Scarred Serpentine

by Metanoia

Act I, Chapter VII

---

The Manehattan Museum of Art was a great juxtaposition between present day and days before. It housed an inordinate number of art pieces, relics that range from odd contemporary paintings to ancient sculptures made by civilizations eons ago and everything in between.

Feather Dew believed that if one wanted to look at snapshots of history, then the Manehattan Museum of History was the place to go, but if one wanted to look at snapshots of people, then they ought visit the enigmatic Museum and the more so enigmatic fragments of chronicles it contained.

Even the museum itself was a strange place, a building belonging to Neoclassicism in the middle of a modern metropolis. Sure, some of the buildings in Manehattan had the charm of being built by past generations, but the Museum of Art always stood out to him with its large arcs and towering pillars; it was as if the structure was plucked from an alternate timeline, a non-existent fantasy world of exquisite taste and resplendent imaginations.

He remembered this striking painting in the museum, one of his favorites: From Heaven He Fell. It was a piece that called the attention of everypony in the room it was in. In the background were angels that seemed to be halfway through the process of turning into clouds, serene and encompassing with the way they all held each other as one. The sky had a certain tawniness that made it seem as if it were the calm sunset of a vague day.

And then there was the subject of the painting itself, in the forefront. The angel looked protective yet ready for assault, criticizing yet beseeching for help, so unbelievably beautiful but hateful. He was a fallen angel, cast out by his god from paradise. The heavenly messenger was also in transition, though different from the others, being many things in that singular instant. Or could he be none of those things at the same time, too?

“There is one thing I’m sure about him, though. He is ultimately a being without hope, full of misery. I look at him and it’s as if he is staring back at me. I see his hooves together, and I don’t know what’s on his mind when he does so. Is he praying? Is he scheming? He looks back at me with his beautiful eyes that radiate both hate and loss. I couldn’t believe it myself. I couldn’t believe such a detestable being could look so alluring.”

She was keen in listening, her hooves on her chest, sitting down as he kept on explaining. Feather Dew was seated as well, quite familiar and focused on the subject matter he was speaking of.

He loved to visit the museum often, so he thought it appropriate somehow to talk to her about his tours and escapades. It was at a point where he could map the inside of the place completely from memory and remember his favorite artworks and their positions. What he would do to gain a chance to walk through those corridors for the first time all over again...

“Sorry I was ranting for a second there. It’s one of my favorite places to visit, the Museum of Art. I love looking at all the pieces there and inferring from them. Sometimes, I only saunter through the hallways without a care in the world, my mind empty, only observing the forest of artwork around me.”

“It is alright. You have a passion for it. I... remember this quote I heard, ‘There is an artist inside every one of us, it only has to be revealed.’ Something of the sort.”

He nodded wistfully. “I agree. Do you have any... pieces of art you like?” Feather wanted to slap himself when he was forced to finish that statement. Would she even know of any artwork, yet remember? I don’t know if an ethereal... entity would know that.

It surprised him when she did indeed answer. “I saw this relief once. It depicted two ponies: one was laying on the other’s hooves, as if dying. It was a captured moment of him uttering his dying words. She looked to be in the action of putting a hoof on his chest, but who knows?

“It is a moment before the end of all moments, before leaving this life... to the next. I often wonder what he wanted to say to her. What did he say to her?”

Feather was pitifully reminded of what he was here for. He stared back at the mare, his mind going blank, though it was incomparable to the stillness of his museum walks: this was unsettling, high-strung. There was a certain numbness that hit the tip of his tongue, as if he were ill.

But he wasn’t ill, and he knew well enough what he ought to do.

What did he want to say to her?

Then it was clear in his mind—clear as day. He felt the solemn silence of a room with no noise within himself, and yet he had not the anxiety of past notions. As soon as River Moon’s words came back to him, he knew for sure that there was little to no escape now. What he wasn’t sure about was how she would take it.

“I have something to tell you.”

And the mare gave him a simple blink of her eye as a response, her eyelashes soft with how they fluttered.

He let himself breathe. “I was talking to somepony. I’ve known her for a couple of days now, and what she explains is...” The mare tilted her head when he drifted off.

