Old Friends
She noticed the pony for the first time when she was young, not long after she’d received her cutie mark. He had been sitting quietly in the back row at her mother’s funeral, noteworthy only in his utter lack of noteworthiness.
After the service, after the mourners had filed quietly out of the room, after the last of the well-wishers had extended their condolences for her loss, the filly noticed he was still in the rough stone chapel. She watched, peering from around the door with her family behind her, chatting amongst themselves in low murmurs, as the pony approached the casket at the front of the room.
There was something insubstantial about him that she couldn’t quite put her hoof on. A thinness that didn’t match his stocky body, a definite sense that he was far off in the distance yet right in front of her.
He delicately lifted a hoof, resting it on the lid of the polished wooden box, and gazed down at the wizened matriarch’s face. It was a severe face, the face of a mare who had lived a long life and seen many things and ended up largely unimpressed by most of them. The funerary director had done what he could, but the end of her life had been a struggle, and there was a tightness to her that the filly didn’t remember from her childhood.
The pony shifted, leaning closer to the mare, and murmured something the filly couldn’t quite hear. There was a sudden sense of motion, though nothing moved. The pony bowed his head, then stepped back and turned as if to go.
Their eyes met – she at the doorway, he at the altar. They stared at each other for a moment, and she felt as though the world were holding its breath, but then he nodded to her once, solemnly, somehow imparting through the simple gesture that he understood her sorrow and was sorry for it, but that her mother’s passing was simply the way of the world and there was nothing to be done about it. There was a sound like a sigh, and he was gone.
She ran up to the casket, ignoring the startled noises from the ponies behind her, and peered in. Her mother’s body was still there, her eyes still closed, her face still tranquil, and yet... and yet. There was the ghost of a smile on her mother’s lips. She had never thought to see her mother smile again.
That was the first time.
As the years went on, she saw the pony again here and there – at the scene of an accident, visiting a hospice ward, on the field of battle. She came to expect him, catching herself searching her surroundings for him whenever she was in the presence of a pony who had passed on. Invariably he would make an appearance, visit the deceased, and disappear again. Nopony ever seemed to notice him, save her. Sometimes, their eyes would meet as they had that first time, and she would nod at him, and he at her, before he continued on his way.
When she was not preoccupied with her work, she would often send her servants away, brew herself a cup of tea, and sit, wondering about the pony. She was bemused to realize that there was very little memorable about him, and she found it impossible to hold an image of him in her mind. She could not for the life of her recall the color of his mane, the shape of his tail, if he had wings or a horn.
She did remember one thing about him. She’d noticed it the second time she’d seen him and made a point to look for it each time following, at first because she didn’t believe it and then because she’d grown to expect it, accept it, be comforted by it.
On either flank, where every other pony had a mark that proudly proclaimed their destiny to the world, he had nothing.
Many years after the first time, she saw the pony once more. It was at a funeral again, that of her sister’s husband. They were in the same chapel, though it had been rebuilt in the years since. As before, he sat in the back row quietly. As before, when the service ended, the mourners filed quietly out of the room. As before, they gathered outside, to murmur condolences to the bereaved. But this time, she stayed, and sat down next to him.
“Hello,” she said.
He turned and looked at her appraisingly.
“I’ve seen you often, at this sort of thing,” she said.
I know, he said, turning back to face the casket at the front of the chapel.
She paused, and frowned. Her ears hadn’t heard anything; it was as though the words had formed in her mind directly.
“No one else can see you,” she said.
He nodded.
“Are you a hallucination?” she asked.
He smiled and shook his head.
She thought for a moment.
“Are you Death?”
He hadn’t been moving before, but he grew very still at her words, his smile fading. Again, there was a sense of tightness in the air, of the world holding its breath.
I have to go, he said, and slid from his seat, walking to the front of the room. She stayed where she was, watching him, listening to the soft swell of conversation from friends and family outside.
As before, there was nothing on his flank.
He stood over the casket, and leaned in, and murmured something she couldn’t hear. There was a sound like a sigh, and he was gone.
She stood and walked delicately to the front of the room, to gaze down at her sister’s husband’s smiling face.
“Were you talking to someone?”
She turned and saw her sister, and summoned a soft smile. “Just to myself.” Her sister looked doubtful. “Come, sister. It’s time to go.”
Her sister sniffed, and nodded, and they went out.
