, the weaselly teasing couldn't stay out of his voice. "Have you no more drink left?" Secretly he had observed her during their brief stops in the forest. There hadn't been a short rest in which the filly hadn't picked at her school lunch and sipped at her small drink. Rapidly she had finished her hoofful of snacks and, not long after, she had gone for another sip and had quite obviously found her sealed cup dry. She hadn't breathed a word of her expended supplies to Prideheart. It charmed him to no end to see her so worried over disappointing him. She had, after all, so audaciously insisted to him that she had packed and prepared for this journey. "I'm-... I'm not thirsty," she hid behind her meek answer. The young evasiveness was a joy for Prideheart, but he couldn't actually have her remain so dehydrated. He brought his march to a professional halt, swung around, and sat down in the middle of the road. Bookworm became wary, and she slowed to a guilty freeze before him. From his cloak the stallion produced his canteen, still plump with Stony Nook's river water. With his teeth he popped the cork, and he pushed the canteen towards the filly. "Share from mine," he offered. His generosity – and not dissatisfaction – was a big surprise for Bookworm. Yet it was an even bigger relief, and she didn't wait to gladly grasp the canteen, yanking it to her lips. The thirsty tug pulled on Prideheart's neck, still wrapped as it was by the canteen's strap, but he was more than happy to lean in closer to her. The filly hardly had to lift the vessel to roll out the first splash of water. However, as soon as she got a taste of the water's staleness she turned her mouth away. Her face closed up, wincing so shy of childish retching and tightly squeezed with exaggerated rejection. "More," Prideheart kindly instructed her to drink again, re-guiding the canteen towards her. "Warm, yes, but its purpose it still fulfills." Bookworm needed a moment in order to pin her courage in, but then she obeyed. She forced herself through a large swig, taking in a mouthful which she swallowed down in three big gulps. She also did a much braver job of taming her reaction; it was only water, after all. Then, as if to convince Prideheart that he didn't need to punish her with another taste, she finished with an overdone, soothed sigh. "Good. Very sufficient," he praised her through a chuckle. Retrieving his canteen, he tightly forced the cork back in. "... Sorry I drank all my juice already...," the filly confessed her guilt. "All is well, young Bookworm," Prideheart said. "Judging water by time and distance is a skill best taught through experience. Experience, well-reinforced by our many mistakes along the way." The very cultivating answer perked Bookworm right up. "Is there going to be enough water for both of us?" she asked him as he shuffled the canteen back under his cloak. "Yes. More than enough," he said easily. And, glad for her curiosity, he went for another lesson. "Two reasons ensure such. Do you know them?" "Nuh-uh," she shook her head but nonetheless buzzed with interest, paying close attention. Mischief once again crept into Prideheart. "For the reason first: the canteen holds much and, rationed appropriately, many days will last. Even through our hours now, it is heavy still. Yet Bookworm, heed closer the reason second..." Eagerly the filly waited for him to continue, only he didn't. "What?" Bookworm finally asked, still bright. He held his silence, communicating only a rascally grin. Tickled, she pressed more giddily, "What's the second reason?" The stallion generously leaned into her, savoring the last licks of his playful prank, and then he pointed off aside. "There lies the river," he said. For a long moment the puzzled filly stared at the running water, no more than a short amble away. The swishes and gushes were actually pretty noisy, and were certainly great roars compared to anything else on the empty roadside; an impossible landmark to have missed. Embarrassment slowly started to nibble her as her own blindness became obvious: she had been so tremendously thirsty, yet this whole time she had been trudging along besides a boisterous channel of fresh water! A comfortable sense of betrayal quickly pushed out her bothersome shame. She whined to Prideheart, "Then why'd you make me drink that yucky warm water?" "Because, young Bookworm," his grin went from wily to wise, "you have now made the unhappy mistake, and so will you better remember the valuable lesson. Mistake and lesson are sibling sages; attend their teachings closely." It was a groanworthy trick, but Bookworm's grumpy indignation didn't get the chance to take root; not after the stallion concluded his lesson by giving her such a warm touch to the cheek. He invited her, "Drink your fill from the river, if thirst still nettles you." She was still thirsty, but not nearly enough to overpower her reinvigorated enthusiasm. "No thank you! I'm good!" she smiled, and she even boasted her mastery of the lesson, "I can always have a drink later." "Verily!" he answered, quite proud. Bookworm bounced with fresh initiative, forgetting immediately that she had briefly been upset, and even the little trick which had caused it. She was part of a real storybook adventure at last, learning from a real hero! She couldn't wait for the page to turn! "Now we keep going?" she