//------------------------------// // Riposte II // Story: Wind and Stone // by Ruirik //------------------------------// Carver should have felt more comfortable. Nyx was the apprentice mason’s hometown, after all. Yet with the streets swarming with refugees and walking wounded, to say nothing of the perpetual stench of blood and death, the city felt nothing like the home that he had remembered. “It still doesn’t make sense to me,” Windshear complained for what Carver was sure was the twelfth or thirteenth time that day. Carver nodded, but remained tight-lipped on the matter. Instead he let his gaze drift upwards to the spotty clouds drifting high above Nyx. The wind was coming from the west, whistling through the town in fits and starts. A pony could walk for anything from a few seconds to a few minutes, however long it took them to get comfortable, and then it would hit them like a wall. Conversely it provided a sense of ease to Carver. Small, fast moving clouds were impossible to utilize for attacks. War Clouds were large, slow moving, and easily spotted on the horizon. At least that was what they had been taught at basic. Three days had passed since Haze had given him and Windshear their task: find Summer, and bring her to Iron Rain with an emphasis to do the job quietly. Why, Carver had no idea. To say that lack of information bothered him was an understatement. He was an architect, after all. The world could be understood like a building; something with a purpose. Purpose lead to plans, plans to action, action being construction or destruction. Plans left as little as possible to the unknown, and no plan began from unknowns or without a defined end goal. “I mean, she must’ve done something, right?” Windshear kept talking. “They wouldn’t just have us do this for no reason.” He glanced over to Carver. “Right?” “You said that about the ditches we had to dig at basic.” “There was a perfectly good reason for those.” Carver gave his friend an incredulous stare. Windshear smiled and made a shrug of his wings, the scales of his wingblades scraping at the sides of his armor. “Sure there was. Skyhammer was an asshole.” Carver made an amused snort. “Point to you, Wind.” The lanky stallion grinned, then straightened up his posture. Clearing his throat, he spoke with a deep growl. “Now you miserable greenwings listen up! You will go and die for your country, or I’ll kill you myself!” “You’re such an ass,” Carver said, trying and failing to suppress a grin. “Asses, greenwing, are for sitting!” Windshear imitated their dearly departed centurion. “You want hybrids using you for ass cushions? You’re soldiers of the legion, not ass cushions!” Carver shook his head with a bark of laughter. Sighing, he came to a stop and scratched at his nose with his fetlock. “We’ve been at this crap for days. Let’s take a break.” “If the boss asks, I’m telling her you made me do it.” Windshear lightly flicked his wingblades against Carver’s armor. “Come on, my family’s place isn’t too far from here. We can stop there for a rest and some lunch.” Windshear nodded, but raised an eyebrow in concern. “Do they have enough rations for that?” Carver’s ears folded back and a sheepish grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Well, my dad may have a few connections. Owning the largest quarry in Nyx has a perk or two.” “Why Carver,” Windshear teased his friend with a playful nudge. “You scallywag, you.” “That’s Centurion Scallywag to you, Windy.” Snickering, Windshear brought his wing up in a lazy salute. “Aye, Sir, Mr. Centurion Scallywag, Sir.” It was a short flight from where they were searching to Carver’s home, however he opted to take the longer walk. The same questions nibbled at the back of his mind, over and over again as they had all week long, growing more insistent by the day. It was enough to make Carver’s head want to burst. He needed to unwind for a little while, clear the noise that cluttered his mind. And, for Carver, nothing did that like some time with family. Through the crowded, winding streets of Nyx, he and Windshear made their way to his ancestral home. Located on the eastern edge of town with an unobstructed view of the Cirran heartland, the domus was one of the largest in Nyx. Standing at three stories tall, with marble walls and painted columns, it screamed of wealth, the likes of which Windshear had never personally known. “Hey, Carver, can I ask you something?” Windshear glanced over at the smaller stallion. “Yeah?” “Well...” Windshear paused for a moment, looking a little unsure if he wanted to voice his thought. He took a breath and bit back any reservations, then continued. “Look, you’re family is clearly wealthy. So why are you here? Why didn’t you buy a substitute?” “I wanted to,” Carver answered simply. “Father wouldn’t hear of it though.” Windshear nodded and left the topic alone. Substitutes were a proclivity of wealthy families. A parent sponsor or the son in question could offer a hefty sum of money in order to buy their way out of legion service by hiring a substitute. It was far from an honorable practice, but the governors generally liked the extra income it offered in hard times. It was also whispered about that the cleverer of political leaders liked it as a form of blackmail. Often were there rumors of noble families being pushed by certain powers to take public positions