Feather swallowed a tad; it definitely wasn’t a good sign that she turned from him, the expression on her face indiscernible. She was inching closer, but inching further away.

“Go on.”

“She told me you were talking to her, too.” Somehow, he physically felt the weights on his shoulders being taken off him as he slumped his back. “She was talking about how you talked to her about... about choking.”

For a moment, she uttered not even a simple phrase to him. Her face conveyed nothing. It was like looking back at a mirror when one was looking for something deep within their eyes, a stare of a soldier who gazed out into the great beyond from the horrors of war, a ghost looking back at their own body.

“She was kind. Confused at first, but kind. She did not want to look like she was taking anything seriously, but I knew that she knew that there was something more. She is a curious mare, and I did indeed speak to her.”

Feather Dew truly hoped he would not push any boundaries. “How long?”

It was the first time he’d seen her sigh. “I don’t know if my perception of time is... different from the lot of you. That is all.”

Feather was trying to wrap his head around the idea. She doesn’t know how long ago she’d last talked to River Moon? And the slight sweat in his back dropped as the questions started to form in his mind. She said her perception of time was different?

He tried hard not to look back at her like she was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but as hard as he tried, Feather’s heartbeat started to quicken from the adrenaline.

“You... your perception of time is different? How does that make any sense?”

The mare simply turned from him, out of meekness from the look of her face. She put the back of her one hoof on her chest, as if protecting her heart from the inevitable hurt it will have to endure, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

Feather tried to find the right words. “I don’t know what’s going on... I thought that only I could see you, but then I learnt from River Moon that you talked to her, too. We both see you, but that doesn’t make any sense because we’re only supposed to see our own individual hallucinations.

“This is a hallucination... I’m taking an entheogen to help me learn more about myself, to look at things from another perspective. But what I realize is that’s not what’s happening. I...” He looked back at her. It was the first time he seemed to look through her and not the other way around. “Who are you?”

And she looked back at him at the sound of his pleading tone.

“Who are you?”

And he was left defeated somehow when she exhorted those very words, as if she had won this game of chess they were playing. Who am I? The thought rang through his mind. What was he? Did he even have a right to say that he knew who he was when he didn’t even seem to be sure of that himself? He was distant, far, but the question was if he was distant to only her and not to himself as well.

Then it came to him, as easy as a breeze. “To you, I am a stranger. I am what you see and what you don’t see. To you, I am merely a pony who comes to you ever so often. You are running, and I am the lamp posts you occasionally meet. I am like the wind, and I come to you often to remind you.”

“To remind me of what?” Her tone was disheartened and soft.

He didn’t even mean to smile, but smile he did, and it was gentle as clouds. “That somehow, you’re real.”

The mare turned her head to him, and for the first time, her assured nature had been erased like insignificant beach pebbles from strong waves. It was as if she longed to reply from the sentiment of her visage, to give him an honest answer. Sadly, it never seemed to come, and the mare slipped slowly into a subservient silence.

Feather Dew continued, “I somehow know that even if I may be hallucinating all of this or this may be the craziest coincidence of all time, I know that you exist. You’re not merely a facet of my mind or a part of my subconscious machinations, you’re you. You’re an individual with real thoughts and real emotions and real memories and real borders of individuality that separate you from I and you from River Moon. You’re real.”

And he allowed an exasperated but tender exhale to come out of him. Feather let himself at ease, and he was tired somehow.

“River Moon. That is a beautiful name.”

His ears perked at that statement, the epiphany hitting him. “She hasn’t told you her name?”

And she seemed suddenly sad at that, more remorseful than he had ever seen of her. There was not a trace of anger or a glint of annoyance in her expression—only true guilt that resonated in her soul. The mare clashed her teeth shut, shaking her head in despair, looking as if to ward off the demons pouncing her vulnerable mind.

“Are... are you alright?” Feather felt rude, reaching out his hoof. He merely retracted it in meek hesitation at the sight of her faltering, unsure. They were both unsure. They were both unbeknownst. To each other? To themselves?

