Singular Appellations
The horse had working hours.
A day of riding on the huge mare had shown him a few habits which his limited horse experience still insisted qualified as -- odd. All right, lying down to drink: that made perfect sense to him. This was the biggest horse in the world (until proven otherwise) and while everything was in proportion, that still didn't let her head comfortably approach the surface of the river they (she) had found on the lowest dip. Sure, some horses might just lean forward or kneel, but lying down -- that was fair. He'd certainly put his lips against the surface of the rushing stream in order to drink his fill -- upstream, as horse saliva had struck him as less-than-desirable flavoring.
So going prone to drink: sensible.
It was the toiletries which were giving him trouble.
At two points during the ride, both near a few of the scant trees and bushes which occasionally tried to stake out territory in the grasslands, the mare had slowed to a halt and then dropped to the ground, assuming the same posture she'd taken to allow his mounting. And she'd stayed there.
The first time it had happened, he'd assumed something was wrong and rather foolishly asked her what it was. After the idiocy of that struck him, he'd made his first silent guess: something had happened to the unshod hooves, and so he'd have to see what it was. A stone in a crack... that he might be able to deal with, although finding something to pry the pebble out with would take some hunting if the arrow shaft wasn't just the right thickness. Anything else and screaming to the sky for a vet wouldn't produce much in the way of results, but it might make him feel briefly better while doing nothing for her. Pulling the arrow out of his leg to use the head as the prying tool could do more as results went, with one of those being considerably more screaming.
Still, anything he might be able to try required inspection of the potentially-affected areas (and he had no idea how he was going to get at her hooves if she didn't let him: the mare outweighed him by more than he cared to think about and was stronger by more than that), so he'd painfully dismounted -- and she'd stood up and began to trot off.
He'd assumed she was abandoning him. He had called after her as he tried to limp in her wake -- and she'd turned her head. Glared at him. Snorted. And rather delicately stepped behind the little copse of trees, a leaf-and-bark shrouding which wasn't exactly enough to block all of her form, allowing him to see her expression at the same moment the wind changed...
On the second occasion, he'd just gotten off and, out of some misplaced wrong-species sense of courtesy, turned his back.
(And from that point on, found himself rather nonsensically going behind cover so as not to somehow offend the mare, excusing it as fair trade.)
He had no idea how that bit of training had been done, but assumed it had made the ladies of the house fairly happy.
They (she again) had found food: a group of huckleberry bushes. Nowhere near enough for her even if he picked all four clean (and he hand-fed her everything he could), but she occasionally slowed her trot to take in bits of grass along the way and the fruit would keep him for a day. There had been no signs of human habitation or passage, but they hadn't found any dangerous animals looking for a meal of mare and man: call it a no-score win, although he personally thought it would take a seriously deranged or impossibly hungry animal to consider taking this horse on. And in between meals and bathroom breaks, they'd covered ground. A lot of it. Even after he accounted for the extra amount of distance she was covering with those long legs, the mare's trotting pace seemed to be oddly fast. And on the few occasions when grasslands had given way to brief stretches of plains and she'd decided it was safe to break into a gallop without worrying about any unseen dangers lurking in a green sea...
The pain in his leg had faded for a while. The jolting to his spine had taken priority.
Huge. Fast. Healthy. Traveling for miles on what had felt like rationing portions. (He hadn't tried to give her directions: he didn't know where anything was and so any attempt to do anything other than guide her around hazards struck him as pointless, especially since she was doing all the work, hadn't wanted to stay right next to the river, and could presumably find it again anyway: they seldom left hearing distance of it after first sight.) There was every chance he was riding on the strongest horse in the world.
But...
...she was attentive.
If he spoke, remarked on some rare actual feature of the landscape, made human sounds just to hear a human voice in the emptiness, her ears always pivoted. She would often turn just enough to glance back at him. Neighs and nickers offered equine responses to biped commentary.