Many years later, she saw him again. There had been an accident, and one of her servants had been fatally injured; a nervous mistake by a new hire, tripping on a loose rug and falling down the main staircase, breaking her neck.
She’d rushed to the source of the commotion, but knew at once there was nothing to be done. Not from the hush of the gathered crowd, but from the sight of the pony standing off to the side, half in shadow behind a column.
She stood next to him, watching the upset servants console each other, before looking down at him.
“Hello again.”
He inclined his head briefly.
“Are you Death, sir?”
He looked up at her. You could say that, he said.
She nodded thoughtfully. “Are you a pony?”
You could say that, too.
“But you don’t have a cutie mark?”
He began moving toward the crowd, and to the unfortunate broken form in its center. Of course I do. Everypony has a cutie mark; it is the way of the world. My mark is Nothing.
She frowned, as the servants parted without knowing why.
She found him outside one winter, in the gardens, looking up at a proud old oak that her groundskeeper reported would not see the next spring, the last rays of sunlight filtering through its bare branches.
“I’ve heard no shouts, received no reports of missing ponies,” she said.
Ponies are not the only things that die, he said. He placed a hoof on the trunk, murmured a few words, and she heard a sigh. He stepped away. She noted idly he left no hoofprints in the fresh snow.
“Please, sir,” she said. “Don’t leave.”
He paused. I have my duties, as do you.
“I generally find that except in rare circumstances, things tend to look after themselves, at least for a few minutes.”
He stood motionless for a long moment before turning back to her. There is some truth there.
She swept snow off a nearby bench and sat, motioning for him to join her. After a moment, he climbed up next to her. They looked at the husk of a tree together.
You are much larger now than when we first met.
She smiled. “I had a lot of growing up to do. I notice you haven’t changed at all.” A pause. “I remember very little of you when you aren’t here. Not your coloration, not the shape of your face... Even now that we’re sitting together, I can’t decide if you’re an earth pony, a pegasus, a unicorn...”
It matters not. It is enough that I am a pony.
She let that idea settle in her mind, deciding that in some way it felt right to her. “I get the sense – and do forgive my forwardness – that you lead a very lonely sort of existence.”
He considered this. I would not call it lonely. I meet everypony eventually.
“Even me,” she mused.
Yes, he said. Even you.
“I don’t suppose you could give a girl a little warning, could you?”
It does not work that way.
“I suppose not. I’ll just have to take some solace in the knowledge that the last pony I see is a friend.”
A friend?
She turned to him, smiling gently. “Yes, a friend. You.”
He turned to her, and she could feel his surprise. A friend. It has been a long time since I have had... friends.
“Too long a time,” she suggested.
Perhaps. He turned back to study the tree. I have to go.
She nodded. “One can only put off one’s duties for so long.” She had seen servants peering outside curiously at her, wondering what she was doing sitting on a bench in the snow.
He stood and faced her. Until next time, friend. And then he was gone.
More years passed, what felt like an endless ocean of time flowing by. They saw each other occasionally, and she often reflected on the odd dichotomy such a relationship presented her: the joy of reuniting with an old friend – the oldest friend, now – against the background of sadness that always heralded his arrival. They spoke of death, and life, and everything in between, a lifetime of discussions pieced together a few minutes at a time.
“My sister is gone.”
I know.
“Yes, I suppose everypony does by now.”
I’m sorry.
“Are you?” she wondered.
He said nothing.
“You must be very old,” she mused. “Older than me, older than anypony.”
Yes.
“What happens?” she asked.
When?
“At the end of all things. When the world turns its last turn, when the sun burns itself out, when all is darkness, what then?”
I will be there, he said.
“Oh,” she said. “Good.”
The world turned, and the sun burned, and the darkness gave way to daylight, in an endless cycle. All the dizzying array of creatures she met came and went, but only the pony came back.
“What do you say?” she asked.
When?
“When you speak to the dead. When you lean over them, and touch a hoof to them, and come away and they’re smiling.”
That everything is as it should be.
“That’s all?”
It does not take much. Most are simply afraid to let go, and a little reassurance goes a long way. Sometimes it is not necessary. Sometimes they are ready to go on their own, and I am not needed.
“Everything is as it should be?”
There is no other way for everything to be.
She thought about this.
“How can you be sure?”
I know it, the same way you know the sun will rise each morning.
