The Wayfarers

by TheFictionAddiction

Chapter Seven: All bedded down and nowhere to go.

Finally free from Alabaster’s defeated sulking, Whisper allowed herself to sink into the bathwater, her chin a mere inch or so from its steaming surface. It felt as if she was an ice cube plopped into a nice cup of coffee, her muscles melting at the warm water’s touch. Hours could have passed by and she would never tire of the water’s steamy embrace. However, Whisper couldn’t have done such a thing under good consciousness, especially not after teasing Alabaster so. Within about a quarter of the time Alabaster would have spent in the tub, Whisper was bathed, dried off, and heading back into the main room.

The two stallions were right where she had left them. Alabaster laid on the bed, curled up with his saddlebag as if it were some kind of lover. Midnight was leaning over the armrest of his chair, gazing out at the rustic town that peeked in through the window. Lingering momentarily at the doorway, Whisper’s gaze found Midnight and remained idle on him for a moment. The evening light cascaded through the windowpane in tiny slivers and kissed the gentle features of his face.

Though Whisper didn’t know it, her gaze carried a weight to it. Midnight, almost alerted by something going amiss, turned his head just in time to miss Whisper’s eyes averting themselves away from him. Pretending as if nothing had happened, she strolled over to the bed and took up a position next to Alabaster.

“So Wisp, how was your daaay?” Alabaster almost sang in a mocking tone, his chin propped up on his saddlebag as he fitted her with a lidded gaze. “See anything interesting in this oh so interesting toooown?”

She acknowledged his teasing with a grin. “Actually, I did, for your information.”

“Oh?

“Yes… well…” her enthusiasm tapered off. “Okay, not really.” The poise she tried to maintain deflated completely.

“Sadly, my books made everyday life in a country town seem much more intriguing and heated than they really are. I think the most fascinating thing I saw was a little boutique around the corner… but even that place turned out to be just as dull as most of the other places around here. The dresses they sold were… bland, to put it lightly. I don’t think the mare running that store has an ounce of creativity in her whole body. In fact, if her needlework was any indication, I think she would excel more at cutting down trees than making dresses.”

When she saw the snarky grin Alabaster flashed at her, Whisper quickly tried to grasp for something that sounded more appealing. “However, the ponies here seem rather nice. In fact, I remember this one who sold cabbages-” The expressions on both Alabaster’s and Midnight’s faces dropped like a paper mask.

“Don’t… don’t ever bring up cabbages again, Wisp,” Alabaster groaned, burying his muzzle into his saddlebag. Even Midnight, vigorously he nodded his head, seemed to echo the sentiment.

“Umm, okay?” Whisper felt as if she was looking at only a fraction of a picture. “I feel like I missed something...”

***

The trio, Whisper and Alabaster more so than Midnight, whittled away the time by going into some of the finer details of their day, as few and far between as they were. It at least serviced the purpose of occupying the ponies until the sun began to dip into the horizon.

“You’re serious? They just kick the trees?” Alabaster asked, studying Whisper as if she just sprouted a horn.

“Yeah, I thought it was strange too, but you should’ve seen them, Al! The apples just fall off! It’s as if they all decided to jump ship from a single buck!”

Though the working habits of the apple ranchers seemed to fascinate Whisper to no end, Alabaster didn’t share her elation. Rubbing his chin, he squinted at her skeptically. “That’s just… weird. I don’t see why they just don’t use magic... but hey, whatever works for them, I guess,” he ended with a shrug.

The sentence was punctuated with a gurgling rumble. Alabaster glanced down at his abdomen, missing the brief giggle that escaped Whisper. “I guess all this talk of apples has made someone antsy, huh?” he said, prodding his belly inquisitively. It only responded with another grumble.

“Well, that settles it. I’m hungry.” As if that was his cue, Alabaster rose up on all hours and stretched out across the bed languidly. His stiff joints popped like snapped twigs, each time eliciting a grimace from Midnight. It only got worse when Alabaster started to roll his neck.