eagerly hinted. "Just so," Prideheart said, and faithfully he leaned upon her, asking, "What road remains between us and the quarry?" "Uh... I think... it'll be... maybe an hour until we get there?" "An hour?" he tugged carefully at her obvious uncertainty. "Uh, yeah, I'm... pretty sure." Her knees shifted; her stance tilted. All her unbalance came from inside. What was most frustrating to her was that in her head she could see the map so perfectly, as if she still had the atlas open before her. The squiggly river rolled, the road bent and curved alongside, spattered about were little landmarks with silly names like the Kid-Knee Stone and Wipe's Butte, and in one corner written in a fancy script: "Here there be no dragons. Phew!". She even could picture precisely where the distance scale had been drawn! Yet none of that crystal clear recall translated into something her young legs recognized, and so she had only guesses to answer Prideheart with. She deeply hoped that he wouldn't notice she had borrowed her answer from her father's recountings of the trip, heard many times over in the days when the old quarry had still been open. Fortunately Prideheart showed no shortage of confidence in her. Right away he took her judgment as sterling truth, and he declared, "Ah, then there is no concern for concealment now. When nearer, we will we take caution. For now, we march gallant!" "Yeah!" Bookworm shouted. Twirling his cloak with a flourish, Prideheart faced the road ahead. His stature shot up tall like the grand marshal of a parade. There wasn't a thought given to the possible dangers ahead or to any of the misery he had left behind over the Pearl Peaks. His dragon-wound was cold and silent. The only moment he knew was now. Now, where – whatever his direction – a beautiful drop of angelic bliss followed so closely; one he wouldn't leave behind. "Onwards, my little pony!" And together the two resumed their march. Once more the stallion took a natural lead because of his bigger strides, and the filly, panting happily, whirred her smaller legs in order to keep up. Before long however, their rhythm fell into the same trudge as earlier. Prideheart moved well, fueled by his old-but-trained strength and also the merry invigoration Bookworm had brought to his heart, but regardless he had to restrain his pace for the sake of the filly. She had only made it so far from Stony Nook because of the vigor of her youth, and she again lagged from fatigue after her energized imagination had run out of buzz. Mindful, the stallion looked back and asked, "How fare you, young Bookworm?" "I'm," she crammed small huffs between her words, "doing pretty good, mister." "Need you rest?" "No, I got it," she said, determined and optimistic. A little extra spring kicked into her steps. Prideheart studied her exertion. Immediately clear to him was how far beyond she was compared to anything she had ever done before. If she had ever traveled away from Stony Nook in all her entire short life, she must have done so riding wagons or being carried. This difficult physical effort was a new sensation for her. But nevertheless, she endured. More water might have soothed her better, and also a healthy period rest, but there were no serious signs that her strength was breaking. A whisper came to Prideheart's ear. Strangely, not from a dark shadow as he was so miserably used to, but from some unsatisfied ghost of his younger self. The voiceless words unshackled something which his imagination had hardly allowed him to remember for a long, long time. "When the body tires, the spirit can bear one along," he suddenly told the filly. Confused, she peeked up at him. He reiterated, "Strength can stumble, but our will can fortify! We have but to summon it. Care you to hear a song fitting for our steps, young Bookworm?" "Oooooooooooh!" The filly flew into the air like a firework. "Yeah!" she burst, and already she adopted a more animated pace. He was just like all the heroes in the oldest stories which she had read—the legends! Like Rosy Carol, who serenaded her lover with a song so powerful that it united the torn kingdoms! Or like Little Lamp, who sung out with all of her purity to the stars so that they could follow her voice back to the night sky after having gotten lost! Or like Star Swirl, who shared a ballad of wisdom so divine that it inspired a whole new generation of magical studies! Mythical heroes always sang at least one song in their tales! "Very well," Prideheart said, secretly overjoyed by her effusive enthusiasm. He ordered, "Attend!" His well-honed march became even more formal as he piece by piece ironed out any errors in his movement, no matter how small. Head up, eyes forward, legs rigid; he tuned himself with exacting precision, becoming an instrument shaped by discipline. He took in three thick, full breaths; again, orderly and regimented, each more precise than the last. And then he sang. So many mute years hadn't meant a day in lost ability. The words came out flawless and bold, fully realized enough to catch the sunlight and shine it back at the sky. The stallion's body worked like a superbly drilled unit responding to a commander's call: the hammer in his throat struck loud in matching time to his mighty steps; the notes rang like reverberating brass hit dead on the mark; each syllable moved in formation with their