“I... had I not thought of that? How had I not asked her... realized that before...”

Feather put a hoof on his chest, his mind slow yet somehow scrambling to give her a reply. “Hey, it’s nothing to mull over. Please, take a breather. I know it may seem a tad rude on your part, but what happened happened, right?”

It did not seem to help. Her expression turned even more dejected, disappointed, even the mirth in her eye making it seem as if all the merriment of the world had been taken away. It was the only thing to be heard, her breathing, the rise and fall of her bosom for an indeterminable amount of time.

“The one thing I could have done... I could have done to show her some courtesy that wouldn’t hurt me or bring me back to that awful place again and I didn’t do it. Who knows when I have the chance to meet somepony like her again... to meet somepony like you again...”

“I can’t breathe. I can’t... breathe... It's choking me. Every time I’m alone it’s as if I’m being drowned and...”

Before Feather Dew could respond, she was gone.

---

The fire crackled calmly, giving a warm glow. Even with the aid of the heavenly bodies of the late sky, the presence of a fireplace was always a plus. It gave light, it gave warmth, and it was a sort of beacon of hope to sojourners present and sojourners past.

When there was a fire, it meant that one could lay down and let oneself be for a moment. It allowed one to take their time in a world that could sometimes be too harsh. It was a sign of peace.

The Conquistador had called all his men ‘round the campfire, and here they were. The fire they had set up was at the center of tents circled around it in such a way to block the disruptful Amarezonian winds from coming in and possibly setting the flames out.

Cold, that’s what they kept being reminded of. How the air could be so humid yet the winds be so chilly was astounding, and it made the presence of the flame more important to them now than ever. They hoped the winds would not turn as strong as they were wintry.

There was a collective nervous energy amongst them, a morbid curiosity as to what the Conquistador would announce. They had obviously not forgotten the elephant in the room; the lack of one of their own. Lightning was wounded, hurt, and the lot of them knew not of his current condition at all.

The Conquistador would answer their inquiries. “I have called you all here because I have been thinking. This all happened very fast, and yet only moments ago had we the opportunity to think things through and to fully absorb what had happened. We can also strategise as to what we will do next.

“Lightning has been injured. He’s being taken care of as we speak, but he is not in the condition to explore and even walk, for that matter. And you all know of my rationale: one for all and all for one. He cannot do this and go out there, and neither will we. We have to travel back home and pray the king will let us return one day.”

There was an indistinct chatter among the men, mostly positive and relieved at his conclusion. He even heard sighs mixed in the conversations of packing things up for their departure and when Lightning would be in the condition to leave—so they could finally be home at last.

One voice stood out from the rest, and it didn’t seem to be so pleased.

“But... but this city! We have not found it yet! Surely we could go back several more times and seek even harder?”

The Conquistador squinted. He recognized that voice, belonging to Arctic Ace. The unicorn stallion was always an ambitious one; he wondered if he were a mother bird swatting her progeny from leaving the nest—unlearned in the skill of flight. It somehow reminded the Conquistador of his younger self: ignorant but wide-eyed in the prospect of adventure.

He sighed. “You know we cannot do this, Ace. One of us is already injured; I do not want to risk us any more.”

Ace shook his head indignantly. “We have already gone so far. We can go back and look for this city, we must.”

His impatience was beginning to grow. “Why, praytell, must we do so, Ace?”

“Because that’s the reason we are here in the first place! Can’t you see, if we leave then we go back achieving nothing.”

The Conquistador’s expression turned severe. “We almost lost one of our men, and you yourself would surely think that having done nothing at all is better than losing him, hm? I am putting my hoof down, for not only your sake or Lightning’s, but all of ours.”

Arctic Ace shook his head in denial, but he knew he got him there. Even the most prideful of all of us have their pitfalls.

“I understand your enthusiasm, Arctic Ace, but you have to let this go. Is this worth more than risking your life, our lives?”

He didn’t answer.

