A Filthy Equestrian Slave
Laughter. That’s the first thing Filthy Rich heard. A wild cackle, coming from behind him. He opened his eyes to see a clear field, with soft loamy soil underneath him, stretching out forever. The sky blue and pure.
The laughter stopped and there was a snap of a whip behind him, and he knew he had to press forward. So press forward he did. As he stepped, his hooves sank in the loam, and each step they sunk a little more. The laughter resumed, a sinister chuckle to begin with, but as he sank it got louder with each step.
Eventually he was down to his knees, and he was hardly able to step at all, and he chanced a look back. The mare was there, laughing uproariously, but as soon as he twisted his head she shrieked and the whip came down on his back, and he cried out in pain.
He turned back forward, trying to take more steps. Beside him, on either side, were Spoiled Rich and Dawn Crest, both pulling small carts, not sinking into the soil like he was. He called out, and both looked back. Dawn Crest gave him a sad look and looked away trotting slowly, but Spoiled Rich lingered a moment. She turned up her nose, looking down it at him, as she scowled. He knew she was not happy, he knew she was disgusted with his failure, and she turned away, trotting away from him, her nose upturned.
He kept plodding forward, attempting to chase the two of them, and as he stepped, the sky changed. The color cycled, from blue to green to yellow, and eventually settled on a maroon color, as spots and checkerboard patterns started forming in the sky. The loamy soil felt hot and as he walked forward it grew hotter and hotter until he was stepping in lava.
He continued to force himself forward, the lava stretching and clinging to his hooves like hot taffy as his legs burnt. The cackling turned to mockery, about how he was worthless, about how he was useless. About how he was Filthy.
And in the distance, as he strained forward, he could see something directly ahead. He focused and was blessed with clarity, as he clearly saw a circular table with a horrible chimaera sitting there. The source of all his problems. Filthy attempted to call for him but the name he was sure he remembered escaped him and remained Unspoken.
Redoubling his efforts, Filthy fought to reach the Unspoken god, every step burning and stinging, as the mockery and cackling became louder and louder. He shouted out, “What do you want from me?!”
There was no response from the Unspoken, but there was a teacup in his claws, and he brought it up to his lips, and without moving his grin took a sip.
“You brought me here!” Filthy shouted. “You must… have some purpose, some reason for this to happen!”
The rictus on the Unspoken’s face only stretched wider.
“Why?! Why did you send me here? Tell me!” He stomped a hoof onto the surface of the taffy-lava. A surge of strength came from his hoof as a terrific crash echoed across the land, and the entire landscape rippled and deformed with the force of his hoof.
The Unspoken’s grin stretched just a little bit wider, as the cackles continued…
Filthy had no idea how long he had been lying down. At some point he regained consciousness and the awful dream ceased, but there was no way of telling even how long ago it was. It was dark, and damp, and he was sure he was lying in his cell.
His legs ached with a dull burn and his back stung. He could feel his fur matted on his back and hooves, though, with what he was hoping were bandages. Sighing, he assembled the likely events that transpired in his head. Passing out, getting bandaged, being left here to recover. He couldn’t even withstand one lousy day of work. None of the Apples would have this problem, would they? They’d be able to weather this, and excel. Have the strength to continue through the day, and excess to plan their escape.
But he couldn’t. He was used to a life of comfort. Given his father’s business, where he spent all day telling other people what to do. He felt like he was a commander, a leader.
But here? In the mud? When nopony was listening to him? When he was nowhere near his wealth, his influence, his life?
He was nothing. He wasn’t Filthy Rich, just Filthy.
He was jarred out of his self-pity by the grumble of his stomach. He hadn’t eaten for who knows how long. He looked around the dim cage, seeing if there was food left for him, and there was not.
However, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye he caught a dim glimpse of color. The fruit that was presented to Dawn Gleam was sitting right outside of the cage. He rolled himself over, and, his legs protesting, crawled over to the side of the cage. Any food is better than no food.
