A Prose By Any Other Name

by Jarvy Jared

XVI: News Bearer and Recipient

Mayor Grifford Finch—Boss—waited patiently in the hotel lobby for his guest, looking around the space. Sitting on a soft white couch, he was quite comfortable. A ceiling light lightly reflected off of the glass table that sat in the middle.

He adjusted his coat, placing his hat to the side. His guest was supposed to arrive at any moment, and he didn’t want to appear rude. There were a few ponies around who were giving him some funny looks, though they weren’t at all hostile. Most came up and wished him a good morning, which he responded in kind.

He reflected on how this was how his administration was. Open, public, and welcoming were the best words to describe it. Finch grew up in a time when politicians were a seedy bunch, always hiding behind some hidden agenda, and he did not want those times to return once he was in office.

Was it a fake, though? A facade? His status of mayor not only allowed him to flush out the corrupt, but also gave him the power he needed to guide the Family. But he was not lying when he said he wanted to help his city; all of his intentions were for its benefit.

Then again, though, it was still a mask; an aspect of his character. It shrouded him with an aura of openness, while he operated from the shadows, ensuring that his city would not fall. He remembered the words that one of the members of the Family taught him: A disguise is but a self-portrait, in some way.

So he doubted that such an impression was false in nature. On the contrary, it most definitely spoke of his resolve.

But, then, why did he suddenly feel unsure?

He shook his head; he was probably just a tad stressed out. He quickly composed himself, resuming waiting for his guest.

Finally, the hotel doors swung open, revealing a breathless unicorn mare. Her cherry-red locks rolled behind her ear, her tail somewhat in a disarray. She wore a charcoal-grey suit, with a white undershirt and bright red tie. A white handbag crossed her shoulder. Her sandy coat had a few dirtying patches, complemented by her pen and notepad Cutie Mark. Her eyes tore around wildly, the jaded pupils crazy and wide, before landing on Finch. Her mouth cracked into a wide smile.

She trotted excitedly on over, her smile gleaming in the bright lights of the hotel. “Mr. Mayor!” she greeted enthusiastically, taking a seat across from him.

He nodded to her. “Hello, Miss Ruby Sparks,” he said, smiling back at her. “You were a little late to our appointment,” he added with a slight smirk. “You weren’t planning on being tardy today, were you?”

She blushed furiously. “I can explain! There was this taxi, and an old lady, and they got in the way of each other, and—”

He cut her off with a warm chuckle. “I understand. Manehattan can be quite a busy place, even at this hour.”

She nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I’m just a little flustered.” She fanned herself. “And a bit excited, too.”

“Oh?” He put on a smile. “Excited about what?”

“Why, interviewing you, of course!” She brushed a lock of her hair away, putting on a confident, eager smile. She lit her horn, opening her bag and bringing out a white notepad (very much in likeness to her Mark) as well as a mini recorder. She held it up with her magic, a light green surrounding it. “Shall we begin?”

He nodded. “Whenever you are ready.”

She cleared her throat, before clicking the recorder on.

“I’m Ruby Sparks,” she began strongly, “and I’m currently sitting in the esteemed Grand Star Hotel in Manehattan. In front of me sits another esteemed quest, a certain Mayor Grifford Finch.

“To many who have lived in the slums of Manehattan nearly a decade ago,” she continued, a glint in her eye, “Mayor Grifford Finch is a god among ponies. Though a reserved, simple earth stallion, his powerful zeal to rid this city of the evil that plagued it has been unmatched by any past politician.”

“Oh, please,” he said, waving a hoof. “You give me too much credit.” Not that I can’t take a little more, I suppose.

She continued, “To give a brief summary: Mr. Finch has been one of the few who took pity on the poor workers, laborers, and generally miserable populace—and managed to turn their life around by the end of the decade! And how did the Mayor present his campaign? ” She smiled at him, pointing the recorder towards him. “Why don’t you remind us, Grifford?”

“We wanted,” he answered, “to present an honest, fair offer. We knew that we needed the working poor, the middle class, and the upper class to all work together to bring this city together.” He smiled. “We fought tooth and nail to remove the corrupt politicians in office, and brought in ponies who were concerned for everypony’s welfare.”

