The Age of Wings and Steel

by DSNesmith

15. The Pegacorn's Choice

“Rye, I think it’s time we stopped for the night.” Cranberry sounded exhausted. Rye’s pace slowed to a stop as he looked back at her and Inger. The two of them looked ragged, panting heavily and sweating.

Rye, though, felt fantastic, almost hyper. He was radiating energy, quite literally. His horn was now so bright that it hurt to look directly at. He shrugged amiably. “If you say so. I’m good for another few miles but if you two want to rest…”

“Rest sounds nice,” said Cranberry with a dull expression. She fell to the road and curled up, not even bothering with the tent. Soon her chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Inger made a valiant attempt to stay awake. “I should… take the first watch…”

“Don’t worry about it, Inger,” Rye chirped. “I’ll take care of it. You need your beauty sleep, after all.”

The pegasus mumbled something and shook his head, but he too slowly sank to the ground and closed his eyes. Within seconds he was out cold, leaving Rye alone in the forest.

He pranced around the sleeping bodies of his companions, letting his horn’s light extinguish. He’d never felt so… alive. This forest was the most wonderful place he’d ever been. He felt like he could go for days without sleeping. He didn’t even have to reach out for the magic now; it just bubbled constantly around him like boiling water. It was the best feeling in the world.

Rye looked down at the two sleeping ponies, and a grin flashed onto his face. They hadn’t seen a single living creature all day long. It was pretty obvious that nothing lived in this forest. They’d be fine without him for a few minutes… or hours. He dropped his saddlebags and removed his cloak, setting them down in a pile. He trotted off into the trees to find someplace to experiment with this newfound gift.

The minutes passed as the trees lit up with the colors of magic. Spells flew haphazardly around while Rye let his imagination run wild. All he had to do was visualize the magic, let the current surge through his horn, and watch as his thoughts became reality. He spun in a dance, sending rocks and bushes twirling around him like ballerinas. Trails of fire, green and blue and orange, snaked through the air in intertwining rings and symbols.

He imagined a loaf of bread, fresh from the ovens, and with a pop! it appeared before him. Rye smiled and took a bite. He munched on it for a few seconds, but then his mouth scrunched up. He gagged, spitting it back out. Rye quickly took a bite of grass, trying to clear the foul taste away. I guess dad was right. Even unicorns need good cooks.

Well, the rules still applied; magical food tasted pretty terrible. But he could do just about anything else. Rye looked at one of the trees beside him and thought fire, and it burst instantly into flame. He stared at the crackling blaze for a moment, before concentrating again. The fire vanished in a moment, with a gratifying whuff.

Though the fire was gone, the heat remained. The heat of the magic. He rolled onto his back, kicking the air, letting the warmth of it surround him. The magic surged through his body with a joyous force, a feeling of happiness so intense he could not contain it. Was this how normal unicorns felt all the time? Somehow he didn’t think so.

He wished his father were here. Rye was finally doing magic, after years of fruitless attempts, and he wanted his father to see all the disappointment pay off at last. For a moment he considered trying to summon his father with the magic, but he dismissed the idea. That kind of spell was far too dangerous to attempt without a great deal of practice.

But he would only get that practice if he stayed here…

Rye stood, feeling the air seethe around him. It was magnificent. He felt, for the first time in his life, not weak and small, but powerful. He was almost giddy with the sensation, feeling lighter than air. It was like he was flying.

He froze. It hadn’t even occurred to him before now. Could he possibly do it? Now that the idea had taken root in his mind, he had to try. He spread his tiny wings, looking at them for the first time in a long while. They were still too short, too wispy, his feathers rugged and tattered. He flapped them once, experimentally.

His mother had described flight to him countless times in his youth, before the extent of his condition had revealed itself. He’d never forgotten her words, though he was certain she wished he had.

“What’s it like, mom?”

“It’s the best feeling in the world, Rye. The open sky, the plains, spreading out beneath your hooves, the mountains in the distance peering over the horizon—it’s like you’re standing on top of the world, skimming around it at will. You feel like you can reach up and touch the stars, or feel the heat of the sun on your face as you leave the world behind you. You’ll see it for yourself someday, Rye. I promise.”

But that was a promise she couldn’t keep. By the time they’d realized he was never going to be able to fly, he’d been too heavy to ride on her back long enough to fly the way she’d described. Flight had become something to experience in dreams. He’d resigned himself to never soar through the sky like he deserved.