“It won’t rise if I don’t raise it.”
But you will. You always do, and you always shall, until the world turns its last turn, until the sun burns itself out, until all is darkness. There is no other way for everything to be.
She thought about this.
“I think...”
Yes?
“I think I shall miss you, old friend.”
Perhaps you will. But when the time comes, I know I shall miss you, Celestia.
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I like the reveal, definitely didn't expect it. Even with all of the little hints.
Creepy.
I thought it might have been her, but then I thought about the character tags and thought otherwise. Yay for deception!
Oh and of course! "Gone" doesn't mean dead, in her sister's case.
I love the fact that you used an OC. Thier the best ponies to write about in my opinion. They can be their own.
This was very good. Had me guessing for a bit till talks a page and half afterwards. It was a good, very warm read. Haven't read such a smooth one shot in a while like this. This all took place at a certain time before x pony returned I assume? Or was that one part a sort of definitive end of x pony?
Thumbs up and a fav. This story I really enjoyed this. If you don't understand my question, I can send a note instead. This story works much better when the person isn't aware of who the characters are right away.
That was an extremely well written one shot, and I have to say, it gave me goosebumps in a good way. I applaud you!
A good half of the way through, I realized it was probably Who shall not be named. But still, an excellently done story. You have my like and favorite, good sir.
This was interesting. I enjoyed it.
Thank you.
Oi, I thought it was Applebloom. That was wonderful.
2060819
Panda don't like spoilers
Well, I rarely read dark oneshots, but for some reason short synopses draw me in quite often.
Anyway, you used just two thousand words - that doesn't leave room for a lot of meaning or feeling, but I really doubt you were going for that. In fact, I have no idea what you were going for at all, but the way I see it, the story is pretty much Death ponyfied - the mare encounters him early on, and although it's a brief encounter - just their eyes meeting - looking Death in the eye is a memorable occasion. So as she goes down the road of life, she meets Death time and time again - yet he's always new, unrecognizable, unreadable, cold and still somehow familiar. Later, she musters the courage to talk to him - an action akin to elder people thinking about their passing. Time passes by, along with lives, and they become, if odd, friends - she accepts Death as something necessary and inevitable, maybe even a refuge of sorts. And then finally, she awaits him - like an encounter with an old friend, and so does he.
So really, the fic went by like a chill breeze - it faded away rather quickly. I can't call this a story, but a metaphor? Maybe. However, metaphors are something you use in a sentence, in a story, in something - they don't do well on their own. Still, it was a good metaphor - you get a like anyway.
3/5
2060902
I forget that some people read the comments before the story.
My apologies.
Thus, I fixed it, for the betterment of my community.
Have I redeemed myself?
2060819 who is this pony that shall not be named?
Oh, that was excellent. Definitely going on my user page list of recommended stories.
2062373
Read the story, and The Character which You seek shall be revealed.
Plus, I prefer to be a good being, and I shall refrain from spoiling it.
I'm probably just echoing what everyone else said, but gosh darn it you deserve some compliments!
Grammar was flawless, the pacing was perfect, and the reveal was brilliant. It's quite funny what people miss when they're deeply absorbed in a story like yours.
Once again, another amazing work from you! I should really refer to you for more writing advice every now and then. Celestia knows my crossover's going to need it.
Would you mind if I submitted this story to a couple of the groups I am in? I'm sure you wouldn't mind the additional likes. 
Oh, very nice. Subtle and quite true to the character. I don't know if this needs those tags, exactly; in its way, this was a life- (and death-!) affirming story.
To anyone reading the comments before reading the story: please don't. It's very short, and won't take you long at all to get through it without spoiling the story for you.
2060682
The section where the protagonist is lamenting her sister being gone takes place very soon after Luna's banishment, so the protagonist is somewhat maudlin. The preceding and following sections are on an indeterminate timeline. The story takes place over the course of at least hundreds, probably thousands of years.
2062147
The story was inspired by a discussion I was having with a friend about what Celestia and Death might talk about. I liked the idea of a near-immortal being striking up a friendship with him, and wondered how such a relationship might play out.
2062373
I hope you've worked it out by now, but if not, she's called by name in the last line of the story.
2063306
Thank you!
2064980
If you think it would be appropriate for these groups, by all means, thank you.
2066957
Selecting tags was difficult; none of them quite felt right.
