Chapter 1

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The train rocks slightly as I stare out of the window. Trees, brush, and other objects that go by too fast to identify appear and disappear from my view. The green color comforts me, as it has done for a long time, but it does nothing to dispel the ugly thoughts swimming in my head.

All my memories are of war. When I was a child there were times of peace and friendship, but those have faded to inconsequential gray blurs in my head. When I try to focus on them, they seem foreign, as if they were somepony else's. I can't connect the laughing faces in a few of my memories with names, or even reasons why they would be laughing.
Other memories plague me relentlessly. Crystal clear images of bloody swords, gaping wounds, dull eyes and still bodies cause me to wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air that I'm lucky to still be breathing. They never used to bother me before the incident that took part of my forelock and left me with shrapnel embedded in my flesh. I live alone, so there’s nopony to look at me with concern when these nightmares come around. Sometimes that’s lucky, other times not.

I don't have any family. No wife, no foals, no brothers or sisters. My parents left me at the doorstep of the Celestial Orphanage when I was a newborn, my dark blue hair tangled and dirty, my light gray fur almost black from filth. All that I had with me was a note, smudged but legible, that read, ‘His name is Ghost Anlace.’ Personally, I couldn’t care less who my birth parents are. But I have wondered why they left me; was it because they were poor and didn’t have the money to raise me? Or because I’m an Earth Pony and have no magic or wings? I don’t think either of those is right. Somehow, I think my parents knew what I would become—a cold-hearted warrior who is regaled for bringing along the untimely demise of intelligent creatures whose country offended ours in some way. This theory upholds with the examination of my last name; anlace is another word for dagger. I have two of them forever branded on my flank, a constant reminder of my purpose in life: to bring pain and death with me wherever I am commanded to go. My parents were right to distance themselves from me, if that was their reason.

Suddenly, a hoof rests on my shoulder, snapping me out of my musings. I stiffen, all my training coming back in a rush. The owner of the hoof hastily removes it, apologizing. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m just here to tell you that the train will be arriving in Canterlot in ten minutes.”
The mare smiles nervously, fidgeting ever so slightly in her uniform. She must be new—she certainly looks young. Not wanting to scare her any more than I already did, I nod once. “Thank you, miss.”
She moves along, her hoofsteps masked by the noise of the train. I exhale slowly, trying to relax in my seat. This trip to Canterlot is (hopefully) the last of seven trips in four months. The first one was for my injury, to take out the remaining shrapnel, stitch up the wound, and try to reduce the damage to my foreleg. The second and third were for physical rehabilitation. The rest have been psychic evaluations, ponies asking me how I feel and how I’m holding up. Today’s is a ceremony to proclaim my bravery in service to my country in a time of war.
The war. It’s been my life for ten years. Actually, for longer than that; I remember learning about it in school. A flashback hits me unexpectedly, making me gasp.

I was fourteen and in History class, my least favorite class of the day. Normally I would have fallen asleep by now, but today Mrs. Mareian, our teacher, was discussing the ongoing war. A stick rapped the large map Mrs. Mareian was standing in front of, emphasizing the border between Equestria and its southern neighbor.

“The Zebrae, or as you ponies may know them, the Zebras, live to the south of Equestria in Africaanas, which is ninety percent savannah. The savannah has few tall plants, like the trees we have. Instead, it has tall, yellow grass and is relatively flat. The Zebrae are less advanced than ponies are in science and some forms of magic, but their potion making and hand to hand combat skills are widely proclaimed. The current Zebrae war started when a visiting pony advisor insulted the Zebrae king, but over the last few years it has changed into a war for land.” She turned towards the class. “Are there any questions so far?”

I raised my hoof. “Mrs. Mareian, how old do you have to be to enlist for the war?”

Mrs. Mareian’s pointer wobbled unsteadily as she focused on me. After a minute she said, “You have to be eighteen, Ghost. Are you thinking of enlisting?”

Her voice was calm, but half of the class sat up straighter in their seats anyway. An argument between Mrs. Mareian and any member of the student body was rare, and this one was bound to be good.
“Yes ma’am, as soon as I turn eighteen. Assuming that the war is still going on in four years.”
My tone must have sounded hopeful to Mrs. Mareian, because she frowned. “Princess Celestia forbid that the war continues for four more years! Even though your Cutie Mark is crossed swords does not mean that your talent in life is fighting, Ghost!”

I snap out of it, breathing shakily. The other occupants of the car, a mix of tourists and commuters, turn to stare at me with looks of concern. To avoid their questions, I smile slightly. “Sorry, everypony. It’s just a stressful time. Didn’t mean to cause concern.”
Most look away, restarting their conversations, but one curious young colt stares at me with a furrowed brow. The stare makes me fidget a little, so I address the source of my discomfort. Turning to face the colt, I murmur, “Is something the matter, son?”

He flushes, dropping his gaze to the floor of the train. “No, sir. It’s just that… well… um…”

His eyes flick up to the chunk missing out of my forelock. Just as quickly they move back to the floor, but he isn’t quick enough. My stomach clenches. I should be used to the looks by now, some of fascination, some of repulsion, and some of pity. Pity is the worst; I don’t want ponies to see me as some cripple, but to some that’s all I am. Stupid of me to think that a young, healthy foal like this wouldn't be curious upon seeing me, a scarred and battered colt in this land of peace.

“Are—are you a soldier?” The hesitant voice cuts through my internal grousing. The colt’s eyes are wide, not in repulsion but in awe. “My mother says that soldiers are really brave! Is that how you got hurt?”
His mother, sitting next to him, hisses, “Colton! Stop pestering the pony. It’s his business, not yours. Now apologize!”
Colton hangs his head and mutters, “I’m sorry, mister.”
I smile, and this time it isn't forced. Well, mostly. “It’s okay, Colton. Yes, I’m a soldier, and yes, that is how I got my injury. Your mother is right, you know; soldiers are really brave. But I wouldn't advise becoming one. You seem like too good a colt to live a life of war.”

He nods furiously, obviously relieved to have escaped a scolding from his mollified mother. The same uniformed mare walks down the aisle a second later, announcing that the train has stopped and that we have reached Canterlot. I don’t have any bags, so I just walk off, leaving Colton and his mother behind. As I exit the train station and begin to make my way to the Palace, where the ceremony will be held, I hope that the colt remembers my words, because I meant every one. War has no place for those with good hearts or conscience, and luckily for me, I don’t have either.
Or so I’ve been told.

Chapter 2

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I have an hour before I have to be at the Palace. The streets of Canterlot are crowded with tourists, residents and military ponies. Low rank, mostly—all the higher ups will be socializing with the Princesses. Hopefully, none of them will recognize me without my armor on. It’s at the blacksmith’s, getting repaired, since to get it off the last time they had to cut it off me. Today it’s finally ready for pickup; a good thing, too, since I have to wear it to the ceremony.
The blacksmith’s is a little ways away, but since I have time I can afford to stroll. In the six (seven, counting this trip) times I’ve been to Canterlot, I’ve never really walked anywhere. I’ve cantered and galloped but never walked. The view is actually quite pleasant, more so than I thought it would be. I stop and admire a stone statue depicting Princess Celestia battling Nightmare Moon, the stone so well-carved it almost looks real. Suddenly, I hear rapid hoofbeats behind me, and I spin around to see exactly what I had been trying to avoid.

A yellow pony in full armor (a private first class, given his shoulder insignia) and his two friends (privates, since their shoulders are bare) skid to a stop in front of me, looking highly excited. Inwardly, I sigh. Outwardly, my face remains neutral as I ask, “Is there a problem, sir?”

Hopefully he’ll think that since I didn’t call him by his rank I’m not military. He just grows more excited and says, “Aren’t you Ghost Anlace? You’re a hero! I’ve heard so many stories about you!”

No such luck; my scars and forelock set me apart as a military pony better than any armor or badge ever could. The yellow pony bounces up and down in a not-very-dignified way, and if his friends’ eyes get any bigger they’ll pop. I nod, shuffling to the side in an attempt to escape, but it’s too slow. The yellow pony pulls out a piece of paper from nowhere along with a quill, and hold them out to me with a pleading look.

I sigh. “I don’t do autographs, Private. I’m not a movie star, I’m a warrior. Now, if you really want something from me, don’t tell anyone else you saw me here until tomorrow. Then you can yell to everypony that you shook Ghost Anlace’s hoof.”

It sounds so self-conceited, and I wince internally, but I can’t take it back now. The private doesn’t seem offended, though. I hold my hoof out (the healthy one) to shake. He takes it almost reverently, and when I let go he backs off a few steps. His friends hold their hands out for shakes before I can bolt, and I go through the same process. As soon as the second pony lets go, I start to gallop away. Thank Celestia they don’t make too much of a scene—when I look back, all three of them are actually saluting. I soon lose them in the crowd.
After a few blocks I resume walking, but this time I keep to the inside of the sidewalk and don’t stop to admire any other art. Twenty minutes later I arrive at the blacksmith’s. The Red Anvil, according to the sign. When I walk in my nose is assaulted by the smell of liquid metal and steaming water. I start to cough, trying to find a pony in the maze of metal objects in various states of repair.

A red pony appears under my nose, and while I just twitch a little, he yelps and skitters back.

“Who—who’re you?” he stammers.

“My name is Ghost Anlace. I’m here to pick up my armor that I left here a couple of months ago. Is it ready?” I ask the question even though I got a notice informing me that the armor was, in fact, ready, just to give the younger stallion a chance to collect himself.
“Uh—yeah. Mr. Anvil is putting the finishing touches on it now. I can show you to him if you don’t mind the clutter. My name’s Plover, by the way. Cobalt Plover. I’m Mr. Anvil’s assistant, learning the trade and all.”

He sticks out his hoof and I grab it. One firm pump and then he lets go, weaving his way through dangerously unstable-looking piles of sharp metal items. I follow close behind, trying not to knock anything over. In a mercifully short amount of time we come to a clear area where a huge bronze stallion is examining a set of armor on a stand. My heart leaps at the sight of my fully repaired gear—the gashes in the golden metal have been closed, the dents popped back into place, and my Cutie Mark and my Captain’s insignia have been redone.
Cobalt clears his throat, and suddenly the bronze pony looks up. Cobalt introduces me before the bronze pony can say anything. “Mr. Anvil, this is Ghost Anlace. He’s here to pick up his armor.”

Mr. Anvil gives me a searching look, as if he’s trying to place me from somewhere. Before he can say anything, I walk to him and hold out my hoof. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Anvil. You’ve done a fine job with my armor—it looks almost better than before.”

He smiles ever so slightly and returns the shake. “I remember you. You’re the war hero, right? Dropped off your armor and didn’t come check on it until today. I appreciate that. It’s always nice to have the trust of my customers. It’s ready to go, and since you’ve already paid you can go ahead and put it on.”

With no parting words he abruptly turns and disappears into the maze of metal that surrounds us. Cobalt shakes his head and follows, pointing to a wide path leading in the opposite direction of where we came. “That’ll take you to the back door, since I’m guessing you don’t want to be going out front with that on.” Then he, too, walks through an opening in the piles and is gone.

It takes me five minutes to properly strap my armor, and I take a few experimental kicks to test the flexibility. It actually is better than before—Mr. Anvil must have used an alloy for the plating, because it feels much lighter. After suiting up, I take the path Cobalt pointed out. I have twenty minutes to get to the palace without being late, which is a reasonable amount of time… unless I get stopped by more military ponies who want autographs.
The back door opens silently to a small stone alley, which is empty. I sneak to the opening of the alley, looking out onto the street. There are too many ponies out there for me to go unnoticed, and the other end of the alley is the same. I’m about to brave the street when I find a metal ladder on one of the walls that leads to the roof. To be fair, it’s the same color of the wall, which is why I don’t see it right away.

