Legal Ass-covery: I do not own, nor do I claim the rights to, MLP:FIM or any of its characters; those are owned wholly by Hasbro Inc. and Lauren Faust respectively. This fanfiction is not meant to produce any sort of profit for myself or anyone else, it is simply a fanfic
October 7th, 2013
The crisp fall wind plays a gentle, rhythmic melody through the needles and leaves, the sun laying warm across his back like a comforting hand, kicking back muted pinpoints of light from the mica flecked granite.
Ryan Williams leans against the rough rock outcropping, his eyes closed as he inhales deeply. The scent of the trees; pinion pine, juniper and the occasional rocky mountain maple, mixing with the comforting smell of the sagebrush and the sharp odor of the earth, all blending together to create a rich, nostalgic medley in his nostrils.
Exhaling he looks down to the cigarette smoldering between two fingers, listening to the surrounding bird song as he absently contemplates the ribbon of smoke rising lazily from its glowing end. This is a good place, one of the few that he has left, and he intends to soak it in as much as possible.
Taking a deep drag and exhaling slowly he looks out over the enclosing landscape. High up in the mountains, an azure sky arching over head, the few scattered clouds add to the serenity he feels as he sits and smokes. This canyon has been ‘his’ for as long as he can remember, discovered during one of his childhood explorations of the areas surrounding his grandfather’s house.
The canyon itself is rather on the small side. More of a deep, wide fissure in the mostly granite ridge that runs back and away from the property. The steep, almost vertical sides rise up a good fifteen feet at least, traveling in slightly crooked lines to meet at a point roughly one hundred yards away from the entrance.
At the apex of these lines is a small grove of birch trees. Or so he named it as a child. Grove, in retrospect, is actually too generous a word. It’s more of a small cluster. About a dozen or so of the narrow, pale white trunks standing proudly at the fissures tip, distinctive amidst the clumps of sagebrush dotting the mostly level ground back to where it breaks out of the side of the rocky embankment in a sixty foot gap. The pines and occasional oak line and fill out the flatter expanse atop the sides, adding their scent to the cool, clean air.
Butting out his smoke, he looks at its remains for a few moments before giving a slight shrug and lighting another. He has plenty of time for what he’s come here to do. You could say he has all the time in the world, and feels no rush. Having finally made his decision has brought on an almost fatalistic calm, and now that the moment is actually here he’s relaxed for the first time in months. He’s also sober for the first time in months. A conscious decision on his part. One, he feels, should be completely in control for something like this. You should be of clear mind, and of firm resolve. All of this he thinks as he stands up and begins walking towards the alabaster trunks ahead of him.
Stopping a few feet away he picks a clear spot in front of the copse and lowers himself to the ground, sitting Indian style and studiously ignoring the twinges from his right leg. Sighing as he settles he pulls a small automatic pistol from his waist band and places it on the loose dirt before him. Taking a final drag he exhales and looks up, the sky an almost denim blue as he takes in the vastness of it. With deep even breaths he focuses on natures melody; birds calling back and forth from the pines above. The furtive sounds of something small moving in the stunted brush that’s managed, somehow, to take a foot hold in the cramped real estate between the trunks of the birch trees. The wind sighing softly through his canyon, rattling the leaves and causing a few branches to rub against each other with a gentle scratching sound.
It is the music of his childhood, and the music is perfect.
Driving the butt of what is to be his final smoke into the dirt, he focuses down on the pistol before him, laying a hand almost kindly upon its cool steel frame. He thinks back to the road that has led him here, to his cherished childhood haunt one final time. A strange, almost surreal feeling has dropped over him as his mind’s eye travels backwards through the events of the last two years.
He sees his late wife Callie. A gorgeous, flame haired woman with a quick laugh and a ready smile, always a twinkle of mischief in her emerald green eyes. God she was beautiful, clad in denim and the dappled shadows cast by the maples as she moved across the quad with a purposeful stride. As if it was inconceivable that anything would dare to get in her way.
He sees her laughing on their first date. A beer in one hand and a pool cue in the other, chiding him good-naturedly about the ease of her victory, the battered jukebox in the corner grinding out an old rock song. Calling out a challenge as he lays down more quarters on the scuffed green felt of the table. Loser buys the next round.
Her eyes, large and glistening as she exclaims her affirmative. The small ring on her finger, the best he could afford at the time, glinting in the late afternoon sunlight as she leaps up, his arms encircling her as he kisses her deeply.
