//------------------------------// // A Silent Sream // Story: Dolor // by The Whisper on the Wind //------------------------------// Two eyes of rich chestnut brown stared back at me as I looked into the still water of the beaver pond that I often frequent to quench my thirst and sate my appetite on the numerous wild plants that grow on its edge. Those eyes were seated in a face that was at once, both not my own, and yet also seemed to reveal my true self. Even if only slightly. There was a muzzle, and two ears erect on the top of my head that twitched and swiveled in tune with the sounds of nature that surrounded me. Beneath the whiskers and black button-like nose was a maw. A maw lined with the razor-sharp teeth of an apex predator, and was currently closed, the lips lying limp from lack of use. And all around was grey fur. Save for four spots. Starting from the corner of my eyes and ending just under my jaw, were bright, scarlet red lines that were eerily reminiscent of the pattern of a cheetah’s tear lines. If anyone where to look me in the face, I imagine they would think that I had somehow managed to weep tears of blood not two seconds before they saw me. To anyone who looked at me, crouched down on a bolder that jutted out over the water like the natural pier it was, they would probably mistake me for an abnormally large, yet average wolf. But wolves don’t stand on their hind legs. Wolves don’t have padded, leathery hands with retractable claws. And wolves certainly don’t have the ability to read, write, speak, or think in what can undisputedly be called true sentience and reason. But…those eyes. They were beautiful, physically speaking, no doubt about that. That wasn’t what had my attention at the moment, though. It was what was contained within them. It was a mixture of fear, hurt, and sorrow that once seen, you can never forget. It was the gaze of a soul that had no hope. No hope for the future. No hope for ever having friends. No hope for even finding the smallest scrap of love, even if only for a fleeting moment before it dissipated into the breeze. Forlorn, and soon to be forgotten entirely. Maybe that’s why I had those crimson streaks that made up part of my fur. It would make sense in a sick, twisted way. For them to be physical symbols of the hurt and darkness I had experienced in my previous life. And that gaze hasn’t changed once, in the hundred years I’ve been here. How do I know I’ve been here for a hundred years? I guess you could just chalk it up to instinct. I know I do. Taking a deep shuttering breath, I closed my eyes, tilted my head back to the heavens above, and opened them to gaze upon the stars. Ever since I came here, the night has offered me sanctuary, even if it did not offer me any peace. Unbidden but not unwelcome, hot tears soon leaked from my eyes, only to be absorbed by the fur surrounding them. Tilting my head down slightly, I drew in a ragged breath before lifting it up as far as it would go, and let loose a howl. I don’t remember my birth name, not since I first came to this world. But I have chosen another one. Dolor: The Latin word for sorrow. That is what I call myself now. For if there is such a thing as the physical embodiment of pain and suffering, there is not a shadow of a doubt in my mind that that is what I have become. And as my howl drew to a close, I collapsed, curled into a ball, and wept without restraint. I never really liked being out at night. It’s scary, it’s dark, and while the stars may be pretty to look at, the shadows always seem to hold some kind of monster waiting to pounce and eat me. No, I never liked being out at night. I’d much rather be in my bed with my pet rabbit Angel curled up next to me, reading a book about animals before calling the day done and over with and slipping off to sleep. But that wasn’t an option tonight, regardless of my own fears; the beavers that live in Whitetail Woods had come by my cottage just before evening in a panic. Once I had calmed them down, they explained to me as best they could that one of the kits who had become sick and I had been working on for the past few weeks had taken a sudden turn for the worse. With no time to waste, I gathered up as many supplies as I could carry, told Angel to mind the house, and rushed down to the lodge where the young kit was located, with the messengers waddling behind me as fast as they could. When I got there, the poor thing was shivering so badly that he looked almost like a rattle, and his fever was dangerously high. It took twenty minutes to calm his parents down and tell me all of the information I needed. And it took another three hours of touch and go for the fever to finally break. By the time the danger had passed, it was easily 11:30pm. They thanked me profusely for my aid and offered their lodge for the night, but I declined. For one, I had chores to attend