fellows, parading out of his stirring chest. But though it all came in a military form, the living melody which filled the air was something more than that. More vivid; more avowed; more virtuous. Around the noble stallion no cloak billowed softly, but heavy golden armor clanked in luminous glory. Hum-ho! Let's go! Stamp your hooves, hard and low! Hum-ho! Don't slow! Beat the drum, march and flow! Hum-ho! Hum-ho! And lo! We go! With no fear of any foe! Join the song, each heart loud! Add your call, full and proud! Thus our spirit will endure Endless days of marching more! Hum-ho! Halt no! Courage firm when ill winds blow! Hum-ho! Through snow! No harsh storm can us winnow! Hum-ho! Hum-ho! And oh! The glow! A clear dawn does us follow! When darkness tides, we stand tall! No evil shall crest our wall! In love's name we will defend! If we must, our lives we spend! Hum-ho! Hum-ho! Let's go! Don't slow! There's nopony we forgo! Hum-ho! Hum-ho! Through snow! Our glow! The bravest hearts shining so! Hum-ho! All crow! Hum-ho! And go! Hum-ho! Halt no! Hum-ho! We go! His words and voice were a lifetime younger than he was; a drum freshly skinned, thumping clear and deep. And his song accomplished exactly what it had been meant to. Something new was painted over all the world around the ponies, changing the color of river, ridge, rock, road; and Bookworm too. Enraptured, she transformed. Golden armor clad, a wind-whipped banner on her side, a dozen other identical soldiers moving in unison about her; it all was there in her head, at least. Her fatigue drowned under the surge of her overwhelming enthusiasm, and she caught up besides Prideheart in a magnificently peppy march. When he finished, the echo and energy stayed in the air, and the little filly applauded the stallion by mashing her hooves. "Wow! That was perfect!" "I am pleased!" Prideheart said. He bent towards her and prompted her heartily, "How fare you now?" She bounced, and kicked, and sprang, and soared. "I'm great!" she shouted. "I feel like I can take a bull weevil head on!" The stallion chuckled, "Hah! Inadvisable! But, praiseworthy courage all the same!" Bookworm beamed. Her mind was a carnival of old stories with brand new fanfare to enliven it, and as she looked over the living hero besides her she lifted him to his proper place in the brightest lights on the biggest stage. A rush of eagerness hit her, and she asked him, "So was that your song?" The question seemed so silly to his ears, and he answered her simply, "It is a song sung by comrades to remind each other of duty. In decades long past I learned it." "Ooooh, that makes sense," the filly bobbed her head, "but what I meant was: is that your song?" Now Prideheart knew he had misheard her question, and he peered at her. She clarified herself, "You know, your song, like all the best heroes sing. Your song to let everypony know who you are and what you do!" Recognizing her meaning, he thought a moment on it before he quickly became delighted by her interest in his creed. He snatched up the opportunity to endow her with another lesson; a more important one; the most sacred one. "Verily!" he declared. "To standard stalwart between innocence and darkness? To defend sweet life from defiling wickedness? To be the shield for those who haven't one? Your heart will find no cause more worthy!" Bookworm bounced along on her hooves. "That sure sounds like a hero to me!" And then, perky beyond even a foal who had found a forest of cotton candy, she asked him a question which she felt so certain she already knew the answer to, since his heroic tale was of the same shape which she had read and loved a thousand times before. "And that's why you came to Stony Nook, right? To be our hero?" Prideheart stuttered a step. He responded, suddenly more solemn than before, "... With what strength I have, I will resist all harm to your home." His dragon-wound, which for some time had been soothed and at rest, abruptly sizzled. The painful, hot itching flared just under his skin before tendrils of it started to worm through his muscles and stretch down his back and legs, tiring his march. Behind his neck a crawling fire climbed; no more than the hood of his cloak slowly sliding up with the help of his sweat. His head sank so low, and the hood slipped up so high, that even his haggard hobbles threatened to help the hood leap over his head and ensnare him. The predatory bounce of it filled his periphery with a creeping sensation, like a stranger coming up from behind. He spoke again, but this time as something dark and indignant. "... Yet heed me, brave Bookworm: why should your village have need of me? Should not they cherish their lives and loves enough to themselves defend those blessings? Pitiful fools look to outside powers for salvation." The shadowy change in him bothered Bookworm. She asked skeptically, "But a hero is supposed to save everypony, aren't they?" "And when danger lurks and there is no hero about?" Prideheart questioned her in turn bitterly, curling his lips. "What more have they than but to perish shiftlessly, and those innocents to whom they are beholden, in unjust doom, are cast to the fire?" "What?" the filly flinched at his unexpected hostility. "But-, but... there is a hero. You are here." Sparing no hesitation, he slid a dagger right through the rigid covers which bound her thick