A little voice inside his head whispered to him, Deserved? And when did flying become a right?

When he was born with wings, that was when. It felt like he’d been robbed of his birthright. His mother was the most famous flier in the country, perhaps the world, and he… well, the closest he’d ever come to getting airborne was when he was a foal, the time he’d nearly broken his legs jumping off the bakery roof. At least that had been an accident. The other time he’d tried to take a dive like that, three years ago… The memories, long suppressed in the darker corners of his mind, came unbidden.

He stood on the stairs leading up to the castle. He hadn’t walked to the gates tonight, only halfway up the mountainside. It was a chilly night, but he wasn’t wearing a cloak. The steps were coated with a thin layer of snow, but the air was clear and crisp. He stared over the edge at the town below. He fancied he could see the bakery from here, but the snowcapped roofs all looked alike.

“Rye? What are you doing up here? It’s getting dark.”

He groaned internally. Cranberry was the last pony he’d wanted to run into tonight. “Go away.”

“You shouldn’t be out on the mountain by yourself, Rye. The stairs get so slippery in the winter.” Cranberry’s hooves clopped on the stone as she climbed up to approach him.

“I’m fine. Go away.”

“Rye… is this about the officers’ corps?”

“No. Yes.” He sighed. “They rejected my application.”

“Well a lot of ponies try to get into the training program, loads of them are bound to get rejected—”

“Do loads of them get their letters sent back unopened?” He snorted. “I shouldn’t have delivered it in person.”

“Well, you could always ask your mother to—”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m not going to ride into my career on her name.”

“Well, I can respect that. Let’s go back home. I’m freezing out here.” Cranberry stamped her hooves, shivering.

“Go on, then. I’m fine.”

“What, go back without you? My sister and your parents would kill me. Come on, let’s go already. I hate it up here. You know I don’t like heights.”

“Ah,” he said. “So my parents put you up to this.” He nudged a pebble with his hoof, watching it tumble off the side of the mountain. “Wouldn’t want little Rye to hurt himself.”

“Rye, you’re acting funny. And not 'ha-ha' funny. What’s really going on here?”

He looked at her angrily. “It’s always the same. It doesn’t matter if it’s the officers’ corps, or the merchants in the marketplace, or even the stupid bookkeeper at that library you like so much. They take one look at me and hate me.”

Cranberry frowned. “I know for a fact that the bookkeeper doesn’t hate you. As for the others… it’s not hate, Rye. They’re just scared of the unknown.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one that has to look at this,” he said with a flap of his wings, “in the mirror every day.”

“So that’s what’s bothering you? You’re just mad about having gimpy wings?” Cranberry sounded scornful.

“I’m never going to fly. I’m never going to do magic. I’ll never be like my parents, never exceed anypony’s abysmally low expectations. I’m a cripple.”

“Well,” said Cranberry tartly, “As somepony who won’t ever fly or do magic, let me tell you, it’s not as bad as you seem to think.”

“You don’t understa—”

“I understand plenty, you whining git.” Rye looked up in surprise. “I know it hurts when they stare at you. I know you feel terrible when somepony treats you like a… a…”

“A freak.” He spat bitterly.

“I know you think it’s unfair. Well, Rye, guess what? Life isn’t fair. I think I know more about that than you do.”

He jolted guiltily. “Cranberry, I’m sorry… I didn’t…”

“Listen to me, Rye. You’ve got two options. You can stay up here and try to drown yourself in pity, or you can pull your head out of your ass and move on with your life. It won’t be easy. It’ll hurt. But I’ll help. That’s what friends are for.” She smiled at him. “I’m not going to abandon you. I’m not going to let you make me.”

He looked back down over the drop. A sense of shame washed over him. Taking that dive wouldn’t be a merciful relief. It would be… selfish. “I… Cranberry…”

“Come on, you idiot,” she said, still smiling, as she wrapped a leg around his neck and pulled him down the steps. “Let’s go back to the bakery.”

After that, he’d allowed himself to exploit his mother’s name just enough to get him a chance to enter the officer’s corps. A tiny bit of nepotism to allow him to begin his career fairly… of course, then he’d blown his chance on that field. He sighed.

He’d since learned to replace the feelings of resentment at his situation with a drive to do better, to prove himself, but he had never lost his desire to fly. He still dreamed of it, still wanted to feel the tips of his hooves drag through the clouds, to let the sun bathe his face, to reach out for the stars.