If his weight started to shift, she shifted right back at him until he was stabilized.
Every hour or so -- his best guess -- she would pause. Turn her head from left to right and back again, inspecting the terrain as she sniffed at the air in great gulps of the thin atmosphere. And then, satisfied (or not) by whatever she had (or hadn't) found, she would continue on her way.
But she had working hours. And as the sun had slowly dipped into the west, her pace had begun dropping to something a little more equine-normal. Then it had gone below that. And when the last of the sunlight had departed, replaced by a waxing (and oddly dim) moon, she had slowly stepped up to a small island of open dirt in the middle of the grass, a place which had been a former campsite: there was a fire pit ring of stones waiting in the center. And then she had settled into the soil and refused to move another step.
The mare was trained -- spectacularly so. Not just the best-trained horse he'd ever seen, but the best he'd ever heard of. Possibly the best anyone could ever dream of. And that could easily mean trouble -- because someone had trained her.
No brand, and he'd verified the yellow patches on her hips as being normal fur. No shoes, no saddle, no reins -- nothing which would indicate human ownership. But the signs were unmistakable. Someone had taught this incredible animal. A someone who hadn't been anywhere in the vicinity when he'd encountered her.
The odds were very good that this horse had been stolen. (He couldn't really picture any mare this well-trained as running away on her own.) She could have easily escaped her kidnappers, using their first mistake as her cue. Riding this mare against her will -- well, that would have been a mistake, and potentially a spectacular one which hopefully had a few witnesses for a death that interesting. After that... wandering free, perhaps trying to work her way back to her master -- owner -- human. But... stolen. And he had no proof that he owned her. It left him open to accusation. All someone had to do was call him the thief and he would have very few ways of proving differently, especially ones which would be listened to. What day was she stolen on? Well, I was four stops back then: would you care to buy the stagecoach ticket and ride with me so we can verify my alibi together? Of course not, because investigation was so much more work than guilt.
If the wrong person saw them... if the wrong words were said and found an eager audience which had been hopeful for any excuse...
There were phantom pains in his neck for a while, which also took his mind off his leg.
But there were still no people about. No true need to worry about that until some form of civilization appeared (although having a workable strategy for it wouldn't hurt, if any such plan could even exist). And she'd decided to stop for the night -- a decision his aching back, buttocks, both thighs (trying to squeeze a back that wide), and weary body were ready to agree with. So he dismounted and inspected the fire pit by scant moonlight, hoping for a small miracle. One he didn't receive.
"No flint that I can see," he told her. "No discarded matches, either." Red or white. Either way, he would have risked the phosphorous. "Don't give me any looks -- pretty much everything I brought with me either rode off with the Indians or the stagecoach, and you're not supposed to secure a firestarter for emergencies. And we're short on sticks. Even if I use one and get some tinder together... twirling with your hands hardly ever works, and I don't have any real string to use."
He glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, she was staring at him in an attentive sort of way. No real confusion at his words: more of a 'So get to the point.'
"But we need a fire," he continued. "I don't know what roams through the grass at night, but I'd rather not find out -- and it gives any people we might be lucky enough to have nearby something extra to see. This spot's big enough that I'm not going to worry about everything around us going up from a stray ember. It just means we -- I have to start one. And right now, my best option is looking for some old dead grass to use as a starter, followed by --" and he sighed "-- banging some rocks together and hoping something sparks..." Which were odds just about as bad as the ones of his ever having run across her in the first place.
Well, one miracle in a day didn't mean you weren't allowed two.
He searched the area by touch, found enough old stalks to give him some hope of tinder material and carefully arranged it around the bits of wood he'd scavenged throughout the day, filling pockets and hat with the stuff as a just-in-case -- then carefully picked up two random rocks and gave them a close inspection. Neither of them looked like flint.
As if I'd be able to tell what flint was outside a store anyway.
He shrugged, then held them next to his little starter pile and brought them together.
And there was a spark.