“Al, please!” Whisper barked, taking note of the way Midnight shifted uneasily. “If you going to do that, go outside where it’s not right in our ears.”

He flashed her a dastardly grin before playfully swiping at her nose with the tip of his wing. Ignoring how her glare drilled into his hide, the pegasus clopped down from the bed and looked over to his quiet companion.

“Yo, Midnight, you want something too? I’m heading down to Sour Apple’s.” Much to Alabaster’s surprise, the stallion shook his head.

“Really? You sure? I don’t mind bringing it back up.”

“Thank you, but no,” Midnight said, adding a sheepish smile. “I don’t know why, but I’m just not really hungry.”

That was a lie, though. The timid pony knew exactly why his appetite was shot. Part of the reason was because that large meal he ate earlier still sat in his stomach like a lead anchor. From the way he felt, Midnight wondered if it would be another day or so before he could bring himself to eat again.

Mainly, though, it was because the horrid smell of rotten milk still lingered in his nostrils like a bad memory. Nervously, he pondered if the stench had embedded itself deep into his coat like some nasty kind of mite. The food nested in Midnight’s stomach churned at the thought of eating anything while also having to smell that rancid stench at the same time. If there is anything that could make me sick, I think that would be it.

Those golden flecked eyes of the pegasus studied him for a moment, as if he was expecting this to be some kind of joke. Then he shrugged and said, “Alright then, but don’t say I didn’t offer. If you decided in a bit that you want something, though, you’re going to be getting it yourself.”

“Alright,” Midnight chuckled, “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

Striding on past, Alabaster was nearly at the door before a cinderblock of realization dropped down on his hard head.

“Oh, Wisps, I nearly forgot,” he started, spinning back around. “Do you want something too?”

Arching an eyebrow, Whisper was about to ask him if was daft. Then, with a sideways glance to Midnight, she remembered her part in their little act.

“Oh! Thanks, Al, but I ate something before I came up. Don’t think I could even think about eating anything else!”

I can sympathize, Midnight glowered. Alabaster gave a small salute with one his wings as confirmation before opening the door and slipping out.

With one less soul in the room, Alabaster’s departure ushered in a startling quiet. Whisper laminated, realizing that this was the first time she had ever been alone with her newest traveling companion. She found it utterly ironic that it would be Alabaster who would spend the most time with Midnight, especially considering how he was against letting the poor stallion join in the first place. With Alabaster’s mouth out of the equation, this would be the perfect time for Whisper to become better acquainted with Midnight.

Tapping her hooves together, like a nervous filly on her first day of school, Whisper met Midnight’s somber gaze. He wasn’t necessarily looking at her in that moment, but his eyes wandered the room restlessly. Apparently the window had finally lost its appeal. It didn’t take too long for him to eventually find Whisper again.

“So, Midnight, you haven’t said a word about your day yet.” Whisper thought that this would be enough to bait the stallion into a conversation, but his answer was much more lackluster than she had hoped.

“Oh yeah, I guess I didn’t… ”

That statement left the two staring at one another quite uncomfortably. Seeing the disappointment on her face, Midnight quickly added, “There really isn’t anything I can say that you and Alabaster haven’t. I spent most of the morning trying to find a produce stand, then a good bit of the evening following Alabaster. Nothing else.”

A little dagger of remorse needled at the back of his skull, as if to say ‘that’s not the whole story, is it, buddy?’ Midnight shrugged it aside, or as best as he could, anyway. Even if he wanted to recant his time with Gavell, he wasn’t entirely sure how he would go about that. It was a box he wasn’t ready to open yet. But one I’ll have to… eventually.

“That’s too bad,” Whisper said with a touch of disappointment. “I was hoping at least one of us managed to find something a bit worthwhile in this town. Oh well, maybe things will seem a bit greener further along the track.”

“Maybe so…” Midnight fell quiet for moment, his brow furrowing suddenly. Just as Whisper was about to ask if something was the matter, the stallion found the words he was struggling to weave together.

