Scarred Serpentine

by Metanoia

Act I, Chapter VIII

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The ship was a large object—and it most definitely impressed the locals when they had first gazed upon its breadth—but it was by no means the largest ship the Conquistador had ever seen. He recalled that moment as if it were only yesterday: he was in his juvenile years on a port, goggling upon a vessel so large he immediately understood why the Andalusian Empire explored as many lands as it did. He was reminded of the quote, “If you want to conquer the world, then you must conquer the seas.”

The Conquistador himself was glad his ship was still intact, no animals having ravaged the secured food supplies and the masts still in their places, untouched. He somehow had the inclination that every time he left his craft, it would somehow disappear—an anxiety that persisted within the depths of his mind. He understood not why he had this fear, but it was a fear he had nonetheless. The ship was most easily his comfort thing.

His stallions had already commenced their routines whenever they departed: set up and fix the masts, check the supplies stowed in the craft’s bowels, check for any interior or exterior signs of any sort of damage and signs of a hull breach amongst many others. One new objective they had was to lift the still injured Lightning aboard the deck; it was made much more uncomfortable because he was still lying on a makeshift stretcher provided by the locals.

Once all that was done, the Conquistador and his stallions thanked said locals for their help through the aid of their translator, the other ponies of the two groups left without any other means of communication simply waving at each other in the spirit of camaraderie and respect.

One by one, they lined up by the vessel, as was with standard protocol. To make sure all of them were here, the Conquistador initiated the head count that was always done before they boarded and went on their way into whatever adventure laid in the horizon.

He scrunched up his nose when he concluded. One by one, he counted again. And then he counted once more rather quickly to make sure his math wasn’t wrong and that he wasn’t having some sort of mild psychosis. There was one missing member that wasn’t amongst them.

“We have somepony missing,” he stated clearly for the others. “Roll call!”

Each of the stallions shouted their names, and the Conquistador needn’t them finish for him to know who was absent as the realization crystallized.

Arctic Ace.

“Arctic Ace. Has anypony seen Arctic Ace?”

They all worriedly shook their heads, and the gossip seemed to commence as the stallions talked amongst themselves in bated conversation. And as the clock kept on ticking, the more time that passed without anypony speaking up, the Conquistador could feel the tingle of the dam inside him breaking apart at last, despite his strong willed nature that had glued it together for so long, the memories flooding him in a great cataclysm.

I’ve lost one, and now I might have lost another.

No concern was even seemingly shared by the Conquistador’s men as their confers grew stronger, turning his back from them, the lightheadedness rocking him to the core. He was an old but sturdy man, though his legs buckled under the weight he felt on his shoulders as he remembered those somber events clearly, as if only happening yesterday.

He recalled his face when he arrived from the stairwell, despite the billowing smoke in between them. The stallion was only a few meters away, and yet it seemed the distance between them was suffice an entire lifetime. He stared at him holding on to the wall for his dear life, an opening behind him torn from the forces of tumultuous tides. It was the gateway to death, the waves the limbs of demons that would drag whomever was caught in them to their surly demise.

Grimacing, he hesitated for a moment at the sight of the smoke.

And he could only hesitate for that single moment before the waves crashed in, shaking the vessel and bringing in the water that took the stallion hanging on with them, sending him and chunks of the wall into the sea. He could hear his drowned screams as he was forced to be buried alive amongst the explorers' past that had been taken by the ocean to be lost forevermore, a watery tomb.

The Conquistador only hesitated for that single second and it was to possibly seal the fate of that stallion for the rest of time. Could he refer to himself as such looking back at those events, a Conquistador—for the failure he brought upon himself haunted him and that lost soul for all eternity.

He remembered his eyes, filled with a stillness in that moment of raucous surfs, those screams. It was as if those pleads of mercy were more real than any vast sea, any explored land, himself more so. Could he have saved him?

The Conquistador swore he heard his unfateful cauterwals once again from the depths of the Amarezon rainforest.

Without another word, he took off. He heard the calls of his men from behind, begging him to come back, begging him that it’s not worth doing. The Conquistador ignored them, their beseeches eventually dissipating into the background as he examined the forest edge that stood squarely to face him.

He paused for a moment, feeling the coax of the wind.

And so the Conquistador ran off into the dense rainforest to find Arctic Ace, not once turning back.