---

Feather was glad a modicum of sunlight filtered through the great many flora above him, but even so, he had hoped it would be brighter down here. He had learnt that the Amarezon had a great many oddities in its geography: meters deep water pockets that looked to be mere puddles, the many strange flora that littered the vicinity, even the areas of the forest floor so dense one would think it was impossible to traverse, like slicing obsidian with bare hooves.

He was also glad that he had a pathway he could follow. Feather did encounter the occasional vine or fallen tree branch along the way, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. With such a thick forest like this, he allowed his thoughts to come back to a conversation he had moments ago.

The predators of this forest know where you are before you know where they are, the mare in the retreat had explained to him. The Amarezon is filled to the brim with predators so adapted to the environment, it would be near impossible to save yourself knowing you’re already about to get attacked.

That’s a nice thought, he mused ironically, although, to be fair, she did say that the surrounding area of this path I’m following is completely safe. It is safe, right?

As he progressed through the forest’s corridor, finding the occasional weird plant or mushroom, Feather allowed himself to do what he came here to do in the first place: walk, think. The breeze hit his back, and he was a tad surprised by that. The wind seemed to come from above him, somehow passing through the dense tree tops and reaching him, the forest floor.

The wind reminded him of many things. It reminded him of what she said.

I can’t breathe... Who knows when I have the chance to meet somepony like her again... like you again... Every time I’m alone it’s as if I’m being drowned and...

Like you again.

The statement resonated in his mind and soul. She said that as if I’m not seeing her again. Has it been that long since she’s met somepony like me, like River Moon? Who am I? I told her that I was a stranger; I am the light posts and she is the runner. But that’s just what I think. What if she sees me as something else?

She also said she wanted to ask the same thing: who are you? It’s almost as if she doesn’t know any more than I do about that.

Feather Dew stopped by the shade of a tree, taking the time to rest, but mostly to concentrate on his thinking. The epiphany hit him, for he had the time to take in and absorb what she may have unintentionally shared to him—bits of information he found intriguing.

The first piece of information he pointed out—undoubtedly the elephant in the room—was the fact that she got disappointed at herself for not knowing River Moon’s name. She was upset that she didn’t show her the courtesy... she said it was the one thing she could do that wouldn’t bring her back to that awful place. She said something about not knowing how long it would take for her to meet ponies like us again...

The second piece of information he pointed out was that she described what it felt to be alone. She said it felt like she was choking, as if she couldn’t breathe. Being drowned. He was reminded of what River Moon had told him about. She said it was like choking...

The third and final piece of information he pointed out was that she said that time was different to her. All she said was that her perception of time ‘may be different from the lot of you.’ What does that mean? Why would her perception of time be any different from ours?

He shot down that comment immediately, a part of his mind reasoning: what did he know about anything? This was the conundrum he found himself in, as if he were stuck doing a puzzle that could not be solved, trapped inside an hourglass that was merrily making its way to asphyxiating him.

And a strange emotion bubbled inside him at how the rustle of the flora sounded from behind. Feather turned around and found nothing. It was just the wind. That’s all it was. He was left disturbed at how the wind would taunt him that way, but maybe it was trying to tell him something, for he was definitely trying to tell himself things, too.

Feather was forgetting something important.

That face of hers, it was as if she had met the end of time itself. She was scared; that was fear. And what he saw was not a despicable monster or harrowing beasts from the gates of the underworld that would lay siege on all ponykind. What he saw was a pony. A sad, little pony.

Despite the confusion, despite the anomalies that popped up like unstoppable weeds, there was little doubt of her sincerity he found in his heart, and it had always been such ever since he realized the hurt she must have carried.

Hurt. She’s hurt. She’s lonely in a world I don’t think she truly knows, and it’s as if she doesn’t know who she is, too. Does she scare herself? She keeps talking about River Moon and I. It’s as if she and I are the only ponies she’s ever had.

Where do you come from?

Comments

[AstralFlare42]

I kinda thought it was a ninjago crossover

[Jatheus]

Where indeed? She seems to only show up, so far, in hallucinations, so far as we can tell. Though, I am fairly certain she’s got something to do with the wind as well.

It’s kind of a shame that the Conquistador is abandoning his mission, but I expect more will come of that.

[Metanoia]

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