“Whisper? Is the time you and Alabaster spend waiting around like this always so… boring?”

Midnight thought he had just said something wrong form the way Whisper’s expression seemed to stall, but the smile that followed washed away that worry.

“No, I’m afraid not,” she giggled, pushing back a few braids of her silvery mane. “Usually we don’t stay this long in one place unless we have a job or something.”

“And what is it you guys do?”

“Well…” Now it was Whisper’s time to grasp for words. She turned her hoof over and over in the air, as if that would help her to spit out whatever was dancing at the tip of her tongue.

“We do whatever we can get paid for.”

“Oh… so what do you usually get paid to do?”

The question was like a blow to the gut for Whisper, eliciting a groan from the mare. “Oh boy, what [haven’t] we done is the question, Midnight. We’ve shingled houses, worked stalls, herded cattle, and sewn clothes. None of them lasted longer than a couple of months, but we’ve done a little bit of everything.”

“You know how to sew?” Midnight’s mind turned to the doll, Mr. Smiles, Whisper had been so proud of.

Had she been the one that crafted him? Or it? Midnight found himself unsure. Then he thought quickly of the ill fitted saddlebag that had nearly rubbed him raw in days prior. If it were possible, maybe he could convince Whisper to make some minor adjustments to the blasted thing. Another long trek like the one the other day would probably be the death of him. Popping blisters is the last thing I want to worry about right now.

“Eh… Needle work was always more of Alabaster’s thing. I’m fairly decent, but kind of a hack when compared to what he can do.” A bit disappointed, Midnight gave a short nod before his neck froze stiff.

“Wait, you’re telling me Alabaster can sew? Of all the things he could be capable of… I wouldn’t think that that would be one of them!” Whisper laughed at the way Midnight gawked at her, his mouth hanging limply like a rubber chicken.

“Yes, he has rather a knack for it actually. Is that so strange?” Whisper asked. She tried to shield the amusement in her voice, but the dumbfounded way Midnight looked at that moment was too much for her.

“I guess not… It’s just…” Midnight pause for a moment, wrangling his memory in order so that he didn’t misconstrue anything. “Back at the rock farm, all of the mares there sew. When I asked about what they were doing, the farmer, Igneous if I remember correctly, told me that it was a feminine art. Definitely not something for stallions.” Igneous had been quite adamant about that last bit, especially when it appeared Midnight was starting to take a shine to the craft. It was now Whisper’s turn to gape, her mirth nibbed at the bud.

“What! That’s ridiculous! Sewing is a craft anyone can benefit from! I can’t tell you how many times we’ve managed to put food in our belly because Al patched up some old buck’s tattered coat, or because he filled in for a seamstress who had lost their apprentice to a direwolf attack!” Midnight sunk back, not entirely certain that her outburst wasn’t meant for him.

Allowing dead air to settle between them, at least long enough for Whisper’s harsh tongued annoyance to broil down to a seemer, Midnight chewed on his words for a bit before speaking again. “Is Alabaster any good? At sewing, I mean!” That last bit spewed out faster than he had intended it to.

For a moment, before his quickly spoken words were processed, Whisper was taken aback. However, she smiled eagerly at him.

“Here, let me show you something.”

Reaching over, she pulled Alabaster's saddlebag closer to her. It took a few moments of rummaging and searching for the right pocket, but she finally gave a triumphant aha! What she pulled free from the confines of the bag made Midnight’s eyes widen. It was a scarf. Laying it in front of her, Whisper gave the article of clothing a loving smile. The thing was the color of a burning flame, but in its center was a winding, thorny flower stem that ran the scarf. Either direction of the stems ended in a blooming rose. Both the flower and the stems themselves were the same color as Midnight’s dark coat.

“Now, this doesn’t really have anything to with sewing, but I think you get the idea. Though he may not look it, Alabaster has quite the creative streak in him…” Her smile deflated. “Or, he does when he isn’t using that creativity to bash someone’s head in. At least this is one hobby of his that doesn’t get us a oneway ticket to the slammer.”