---

Space. It was dimly lit, and one could barely be able to make out the corners of this undefined place. What shone the dim light was a single bulb that hung from a non-existent ceiling, sterile and dead. One could take note of the minuscule particles in the air floating aimlessly—like bacteria and single-celled organisms flying, forever vagrants. It was as if he was by the only spotlight in an otherwise lonely universe.

Feather Dew wished those minute particles could be compared to microorganisms, for the air was as dead as interstellar space. He could taste it—or rather the lack of it: soulless, as if the magic in the atmosphere that would have given it life had been sucked out by some hideous contraption, devoid of any sense of nature’s touch. It was controlled. It was disgusting.

From behind him he heard a knock, and the door on the odd wall opened to reveal a stallion that donned a white coat, eyeglasses, neck straight and pose firm. Feather assumed he was some sort of doctor. He seemed to be one of those ponies that took things way too seriously. Did he prefer or despise the air they found themselves in?

The stallion levitated a clipboard up to his face to examine the contents of some paper or notes Feather couldn’t see.

“I apologize for the wait, but she’s ready as can be for you to meet. Are you?”

Feather’s mind was as numb as the air around him. He simply replied, “Yes. I am ready.”

The doctor nodded. “Right this way, then.”

Feather hadn’t remembered this place having hallways so tall yet lighting so dim, simple pillars coming up from the ground, equidistant from each other. The pillars and walls were a slate grey, a smooth stone that had been polished but had no distinct texture or unique colorations. Like the air, the building itself seemed dead, too. Feather wondered if the floor held tombs of long lost people unbeknownst to happy endings.

And the two ponies walked through the hallways until they found themselves in front of a metal door. Similar to the other qualities of this place, it was sterile and clean, seemingly having never felt the touch of any pony or knowing the first time it had ever opened before.

The stallion in the coat reached out to twist the undoubtedly sturdy and mechanical-looking handle, and with a firm click, pushed the door open, releasing the threshold. He made his move to enter, silently ushering in Feather Dew.

Light. That was the first thing Feather Dew noted when he entered the room. It was finally light that didn’t make him second guess the things he saw in the darkness he was previously submerged in, but something was wrong.

It still felt dead. It was too even, too fake; the manner it buzzed in gave him the impression that this was merely a mock interpretation of the sun of day and the moon of night.

The illumination was coming from windows that allowed one to look through the other side. As the two strode to the center of the room, Feather noted the strange buttons and magical hologram screens that were neatly arranged in their respective tables, giving him the impression that whatever was going on here was to be measured.

What was being measured, though?

Feather didn’t know how to feel when he looked through the windows properly for the first time, finally regarding whatever laid beyond.

She was sitting in the corner away from him, wearing a straightjacket that completely encased her front hooves together to her torso. Merely staring at the corner, unmoving, he questioned if she knew they were here. It disturbed him, the thought that this mare was simply staring out into empty space—regardless of the fact that he had done exactly so mere moments ago.

“This is a one-way mirror,” the doctor started to explain, motioning to the barrier that separated them from her. “We put her in a room with padding on the walls to ensure she doesn’t hurt herself.”

“Has she hurt herself in the past?” Feather never turned to face him when he asked.

The coated stallion nodded almost instantly. “She’s been hurt, that’s what I can say. I think you would know if she has hurt herself, Feather Dew.”

Feather nodded as he continued to look through the one-way mirror. She was as still as a rock, and Feather swore that if he were to examine her through his peripheral vision, then he would say that she was only a statue, a mockery of the constant motion associated with living things.

“I’ll inform her of some matters,” the doctor said, grabbing a piece of paper from one of the tables and setting it down in front of him. Before Feather could respond, he picked up a microphone and held down a button, beginning to speak.

“Can you hear me?”

The mare didn’t seem to hear his call. Maybe she didn’t bother to answer at all.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

Slowly, she moved to turn around whence she stared, looking straight at Feather Dew. A surge of adrenaline washed over his senses as she now peered into his soul. Was it a coincidence? Or could she see right through the mirror and possibly right through him?

“Yes.”

“That’s good. Now, you realize why you’re here, correct? You’re here because you have lost the capacity to care for your own well-being.”

She casted down her glance, her face and expression indiscernible.

“Yes.”

“Okay. The guards and your assigned nurse will come pick you up to show you your way to your cell. Understood?”

And she didn’t initially respond to that statement, merely keeping her thousand-mile stare at the floor. Feather Dew swore he started to hear voices coming from behind him, whispering languages he didn’t even know, concepts beyond this dimension and his understanding.

