Northland

by Celefin

Dear Father

The young stallion’s pigeon blue coat looked dull in the dim light of the low chamber. His straw-coloured mane with its sunflower hues was salt-matted and unkempt. Before him, laid out on the earthen floor of the cairn, was the still form of his father.

He stood proud, no tears in his sky blue eyes, as befitting for the one who would take over after the living legend had passed away. It was obvious he had grieved. Unlike the others though, he had done so in solitude on the sea cliffs to the west.

He bore his father's most distinguishing feature. It was the one thing everyone had waited and hoped for to show up on their foal. Or waited to show on at least some foal at one point in their own lifetime. None had ever been blessed with it in the four generations the elder had managed to outlive.

Wings.

The frail and lifeless body lay on its belly, legs and hooves tucked in, as if just taking an extended nap. A stone headrest served as a pillow, and the stallion’s steel blue mane had been draped across it with care.

The old pegasus’ wings were outstretched, as if the pony was just soaking up the midsummer sun. The light blue feathers, that once had a metallic sheen, were now dulled with age and illness. In stark contrast, the mark of the two saddlebags on his flanks was still the same bright orange it had always been.

A humourless smile touched the young stallion's muzzle. No one alive had ever seen the elder fly. Just like no one had ever seen himself fly. He knelt down and touched his father's forehead with his own.

A few moments later, three ponies entered the cairn through the entrance behind him. His brothers. It wasn’t just the wings that set him apart. Their broader necks, longer legs and sturdy fetlocks told of their mother's fjord pony heritage. Their eyes, though almost as large and colourful as his or father's, were a little bit farther apart. Their muzzle was a little longer as well.

In contrast, his own body was lithe and somewhat sinewy. His build was much lighter than theirs, hinting at agility and speed. It was something that had given him no joy in his early years. Almost every colt and most of the fillies had been able to outrun him without too much effort.

What really had made his foalhood miserable though, was the envy he had received from his two older siblings. They would have competed for leadership of the herd when old Scapa passed away. With his birth it became a moot point and they were relegated to irrelevance without warning.

Harvest Moon, the eldest of the three, was a broad-chested grey stallion with an ice blue mane. A steel blue streak ran through it, nature’s nod to his father. His cold, dark brown eyes rested on the kneeling pegasus as he planted his hooves on the ground.

Moorland Song came next, deep in thought as always. His coat was of a muted heather green, his mane a cascade of greyish purple hues. He closed his grey eyes for a few moments as he sat down on his haunches with a weary sigh.

The last one to enter was Solstice Spirit, who always had, and always would, stick out of every group. His patchy brown and white coat sported large, irregular silvery green splotches. His grey and white, tousled mane and tail didn't help to smooth his appearance. His gold brown eyes looked tired and listless.

After a minute or so, the youngest of them all got up from the floor and left with only a nod to the others. The three set about the task of covering father's body with the islands' reddish grey sandstone slabs.

He left the central chamber with its drystone walls that were covered in ancient rune markings. Why couldn't he get their banal and inappropriate translations out of his mind even now? The ceiling of the entranceway to the outside was so low that even ponies had to mind their head. The passage seemed remarkably short this day.

Stepping out into the golden light of the afternoon sun, he beheld the small herd waiting there. Many looked like the horses that had already lived on the islands in the times of the old folk. Others had patches of colour in their coat, ranging from sea foam green to blue to dark purple. These tended to have larger and sometimes more colourful eyes as well as different proportions in general. A few appeared almost similar to himself and his brothers.

Then there were a few larger breeds that stuck out like weather vanes. They were wanderers and the occasional outcast from the northern tribes. For the most part, they had joined the herd just recently. Gathered in a wide semi circle before the ancient grave mound, they all quieted down as they became aware of his presence.

An expectant silence fell over the open field, only broken by quiet nickers or a quickly shushed whinny of a foal. A far off cry of a seagull carried on the ever present, low whistle of the wind.

In the pleasant warmth of that late spring day, Dawn Horizon shivered.

His hooves rustled the long grass as he ascended the little artificial round hill. A flat plain stretched for miles around it in every direction, making the blue sky with its wispy clouds seem like an impossibly high dome. It made him feel insignificant. When he reached the top, he hesitated and took a deep breath before he turned around to face the gathering.