I climb, flattening myself against the roof to prevent ponies below from seeing me. I judge the jumps from rooftop to rooftop and stand, walking backwards until I get a good distance. “It’s at times like these that I wish I was a pegasus,” I sigh, and gallop as fast as I can towards the edge. When I’m at the absolute edge of the smithy’s roof, I push with all my might. I land with a grunt on the next roof over (a bakery, I think) and manage not to stumble. I don’t stop, since the gap between this roof and the next one down is wider, which means I’ll need more speed. Instead, I use the momentum from the jump to push myself even faster, and in a second I’m halfway across the roof.
Sweet Celestia I forgot how it felt to run full-out! In physical training they just let me jog, and I had galloped away from the yellow pony earlier, but this running is different. It feels like if I stop, I’ll go flat on my face, which only adds to the thrill. Each time I land I come close to twisting something, and my breath is labored within two minutes.

Three rooftops later and I’m close to the Palace when a shout goes up in the street. “What is that stallion doing jumping across rooftops like that, mama?” The cry comes from a colt with sharp eyes. A second later, two pegasai in armor like mine, one green and one black, have taken to the skies, yelling for me to stop. I judge the situation lightning-fast in my head: I can make the two house difference between me and the stretch of path that leads to the Palace before they stop me, if they attempt to. I can explain myself when I get into the Palace, but doing so out here would be a very bad idea.
I make it one house before the green pegasai catches up with me. He takes one look at my insignia and calls, “Captain, I’ll have to respectfully ask you to get to street level!”

They don’t recognize me, probably because my helmet covers my head and my forelock injury is masked by the armor. I grunt, not having enough breath to form words. Another house jumped, and now the black pony is beside me, saying the same thing. I’ve run out of roof, actually—the Palace is a good three hundred yards in front of me, but at street level. No time to stop, so I do the one thing that is assured to get me a ride down.

I jump off the final roof into mid-air.
The green and black pegasai don’t take long to react. Their reflexes are remarkable considering. I’ll have to get their names and ask one of the Generals to promote them. Their hooves wrap around me and their wings beat frantically, trying to slow my fall. We’re about twenty feet up, which is high enough for a pony to break something, but we’re getting closer to the ground dangerously fast. When the ground is close enough for me to count the bricks in the stone, I roll in the ponies’ grips and, surprised, they let me go.
I hit the ground rolling and pop up, still running. The pegasai regroup and fly beside me until we arrive at the Palace. Two guards at the door, watching with mouths agape, take one look at my insignia and salute. “Sir! The ceremony is about to begin. We will escort you inside, sir!”

I nod, a little tired from the physical activity. I’m really out of shape; I’ll have to fix that. The guards open the door and I walk in, discreetly trying to get pebbles out of my hide without looking like I was. The front doors open into a large hallway, towards the back of which the ballroom resides. A purple mare and white stallion, both unicorns, are conversing at the end of the hallway, but when they see me they stop talking. I plaster on a smile and go to introduce myself, but an older, teal mare appears out of nowhere and pulls me towards the Royal ballroom, where the pre-ceremony socializing must be. The mare, who I don’t recognize, hisses, “Thank Princess Celestia you’re here! The ceremony starts in five minutes!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I had to—” I begin, slightly out of breath, but she hushes me.

I’m pulled along, nearly galloping, and it’s all I can do to keep up. At the double doors, she clears her throat, adjusts her hair and smiles. The doors open, courtesy of the guards (who followed us all the way down the corridor), and she announces, “Captain Ghost Anlace of the Seventeenth Regiment!”

The room is huge, large enough for the Wonderbolts to perform in comfortably. The walls are golden, the floor a smooth marble, and the ceiling is a beautiful rendition of Princesses Luna and Celestia raising the sun (or maybe the moon—it’s hard to tell, since the sky is orange and there is no hint of either celestial body on the horizon). Again, I’m struck by how perfect the artwork is; the picture could be real if I didn’t see Princess Celestia walking in the middle of the room. When I finally look ahead, I notice that all the ponies in the room have turn to look at me. And there are a lot of them. I’m about to take shelter in a corner (I hate being the center of attention) before Princess Luna herself walks up to greet me, her blue hair flowing in a wind that none of us seem to feel.

“Princess, it’s an honor to meet you.” I say, bowing. She laughs, a gentle laugh that makes me smile.

“Ghost Anlace. We have heard stories of thy bravery, but thou looketh much more well-groomed than thou have been described as being. Come, the ceremony is about to begin. We would not want our star being late, hmm?” She raises her voice so that everypony can hear her. “The ceremony will be held in the throne room. If everypony could make their way there now, we will be able to commence on time.”

With surprising speed, all the ponies make their way into the throne room, which is at the end of the hallway. All the ponies in uniform stand before the thrones in a line, and when the Princesses take their seats we bow. Princess Luna will be giving the awards to us, as she is the leader of the military. She stands and levitates a box behind her. As one, we turn to face the crowd, and Princess Luna begins to give the medals.
“Private Ryan Nougat, we award thee with the Silver Bolt for bravery in combat. Thank thee for thy service.” A silver lightning bolt floats from the box and settles on a blue pony’s armor, attaching itself there. “Private First Class Bolt Flintlock, we award thee with the Blue Cloud for exceptionally expert flying in a war zone. Thank thee for thy service.” This medal goes to a dark gray pegasus who stands a little taller when his name is called.

She moves down the line, giving medals to those who have shown bravery in war zones, to those who have sustained injury in combat, to those with exceptional skills. Nopony has gotten more than one medal, and there is nopony over the rank of Captain in our line before the thrones. That means that I am last for Princess Luna to give a medal. To my surprise, three of them float out of the box. “Ghost Anlace, we award thee with the Silver Bolt for bravery in combat, the Purple Horn for sustaining injury during thou’st time in service, and the Princesses’ Grace for saving the lives of twelve of thy fellow soldiers. Thank thee for thy service.”

There are gasps around the room. The Princesses’ Grace is an award reserved for the bravest soldiers who perform feats of such magnitude that their names go down in history books. The last – and only – pony to have won the award before had used his magic to lift a boulder from a blocked cave entrance, saving the lives of twenty soldiers and civilians. He was almost crushed by the rock, and died a year or so later due to complications with his injury. Stunned, I can do no more than whisper, “Thank you, Princess Luna. I look forward to going back to the battlefront as soon as possible to repay this kindness.”
She smiles and is about to respond when the doors to the throne room slam open. Every head turns as two Zebras and ten or so guards race through the door. The Zebras, one male and one female, push through the crowd, headed straight for the Princesses. Half the warriors lined up behind Princess Luna instantly form a protective circle around her. The other half stand in front of Princess Celestia. We have no weapons, but it seems that the Zebras don’t, either, so it will be a fair fight if it comes to that.

The crowd is a mixture of fear and shock. The white stallion, who I had noticed earlier standing in the hall, protectively steps in front of Princess Cadence, who stands close to the front. The purple mare he was talking to is nowhere near them; in fact, I don’t see her at all. Many of the higher class mares shrink back from the charging Zebras in disgust, as if they have some kind of disease. The higher class stallions do the same, but try not to make it look like that’s what they’re doing.

The Zebras climb the raised dais and do something completely unexpected. They bow to the Princesses, and when they straighten, the female starts to talk. “Greetings, Princesses Celestia and Luna. I am Nahora, advisor to King Tesuki of the Zebrae. This is Buntagi, my bodyguard. We have come with the glad tidings that the conflict between our countries is at an end.”

The shock on my face must mirror the crowd’s because they start to murmur softly. A few of the mares actually faint, and their stallions have to catch them. One unfortunate pony is almost crushed by his plump wife and her friend as they both faint almost on top of him. The other warriors on the dais look around, confused. If this is a ruse to detract out attention to the Princesses safety, it’s a good one. But Nahora seems sincere as she continues. “The King has decided that enough blood has been shed over a petty feud, so he wishes to extend a branch of peace to Equestria. I apologize for interrupting your ceremony, but this news is of a nature that makes everything else less important. The King has sent me to ask you if you accept this peace offering.”

She bows low again, Buntagi doing the same. Princess Celestia stands, walking over to the Zebrae. I stand next to her, being closer to her than Princess Luna, so I am able to see the look of shock on her face. “Stand, Nahora, and tell me why this peace treaty has been so suddenly extended.”

Nahora stands and says, “The son of our King, Prince Haufi, was killed in battle, and upon his death the King swore to stop the fighting, whatever the cost. He now understands the grief of death and formally accepts any and all punishment you bestow upon him.”

Princess Celestia stands in thought. I wonder what kind of punishment she’ll bestow upon King Tesuki—hopefully something horrible. After a minute’s silent deliberation, Princess Celestia nods once. “I accept King Tesuki’s offering of peace, and offer in return the deepest condolences for his son,” she announces, “and declare that Prince Haufi’s death is punishment enough. I declare the war between Equestria and Africaanas over!”

There is a beat of silence following Princess Celestia’s words, and then the room erupts into chaos. Stallions drop their unconscious wives as they crowd the steps of the dais, so many of them screaming at once that the words are inseparable. The other warriors look thunderstruck, but I think I’m the hardest hit. It takes all of my willpower to stay on my hooves, and my breath comes fast and heavy. I should feel relief that the war is over, but the only thought that runs through my head is: my purpose in life is to fight in war. But what use is a war pony if there’s no war to be had?

Chapter 3

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I open the door to my room and stumble in. How did I get here? I think, but when I try to recall the path I took my mind pulls a blank. The light from the hall lets me get a handle on where everything is. To my right is the bed, big enough for two ponies to stretch out on comfortably. Candle tables are on either side of the bed, and above it a lantern hangs. The walls are a cream color, the carpet a dark blue. None of the candles are lit, so as soon as I shut the door the only source of light is the moon shining through the window opposite me.

I try to flop down on the bed, but my armor pokes into my side, preventing sleep. I get up on shaky hooves and try to undo the straps in the dark. Eventually I get fed up and make my way to the candles next to the bed. I light them, wincing as my headache flares up along with the wick. For a minute, all I can do is try not to throw up the countless glasses of alcohol I drank earlier, during the celebration.

My armor finally clanks to the floor, and I kick it into a corner. Normally, I would arrange it next to my bed, in case I was attacked during the night, but as intoxicated as I am I don’t really care. I flop on the bed and close my eyes, trying to ignore the pounding in my head and the dryness in my mouth, but sleep won’t come. Suddenly, my stomach lurches, and it’s only my fantastic reflexes that allow me to get to the bathroom in time to heave the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
Ten minutes and two trips to the can later, my throat feels like it’s on fire and my stomach is (mercifully) empty. I step into the shower, trying to wash the taste of alcohol and gastric acid out of my mouth. I scrub myself clean, my fur sticky from spilled drinks. My mane is full of twigs, and when I search my mind for a reason all I get is a blurry recollection of a dare involving a tree and a very large blanket.

Drying myself off with a towel, I crawl onto the bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. I fall asleep instantly. My dreams are full of death and war, like always, but in my drunken state the images are blurry and the sound is warped. Eventually, the dreams fade away and I drift in the blackness that is sleep.
I wake up the next morning with a killer hangover. Luckily, I emptied my stomach last night, so when it heaves nothing comes up. I moan and turn on my side, trying to lessen the pain in my head. Something pokes me, and I shove a hoof down by my side to find the offending item. It comes back with a note, printed for easy reading.