To everyone, thank you for your kind words, and I'm glad you enjoyed it.
2068839 I guess I should take things more literally next time. Oh well...
so it goes.
2068839 I ment the pony that alway's say's goodbye to the dead. not
2074164
Oh, well, Rennoc215 was referring to the protagonist.
The other pony is the incarnation of Death.
Dude...this was...this was really, really good. All of the philosophies on death are amazing and sound so amazing. The reveal at the end I wouldn't have seen coming from a mile away.
You've earned a like and a fav from me, good sir. If you continue to produce such masterpieces, I shall follow you.
Well, I kinda figured that's who it was based on the amount of time that seemed to be passing, and a couple other details, so the ending was more a confirmation than a reveal for me. But regardless of that, it was well done. This sort of premise can easily turn out feeling cliche, but this didn't.
I didn't know who the pony Death was talking to until
. Later on, when it said Celestia, I was like, "Knew it!"
Your story speaks so much of death, yet it's full of life...
It makes me wonder what will happen when the time comes for my departure from this world...
It makes me feel... forlorn, but also really fuzzy inside. Perhaps its the thought of finnally letting go...
Holy crap. Excellent story. Fav'd and Thumbs Up.
Sometimes, there appears a story on this site that could probably be published--for reals--if the ponies were removed and appropriate adjustments made. I think this is one of those.
Go for it.
2291800
You know, I thought about that briefly after I first wrote it, but I ran up against the problem of the protagonist. Everyone here knows who she is; that's what gives the reveal its kick and a great deal of the story its meaning. I have a hard time coming up with a way to handle that which could work for the world at large.
Your comment did make me think about how cool it would be to publish a collection of short de-ponified ponyfic, though. Offhand I can think of Cold in Gardez's The Glass Blower and your own The Writing on the Wall; I'm sure there are others.
One of my new favorite Celestia stories. Great job, very dark and cryptic.
It was a nice story, not exactly happy, but very enjoyable nonetheless. I can't say I feel a burning love for it, since it was a little too straight forward, and the more mellow theme doesn't lead itself too much for this kind of feeling, but I liked it anyway. Someone bellow said that this is a very warm story, and I completely endorse this feeling.
Yeah...
yeah that's good. Greenthumbed and Favoured.
Death is Commander Shepard? That ... makes sense, actually.
All joking aside, though, the end reveal certainly caught me off-guard. Very, very nicely done!
I love stories like this. Stories that challenge you to think, to pause and really look at what is being done and said, that force you to pull parts of the story into your own view of the world to see how the pieces fit. Immortality would be a curse that I would not wish on anyone, as strange as this is to say, I'm glad to see that Celestia can look forward to an end.
2388472
I wasn't even thinking about that when I wrote it. Now all I hear when I reread Death's lines is FemShep.
2429067
I feel much the same way re: immortality. Thank you!
Huh. Why did I only now stumble across this?
Anyway, I love characters who talk like Death does here. Probably because one of my favourite characters from my favourite book talks like that. (The Old Man of Wandering Mountain from Michael Ende's The Neverending Story, for the record, though in his case, you only remember that he said something, it's not telepathy.)
2706236
I love the "remembering something said" thing too. I tried to leave it a little ambiguous here; I never really decided which it was exactly, and either one's something the main character had never encountered, so she wasn't quite sure how to describe it (though on a quick reread it does sound much more like telepathy than memory-modification here).
i really enjoyed reading this thank ya
A beautiful story. Seriously, I was enthralled. The writing is simple, but it has so much sadness to it, and it manages to say so much with so little.
This definitely deserves its 9.5/10. Very, very good.
I just re-read this, for some reason.
Does the last scene imply that there's nothing left on the planet, except her and (possibly) her sister? And so she'll be alone until she dies? That's... that's so sad.
2293012
2291800 I too thought this would work without ponies until I ran into the excellent reveal at the end. If you ARE interested in doing a FimFiction authors non-pony compilation, I think Bad Horse is organizing something of the sort.
4082400 Huh...I may have to get in on that.
Oh right....the story! Uhhh....I loved it! Came here from the interview post and I hope many others do too.
...an old hunter talking with gods...
--Robert Browning
I thought it was Diamond Tiara. Good story.
Wow... Beautiful reveal. I had guessed at it at first, but thought that perhaps it was Twilight grown up, or simply another pony - a lord or lady?