Midnight stared at the scarf for a time, his mind turning over on itself as the gears of thought worked restless within his skull. Eventually, his thoughts sated for the time being, he raised his gaze from the scarf and met Whisper’s eyes.

“Do you have any hobbies?” he asked her.

Instantly, the smile Whisper wore flourished like a wildfire creeping along in the underbrush. Midnight noted, with great unease, how similar she looked to Alabaster when he pulled out his deck of cards. What have I gotten myself into now?

***

Half an hour had passed and Alabaster was trudging up the stairs of the inn with a full, satisfied belly. The dish of the night for Sour Apple’s kitchen was ‘garlic soup’, something that the hollow legged pegasus had been able to attack with much gusto. Perhaps too much, if truth be told. Two bowls of the delicious stuff sloshed around in his stomach with every step he took.

“Holy cow,” he sighed blissfully, reaching the door to room eight. “That old hag might be creepier that a corpse wearing lipstick, but damn can she cook! Midnight doesn’t know what he missed.”

The door swung open and Alabaster was half way through the doorway when every muscle in his entire body went rigid. His opened his mouth, as if to form words, but he ended up gnawing on an invisible loaf of stale bread.

“And this one! I nearly forgot this one! I read this a few months back, when me and Alabaster were cleaning troughs at a ranch… not our most glorious of jobs.”

Midnight was no longer on his wingback perch, instead he had moved across from Whisper on the bed. In between them lay a pile of paperback novels that had once been tucked away into Whisper’s saddlebag. The garlic soup began doing cartwheels in Alabaster’s stomach when he recognized the familiar faces of dreary eyed, dreamy models printed across each of the book’s faces. Whisper had her hoof on one titled Hearts Across Detrot: A Noir.

“Oh, come on!” Alabaster yelled, ruffling his feathers menacing. “You give me shit about trying to play poker with him, then you go and try to get him into that trash!”

The two ponies jumped at the pegasus’s voice, both looking like blushing lovers that had just been caught in the throes of something dirty. It was Whisper who recovering first, heat rising to her cheeks as her shock transformed into animosity.

“What do you mean by trash!?” Midnight flinched away from the fuming mare, amazed that the soft spoken mare could roar like she did. “These are works of literature, and fine ones at that!”

“Um,” Midnight squeaked, afraid to make himself known to the ponies glaring each other down. “Am I missing something?” His words were lost in the ensnaring inferno sparking between the two friends like a case of spontaneous combustion.

“No, Wisp, they’re penny dreadfuls! And you know why they’re called that? Because they’re dreadful!”

“Oh, please! How would you even know if they’re bad or not? You’ve never even picked one up before!”

“I did! You remember ‘Brokeback Valley’, the damn book I read after you kept shoving it in my face for two weeks? Remember that?”

“Well… how was I supposed to know you wouldn’t be into those kinds of romances?”

“YOU ASK!” The air seemed crack with tension as their voices rose higher and higher. Midnight wondered how long it would be till the manager waddled up to tell them to quiet down. Then Midnight wondered what would become of the poor, daft fellow if he was to accidentally be pulled into the mess. Like a child that had just trotted into an argument raging on between his parents, Midnight covered his head with his hooves and slithered underneath the covers of the bed.

***

Armor maintenance had almost become as natural for Speira as her own bodily functions. Every day, usually before bedtime, she would go about polishing and cleaning the complex piece of arcane machinery, ever mindful of its sharp plumage. Quill told her often that she should think of the armor as an extension of herself, and to treat it thusly.

“You wouldn’t go to bed after a long day without washing off the filth sticking to your coat, would you?” Quill had once asked her. “And you wouldn’t overlook a wound just because you think you could treat it later. Well, the same applies for your armor, my dear. It’s special, just as you are. I want you to care for it as I have cared for you, you understand?”