“Truly, a philanthropist and worthy bearer of the title of Mayor,” Ruby said, bringing the device back to her mouth. “And he was very successful, bringing in numerous job opportunities for the jobless. Under his administration, Manehattan has prospered, becoming an economic powerhouse as well as regaining its old glory. The public has never been more proud of itself!”

“Hear hear!” a bellhop cried, followed by similar cries from other hotel-goers.

Ruby Sparks laughed. “Ah, yes, I nearly forgot we’re in a public place.”

She turned back to the Mayor. “What are your plans for the future of Manehattan, Mr. Finch?”

He rubbed his chin. “Well, several folks in my administration have suggested we start utilizing the newest technology to increase production and lower energy costs. Solar panels are relatively new; and it could be worthwhile to put them in place. We’ll also be striving to lower street pollution and littering.” He silently thanked Swol and several others for coming up with that idea; he wanted a clean city, after all.

“With that suggestion, we realized that new factories would need to be made. Several blueprints and plans have been submitted, and our most brilliant of architects and delegators are currently at work deciding where in Manehattan to place these factories. This will also lead to more opportunities for jobs.” Not to mention, it will give the Family more financial benefits.

She nodded. “I see. Do you think Manehattan can accomplish those goals?”

He gave a confident smile. “If the last decade has proven anything, Miss Sparks, it’s that anything is possible when we Manehattanites put our minds to it.”

There were more enthusiastic shouts around the lobby, making Finch smile. He could always count on the ponies to rally behind his words.

Most of them I can.

Ruby nodded again with a smile. “Your confidence in us is astounding, Mayor. And I’m sure we’ll do our best not to let you down!”

She leaned forward, an almost hungry look on her face. “Of course, those exploits pale in comparison to the one that you are undertaking at present.”

He raised an eyebrow, before nodding and responding, “You are, of course, talking about Opacare Prose.”

She nodded. “Indeed I am. And, I’m sure the city is wondering what the current state of the search is?”

He rubbed his chin in thought. “I’ll give Prose this; he’s a great hider when he wants to be. So far, our investigation has turned up nothing.” He chuckled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; Prose certainly is a clever stallion.”

That caught Ruby by surprise. “You mean… you knew Opacare Prose?”

He quickly waved off the claim. “Not personally. We’ve had interactions via letters, but nothing more. Though, from his writing alone, I could tell he is intelligent.”

“You could keep talking in the present tense,” she noted. “Are you saying you don’t think that Prose has gone for good?”

He shook his head. “That is exactly what I think. I doubt that anypony got to Prose and… well… eliminated him, to say the least.” He looked at Ruby. “If somepony did, there’d be evidence of a struggle. The Prose that we know wouldn’t go down without a fight.”

Ruby nodded. “That makes sense. So, what do you think happened?”

“According to what we have gathered, it is likely that Prose left of his own free will.”

“His own free will?” she repeated, incredulous. “Like, he left on purpose?”

By now, the ponies in the lobby were gathering around, eager to listen to their mayor. Grifford inwardly smiled; he had always liked an audience.

“Maybe,” he answered, rubbing his chin. “The problem is, I—we,” he corrected, “can’t figure out a solid reason. Which leads us to another conclusion.”

“That being?” she inquired.

“Prose might have been forced—albeit passively—to leave. Perhaps by some jealous pony. In that case, he would be unable to leave behind evidence, for if he did, he might have been killed.”

“Who’s to say that Prose isn’t dead already, though, with that in mind?”

“Somepony as famous as Prose wouldn’t just be another victim of some psychopath. And somepony as smart as that author wouldn’t be so foolish to fall into the hooves of a random murderer. No, it’s more possible that somepony equally clever—” At that, his expression grew troubled. “—and possibly, his better—might have gotten to him.”

“‘Gotten to him?’”

“Kidnapped. Blackmailed into leaving.” He shrugged. “At this point of the investigation, those are the most likely.”

She nodded. “I see. Any idea on who would commit such a dastardly act?”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, not at the moment. The perpetrators remain as elusive as Prose himself.”

She decided to ask from a different angle: “I’m sure you’ve heard Princess Celestia’s announcement that all of Equestria will be looking for this pony. What are your thoughts?”

At that, he let out a low chuckle. “I’m quite surprised that Prose warrants such a large search party.” I suppose, then, I’m not the only one who sees him as a valuable asset. “Her Highness has my thanks for her continued support of the investigation—however slow and inconclusive it may be at the moment.”