adventure story. "By chance alone did I stumble into Stony Nook. I would not have come had better decisions I made." Bookworm retreated a sudden step to the side, and she frowned sadly. But still, he was the hero of the story; he must have known some fundamental truth which she did not. She tried hard to reconcile the strange new beliefs he was spouting with the storybook reality she loved so intimately. "A hero always comes and saves the day," she worked through her confusion. "But... I guess-... I guess sometimes... an ordinary pony has to stand up and-... and be the hero instead?" Prideheart continued to simmer in his shadow, holding his head low, and he murmured in a hiss, "It is a matter not of 'ordinary.' Nor 'extraordinary,' or anything such. It is a matter only of what must be done in crisis, with all one's strength. Apathy and cowardice depend on strength outside. Love and courage; within." He glared at the little filly with his dead eye. "Your home, for their own sake, should rise and save themselves. They are not safe if always they hide on their hooves until I or anypony rescues them." In silence they walked on while the troubled Bookworm absorbed, churned, calculated, and wondered. At last she spoke, coming to her conclusion in just that same moment, "So... sometimes the right thing to do... is to be the hero instead of waiting for one?" A few quiet steps followed, as if the stallion hadn't heard her at all. Then suddenly, latently, it hit him. His ears jumped with energy. He picked his whole head up, renewed. The strange shadows fled his face as his hood flopped back down his neck and came to rest on his back. "Yes! Well spoken!" he awakened with praise. "Keep in your heart those words! Let such be your lodestar, young Bookworm!" The banishment of his shadow instantly brightened the filly as well. She bounced and grinned eagerly again. "Okay, mister! I'll try!" she promised. "No doubt of it have I!" he said. The extra dash of praise again blew away any doubts and confusion which had seeded in Bookworm. She came back to bounding along jubilantly. They marched on, Prideheart the steady soldier and Bookworm the frolicking follower. But while the stallion distracted himself by singlemindedly focusing forward, the filly was drunk with thoughts of his amazing story and all the chapters of it she had yet to read. He was the greatest story she had ever gotten her hooves on! A hero worth a hundred books—no, a thousand! And even better, he was real! He wasn't just words on a page; histories and fictions which were bold and breathtaking in her imagination, but ultimately no louder than the quiet solitude of her bedroom. Him she could see, and touch, and experience! A hero and a heckhound; excitement and danger, just like all the greatest stories! And she was finally a part of it! In silent exuberance she tried to puzzle together the pieces of his tale: what she knew, what she didn't, and how it all connected. The puzzle took shape in her head, piece after piece linking up, and she delighted at the largest holes which appeared; the delicious secrets which would fill in sooner or later (like any good book!). But what really made her curiosity itch were the portions which were missing only one or two pieces; pictures so guessably close to complete that she was eager to try forcing in every extra piece she could get her hooves on until one finally fit. Gently but hungrily, she followed one guess which she felt particularly confident in, asking, "Mister. You said you came from the other side of the Pearl Peaks, right? I mean, you lived there?" Happy to answer, and his mind largely still fixed upon the road ahead, Prideheart replied, "Many years I dwelled there." "'Many'?" she really wanted to tweeze out something more specific. "Some decades," he said. "More there than at any other home." At that, Bookworm jumped with a tremendous thrill. Snap! The puzzle piece fit just like she had thought it would! All she needed was for him to look over work and confirm it, and she chased that confirmation with zealous enthusiasm. "So were you ever in the Royal Guard of Canterlot?" Prideheart stopped so suddenly that he might have fallen into an unseen crack in the earth. Inertia carried Bookworm forward a few extra steps before she wound down to a stop in front of him. "... Mister?" Already she regretted having opened her big mouth. She became haunted by what had happened at the tavern the night before, when her excitement had gotten the better of her and, because of it, he had eventually driven her off. One of Prideheart's forehooves made a jumpy twitch; not to continue walking, but more as if it wanted to reach for his hood. It never quite committed to the act and instead hung restlessly in the air. Finally it lowered, touching down onto the dirt with the soft drop of a fallen leaf. Slowly he started walking again, though it was no soldier's march. Passing around Bookworm, speaking not a word of acknowledgment to her, he trudged forward. No notes of song animated his aching steps. "Mister," the filly had a much simpler time keeping up with his now-lethargic speed, and she earnestly tried to smooth over her unknown mistake, "I'm sorry... I just really wanted to know..." "What is it you do know of the Guard?" Prideheart asked in low and unforceful words. He didn't spare her so much as a half-glance. "Uh, well, that