Subjunctive

by Integral Archer

Chapter XV: Passive

It is a distinctive sound, that almost inaudible rustling as an animal’s hooves move through dry grass and leaves. And no matter where one is, be he awake or asleep, it’s enough to send a surge to his heart, to make him sweat from his temples, and to possess his head such that it twitches at even the slightest whisper until the perceived danger is passed.

Such was the sound I woke up to and such was my reaction. Every part of me instinctively repeated one word: fly, fly, fly . . .

But where to fly? The only place out of this snare was the door through which I’d entered last night . . . and behind there, through the slit in the bottom of the wood panel, was a shadow . . .

It moved silently, such that I couldn’t distinguish the noise it made with the general rustling of nature. Now it moved back, and I took a breath in relief—but before I could exhale my tension, the shadow moved into the vicinity of my shelter. It stretched through the gap in the door, swept across the floor, the walls—a void wiping clean anything it touched, searching for anything that didn’t belong . . . searching for me.

I shuddered and tried to restrain my gasps. These weren’t the gentle oscillations of shadows cast by foliage in a warm summer wind. There was definitely something outside. And I knew it was just a matter of time before it came in and saw me.

So flight was out of the question. Yes, I remembered: An injury is an injury. No matter what form you take, the injury doesn’t disappear. Have a leg injury? The corresponding ligament will be lame in your new form. Have a wing injury? No species of bird will allow you to fly. Nature had given many things to my species; she hadn’t given us the ability to circumvent or expedite the healing process.

Fight, then? When was the last time I was strong enough to take on any creature without support? And, especially with my foreleg injured, any battle I may choose to fight would inevitably be a losing one from the beginning. Magic, perhaps? I touched my ersatz pony horn with a forehoof. When was the last time I used magic offensively? When was the last time I used it at all? Cocooning prey, perhaps, but at that point they’re so exhausted that they don’t resist. An attack against a large enough creature would serve only to make him laugh, would serve only toward my humiliation. As a last effort, it might be able to be used as a physically offensive weapon—but no, my leg injury! Everything came back to that!

The door opened abruptly, and light spilled into the murk. I threw my hooves reflexively in front of my face as dirt flew into my eyes. Lame and supine—and now even blinded, I shut my eyelids as tightly as possible, and the light I could perceive through them darkened as my assailant closed the distance.

I heard a high-pitched cry; and, suddenly, the darkness behind my eyelids gave way to light once again. A light pattering of feet reached my ears.

I opened my eyes a sliver against the dirt. In the blurry distance, against the vague form of trees, grass, and shrubs, I perceived a face. But what kind of creature it was, I couldn’t tell, too full of water as my irritated eyes were.

“Who . . . are you?” a light, gentle voice prodded me.

Though it was only a prod, it was against the sorest wound in my body. The water from the mud mixed with my tears.

“Please! I didn’t know! I beg you! Show leniency! It was cold; I was wet; I was tired. The streetlamps were dying; I couldn’t find my way in the darkness, and there was no other place for me to turn to. I’m lost in this land! I don’t know where I am or why I ever came here, and I don’t know what to do now! My family was here, and then something happened—I don’t know what—and I lost them! They’re gone! What to do in such a situation? What would you do? Please, reprimand me; scold me, berate me, lock me in here—do anything you please; just don’t turn me away!”

The creature stepped toward me. I stared at her hooves, at her legs, and an unanticipated thought came to me: From her presence, I felt no hostility. I saw no strain in her slender muscles, neither out of offense or terror. It was as if I weren’t there—or, even, it was as if my presence induced in her an alien gentleness.

“Why didn’t you just say so?” she said in a voice that was nearly a whisper.

*

For the past two days, I’d been bled, bruised, beaten if not in body then in spirit. With one hoof, I’d held back the injuries; with another, my maelstrom of heavy emotions—the ship of the brother commander does not, must not, succumb to his storms, no matter how intimate and lacerating they may be!—but my bulwarks foundered at the ultimate moment; and, against such an impotency as I’d just shown, any creature would’ve just laughed and put the killing blow into my heart.

But not this yellow, winged pony. With a smile that parted the clouds, she reached into the debris and pulled out the fractured bridge and its captain.

She said nothing else. She pulled me to my feet. She let me lean my lame leg against her as she led me out of the shelter.

Upon entering another structure, I saw dozens of different small species of rodents, birds, and reptiles scattered in various aspects all around the room, not as pests but as if the house were theirs. I’d never seen such ease and relaxation in wild animals, especially not when in such close proximity to one another. I felt no threat from them, no incongruity in their places here—but the second they noticed me, it was as if a wind had sucked them out of the room, so fast did they hide. The startling sound of a quick, frenzied retreat, a loud crash as one knocked something to floor—and then nothing was left of them, no evidence that they had ever been in the room to begin with, other than the soft creak made by an oscillating birdcage suspended from the ceiling, set into motion by its panicked owners.

I couldn’t see them, but their suspicion nevertheless leaked into the air around me, so thick that it made my eyes water. Aberration! their departure screamed. It was impossible not to recognize this gesture. I almost collapsed as the despair came on me: Surely, I was discovered! Just when I thought I could be helped, then these vermin had to go and give me away like that! This pony was going to help me; and in the time it took for a snake to hiss and hide, now she was my enemy, and now I must . . .

As I continued to lean on her, she felt as sturdy as ever. I turned to her, and she looked back at me with the same look I’d seen before. Nothing had changed with her. And sheltered by this radiant presence, the animals’ suspicion, though not removed completely, was diluted. I didn’t feel it, and I found I could stand there comfortably beside her. For the first time since I’d arrived in this land, compunction and doubt did not intermingle with the air between me and a pony; this pony in particular exhaled only mollification.