He glanced at a nearby clock, seeing that the appointment was nearly over. He gestured to the time, and she nodded, before moving onto her final question.

“Lastly, Grifford, can you tell us or give us any hint as to what to look for? Surely, you’ve seen what Prose looks like?”

He frowned, preparing his careful answer. There has to be a smidge of truth in this one for it to be believable.

“Equestria should be looking for a stallion of about medium build, with some sort of writing emblem as his Cutie Mark,” he answered, somewhat guardedly. “As for specific characteristics… well, I’m not sure they’d do any good, if I knew them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. Somepony got to Prose and took him away. If he or she didn’t want to get caught, the best way for them to remain hidden would be to hide Prose as well. And what better way than to hide him in plain sight?”

He rose, as did Miss Sparks. “What I’m saying, is that it is extremely likely that the Prose we’re familiar with is completely unrecognizable from how he looked before. That alone makes a huge dent in our investigation; but it’s all we’ve got to work on for now.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Mayor Finch.” She turned away for a moment. “The investigation into Opacare Prose’s disappearance continues. We wish to advise all available ponies to contribute in some way to this operation. Ruby Sparks, of Equestria Daily.”

With a click, she turned off the recorder, slipping it back into her bag. At once the lobby was filled with questions from concerned ponies. Grifford staved them off carefully, assuring them that all their questions would be answered at a later press conference.

“Now, excuse me,” he said, walking to the door with Ruby in tow. “I’ve got another appointment. Lunch, Miss Ruby?”

“Canterlot Gardens, if you please,” she said, smiling as they walked out.

The newspaper floated down onto the table, resting next to a cup of coffee that had long lost its warmth. It had a few indentations where a pair of hooves held it, crumpling several pages. Yet the depressions were not of anger, but rather of shock; the impact of the hooves was sudden and pronounced, with no signs of an increased agitated state.

These observations did little to help the stallion’s mood. His indigo black coat bristled as he stared into space, his mind reeling with questions. How did Finch conclude all that? Was he really that smart? Was the entire operation all for naught, now, knowing that Finch had several hunches?

He nervously brushed away a strand of dark-violet hair, his mane cresting back behind his head smoothly. He licked his lips, eyes darting back to the paper, making sure that what he had read was genuine. The black-and-white lettering were enough to clarify; yet, he found himself unwilling to believe it.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of any emotions. He failed; his confusion and fear increased, overriding his logic. His heart beat at hundreds of miles, and sweat gathered on his brow.

It had been years since he had felt this way. The last time was when he had to hide a secret from his family. Now, it seemed that history was repeating itself once more.

He was hiding a secret from the Family.

His joints began moving again, and he pushed back from the table. With no horn, he had to lift the cup up manually and bring it over to the sink to rinse. Not that he minded; any little activity was welcome, so long as it kept his mind off of the matter.

Scrubbing the cup with a sponge as the water cascaded down the cup, his thoughts began drifting back to the operation. An intense sense of worry filled his gut as he placed the cup in the dish rack.

Was this the end?

He dried the sink with a towel, before walking over to the table. He picked up the newspaper, gingerly inspecting it, as if it could leap out and attack him at any moment. He trotted over to the living room, the paper in hoof, and stood in front of the fireplace. To try and calm himself, he lowered the paper, glancing around the room.

A neutral colored scheme surrounded him, greys and blacks adorning the walls. The fireplace was surrounded with obsidian brick, with dark purple sofas around the center. A deep mahogany rug covered the pine-wood floor, soft beneath his hooves. A few paintings of ponies, from ancient times, hung in bronze frames. Their faces were turned away, as if pitying the stallion who stood before them. Above rested a black chandelier, with several candles in its holes.

To a foreigner—and indeed, many locals—such a room spoke of depression and of disharmony. Yet, for this stallion—and one more—it was home. It was safe. It was the hearth, and the heart, of everything that he had accomplished.

In silence he reflected; on how long this had taken; on how careful they had been; and on the amount of caution put into each measure. It had taken years for them to realize the truth, and only recently had any plans been implemented that would allow that realization to be set free.

It had started with a stallion who, in a brief moment of clarity, realized a true danger, more threatening than any monster. He had little resources; but he was determined to utilize everything to ensure that this danger would pass. Through careful cunning, he had managed to secure a potential route of escape. All he needed was some outside help.