or divert their personal assets towards fighting against possible calls of dishonor or cowardice. Despite the fact that few pegasi outside of Nimbus cherished the idea of sending their sons or daughters to war, fewer still hailed the prospect of being publicly denounced as cowards or shirkers. Carver had been an exception, though: a staunch pacifist who had been quite open that he wanted no part of the war. He couldn’t have cared less what his family, Nyx, or Cirra at large thought about his indifference to Gryphus. All he wanted to do was study architecture, to become a great builder like his forefathers had been. The Gods had a bitter sense of humor, though, first taking his eye, then giving making him a Centurion after the greatest defeat in Cirran history at Nimbus. The Gods could keep their humor, Carver decided, and he walked faster to push the thoughts from his mind. Approaching the large redwood doors, Carver reached up with a hoof and knocked twice before entering. “Mother? Father? Mal?” He called out, his voice echoing through the opulently decorated foyer. He motioned for Windshear to follow as he walked inside, which Windshear did with a look that screamed of discomfort. Carver noticed and sighed. “Calm down, Wind. You’re a guest, not a sacrifice.” “Yeah, I’ll work on that,” Windshear muttered. “Not all of us are used to this.” “Well you’re gonna make me nervous if you keep it up. So relax.” “Carver?” A feminine voice called from the inner sanctum. A young mare with the same sandy blonde coat and brown mane of Carver’s waddled into the room. Her stomach was swollen as she was heavy with child, and her mane was long and haggard. She smiled and Carver moved quickly to embrace her with a hoof. “Mal,” he said warmly. “Should you be up and about so much?” “I’m pregnant, not crippled,” she answered him quickly. Looking past her little brother, she smiled to Windshear. “Your name was Windshear, right?” “Yes ma’am,” he answered with a smile. Mal nodded, then returned her attention to Carver. He saw the subtle shift of her expression; the way her eyes sparkled, yet her smile faltered. Carver found his wings sagging of their own accord, and he lowered his head, unable to look her in the eye. “I haven’t heard anything about Jury, Mal. I’m sorry.” Her smile faltered, but she nodded all the same. Carver hoped his own heartache didn’t show. His sister loved her husband and had been distraught when he was drafted. Carver had felt sorrow too. He liked Jury. The stallion was quiet, deliberative, and most importantly made his sister happy. “I’ll keep my ears open,” Carver said to cut through the silence that filled the room. “I promise, Mal, I’ll find out where he is.” She nodded once, more out of reflex than belief. “If you see your friend Summer again, would you mind having her stop over one more time?” Mal asked with drooping ears and a quiet voice. “I need to ask her for some more of that medicine she made for my back.” Carver’s heart skipped a beat. He nodded to her and offered a smile. “When I see her I’ll let her know. She’s been very busy though.” Mal turned to leave, motioning with a wing for Carver and Windshear to follow. “I think Father is in the drawing room. I’ll let him know you’re here. I suspect he would like to speak with you, little brother. Mother should be back later. She took Chisel, Caliper, and Quarry out to help the soldiers.” “I see.” Carver felt a sorrow fill him. He had hoped to spend some time with his brothers while he was home. When he spoke next his tone was laced thick with sarcasm. “I’ll wait here for father and try to contain my jubilance.” Chuckling softly, the mare excused herself from the room. Carver made his way over to the reflecting pool and sat down beside it. There he removed his wingblades and laid them out on the floor. Windshear did the same, though with the added noticeable sigh of relief at getting out of the weapons. “I gotta get those refitted,” Windshear said, prodding at the left wingblade with his hoof. “I think some of the scales got damaged at Nimbus. They’re pinching me everytime I move.” “Well get it looked at, then.” Carver flashed a playful grin. “Can’t have my meat shield going down that easy.” It was with an amused snort that Windshear elbowed Carver’s side. “You rich ponies, always letting us poor types get killed first.” Carver laughed, but it was only out of politeness.“You think Finder’s doing alright?” “Well, he’s alive, we know that.” Windshear shivered, his wings twitching anxiously. “You hear what that stallion said happened to him? Cloudburst I think his name was.” “Yeah.” “He’s definitely not doing alright,” Windshear continued, sliding down onto his side with his right hoof tracing lines across the surface of the reflecting pool. “But that kid is stubborn. I think he’ll pull through.” Nodding, Carver took a breath then started to preen his wings. Atrocities happened in war, this was a truth as old as time itself. Carver knew this, accepted this. He had tried to refuse service in the Legion as he wanted no part of it. “I should’ve told him to piss off and go home at Stratopolis.” Windshear’s hoof slipped around the back of Carver’s neck. Carver flinched at first before he relaxed. “It’s not your fault. It’s the hybrid bastards we killed. Got that?” “Yeah.” At that moment, an aging stallion with a pristine white coat and a short