She had understood, quite clearly in fact. Speira took to his orders quickly and without question (mostly). Although, the usual fervor and pride she took in tending to the armor’s needs were gone. As much as Speira loved the strange and eerie thing, she hated cleaning off blood and gore more than anything else in her life. It felt like hours had come and gone as she scrubbed off the blotches of red crusting along the steel’s ebony face while also making sure to get in between the joints of the wings.

Eventually, after much grumbling and physical exertion, Speira dried off her armor and then herself. Both were clean as a whistle, not a drop of blood to be found anywhere on either of them. Just as Papa likes, she thought sluggishly, pushing her damp mane from her eyes. The glowing veins along the armor sputtered and pulsed, almost gratefully.

Speira hefted it carefully onto her back, mindful of those painfully sharp wings, and trotting back to the main room, she found her mentor seated on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t uncommon to find the old bird brooding after they had completed a job. This day was not an exception from any other. His attention was turned to the window and the crystalline city lying outside, and it remained so even as he addressed her.

“I’m glad to see you took your time, my dear. Not a single speck of red, just what I like to see.” This came as no surprise to Speira. Even out of his peripherals, his vision soared above and beyond that of the normal pony’s.

Outside, the sky had become a splatter piece, numerous shades of reds and purples slung haphazardly along a cloudless canvas. How long was I in the bathroom?

When Speira voiced this question, Quill chuckled and allowed his gaze to drift to her. “Long enough, that’s what matters.” He patted the empty place next to him with a gentle claw. “Bring it over here and let me see if there was any damage to the blades.”

This was one of the few bits of maintenance that Quill performed on Speira’s armor. After any bloody altercation, he would check for nicks in the blades and fix any damage there may be to the wings’s joints. Every so often, he would also sharpen them. It was something that he was teaching Speira as they went on, but she could tell that he still enjoyed doing it himself. That seemed perfectly logical to the filly, as they were his creation.

Complying with her teacher’s instructions, she trotted over and rested it carefully at his side. With claws that were as skillful as they were deadly, Quill stretched one of the wings out in front of him and began to trace a talon along each sharpened feather, seeking out any imperfections.

Speira watched him with inquisitive eyes, soaking in his every gesture like a depraved sponge. It wouldn’t be too much longer before this task passed on to her, and she wanted to be sure that she was every bit as adept at it as Quill.

Every so often, the griffin would glance up to make sure that the quiet filly was still there. Each time he did so he found Speira standing just a bit closer, her studious gaze ever growing in intensity.

“Well, the verdict is looking good,” Quill said midway during his inspection of the second wing. “No nicks, cracks, or any severe damage. Although, the joints are feeling just a tad stiff.” He gave the wing a flex, folding it and then unfolding quickly. “May want to oil them before bed.” Speira nodded and Quill pushed the armor back to her, however, she kept her eyes fixed on him.

“I heard voices, sir,” she said matter of factly, earning a chuckle from Quill. Clearly he had been expecting this.

“I have no doubt of that, my dear. Those royal guards have as much subtlety and nuance as a rhino with hemorrhoids.”

“A rhino with what?”

“Never you mind, Speira.”

“But you said the royal guards were here. Did they come to pay us?” He nodded, though a bit uneasily.

“Yes… for the most part. They were mainly interested in hearing about our interesting encounter with some of the natives earlier.”

A shadow crept into the filly’s olive toned eyes, and her hardened gaze promised a death more foul than just a few measly cuts from her wings. “They weren’t mean to you, were they, Papa?”

Quill was a bit alarmed to see the filly’s demeanor darken so suddenly. He had seen her angry before, mostly when he told her it was time for bed or when he instructed to finish off her vegetables, but never as murderous as she looked in that very moment.

The smile he gave managed to disarm her anger. “No, my dear, Prince Shining Armor has yet to send someone so foolish to us.”

“They acted stuffy, though, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Quill conceded, his voice drawing out the word as if he were hesitant to say it, “I guess they were a bit ‘stuffy’. Although, it’s nothing for you to worry about, young missy. This old bird can handle himself just fine, thank you very much.”