The magic thrummed around him. Now is your chance, it whispered. Be what you were meant to be.

He closed his eyes and opened himself like a floodgate, letting the magic burst through him like water breaking through a dam. It was in his hooves, in his ears, in his head, in his heart. It was in his horn. It was in his wings.

Rye braced his back legs and jumped into the air, flapping his wings mightily. His momentum carried him a half-meter in the air before he fell to the ground. He stood, feeling the magic bubbling up inside him, and jumped again. This time he reached the lowest of the branches above him before coming back to earth.

Gritting his teeth, Rye let go completely. The magic rushed in to fill his mind, wiping out all thought. He jumped into the air—flew into the air—and then he was gone, up and away, into the trees. He crashed through the branches and the leaves, shielding his face from the painful blows. At last he burst through the canopy, soaring upwards into the night sky.

When he came to a stop at last, he surveyed the trees of the Antlerwood with delight. They spread out in all directions without end. To the north, he could see the mountains standing tall, but east, west, and south were all covered with green. He flapped his wings and felt himself accelerate up. He spun around in midair, laughing. It was as amazing as he’d ever dreamed.

Rye flew up, toward the overcast sky. He plunged into the bottom of the clouds, zipping higher as moisture condensed on his wings. He flapped them vigorously, letting himself imagine it was they, not the magic, that were holding him aloft. He burst out of the top of the cloud, opening his eyes and feeling his breath sucked away as he saw the night sky spread out before him.

He’d never seen anything so beautiful before. There were no city lights here to block it out, and precious little atmosphere between him and the tiny pinpricks of light above. Vast swathes of milky white stretched across the sky, and spots of red and blue faintly glowed in the endless tracks of stars.

Rye fell down onto the cloud, landing on his back. He wouldn’t fall through unless he wanted to—one of the perks of having a pegasus for a mother. Instead, he lay there, staring up at the sky. The moon was high above, a little more than half full, now. The mare was just barely visible, her malevolent gaze piercing down to the Earth below.

Rolling over onto his stomach, Rye stood. Here, he felt more in touch with the magic than ever. It was inside every part of him, now. He drank deeply of it, feeling the flames pour into his mind. He was finally what he had always been meant to be. A truly perfect creature, a combination of the strengths of all the races of pony, an alicorn. This must be what the gods feel like. It was perfection. It was bliss. It was incomparable. It was right.

It was temporary.

The worries he’d been studiously avoiding since he had entered the Antlerwood now demanded to be heard. The quest he was on would soon carry him away from this forest, and the magic that had made him whole. Rye paced, deep in thought.

Many who go in never come out again, Inger had said. And now, Rye understood why. The very thought of leaving this place seemed blasphemous to him. But he couldn’t stay. The Princess was counting on him.

But did he have to deliver the treaties to the thanes? Inger had made it plain from the start that he would prefer to go alone. Rye felt fury burn inside him again. Fine. He’d let the Firewing have his wish, and good riddance.

Why are you so angry? asked the little voice.

Rye struggled to answer. Inger had been a colossal prick for the last week and a half, he was fully entitled to be angry—

That’s just his personality. You’ve dealt with worse and laughed it off. Face it, Rye, this place is affecting more than just your magic.

He shook his head to shut out the insistent whisper. His thoughts, and his emotions, were his own. He turned back to the problem before him. He would let Inger take the treaties to Sleipnord, he decided. The Firewing would be happy, at least. It wasn’t like he had helped Inger much so far anyway.

Cranberry was another matter. He knew she would be disappointed, but there was no way that she could truly understand what this place was, what it allowed him to be. Outside the forest, he was drifting through his life, but in here, he had a future. He wasn’t sure she’d accept that explanation, but he couldn’t find the words for a better one.

But whatever his companions said, he was staying in this forest. There were plenty of edible plants below, and the water from the clouds could keep him hydrated. He could remain here forever, exploring the magic. Being what he had always been meant to be. Flying.

You can’t fly, said the little voice.

Ridiculous. He was standing on a cloud hundreds of meters above the treetops. If this wasn’t flying, what was?

Oh, you’re in the air, all right, but you’re not flying. It’s just magic holding you up.

Well… it was his magic keeping him up, wasn’t it? There was no difference.

It’s not your magic.

It might as well be. And it felt so good to tap into that hot current of power.

Seductively good.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, shivering.

Are you wielding it? Or is it wielding you?