He opened his mouth and tried to swallow the dryness that had appeared in his throat, with the only result being a quiet, strangled cough. A dozen ears in the front row flicked.

Taking another deep breath to steady the voice he felt was about to betray him, he planted his hooves firmly on the ground. He forced himself to raise his head high and then arched his neck a little bit, just like his father had taught him. There was still a slight tremor in his voice, but at least it would now carry far enough for everyone to hear.

“My father, who was also ancestor, great grandfather and grandfather to many of you, has finally come to the end of his long and often laborious trot. He spent the last decade of his life teaching me the lore of the old folk, the lore of these islands, the lore of our folk.

"He also taught me to use this knowledge to lead us further on the path he set, all these many years ago, when he came to these islands. The path of learning, exploration and discovery. The path of fostering the bonds of family and friendship that engender the mutual trust we all depend on.

"He taught me of justice and of fairness, of humility and the importance never to forget where we came from. Most of all though, he instilled in me a deep love for this home of ours, for all of you. He saw me fit to take over after him. He had confidence that I could carry on his legacy.”

He felt his legs tremble as he took a deep breath against the pressure on his chest.

His brothers had finished their grim task and were walking up to him. All three gave the slightest of nods to him and each other before they took up station a body-length behind him. He didn't dare to look back at them.

His young voice rang out over the field once more.

“This is all I ask of you.
To not judge before you have something to judge.
To have confidence that I will succeed in this task.
Because I know that I will, as long as we can all stand together as family and friends.
Have confidence.
This is all I ask of you.”

The wind whistled in the long grass that surrounded the circular mound and played with the tips of the young stallion's tangled mane. He stood rigid with apprehension, having delivered the speech he had rehearsed so often it had followed him into his dreams. He was certain that, had it not done so on its own, father would have made sure to chase it there.

After an unbearably long minute, one by one the assembled herd began to kneel. He let out the breath he'd been holding for long enough to almost make him gasp for air. He briefly fought to maintain his composure; to not just begin to weep with relief. This hadn’t been the outcome of the many nightmares he had endured over the last year. Since his ailing father had begun to talk in earnest about succession. In fact, what now played out before him hadn't been the outcome of any dream at all.

They bowed to him.

A sudden giddiness overcame him. It was done! They accepted him! The hardest task father had ever given him was... had they ever bowed before father? They must have.

They bowed! To him!

There was a cough and a shuffling of hooves behind him that quelled the rising euphoria. He blinked, realising that there were still more than a hundred horses kneeling before him, who had done so for over a minute now. A blush coloured his cheeks and he hated himself for it.

“Rise to your hooves, my friends!” he called out, the tone of his voice still a little squeakier than he would have liked. Some light-headedness remained.

There was an audible snort from his eldest brother, Harvest Moon, still standing in formation with Moorland Song and Solstice Spirit. “As if they'd...,” could just be heard before the rising chant of “Dawn! Dawn! Dawn!...” drowned out his voice.

Solstice walked up to Dawn and nudged him in the side, making him jump and half-flare his wings in surprise. He had been too enraptured by what played out on the field to even notice him. With a soft chuckle, his brother watched him fold up again.

“You really need to get those things under control. It's unbecoming of your new station,” he said in an earnest tone. He failed to hide his friendly grin despite his best efforts, yet the words still made Dawn's ears flatten against his head.

“Sun and Moon! Can't you at least wait until this is over?!” he hissed.

“Now, Moony here's got nothing to do-” He broke off when he noticed Dawn beginning to bristle and deflated with a sigh. “Sorry. Couldn't resist... Uhm. I actually just wanted to congratulate you. Father would have been proud of that display you just delivered. No, really, he would've. But speaking of congratulating you,” he added in an again more playful tone, “There are a few others who'd like to do that as well I should think.” He waved a hoof in the direction of the assembled herd. “You should go down there and mingle with them. Otherwise they'll be hoarse from calling your name in an hour or so.”
His grin was back as he bumped a hoof to Dawn's withers.