was their tune, right?" she was almost afraid to explain herself. "I mean, that song you sang? That was the tune of The Canterlot March, right?" So knowledgeable and insightful for but a foal. So blasted an old fool was he for having indulged in an ancient, departed past. Bookworm, as if to answer the questions his silence was asking, rambled on, "I've heard it before. I don't think the words were the same, though. Maybe they changed the song since you learned it? There was this big parade with the guards, and they were all singing that tune. Uh, in Canterlot, I mean; I saw the parade in Canterlot. Dad took me there last year to see Mom." Her mouth took fearful stumbles as it ran, ever worried that she would spill out another wrong word but also too immature to endure any amount patience. However, nothing she said produced any sign of listening from Prideheart. "Mister...?" "... Your mother is not here with you...?" The filly wasn't ready for his feebly voiced question. It was such a diversion; a retreat; an irrelevant aside from what she had been persistently pursuing. Moreover, his tenor was so withdrawn and defeated; not heroic at all like he should have been. Most pointedly, she came from the small world of Stony Nook where everypony had common knowledge of her parents' situation; the simple question was so new to her ears! Needing escape from himself, Prideheart pressed on weakly, "... The gray mare, with the mane short and pink. Is she not your mother?" "Oh, you mean Ms. Crumble Pie?" Bookworm said. "No. She's just Dad's best friend. And his boss. She's not my mom." His silly mistake started a light giggle in her, but with speed it thinned and vanished. The filly became vast and serious. In her head she turned over the idea of a surrogate mother. "... It'd be kind of great if she was my mom," Bookworm moaned sadly. Once again she began copying him, though this time not as adoration. His tired, melancholic clops passed into her; her spirit joined his in defeat. When for a moment she glanced up, she saw his ears were still watching her. Unsettled, she hesitantly stumbled into an outpouring of precious, pure, so-little-spoken feelings. "Ms. Crumble Pie is awesome. She's always super nice and she doesn't yell, she tries to spend time with me whenever I ask her, and she shows me all sorts of cool stuff! Like she taught me how to use a blasting charge to blow up rocks! Dad would throw a fit if he knew, hehe. Most of all though, she listens. She listens to me when I talk. If I have something to say, she treats me like a real pony." A fast shame fell over her and she hastily added on, "I mean, Mom is pretty good, too. She's always sending me books from the big library in Canterlot. Stony Nook doesn't have a library at all, so I wouldn't get to read so many great stories without Mom. But-... but Mom—..." She had words at the ready, but her every instinct politely fought with her not to say them out loud. She didn't hold them back. "—Mom is never here. At least Ms. Crumble Pie is actually around sometimes..." "... How came it so?" Prideheart's voice limped low and hoarse. "Uh, well, Mom lives in Canterlot... or, she does sometimes," the filly explained unevenly. All she could do was try her best to mimic the way she had sometimes heard her father explain the situation to others. She didn't quite ably know the minutia of it herself; her parents were no heroic story. "Dad says she travels a whole lot because of her job, and that's why she doesn't live with us and can't really visit. He says she's got lots of ponies that she heals and it's very important." "... A physician?" "Like Dr. Remedy? No," Bookworm shook her head. But there were cracks of doubt in every word. "I don't think so anyway. Maybe kind of? Dad says she helps ponies who-... who... are hurt in a bad way and... they don't ever get better, even with medicine? Like, she goes around and makes them comfortable, he says. She can't fix whatever is wrong with them, but her healing magic makes it not so bad." A stagger attacked Prideheart's knees, though he balanced himself out quickly. Slowly the listlessness seeped away, and shivers of anger began to flavor his steps. He muttered, "Selects her foul craft over her own foal. Hmph!" Bookworm heard none of it. She was beside herself with sighs, and she moaned aloud, "I wish I got to see Mom more... but... I guess she just can't come to Stony Nook. So I'm stuck here. With Dad." Again something unseen tackled Prideheart, interrupting his stride. Yet this time the blow was much different, striking not at his legs but at his chest. No anger beguiled him. Instead, cold perspiration turned to icicles behind his ears and down his neck. A bubble of saliva popped when he finally opened his mouth, breaking the moist glue which had trapped it momentarily shut. He asked the filly, as if he needed her answer to affirm his flagging hopes, "... Though your father... for you he cares well, does he not?" Bookworm looked at her mentor, then at the road, then him again, and then another time at the road. The answer inside her tumbled about with each turn of her head, sometimes landing unhappy face-up but other times showing an obedient, merciful face. In the end a sorry frown came upon her. "... He's not really around a whole lot either..." Prideheart asked nothing further. No clarification, no