She let me down gently onto a rug in the middle of the floor. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

The gusts left by her wings as she whisked herself out of the room stirred my thoughts once more. Before I could let them settle, she was back with a towel, which she told me to use to dry myself with. It didn’t have an overbearing artificial smell, like the perfumes those in Canterlot used to wear; it smelled crisp, pure, free. I nuzzled my face against it, and as the fibers brought warmth and dryness to my face, I felt them tickle my lips into the vague shape of a smile.

She set before me a bowl of soup. Though every swallow felt somewhat empty with its lack of meat, it warmed me and made my nose tingle. Occasionally, between sips, I would make eye contact with the pegasus, and she would inevitably look quickly away, pretending to gaze at something hanging off one of the house’s wood panels. So much the better, I thought, for if she looked too long at me, her suspicion, never gone in the presence of a member of my species, only dormant in some cases, may awake from its slumber, ravenous, seeking evidence to justify it.

She continued to say nothing. She kept avoiding eye contact with me.

When the needs of the body have been met, as mine were just then, judgmental ratiocination concerning those sources of succor that had so easily and thoughtlessly accepted before comes trickling back into the mind with an itch that is hard to ignore. What is this creature, I thought, who asks me no questions, who tends to my every need as if I were her own offspring, who doesn’t try to see who I am, who never suspects for a second that she let a bluejay close to her unattended eggs? Or did the reason really matter? She saved me, and that was the only thing of importance. Still, it was an incongruity that was hard for me to mentally consolidate.

Especially because she hadn’t insisted on undertaking a certain custom I’d noticed about ponies: Whether casual passerby or intimate friend, whether enemy or ally, whether princess to serf, whether officer to enlisted, whether aristocrat to his lackey, it was customary for these creatures to always insist on knowing . . .

“You haven’t asked me my name,” I whispered.

Her head twitched as the words hit her unexpectedly. Still avoiding eye contact with me, she replied: “Do you want me to ask your name?”

“No.”

“Do you want to tell me your name?”

“No.”

She said nothing. Still she stood there, her body positioned toward me, her head and eyes wandering the room, all in the midst of a ringing silence broken only by the occasional gentle breeze passing through the trees outside.

“Errenax.”

Again, her head twitched. “Excuse me?” she said.

“My name.”

She nodded. “I’m Fluttershy,” was the eventual reply. No raised brow, no questions concerning my change in opinion (to which I had no satisfying answer other than that under the blanket of that silence, my heart began to beat as if it were suffocating).

I cocked my head to one side. “You’re not going to ask me where that name comes from?”

“Why would I?”

“Do you not find it strange?”

She shrugged. “It’s your name.”

Not a meaningful answer, I thought, and part of me wanted to goad her a bit more, ask her to defend her answer, ask her why she chose to respond in that manner. But my gratitude for her help outweighed my desire to understand fully the meaning of her sentence. So I didn’t follow that line of conversation.

“Your leg,” she said, “does it hurt?”

No matter how I turned my head, I couldn’t see in her that what I wished for: when a creature contemplates something, when you look into a certain, vague region in his face, you can see the arguments and the conclusions that are moving through him. Though an innumerable number of thoughts pass through in a millisecond, they leave their slight impressions upon the countenance; such that though you may not be able to discern his thoughts exactly, by looking at him, you may be able to see the general outline of his conclusions, and acquire a rough idea as to how he reached them—thus, you may act in such a way that is ostensibly based on clairvoyant knowledge. But the way she turned to me now, I couldn’t see, and I couldn’t predict. I was the one on guard, and I was awaiting her judgment. I gritted my teeth, and my pulse resounded beneath my eardrums. Once again, I lay supine, this time not relaxed, but feeling the weight of a hoof on me.

I said nothing and stared back at her, trying to see and failing to.

“Stay right here. I’ll be back with the gauze.” She turned to leave.

“Wait!” The word had been torn from my throat involuntarily.

She turned. “Yes?” she said.

I paused. I had to know, even at the risk to myself. She stared at me as I silently mouthed the words, afraid to say them. At last, after stressing myself, I managed to stammer: “Why . . . are you helping me?”

She looked as if I had just slapped her. “You’re hurt,” she said.

With a strained effort, I managed to croak: “So?”

“And you need help.”

“But why are you helping me?”

“Do I need a reason?”

She left before I could put a response.

Comments

[Raistlin]

4171751

As a Spanish myself, I can confirm it

[Gilimmar]

4171751

The Spanish future subjunctive is basically this:

'Make something, Person.'

It's not being made, nor has it been made, but it will be made by Person, who is receiving the command of the sentence.

[devas]

Finally and...interesting

[1stLieutenantCrunch]

Its a shame that stories like this one don't have more popularity- its almost like reading poetry at points

[Night_Shine]

Oh my gosh, I just remembered that this is an MLP fic!

...but actually, that makes it so much more awesome. Now all of the cool stuff that comes with the archetypal "character strolls into Ponyville" story can happen, aside from the cool semi-original world-building stuff you've done so far. Yay!

[CheesewedgeFTW]

4333422
I know, right? This is one of the most well-crafted, smoothly paved, and overall well-written stories on this sight? How is this not on the featured list? This is better than every single one of those meaningless clop-fics that make it up there all the time.
WE NEED AN INTERVENTION! PUT SUBJUNCTIVE ONTO THE FEATURE BOX!

[The Amateur]

There does not need to be explanations. And to read the last number of chapters with a sophisticated narrator obsessed with answers, this chapter entire is a welcomed breather!

[AppleTank]

Hmm. Are the EoH subjunctive ideas?