The new leader’s ears drooped. “Look, it's just that... that...” There was a deep intake of breath. “No, you're right. Thanks, Sol.” He took a deep breath and nodded. With that, he turned and walked down the hill to where his herd was waiting for him.

“He'll crack soon enough,” a gruff voice commented behind Solstice.

“Hey, have some faith, Moony!”

“Don't call me that.”

Solstice gave a long and heartfelt sigh.

Harvest scowled at him but soon turned his annoyed gaze towards the bottom of the hill. The members of the herd were trying to get to their new leader all at once, in a merry display of equine chaos. That most of them were larger than Dawn did nothing to make his appearance more regal. It didn’t help that he was trying to acknowledge and thank everyone close enough to do so at the same time. He was barely visible, except for the occasional wing in someone's face.

Harvest rolled his eyes. “Will you look at him. This is ridiculous. ‘Rise to your hooves my friends'. That he could say that with a straight face... I'll 'have some faith' only in the unlikely event that he actually does something to earn it.”

Solstice inched away from his eldest brother and bit his lower lip for a second. He gave Harvest a sideways glance. “Should he have said 'Rise, my subjects!' instead, oh my not-chieftain?”

He yelped as Harvest spun around with a snarl and tried to bite him.

“What a fine display you two are putting on." Moorland Song trotted up to them and sat down on his haunches, two lengths away from them and looking exasperated.

Harvest stopped snapping after Solstice. The piebald, in turn, stopped jumping around to stay out of reach of those vicious teeth.

“We have an audience, in case you didn't notice. Apart from the one you should have been able to be aware of, I mean.” He flicked his head to the south-east. There, a group of Iceland ponies stood and watched the proceedings from a distance.

There were no remarkable differences between them, no colourful streaks or patches. They did exude a sense of grace and purpose though when they turned as one and trotted off. Two of them looked back over their shoulder as if they would have liked to linger. They galloped away to the south-east with the rest of the group when their leader picked up speed.

“The Ronaldsay tribe?” Harvest shook off some dust and trotted over. “What about them?”

After a few moments, Moorland sighed and turned to face him. He exchanged the disdainful look he'd been giving his youngest brother for an irritated look directed at his elder one.
“Maybe they wanted a first-hoof impression of our new leader and his reception? It's going to be interesting to see if they'll want to be traditional about being on bad terms with us. They might give him a chance to try and improve on that.”

“And you're both hoping he'll fail,” Solstice deadpanned. “Aren't you?”

Moorland snorted. “As a matter of fact, quite the opposite. But when it comes down to it, he's still only in this position now because of his feathery appendages. It’s not because he has shown any special talent, much less vision. Or even ambition, for that matter. So I'm not optimistic.”

“But you're still not going to try and assist him, am I right?”

Both Harvest and Moorland glared at him.

“How come you're suddenly all enthusiastic for that colt?” Harvest demanded. “If you're that opportunistic, you're shallower than I thought. Jokester.” He gave him a ‘I haven't forgotten and this isn't over yet’ look.

Solstice's ears splayed back against his head as he took a nervous step back, his tail tucked in. “I'm not enthusiastic!” he hurried to reply. “I- I just think that's what father would have wanted and that he, you know, deserves that chance. Uhm.”

“Right.” Moorland nodded, wearing a dispassionate expression. “We should go down there and join the well-wishers still left. He is family, after all. Who knows? Everything may turn out just fine.” He turned and strode down the mound, with Solstice following close by.

Harvest gave a resigned little huff, collected himself and fell in line behind the other two. He kept close enough to Solstice's haunches to make the younger pony jittery.

'Ingigerth is the most beautiful of all women', was carved beside an image of a slavering dog.

He pressed a hoof against the spot between his eyes. It didn't make the images and cursed translations of the Viking runes go away. The cairn below him was sealed now, but his brain kept repeating them over and over.

'This mound was raised before Ragnarr Lothbrock’s sons were brave smooth-hide men'

Prehistory... what the old folk had known to be ancient. All the books father had managed to preserve in the cabinets acquired from the 'Stromness Museum'. It was all there. He had read them all, not only those on history. All of them. Father would have had his hide, had he caught him slacking.