matter how gentle and understanding, would have softened the grinding of his teeth. The filly struggled to stay quiet. To speak out of turn was misbehavior, especially with a quarrelsome voice; every filly and colt knew those rules well. But for once there was somepony with her who wouldn't reprimand and moralize her with parental authority, and the invitation to finally release some of her long-held pressures had her rumbling. There was a sudden snap inside her when she could hold it in no more. Her face took on a foul grimace and she began to shout, loudly crashing back and forth between lament and complaint. The more she ranted, the worse her remorse and resent became, and the more confident she was in her howling. "He's away so much working at the quarry, for days at a time! And every time he goes, I have to stay with different foalsitters around town. And they're all very nice ponies but they're not... interested, you know? In me. Like, they take care of me good but you can tell that they're just waiting and waiting for Dad to get back. They don't even try to be friends like Ms. Crumble Pie does. And then-! And then, anytime Dad is back, he won't leave me alone if I want him to! He's everywhere when he's back! But if he wants to be left alone, well then he just tells me to run off to school, or home, or to my room to read! He always gets to have his say, but he never listens to me when I try to say anything!" She finally hit the farthest end of her anger, and her hooves gave the dirt a furious kick. "I have a lot of things I want to say, but he never listens!" For as righteous and vengeful and anguished as her fierceness was, it didn't find a permanent hold in her. The short bout of outraged shouting and the painful kick against the earth exorcised most of her ferocity. Right away she started to sag in a sadder grumpiness. "Though... I guess...," she said, "he does read me bedtime stories all the time. Any night I ask him to, he does. Even when he's really, really, really tried. He reads and reads until the story's done. And... I like that." The shy, happy thought didn't erase her frown, but it took her sourness by the reins and walked it away. Everything sharp dulled, everything hot cooled, and only a foal's broken heart remained. "I just wish he'd be more like that most of time: around when I want him. And also that he'd listen sometimes." Prideheart's dragon-wound ignited, each and every unslain nerve prickling painfully before they together went furiously ablaze. "Indeed," he said in a strained and buried voice. And the more his wound sizzled, the more a churning fire crackled and popped in the back of his throat until it suddenly erupted out of him. He snarled, "Demand better of your father." Bookworm blinked at the suggestion. It was immensely novel to her, but also profoundly uncomfortable. She faltered, "Can-... can fillies do that to their dads?" The stallion only continued to spit fire. "Slack parenthood! Cowardly abandonment! Crime unforgivable!" Yet even as he was venting flame through his outraged pronouncements, his dragon-wound kindled ever hotter, unbearably burning. The inferno underneath his corrupted skin spread far and fast, a liquid fire which streamed through his veins. Every pore on his body – down his neck, across his flanks, along his legs – became a blistering fount of burning agony. For all the effort he made to heave the wicked fire out at the world, it stayed trapped inside, cremating him from within. The agitated filly reflexively defended her father, "He's not... mean, or anything. I just-... I wish that he-..." "Guardianship is a duty sacred!" Prideheart yelled over her. "I have seen it failed before, young Bookworm! By neglectful betrayers, villainous in their aversion to self-sacrifice! Wrath and woe upon those heinous evaders of ordeal; those indolent fiends who step aside so that evil my fall upon those they should belove!" Violently he shuddered, again and again, until heated tears started to come to the corners of his good eye. But from his dead eye, a filthy rheum emerged instead. Thick and nauseously green, it crystallized quickly into a sick crust which grew and grew as ever more discharge got caught up in it. He staggered as he reached up to scratch away the irritating obstruction; a distraction which finally silenced his uproar. "Accept not your father's contemptible failings, young Bookworm," he commanded the filly when his self-control returned. His voice was withered and damaged; the fire gone but a raspy charring left in its wake. "And of yourself, always walk the righteous path. Remember your duty to those you must love, for it overrides all things; even the self!" "O-Okay, mister. I'll try," she promised, if only to move him past his very unusual, and not to mention very unheroic, episode. Prideheart himself seemed so exhausted by his outburst; more so than from even all the long miles walked. "Good," he said. "Now... onwards. Our goal awaits." And he shut out the world, fixing himself on the road ahead. His pace was still off slightly, some of his legs moving forward without coordinating with their comrades, and he continued to clean his dead eye periodically; not soldierly in the least. His dragon-wound, at least, eased to its usual, uncomfortable simmer. "... Hey mister?" Bookworm called softly, with all the humble grace that she could