Then, the reveal that it is who it is. I reread the story with that knowledge in mind, and it was just as amazing. Well done. There are few stories which are that well done, and this is most definitely one. When I reread it, I was shocked to find a tear on my face; this story brought back some very painful memories very gently, and helped me make peace with them a little more. At least Celestia has a friend to whose arrival she can look forward when her friends and family die, and when her own end comes, she has a friend there as well. Maybe he's there with us, too. I think next time I'll look for him when my own end comes.
I agree with your decision to move the deleted scenes out.
A beautifully written story. Thanks.
Well, gee.
I've had a story about an exceedingly similar character waiting for its final chapter forever now. Admittedly, a few roles are turned around, and it is, at its core, a comedy, but the few parallels that exist between these two has rather inspired me to finally get it finished. Thanks for that.
On a more relevant note, this story is absolutely beautiful. There are plenty of other ways to describe it, but I think that beautiful rather well encompasses all of them. I sincerely hope to see more literature like this on the site in the future. Keep up the good work.
I read this upon your personal urging in the midst of your RCL interview. I have to say it was pretty amusing seeing you as the target of the interview questions. (Again, since you did them at the closing of the PFV) On that topic, I would like to say I really liked your river metaphor and think it works well for other varieties of creative work. I feel like I have a similar sort of creative inertia to overcome when I try to draw things. I'm glad there's someone carrying on the author interview thing, I know I can't expect anyone to run something like that forever, but I think it's one of the most valuable forms of fanfic meta-content, and I have to thank you for starting it.
Since I was directed to this story specifically to avoid spoiling the identity of the main character, I spent most of it thinking rather hard about who it might be. Sort of the puzzle-book mystery novel mode of reading. With the knowledge that there was a sister, and there were servants, I kinda felt like Rarity was a good candidate at one point, but the presence of a groundskeeper, and the bit where she says her sister is gone made me think I was being too narrow minded or missing something. I have to admit I didn't really think it was Celestia until I hit the line about raising the sun, but when I did, everything instantly fit. I guess I experienced the story pretty close to the way you engineered it to be experienced, based on your interview.
I do love Celestia stories, and this sort of contemplative look at her life in a large scale is very appealing to me on a few levels. I'm not really sure I can wring any deep meaning from it though. It's very... neutral. Things are what they are, tautology is tautology, that sort of thing. It's kinda sad, I guess, insofar as it reminds me that loss is a thing, that happens, but it doesn't say anything about it. So Celestia can see the spirit guide. Woo. This sort of description kind of belies the truth though. I was affected, reading this, I just can't really place why, looking back on it.
So, thanks, I guess, for making me read your thing. I don't think I would have otherwise, and it was worth it.
...
I've been sitting in front of this screen... For almost ten minutes now. And I still don't know what to say... Or rather, I don't know how to say it... I'll just settle with... Amazing... Now it's been almost fifteen minutes... I don't think I understand really, I think the reason why people are so touched by this is not because it shows emotions, but because it shows a passion. It shows a friendship that... So few things feel as real... It's almost... Music. Something as insignificant and common place as a wave, but when you think about it, that one wave touches miles, and so many souls... Now, excuse me as I go try and repress my feelings and return back to my insanity.
After reading this and Home, I realized something. You write poetically, but it's not poetry. You write extravagant words with simple plots, but the stories are neither pretentious nor dim-witted. Perhaps it's the effect of a quick one-shot hitting the reader, but amazingly, you were able to make do with the benefits of a short story while showing off the complexity and ingenuity of a 100k word novel.
Right off of the bat, I was hooked. The intrigue was inclusive, the prose was sound, and the reveal ever so satisfying. I could kind of tell that it was Celestia and Death for some time, but it didn't detract from anything one bit. I'm very glad I took the short time to read both of these stories.
The Glass Blower is my favourite story on the site, and it doesn't really need ponies to be a story. Using Celestia is a nice touch here, but really, this story can just as easily be substituted with names and a few actions to make it original fiction. I don't care. I'm not here for the fan fiction aspect of it, I'm here for quality writing--which is exactly what I got here.
Thanks for making an unpretentious, deep joy to read. An A-.
At first I thought it was just following a regular pony whose name didn't matter to us. I didn't put the pieces together until I hit this line farther down-
Then it hit me.
Which makes some of the lines before make even more sense.