But it was a strange sort of spark. Instead of a flying crackle of high-speed red-and-yellow energy, it was a tiny point of light, floating down from the point of contact and hissing into the dead grass, where it created a tiny curl of smoke...
He blinked, partially turned to face the mare as if she would somehow have a reason for the oddity at hoof -- and she was not looking at him. She was staring over his shoulder, gaze fixed on the abandoned fire pit and nothing else. Her eyes refused to blink, her jaw seemed set with determination and for the first time since meeting her, he picked up a scent of sweat from her coat.
I didn't cool her down enough after traveling all day, it's catching up to her, it's like not starting to feel exhausted until you leave the fields and you're finally allowed to be tired without paying for it...
"Never seen a fire being started before?" He frowned at the rocks. "Maybe I haven't either. Not with these, anyway. Flint doesn't spark like that... so these aren't flint? I never heard about another rock that would do it, but..." He shrugged. "Okay, this is me not complaining about getting lucky." He turned back to face the small pit. "Let's try this again."
Another strike. Another one of those strange sparks. He got one or two for each ramming together of the stones, and slammed them against each other all the faster for it while he heard the breathing of his tired companion accelerate. And the curls continued to rise, developed glowing red edges which spread to the wood...
His miracle quota might not be full just yet.
He wondered how many more he was going to need.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The fire had to be kept small: he didn't have enough fuel for anything else and despite what he'd told the horse -- told the horse, his mother had always said he was a little too attached to the sound of his own voice for his own good -- he was still worried about winding up in the middle of a miles-wide blaze. But it provided light, and warmth against the encroaching June night which was losing heat a little too fast for his liking. The fire was an extra piece of company.
The mare, resting a few feet behind him while nibbling at the surrounding grass, occasionally turned to passively watch the wood burn. No fear of the flame -- but given the rest of her training, he hadn't expected any.
"You need a name." She blinked, turned to face him. "I know -- you already have one." Whatever her caretaker had granted. "But it's not like I have any idea what it is. If I'm going to keep talking to you, I can't just call you horse or mare or Giant White Bareback Pain --" and was caught by the odd look in her eyes. "-- okay, not that last. But you should at least have a name to borrow for a while until you can get back to your real one."
She whinnied softly, then tilted her head up and looked at the celestial wheel of the stars, gaze steady, ears relaxed, posture fully alert.
He followed her visual trajectory. "Pretty," he commented, then got back to the issue at hand. "A name..." Throwing 'giant' into it seemed somehow unfair. 'Bareback Pain' was accurate, but not her fault. 'Violet' for her eyes... that arguably worked, but something about it didn't feel right. If he was going to go for a physical feature...
Two yellow circle-splotches in her coat, one on each hip.
He grinned. "Sunbutt."
Up until that moment, he'd had no idea a horse could move its head that fast.
Her eyes wrenched away from the stars, her body twisted as her ears went all the way back, the muzzle came forward as the neck arched towards him, nose going directly for his chest --
-- and she easily, almost casually knocked him onto his back.
There was a snort. It had a somewhat disgruntled note to it. It was followed by the sound of movement -- and then nearly all of her considerable bulk was standing over him, with his body well between her legs and under the barrel with plenty of room to spare. His face, however, was beneath her gaze. She had held back from the complete overshadowing just enough to stare down at him, purple eyes half-narrowed.
"...is it something I said?" he asked both stars and mare: the former provided no answer, the latter pulled back her lips a little. "Come on, Sunbutt, maybe it's a name which would offend a delicate lady if there were any out here, and you might be a lady, but delicate..."
The resulting snort nearly put out the fire. And then she backed away from him and settled back into her spot near the grass border, her entire posture openly displaying the equine equivalent of a total snit.
He sat back up, looked at her for a while as her coat seemed to glow in the firelight. She refused to meet his eyes.
The stars moved. They tended to do that.