He looked out over the flat and fertile plain surrounding the lonely little hill he sat on. The evening sun glinted on the loch to the west. Fragments of stone walls cast their long shadows over the old farmland, that nowadays was a beautiful, flowering meadow.

'Haermund Hardaxe carved these runes'

Wish I had a name like that. He snorted at himself. He still liked the sound of the name though. It sounded like someone who others would think twice about messing with. No matter what father had had in mind when he named him, he still thought his own sounded like a filly's name. Most of the other foals had thought so too.

Why father had insisted on naming his sons himself, instead of letting the mother do so, had always been a mystery to him. ‘You wouldn't understand.’

Same as for the question where he'd come from. ‘You wouldn't understand.’ When once asked about the mark on father's flanks, mother had quickly shushed him. And that was that.

Sitting there in the cool evening breeze, he realized that in all likelihood no-one knew. Father had taken those bits of history with him into the ancient grave mound.
He wished he'd insisted on being told. Not half a day ago he had told the herd about the importance of always remembering where they came from. A fine leader he would make if he couldn't do himself what he demanded of others.

'Thorni fucked. Helgi carved'

“Ow!” Smacking himself on the muzzle with a hoof helped. It did so most times.

After an hour's westward trot on the cracked and partly overgrown asphalt road, the sheltered town of Stromness came into view. Past the empty remains of villages and farmsteads, the road spanned the mainland from west to east. In some places, where the old drainage ditches had clogged up, it was submerged in mud or shallow water.

It wasn't particularly dark even though it was late, the sun was hiding just below the horizon after all. It never got truly dark at this time of the year. Even at midnight, only the brightest of stars were visible.

He absent-mindedly noted the state of disrepair of the small bridge that crossed the inlet to Loch Stenness. They would have to figure out a way to do something about that before it collapsed. That would make necessary a long trek around the loch to get to the other side that was only fifty yards away. That was his responsibility as well now. He sighed and trotted onward.

From this point exactly two miles to go before home. Half an hour at a brisk trot, give or take a few minutes. He smiled a little at the effortless precision of the thought.

Maps. Dozens of them, father's most sacred possession. He knew them all by heart, all names, all distances, all places. Most important of all were the places that had been or still were a good place to look for useful old folk artefacts. Even those few maps of 'the other side', as father had called it with this longing in his voice. Even one of a large city called Inverness.

He'd never seen the coastline that father had told him was visible from the southernmost point of South Ronaldsay. Across the rushing, choppy waters of what was called the Pentland Firth. He perked up a little. He might be able to work something out with the tribe of South Ronaldsay, to let him gain access to that part! That called for leadership. He slumped again. His untested leadership.

“That's your tiredness talking. You can do this,” he assured himself with a weak but hopeful smile.

Maybe he would get to see the spot on the western shore of the peninsula where a small sailing yacht had once foundered on the rocks! That had been in his grandmother's time. A drowned and bloodied pony had been tangled in pieces of rigging trailing after the boat. Another body was found the next day, washed ashore a mile further to the north. The two ponies had looked like father! Without the wings, but colourful and with marks on their flanks!

What stories those two might have been able to tell. Their boat's steering wheel and other pieces of the wreck were mounted on the wall behind his father’s desk after all. That too large for a colt desk with all the maps.

Sometimes he wondered if father's true name wasn't Scapa but Long Journey, or something like that. He wished he'd asked, even if that would have come close to asking about his mark. He wished he'd asked anyway. He wished he'd asked about so many things.
‘You wouldn't understand.’

He picked his way through another swampy part, where the road had all but disappeared. There was mud everywhere from when the herd had returned earlier that day. Or was it yesterday? A fleeting smile lit up his features when he spotted a foal-sized indentation in the mud, at the end of short skid marks left by two pairs of tiny hooves.

The foals were his responsibility now as well, or rather what their future would look like. Or was that preposterous? He guessed it wasn't, seeing as father had steered the whole herd in the direction he saw fit. That had resulted in them living in buildings that were kept in as good repair as they could manage. The alternative would be the open fields and natural shelters like the tribes. He shuddered at the thought.

They also worked a few fields to the best of their abilities. His father had propagated the seeds right from the point where the age of the Old Folk had ended. The yield didn’t come close to be enough for all of them, all year round. It did bring a very welcome variation to their tables though.