Ghost Anlace,
As the war with Africaanas is over, all ponies will be returning to their homes. Your last listed place of residence is an orphanage, which will not accommodate ponies over the age of eighteen. Princesses Celestia and Luna have graciously given you permission to stay in the Palace for as long as you wish, so there is no rush for you to find a house. When you do find a home that appeals to you, you will not have to pay for it. The Princesses’ Grace comes with a large amount of bits that should be enough for any modest home you can find.
Cordially,
Quillus Amanuensis, Royal Secretary of Princess Celestia

I moan again, throwing the card as hard as I can across the room. My head hurts too much to decipher what exactly the note means, and the sunlight streaming through the windows isn’t helping. Crawling out of bed, I shut the curtains, but not before seeing the courtyard the window looks over.
It looks like a tornado hit it. There are cups and bottles strewn around the stone, and the buildings are covered in toilet paper. The grass is trampled, and in some places torn up. There are ponies sprawled unconscious in trees, some of which look suspiciously like they had been bucked repeatedly. Burned-out firecrackers float in the Hydra fountain, and each of the Hydra heads have a party hat on.

I sink to the floor, not even bothering going back to bed. What happened last night? I wonder, and try to pull up any memory of the last twenty-four hours. I remember getting on the train, the rooftop jaunt, and the ceremony, but after that…
Then I remember. Princess Celestia had taken the Zebras (what had their names been? Naha and Bunt Cake? It didn’t really matter) into another room with Princess Luna to discuss the details of the peace treaty. Two hours (and for us military personnel, three bottles) later, the four had come back with smiles on their faces. They called all the citizens of Canterlot together (still don’t understand how they did that) and gave the good news. The crowd had broken out in joy, and things just went downhill from there.

Some ponies had brought lots and lots of alcohol and food and party supplies, and when those three are combined (especially the first one) in any situation, it creates problems. My memories are a blank after my seventh bottle of hard cider, but I get vague flashes of music, fireworks and an argument about whether a blanket would make a good parachute. That explains the twigs in my mane and the bruises on my side, which I had been too drunk to notice last night.
A knock at my door makes me jump. “Who—who is it?” I call, trying to sound normal.

A deep voice, slightly muffled by the door, answers. “Ghost, it’s Mist. If you aren’t too hungover, breakfast is downstairs. Do you want to pass?”

Mist was one of the ponies in my regiment who I grew close with. His coat is a dark purple, like a bruise, and his hair is a golden white. His Cutie Mark is a hammer, which was his weapon of choice in the war. We were like brothers, always trying to outdo each other in everything. I guess I got the last laugh, since Mist is only a First Lieutenant and I’m a Captain. I get up, finding myself remarkably steady on my hooves. “No, I’ll be right there.”

“Okay. I’ll save you a seat, unless you need some help walking.”

I test my legs and nearly collapse, but force myself to my hooves. Gritting my teeth and willing away the pain in my head, I say, “No, you go ahead, Mist. I know how much you love your hay fries.”

“See you there,” he replies. When I can’t hear him walking anymore, I pull myself over to the bathroom and start the shower, gulping down water for my parched throat. It lessens my headache enough so that I can walk somewhat normally. When I’m sure that my stomach won’t try and rebel against the fluids, I open the door.

The hallway is about the same as the courtyard. Muddy hoofprints track across the carpeted floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. Bottles have been kicked to the sides of the hall, allowing easy walking for one pony at a time down the corridor. The smell of alcohol, dirt and body odor almost makes me regurgitate the water I had drunk.

“Some party, huh, Ghost?” I turn left, startled, to see a gray pegasus who I vaguely recognize from the ceremony yesterday. “Thank Princess Celestia that I remembered my sister’s advice when drinking spirits. All you have to do is drink one glass of water for every glass of alcohol and you don’t get a hangover. No one ever tell you that?”

He talks softly, lessening the impact his words have on my headache. I nod, swallowing hard to keep everything down, and say, “No, I’ve never heard that. You’re, uh… Flintlock, right? Bolt Flintlock? You got a medal in the ceremony.”

He nods, pleased that I remember. “That’s right. Can’t believe the war’s finally over. The ponies here have been waiting for that announcement for so long that when it came, they went a little nuts. I don’t think you could find another bottle of hard cider, or for that matter any spirits at all, in the whole of Canterlot today. You look like you did your part in making that happen. Do you need some help to get to the dining hall?”

He’s a little random, and it takes me a minute to process everything in my half-dead state. I look down the hall left, and then right. I have absolutely no idea where I am or where the dining hall is, so I nod. He trots past me, motioning for me to follow. We turn right, then left, then left again, go down some stairs and through a set of double doors before we reach the dining hall.
Rows of tables and comfortable chairs greet us. The hall is long, with a medium-sized nook set aside to present the food. The floor is white marble, and two walls are covered in windows. The ceiling is high and arched, with no design. The place is full of ponies, and I guess that ninety nine percent of them are military. Half of the ponies in the chairs are sleeping or falling asleep, and the other half are either clutching their heads or picking at breakfast with a slightly green tint to their faces. Thankfully, the dining hall is clean of bottles and other unsavory items, and the smell of food makes my stomach settle.
I pick up some toast, some muffins, hay fries and a glass of water and look for Mist in the sea of hungover ponies. Finally, I see him sitting by the windows, staring into the distance. When I get closer, I notice that Bolt Flintlock has taken a seat to the left of Mist. The chair to the far right is empty. I take it, glad to get off my (slightly unsteady) hooves.

We eat in silence until Mist speaks up. “Do you remember the reason we started to drink so much?”

Bolt frowns slightly, his eyebrows pulled together as he thinks. “I think it was because the war was over, and we’re war ponies, so what do we do now? At least, that’s what Ghost said last night when we were walking down the hallway to our rooms.”

I flinch upon hearing my name. “I said that?”

Bolt nods. “Yeah, you were pretty hammered. Mist said about the same thing. You two were the only ones who weren’t drinking either because the war was over or because the drinks were free.”

I lay my head on the table and sigh. A shadow looms over me, and I look up to see a green unicorn with a quill for a Cutie Mark standing next to me. When he sees that I’m awake, he starts to talk softly. “Ghost Anlace? My name is Quillus Amanuensis, the royal secretary. Princess Celestia would like to speak with you.”

Mist’s eyebrows disappear into his mane, and Bolt whistles softly. I start in surprise. What could Princess Celestia want with me? Quillus leads me out of the dining hall and into the throne room. Throne room? Oh Sweet Celestia, what did I do last night to be called to the throne room? I think with trepidation. The doors open, and I see the Princess sitting on her throne with the same calm expression that I had seen during the ceremony.

I walk to the foot of the dais and bow, managing not to fall over. “Princess Celestia, to what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

Say what you like about me, I can be a charmer when I need to be.

She smiles, a gentle smile that makes me relax ever so slightly. “Ghost Anlace. I have called you here to continue the conversation we had last night. Did you get Quillus’ note?”

My mind is in overdrive, trying to find some recollection of a conversation with the Princess. “A—A note, Princess?” The note that I threw across the room that morning flashed across my mind. “Oh, that note! Yes, Princess, I got Quillus’ note. But, uh, I don’t remember exactly what it said. Could you refresh my memory?”

She chuckles. “Do you remember our conversation last night, Ghost?”

I hesitate. “Uh… no, Princess, I’m afraid that I don’t. Most of last night is a blank.”

A map surrounded by a rainbow aura floats before me, opening to reveal a map of Equestria. A small town southwest of Canterlot is circled with a circle that looks drawn by a two year old. I squint, trying to read the name of the town, and finally see Ponyville in small letters just below the circle.

“You and I had an interesting talk about where you were going to live now that the war is over. You were sober, actually, and circled it once I described it as an Earth Pony town. You said that it was where you wanted to live.”

“I—I did?” I stutter.

The map shuts and drifts back to Quillus, who stands behind me and to the right. He takes the map in his teeth and trots out the door, presumably to put it back. Princess Celestia nods. “Yes. You did. Luckily, there is a house for sale in Ponyville at the moment, and I took the liberty of purchasing it for you. If you have changed your mind, I can always sell it again.”

I thought it over. If this Ponyville was an Earth Pony town, I would fit right in. From what I saw on the map, it was a quarter of the size of Canterlot and half the size of Manehattan. It was out in the country, which meant there wouldn’t be any snobby rich ponies. I hate ponies who act like they own the whole world, which is why the idea of living in Canterlot is out. Manehattan would be too hectic for me; plus, there were some ponies from my war days that I never wanted to see again. A big city increased that risk.

“No, Princess, I haven’t changed my mind. A home in Ponyville will be wonderful, I’m sure.” My voice is steady, and with my answer the Princess nods.

“Wonderful. Here is your ticket for the one o’clock train to Ponyville.” A blue ticket floats in front of me, and I take it with my teeth. “Your armor will be sent down with you in a week or so. Now, hurry, Ghost. It’s almost twelve thirty, and you won’t want to miss your train.”

My eyes widen and I gallop out of the throne room, passing Mist in the front hallway. “Ghost, where are you going?” he yells.

“To Ponyville!” I yell over my shoulder, the ticket still clamped between my teeth, making my words muffled. I barge out of the front door and run for all I’m worth, heading to my new home.

**************

Princess Celestia watched Ghost go with a small smile on her face. Quillus, who had come back in time to watch Ghost speed out the door, said hesitantly, “Princess? You were talking with Princess Luna all of last night. From what I remember you hardly left the room. When did you talk to Ghost?”

She winked at Quillus. “I didn’t. But Ghost needs a town with reliable ponies that show friendship to everypony. He didn’t pick it, but he doesn’t need to know that, does he?”

Quillus grinned slowly. “Yes, Princess, I understand.”

Chapter 4

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Here I am again, on a train, watching the land go by at a fantastic rate. But this time I get farther and
farther from what I had hoped my post-injury life would be like. I don't know what I expected, actually; it
was doubtful that with an injury like mine they would let me fight again. But there was always that
chance, like a mirage of an oasis in a desert, and now that it was gone all I had left were the hot sun and
arid sands.

A part of me argues that I'm being unfair. I don't know that this Ponyville would be such a bad place. I
should at least give it a chance, right?

The other part of me, which is still a little hungover and grumpy, tells my optimistic half to shut up.
It takes a few hours to get to Ponyville, and in those few hours the very last of my hangover fades away
and I feel a little better about my decision (was it really mine? The Princess said that I picked the place,
but I don't remember the conversation, and I remember everything else that happened when I was
sober). Buying a house is a big deal to most ponies. It means that I'm settling down, ready to stay in one
place for the rest of my life, ready to start a family.

I shudder. I've never really been big on the whole family thing, considering that the only family I have left
me on the doorstep of an orphanage twenty-eight years ago. Family is just something that is obligation, a
tie of blood that keeps you together until you grow old enough to set out on your own. It's the same
with a house. To me, buying a house isn't really a big deal. It's just a place to sleep after a day of...

Of doing what? What would I spend my days doing in a sleepy little town with a Cutie Mark of crossed
swords? Fighting's my specialty, but unless Ponyville has a mob of some sort, or some kind of night guard
job, my options are limited.
I rest my head against the cool interior of the train, unable to believe what I had just thought. A night
guard? Really? I killed for a living (literally. I fought for my life in the war, we all did), came home
with scars of a warrior, and I was considering a job guarding some bakery or farm? Pathetic.

The ponies around me are laughing, talking, having a good time. It's a lot different from the train to
Canterlot, where every pony was silent and kept to themselves. One pony in particular, a pink Earth Pony
with a curly pink mane and a Cutie Mark of three ballons, bounces happily in her seat and laughs at the
jokes of the other passengers. Occasionally she'll pull some random thing from nowhere; first it's a
rubber duck, then a sparkler (it's still lit when it disappears, so wherever it goes I hope she put it out),
then a small alligator who sits on her head and stares off into the distance.
Her aura is so bubbly and energetic that you can't help but lean towards her when she laughs. Suddenly
she notices me, and by the way her eyes lock onto mine I can tell she means serious (or maybe silly)
business.

"Ohmygosh! Hi, I'm Pinkie Pie, I live in Ponyville, that's where you're going, right?" With hardly a pause
to notice my nod she continues in a rush. "Wow! Are you visiting a friend or family or are you some sort
of secret alien spy come to steal all our brains?"