Radiant in her white gown, saying the correct words in response to the pastures question. His parents and hers applaud from the front row of seats as they kiss as husband and wife for the first time. He's still a little numb from all of the planning and preparations. Looking deeply into the limpid green pools of her eyes he feels all the tension and frustration and stress from the last six months flow away, like a rainstorm off a steep roof. They’re young, the ceremony went perfectly, and it dawns fully on him for the first time that they now have the rest of their lives together.
She’s standing in the bathroom doorway of their small one bedroom apartment wearing her favorite cream colored blouse, a kerchief holding her vibrant copper hair back from her face. He reclines back onto their bed, shirt unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, and she looks at him with a mixture of love and fear and happiness and apprehension. They still need to see a doctor to be sure, but the little stick says it’s positive. It’s positive and what do you think? Oh my God are we ready for this? Are we really ready?
The swirling shadows thrown off by the flashers of the emergency vehicles, chasing each other across the crazy zigzag patches of the cracked black asphalt like wild dogs in the night. Distant voices shouting to one another as the ambulance doors slam closed. The sound has a finality about it, echoing in his ears like the slamming of a coffin lid. The pain and disorientation and above all, the fear. Where were they? What’s happening? Where’s Callie? Is Callie alright? Oh God where’s my wife?
He breaths deeply as the memories wash over him, the sequence as familiar as an oft trod path, coming as always to its unalterable conclusion. He looks up at the sky again, heartbreaking in its beauty. He takes a deep breath, all the happy, comforting smells of a childhood spent in these mountains entering his being. The birds are still calling, conversing in their bright, clipped way. The pines up above sway gently, and in the small copse of birch trees some small creature is still moving about carefully in the brush, most certainly cautious in its movements due to his proximity. Tears have begun to run silently down his cheeks as he picks up the gun and closes his eyes.
It is a truth that when one sense shuts down your remaining senses compensate for the lack. As Ryan sits for slow minutes with his eyes closed, his left hand heavy with the cool weight of the pistol as he builds to his final act in this world, he notices that everything is sounding with a gradually building clarity. The movements of the trees are more defined, the needles and leaves making a soft chattering sound as they sough in the light breeze. The birds speak with an increased crispness to their notes, flitting amongst the branches. And, almost naggingly, the soft movement coming from the trees before him has become distractingly loud. It has also, he realizes, drawn closer to him. He tries to block it out. To focus on what he’s come here to do, but buried, primal instinct begins filling him with apprehension at the idea of something approaching unseen. Struggling with himself, his arm beginning to tremble with the weight he’s holding, simple human curiosity finally wins out and he opens his eyes.
Looking at the brush only a few feet in front of him he sees white fur peeking from between the interwoven tangle, and next to it a wide pink eye gazing out at him. Oddly just as he sees this eye, the creature seems to see his, and with a squeak of alarm it runs back towards the center of the copse, trailing the sound of breaking brush.
Blinking and shaking his head, Ryan looks at the gun in his hand, then back up. Deliberating for a moment before giving a shrug he flicks the safety back on and stuffs it in his front pocket. His curiosity is piqued by the strange behavior and, he thinks to himself, a few more minutes won’t make any difference. Not really. Rising a little unsteadily, the faint pins and needles running down the backs of his legs providing a counter point to the ever present twinge from his knee, Ryan cautiously approaches the foliage in front of him.
It’s composed mostly of scrub brush and weeds no taller than his knee, and though concealing it isn’t nearly as dense as it first appeared. As he begins to make his careful way through he hears another squeak and the sound of the small creature moving further inwards towards the intersection of the enclosing rock walls. Cocking his head to one side he notices that the sound of movement has changed, has in fact doubled, and now there seem to be two something’s struggling through the ground cover away from him.
He’s pretty confident that whatever they are, they aren’t dangerous. Most of the more threatening wild life in these parts are also aggressive, and would have turned to issue a challenge when he first began to approach. Guessing it's nothing more than a couple of rabbits, or maybe a pair of marmot, he begins to pick out their trail through the underbrush.
The sounds of movement have ceased as he reaches the back of the copse. Here where the granite sides of the canyon come together in a point is a clear space, a crooked triangle roughly six feet across on its bottom. Eyes adjusting to the relative dimness, it takes a moment before he sees the two huddling forms backed into the apex of the triangle, and Ryan believes that his initial assumption was right; it’s two rabbits, one black and one white. They’re a little difficult to make out, curled into tight balls hard against the rock, but that’s what they’d have to be. Watching the two animals for a moment he begins to doubt this conclusion as the white one raises its head to look at him with wide, fear filled eyes, before ducking back down with a high pitched cry.
