Sticks

by KwirkyJ

And Love

As the leaves set to fall, painted with the angry hues of fire, a filly was born.

"She is special," the elder did say.

"Yes, she is special," did her parents answer.

In the burning dusk did they resume their flight, the precious newborn carried by her home unto the dawn.

The sun did rise at last, and found the herd amongst others of their kind. Less of wing and lacking of horn, did their simple dwellings come to be but through hoof and sweat and courage; their simple homes, of sticks and love.

So did they make the plain bloom and bear, and the filly took her place beside her kin.

She stomped her hooves in dance and the trees would tremble. She would roll in the grass and flowers would bloom to face her. She would sing in joy or lament and sun or storm would answer.

"She is special," they would say, and so they would answer.

The filly was beyond reproach; she could do no wrong. Her parents and her aunts would watch her hooves and hear her song, and would marvel. The grass would sigh, the boughs would heave, and grain, legume, berry, and fruit did swell at her play.

The filly was not above cruelty. Her peers did shun her, fear her, accuse her of otherkin magic, name her a witch. Their hate, in so many bruises and cuts upon her hide were licked away. Their hate, in so many shoves and bites returned anon.

A year did pass, and the otherkin came and went. The herd built up their home from bone and earth and sticks. The herd bound their home together with courage and love and song.

Those of wings would bring rain and wind and snow and sleet. They would take their fill of the herd's labor. When the filly sang did they fear, and bring destruction and torment.

"She is special," did the herd reply, move and rebuild, and know how she loved them. For that which her existence wrought to end, so did her efforts recompense threefold.

Those of horn brought sun and moon. They would claim their share of the herd's labor. When the filly stomped did they fear, and bring fire and calamity.

"She is special," did her parents reply.

"Yes, she is special," did the herd refrain.

The herd did drift; fracture and rejoin. At each juncture did the home change. To the filly, home was but bone and earth and sticks, held together by courage and love.

Under fire and ice, did death rain down.

The horned ones, with minds of silver and light, scored the earth with cleansing flame. When the ground was but glass did they sear the surface again, and again, and again, until naught there was but ash and charcoaled trunk of tree.

"Give us the witch," they demanded. "She belongs among us. Her strength is beyond your blood, she is surely of us."

The winged ones, of dance and fury, brought down the sky, and froze the glassed plain. The fields did shatter, and the wood did blow away to a dead husk of arboreal skeletons.

"Give the witch to us," they demanded. "The sky quails at her, answering to her song. Such is one of us."

There was no more earth. There was nowhere else to run. At the frayed end of life’s feeble thread, did courage succumb to fear.

And the herd did cry, "Kill the witch! This monstrous foal will bring our ruin, let her die that we may live!"

With the filly’s home shrunk down to four, did they flee.

The father, at his last, was cut down under a winged blade, so great was his devotion. His liquid courage doled out in exchange for time.

The brother was by a glowing aura thrown over a precipice, loyal and loving to the depths.

Her mother, urging her on to her last, was ensnared at her neck by the herd and left high above to join the dead of the forest, a daughter’s sins passed on to her mother.

The filly did run, and hide, and cry.

She ran unto a new home: a cloister of earth and bone and wood, which were all one and the same.

Where her tears fell, the wood did heave and twist.

Where her hooves pounded in grief, twisted forms of the dead heaved themselves from the punished plain, gross limbs of discarded tree and beast and fate.

And did she sing.

A cry of lament, of love, of courage, of fear, and of loss, did the filly-witch cry. For the first time did she sing of loss.

A wolf came forth from the ash and lie before her.

The wood bent down to answer her.

From the abyss did her brother refrain. From the ditch did her father harmonize. From the nook of the standard, her mother twitched.

The herds of like and otherkin did swoop down upon her home, and her home rose to defend her.

The filly-witch's home, which was the wolf and wood and her song and her family, did bite and claw and howl and maim against her assailants, and so was she saved.

Surrounded by the crimson pools and twisted hides of death, did she sing once more. A wail of emptiness and wrath and rebirth issued forth.

Her home, which was her family, which was the wolf, which was earth and bone and wood, which was love and courage, which was herself, did sleep.

Her home, which was her family, which was the wolf, which was earth and bone and wood, which was love and courage, which was herself, did wake.

