The Confession of an Ardent Heart

by SpitFlame

Chapter 4: Critical Obscurity

Nova wasn't sure whether or not he could return to Canterlot—slowly and with deliberation, "at a gallop," or not at all—how could he decide?

He had no money, not a bit, for another private cart, nor a train ride—that is, he still had a particular coin left, but that was all, all that remained from last night's "generosity."

In the morning he had developed a strong headache, nothing too insufferable, much to his surprise, but it still thumped with a dull pain every few seconds. He had gotten up to find Bouquet by his side, but the sight of her, laid out on the bed next to him, left him stunned and giddy. Everything came back to him. He wanted to believe it was all a bad dream.

Grabbing his saddlebag he ran out of the inn, without a word, without meaning to wake anypony; he ran at first, then jogged, directionless and without much purpose.

At last he stopped by a mirror store, with mirrors of various shapes and sizes displayed at the front window. Nova glumly stepped back, observing his own reflection, and suddenly it was as though "something hit him on the head," as he himself put it later. In an instant a sort of illumination came to him, "a solemn glimmer shone and I perceived everything." He stood dumb, gazing at himself, dumbfounded, wondering how he, an intelligent pony after all, could have given in to such foolishness, to such baseness and debauchery; how could he have been sucked into such an adventure, and kept on with it all night long, only ever thinking of feeding into his desires at the moment, never once considering the future consequences.

"Well, I was drunk," he told himself, "drunk out of my mind—but what was there to wait for, to spend on? And what if... if... oh dear, oh, Celestia, what have I done!"

If anypony—especially a pony from the inn—said something to mock his position in that very moment, he might have killed them in a rage. But not now, now was different. He felt himself weak, as weak as a child. He quietly walked over to a bench close by, sat there, deep in thought for a whole minute, then got up and left the scene. He was still not in the downtown area, but that was the last place he intended to go. Now he walked at random, not even remembering which turns he took, left or right. There was no vengeance in his soul for anypony, only for himself.

For whatever reason he tried to find his way back to the inn, but he could not remember the way; instead, he strode along a narrow tunnel path, senselessly, not caring where he was going, and to his luck he stumbled upon a train station, which was active at this time. There were already a decent amount of Baltimare residents about the station, and several locomotives were available. Incidentally, the train carts at the front line was set for Canterlot.

But I have nothing left, except for this coin, but nothing else, thought Nova. He checked the times. This specific train came in and out every six hours, and this one was going to depart in about twenty-five minutes.

The cost for a ticket to Canterlot was about five hundred bits—four-fifty in the afternoon.

But wait—his saddlebag! It was made in Canterlot, he had bought it as a gift to himself a few years back. It was a tad worn down, but no flaws worth noting; other than a few ruffled threads and some of the disfigured linen, it was as good as new: a high-quality saddlebag, expensive, it had cost him six thousand bits.

On that thought, Nova took it to a saddlebag shop in the marketplace, which wasn't too far off from the train station. The owner there, after some inspection, gave him one thousand bits for it.

"I didn't expect that much!" cried the delighted Nova (he still went on terribly depressed, of course), grabbed the money in a pouch readied for him, and ran to the train station. There was only a few minutes left for takeoff before he got there. In a state of extreme hurry he demanded to buy a ticket to Canterlot at the counter, dumping all one thousand bits there; the pony working at the counter was taken aback, saying: "But this is too much, sir!" But Nova simply yanked the ticket from his hooves and ran off.

However, right when he arrived, with the conductor announcing that there was one minute left, and the last few ponies hastily making their way onboard, Nova froze and stayed put, seemingly fixed to the ground. A spiteful, unquenchable sensation gripped his heart, and his whole body shuddered. He wanted to laugh loudly and furiously, but for some miraculous reason he managed to control himself and contain his laughter. It seemed like his wits had left him.

I better go in the afternoon, wait for the next one, flashed though his mind sullenly. He found a bench to sit on—a much nicer bench, might I add—and sat there indefinitely, restlessly, for at least the next five hours. The long wait annoyed him, but he let it pass.

"Oh, baseness! Oh, triteness!" he repeated to himself, spitefully and without remorse. By after only a few hours he already looked very dishevelled and depressed, as though his emotions were manifesting themselves into his countenance. "How can I possibly justify these actions? Am I a scoundrel? Yes, a scoundrel of the basest of nature, straight into the point of no return. Oh, what is there left? What am I even saying to myself now? I reproach myself for such weaknesses, I reproach that very essence of my soul, it throbs incessantly in my mind like a monster of great treachery. That monster, it's in my shadow, waiting to emerge. Oh, I understand it, only all too well! Yes, ponies are imperfect, they suffer from the greatest suffering of all, one from which animals are privileged to be relieved: conscience. We must shoulder the burden of the awareness of our vulnerabilities. But why now? Why now? Why must my monster, my 'shadow,' dig itself out of hiding now? A blunder is the inevitable consequence of life, fine. But why this blunder today, of all days? Could it not have come to pass that my blunder occurred tomorrow, or next week, while I was in my house and was able to endure such self-consciousness? Do I lack the fortitude? The boldness? Dear Celestia, has the sum of history conspired against my Being just for this occasion? Can it be that life itself, the primary factor which explains our existence, merely came into existence for this moment, to shake my soul like there's no end to the torments of pity? Is it so that, if I never existed or, better yet, if I never came to Baltimare on this particular time, the fabrics of history would have irrevocably refused to form the world as we know it? Yes, yes! Life has done this to me! The definition of life: that which ruined Nova Tale.