Reaching out his hoof, he attempted to grab at the fruit. But when he came in contact with it, he found he lacked the… grip he expected. His hoof, the spindly knobby version he was slowly getting used to in this new world, could not flex the way he wanted it to, and the fruit resisted his grip. Some sort of muscle he never knew was there was missing, and it simply didn’t come. He reached out his other hoof, scrabbling at the fruit, attempting to find purchase, but failing. Straining, he reached out with his hooves, moving his head back and pressing his shoulders as close to the bars as he could, and he thrust his hooves out, grasping for the fruit, and felt a tiny bit of pressure on one. Pulling his hooves back to get a look, he saw he had knocked the fruit hopelessly out of reach.
Cursing to himself, he collapsed down on the floor. It was in his grasp, but he ruined it, with his incompetence. And he didn’t know when anypony was coming back, and so he was left alone with his hunger. Nopony was coming to help him, and he couldn’t help himself.
Which really was what was happening with him in this camp. Nopony was coming to save them. They were trapped… possibly forever.
He laid his head down beside him. His stomach growled, and he half scoffed half sobbed as he resigned himself to misery.
He awoke again to a pinch on his legs. Groaning, he blinked out the weariness from his eyes to see a seapony guard poking his hooves, which were still outside of the cage, with his spear. He looked up blearily to the guard, who yelled something incomprehensible at Filthy’s face. It was clear what was being said though, and Filthy crawled backwards back into the cell.
The guard snarled one last time, and opened the cell, leading Dawn and Spoiled back into the cell.
“You’re awake,” Spoiled said, rather passively. “That’s good.”
Dawn gave Spoiled a quick incredulous look. “How are you feeling, Filthy.”
The air hung in silence for a moment, as if everypony was waiting for him to correct her on his name, but no correction said. Filthy shifted around a little bit, noting he was still hungry, and still in pain. “I’ve had better days.”
Dull thuds announced the delivery of the slop that was their every meal. Filthy reached for his with surprising alacrity, dumping his snout into the slop and slurping it up.
Dawn and Spoiled Rich both gave each other a worried look, but pulled up their bowls as well, eating at a more languid pace. They all munched in relative silence, before Spoiled Rich broke the silence. “So, Filthy, what exactly happened to you?”
Filthy took a moment to swallow. Without raising his head, he said, “I couldn’t pull the cart they wanted me to.”
Spoiled narrowed her eyes. “What about those bandages on your back?”
“I was whipped when I collapsed....”
Spoiled snarled. “Barbaric. You deserve better treatment than that.”
“You definitely do…” Dawn stared down at the.
“Do I?” Filthy started forcing himself up onto his feet, his legs protesting with burning. “Do I really? It took me only a day of work to collapse into a heap.” He attempted to put some weight on his legs, and they simply buckled underneath him. “You see! I can hardly stand.”
“That is not fair.” Spoiled stood up and walked over him. “You were not a physical laborer. You ran the most important store in the whole of Ponyville, and had chains. You hardly had the time to spend all day pulling carts like a commoner. You had more important things to do than that. You cannot be expected to switch to manual labor that suddenly, and I would think you--” she poked him in the shoulder “--would know better than to believe anypony who wanted to force you into a degrading job like that has any right to judge you.”
Filthy Rich looked up into the eyes of his wife, and opened his mouth to protest, However, before he started he faltered. His wife was staring him down, with her angry fiery eyes… but if he wasn’t mistaken… behind those fiery eyes that were berating him was fear.
“She’s right… this isn’t fair to either of you.” Dawn’s fear and concern were written more plainly on her face. “What’s happening here is wrong.”
They were worried about his injuries, and about his attitude. Not that that changed anything… but he had a responsibility to not burden them with this. He had to be strong for them, even if it was a lie.
So he forced a smile onto his lips. “You… both are right. I can’t let this get to me, after all.”
Dawn returned the smile, relaxing a bit and returning to her bowl.