That made Speira frown. “I don’t think you’re old, Papa.”

“That’s sweet of you, but my achy neck begs to differ.”

Before Speira continued, she hopped up on the bed with Quill and nestled closely into his side. He had long discarded his leather barding, laying it out in the rocking chair across the room, thus allowing her to submerge herself in the warmth radiating from Quill’s fur. The scent of aging leather and musk clung to him. It was comforting and nostalgic, an odor she had known her whole life. Nuzzling the crook under his left leg, Quill took noticed and lifted it for her. Squirming and wriggling like an overactive worm, Speira managed to squeeze her way underneath him. When she was finally comfortable, only her head was visible. Smiling, Quill hugged himself tenderly to the filly, careful not to squish her.

They were content to remain like that for a time, simply enjoying the feeling of being so near to one another. Quill even allowed a slight purr to escape under his breath, something he almost never did. Eventually, though, the silence was broken, much to Quill’s dismay. He could have spent the rest of his life like that, scrunched up closely to his daughter, and never have given a second thought to the woes of the pony world. But alas.

“Papa… they weren’t happy when you told them one of those ponies was a Scholar, were they?”

Quill sighed. “No, love, they weren’t happy about that at all.”

***

Night had fallen over Appleloosa like a hand knitted blanket. Under its cover, crickets sang in a mismatched, yet still lulling, chorus that ushered many a pony to sweet dreams. As more and more lit windows began to wink out of existence like dying stars, the town slipped ever closer into sleep. There was one pony, however, who would remain vigilant through most of the night.

Midnight Dreary, who had yet to live up to his namesake, was curled up on the cushion of the wingback chair and playing audience to the chorus of crickets. It wasn’t by force that he had been marooned on to the chair again while his friends got the bed, instead he had volunteered willingly. It wasn’t necessarily that he was scared of sleeping next to another pony, because he would have been absolutely fine with sharing the bed with Whisper. However, he knew that Whisper’s big heart would compel her give up her space for him, leaving Midnight with-

Alabaster gave a sharp snort, as if on cue, and tugged at the cover, almost pulling it off of Whisper. It wasn’t the snoring that bother Midnight, though, it was the pillow that formed a barrier between the two sleeping friends. He remembered Whisper briefly explaining why the wall of fluffyness was needed, and felt himself shudder.

“Well, you see,” Whisper had flushed a touch as she spoke, “Alabaster get’s a bit clingy in his sleep. It’s usually not so bad, but there has been a few times when I’ve needed a crowbar to get his ham-hooves off me. Can’t say that I blame him though, haha!.”

That dig had earned a scowl from the pegasus, who was obviously still sore over their earlier argument. Midnight, however, took her words to heart. When the issue had come up over their sleeping arrangement, he had been adamant that they get the bed and he sleep in the chair. It took a lot of arm twisting and Alabaster groaning “just let him be, Wisp” before a sulking Whisper let the issue be put to rest.

Wistfully, and almost enviously, Midnight watched over the slumbering forms of his two friends with glittering eyes. Sleep was a fickle mistress, and it seemed that she was having little to do with him. He kept hoping that he’d just nod off, as if consciousness was just a slippery slope where all one needed was one misplaced step. Yet, the stallion’s waking world held strong.

The shadows spoke as they always did, though Midnight was relieved to find their voices quieting as the night waned. They spoke in words so quiet that the pony could have sworn that it was really the babbling of a distant brook. He liked to think that he was getting better at tuning them out, yet he wasn’t entirely confident that was the case. Their will is their own, Midnight surmised. All I can do is tell them to be quiet and hope they’ll listen.

He allowed that thought to marinate in his mind for a time. It made him uneasy to think of what these unseen forces were capable of if he didn’t try and resist them. Would their voices grow stronger? Maybe even speak to him with more than just the whispers of others? Or maybe they would try to hurt…

Listen…

Midnight winced. The word echoing through the cassems of his skull, pushing aside anything else that might have been rattling around. It was Gavell who spoke, or a memory of him, at least. A ghost bellowing from behind a closet door.