That stallion—the leader—needed the help of this stallion, the detective; as well as the author, and the wanderer. They were a group of ponies who had come together for one goal: freedom.

It had taken so much time, so much effort, so much sweat and blood and tears, but they had managed to do it. One got free, and was now waiting. The others—the author, and this stallion—had stayed back, hiding in the shadows.

But then their numbers dwindled.

The leader had vanished.

They had been careful, trying to throw off everything. Now, though?

Failure seemed to fall upon the operation. The author had unwittingly opened up and spoke, and now that blasted mayor was on their trail. None of them could have expected this; none could have seen how determined the mayor was.

The author needed to be silenced; and so, regretfully, the deed was done. The author would speak no longer.

A great shadow had emerged, ancient, corrupt, and dark, threatening to smother them with the lies told for years. In their desire for efficiency, they had overlooked just how much influence the mayor had. The world now stood against them; either wittingly or unwittingly, it didn’t matter. They were trapped, between a wall that separated the truth from the ignorance they stood in.

How could they get out? Could they even get out?

That hole of ignorance was only for one side; and throughout this operation, the stallion had realized that there was another wall somewhere else. And it was large and threatening, menacing to a fault. Only he knew about this; neither the leader, nor the author, nor the wanderer, were aware of it. It approached, intending to choke and subdue them.

This little war of ours… it distracts us from that growing threat. Right now, I should be telling him about it, and should be making plans to counter it.

But I made a promise to stay loyal to the leader… and I must keep my word.

The stallion turned, looking at the piano that rested against the wall. On it was a frame of a dark green mare, with an olive-grey mane and a trio of white eighth notes for her Cutie Mark. His features fell as he looked into her frozen face. Those eyes… so lovely, so alive, like they were in the past…

She, Jade Sonnet, had been his reason to remain ignorant. He wanted her to be happy, wanted her to live a long life with him.

But the city was cruel, and fate was particularly deadly. In his ignorance, he had lost her. She had been consumed by an evil entity…

The very evil that they were now trying to combat.

He turned away quickly, before his memories overwhelmed him. He faced the desk on the opposite wall, looking closely at it.

Upon it sat several envelopes, opened and revealing their contents. Letters upon letters sat on that desk, written in a special ink with the scratch marks of a certain quill pen. Even from this distance, he could tell the exquisite penmanship of the writer; the dips and bends in his u’s, e’s, and l’s; the straight t’s, perfectly dotted i’s; the curves in o’s, q’s, p’s, d’s, b’s, c’s, g’s, and a’s. Every letter had been penned perfectly, every caricature, every line, every point. Truly, no other pony could write so flawless as this writer did.

He walked up to the desk, placing the newspaper to the side. He picked up the first of the letters. It had arrived four days later than agreed upon, though he had learned that there had been complications in the trip. Wolves had not been factored in, and none of them had thought to bring along some form of protection.

Thank goodness he’s smart on his hooves, he reflected.

The next few letters were more or less status reports. He had managed to settle down, where nopony would find him. Though he was initially impatient, the tone of the letters had definitely gone down in intensity. The stallion detected a hint of fondness for the town that the letterer resided in; and indeed, based on the accounts, he could see why. The bright, bubbly atmosphere was a huge contrast to the bleak landscapes they had grown up in; and for the first time in their lives, they knew it was genuine.

With those letters came, of course, the package. As agreed, the letterer only sent out one package once a certain criteria was fulfilled. It was to A) avoid making the procedures cumbersome, and B) should the delivery be regulated, it wouldn’t look like a pattern was being formed. The stallion glanced behind, at a special safe that was behind an old grandfather clock. Only a few hours before did that safe contain the contents of the first package. They had been sent out to their desired destination, much to their satisfaction and relief.

That’s probably the one positive outcome so far in this whole operation.

He glanced back at the letters. They were all from weeks ago. He wondered when the next one would arrive.

HIs mind drifted back to the dilemma. Despite all their progress, they were still trapped; and had no sure way out of this. The stallion had a sneaking suspicion that the end was near—for the operation, and for the ones involved.

Their leader was gone.

The author had to be silenced.