I blink. She talks so fast and bounces around so much that I can barely focus. "I'm moving to Ponyville
permanently, Miss Pie. I'm Ghost Anlace, it's nice to... meet you..."

I trail off as she seems to turn to living stone. She doesn't blink or move or even breathe for a few
seconds, and I'm starting to worry when she explodes. "YOU'REMOVINGTOPONYVILLE?!? OH MY GOSH
THIS IS SO GREAT!!"

She flies from her seat and all I see is a pink blur opening the door to the next carriage down before
Pinkie Pie is gone. The other ponies don't seem to notice her sudden explosion or her disappearance. A
mare, another Earth Pony with orange fur and whiteish hair, chuckles upon my thunderstruck
expression.

"Ah'm sorry 'bout Pinkie, Mr. Anlace. She gets real excited over just 'bout everythang, and a new pony
movin' to town gets her... well, you saw her." The mare adjusts her hat and shifts in her seat as the train
hits a bump, and I catch a glance of her Cutie Mark. Three apples, red as blood, along with the hat and
the accent mean that she must be a farmer.

I nod and ask, "Are you a friend of hers?"

"Yeah, Pinkie and me're friends. I'll tell ya, though, that girl is hard ta' keep up with, ya know?" The mare starts a little and extends a hoof. "Oh, I'm Applejack. Nice ta meet cha, Mr. Anlace."

I take her hoof in mine and say, "Please, call me Ghost. Your Cutie Mark... are you a farmer?"

She nods, a grin breaking out on her face. "Yup. Sweet Apple Acres, ma farm, is in Ponyville. I went to
Canterlot ta sell a few barrels of cider, but I ended up sellin' 'em all, seein' as the war ended. You're a
military stallion, right? Your Cutie Mark gives it away."

I'm glad that she doesn't allude to my injury, seeing as so many others do. Applejack doesn't seem to be the type of mare to point out those types of things. She has a nice smile and kind, truthful eyes. As we
lapse into comfortable silence (or, at least, the most comfortable silence that can pass between
strangers), the train slows and stops. A uniformed mare (not the same one as before) walks down the
aisle and announces that we have arrived in Ponyville.
As I get off the train, I realize that I have no idea where my house is. I ran out the door so fast that I had
no time to ask. This could prove problematic, as it's six o'clock and the sun is making its way to the
horizon. Applejack leaves to find both her friend Pinkie Pie and her bags, while I am luggage free and
simply walk off.

I think about asking some of the ponies I pass heading out the station door about my house situation,
but I don't know how exactly to phrase the question. Do you know where in Ponyville you could find a
house that's been sold recently? I'm looking for mine, you see, and I was in such a rush to get to the train
here that I forgot to ask doesn't seem like such a good way to approach it. Neither does excuse me,
could you direct me to the nearest empty house?
I'm wandering down the main road when the unmistakeable smell of baked pastries reaches my nostrils.
My stomach growls, and I remember that I've had nothing to eat since my post-drinking breakfast this
morning, and that I emptied my stomach the night before. I'm absolutely starving, so I open the door of
the bakery, which bears the name Sugarcube Corner, and take a big breath.

The smells make my mouth water so badly that I have to swallow at least ten times before I get it under
control. The mare at the counter smiles at me and says, "Well hello there! You must be new in town. I'm
Mrs. Cake. Is there anything you like that I can get for you?"Another problem arises: I have no bits to pay for anything. As I realize that, my face falls, and I have to sit down to prevent from collapsing from hunger and exhaustion. I must look terrible, because Mrs. Cake comes around the counter and sits with me at my table. Her face bears an expression of motherly concern when she says, "Oh dear, what's the matter? Are you feeling okay?"

I smile faintly and say, "I'm just a little hungry, Mrs. Cake, and I just remembered that I don't have any
bits to buy food. Really stupid of me, huh?"

She tsks and walks behind the counter again, heading to the back room. She emerges a minute later with
a plate, upon which three cupcakes sit. My eyes widen as she puts the plate down in front of me. "Two
of these are for you, Mr...?"

Why is she doing this for somepony whose name she doesn't even know? Most shop owners would kick
me out the moment I confessed to not having any bits. A lot of them would want me out because of my
scars, which are mostly attributed to gangs, but Mrs. Cake doesn't even seem to see them. I hold out my
hoof. "Ghost Anlace. Thank you, Mrs. Cake, but really, you don't have to..."

She shakes it, holding the other up to stop me mid-sentence. "It's not any trouble, dear. These cupcakes
would just go uneaten anyway, since we're just about to close up shop. Now, you came in on the train,
right?" She sits at the table and watches me devour the first cupcake. When I nod, she continues. "Did
you happen to meet a pony by the name of Pinkie Pie on the train?"

I swallow the last crumbs of the carrot cupcake and say, "Yes, I did. She's very... hyper, isn't she?"

Mrs. Cake grins ruefully. "Yes, Pinkie can be a bit of a handful, but she's a very kind girl at heart. She
works here, you know, and I'm waiting for her to get back. I assume, because you have no bags, that
you're moving to Ponyville?"

I finished the second cupcake and brush the crumbs off my fur. "Yes, and that's the other thing I forgot
before getting on the train. I don't actually know where my house is, and I don't know who to ask." I'm a little embarrassed to say it out loud, but since Mrs. Cake is kind enough to give me free food, I feel the
need to come clean with her.

"Well, dear, there's only one house for sale in Ponyville at the moment, but... well..." She trails off, a
puzzled look on her face. Interested, I lean forward.

"What's wrong, Mrs. Cake?"

She points behind me at the door, and I turn. What I see sucks the breath from my lungs. A multi-colored
pegasus is speeding towards the front of the shop with no sign of stopping, a rainbow trail drunkenly following behind. I hit the floor under the table and pull Mrs. Cake with me, covering her with my hooves.
Just in time, too. The next sound is that of shattering glass, and huge shards of the stuff skid past us on
the floor. I feel minuscule pieces bury themselves in my fur, but I don't think they drew any blood. My
world goes gray, and then I'm sucked into a flashback.

It's early morning, just after the moon has disappeared over the horizon, and I wake up in my sleeping bag.We’ve been trekking across the savannah for days, and the constant heat means that nothing is ever really dry. The only upside is that the ground is level enough so that setting up tents is a breeze. Yawning, I push aside the flap of my tent. Everypony else has made their way to the campfire, where breakfast is being served. I trot over to Mist, who also appears to have just woken, and murmur, "What's for breakfast?"

"Carrot cake and hay fries with a strawberry smoothie, served on Princess Celestia's finest china." He
says, a grumpy scowl on his face. When I raise an eyebrow, he sighs. "Oatmeal and bananas, just like
we've had for the past ten days. You really expect something different?”

I shrug, trying to roll out some of the kinks in my back from sleeping on the ground. I get my bowl of oatmeal and walk to the outskirts of the tents, watching the golden grass roll in the warm morning sun. Mist joins me, and we chat for a little before he holds a hoof up for silence. Frowning, his ears perk up, and I follow suit. A low droning, like bees, comes from the west. Both Mist and I are new to war, but any sound like that this early in the morning can’t be good. We trot to the commander, who is eating lunch right by the fire, and tell him about the noise. At first he just dismisses it, but it grows until even in the bustle of the camp it’s loud.
That’s when the first ball shatters on the ground.

Black streaks shoot over us, flying too fast for us to identify anything other than the fact that they’re zebras. “Take cover!” the commander yells, pushing both Mist and I into his tent. Before I get fully inside, I get a glimpse of what exactly we’re being attacked with. Giant glass balls are being dropped in the camp, the shards cutting deeply into flesh of unfortunate men who, minutes before, were laughing.
One of the stallions is dead on the ground, glass sticking from his eye and throat. Blood pools on the ground, and the screams of the ponies are something that I know I will never forget. More glass shatters, and one huge shard cuts through the tent and whistles past me, cutting my side slightly. All three of us curl into balls to present less of a target, and I struggle not to cry as the sound of carnage rages on outside. I close my eyes, the image of the dead stallion plastered on the inside of my eyelids. I don’t even know his name…

I snap out of it, finding myself still in the bakery, covered in glass dust. Mrs. Cake is saying something beneath me, but my ears are ringing too hard for me to understand. Finally, some of her words get through. “…Ghost? Are you alright? Did you get hurt?”

I roll over, thumping against the side of the seat. My breath comes in short gasps, and whenever I blink I see the dead stallion whose name I don’t know, whose body must be rotting in the emptiness of the savannah while the golden grass rolls in the heat of the sun. Suddenly, a blue face appears above me. A mare, her face cut from the glass shards and twisted in worry, says, “Are you okay? I meant to pull up, but I didn’t make it in time. Sweet Celestia, I’m sorry, Mrs. Cake. I’ll pay to replace the window, I swear, and I’ll clean everything up.”

The door jingles and I hear an unmistakable voice. “Wow, what happened here? Dashie, have you been drinking? Because you only drink at parties, and I haven’t thrown a party yet, and nopony else throws parties, oh! Unless somepony is throwing a secret party, in which case you have to tell me where it is because I’ve always wanted to have a secret party—”

Another voice cuts Pinkie off, one that I don’t recognize. “Mrs. Cake, are you alright? I was walking down to grab a muffin for Spike tomorrow and I saw what happened. Here, let me clean the floor up so nopony gets cut.”

From my view on the floor, I see glass shards lifted into the air and carried into a neat pile before the counter. I test my hooves, raising my head and blinking to try and get the bloody image out of my head. The sight of a purple unicorn, a blue pegasus and a pink Earth Pony greet me. The blue pegasus, who is still bleeding, shakes her head. “I’m really sorry, mister. I was trying out this cool new move, but it got a little out of control.”

Pinkie squints at me and breaks into a wide grin, bouncing up and down so fast that she’s a blur. “Ohmygosh! You’re the stallion who’s moving to Ponyville, right? You know what that means? A PARTY! I have to get everything ready, and we’ll have cake and decorations and streamers and rubber ducks—nothing can go wrong with rubber ducks! I’ll start getting ready!”

She streaks towards the counter, jumping both the pile of glass and the wood in one graceful bound, and disappears into the back room. The purple unicorn sighs and mutters, “I guess it’s up to me to be polite,” and sticks out her hoof, her slightly grumpy expression melting into a smile. “Hi, I’m Twilight Sparkle. This is Rainbow Dash, and that pony there was Pinkie Pie. She said something about you moving in, was that true, Mr…?”

She says it in almost the same way Mrs. Cake does. I reach out, trying to stifle the slight tremble in my hoof, and say, “My name is Ghost Anlace. It’s a pleasure to meet you, but I really have to get going. Mrs. Cake, where did you say the house that had been sold recently was?” I’m being a bit abrupt, but I feel like I’m going to scream, and doing so here wouldn’t be good.

She blinks, flicking her tail to dispel any bits of glass dust stuck there. “It’s just down the street here, Ghost, past the library a little. You’ll see it; it’s hard not to. Are you sure you’re alright?”

I manage a smile and nod, heading for the door. One I’m out into the orange sunset, I start to gallop away. My breath comes short after a minute, but I push on, trying to outrun my memories. Past a giant tree whose sign reads “Ponyville Public Library”, there is one house. One gigantic house the size of three Sugarcube Corners. I stumble to the door, upon which a note and key are taped. The note reads, “Ghost Anlace”, but I don’t read it. I rip the key from the door, shove it into the lock and charge inside, slamming and locking the door behind me. My training roars to meet me in this new house, and I shove furniture against the door and windows, preventing a break-in. I rush upstairs, pushing open the first door I can find to reveal a blue bedroom. I lock the windows and the door, check the bathroom, and wedge chairs under both doors. Then, I dive under the bed. It’s only when I’m jammed under there, with almost complete darkness thanks to the bed skirt, that my trembling slows and then stops. I start to count the minutes, and when it gets to two hours my eyelids are heavy enough so that when I close them I sink into a confusing bubble of glass and distortion, with blood dripping into my eyes and making it hard to see. I see the dead stallion again, the same haunting image, but this time it’s me who lies there, not breathing, surrounded by a pool of crimson.
Then there is only darkness as my dreams are swept away and sleep greets me.