Finally, she tilted her head towards him, jerked it up and down once, made a snuffling sound.
"Sorry?" No, this level of Equine wasn't in his education, let alone what had happened a few minutes before.
She repeated the gesture, then added a lean-forward which had him scooting back until he was almost in the fire -- but she only poked his shoulder with her nuzzle.
He had no idea what any of it meant. But talking to the horse was better than the silence of the grasslands, and so he imagined her side of the conversation as something which had been on his mind for a long time anyway. "Oh -- my name?" And was surprised to find himself feeling embarrassed about it. "I'm -- kind of between names right now."
She stared at him, and he imagined her next whinny to have a question mark in it.
"Well... I had a name. But I didn't pick it." (Any irony about her not having picked the one he'd just handed out didn't reach him. After all, she was just a horse.) "And my parents didn't even get to give it to me. That's the usual way for most people, I know -- but not for mine. Not -- where I'm from. And I got sick of my name. I got sick of the way people said it, and the reasons, and -- the way they sounded when it came out of their mouths. So when I decided to come out here, I decided that when I reached the West -- I'd throw it away. Pick something new. Because a name isn't just something a person gives you, it's -- something you kind of have to feel, I guess. Like you need to have the name in your heart before you can get it in your head, and -- I'm talking to a horse. I'm going over this with a horse, I'm having a deep-down begging-for-a-beating talk with a horse..."
She closed her eyes, softly whinnied.
He sighed.
"Because there's no one else to talk to," he quietly finished. "So -- might as well, because there's no one here to call it strange, either. It's just that -- my old name was never really mine, and I thought I could just -- figure one out. And I was heading into Idaho Territory to start with, so even if I haven't gotten exactly where I wanted to go, I'm sort of in the place where I have to start thinking about it. It can be something I come up with, or something another person calls me which I actually want to hear... just as long as I get the choice... I know you don't understand any of this, all right? But -- at least you listen." He managed a smile. "You're a good listener, you know that?"
She seemed to nod, which was a fine imaginary contribution to the discussion and didn't put too much pressure on him to be witty.
Another sigh, and he looked down at the arrow. "I'm not sure how to sleep with this," he admitted. If he moved too much, jammed the shaft -- he was best off sleeping in a sitting position, but what was there to sit against? "I got knocked out just fine with it, but... you're good with words, but I hope you can handle screaming. Because this needs to come out. I wanted to give it a day in case we found someone who could do it better than me. I can give it a few more hours after sunrise, but I've already risked a lot by stalling and I can't chance much more. If we can't get to a homestead or town or anything by noon, then the first river stop we make after that, I've got to pull it. No choice."
Another equine nod, and he decided that for purposes of the non-discussion, she had a worried look.
"So that's the goal," he told her. "People by noon -- or I play barber on myself. And that's going to get loud..."
A soft neigh -- and then she got up, moved away from the grass, settled down next to him -- or rather, where he'd been, as he'd scrambled away from her moving body as another just-in-case.
He wondered what the equine version of a snicker was. And if that last sound had been it.
"Sunbutt?"
It could have been a yawn, something he hadn't known horses did. It could have been a sigh. And then she shifted a little more until her broad side was against his back.
In time, they both fell asleep that way, watched only by dimmed moon and disinterested stars.
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He's got his bootlaces, though, presumably. Not sure if they'd work, but it might be worth a try at least.
interesting so far
Did he notice the Horn and wings..... if she has any?
So, why isn't Celestia an Alicorn? This is interesting.
Please, please, continue.
4073920
I figured he was saving it for the next resort just so he could dodge:
A. Trying to work them out with a wounded leg, which could involve some awkward movement.
B. The risk of having them fray and break from the friction, leaving him stuck wounded, with no real supplies, and boots which keep falling off while trying to take all his money with them.
It's the West. You've got to keep an eye on your boots.
I genuinely can't recall the last Western I read on this site. If this is breaking new ground, you're setting the bar for future authors pretty damn high.