That left two. Them. The detective and the wanderer, fighting a substanceless creature of pure spite and ignorance and idiocy.

If Murphy’s Law taught the stallion anything, it was that something bad would happen, given time.

And, more than likely, he was reaching the end of this vendetta-filled life. He saw the signs; he saw peril; he saw death.

It was coming; with that threat that only he knew.

He checked back at the clock, noting the time. Any moment now…

He closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath.

One second, two seconds, three seconds, four.

Tap, tap, tap.

He opened his eyes, looking to the window behind the desk. There, looking at him with curiosity, was a raven. It’s beady eyes gleamed in the morning sun, demonstrating its remarkable intelligence. In its beak was another envelope; he already guessed from who.

Raven delivery was, admittedly, slow, at least compared to regular pegasus travel. But it was much stealthier, and therefore served their desires extremely well. The stallion opened the window, letting the raven inside. The bird perched on the desk while he went to grab a few crackers.

He took the letter from the avian, handing over the crackers. As the bird happily ate the food, he gazed at the item given to him. The letter was in a small envelope, a red wax seal stamped to the front. In the top right were the initials RL.

He grabbed a nearby letter opener, and effortlessly sliced the wax off. Unfolding the envelope, he pulled out with his magic the contents: a scroll from Ponyville.

At first, he felt terrible apprehension, certain that this was the bearer of horrendous news. But as his eyes glossed over the writing, he realized that he was wrong.

The first sign of this was the way the letter was addressed.

Dear Raven Lock,

In all the other letters, the letterer had addressed him as simply Raven Lock. There never was a Dear. Such an opening clause meant a less-than-formal greeting. They had been keen on keeping their letters as formal and as terse as possible; but this letter was the complete opposite of the agreement.

He blinked, before letting out a slow breath. He took a seat at the desk, the raven watching him, and began to read.

Dear Raven Lock,

It has been a long time since I addressed anypony with that. I must admit, it feels… choppy. I haven’t written like this for ages, and I would be lying if I said that I’m not wincing at how informal this sounds. But if the vibration on my flank as I write these words is an inclination of anything, it’s that this feeling is familiar and warm—exactly as I remembered it.

I know that this is a surprise. It was a surprise for me, too. I never expected to be writing such a piece of informal writing while this operation was proceeding. Yet, here I am, trying to think of new ways to say “I’m good” without using such a blatant and pathetic adjective.

You can imagine my discomfort.

You are probably wondering, why am I writing to you? This isn’t a status report, nor is it a delivery. You might even guess that this is a coded message, because I was caught, or apprehended, and needed to get this out hidden in plain sight.

I assure you, the reason is none of those things. But to be honest, I hardly know the reason at all.

It’s an interesting dilemma, writing without a purpose. One that, as I’m sure you know, I’ve hated for awhile now. You’ve known that I always held the belief that what you write must have a meaning behind it. Empty words are for the weak, and for the foolish, and for the undeserving.

You will also know that’s one of the reasons for everything that has happened…

I digress. Recent events (nothing that would jeopardize our mission, thankfully) have made me take pause and think. You know from my previous letters that the town of Ponyville is a quaint one, and I have grown somewhat accustomed to its citizens—particularly, a trio of young fillies calling themselves the Cutie Mark Crusaders. I am surprisingly unashamed to admit that I have been inducted into their humble hall of searching (Miss Rarity even went so far as to give me my own cape). At the time, an odd sense of… peacefulness had risen up within me, and I had even thought that this town and its ponies weren’t so bad.

Naturally, I was proven wrong.

The CMC and I were walking down a road when we stumbled upon a terrible scene. You remember Filthy Rich and his daughter from previous business ventures, right?

You can probably imagine where I’m going with this.

Apparently, Ponyville has long been aware of Diamond Tiara’s vile actions—yet has done little to nothing to stop her from continuing. I tried to step in, tried to reason with her; but she would not listen.

To my eternal regret, I slipped back into that… thing that I was before. That monster. That… cretin from Tartarus.

And to a filly, nonetheless! It may have felt right at the moment, but as soon as it passed, I knew what I had done was wrong. It was despicable for me to have fallen back down to that level—and on a mere child in front of mere children as well.

And those fillies; particularly Scootaloo, the young pegasus. I saw fear in them when they saw me approach Tiara. They witnessed the long-hidden side of myself.