In the sky, above the ash and bone and blood, the moon did glow, and lent its light to the filly-witch's eyes.

With eyes of light, of limb of wood, and of soul of love and courage and fear, did she sing her last.

A howl echoed across the land, and did the timber wolf lope into the night, its home bourne evermore upon its back.

Author's Note:

This is an idea that came to me while musing over some Native American and Grimm tales, and had to get it down. The idea and execution are not as polished as I might like, but after a few weeks of toying with it off and on, it is at a point I'm comfortable releasing it.

I apologize if the arcane writing style is off-putting. Well, not really, but -- to explain -- such is how the story entered into my head. I figured it might be fun to keep it.

As a matter of trivia, the initial draft would have been completed in time for the thirtyminutepony tumblr prompt "your mind makes it real," but I was unaware of the fact at the time. An incredible coincidence!

Comments

[Metool Bard]

So, the filly is Princess Mononoke?

...

Okay, I'll hit myself for that one.

Joking aside, this is a very interesting tale. I kinda see what your intention was, and for the most part it succeeds. I will say, however, that not using the terms pegasus and unicorn is a bit pretentious. Unless this is being told from the filly's point of view (which it's not), I think storytellers who pass this myth down from generation to generation know what unicorns and pegasi are. Tweak that, and you've got yourself a rather avant-garde story that may be an acquired taste, but is still enjoyable.

[kontonken]

As a lover of all things lupine, I was immediately intrigued by this story. By the end, I was deeply moved. Thinking of the filly-witch sleeping within her own creation, she is finally at peace. Truly, she is ever free. The realization of this title; the Everfree Forest, causes a chill. In my usual roundabout way of speaking, I'm trying to say that I LOVE this story.

[KwirkyJ]

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Thank you for the critique! I admit that it is an unusual and perhaps unfortunate choice, but at the time I was thinking it may have been an Earth Pony tale from pre-unification times. The pretension, then, would defer to the original storytellers, maybe? A weak excuse, I grant. I am pleased that you managed to enjoy it for what it is, all the same!

2402965
If I can get one to feel something with my work, I feel I have accomplished my goal. I'm glad you got something -- indeed perhaps more than I originally intended -- out of it, and thanks for sharing it!

[Kolwynia]

Nice! I'm a huge fan of fairy tales (and stories explaining things that the show hasn't yet, like the timberwolves) so this was right up my alley. (Yes, the archaic style was a little off-putting, but not so much as to dampen my enjoyment of the story.) [You should give your stories covers though, even if only screenshots from the show. It's weird, but more people click on them if they have a picture, no matter what the picture is of.]

Anyway, I liked your witch filly character and thought this was a neat idea.

[KwirkyJ]

2410076
I am glad you liked it! If fairy tales are your schtick (ignore what I did there), might want to check with me again after some time: I promise nothing, but I do intend to produce a collection of fairy tale-like stories in the future... with generally more modern and accessible prose. As for cover art, while I am aware that I would likely get more views (read: exposure) if I made use of them, I am treating this as something of an experiment to see if I can become at least passably recognized without covers, at least at time of initial story publication.

I am also gladdened that you liked the filly/witch character. I gave you, the reader, very little with which to work (a situation with the style did not aid in the least), so it is pleasing to hear she wasn't lost as merely a device. As you draw attention to her, have some more trivia: much of her was inspired by some Native American 'transformation' myths.

Thank you again for sharing your thoughts and encouragement!

[Vitae]

2404199

Hmm......brings to light what other things the ponies hath damned in zealous parable but the EverFree is named this way for a reason!!!

These creatures think they are greater and mightier as to chain and shackle the sun and moon, to bend nature to their will and refuse to let it play its own part?

We will show them we will live on without the Sun's shackled light or the moon's chained glimmer we are the voices of the Ever Free

[Mother Rosewood the Red]

This was an interesting read, I found it thought provoking. We know so little about not just Timberwolves, but the Everfree itself. Who knows the true story behind them, and I must say your take was very satisfying. I see others were a bit off-put by the archaic style, yet I found it enjoyable, as if I were listening to a story handed down through generations, maybe even as a warning to the newer generations. I'll be sure to peruse more of your work in the future.