“Yes.”

“Hold on.” Feather Dew felt rude to interject, but he had to, turning to the doctor. “Before she goes to her cell, can I please tell her something?”

Raising a brow, he wordlessly levitated the microphone in front of him. Feather stared at it for a contemplative moment before making a shooing motion with his hoof. “I don’t mean that. I want to talk to her face to face.”

He only shook his head. “That’s against protocol. We have these mirrors up so we can observe and talk to our subjects from a distance.”

Feather paused. “I understand what you’re saying, but I’m requesting to talk to her face to face.”

“I know this may be of some importance to you, but please, we can’t risk-”

“But I don’t care about the risks at this point! I want to talk to her in front of me. I waive all liability, I don’t care, I just want to, you know, talk to her in person. Please?”

The doctor held a silent pause, rubbing his nose with his hoof and levitating his eyeglasses slightly. The silence of the room made the air more serious than what it already had been, the light of the room giving an even more deathly glow.

“I suppose. She is in her straightjacket, anyway. Follow me.”

Through a door on the other side of the room, Feather and the doctor found themselves in front of another door once again that seemed to be more reinforced than the doors they had crossed previously. This was a transition, as if an airlock, and there was a tiny window on the door that allowed one to look through and momentarily see what laid on the other side.

The doctor set a hoof on the lock, looking back at Feather for his final reassurance. Giving him a nod, the doctor unlocked the door and opened it slightly. Feather went through the threshold quickly and heard the click of it locking behind him. That was when Feather knew there truly was no turning back now.

She didn’t even seem to acknowledge him, still staring at that chosen spot of hers; it was as if she were peering at the broken pieces of her life. Somehow, he believed he was looking at the hurt of a young filly—and for the first time, too. It brought a heavy weight to his heart.

And so he came closer and closer to her, slowly but surely, one step at a time, until he was right in front of the mare. Kneeling down, he simply allowed himself to bask at the moment, a magnificent desolation between two worlds, two ponies, two individuals. They were here now, gazing at each other’s expressions up close.

It seemed forever had passed until he let out a wordless breath. Even under the obscurity of her mask, she truly did look as beautiful as the most golden of sunrises.

Feather knew he needed not do anything for the moment. There were questions he wanted to ask, things he wanted to be explained. Did it matter? The concoction of emotions stirred inside him, creating a stillness so rare in one’s life it could probably never be replicated again.

A peaceful melancholy, that’s what he felt. It was peaceful in the way it mimicked the embrace of ocean winds, melancholic like the desolation of the deep blue. It was uncertainty, it was the feeling of not knowing what slumbered beneath the waves, a longing for something one knew not they truly wanted.

Feather wished things were less complicated than they were. He looked for solace to their situation, his face reflecting a sorrow, beneath the waves of an imaginary ship sailing the very real expanse of the seas. Now he did want to do something, but what could that be?

He wasn’t even thinking, but his heart knew it was right.

Slowly, he reached for her straightjacket and began to undo it. There was not even a reply from the supposed doctor, and the air was as quiet as her eyes as she expressed an emotion unbeknownst to mortals: a sorrow familiar to those who belong only to splendid fairy tales, an absolution only known by those who knew every single sin they committed in their last hundred lives. The only real things were her and Feather, the straightjacket slipping away into faded obscurity.

Touch. Feather stared when he felt touch. She placed a hoof on his cheek when he had finished undoing her bonds, supple—both her fondle and his coat. It wasn’t the end to their struggles, the answer to provocations, but it was somehow enough. It helped him, and Feather knew it helped her, too. At that moment, he had set her free.

“Before you go, I want to ask you something.”

Her expression softened. “What is it?”

Feather Dew gave her a rueful curl of his lips. “I want to know your name.”

And she let out a tender exhale, placing a hoof on her chest as she continued to gaze at his soul.

“Crystal Jade.”

His eyes were as bright and sad as stars. “And I’m Feather Dew.”

Author's Note:

A bit of a wait despite the short length of this chapter, but it's one of the most important ones yet

Comments

[Jatheus]

Hmm… where are we? How did we get here? Haha

Not in the woods anymore, that’s for sure.

Head count is always a good idea. Odd that nobody else was concerned about Arctic…

[Metanoia]

10970728
It's a vague chapter and I don't want to really hold anyone's hands