He didn't mind eating hay or even grazing in a pinch. He wouldn't miss it either though, if they managed to make it unnecessary. Father had hated it with a passion and his sons had often left him their share of the ‘real food’, as father used to call it.

“When we manage.” He reminded himself.

He passed the remains of some large structures in an advanced state of decay, a hundred yards to his left. Their sheet metal roofs had failed decades ago. The reinforced concrete walls were crumbling.

A 'processing plant'. For fish. There was all kinds of machinery there. Half buried in the rubble, much of it stainless steel, it was still smooth and shiny. ‘One day, we'll be able to build something like this as well.’ Father had fallen silent for several minutes after that, with that blank, far-off look in his eyes.

He’d asked how he thought they would ever do that. Father had glared at him and snapped, ‘With our stupid, fucking hooves!’ and changed the subject. Terminally. That was the first and last time he had ever heard father use such an expletive. He had never asked again.

One of his forelegs caught on a raised piece of broken asphalt, hidden in the long grass that was sprouting from the cracks. He caught himself with an undignified scrabble of skidding hooves and flailing wings.

His left shin hurt.

Father's dexterity and flexibility had been amazing, not the least with his wings. He himself still had to figure out how to hold anything with them in a secure manner. The main problem was not to drop the item when something surprised him and the cursed things flared out. Granted, they seldom did that nowadays when he wasn't under a lot of stress. He just didn't trust them.

There weren’t all that many in the herd that were able to do more than grip something between hoof and fetlock. Being able to bend their forelegs in much more useful ways than the majority made those few special.

Past rows of decrepit houses with collapsed walls and rotting timbers, he trotted down to Stromness harbour. Hamnavoe, or 'Haven Bay', as it was once called in ancient times. Moss-covered, broken roof tiles littered the ground.

Down at the harbour, he walked across a space built for automobiles to wait for the return of their owners. Many still did. Their rusted shells rested on the concrete expanse, askew on the brittle remains of their deflated tyres. Rough grass sprouted through the cracks in the corrugated surface.

Maybe he should have headed home to rest. Instead, he walked over to where the calm, dark waters gently lapped at the crumbling concrete pier. He sat down on his haunches at its very end.

Behind him stood the ruined remains of the low ticket office and tourist information. The building had once welcomed passengers from the other side, as they walked down the corroded gangway. Its remaining front wall still proclaimed 'Stromness Travel Centre' in bold, faded letters. Father had told him so many times about the ocean-going vessels that used to come and go here. Especially that one large ship that had arrived twice a day with people and cargo on board. ‘Just over there. That's where the NorthLink ferries used to dock.’

‘We need to lift one of those bigger fibre-glass yacht hulls and turn it into a boat again. We need to cross the Pentland Firth. If we don't, we'll be forever stuck in the middle ages over here. We’ll never have enough resources to do more than just scrape by! Do you understand that, Dawn?’

‘Yes Father, I understand.’

He had indeed, in a way, understood. At the same time, saying it had made him feel guilty about the point that he was quite happy with their way of life. On the other hoof, he had always believed in his father, and he still did.

‘We can build something here Dawn. We can rebuild what was before.’

Acquiring that same burning desire, that same longing though... that would always be beyond him, he feared. But he had promised to continue on the path. He had announced it today, he reminded himself. There would be no going back.

‘An ocean-going vessel, Dawn, that can cross the Firth. With a crew of our best people.’

They had figured out how to recreate a working block and tackle. He knew the position of the best candidate in the silt of the harbour basin. They were also close to be able to build the necessary equivalent of a crane. Or at least something of similar use. Attaching ropes or chains to something five yards below the surface and hoisting it onto dry land? That was something else though.

Refitting it... could that even be done with a hull that old? Training a crew? Navigating and surviving the Firth's tidal races and unpredictable weather?

It was all there in the books and charts. But in real life? And if they made it, what then? If he could at least scout out that other shoreline to know where to go and what to look for. Maybe find others that father had been so sure were out there somewhere. If only he could use his wings to- he squeezed his eyes shut. He would not begin to ruminate on that again, not now.