4074014
Not to mention boots in the west during the 19th century usually didn't have laces unless you worked in a brothel.
4074004
no wings or magic... that he can see.
the spark and fire suggest magic, as does the link between the sun and her stamina.
great start, wonder how long until we learn the guys name.
4074181
We have Appleloosa and the other desert settlements, but no Westerns?
...what?
Seriously: ....what?
4074008 Agreed, and my sentiments exactly. Why can't they speak the same language?
Or is Celestia deliberately holding back something?
4074293
Well, there are some Equestrian westerns, sure. Recently, for example, there's The Good, The Bad, and the Ponies (which I didn't read but remember seeing on EqD), but yours is the first one set in the American west I can recall.
4074362 My guess is that she's lost so much magic that she's basically just a regular horse at this point. Even her mane's gone bland. She did have enough magic to boost the sparks used to start that fire, though, and she's clearly of human-level intelligence, so there's that.
4074235
What Goki said. Having laces on your boots anywhere near a saddle was asking for trouble; no laces meant your foot could slide free if you fell, so you wouldn’t get dragged.
Well, that was the theory, at any rate.
So, this guy's been through the desert on a horse with no name?
*ducks incoming thrown objects*
I kid, I kid! Seriously though, this is a very interesting human/pony concept in my mind. I get the feeling that our human in this story is a freed slave. Mostly because of the comments about whips at the beginning of the first chapter, and the bit about names. It'll be interesting to see if my hunch turns out to be true.
Man, this is a great start. You're doing a really good job of showing that the main character is a former slave just through stray thoughts. Dates the piece pretty well, too--1875 or so? (EDIT: The description even says. Hurrrr. Oh well, only eight years off. Not too bad.) It feels like the narrator reached adulthood as a slave, but is still young enough to make a new life for himself out west.
I look forward to seeing where you're taking this. I can't think of what Celestia would be wanting that's due north of Idaho Territory. If I've dated it right (the date matters because by 1875, the Territory was basically what the state would become. Earlier, it included Montana and Wyoming. EDIT: So 1867, that's late enough that the borders of Idaho Territory are the present-day state of Idaho), it must be the Snake River plain they're on, which means they'll be coming to some pretty rugged mountains soon, if they continue north. They could have started on either side of the Snake itself, depending on where they are.
Look at me rambling along. I'm not a native, but I've visited quite a few times. It can be beautiful, if you're outdoorsy.
Surprisingly good.
4074526
The only other I know of is Dead-Eye Darling.
This is great. Please keep it up. I love this kind of story, humans and Equestrians interacting in thoughtful ways. The mysterious Celestia is icing on the cupcake. I'm following.
It's writers like you (and others who put their skill, time, and thought into their stories) that keep my own creative juices flowing as well. Makes the pony culture better for everyone in it.
Thank you.
Hi leg's totally infected by now. Just sayin.
4074815
You're right! That didn't even occur to me! 
inb4 the story follows the same thing and he winds up in the ocean.
But yes, I am quite enjoying this so far.
imageshack.com/a/img33/5764/likethischapter.jpg
4075527 Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
There's potential difficulty here with suspension of disbelief. She's nodding in response to questions, asking him questions of her own with body language, responding aggressively to unflattering names...how much of this would someone realistically ignore before beginning to ask if maybe she really does understand? He's already talking to her, he's already extending her human courtesy in toilet etiquette and he answered when she apparently asked or his name. If you want to maintain him not knowing she understands, you might want to more carefully monitor this. Because as it is, it can't be very much longer before he asks himself the question, then asks her if she understands him. To which she looks him in the eye and nods, and then the floodgate is open.
4075946 At the start of the story, he was already speculating that the injury has him ... shall we say, at less than 100% in control of his own mind. He may well accept that she is holding up her end of the conversation while also believing it's because he's going bonkers alone, lost, injured, and with little hope of finding civilization.
