Five minute Fables Fabricated Freely

by Valorousspectre

Eater of Death

I live in a house of blood.

My graveyard is cool, most of the year. The graves are silent, to most. Seven hundred graves per quadrant, twenty-one hundred graves all up. I maintain them. All of them. And I try to keep my people's home's hospitable, comfortable. I am their keeper, their undertaker, their maid, their medium.

The living do not understand, for the most part. There are a few ponies that have a gift, to see, or interact with the spirits of the dead. But none of them can do what I can do.

There is a child. He's crying, disturbing the peace of my graveyard. I watch for a while. He's crying still, crying for loss. Crying out for his mother. I can see her spirit, hovering peacefully over her grave. I only tended it a few hours ago. It's pristine. Save for the tears, adding their salt to the soil. The poor soul is grieving. It's understandable. She cannot reach out, cannot talk to her son. I can't hear what she's saying, I'm too far away. The little ones are always so hard to watch. Innocence plucked right out of them, like a raven plucking the eye from a corpse. The poor child.

I imagine I must look intimidating upon my approach. My cloak is shabby and torn at the edges, and my pack has shovels and a pick held in place under it. My wings are in a bad need of cleaning, and preening, I suppose. I don't use them enough for that to be an issue. The spirit has seen me now. Her voice is faint, like a wind sweeping by my ears. He looks scared of me.

"I will not harm you," I tell him as gently as I can, "I wish to help you."

He asks me how. Teary eyed and sniffling, he demands to know how.

"I can help you speak with your mother. Just this once. Then, I'm afraid she must leave. She doesn't belong here, in this world, anymore."

There's hope in the spirit's eyes, and the boy sniffles, and blurts out a 'yes please'. A well mannered boy. I look to the spirit of his mother. Her soul, though fading, is beautiful. Pure. I hold out my hoof to her and she looks startled. But, she places hers in mine. I can feel her essence as we make the necessary connection. I was right. Her soul is pure. She did not deserve to die. She was a fine mother indeed.

"My boy."

The words flow out of my mouth, but they are not my own. It is not my voice either, but that of his mother.

"Mummy?"

These moment always wrench at my heartstrings. Very little does anymore, but these moments did.

"I'm sorry... I didn't want to leave you."

He was crying again now. This wasn't my conversation. I tuned myself out. This has the effect of giving the spirit more control, makes it easier for them, uses less of their energy, whatever they have left. They spoke for a few minutes. I felt something pulling at the connection. It was becoming tenuous. Mentally, I warned the spirit she only had a short time left.

"I love you baby... I'll see you again one day. And I'll always be watching over you. Take care of your father?"

"I... I will mummy... I love you"

"Goodbye..."

She lifted her hoof from mine. The connection is severed. She gave me a look of profound respect, and heartfelt thanks, and she ascended. She would be another star in the great night sky, watching her beloved son. The colt sniffled again, and I looked down at him.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I told him softly, "She loves you very much. And her death will never diminish that. And she'll never leave you. She'll always be..."

I tapped his chest gently, roughly where his heart is located.

"Right here."

He sniffled again, then put his hooves around my leg, and hugged me tightly. I patted his head softly, a wave of affection washing through my being. Feeling the parent's love always left affections for the little ones.

"Hey! Get away from my son!"

I sigh. Another misunderstanding. Another reason to dislike Ponies. I pull away from the colt as his father arrives, seething.

"I don't need you filling his head with your charlatanism!" He snapped at me. I suppose I shouldn't blame him. His wife had just died after all. But for some reason, their actions were always the same. I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Regardless," I replied coldly, "Of what you believe. I have done what I can to comfort your son. Perhaps you should take lessons from him in manners."

And I walked away. There was no point in becoming angry. They never understood. They couldn't understand. My people weren't the living. Never had been. The living had locked me away, hidden me from the world and tried to 'cure' me. Only the dead accepted me. Only the dead kept me company. I returned to the shack I lived in, in the grounds of my cemetery. The light as I open the door hits the many gifts I've received over my tenure here, all from grateful foals of various ages. I shrug off my pack. My work, for the day at least, is done. I move to the next quadrant tomorrow, fixing and cleaning up whatever is needed. The dead that linger thank me for it. The ones I hold within me approve of it.

I live in a house of Blood, and I keep company without the living.

I am the Condor, Eater of Death.