Chapter 5

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I wake to silence. It isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last, but this is the first time that the silence has bothered me. For a moment, I feel… incomplete, as if some part of me was left back at the Sugarcube Corner. My heart beats, but it sounds like one instrument in a duet, trying vainly to make up for its lost partner. Then I whack my head on the bottom of the bed and break the silence with curses, and the moment is gone.
I wiggle my way from beneath the bed and stretch, popping my joints in the process. Looking around, I can finally appreciate the vanity of the room. The bed covers are blue silk, with a mahogany headboard studded with small jewels. The curtains, which I forgot to close last night, are made of some extremely heavy and opaque material. Through the windows that they frame I can see the sun slowly rising. The chairs I wedged under the doors are also mahogany, carved with strange patterns that must make them worth a fortune. Too bad I chipped the top of one in my haste to feel safe.

I remove the chair from the bathroom door and head in to take a shower. The floor is marble, a delicate shade of white that shines with the weak light from the small windows near the ceiling. The shower itself is metal, and the shower curtain is a slippery plastic that feels water-resistant. I turn on the water, sighing as the warm liquid runs through my fur.
After I towel myself off with what feel like dry clouds, I make my way to the door leading into the hallway. I remove the chair and slowly open the door, peeking out to see if anyone managed to get in despite my make-shift barriers the night before (old habits die hard, and checking for intruders is one of my oldest habits). Looking left, I see the stairs leading downstairs. Looking right, I see about a hundred yards of doors and plush carpet. Sweet Celestia, this house is huge, I think, making my way to the stairs. When I get to the bottom, I groan at the sight that waits.

Sofas are upright against the windows, the cushions scattered over the floor. The front door is barricaded with a dresser whose drawers are half-open. A bookshelf is on its side at another door to the right, books at crooked angles inside. The place is a disaster area, and I can’t believe that I managed to do this in about an hour. As I shove the dresser away from the front door, a low knocking reaches my ears. Who is it at this time of the morning? I wonder, and open the door a crack.
A soft yellow pegasus, her face half hidden by light pink hair, smiles shyly at me from the front step. “He-hello. My name is Fluttershy, I-I take care of the animals in Ponyville. I just want to let you know that there are a cute little family of owls nesting on the top of one of your columns, and I was hoping to move them now that somepony is living here, if that’s okay.”

She points to the top of the column that sits to the left of the door. I look up and see a small corner of the nest. I’ve always like owls, and the thought of having to make them move just because I moved in is not appealing. “If they want to stay, they can,” I say to Fluttershy. “I don’t mind owls, really, and they shouldn’t have to move because of me.”

Her face lights up in joy and I feel a strange burst of happiness at making somepony smile. She holds out a hoof timidly, still smiling, and I take it. “I’m Ghost. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fluttershy.” I say, shaking her hoof softly.

“It’s nice meeting you too, Ghost. Thank you ever so much for letting Mr. and Mrs. Owl stay here. They—oh, Angel, this is Ghost. Say hi!” A small rabbit with an impatient frown hops up and tugs on Fluttershy’s tail. When she doesn’t move, he thumps his foot and pulls harder. With an apologetic smile, Fluttershy starts to walk away, but she calls over her shoulder, “Thank you again, Ghost, for letting the Owls stay! Maybe we’ll see each other later, if that’s okay?”

“Sure, that would be great. Bye!” Angel leads Fluttershy to the right, past the library. I stare after them until they disappear from my line of sight. Then I shut my door and stare around the room, running my hoof through my mane in exasperation. Cleaning this is going to be a pain in the flank. But somepony has to do it.
Three hours later, the sun is high in the sky and I’ve restored the room to its previous state. The couches are against the walls, the bookshelf beside the door to the kitchen (which is mercifully organized and stocked with food), and I find the key to the front door on one of the stairs. I’ve just collapsed on the softest couch when there’s another knock on the door, this time a firm, three-tap knock that means business.

I open the door warily to see an older, dark gray stallion with glasses holding a package stamped with the royal seal and fixed with a strap for easy lifting. When I step out of the house, he asks me, “Are you Ghost Anlace?”

I nod, my eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Yes, I am. Who are you?”

The older stallion raises a hoof, smiling slightly. “My name is Silver Bursar. I’m the manager of Ponyville Bank, you see, and the bank received a package today with your address on it. It also carries the royal seal of Princess Celestia, as you can see. The instructions that came with the package said to hand-deliver it to this address. Here you are, Mr. Anlace.”

I shake his hoof and pick up the package, settling it on my back. It’s extremely heavy, and I nearly buckle under its weight in surprise. “What—what’s in this?” I grunt.

Mr. Bursar shrugs. “I don’t actually know. I’m not supposed to open packages, and this is no exception. Do you need some help?”

My injured foreleg burns from the strain of holding the package up, but I shake my head no. Mr. Bursar nods. “Very well then. I’ll be on my way back to the bank, unless there is something I can take down there for you, like mail or a package?”

I shake my head no again, and, satisfied, Mr. Bursar wishes me good day and trots away. I stagger inside, shutting the door with my back hoof, and sling the package onto the couch. “What in Celestia’s name is in this thing? Rocks?” I wonder, heading to the kitchen for a knife to cut the seal. I cut it cleanly, so that no slivers of wax curl off and make a mess. When I open it, I have to blink a couple of times to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Inside the package are hundreds of bits bundled into bags according to their value. On top of all of them is a note. It reads,

Ghost Anlace,
The bits enclosed are one-sixth of the amount that the Princesses’ Grace is awarded with. A forth of it was used to buy your house. The rest of the bits are stored in the Royal Canterlot Bank under your name. In the basement of your house there is a vault, which I would advise you to put these bits in. The passcode is up to you.
Cordially,
Quillus Amanuensis, Royal Secretary of Princess Celestia

I drop the note and stare at the collection of wealth in front of me. If one fourth of the whole reward was enough to buy this house, and this is one-sixth, then what in Celestia’s name must that vault in my name look like? I sit down heavily, stunned. What am I going to do with all these bits? I could buy a small nation with this! I think, and suddenly I remember yesterday at Sugarcube Corner. Mrs. Cake had given me cupcakes when I was bitless, and now it was time for me to repay her.
I pick up one of the pillows, unzip the cover and take it off. I open one of the bags and take fifty bits out, transferring them to the pillowcase. Then I tie the pillowcase around my neck, leaving the bits hanging down by my chest, and close the box. I pick it up and put it on my back again. I stagger to a door behind the stairs, which I correctly assume is the door to the basement. I decide not to chance the basement steps with the box on my back, choosing instead to push it down the stairs.
I trot to the basement floor and see the vault immediately. It’s set into the back wall, which is all metal, and the lock on it would look more comfortable in the royal vault than here. Four wheels made of metal sit in the middle of the vault door, and on them are stamped numbers. The vault itself is cracked open, waiting for somepony to set the lock. I open it (the thickness of the door is unbelievable) and I’m surprised at how little space is inside. Two ponies could squeeze in here, but it would be a tight fit. The box of bits will fit easily, though.

I walk over to the box and lift it again, bringing it to the door of the vault and swinging it in. Now I have to set the lock, and when I shut the door the numbers will scramble, leaving the combination a mystery to anypony but me. I select four numbers at random (random numbers are always hard to guess): 6,2,9,7. Then I shut the door and the numbers spin to read 4,9,1,0.
Satisfied, I walk up the stairs and shut the basement door, the pillowcase around my neck jingling as I hunt for the key to the front door, which I left around here somewhere. When I find it, I set out for Sugarcube Corner, locking my front door behind me.
The streets are full of ponies and stalls selling various goods. I stick to the inside of the sidewalk, as always, and make my way unnoticed through the crowd. Halfway to Sugarcube Corner, I come across a cart that’s blocking the sidewalk. The wheel facing me has two cracked spokes, which make it impossible to pull any further. I’m about to walk around it when a white unicorn mare pokes her head out from inside the cart. She looks around and sighs impatiently, as if waiting for somepony. Instead, she sees me and calls out, “Excuse me, sir? Have you seen a light blue pegasus with a red mane recently?”

I can’t ignore her now, that would be rude. So I sigh internally and say, “No, I haven’t, Miss. Have a good—”
A light blue blur streaks by me, dangerously close to the ground, and a pegasus of the same description perches on the side of the cart. “Discord’s claw, Em, there isn’t a single bucking room available that we can afford in the whole of the bucking town! I told you that giving half of the money to that orphanage in Manehattan was a bad idea!”

The unicorn frowns. “Well, those foals needed it more than we did, Cinder.”

Cinder snorts. “Yeah, well, the head of the place smelled like six bottles of liquor, so I’m guessing that the foals won’t be getting the bits we gave up anytime soon.” She turned to me, her blue eyes squinting in distrust. “And who are you?”

I’m stunned by the attitude radiating from this pegasus. But I’m also slightly relieved, as arrogant ponies are more what I’m used to dealing with. “I’m Ghost Anlace. Who the buck are you?” I snarl, knowing that the only way to deal with such arrogance is to be nasty in return.

The unicorn rolls her eyes, but Cinder grins, the meanness disappearing from her face. “Well, at least one pony in this town has some life in them. I’m Cinder, and this is Ember. Nice to meet you, Ghost.” She hops down from the cart and extends her hoof. I take it, surprised at her change in tone. I try to get a look at her Cutie Mark, but all I see is a blank flank. At my stunned expression she laughs. “Yeah, you’re seeing right. I don’t have a Cutie Mark. It’s this really rare condition called Jack-of-all-Trades, which means that I’m good at just about everything, but not outstanding at anything in particular. So, no Cutie Mark. It makes me really stand out, but I’d guess that you know about standing out, seeing that injury.”

Unwillingly, a smile twitches at the corner of my mouth. Cinder is very blunt, but she doesn’t seem to be cruel or vindictive. Not afraid to speak her mind, either. Ember carefully steps out of the cart, extending her hoof to me as well. Her Cutie Mark is a paintbrush and canvas, both devoid of paint. “I’m sorry for Cinder. She can be very… hard to handle. We’re here to set up a shop, you see, but our cart kind of broke. So Cinder has been zipping around looking for a place where we can stay for a while, until we can get a place of our own—”

“And there isn’t a single bucking place that we can afford because Em gave two hundred bits to the Celestial Orphanage in Manehattan! Hmph!” Cinder interrupts, sitting on the edge of the cart. Ember nods, the sun catching the red streaks in her mahogany hair.

My eyes widen. “The Celestial Orphanage? I lived there for fifteen years. Is the place still as run-down as I remember?”

Cinder nods. “Yeah, and the stallion that runs the place smelled like alcohol, so I’m guessing that none of that money is going to the foals. Did you know him?”

“Mr. Moonshine? His special talent is making alcohol, but his wife’s is taking care of foals. He’s a good pony, though, and he doesn’t drink a single drop of the stuff he makes. Neither did any of the foals while I was there.”

Ember smiles triumphantly and turns to Cinder. “I told you that he seemed nice!”

Cinder snorts. “Yeah, well, in my experience, ponies that smell like alcohol are always trouble. Always.” The seriousness of the moment is ruined by Cinder’s rumbling stomach.

Ember sighs. “You just ate, Cinder! What is it with you and food?”

“I love food, and it loves me, so I don’t see how you can be so critical. Now come on, I saw this place down the street called Sugarcube Corner that sells sweets and I need my sugar. Let’s go!” She zips away at street level, weaving through the walking ponies expertly.