to back at home when the morning came. And while I certainly care for my little animal friends, I didn’t look forward to spending a night in a beaver lodge constructed out of mud and sticks. So here I was, trotting around the lake with an otter for company, bound for the path that led back to my cottage. Everypony knows how safe Whitetail Woods are; at most, you might come across a coyote or a fox, but they rarely attack anypony, and when they do they never get very far. Readjusting my supply pack so that I didn’t bite into the space between my wings as hard, I found myself thinking of how nice it would be to soak and wash in a nice warm shower before bed. But that was before I heard it. I have heard wolves howl before, and I will never forget the predatory howls of Timberwolves. I know the howls that ask such things or make statements as ‘Where are you?’ ‘I have found prey!’ and ‘Intruders!’ just to name a few. But this howl didn’t have the instinctual, primal quality I had heard before. It was not loud in volume, but it carried far. To anypony else, it would have sounded like what could only be described as mournful resignation. And while I certainly heard that as well, there was something else in there. There was a statement. Not one of words, but one of emotion, raw and pure. One that despite the soft tone, screamed and bellowed far louder than the Royal Canterlot Voice ever could, and it could be summed up in a single word phrased as a question: ‘Why?’ And that whatever made that howl was close, very close. A large part of me wanted to bolt, to dash, to run and hide. But as that howl faded into the distance, I just knew I couldn’t do that. Whatever made that noise was feeling hurt, and a lot of it. My soft heart has gotten me into trouble in the past, but I made my way to where the sound came from regardless. Five minutes later of walking through the thick cattail that lined that particular part of the lake, I heard something. It was unusual, to be sure. It was an odd mixture of what I can only describe as the pained wining and whimpering of an injured or frightened dog, and occasionally punctuated by the soft sobbing of a pony. It was the single most heartbreaking thing I have ever heard. So heartbreaking, I soon found my own eyes growing wet, and a few tears flowed out before I could stem them. I never did like seeing others in pain, regardless of what kind they were experiencing. And before long, I surrendered to my instincts and burst out of the cattails to comfort whatever poor creature was reduced to such a state. What I saw on the end of a natural, rock pier, curled into a tight ball facing away from me, scared me. But only for a second. It was gigantic and thickly muscled, covered in a matted grey pelt and equally matted tail, and was one of the most pathetic things I had ever seen. I had found the source of the crying, if the shuddering frame and ragged, uneven breathing hadn’t already given it away. But before I could get any closer to the poor dear, it raised its head, wolfish ears tilted in my direction. And it then proceeded to face me. Sometimes that look in its face still haunts me. Sure enough, the face, like the ears was completely wolf like. The fur on the head was grey, like the rest of it, except for four bright, blood red lines that made its way from the corners of its eyes and ended at the bottom of its jaw. Those lines caught the light of the stars, giving the impression that they were still wet, almost as if its tears were made of blood. But that couldn’t be right. There were nothing but average tears in those rich chestnut brown eyes that it possessed. Wait, t-those eyes… “Dear Faust.” I swore under my breath with my voice cracking as I raised a forehoof to cover my mouth. I will never forget those eyes as long as I live. The hurt, the sadness, and the complete total lack of any happiness, joy or love. And it was the gaze of a pony that was waiting for death. To anypony else, that would have been all they would have seen. But not me. No, out of all of my friends, I am the most empathetic. There was something else in those eyes, hidden underneath all of the darkness and pain. And just like the howl I had heard, there was a statement. But it wasn’t a commanding statement; it was one of despair, and one of desperation. In fact it wasn’t a statement at all; it was a scream. As silent, powerful scream that if I listened closely enough, I swear that I could hear the words as clear as day. To me, those eyes said one thing: “Help me, please!” But when I took a step toward it, it suddenly and in one swift motion, leaped up, spun around, and planted all fours on the ground while facing me. Its expression didn’t change, and I idly noticed that it had hands on its forearms and traditional paws on its hind legs. If it was gigantic when lying down, curled up, it would be a behemoth when standing