Eventually, he may also re-evaluate that stance. If he begins to do so after a solid week of back-and-forth, well, wouldn't that be interesting?
Intriguing start, and congrats on getting in the featured box
No other way to put this:
warosu.org/data/tg/img/0270/96/1378629710029.jpg
Alright, I'm in. This is certainly interesting enough, I am curious where this goes.
Ah, so she's a solar-powered horse!
Celly's reaction to being called "Sunbutt" was hilarious.
4076696
what he said.
So that's why I keep finding money on these dead bodies in video games... Still doesn't explain the mana potions or missiles.
developing
Celestia is now literal mud ponee.
4074559 It's possible her mane is a bland Pink, but caked with so much dirt it's become a brown.
Or maybe her mane is pastel rainbow colored, but dulled by lack of magic, and again, caked with so much dirt.
About time we had a good western on this site! And by good, I mean the bar is so high giraffes could do the limbo with it.
I love your premise. It is simply, AMAZING.
If you can manage to keep characterization as good as it is for the entirety of the fic.... Something amazing has just been born..
I can see the string of western based fics now...
I read this at the recommendation of John Perry's latest blog post, and was just as pleasantly surprised as I think he was. It's definitely a nice use of the premise, a genre that isn't done often, and I like how the nameless protagonist is both kept nameless but also developed as a character.
Some of the choices taken with Celestia do admittedly confuse me though. It is recognisably her, but you kind of have to squint. The cutie mark isn't a cutie mark, she hasn't got the same colours, she's not an alicorn, she hasn't got her regalia or anything else identifying her station, she doesn't speak, and she isn't called by her normal name. That ticks almost every box in the checklist for me to say it isn't even Celestia at all.
I do still count that as a complaint for now, but I also know that it's clearly the point of the story here, and I've always said that you can do anything you want so long as it is justified by actually having a point to it. Changing Celestia's character in such a massive way might not be something I'm a fan of exactly, but it's too prominent an element for it to just be a random addition. No. This story's just as much a mystery as it is a western, and what happened to make Celestia this way is the question we want answered and the hook that draws us in.
With that in mind, I am withholding my full judgement on this particular element of the story, pending the big reveal. I don't want to say that how much I like the answer to the question will make or break the story for me, because it does a lot else right, but my opinion of it could rise or fall massively depending on the final outcome.
And on a final note, the double hyphens in this drove me crazy. They seemed to be used as stand-ins for everything from commas to brackets to dashes, and I swear there were some points where they seemed to be being used in place of italics. The very basic stuff like periods was okay, but overall, the punctuation in this fic was really weak. Easily the worst part about it. I agree with John's assessment in the review: this fic needs a proofreader. In fact, I'll go one step further. It needs an editor.
Pretty good work overall though, and I'll definitely be following it the rest of the way through.
4078845 Well I was thinking about pickles, but your idea sounds cool too!
Wow, this is really good.
Well I like it. This is certainly an unusual start, but I say definitely keep it coming.
I shall favorite this. It deserves it.
New estee fic
fairwell, sleep. I hardly knew ye.
muy interesante
This is only the second Human tagged story I've ever been remotely interested in. Keep this up, and I might just fave it.
Very good
I'm rather confused as to Celestia's anatomy. I've already assessed that there are no wings or horns to be found; now is she just a tremendously large horse with big eyes or does she have at least some of her pony body's proportions like a longer, straight neck and perfectly cylindrical legs?
4392647 from what i understand, she has a normal anatomy just a little bigger than normal, white coat, brown mane and tail, big purple eyes, and a orange circle (not a detailed sun like were used too) on both hips
this made me think of the "warsteeds" in Mercedes Lackey's books: exceptionally smart, strong, and stamina...but...
"ugliest horse i've ever seen, but if i were to DESIGN a horse for combat, from the bones out, that's EXACTLY what i'd make."
BTW, that particular horse was named "Hellsbane".