Ember starts after her, but I call, “Uh, are you just going to leave the cart here?” The ponies here seem nice, but it only takes one to steal something.

She rolls her eyes and motions me to walk with her. “Yeah, I’m okay with it. There’s really nothing of interest to anypony in there. Just brushes and canvases, stuff like that. I’m a painter, you see, so I go around selling portraits in towns until we have enough money to leave. We’ve been all over Equestria, but I really think that this is where I want to set up my base of operations. Do you know where Sugarcube Corner is?”

“Just follow me.” I lead her through the mass of ponies to the door of Sugarcube Corner, the window of which is fixed as if nothing ever happened to it. Walking in, I see Cinder at the counter, hopping impatiently from hoof to hoof, waiting for us. I pull the bag of bits from around my neck and put it in front of Mrs. Cake, who is manning the register. “What would you like, Ember and Cinder? My treat. It’s the least I can do for two mares who gave so much to my past home.”

Ember sighs. “I really wish you hadn’t said that.”

“I’ll take three carrot cupcakes, two grass squares, two lemon squares and a cinnamon roll,” Cinder lists, licking her lips.

Ember mutters, “See?” Raising her voice, she says, “I’ll take one grass square, please.”

“And I’ll have a carrot cupcake.” I open the bag expectantly, waiting for Mrs. Cake to finish tallying up the total.

“That’ll be twenty five bits, please.” She scribbles our order down on a piece of paper and hands it to a stallion whose Cutie Mark is three cakes. I can only assume that this is Mr. Cake, who takes our order into the back room.
I push the whole bag of bits across the counter, holding up a hoof to silence Mrs. Cake’s protests. “You fed me when I didn’t have any money, Mrs. Cake, so now I’m going to repay you. Please don’t argue.”

She nods in defeat, handing me back my pillowcase after the bits are removed. There are remarkably few ponies in Sugarcube Corner right now, so I’m able to secure a booth while waiting for our sweets to arrive. When they do, Cinder digs in with a ferocity that amazes me. On the other hoof, Ember nibbles at her grass square, the very picture of manners.
After Cinder finishes her cupcakes (which is before Ember and I finish our treats), she wipes her mouth of frosting and crumbs. “So Ghost, do you have a room me and Cinder could rent out for about three months?”

The question is so sudden that I nearly choke on my cupcake. Ember frowns at her friend. “Cinder, you can’t just ask him that! I’m sorry, Ghost, she’s a bit tactless.”

I swallow, trying to get the crumb in my throat out. Cinder leans in, patting me on the back. “Well, I asked around to see if anypony had room in their houses for us to rent, but nopony does. Then I flew over to this gigantic house past the library, and there was this note on the front door that said ‘Ghost’. There was nopony home, so I gave up. Is that your house?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak until the crumb is completely gone.

Cinder is persistent. “Well, can we rent out a room or two?” Ember yanks Cinder’s mane until Cinder sits down in her seat, forelocks crossed and eyebrow raised.
When I swallow the crumb, I take a deep breath and think it over. I barely know these two, which should be enough for a resounding ‘no’. But they’re mares, which means that, in terms of muscle, I have an advantage over them if they want to kill me for whatever reason (it happened twice to me during the war—a mare who I bunked with tried to stab me and another tried to set me on fire for taking the last hay fry). Also, the thought of the two of them sleeping in their broken cart down a deserted alley pops into my head, and I sigh, knowing that my conscience will not allow me to say no.

I sigh and murmur, “You can stay in my house for a few months, since I have a feeling that if I say no Cinder will pester me to death.” Cinder grins and goes back to her food, oblivious to Ember’s glare.

“Thank you, Ghost. We had better get our cart fixed, then. I hope I remembered to pack some duct tape...” Ember drags Cinder to the door, the latter still eating her cinnamon roll. I put my head in my hooves, groaning internally. My conscience assures me that it was the right decision, but my cranky, selfish side disagrees. The only thought both sides have is: What in Celestia’s name have I gotten myself into?

Chapter 6

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When I was just a colt, I was adopted for a few days by a nice couple of mares. They took me to their house and gave me a room all to myself, which I had never had before. The bed was soft, the food they gave me wasn’t about to be swiped by another foal, and the window had the greatest view over the river separating Manehattan from the rest of the world. But during those few nights, I didn’t sleep at all. It wasn’t the fact that I was in a different place. It was the thought of being all alone in a room with two strange ponies down the hall. I was never the most trusting of colts, and all night I would pace the floor, watching the door and the window, sure that somepony was about to break in and attack me. Three days in, I asked the mares if I could go back to the orphanage. They were distraught, but when I assured them that it had nothing to do with them, and that one day they would make wonderful parents to some lucky foal, they agreed to take me back. That night (back in the orphanage), I slept like an infant, safe in the knowledge that if an intruder infiltrated the place, I would have a chance of getting away.

Strangely enough, I am now in that same situation, only I’m twenty-eight and the mares in question are much younger (I don’t know how young, exactly—I never got around to asking them). The rest of the resemblance is uncanny. I’m in a new house, the bed is soft, the food isn’t about to be taken away (though Cinder made a few threats at dinner), and the window has a lovely view over Ponyville.

And, two hours after Cinder and Ember picked their rooms and (presumably) went to sleep, I’m pacing my room with the door locked. Celestia’s sun has slipped beyond the horizon and Luna’s moon is crawling into the sky before I flop down on the bed and breathe deeply.
Most ponies are social creatures; it’s an instinct that stretches back to the days of old, when monsters were much more common and smaller animals had to band together or die. Because of that, it makes most ponies uncomfortable to be alone for a long period of time. I’m very different—having to sleep near strangers makes me shiver a little, so I try to take my mind off of Cinder and Ember by trying an old tactic Mist swears works every time sleep won’t come: I recant the day’s activities.

After leaving Sugarcube Corner, Ember and I trotted back to the cart while Cinder flew not far above us, finished with her cinnamon roll. Surprisingly, every item in the cart was still there when Ember checked, even a small bag of bits that she had forgotten in her haste to follow Cinder. “Here,” she said to me, thrusting it into my hooves. “It’s only ten bits, but I want you to take it anyway.”
“You don’t—” I began, but one look from both the pegasus and the unicorn silenced me.
From the depths of the neatly stacked items, she pulled a roll of duct tape out and levitated it into the air. Cinder grabbed it, without a word, and landed next to the broken wheel, cracking her neck as she did so. Turning to me, she grinned devilishly. “Watch and be amazed, Ghost.”

Ember rolled her eyes but said nothing.

Cinder pulled the spokes of the broken wheel back into their place and put one end of the tape where the break was. Then, in a stunning display of speed and dexterity, she looped the tape around the spoke, all the way up and down, in five seconds flat. She did the same with the other spokes, even taping upside down, and when she was done all the tape was gone, but the cart was fixed.
“That was—impressive,” I said, stunned at the skill the young mare possessed.

Cinder chuckled and remarked, “If you think that was impressive, watch this. Em, get in.” Ember scrambled into the cart while Cinder hitched herself to the newly-fixed cart. Pulling herself into a runner’s stance, with her rump in the air, she motioned for me to get out of the way. As soon as I stepped far enough to the left so that I wouldn’t get run over, Cinder took off like a shot, her wings still firmly clamped to her sides.
Ponies scattered as the cart screamed down the sidewalk, broken wheel miraculously intact. I broke into a sprint, straining to come even with Cinder, but even though the pegasus was running her speed was incredible. All I managed to do was come a few feet behind the two. Ember’s eyes, just barely visible above the rim of the cart, looked on with amusement. The race was short but exhausting, with Cinder pulling up to my new house in less than a minute, and me skidding to a stop next to her a few seconds later.

I collapsed on the lawn as the blue pegasus stared at me with what could be classified as respect. “Huh. For a guy with an injury you run pretty fast, Ghost.” Even through the stitch in my chest I grunted in laughter. Cinder’s version of a compliment was more like a criticism, but it was well-meant.

“How… how did you…” I wheezed, unable to finish the sentence. Ember stepped out of the cart and walked to me in concern, but I waved her off and took a deep breath. “How did you manage to run that fast pulling this cart?”
Cinder winked, giving me a small smile. “Trade secret. Now, let’s get this crap inside and start dinner, okay?”
“We just ate, Cinder!” Ember reminded her. Cinder just shrugged and started to unload the cart, murmuring under her breath that you could never have too much food. I want to press the issue, but Ember shot me a warning glance when Cinder was digging in the cart, so I didn’t say anything. I got to my hooves, still a little winded (I really would have to fix that; being out of shape is embarrassing), and open the front door, taking off the letter which came with the key.

The next three hours were spent moving Cinder and Ember into their rooms and having dinner. Cinder originally wanted to move into the kitchen, but Ember wouldn’t have it. Instead, the two choose rooms directly across from each other and two rooms away from me. All of Ember’s canvases and paints were moved into her room, along with most of the junk the two had stuffed the cart full of. Cinder took only a box of chocolate bars and her saddlebags into her room.
Since we were all tired, we agreed to go to bed early, at seven o’clock. So I shut my door, locked it, and tried to go to sleep, but it wouldn’t come—

“This is utter manure,” I murmur to myself. Getting out of bed, I trot to the window again, staring at Luna’s silver moon as it makes its ascent over Ponyville. I open the window slightly, and the cool air that reaches my face beckons for me to come outside and walk in the shadows of the night. I’ve always like night more than day, even as a colt. A little exercise might make me sleepy, I think.
I walk to the door, but hesitate before opening it. The noise of my departure might waken Ember or Cinder, and the last thing I need is for them to come running after me in the dark. So, again, I trot to the window and poke my head out, looking for a way down.

It comes in the form of a young tree, whose branches are slight but very close to the window. I don’t give myself time to think about the consequences of falling (the ground is at least twenty feet below, and a fall like that could break more than one bone if I landed wrong). I jump forward, managing to land close to the base of the branch nearest to me. The whole tree shakes with my weight, and I wait with bated breath to see if it’ll fall. Luckily, it’s a little sturdier than that, and I make my way down the base without any more trouble. The grass is cool below my hooves, and the air is wet with the promise of rain.

I start to walk the road towards the center of town—actually, walk isn’t the right word. I creep towards the center of town, placing my hooves in such a way that they make no sound. My eyes are half-closed, and my tail is pressed against my side, the dark blue masking the light gray of my coat. The stance is military, and after so many years of fighting it comes naturally.
Ponyville is much different at night. The sound of my hooves on cobblestone (which is impossible to muffle) echoes off the dark buildings, which cast twisted shadows across the ground. If I stop, I can hear strange noises from the forest (which I noticed coming off the train); howling that intensifies when the wind blows in my direction, trees whispering to each other in the soft language of theirs, and the twinkle of the stars in the sky.
Ponyville is small, and in very little time at all I have traversed the cobblestone streets and set hoof on the soft grass of what I assume is a park. I climb one of the hills and trot down the other side, stopping at the bottom to take in my surroundings.
That’s why, at first, the creatures hidden in the shadows of the trees don’t see me. I don’t see them, either, until one of them steps on a stray twig. My ears swivel instantly towards the sound, and I freeze, sinking lower to the ground without shifting my hooves. It burns to do this, especially with my injury, but my self-control prevails.
At first there is nothing, not even breathing, but then I hear hoofsteps coming in my direction. They’re soft, and by the seconds between the crunches of wet grass I can tell that whatever is moving is stretching, trying to cover as much ground as possible in as little steps as possible. When I pinpoint the exact location of the sound, I slowly turn my head to the left.
The creature is black and vaguely pony-shaped, but the light shining through its hooves marks it as something else. Its coat is shiny, obviously something other than fur, and it has no mane. The creature does have a horn, a crooked protrusion on its head, but in this darkness I can’t tell if it has wings or not. Giant blue eyes lock onto me, and we stare at each other for what feels like hours but what is really seconds, neither of us moving. I’m so focused on the blue-eyed creature that I don’t hear its accomplice until it’s too late.