"What else is there for me to confess? If I should pounce upon my Being, my thoughts and my emotions, unexpectedly and without reserve, can it be that I, in my subconscious, should reveal my reasons for committing to these acts of debauchery in all their simplicity?—in all their improbability and inconsistency? I demand upon my conscience: 'Why do what you did? Why squander the money like that, ruin the life of a poor pony confined to a hospital cot, and break the heart of yet another, for a single night, a single hour even, of sheer hedonistic coarseness?' I will waste away hours, eventually years of my life, only to return with the reply: 'I don't know why I did that. Why did you let me?' I am a spiteful stallion... and a sick stallion. Can it be... to learn... all this time... that is, are all ordinary ponies capable of the basest forms of treachery, and perhaps even enjoying it? Is it that every normal, run-of-the-mill, generic pony stands only a single, solitary temptation away from subsuming into their shadow, and revelling in it? You act what you believe. If you live all your life lavishly and without constraints for spending, you love money, no matter how blue in the face you are from stating that you do not value it. True, you act what you believe—to know what a pony truly believes in, pay attention to how they act. And the manner in which I comported myself was that of a scoundrel's, the scoundrel to end all scoundrels. Now I know why I cannot answer the simple—so simple to the point of absurdity!—question of 'why?'—because I disagree with the premise. It is the axiom, my axiom! I love debauchery, and the pouring of brandy, and that beast, oh, that sensual beast! But... I love the trees, and I love the sky, the pretty blue sky, and I love her, in my heart I truly love Sunlight. Oh dear, what have I done? What pathetic terror has my mind produced on its own accord?

"Do I believe in the things that I say? If I answer yes, and explain my position, would such a story hold even the tiniest, most microscopic modicum of plausibility? The worst of such stories is that the triumphant romancers can always be put to confusion and crushed by the very details in which real life is so beautiful and which these unhappy and involuntary storytellers neglect as insignificant trifles.

"And yet I cannot come to terms with the fact that my actions do not align with my words, no matter how hard I try to reconcile the two? Is it even possible, literally, physically possible to reconcile actions with words? Is not everypony a liar in some fashion or other? The purpose of my life has reached its climax, I was born with this goal in mind, and I have accomplished it. Oh, please, please, listen to me, self, listen well: 'Do what is right.' Ah, such a cliché. If you tell yourself to do what is right, is that not a mere act of consolation, a counter-measure of psychology to ensure you do not devolve into self-deprecating insanity? There is that little voice in my head which speaks the truth. Ah, I must, I must pay attention to that voice. It comforts me to imagine we all share that voice. If you say something that you do not fully believe in, if you express an idea that the deepest aspects of your brain does not agree with, that little voice will tell you: 'You don't really believe that, do you?' I hear it now, right now! If you say something you don't truly believe in it will render you immobile, you will feel weak, physically weak. I feel sick; when I lie I get sick, in my stomach, it burns in protest when I tell a lie. And worst of all, the worst of all lies, is the lie to the self. So then, it brings us back to: 'Why? Why do what you did, when you know it to be wrong?' But do I know it, sincerely know it and accept it as a fact? Here's a fact: I can live one thousand years and still not know peace. Say what you believe. I... I am a scoundrel... but not a thief! A scoundrel, the worst of the lot, but a thief I cannot bear. I still hold one platinum coin, those one thousand bits. So long as I do not squander that, I am not a thief, but only a scoundrel."

"Your change, sir!" the pony at the counter, approaching him hastily, called out.

"Huh? What's this?" Nova gave him a confused look, broken out of his contemplation.

"Your change, sir," the pony repeated, slightly exhausted. He dropped a pouch of bits by Nova's side. "You left a whole thousand, so your change is five hundred."

"You found me—went through high waters—just for that?" Nova was considerably surprised.

The pony from the counter nodded, and replied: "That's correct, sir. We ponies of Balitmare keep to a strict policy. It's only fair."

"I... I mean, of all the things," Nova uttered, slowly and carefully nabbing the pouch to look inside. So many thoughts flashed in his brain in that moment, and so overwhelmingly, given a pause, that, for want of skill, I can't seem to describe it in full detail. Tears weld up in his eyes. He could not contain himself. "You have so readily demonstrated your generosity, my friend. This is indeed amazing," he now spoke in a breaking voice, but softly, and with the utmost genuine virtuosity he could muster.

"It's nothing, don't worry about it, sir," said the pony from the counter, smiling.

"Last night, just imagine..." Nova went on, in an access of self-deprecating and simple-hearted pride. He reared up from his bench. "Can you possibly be so kind?" he cried with extreme feeling. "Oh, dear Celestia, you've saved me, mostly from myself, actually. You are saving a pony from his own tragedy, friend, from an arrow to the head... my eternal gratitude..."

"I'm happy to have made your day, sir, but if you'll excuse me, I ought to get back to my post."

Saying this, the pony waved a small goodbye and took off, just as hastily as he had come to find our Nova.

"I am mistaken," Nova was enunciating to himself, from the deepest part of his soul, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "Life is not evil, life is good. I deserve death, worse than death, and yet there are ponies who would not hold me to such contemptuous berating. Life is meaningful once more. Thank you, my dear friend. I must return to Canterlot, this moment—and right away!"

For the remainder of the wait time Nova found himself impossibly hungry, and so he decidedly went out for lunch, came back, waited some more on that same bench, and eventually the next train to Canterlot steamed into the station. The trip was only two hours, and yet he must have fallen asleep at least four times.