But that’s not the strangest nor the saddest part of this tale.

As far as I could tell, the Crusaders were not too shaken up by my actions. The one named Sweetie Belle, she… she wasn’t mad, nor was she forever scared. She wanted to comfort me, as did the others.

Somehow, they knew the truth that lay in my heart; that I didn’t want this. And they sought to mend that broken heart.

And that made me think. About myself, about us, about the operation… and about Opacare Prose.

We had to “remove” him, yes… but now I wonder if it was even worth it?

To remove the demons that the soul holds, one ought to try for an exorcism. But we did different, choosing to break free of our hellish nightmares on our own. For years those nightmares toiled in us, and only recently have we managed to find the strength to fight back.

Yet, as the contents of this letters suggests, perhaps that wasn’t enough.

My nightmares, my demons, my past… they’ve returned, and with a burning vengeance.

It is inevitable that this operation will face humongous hurdles and near insurmountable odds. The past is like a raging inferno in a dry forest; it doesn’t stop until everything is blazing, and the whole land is razed. And it is deadly, and determined, and willing to go the distance just to catch up to us. And it cares not for the lives and innocence that it claims on this war-torn path.

I am now feeling something of old, an ancient sensation that races down my spine and ignites my heart. I chuckle at the irony that this situation has presented. After all, I’m very much an expert in this feeling that I have.

Raven… I’m scared.

Scared for those fillies and what they had to see.

Scared that we will fail.

Scared that our efforts may be for naught, because try as we might, ignorance seems to have spread from Manehattan to Ponyville—and possibly to all of Equestria.

Can we ever escape this pit of damnation? I do not know for certain.

Autem votāmus temptāmus.

But we must try.

We must carry on this quest, to save ourselves and the city.

And… I am certain that she would want us to continue.

My friend, I am scared… but I will not give up. Not until this quest is over. Even though there seems to be no light here in this dark hell of mine, I must try. If I do not, Opacare Prose’s disappearance will have been for naught.

Timendi causa est nescire. Autem, veritas vos liberabit.

I must remember that that is our wish, our goal. An end to the ignorance that blinded us; and a start to the truth that shall be our means of liberation.

Your friend, ally, and companion,

Dusk Prosa

Raven Lock set the letter down. He was surprised to find a tear running down his cheek. It had seemed like forever since Prosa had written so eloquently, so emotionally, so exquisitely. It was beautiful, pure and simple.

And perhaps that was a sign. That maybe nothing, even though Prosa considered it, was for naught. Maybe they could save this entire operation. Maybe they could accomplish this quest.

But more importantly, maybe Prosa could be happy. Maybe that stallion in the west could grow to be the stallion he wanted to be. Free from the manipulations and influences of others, with a strong mind and a golden heart.

Prosa could be free of himself.

And if so, then maybe this was their way out of the darkness. There was hope for Prosa; therefore, there was hope for them.

Maybe, once this was over, once the immediate threat of the mayor and Opacare Prose’s disappearance had passed, they could focus on the new, emerging danger. And maybe they could fight it with something they hadn’t had in years: hope.

Even if Raven Lock had to wait until the end of time to direct Prosa’s attention to someplace else, he was willing to wait all of eternity.

Though he could not claim to be as verbally or as creatively talented as Prosa, Raven nonetheless picked up a quill, inkwell, and paper, setting them down at the desk. The raven had finished its crackers, and was now patiently waiting for its next delivery.

He dipped the pen in the ink, and set it to the paper, and began scratching out the words to his response.

Dusk Prosa stopped functioning. Outwardly. His frame seized up, eyes glossing over, as his mind was sucked back into his subconscious. The contents of the return letter engulfed his head, and every word was repeated, as if he was afraid that the meaning would be lost without a constant reminding.

But no fear consumed him. Nor sadness, nor anger, nor anything, really. Blank and dull, emotionless, he sat there, thinking, unable to feel. It was as if he had been shocked out of the very emotional spectrum.

Dear my friend, Dusk Prosa…

Those words had been enough to make him pause. He was quick to guess that Raven reacted similarly to Dusk’s initial letter. It had been years since either had addressed the other as such; and those words pierced his guarded heart with as much intensity as a drilling, pointed sword.

It was with him reading on, however, that initiated the true shock phase.