Another creature lands on my back, biting into my shoulder with long fangs. I whinny in pain but manage to roll over, shaking the second creature off. Blood runs hot and thick down my shoulder, but luckily it’s my uninjured one. When I regain my footing, I scan my surroundings for the light blue eyes of my attackers. The thing I shook off my back has also scrambled to its hooves and turned towards me. I wait for its lunge before I dive to the side, muffling a scream as I land on my injured shoulder.
I feel rather than see one of the creatures charging towards me, so with all the strength I can muster I lash out with my back hooves. A sickening crack echoes through the night as some part of the creature breaks (for all I know it doesn’t have bones), but I only get a millisecond of satisfaction before the momentum of the creature’s lunge makes my bad forelock buckle. Left to hold my entire weight, my injured shoulder buckles as well, sending me crashing to the ground. My injured forelock twists unnaturally beneath me, sending white-hot sparks of pain through my body. I try to move, but when I attempt a shift I nearly black out. I can’t fight or flee, and I can hear the hoofsteps getting closer, so I do the one thing left to me.

I scream.

Chapter 7

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My scream is piercing, and I have no doubt that all of Ponyville heard it. I’d actually be surprised if the noise didn’t reach Canterlot by the time I ran out of air.

Out of nowhere, a hoof smashes into my face, and the unexpected blow sends me sideways, cutting off the cry for help. My vision goes black, and as I’m about to pass out I can hear subdued conversation that I assume is between the two creatures.
“What are we going to do with him?” The first speaker’s voice is surprisingly female, and laden with pain.

“We could kill him and drag his body into the woods. That would be fair, for what he did to you.” The second voice is male, but surprisingly neutral for what he’s suggesting. The female, I work out, is the one I bucked.

“No. As much as I’d like to, we can’t kill him. It would take too long—ponies are probably out of their cozy little beds already. We got our information, anyway. Just leave him; maybe he’ll bleed out. His shoulder looks pretty bad.” I hear slow hoofsteps as one of the two walks to stand over me. I don’t move my head, or give any sign that I’m awake. Playing dead (or unconscious) is the best course of action right now, not that I’m able to do much else.
Still, something must alert the creature standing over me, because a hoof slams into my shoulder, sending my world into blurs of red and black. Pain is everywhere and is inescapable, burning the color of fire. For what seems like forever I forget who I am and why it hurts; all that matters is that it does hurt. Then the black surrounds me like a blanket, dulling the red until only embers smolder in the twilight of sleep.

My limbs are so heavy. I can’t move…

What happened to him? Did anypony see? Oh sweet Celestia that’s a lot of blood…

The words sound muffled, as though I stuffed my ears with cotton, but I can still tell that the speaker is female, her high pitched voice tinged with panic.

We need to get him to the hospital now! Does he have any family? Does anypony know where he lives?

The second voice is very much so male, a gruff and professional voice that is not in the least deterred by the blood that scared female pony. I feel myself get lifted and put onto something a lot less soft than the grass I previously occupied. It’s a lot less prickly, though, so I don’t complain. Not that I could—my voice doesn’t seem to be working, although I can feel each raspy breath that I take out of habit.
Around me, shadows begin to writhe and take shape, but as soon as I look at them they dissipate into nothingness. The darkness has slowly begun to morph into a dark gray, and that into a light gray. When the light has grown so that it hurts to look, I close my eyes, which I had been holding open with sheer willpower.

For what feels like years all I can see is red through my eyelids. There are no sounds, no smells, and the ground is made of something that feels like nothing—not hard, not soft, not cold or warm. And then there is a change, a very subtle change: all of a sudden I can feel a slight breeze that ruffles my fur. The air smells of wood and paper, things that I am not intimately familiar with but know all the same. The ground is cold now; a slight chill that permeates my body and sends shivers through me. And when the light finally dims, I open my eyes.
Because I’m lying on my side, I see everything at a slant. It takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing, but when I do I’m left with more questions than answers.
Closest to me is a table, of which I am only able to see four legs. The light wood contrasts the dark shelves behind it, filled with books. None of them have titles, just different colored bindings. The floor is hardwood, the light green of immature trees which bends slightly under my weight. It isn’t uncomfortable at all, really, just a little cold. Small drafts float their way across the wood like a stone skimming over water, clinging to my coat and soaking into the floor.

Why in Celestia’s name would anypony take me to a library in the condition I’m in? Am I hallucinating? Curious, I try and lift my head, waiting for a sharp pain where the creature slammed a hoof into my face.
Nothing. Not even the slightest throb of a bruise. Experimentally, I twitch my injured shoulder, searching for any sign of the attack I was a victim of. But it moves, and unless they put me on some serious medication, I don’t feel a thing.

Actually, medication might explain the library, which I’m pretty sure is a hallucination.

I go to check my forelocks for I.V.s, but there’s nothing. Twisting my head around, I try to get a good look at my shoulder, and from the sliver of skin that I can see, there isn’t a gash or stitches. Now, magic is a wonderful thing, but it can only go so far. Deep cuts, like the one I received, would have scarred and left internal damage. Damage that would take months to heal properly.
Damage that I don’t seem to have.

I roll over, gathering my hooves beneath me, and stand slowly. The top of the tables comes into view, as do the bookcases, which seem to go up forever. Even craning my neck back doesn’t reveal the ceiling of the library to me. My gaze travels over the covers of the many, many books crammed into the shelves and settles on the huge pile of paper stacked on the table. I’m about to move when I hear mutterings from behind the wall of white.
Leaning to the side, I peer around the paper to try and get a good look at whatever is hiding behind them. When I don’t see anything, I peek under the table, but there are no hooves or claws or tails, nothing to suggest that there is actually a living creature there.

I take two steps to the side and one forward, trying to get a good look on the other side of the paper wall. When I do, something lands on the ground with four thuds, and the mass of papers are swept aside by magic, piling themselves neatly against the walls of the room. This gives me clear view to see the pony that now sits at the head of the square table.
The pony is scribbling furiously in a small gray book. I guess that she’s female, given her slim figure and long mane, which falls into her eyes. She doesn’t look at me or even acknowledge my presence, so I take one hesitant step forward. As I do, she jumps from her chair straight into the air, flaring wings that I hadn’t noticed. She flies upwards at dizzying speeds, stopping once or twice to pull out a book from the higher shelves.
When she comes down to my level, she breezes past me, six books held in her magic field. “Uh, ma’am?” I try, trotting after her. Finally she whirls around, and it’s only by pure luck that I see the small dart fly towards me. I hit the floor and feel my mane ruffle a millisecond later.

From behind me, where the dart went, I hear a thunk, and the alicorn nods. “Blue. Thought so. Green coat, purple mane, blue eyes.”
This makes no sense to me, but I’m a little more wary of this strange dart-throwing mare. Her gaze shifts from wherever the dart landed to me, and her face lights up. “Ghost! Knew you’d come around. Hold on—just gotta do this.”
A quill comes over and starts writing in a light green book, going so fast that I’m afraid of it starting a fire. While the quill is writing, the mare darts to ten other points in the room, taking down books, making marks on some of them, humming a small song that I don’t recognize. A little stunned that she knows who I am, I speak hesitantly.

“Ma’am, what’s your name?” I ask, trying to get a look at her Cutie Mark. She moves too fast for me to see it, flying over me in a blur of gold limbs and white hair.

“Don’t have a name. No need—takes too much time. Call me whatever.” Skidding to the head of the table again, she picks up the gray book there and reads what is written, murmuring to herself. Then, in a flash of magic, she’s by me again, catching the green book that has been writing itself next to me as it falls.
“Someone once called me The Writer, don’t remember who. He had a box, though, a blue box—helped me organize my library. Didn’t get his name, didn’t give one. He knew the value of time. Duck.”
My reflexes save me once again as a dart whizzes past me and embeds itself into the wall. The Writer scowls, fluttering her wings. “Brown won’t do. Gray, maybe green. Not purple—silver! Name, name, name…”
She points to me. “Give me another name for music. Any name, just hurry!”

Put on the spot, I stammer the first thing that comes to my head. “Uh, symphony.”

Nodding rapidly, The Writer pats me on the head (a gesture of approval, I think, not one of condescension) and writes in a small pink book that is exactly one page. Snapping the book shut, she flings it at me, pointing towards a small space in one of the bottom shelves. The book fits perfectly, flanked on either side by books that are the same width but not the same color. When I turn around, The Writer is sitting at the head of the table again, organizing books by thickness, stacking them into haphazard piles that lean but do not fall.
By the time I reach her, she has flown up and grabbed at least twenty more books, muttering under her breath words that are too soft for me to hear. I trot towards her, stopping mere feet away, close enough to see her eyes flick across the page she’s reading. I stand there silently until she starts and snaps the book shut, throwing it high in the air. I warily watch the blue book’s arc until, to my amazement, it slides into place on a bookshelf. When my gaze travels downwards, The Writer is still sitting in her seat (which surprises me somewhat), and her eyes are fixed on my face.

“Do you know where you are, Ghost?” Her voice is still rushed, but the distraction is gone from it. I hold her full attention.

“A… library?” I try, covertly glancing around for a clue of some kind.

She laughs lightly, standing and gathering the books scattered across the table with her golden magic. “Not exactly. It just appears that way to you as a way of rationalizing what’s happening.” With that not-at-all-cryptic answer, The Writer spins around and begins to file away the books by thickness. With my mouth slightly open, I stand rooted in place until she turns again. Upon seeing my stationary form, she frowns and says, “Are you ready to leave now?”

“No! I still don’t understand what’s going on! Where am I? What is this place? How did I get here?” My sudden burst of noise doesn’t startle the Writer at all. In fact, she nods approvingly and sits again, picking up a light blue book and a quill on the way.

“I can’t explain everything to you. You need to ask questions that I can answer directly instead of making me struggle to give you an overview. The answers to your first questions are as follows.” Snapping shut the book, she tosses it as she did the other, and I track it unconsciously until it, too, slides into place on a shelf not so far above my head.
“You’re in a place that isn’t on the physical plane or in the land of dreams; you could say that it’s an island in the sea between the two. It’s hard for ponies to come here, even Luna, because to do so you have to be either really hurt or deep in a coma. You’re part of the former.”

Eight books slam themselves on the table in front of her, making me jump slightly. The Writer seems used to it, though, and simply opens the books and writes (with her hoof, no less; that takes talent) furiously in each, transitioning from book to book without a hesitation.

Her answers produce more questions, and before I can stop them they pour out. “So who are you? What are all these books for? Why aren’t I hurt like I am in—in real life? Is this a dream, or a fantasy?”

The last question elicits a dry chuckle from the golden alicorn. “If this is what your fantasies look like, Ghost, then you need some help. I don’t have a name—never had time for one. The blue-box-pony gave me the name of The Writer after he helped organize my library. There were fewer books then. Speaking of the books, they’re…”
Her voice trails off as her brow furrows in concentration. “Erm, how do I explain this to you? The Haymaru tribe of horses, to the north of Equestria, believes that everyone is born with three special things. A heart, for living; a soul, for loving; and something they call the Gesatura, the Book of Life. Their book is the color of their pelt, and no two books are alike. Upon birth, the book is given to Yuumura, the god of life, who writes their destinies in the book. When the deceased gets to the afterlife, he presents it to them and asks them if they’re happy with their life. If so, they stay at his side for eternity. If not, he sends them back to the land of the living to live a better life.”
I look at the blue book caught in the Writer’s magic and then back at her. For a moment I’m confused; why is she telling me this? And then it clicks.

Oh Celestia, she can’t be serious. There’s no way she can be serious about this.