muster. Clearly she understood that he had already ended the conversation. He gave a dull hum and a weak, sideways glance. "... What's your name?" the filly tried again. She almost flinched asking it, recalling how she hadn't been able to earn the hero's name before. A burdensome silence laid upon them, slowing them down. Only the river sang, and their hoofbeats accompanied it, but each pony played a different rhythm; too discordant to join together into any kind of music. "... It is not relevant," Prideheart replied at last. "So...," she reluctantly accepted, tucking her disappointment away under her buried face, "... it's still a secret?" "... Verily." On they marched, none too proud. The large, heavy stone wouldn't sit right. Scrolldozer again lifted it into the air with his magic, where it wobbled nervously. When he tried another time to properly set it down, it once again jittered so severely that it flew to the side at the last moment, landing askew. The waiting mortar took another deep bruise, spreading even thinner. Several impatient townsponies, waiting with fresh mortar, scarcely hid their groans. Their grumblings by now had worn quite weary. "I'm s-sorry, everyp-pony," Scrolldozer mumbled. "I-I'm r-really sorry. L-Let me try again." "Scrolldozer." "T-This time I-I'll get it." "Scrolldozer." Home Remedy already had a hoof on him, and she delivered a strong, vigorous shake. "Set it down, Scrolldozer." "Doctor, I n-need to get this r-right." "You need to take a break," she sternly corrected him. Scrolldozer picked the enormous stone up again, but it still swayed and shook with little control. Yet its tremors were serene compared to the earthquake which battered the stallion himself. Another time Home Remedy jostled him, and in her official capacity she ordered him, "Set it down; go get some rest." The stone did drop – not as carefully as it could have, but at least well out of the way of anypony – and the quivering father turned to the doctor. "P-Please," he begged, "I r-really have to w-work on the wall. I-, I-, I-... I have to..." "No," she once more overrode him. "Go home. Rest." Scrolldozer's teeth chattered. A choking sound came from the back of his throat. "Doctor... I don't kn-know if I can-... if I c-can... go h-home to an empty house..." It was a rare day which saw the usually-churlish doctor show some profession-appropriate compassion so nakedly, but there it was. Her hoof softened, she smoothed out some of her patient's shivering, and she spoke boldly. "You're a mess, and you really need to rest. But you're at least partially right: you absolutely should not be alone right now." She whistled, calling out, "Crumble Pie!" There wasn't a moment's hesitation from the gray mare. She broke from the workponies she had been speaking to, shouting instructions back to them even as she dashed away. When she arrived, Home Remedy shared Scrolldozer's prescription and then left him in her care. "You did good work, Scrolldozer," Crumble Pie gently tugged at him to guide him away from the busy worksite. She caught and supported much of his stumbling weight. "I'm confident it won't be too far past moonrise by the time the wall's done, all thanks to you." "I-, I can d-do more..." "No, no; come on, you heard the doctor. These ponies will keep on just fine while you rest, don't you worry. Let's find somewhere to sit down, hm?" They reached a set of tables which been put right on the town's main road; on it, Mrs. Totaler and some of the other elder townsponies had laid out a spread of food for any hungry workers. There, Crumble Pie helped her friend ease his weight off his failing legs. She only gestured at the food, but he shook his head immediately. He hadn't eaten all day, and it was too obvious to the gray mare that his frightening exhaustion hadn't come from the diligent work he had for hours put into the wall; she had seen him labor harder and longer at the quarries many times before, to much less of a tiresome effect. "How're you holding?" she brought such a loving calm into her voice. "I d-don't know..." Each of his fragile breaths shattered before they even got past his lips, and he began weep lightly. Immediately Crumble Pie had her legs around him, laying his head onto her shoulder. She spoke quietly, "Hey now. It's alright. It's alright." "Any n-news of her?" he heaved. "Anything at all?" "You know if there was I would've come running to tell you right away," she said, stroking the back of his mane. The reply hurt him as much as she had known it was going to; he gasped and shuddered. His broken whispers spilled against her neck, "Wh-What I am going to tell Mercy if Bookworm-... if s-something happens to-... if I let something h-happen to our daughter..." "No no, none of that," Crumble Pie softly squeezed him. "We're still looking. Stony Nook hasn't ever lost a foal as far as I've heard, and I know plain as pyrite that we're not starting now, you hear me?" A faint squeeze came back to her, but she heard him lament, "She m-may have b-been right..." "Hm?" "Mercy Mild. She-, she may h-have been right. That-... that we weren't fit to be parents..." Crumble Pie didn't bother counting the minutes. She let the powerless father have all the time he wanted clutching her while treading unevenly back and forth between his harsher sobs and quieter sighs. It was safe to give him a sorry