Spoiled Rich took a step back, surveying her husband. He looked up at her, trying very hard to smile sincerely. She just narrowed her eyes and sat down to also return to her bowl, clearly choking it down more than Dawn did.
Filthy returned to his bowl as well, and the three of them ate in silence.
The next day began with what was becoming routine. Green slop in the morning, filling but not tasty. Sent outside to the work site, where they were outnumbered by the workers. Full day of work.
Filthy was sent to a different handler. An older stallion, who wore a solid tan smock with tools laid in it over some finer looking clothes underneath. The smock was clearly for work but the clothes were not.
In fact… Filthy looked around and it finally registered that all the workers were clothed. The guards were clothed, of course, in full armor, but even workers who weren’t wearing protective clothes or tools were all fully clothed. So was, for that matter, Dawn Gleam. But… he was still wearing his forevest, collar, and tie, which by now were filthy and in tatters, falling apart. His wife was wearing a simple foreleg blouse, which was also falling apart. Neither were designed for any sort of work at all, and cleaning them was not an option.
Cleaning overall was not an option.
The older stallion led Filthy over to a half-completed house, and to a disorganized pile of bricks. The stallion picked two up, laid them down on a cart, right by each other, and gestured to Filthy. The implication was obvious. Filthy was to be stacking bricks.
He approached a brick, and immediately attempted to wrap his hoof around it, to no avail. Hooves didn’t work that way anymore. He fumbled around a bit and clamped two of his hooves around a brick, lifting it and carefully placing it on the cart.
It took him many times more to fumble than the older stallion took, but Filthy looked back for approval anyway. The handler stared at him with a hard look, before sighing and plodding away, waving and saying something that was still easy enough to understand: continue on, even if you’re incompetent.
Grimacing, he turned back to his task. It was slow going, as expected. Still sore muscles didn’t help, either. He knew he should probably be thankful he was given an easy job, but he couldn’t help but feel ashamed he was given such a simple, easy task, and managed to fumble around a lot with it anyway.
After a few layers of bricks, the older stallion came by, announcing his arrival verbally, and gesturing to the harness of the cart. Biting his lip, Filthy Rich walked over to it, allowing himself to be hitched up. The older stallion, after finishing, set out across the work yard, and Filthy Rich started pulling in tow.
Pretty much as soon as he started pulling, his legs started burning again. He could feel the weakness in his knees, as they wanted to give out when he tried to push. The stallion started to pull away, and Filthy redoubled his efforts. Stilted, trying to bend his weak knees as little as possible, he tried to hobble quickly after the handler.
A misstep. That’s all he needed. He didn’t see the hole in the ground and after his hoof was a foot too low, he instinctively brought his free hoof onto the ground to steady himself. But doing that he tried to put pressure on his knee, and could not. Instead of pulling himself out of the pothole he just flopped over onto his face.
From behind him he heard a terrible clatter, and he scrambled to his feet, righting himself. He turned slowly behind him, to find the bricks had half fallen off the cart.
The older stallion didn’t yell. He didn’t scream or pull out one of his tools to strike Filthy, although it looked like he wanted to, with the anger burning in his eyes. But instead, he just sighed his angriest sigh, and went down, practically ripping the harness of of Filthy, muttering what were no doubt curses and insults, and shoved Filthy to the side, forcing him to sit down beside the cart, while the older stallion restacked the blocks with finesse Filthy couldn’t hope to match.
His cheeks burnt with shame, especially as he looked around and saw that everypony in the camp was staring. Some of the other workers were poking each other and snickering, while others were staring with a look of pity. Including Dawn Crest, who was, predictably, doing some easy job off to the side.
As he scanned the crowd, a familiar pink coat caught his eye and he saw Spoiled set up above a washbin, shuffling around tools. She caught his eye for just a moment, her glare harsh and severe, and she immediately went back to washing the tools. She transferred them from mouth to hoof to mouth with little clumsiness, and occasionally twisted them around, which looked like slower going than she needed to.