Rye scowled. He was fully in control of his new powers. He twisted his head and fired a bolt of lightning from his horn, flying into the cloud beside him. It exploded into steam. He smiled proudly. Could he have done that without control?

But why do it at all?

Rye blinked away a bead of sweat. Suddenly he wanted to be far away from this cloud, from this spot. He wanted to be back inside the trees, where he would be safe from that maddening little voice.

Diving into the clouds, he plummeted out of the bottom and toward the ground below. He located the spot he’d come from easily enough, finding the hole he’d ripped through the branches. He landed beneath the canopy once more, feeling the comforting shield of the forest all around him.

As he walked back to the road, he prepared his excuses—no, his explanations. “Cranberry, Inger, I think I’ve been slowing you down. It wouldn’t be fair to you two to have to carry my weight all the way through Sleipnord and back…”

He felt the cobblestones under his hooves. “We’re not moving fast enough, the griffons might attack at any moment. Inger, I think you should take the treaties and go on ahead…” At last, he reached the area where Cranberry and Inger had lain. He ignited his horn, the blazing beacon revealing trees and the stark white road.

Inger and Cranberry were nowhere to be seen. Had he missed them in the dark? Rye gave an irritated grunt. Now he’d have to go walking up the path and hope he ran into them—

Lying in the middle of the road was a pile of brown cloth. Rye approached warily. He discovered it was his cloak and saddlebags, lying right where he’d left them. He slid the saddlebags on, delighted. Inger and Cranberry must have decided to go on without him. He wouldn’t have to say goodbye after all.

He turned to walk off into the forest, beginning his new life by finding a glade or a clearing to call home, when suddenly he again remembered that night so many years ago.

“I’m not going to abandon you. I’m not going to let you make me.”

Cranberry would never have left him in this forest. Maybe they’d woken up, and gone searching for him. But… Rye checked his bags. The treaties were still safe and sound inside. Inger would never have left these lying on the forest floor unprotected. Something’s wrong. A sick feeling crept into his gut. He held himself motionless, trying to think.

There was a faint sound, like the chittering of nails tapping on rock. Rye froze, and extinguished his light. The sound came again, accompanied by others just like it. He began creeping toward them, not daring any light. He felt his way through the trees, listening to the sound grow louder and louder as he approached. At last whatever was making the sounds was near enough to see. Rye lit his horn dimly, letting the faint orange light wash over the scene before him.

Cranberry and Inger were lying motionless on the ground, with ruined book pages and supplies strewn all around them. But they were not alone. Surrounding them were a group of… things. They were massive shelled creatures, their long carapaces gleaming faintly in the light of his horn. They were segmented like centipedes, but Rye had never heard of one growing to such a size. Some of them looked almost two meters long. They all had waving antennae, and dozens—perhaps hundreds—of quivering legs that clawed at the air and the comatose ponies.

Their shells dripped with a vile, amber-colored ichor. The creatures were covering Inger and Cranberry with the stuff, using their forelegs to mold it around them like a cocoon. He watched for a moment, aghast. He stepped forward into the clearing, letting his horn blaze fully. He stamped his hooves to the ground. The bug-creatures all paused their labor, twisting their heads and waving their antennae at him.

Rye flicked his head contemptuously and the nearest of the bugs burst into flame. It made a horrible screeeeeee! as it roasted inside its shell, twisting away and rolling on the ground. The other bugs recoiled for a moment. Rye looked around at them. There were only a dozen. He could easily handle them. The magic pulsed in his head.

Three of the bugs jumped him. He snapped his head at one and it, too, fell aside, blazing. The other two nearly reached him when they were smashed into each other like a hammer and anvil, their shells giving a sickly crack as they broke apart. Rye looked around for the others, and found that they had vanished. Along with Cranberry and Inger.

A flash of movement alerted him to their escape. He galloped after the bugs as quickly as his hooves would carry him. They were far ahead, but the light from his horn revealed their glistening carapaces in the dark forest. Rye jumped over roots, ducked under branches, and dodged rocks that seemed to spring out of the darkness to block his path. Despite carrying the weight of two fully-grown ponies, the bugs were fast.

Rye felt that they were moving northwest, but he couldn’t be sure. The chase continued for over half an hour, as he desperately tried to keep his friends in sight. They hadn’t been moving in the clearing, but he hadn’t looked closely enough to determine if the two of them were still breathing. He pressed on, willing his legs to move faster.