reprieve: she was convinced that the wall could be completed without him now. He had done enough to speed the construction along for everypony else to finish. Stony Nook would be secure. With her friend embraced, the gray mare listened to the townsponies as they worked away: shouting, pounding, checking, chanting. She watched them: hauling, hoisting, sweating, swarming. Her eyes moved to the Pearl Peaks far off over the horizon. Their mighty arms were up and open, ready to catch the sun as it began the last leg of its daily journey. The blue sky hadn't yet begun to tire, not even showing the secretest hints of purple, but it wasn't going to be long. Soon, Celestia's day was going to fade, and the world would be prison to Nightmare Moon's unguarded night. It was up in the mellow sky starved of clouds that Crumble Pie spotted Hailstone. The lone pegasus was soaring her way back to Stony Nook from the west. Scrolldozer must have sensed it too; he peeled himself off of the gray mare in order to take a look. Whatever little hope was in him tried to outshine his grief but quickly flickered out upon seeing just one pony in the sky; half a dozen had gone off to search for Bookworm. Crumble Pie waved Hailstone down as the latter approached, and the pegasus landed before the gray mare and Scrolldozer. She folded her wings, silent and somber with no happy news. "Well... anything?" Crumble Pie was already reluctant to ask. Hailstone took a deep breath and then painted herself as optimistically as she could. "We, uh, haven't found her yet," she stuck as much hope as she could onto the last word. "The others are still looking; I just wanted to report back and let you know how it's going." "And?" asked Crumble Pie. "Well... on the plus side, nopony has found a single sign of that monster running around out there. I mean, except for the busted wagon from days ago. But... no sign of Bookworm, either. Her trail goes to the wagon, but after that... no idea. We're spreading out and trying to cover as much ground as we can in all directions. Though, I mean... um... there's a lot of ground to go over..." "Right...," the gray mare nodded sorely. She looked at Scrolldozer. His ears were limp but listening. "There is one thing," Hailstone piped up. "I mean this is just a guess, but... from the looks of it, anyway... I think Bookworm may have actually caught up to that guy. That crazy stranger." Scrolldozer stirred, just barely. Crumble Pie tried to sound encouraging. "Well that's good news, right? She's not alone?" "Yeah, maybe," Hailstone struggled to agree. It drew a frustrated stare from her boss, who said, "Don't forget he jumped in the way to save me." The others might have pictured the moment where the stranger had tackled the heckhound, spoiling the monster's attack on Crumble Pie. But Crumble Pie more specifically recalled when the stranger had selflessly placed himself between her and the dangerous beast after the hound had risen again, more bloodthirsty than ever. "Right, well," Hailstone ungraciously brushed past the stranger's suicidal heroics, "that weirdo's out there hunting the beast, remember? And if he's found Bookworm, it doesn't look like he's stopping his dumb hunt to bring her back." Crumble Pie's glare turned even more irked, and the terrible leer actually enough weight to slap some sensitive manners into the pegasus. "Uh, sorry," Hailstone apologized to Scrolldozer. The father mustered an indistinct, feeble acknowledgment. Crumble Pie asked the pegasus, "Is that all then?" "Yeah," Hailstone said. However, an evening shadow fell over her. "Crumble Pie," she restlessly warned, "the day's dragging on. Thing'll dim before too long, and—" "I know." "—that'll make searching much hard. And—" "I know." "—once the sun is gone, then there's no chance that we'll be able to-" "I know!" The gray mare sealed her eyes shut for a moment, regretting her minor outburst, but she had to have muzzled Hailstone somehow. She felt more of Scrolldozer's weight drop onto her again. "Look. Hailstone," Crumble Pie laced her tone with apology but otherwise directly commanded, "the wall's coming along pretty good here, so why don't you round up two or three extra pegasi to help search. Keep looking with everything you got." "Right." Hailstone bowed her head and then readied her wings, but she stopped just short of taking off. Turning an apprehensive look towards the gray mare, she cautiously asked, "And... if it gets dark, and we still haven't found her?" Crumble Pie's breath held frozen. Just once, she slowly swallowed. "... Then you come back here." A mangled, bereaved gasp came from Scrolldozer. They both heard him muffle his further sobs. The gray mare continued, "You come back here and pick up the search immediately first light tomorrow. Got it?" "Gotcha," Hailstone said quietly. Another time she readied her wings, and another time she halted. She darted instead to Scrolldozer's side and caught him in a fast hug of her own. "Gonna find her for you, pal." The father only trembled and cried softly as he touched his head to her in thanks. At last Hailstone rose up, and she zipped over to the largest cluster of ponies, seeking a few extra wings. Crumble Pie refastened her hug around Scrolldozer, and she once again guided his head to her welcoming shoulder. He wept into it, and she laid her own cheek delicately against his.