Listening to that which others do not is the only way you’re going to stay ahead of what’s to come. LISTEN.

“Listen…” The word seemed to dribble down from Midnight’s mind and find its way to his lips. It was a strange thought, one that frightened him. He hadn’t actually called upon the shadows before, let alone try and listen to them. Perhaps, if he tried to, he could find a shred of truth on their mischievous tongues. Something that could at least give him a clue about either himself or what was wrong with him.

Midnight gave a quick shake of his head. Am I really considering this? Taking the advice from some crazy pony? Simply recalling the memory of Gavell made Midnight’s stomach twist into knots. That stench that had assaulted his sense had left a scar on that wasn’t healing anytime soon.

Yet, even through the fear he felt when he conjured up the deranged look in Gavell’s face, Midnight couldn’t help but think harder on the advice the mad traveler had given him. Too many questions had filled him since the luncheon earlier that day. He wanted nothing more than to cut a hole in this blanket of confusion that has been smothering him since he first awoke on the rock farm. Answers. That’s all he wanted, plain and simple.

Well, there is something I can do about that, isn’t there? As a matter of fact, from Midnight’s position, there were two things he could do. He could seek out Gavell once more and try to force these answers from him. Midnight dismissed this idea as quickly as it came. By no means was he a brave pony. If he even managed to find the deranged pony again, which he had the feeling that he wouldn’t, there was no way he could bring himself to confront Gavell. The other option was to…

Lissssten...

Licking his lips, Midnight glanced over his friends again. Alabaster tossed around again and Whisper nuzzled Mr. Smiles, but both ponies were still breathing deeply. Fast asleep. It did occur to Midnight once or twice that maybe he should share this burden of his with the two ponies. And what if they don’t accept it? Don’t accept you? That thought combated his senses whenever he tried to find the courage to confess, but somehow, that seed of doubt always managed to win out. What if the speaking of shadows is a greater ill omen than I first thought? It’s fortunate enough that I found myself in the company of such ponies, ponies as understanding as them. If I alienate myself from Whisper and Alabaster, I don’t think I could make it much farther on my own. Not as I am right now.

The shadows, fleeing from the rays of moonlight veining in, had crept a long way across the walls when the dust from the war waging in Midnight’s head had settled. Those azure pools of his flickered with uncertainty, but he kept those waves of doubt contained. He didn’t need his resolve shaking now. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and listened.

It was a strange sensation, to actually open himself and his senses to the bodiless whispers that haunted him. Much to his surprise, though, his open invitation for conversation was meet with a vague sense of disinterest. What Midnight had expected was an overload of voices, much like what had happened the night he first camped with his new companions. Yet, as he struggled to keep his mind cleared of any arbitrary thoughts, he noted that the flood he had expected was little more than a trickle.

What few voices that spoke to him did so in low, guttural tones. Midnight fished around for a time longer, trying to cast his mental net out further and further, hoping to the heavens that something useful would swim into his grasp. Minutes marched on like eons dying before a forgotten god, and yet nothing came.

As Midnight's mind’s eye widened, his other sense became muffled. The back of his eyelids had became an endless field stretching before his lying form while the rhythmic drone of the crickets had faded from, as if cotton had been stuffed into his ears. Because of this, Midnight never saw the silhouettes of shadows dancing around the feet of his chair. The dark masses flickered and whirled around him like black flames, edging closer every minute.

The moving shadows went still, like a troublemaking foal caught in the act of something foul, when Midnight’s mind crept out of the murky depths of its suclesion. His eyes were watery upon opening, and for a moment, the unlit room appeared like a smeared oil painting left in a heavy drizzle. Seconds later, his sight began to clear. Nothing had happened…

Maybe it’s for the best. In fact- Midnight’s spared himself a wry smile. I think I’m kind of glad that-

That thought died suddenly. His net had been tugged, something finally tumbled into his invisible clutches. Which came as quite the shock to him since he thought he had reeled that net in.