The distance began closing. He flicked his horn and send a ball of fire arcing toward the bugs. It caught one, and it fell backwards, sizzling. The others raced on ahead, crawling up a sudden sharp incline in the ground. They vanished over the side of a ledge.

Rye came to the top of the ridge and skidded to a halt. The ground before him was broken by a deep crevasse, extending down into the black depths of the unknown. The bugs had disappeared down the hole, along with his companions. He sent a ball of light from his horn that spun lazily down into the hole. The tunnel curved slightly off to the side, the drop turning into a slide. How far it went was anypony’s guess.

He stood motionless, paralyzed with indecision. Inger and Cranberry were gone. He couldn’t possibly hope to save them now. Those bugs had taken them Sisters-knew-where, and jumping into that hole was probably suicide.

So now it was up to him to get the treaties to Sleipnord. He swallowed. But the northlands were dangerous, and without Inger’s help he didn’t think he’d last long. The heat pulsed painfully in his head. Wait. Inger mentioned the tower guard, before. That was it! He’d take the treaties to the ponies of Middengard, and they would deliver Celestia’s plea to the thanes. And then he could return to the forest. The pain in his head eased.

He turned away from the hole, humming jauntily. It would only take him two days at most to reach the tower and return. Then he could get back to exploring the magic. He’d gone about ten meters when his hooves ground to a stop.

What the hell am I doing?

He looked back at the hole. Cranberry and Inger needed his help. He couldn’t just leave them… But his mission was more important. He had to get those treaties delivered. Rye gave a mournful sigh, and shook his head. He turned to continue, but his hooves didn’t move.

It’s so subtle. The little voice sounded sad. You’ve convinced yourself that you’re doing the right thing.

But he was! Even if he were to foolishly follow them into the abyss, how could he possible save them from those creatures without the forest’s magic? He needed it.

And your friends need you.

“Who are you?” he moaned, clutching his head.

I’m you, Rye. Have you forgotten who you are? Don’t let this place change you. Remember what the Princess said.

“Remember, Rye,” he echoed, “Your friends are your greatest strength.”

Your friends. Not this forest.

“Right…” he nodded slowly, wincing at the building pressure in his head. “Not the magic.” His head felt like it was on fire. The magic pulsed around him like a living thing, angrily batting at him. He knelt, cringing at the burning touch. He needed it. He couldn’t live without it. Without it, he was nothing, less than nothing. But in the forest he was a god.

Cranberry’s voice echoed through his thoughts.

“I’m not going to abandon you. I’m not going to let you make me. Come on, you idiot,” she said, still smiling, as she wrapped a leg around his neck and pulled him down the steps. “Let’s go back to the bakery.”

“Cranberry?”

“Yes, Rye?”

“Thank you. I won’t abandon you, either.”

He snapped his head up. The furious drums of the magic beat inside his head as he stood, stiffening. He felt for the current that lay beneath the flood, feeling the searing touch of the flame. Rye took a deep breath, and broke the contact.

It was like plunging into ice water. He gasped at the cold, falling sideways into a tree, where he slid to the ground. He lay there, gulping air, shaking like he’d been dunked into the northern sea. He felt hollow, like his vital organs had just been ripped out. It was a sucking cold, leeching all the warmth from his body and leaving him helpless on the ground.

The magic was gone. He was once again bereft of flight, of power, of life itself. He had nothing left… except a purpose. His friends needed him. “C-c-come on, R-Rye,” he stammered, his teeth chattering. “K-k-keep it t-together.”

Making sure his saddlebags were still secure, he crawled to the edge of the crevice. He looked over the edge and into the blackness. It offered no hints as to what lay beyond. Rye looked around at the trees of the Antlerwood one last time.

Come back, they seemed to whisper. Come back to us. Be who you are meant to be.

Rye’s lip stiffened. I am.

He jumped into the hole.

Comments

[Jake The Army Guy]

Two things:
1. This story is amazing.
2. This story has the most metal name of all time.

[PaulAsaran]

The flashbacks are more than just a little annoying. I've always considered them a very poor form of extrapolation.

Well, I find it interesting that you didn't abuse Cranberry's more literal presence to make Rye come to his senses. I liked that part. Having her and Inger taken away by the time he got back was wholly expected, however – right out of 'Fiction 101' – and this cave reeks of 'Solve the Forest.' Oh well, we shall see if you take this in a less obvious direction.

That's it for today. I shall resume the journey in the morning.

[Golden Fang Ryu Shenron]

Come on Rye, don’t give up! You’re friends need you!