Until Filthy realized his wife was practicing. Surely she noticed her hooves aren’t quite what they used to be, but she was moving the tools around much more easily than he was clumsily stacking his.
Filthy knew he should have some happiness on her behalf. She was acclimating better than he was. But instead all he felt was a shamed emptiness, and tore his eyes away from watching her work... and directly into the eyes of the mare from yesterday. Her grin broke into a toothy smile, as if she had been waiting for him to notice her the whole time. Squirming uncomfortably, he watched her mouth something he wouldn’t be able to understand if he could hear her, and she started to laugh.
The emptiness receded, replaced with anger. This was, even more than the fault of everypony else here, her fault. Her fault for pushing him too hard. Her fault for whipping him when he inevitably fell. Her fault for his humiliation right now, even!
He started grinding his teeth, when he heard the older stallion call out for him. Filthy forced his teeth apart, so he wouldn’t be snarling at the older stallion, and looked to him. The stallion had hitched himself up to the cart, but motioned Filthy to walk alongside him as he pulled the cart to his destination.
The day of work came to a close yet again. There were no more dramatic spills, and Filthy Rich even slowly pulled the cart across the yard, after some rest. He allowed himself a touch of pride over it, even though he knew the job was intentionally an easy one.
But he wasn’t getting any better without doing it in the first place.
The three prisoners were led back into their cell in silence, and three bowls of slop were slapped down. Filthy and Spoiled started in on their meal, but Dawn Crest stared at her bowl. Before the guard was able to leave, she stood up and called out for him in the sea pony language.
The guard came back, and she stood up, announcing… something to him. The pony’s ears perked up in interest, and the pony said something back to her, raising an eyebrow.
Looking back at the other prisoners, Dawn said something with pity in her voice, and the guard came over closer, giving her and the other prisoners a look over.
From beside her, Filthy heard his wife pipe up. “And there it is. I was wondering how long it would take for you to decide to leave.”
Dawn promptly turned away from them, back to the guard, announcing something else in the sea pony language, followed up by a bit more back and forth between them.
The guard unlocked the cage, and Spoiled Rich rose to her feet. “And you’re now going to just leave us to this, aren’t you?" The guard slammed the door shut and relocked it as Spoiled stomped across the cage. “Leave us here to be their slaves, to wallow in misery! After all that time of pretending to be friendly I knew this is how it was going to end!”
Dawn looked back for a moment, with an unreadable impassive expression on her face, and said nothing while turning away, and walking out with the guard.
Spoiled stomped back to the bowl of slop, roughly plopping down by it, she exhaled roughly, her body shaking and trembling. She looked back up at Filthy. “I told you, didn’t I? That it wouldn’t be long before she left us to rot here?”
He sighed. “That you did.” The hoofsteps echoed down the hall as their former co prisoner left with the guard. “That you did.”
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find the bricks had half -- half what?
you? The -- missing quote. Good characterization in this chapter. Looking forward to the next.
laying in his cell - lying in his cell
thrusted his hooves - thrust his hooves
laid then down - laid them down
clumsily stacking his - clumsily stacking his.
understand if if - understand, as if
This was a well written, gut punch of a chapter. I wonder how much more abuse can be heaped onto Filthy Rich without a reset to give the audience a chance to recover.
Keep going!
8348056
8348685
Thanks for the corrections, and the encouragement.
Is it getting too onerous now?
8348803
Only the waiting for the next. :D
8348803
Not too onerous, not yet. I'm happy to keep reading and see where you go from here.
I can't wait to see more of Spoiled here. I like how she berates encouragement into Filthy Rich.
8351738
When I imagined the scene I called for her and Dawn to try to cheer Filthy up and them not really succeeding, but I think I wound up with something more convincing than I was intending.
Overall I'm happy with her spiel, though. It's outraged and arrogant and encouraging all at once.
Glad to hear you are looking forward to more, too.
8353181
I wonder how much of Filthy's lifelong drive towards success was because he was less afraid of whatever was in front of him than he was of Spoiled.