In comparison to his letter, Raven’s had been rather short; not even a full scroll’s length. His scribbles, less fancy and most definitely not as elegant as his, detailed words strewn together in a beautiful, yet heart-wrenching soup. Between the letters and paragraphs, Dusk had uncovered a truth that he was unable to accept.

Hope.

Raven had told him that there was hope to be found, even in these darkest of days. Light was but only a short reach away, to those who searched for it. Even this infinite abyss, this pit of despair, even this wallowing soul of Dusk’s, could not truly limit that light.

It was only a matter of time, so said Raven, until that light grew bright enough and strong enough to break through the unbreakable walls that surrounded this world.

And that light had already appeared in Dusk’s heart, without him consciously searching for it. So hard had he been focused on the operation, on Opacare Prose, on Mayor Grifford, and on his city of Manehattan, that he had forgotten to focus on himself. He had justified this lack of foresight by saying that doing so would be incredibly selfish; but now he found himself questioning if that even was true.

Certainly, it could be argued that there was no hope in him nor for him. He had already gambled with the devil, dealt with the demons, and danced with the Lord of All Evil in the moonlight. He had fallen so far, and sacrificed so much, that it seemed to him that there was no way for him to escape this self-dug hole.

Yet, here was Raven—an astute observer, amazing detective, former psychologist, and one of the few whom Prosa would regard as a friend—telling him otherwise; that there was indeed a shining, twinkling hope lying before him. Even if he was blind to it, it remained, waiting for him to catch it.

That hope, so wrote Raven, comes in the form of that town, and those children whose company you have come to enjoy.

Could he believe it? No, Dusk could not; his instincts told him to reject such an ideal. It was an unobtainable blessing, given to those who only deserved it. And he had known for a long time now that he was the least deserving of such a gift.

You will, of course, assure yourself that such an idea is false, Raven had continued. I know you well enough to know that you think highly of yourself in all aspects save for the one that matters the most: self-worth.

Understand, my friend, that you are worth more than you can ever imagine. In my experience, I have seen children know the true heart of many ponies before any leading psychologist could hope to make a diagnosis. And just as you know the truth about the nature of Manehattan, I know—and those fillies know—the truth about your own nature.

There is hope for you, Dusk. There is hope for us all.

Think of it this way. You were blind, but then your eyes were opened; only to wake up in a shadowy hall that you think you cannot escape. But those fillies, and that town; they must be your guiding light. You need only reach out, and soon you will find your way out.

Could that be true? Could he be saved? He had no answers; and he was unwilling to delve any further into his soul for “potential” resolution.

It’s an insubstantial conclusion, he tried to reason. That was enough to calm him down somewhat; until he had read the final words that Raven had left.

Nosce te ipsum.

Know thyself.

He who knows others ought to know himself. Yet, he who knows what the world does not, is often blind to the truth of his own self. The outside is the one, true way for him to know for certain who he is.

But that path was riddled with obstructing vines, the road blocked by muddy mysteries that not even he could hope to bypass. And he was too wary to try, knowing that the consequences could prove to be world-changing.

Still, though, such thoughts did not improve his stiffness. And his mind would still pester him with that question, that “truth” that he had rejected, trying to convince him otherwise.

Was there hope for him?

“Dusk?” a male voice asked to his left, shaking him out of his stupor. “Are you okay? You’ve been staring into space for the past twenty minutes of guard duty.”

He turned, facing a certain brown earth stallion—Time Turner. He tried for a grin, though it was weak, and would not have convinced even the most naive of fillies. “I’m fine.”

Turner raised an eyebrow, but did not question further. He turned away, leaving Dusk alone in his thoughts. There would be no rest for his mind this night.

Though, he could not say that was a bad thing.

Author's Note:

Raven Lock has been revealed as the contact that Dusk has been writing to! A greater threat is emerging that only he knows about, but his loyalty to the cause keeps him from talking. But his fate has already been spelled out for him...

And it appears that Dusk and Opacare had operated together, until something problematic arose. Consequently, Opacare had to be "silenced." Wonder what that means...?

The end is approaching. No one is going to be leaving unscarred...

Comments

[Jarvy Jared]

6599163 Thank you for your feedback! I hope you enjoy continuing reading it!

[Azrael the alicorn]

The writing is soo good that it helped me overcame the writers block!