They’re not rabbits. Going to one knee and squinting slightly, he studies the two animals, confusion replacing curiosity. At least the white one isn’t, it’s too big.
In the brief glimpse he had gotten of its terrified visage he hadn’t been able to make out any of the lagomorphic features he’s familiar with. It seemed to have more of a snout or muzzle. As his eyes adjust fully to the shadowed surroundings he begins to make the two forms out in greater detail. The larger one is a bright white, some sort of mane laying across its back in shades of pink. There is a similarly colored brush of a tail, now pulled in protectively around itself, and some sort of small mound on its side. It lies with its head buried in the side of the smaller black one that it’s partially curled around. Squinting further, he can see that the smaller one isn’t black at all, but rather a dark grayish purple. Almost an indigo. It too has some sort of mane, deep blue falling down one side. He can’t see a tail but assumes it to be the same color. More difficult to make out, this one seems to have some sort of lump on its side as well.
They look for all the world like small horses, or more precisely like foals, but not like any Ryan has ever seen. As his grandfather was a rancher for most of his life, he’s pretty confident that there are no horses anywhere in the world that look like this.
Beyond the odd coloration, they’re too small. The larger one is no bigger than a six month old black lab, and the smaller one is about half that size. He supposes they might be some exotic breed of miniature, but they don’t seem to have the blunt features usually found in such. They also seem to lack the characteristic rangy legs of new born foals, and even their behavior is off. A skittish colt, he knows from experience, will still try to bolt in any direction, even when backed into a corner. These two huddle on the ground shivering. His curiosity firmly engaged, Ryan kneels fully on the soft, aromatic bed of pine needles and decaying leaves, resting back on his heels as he observes the twin oddities four feet in front of him.
He doesn’t know how long he sits, calm and as motionless as possible, but his legs have begun to go slightly numb and his right knee has gone from warning twinges to a sullen mutter. If he keeps this up for much longer he won’t be able to walk on the damned thing by night fall; a thought he studiously shoves down as he simply watches the two forms before him. Their shuddering has mostly subsided, and several times the larger one has started to raise its head only to bury it again upon catching a glimpse of him. He’s not entirely certain, due to the angle and their relative positions, but he’s pretty sure the smaller one has peeked a few times as well.
They’re beginning to shift now, cautiously raising their heads to look at him, rose and teal eyes still fearful. Their eyes are large, much larger than they should be and oddly shaped. Definitely not those of any horse Ryan's ever seen, and it dawns on him how incredibly expressive their faces are, their caution and alertness easy to make out.
Slowly he reaches one hand into the pocket of his jacket, conscious of how their eyes follow the movement, and closes it on a half full bag of trail mix. The remnants of this morning’s breakfast. The crinkling of the plastic startles the two and they begin to tremble slightly, but he’s careful to only move his arm, slowly drawing the bag out and placing it on the ground. With equal care he holds it open with one hand and ever so cautiously reaches with his other, grabbing a large handful of nuts, dried fruits, and small chocolates. Leaning forward slightly and extending out as far from him as possible, he deposits the food on the ground.
The two look at the small pile then back up to him, and he’s amazed again to realize he can read the wariness and fear displayed by their body language right on their faces. Bending slightly and putting his hands low to the ground, trying to make himself as small as possible, he begins to shuffle backwards at a measured pace, uncooperative legs feeling awkward as he gives the two room. Feeling his foot bump up against the base of a tree he stops and rests back on his heels again, waiting to see what will happen next.
Returning its gaze to the offering the white one gets shakily to its feet, eyes snapping back onto Ryan as it stands. The smaller one looks from Ryan to its larger companion and then back again, anxiety in its blue green eyes. This tableau holds for a few moments before the bigger one begins slowly moving towards the trail mix, its rose colored gaze never leaving Ryan as he sits, open plastic bag on the ground by his knee.
It reaches the food and leans down to sniff at it daintily, never taking its eyes off him. His entire attention focused on the spectacle before him, Ryan sees its delicate nostrils flair as it takes a deeper breath, before darting down to take an improbably large mouthful, chewing with obvious enthusiasm. Finally swallowing she, for he’s certain now that they are both female, returns her gaze to him before dropping it down to the open cellophane bag sitting next to him.