The Writer must see the rising comprehension on my face, because she nods and murmurs, “That’s right, Ghost. All of these books are the destinies of living creatures. Ponies, Zebrae, Horses, Griffons and many more. Many, many more.”

No. Nononono… I’m not in control of my fate? Is that what she’s saying? That I’m a puppet, dancing because she pulls the strings? I stagger backwards, falling spread-eagled to the floor with a whump. Alarmed, the Writer drops the book she’s holding, and it clatters to the floor in front of me. The words are written in black ink, darker than the night sky.

…he whirls, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of me pinning down the struggling mare. My mouth curls into a half smile and I whisper, “Go.” He stumbles forward, making it to the other side before the inevitable happens. They’re safe, I think in relief. Now to make sure that they’ll be safe a while longer.
I bear down, with all my weight, on the mare beneath me to make sure she doesn't struggle free. Ropes snap and hiss as the frayed ends part ways. And just before the bridge collapses, I stare my almost-sister in the eyes and try to tell her, via facial expression, that it isn't her fault. That it’s my choice to perish here…

The words twist and fade, the library growing dark in my eyes. The Writer speaks, but her words are warped and unintelligible, and when I close my eyes all noise disappears. When I force them open again (I’m so sleepy…), I’m lost in a fog of nothing. My limbs feel like blocks of stone, and so does my body, but somehow my lungs inflate and deflate, pushing air out and sucking it in again.
After what seems like years, my shoulder starts to hurt. It feels like a block of ice sitting on my shoulder, so cold that it burns. It gets to the point where, if I had control of my vocal chords, I would hiss and scream in pain. The side of my face starts to throb as well, matching my heartbeat.
A blinding light pierces the fog I’m lying in, and my eyes snap shut instinctively, squinting against the harsh rays. Hollow echoes reach my ears, a jumble of voices that become clearer by the second.

He needs blood, now! Does anypony know his next of kin? Or where he lives? For Celestia’s sake, does anypony in here even know the stallion’s bucking NAME?

The deep male voice reverberates through my bones. I feel really woozy, like the few bits I can remember of being drunk. I’m not nauseous, thankfully, but my thoughts dissipate with every throb of my face.

He has no records at the hospital, no I.D. either. I sent a runner to Twilight to ask for any housing records he might have that include his name.

This voice is softer, more hesitant, and female. My forelegs begin to tingle, like they fell asleep, and the pain in my shoulder steadily increases, until it feels like somepony is sticking hundreds of needles into my flesh. It’s so intense that my forelegs start to spasm.

I don’t care about his name, because if we don’t stop the bleeding then the only place he’ll ever need it is on his gravestone! Sedate him now!

This voice is raspy, as if the speaker got punched in the throat recently. Through the pain of my injuries, I feel a small prick on my upper foreleg (I can’t tell left from right, so it could have been either). The burning immediately fades, to be replaced by the images that reside just under the surface of my conscious. Wounds, blood and gore greet me like old friends, welcoming me back into the world of war. And when they finally exhaust themselves, the blackness of deep sleep envelopes me.

Chapter 8

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Beep…

I’m lying on the hot ground and my leg hurts really badly

Beep…

and there’s shouting and sharp bursts of metal on metal

Beep…

the sun is so hot and it’s getting hard to breathe

Beepbeep…

then I open my eyes and a pony is standing over me, a pony with glass sticking out of his eye and fur matted with his own blood

Beepbeepbeep…

and in front of my eyes he crumbles into dust until only his skeleton is left, and his eyeless skull grins at me from the desert sand

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep…

I open my mouth to try and scream but nothing comes out because of the sand, choking me and covering me and when my lungs are full my vision starts to go black…

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep…

My eyes snap open and the scream that I was unable to force through my teeth before now flows freely, a piercing sound that’s mixed with sobs of fear and pain. My limbs are heavy, so heavy that I can’t move them at all, and that’s just as well since my foreleg and shoulder are burning. Unable to turn my head, my eyes skitter around the room, trying to deduce where the hay I am.
Blank white walls and a white ceiling tell me nothing, really. At the very edge of my vision is a glint of gray that might be a steel table. I’m lying on something hard and smooth, but my head is cushioned. That’s all I get before I hear a door burst open near me.
“Was that him?”

“I hope not, he wasn’t supposed to wake up for three hours!” The two voices are rushed, and the conversation reaches me only seconds before the sources do. A dark green stallion and a white mare come into view, screeching to a stop at my side. My eyes flick to them, and for the first time in a long time I feel relieved not to be alone. The stallion swears, spinning on his hooves and galloping away, white coat flapping in his stead. The mare checks a machine next to me and pulls a penlight from her lab coat, shining it briefly into my eyes. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a moan of pain. Her eyes, steely and professional, soften for a moment, and she runs a hoof through my sweat-soaked mane. Then the green stallion bursts through the door again, holding a syringe in his teeth. Handing it to the mare, he nods curtly to my foreleg. Through the throbbing of my shoulder, the small prick of the needle is lost; I’m unable to prepare myself against the sudden sleepiness that crashes over me and pushes me deep below the surface of consciousness.
The waves push me so deep that I bypass my haunting memories and the realm of dreams. As I sink they pass me like bubbles, moving so swiftly that I only catch small bits from them. Dreams of monsters and blood mix with those of heroes and peace, and in all honesty I don’t know which ones are more appealing to me. Strange creatures drift on the corners of my vision, and my reflexes are too slow to track them before they flee. As the number of bubbles decrease, the light fades, leaving me in the darkness with no sound save my breathing. I try to shut my eyes, but I can’t; it takes a few minutes (or hours, or days—time has lost meaning) of muddled confusion before I come to the conclusion that they must already be shut.

Eventually my back finds solid ground, and my forelegs soon do the same. The contact causes my shoulder to ache, as it did when… when… I can’t remember the last time it ached. I can’t remember much of anything, really, but the added burning of my foreleg sharpens my mind. Not enough to remember, as it turns out, but enough so that I can crack open an eyelid (having to repeatedly remind myself that it was closed in the first place).
Green and orange and white blurs bob in front of a scathingly bright light. I shut my eyes again, not wanting to cause a headache, but I can’t block the noises filtering down through the placid waters of sleep from reaching me.

…gave him anesthesia, enough to put him to sleep for…
The voice is surprisingly clear, but faint. Too faint for me to determine if it’s male or female.

…did a good job…
I’m not sure if the voice is the same as before.

…wake him up? Adrenaline should do the trick…
Wake him up? Is he me?

Yeah, but not too quickly… slowly…
This voice becomes clearer as he speaks (definitely a stallion), and the pain in my shoulder becomes more acute. It’s only for a moment, though, and then it fades to a dull throb. The light past my eyelids grows less bright, and the blobs of color become ponies looking down at me with worried stares. The white mare, the one who brushed back my mane, smiles encouragingly at me, while the orange and green stallions just look relieved.

“Do you know who you are?” The orange stallion rasps, his purple eyes sparkling with intelligence and a hint of concern. It takes me a minute to process the question, and when I try to speak my tongue feels swollen.

“I’m… Ghost. Ghost Anlace.” My voice sounds like orange stallion’s, raspy and scratchy.

“Ghost Anlace, huh? Okay, Mr. Anlace, do you know where you are?” The orange pony continues with the questions, motioning for the white mare and green stallion to leave. I turn my head to the side (I can move now—I wonder what the problem was before) and watch them trot out of a sliding glass door connecting my room to whatever lies beyond.
Turning back to the orange pony, I swallow hard, trying not to cough from the dryness of my throat. He seems to understand, though, and brings over a glass of water, pouring a small stream into my mouth when I nod. The cool wetness of the liquid soothes my tongue, and when I go to speak I find it much, much easier.
“I don’t… where am I?” I try to sit up, but a firm hoof on my shoulder (the uninjured one) keeps me down.
“Don’t move or you’ll tear the stiches. You’re in the Ponyville Hospital, Mr. Anlace. I’m Corpsman Sawbones. Do you remember what caused the incident leading to your admission here?”
I blink slowly, trying to dredge any memories from before here out of the mire that is my mind. “A little. It was… dark. There were two creatures, and one of them had a horn. They looked like ponies, but…” An image flashes before my eyes of the first creature, and how the moonlight had shone through its hooves and reflected off its body. “The first one had holes in its hooves. It… its body reflected light, like a bug, and its horn was crooked. The second one, the one that attacked me, had fangs, but I didn’t get too close a look for anything else.”

The orange pony is pale, and he takes a deep breath before murmuring, “Are you sure that the creatures had holes in their hooves? Could it have been a trick of the light?”

I try to shake my head, but a whip of pain hits my back, making me wince. “No, I’m sure. How badly am I hurt?”

The stallion produces a chart from seemingly nowhere and looks it over, grimacing slightly as he reads. “Two deep puncture marks with shallow lacerations located on the right shoulder, one broken fetlock, one hoof-shaped bruise to the side of the face, and two hoof-shaped bruises to the ribs. And if you’re wondering, the only reason you aren’t moaning in pain right now is because we pumped you full of painkillers.”
I wince. I expected it to be bad, but not that bad. Corpsman, still flipping through the chart, asks suddenly, “You’re ex-military, right? The fetlock injury gave you away. The other one, I mean. The break is fine, it’ll heal in a few months, but that other one… shrapnel, right?”

I nod, gritting my teeth against the stab of pain that hits my spine when I do so. “Yes. How did you know? Are small town doctors trained in that kind of thing?” My question is a serious one, and to his credit Corpsman doesn’t laugh.
“I was a medic, stationed in Zebrabwe a couple of years ago. We got a lot of injuries involving shrapnel, but yours is the first I’ve seen with part of the fetlock itself missing.”
We are interrupted by the white mare, who sticks her head into the room and says, “Bones, the patient’s next of kin are here.”

Wait. Next of kin?

Corpsman nods and rasps, “Yeah. Let them in. If that’s okay with you, Mr. Anlace.”

I’m curious as to who they call ‘next of kin’, so I make an affirmative noise in the back of my throat. The mare disappears for a few seconds before ushering in no other than Cinder and Ember.
Cinder, who has the same cocky grin on her face as she did the first time I met her, takes one look at me and stops dead in the doorway, smile gone. Without another word, she turns and walks away, and my curiosity at this abnormal behavior skyrockets when Ember doesn’t go after her. Instead, she walks up to me and pulls up a chair from somewhere beyond my range of vision.
“How are you, Ghost? You look like you've been through a war.” Ember tries, in vain, to act blasé about Cinder’s sudden exit, but I see through her act.
“Why did Cinder leave, Ember? And—” –here, I lower my voice so that Corpsman, who has started out of the room, can’t hear— “—why are you two posing as my next of kin?”

Ember sighs, a heavy sigh that wipes all traces of joviality off of her face. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that. The first one, I mean. Cinder, she… doesn’t have a good reputation with hospitals, and when she saw you, I guess it… brought back old memories. That’s all I can tell you, Ghost, because I swore to her that I would never, ever tell anyone what she told me.

“As to why we posed as your next of kin, Cinder answered the door when the runner from the hospital knocked. When he asked her if she was kin to one Ghost Anlace, she said yes, and I didn’t really want to explain to the ponies here that she was lying so that we—SHE—could poke around in your business. Which is what she was trying to do, make no mistake.”

Even though Ember tries to distract me, I still press on the Cinder issue. “Why does Cinder have an issue with hospitals?” Ember looks at me with a warning glare, and shakes her head once.

“Ghost. I promised Cinder I wouldn’t say anything. To anyone. Ever. So drop it. Shouldn’t you be more worries about your injuries than fussing over Cinder?”

I’m about to respond when the sliding glass door opens again, and this time the being that steps in makes me clamp my mouth shut and almost leap off of the table I’m resting on, broken fetlock and all.

“I would greet you both, but time I cannot waste. Is this the room of Ghost Anlace?”

A Pony Born to Fight

by WyvernQueen

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8