A voice rolled through the silence like a distant thunderhead. It spoke softly at first, even friendly like, but its voice grew and increased in volume the longer it continued to speak. Yet, the spectre had only one word to say. That single word cut into the pony’s very being, doing away with his flesh and sinking deep into his bones. Nay, his soul.

“Midnight…”

Midnight knew he should have been afraid, yet his senses were too jangled for him to process fear. Staring at the window, as dead faced as a rigor mortised corpse, his mind raced to catch up with him.

His name had carried through the air, chilling it like a December breeze. Casting a glance over at the bed, he saw that his friends were still fast asleep. Alabaster even gave a little snore, as if to reassure him. Perhaps I was only hearing things? I am growing rather paranoid, aren’t I? My nerves must be playing tricks on me.

He knew better than to kid himself, yet Midnight tried to hold on to that thought. Maybe if he believed in it hard enough, he could make the thought reality. If only he could have just been allowed to be so delusional.

As his sputtering heart began to calm itself, he allowed his gaze to part from the window and fall to the floor. Even if something was out there, from where Midnight sat all he could see of the town was a few lonely rooftops from across the street. Curling on the cushion, resting his head on his crossed hooves, Midnight made up his mind that he had just heard the wind and nothing else. He was going to close his eyes and go to sleep, and if sleep persisted to avoid him, then he would simply pretend. He would pretend to sleep till the break of dawn if he had to. Whatever it took to keep himself sane, he would do it.

“Midnight...”

Closer. The voice sounded closer now, as if it’s speaker was standing in the street his window overlooked. Midnight buried his face into his hooves like a cowering foal. He hoped against hope that one of his friends would stir. Nothing would make him feel better in the whole wide world than to hear a tired, bedraggled Alabaster sit up in the bed and rasp, “Who the hell’s yelling out there?” But that never happened. The voice spoke to Midnight, and to Midnight alone. Just as all the shadows do.

His name would ring out a few more times through the night, eliciting a shudder from Midnight each time, but the voice refused to draw nearer. It wants me to come out, Midnight thought, beginning to loose the lucidity that held his mind together. The thought was ludicrous, of course, but with the fear came lethargy and lunacy. Not exactly a cocktail of sane thoughts. Time began to blur as he forced himself into the back of his mind.

It was possible that he had finally found sleep. Midnight wasn’t quite sure either, though he did not care. The voice had become nothing more than a distant echo, as did the rest of the sleeping world. Little did he know that the shadows had resumed their dance, this time moving with much more vigor. A few even dared to stray and snake up the chair, moving close where the pony lay...

Author's Note:

Sat on this chapter for a bit, trying hard to tweek certain elements of it that I was nervous about. Finally decided to release it before I lost the courage to. Did something different when copying/pasting over the story, so let me know if anything seems wrong with the format.

~Ending theme, I guess...

Comments

[NorrisThePony]

Still awesome. Whatever it is you were nervous about, I cannot see it.

Nice to finally see a proper Midnight and Whisper interaction.

Between Midnight being mistaken for a mare, his amnesia, and the voices in his head, I'm beginning to find myself coming up with extremely radical and unlikely theories involving his past...

I'm disturbed at how cute you made Speria seem while cleaning blood and gore off of herself.

...Igneous if I remember correctly, told me when I a that it was a feminine art.

Something terrible seems to have happened to this sentence.

[TheFictionAddiction]

6928525 Whoops, fixed it up! Thanks for letting me know!

[TheFictionAddiction]

6962995 If I don't die, kill myself, succumb to alcoholism, or perish of poverty, then I intend to write this story in full (meaning it's going to be long as hell). There is a total of ten characters that the story will revolve around, some appearing sooner than others. This could very well turn into a train wreck, but my love of epic, sprawling stories of wild adventures with numerous characters compels me to move forward.

[kildeez]

6963038 Damn straight G.