With a strange look she walks up to him, stopping about a foot away. Her body tenses as Ryan slowly raises one hand, reaching out with his palm up. Taking a few more careful steps, she sniffs his fingers as the smaller one looks on with wide eyes from her position by the rock walls. Carefully drawing his hand back Ryan grabs another small palm full of the salty sweet treat and offers it out to her.
Nostrils once again flaring she devourers the morsels, her blush colored eyes returning to his face. Then startlingly she pushes into his hand, nuzzling his palm. Taken aback at this, Ryan sits motionless at first as she rubs her cheek against his hand. Finally coming back to himself, and taking care not to dispel the moment, he cradles her small head, bringing his other hand slowly over to brush her neck. She leans into him, and suddenly she’s lying against him, head cushioned on his lap as he strokes her back, her coat a velvety softness under his palms.
He gazes down in amazement at this small creature that’s now nestling into him like a lost and frightened child. Looking up he sees the smaller one has gained its feet and has approached to about half the distance between them, wide turquoise eyes watching the strange scene. Grabbing another handful of trail mix he reaches cautiously out, palm flat as he waits to see if she’ll come nearer.
With a hesitant manner she leans out and sniffs, before cleaning his hand of everything. The white one does a very curious thing then, something that Ryan will have call to remember later in his life. Lifting her head and standing up she trots over to her smaller companion and gives her what looks incredibly like a reassuring nuzzle, before returning to snuggle into his lap once more. The indigo foal, for that is what the two have to be regardless of their strangeness, looks wide eyed at the larger one before trotting over to copy her, leaning in against his leg and settling her head on the other side of his lap.
Now completely lost as to what in the hell is going on, Ryan finds himself stroking their necks as he quietly talks comforting nonsense to them. They are obviously scared and alone, and judging by the depleted bag of trail mix both very hungry. He holds his position for as long as he can before his numb legs and loudly complaining knee force him to resettle himself, both legs now stretched out in front of him as the two strangely built, oddly colored foals lay half on, half off of his lap with their eyes closed.
Sitting in the layered and gently shifting shadows of the trees, the cool firmness of the pistol jammed into his front pocket a stark contrast to the soft warmth of the two odd animals sleeping on him, he struggles with the situation, debating with himself about what he should do. He feels the resolve he started this day out with begin to falter, and he starts to wonder uncomfortably about his reasons for coming here this afternoon. He looks down in amazement again, and the languid breeze gusts momentarily, delivering its chill between the white trunks and causing the smaller one to shiver in her sleep, shifting her body into him more.
Contemplating the fragile creatures laying on him he quickly reaches a decision. He cannot simply leave them here, vulnerable and defenseless. He’s unsure of how much time he’s spent back here in the small copse of birch trees, but the sky has darkened noticeably, casting the already shadowed surroundings into a deeper gloom as the wind picks up, carrying with it masses of heavy looking grey clouds and causing the already brisk fall temperature to drop further.
Eyeing the changing weather, he concludes that he’s going to have to take them back to the house.
Shifting them gently off of his upper thighs, and being careful not to wake them, he folds his protesting legs underneath and comes to a somewhat wobbly crouch. Doffing his lined canvas coat he lays it out and, lifting first one and then the other, placing them side by side inside it on their backs. They kick a little, before settling back into slumber. Closing the jacket around them, he takes them in his arms and rises cautiously to his feet, legs feeling better despite his knee singing out in a strident, angry voice.
Glancing again at the darkening sky, he looks down at his bundle to see two sets of eyes blinking sleepily up at him. Making soothing sounds, arms straining a little at the combined weight, he begins the walk back to his truck, parked just outside the entrance of the canyon. Half way to it he sees by the light of the rapidly fading day that they have both fallen back into peaceful sleep.
Authors Notes:
This story was inspired by the beginning of The Rage of Two Sisters, by Ficklemetal. As I was working on the overall idea and plot, it was greatly encouraged by the release of RobCakeran53's My Little Dashie, and how well I thought it was done. It goes without saying (although I'm going to say it now) that the title of this story and its contents are not finalized, and as such are subject to change, most certainly at a whim and possibly without notice (although I'll probably give notice, because I don't like to be a dick unless it's funny).
On a final note, I'd like to thank Shuckle, at ponychan.net, for his assistance (and lavish, if undeserved praise). This is a brony who knows how to help you with your story, in all the ways that matter. Also I should mention that the picture associated with this story was done by Cartoonlion, and I thank her for her outstanding work in this regard. If you're thinking about commissioning a commission, then I'd commission one from this brony, it's well worth it.