cropped mane of silver walked into the room. Golden jewelry decorated his neck and fetlocks. He carried himself like he was walking on the clouds of Stratopolis and stared down his nose at the two younger stallions in the room. Carver slipped out from Windshear’s hoof and stood to greet his father. “Father.” “Carver!” His father’s deep, boisterous tone filled the entire room. One would have been forgiven for thinking the old stallion had gotten lost on his way to rehearsal with a theatre troupe. “Good to see you well.” “You as well, Father.” Mason smiled, though somehow the gesture felt hollow. “You mother tells me you’ve made Centurion.” “Yes Father, at Nimbus.” “Hmm, I see.” Mason looked from Carver to Windshear, his lips pursed in thought. “Carver, fetch us some wine from the cellar. And you… Windshear, was it?” “Yes sir,” Windshear answered, standing up a bit straighter. “Come with me. We’ll have some food prepared and you can tell this old stallion all about the battle.” “Which wine would you like, Father?” Mason paused, his lips pursed in a thoughtful manner. “I think it’s time to open the 83 Imperial.” The aging stallion was quiet for a moment, then turned his attention to Carver. “Actually, son, fetch the 72.” Carver’s eyes grew wide for a moment and his jaw dropped. “The 72? I thought you were saving that for—“ “We have great reason to celebrate, son. When the Legion rallies and eradicates the Hybrids once and for all, Nimbus will need to be rebuilt.” Mason brimmed with glee, even allowing himself the smallest flit of his wings. “Our quarries are the only good source of granite and marble in this region.” He didn’t say more on the subject. Carver knew he wouldn’t. At least not as long as Windshear was within earshot. Carver only felt shame. “Father—“ “Fetch the wine, Carver.” Mason smiled politely. “Our guest must be thirsty.” “Yes, Father.” Mason nodded. “Come, Sir Windshear,” He saddled up alongside Windshear and draped a wing across his back. “Let us go and speak as stallions do.” Wind nodded on reflex, though the look he shot Carver was more akin to a stallion being led to his execution. Well, no, perhaps it was more apt to say that he looked as though he was being forced into marriage. Execution, after all, was quick. A short to long drop followed by a sudden stop. Marriage presented the charming option of decades of misery followed by the sweet release of death if one was lucky. Shaking his head, Carver couldn’t feel too badly for his friend. After all, his father’s company was infuriating, but hardly the end of the world. He made his way towards the center of the house where a heavy oak door was set into an orange stucco wall. Beyond the threshold was a flight of stairs leading into the dark cellars of his family estate. Lit only by row upon row of oil fueled candles, the old wooden stairwell creaked and groaned under his heavy steps. Humming as he walked down into the cellar, Carver paused at the bottom of the stairs to stretch out his wings. It was the first time in days he’d removed his wingblades for more than just sleeping. It surprised him just how off things felt without them on. His wings felt too light. Carver smirked to himself and shook his head. “Disgraceful,” he grumbled. The wine cellar of his father’s home was large even by the grandiose standards of the Nyxian aristocracy. Descending three flights of stairs, past the kitchens and servants quarters, he wound up in a dark tunnel dug into the earth. The walls were lined with heavy stone blocks, each one hoof carved by his great grandfather and his children. ‘And Gods know how many slaves’ Carver mused to himself. The family histories were full of soaring rhetoric and self-congratulation, but even a little bit of further reading or consultation with the city archivists revealed the truth. Griffon slaves had built his family's fortune. Ironic, really, that they should be the ones to tear it down if the momentum of the war continued. He sighed as he reached the landing to the wine cellar. Hard packed earth made the floor with the walls lined by individually carved and fitted stonework which were illuminated by a smattering of oil lanterns. No mortar was used in the construction, the creation of the binding agent had come after his grandfather’s passing. Still, the old stonework had no need for it. It was masterful craftsmanship, the like of which Carver longed to replicate one day. Wandering through the maze of wines, Carver soon found the bottle he was looking for. Or at least where it should have been. Several of the old bottles were gone with not so much as a spilled drop or lost cork to suggest where they had been taken. Carver scratched at his chin curiously only for a rough voice to startle him out of his thoughts. “Carver?” “Gods!” Carver startled, whirling to face the voice. There, hidden in the far corner of his family’s basement he saw a mare. She looked like Summer, but hardly the Summer he knew. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot, contrasting sharply with the vibrant green. Her white coat was filthy with what looked like rust or grime. Only once she stepped into the light could he see it was dried blood. “Gods, Summer, what—” Carver paused for a moment to collect himself, his shock giving way to relief, then anger. “Where the Hell have you been? What are you doing in my home?” “I killed them.” There was no emotion in her voice, anger, regret or otherwise. Only the cold fact of her admission and it made Carver’s blood freeze. “Cut their cocks off and fed them to the beasts.” “Killed them? I don’t understand, killed who?” She stepped closer to him and Carver stepped back. “The hybrids, who else?” Carver jumped when his hindquarters bumped into the wine shelf. He swallowed, his mouth feeling dry like he’d swallowed ash. The mare stalked towards him, her emerald eyes reflecting the orange flames dancing on their lantern wicks. The mare staggered towards him, a half drunk bottle held in her right wing. Her head was low and her eyes bore a dry pink hue. She mumbled, mostly to herself though sometimes to him. Carver didn’t understand a word of it, and squirmed against the wall he was backed into. “They deserved it, you know.” Summer put a hoof under his chin lifting his gaze up to her own. Her breath smelled of wine with small trails of reddish residue clinging to the white fur around the corners of her mouth and down her chin. “They deserved worse.” “I-I don’t—” Summer shushed his words with a hoof to Carver’s lips. “You didn’t see. You don’t know what they did. they deserved it.” “How…” He paused to swallow back the anxiety that seemed to ball in his throat. “How did you get past the guards?” Confusion twisted Summer’s expression for a moment before shifting to something different. He couldn’t place it at first. It wasn’t shame, Summer had a way of avoiding eye contact when she was ashamed of something. It was a tick he’d noticed soon after they had met. Granted, Summer rarely seemed to feel any sort of shame even when most would be drowning in the feeling. Instead the look was more pensive. Her lips made a taut, thin, line across her face bookended by the dimples of her round cheeks. “They shouldn’t have interfered.” Carver’s mouth hung open for a moment before it snapped closed. He felt a sudden rage overcome him, one that he focused solely on the mare skulking about in his cellar. “Are you insane?!” Carver demanded, conscious to keep his voice a low hiss. Summer looked insulted by the accusation. Her eyes were wide, then grew narrow, with that wild anger directed at the stallion. “ “It was justice!” “It was murder!” Summer spat, fury burning in those emerald orbs. “You call that murder? Justice is not murder. You know what was murder? What they did to Dawn, Snow, Lord Winter.” Summer gritted her teeth and stalked closer to Carver. She hooked her fetlock in the neck of his armor, pulling him uncomfortably close to her snout. “Was it not murder to butcher Steel?” The name didn’t register with Carver. He shoved Summer back and flared his wings reflexively. “And what about my family, Summer? Did you think of them before you hid out here!” “They have nothing to do with this.” Rare was the day that Carver raised his voice. He liked to think of himself as being a stallion with an even temper. Still, there were things that got under his skin, and fewer still that made his blood boil. His family, and their safety, was the only thing that would do it every time though. He grasped the neck of Summer’s filthy armor and hauled the smaller mare towards him with a strength he rarely displayed. Summer’s wings flapped in reflex while her hooves dug trenches in the packed dirt floor to no avail. Carver twisted her around then with a mighty shove put her back into the stone support wall. The armor clanged, the sound echoing in the wine cellar. Either out of surprise or a moment of clarity, Summer didn’t fight Carver, though she did brace her foreleg against his breastplate to keep him from getting too close. “You’re an idiot!” he spat.“What in Garuda’s name do you think is going to happen if anypony catches you down here, huh? Then it’s my family on the line! They’ll be accused of harboring a wanted mare. Do you know what the punishment for that is? Do you?!” Summer didn’t answer, merely looking at the floor like a scorned foal. The lack of response confused Carver. Slowly, breath by breath he regained his composure. He backed away from summer, letting her get back on her own footing. “I don’t know who you are anymore,” Carver said through heavy breaths. He shook his head, confused, upset, wounded even. “You’re no better than the monsters we’re fighting.” With that he turned on the spot and made for the stairs. He paused, remembering to grab a bottle of wine for his father and Windshear. Then he looked over his shoulder at her one last time. “If I find you down here again… I’ll kill you myself.” Carver disappeared up the stairs and Summer felt her heart break, as though crushed by icy talons. Everything felt so surreal, like it was a conversation spoken in a separate room. Through the rage, through the filth, through the hate, all she could feel was a strange, distant, swelling pain. Like an oncoming storm it steadily advanced towards her. She could see it coming. She could feel it coming. Yet there wasn’t a single thing she could do to avoid it. And when that storm hit, she felt every second of the terrible crush. From the bottom of her hooves to the very tips of her ears it encompassed her; consumed her. The primordial, anguished cry that escaped her was a sound none could describe. Two days later, Summer turned up at Iron Rain’s door to surrender herself with neither explanation or fight.