fully erect. If I had to take a guess, I would only come up to its knees if it stood on its hind legs. But before I could take another step, it turned tail and dove into the waters of the lake. Without thinking, I raced after it as well as I could with my supply pack weighing me down. But I was too late; the figure had disappeared into the depths. For a single moment, I wondered if it had committed itself to drowning. It was scarily plausible, as it was unthinkable. We ponies are very social, and suicides, although exceptionally rare, are not unheard of. In fact, whenever a pony commits suicide, it has a very powerful and negative effect on the community that they belonged to. In extreme cases, it can even cause the survivors to temporarily lose their inner harmony. As these thoughts went through my head, I felt my legs give out beneath me, and in a brief bout of panic, I peeked over the edge of the pier to look at my reflection. Sighing in relief when I saw that my mane was still pink and my coat was still canary yellow, I sat there for a minute trying to collect my thoughts. And then I heard a splash from across the lake. When I looked up, there was the creature, wet but none the worse for wear. Before I knew what I was doing, I had unslung my supply pack and attempted to spread my wings to take off after it. Only for my flight muscles to cramp up and for me to cry out in pain as a result. I must have been wearing that pack for too long. So as much as I hated to be grounded at that point in time, I knew there was nothing I could do but watch as the creature shook itself free of excess water and quickly run off into the woods, away from me. My name is Fluttershy, holder of The Element of Kindness, and what- no, whoever you are, I will answer your cry for help. And yet, against my will, a single tear of empathy leaked out from my right eye, and proceeded to drop into the water below. I knew it was only a matter of time before it happened. I knew it was only a matter of time before I would become known to the natives of this land. And I knew it would only be so long before word of my existence spread like wildfire, and hunters and the like would attempt to track me down to take my pelt and bones as a trophy. I knew of the town where that Pegasus mare lived near, I watched it grow from a single building to the respectably sized hamlet that it is to this day. And I knew how they reacted to outsiders. I saw it myself when that Zebra started showing up. I saw how they scrambled inside their homes to lock the doors and windows, and I saw how those six ponies organized their own personal witch-hunt and how the yellow one I just ran from joined in. It all worked out in the end for the better though. But if they were so judgmental toward what was in essence one of their own kin, what would they do to something that was even more alien? But I had stopped caring about things like that a long time ago. I had lost hope before I even came here, and as I stopped running when I reached one of my many dwellings scattered throughout the forest I called home, my thoughts turned back to that town. I will admit: I am not a brave man. But there were times when I became so emotionally weak, that I would forgo the deeper parts of the forest and sneak to the outskirts under the cover of night. All to look at that small town, to see if I could still feel anything even remotely related to happiness or comfort. And every time I leave before the sun starts rising, I still feel the crushing weight of my hurt bearing down on me, trying to erase me from all of existence. I attempted to chuckle, only for it to come out as a raspy, raw painful cough. Ignoring it as best I could, I settled down on the makeshift bedding of dried leaves and moss, feeling and yet at the same time not registering the uneven and painful surface. It didn’t need to be comfortable; it served its purpose in keeping me off of the ground. No, death didn’t scare me. If anything I felt relief that my time would soon be up. I wasn’t even afraid of the manner that they would chose to kill me in. No, what I was afraid of was what, if anything came after. The body can be easily destroyed, but the soul is far more resilient. Heaven, Hell? When I pass on, I hope there is an option to truly cease to exist. The last thing I would ever want is to continue, in any shape or form. It hurts too much. I just hope that when they kill me they will have the courtesy to burn my body until nothing remains, not even ash. A sickening thought if there ever was one. Not because of the cremation, but because my corpse would more than likely be paraded around by the hunters when they finally kill me. Even in this world, no living soul in their right mind would ever care about me. And those were my last thoughts and feelings before I drifted off into my nightly dose of dark, soulless dreams.