And where would he find all the hooves to spare for this? Especially those capable hooves that were needed just about everywhere else? So many things that only they could do were vitally important here and now.

‘You can finish this Dawn.’ His father had lain there on that bed of hay, with such confidence in his tired eyes. ‘I know you can.’ He hung his head.

He watched the sun begin to make its way up over the horizon after its brief rest.

“Dawn?” a soft voice rang out from somewhere behind him.

“Yes, mother?” he said, not taking his eyes from the harbour opening to the south.

“Come back home with me.” The mare walked up and nuzzled him below the ear.

“Yes, mother.”

Comments

[ValenceBond]

Interesting concept, but if I am reading this right, are some of the others on the island decended from horses? Like actual horses? The first chapter confused me in that regard.

[Celefin]

6327803 Yes. Starscribe suggested that hoofed animals, especially horses, will develop the same concepts such as culture, speech, etc. as in the show somewhen in the next few hundred years on their own, yet much faster if in close contact with equestrian ponies.
I took the liberty to speed up that process again by placing the story in a very confined place on earth full of stone circles, legends of magic and of mythological creatures from 5000 years of continuous settlement and simply declaring this an important factor. I like the idea of magic concentrating in 'natural foci'...

So yes, after some decades 'Scapa' did indeed take a mate from the tribe that had formed around him and what you' are seeing are halfbreeds, all with the genes of that one lone pony from the beginning spread out through 4 or 5 generations. Those most resembling our ponies also increasingly live longer. They'll never turn into real ponies though, that only happens to humans. No cutiemarks either and only a fraction of the magical abilities, if at all. As in an 'earth pony' may be somewhat better at farming than the others... maybe securing that the one yearly crop doesn't fail. Not producing 5 or 6 crops a year.

The mate wasn't his 'stepmother' he met in the prologue. She'd have long been dead of old age (for a fjord pony) by then.

I liked the idea of the resulting conflicting and conflicted characters, especially since all the other groups on the islands are normal horses descended from normal horses. Also, what will happen when they increasingly encounter real ponies? The Stromness herd is also the only one that uses English, the others use a more recently developed, simpler language of their own.

I'm aware that I'm pushing canon by trying my little thought experiment. If it's deemed too much then I'll just have to move it to the non-canon folder, though absolutely everything else here will be 100% canon.

[Masterweaver]

Nonono, this is good, keep going.

[Celefin]

6328117 Thank you! The next two chapters are mostly done but still need a lot of editing. Don't have much time on my paws, so slow going. But steady ;)

[ValenceBond]

6327939 Fair enough. I was just making sure I was reading it correctly. I like the general setup though. This is the first "Next Gen" piece of PAP fiction I can think of actually, so it's a nice change of pace to see a story in the universe (for me at least), that isn't just "OMGWTFBBQ I'm a pony now so let's go preserve what little tech we have." Granted I might be oversimplifying there.

Either way, I look forward to seeing the next parts.

[Seeking Dusk]

Huh. This is pretty sweet. You dragged me into the world with ease and man I want to see more about what Dawn has to face. And the perspective of the closed world... Damn that's even more terrifying than just coming back to die alone in a remote location. His father must have been frustrated and/or bitter something fierce.

And I still have the urge to cinema sins these stories... You start at -1 sin for being Next Gen

[Celefin]

6330201 Thank you! You just made my day. +5 writer's motivation.
It's pretty much what I had in mind when I came up with Scapa, yes.
So... I'll do my best to keep those dings infrequent ;).

[Dances With Unicorns]

I would love to see one of the NorthLink ferries reappear, the passengers and crew from across the United Kingdom and around the world are now ponies, with some other species, and then dock at the concrete pier. Some of the island resident passengers appear to be more upset that their vehicles are now piles of rust, than that their bodies have now become different species.

[Venerable Ro]

So his Talent is the ability to read millennia of accumulated Nordic graffiti? That's, useful...

[Celefin]

9351776
Heh... well. The Viking graffiti in that mound is from a very narrow time period and he can't really read it, he just knows what it says. Dad showed him and he's read about it in a book, like most of his knowledge. Would be a cool talent to have though, deciphering runes.