‘Cause nothing's worth losing. Especially the chance to make it right.

When We Die

Well, I know it's been years now,
And I don't look the same
And the hopes and dreams you had for me
You thought went down the drain.
And the room feels so empty
Where my pictures used to be
And I can't say that I blame you,
But you can't blame me
‘Cause nothing's worth losing,
Especially the chance to make it right.

--from ‘When We Die’ by Bowling For Soup.

There were lots of advantages to running a pub in Stalwart. A quiet life was not one of them.

“All right, all right, break it up!” Moonfeather vaulted the bar and waded into the mass of flailing limbs and wings. As expected, all the other patrons got out of her way. No fight lasted long in The Pale Moon. Sure enough, within five seconds it was all over but the shouting.

“He started it!” protested the buck dangling from her claws.

“What are you, twelve? I don’t care who started it.” She kicked out without looking and was rewarded by a grunt from the other griffin. He folded like a piece of origami. “Don’t you try any of that sneak attack shit on me, Blackbeak.” She focussed on the griffin in her claws. “Listen, bucko, I don’t know your name but now I know your face and I’d better never see it again. You’re both officially banned.”

“Aw, but Moonie –” grunted the griffin on the floor.

“And don’t call me Moonie.” She spared him a glance. He was clutching his nethers and making a noise not unlike a warthog breaking cover. “I expected better from you, Blackbeak.”

“He – ngg – called me a liar.”

“And that’s an excuse to bust up my place?”

“He is a liar!” the unknown buck yelped. Even if she had known him, it wouldn’t have stopped her shaking him until his eyes rolled like cherries in a slot machine. “He said he fought Esper and lived to tell the tale!”

“You’re still telling that story, Blackbeak? How big was he this time: fifty feet? A hundred feet? A thousand?” She looked sidelong at the unknown buck. “He grows taller with every telling.”

“I did fight him!” Blackbeak objected.

The unknown buck, apparently not that fond of life with an intact windpipe, gulped between strangled breaths, “Yeah, right! Esper’s just an old wives’ tale!”

“Quiet, you,” Moonfeather warned, shaking him again. “And as for you –” She hoisted Blackbeak with her other arm. “I’ve warned you about starting fights over nothing – and before you protest, yes, all that guff about pride and honour and blah-blah-blah counts as nothing. This is a respectable establishment and I won’t have you scurvy buggers bringing your macho bullshit in here to turn the place into kindling. You had your last chance, Blackbeak. The ban stands.”

“Aw, but –”

“But nothing. Brighteyes! The door!”

The barmaid obediently scuttled ahead of her, pulling back the heavy wooden door so Moonfeather had ample room to toss both bucks out into the night. Blackbeak squealed as he sailed through the air and landed headfirst in a snow bank. He was still pulling himself free when the other griffin landed beside him.

“And stay out!” Moonfeather yelled before slamming the door. It was a good slam. It didn’t quite rattle the windows – The Pale Moon was built too sturdily for that – but it rattled a few teeth and clacked a few beaks. She stalked back to the bar and vaulted it again, smoothed her head-feathers and turned to her remaining customers. “Okay, who’s next?”

No-one answered.

“Who. Is. Next?” She enunciated each word into a separate, distinct sentence.

“Uh …” A nervous donkey held up his hoof. “A p-pint of ale, please?”

“Coming right up.” Moonfeather spoke to him in exactly the same tone she had used on the two brawlers, making it seem as if she was about to wreak bloody vengeance on him for saying that her mother smelled like pigswill and looked like the back end of an incontinent manticore. However, her manner had the opposite effect on everyone else. They all visibly relaxed and went back to enjoying their drinks. Her tone pricked the bubble of tension that had arced over everything at the first punch. She always talked that way. She got louder the angrier she was. It was when she got quiet you needed to worry. Or start running. Or both.

Brighteyes retrieved the tray she had left on a table and brought over the empty flagons balanced on it. “Did you really need to be so mean to poor Blackbeak?” she asked.

“Poor Blackbeak?” Moonfeather echoed incredulously. “Poor Blackbeak? He was about to break a chair over that other guy’s head!”

“Only because he called him a liar.”

Moonfeather placed the brimming flagon of ale on the bar-top and held out her claw to the donkey. “Five golds please.” After he had placed them on her palm and she had rung them up in the ancient cash register, she turned to look fully at Brighteyes. “Don’t tell me you actually buy into all that ‘defending your honour is a reasonable motivation to break someone’s skull’ rubbish. I credited you with more intelligence than that, Bri.”

Not much more, mind, but Moonfeather would never say that out loud. Brighteyes was, without doubt, the prettiest hen she had ever seen. Her tawny feathers lightened to white around her chest, which she kept permanently fluffed to make a nice contrast for her slender hindquarters and tiny paws. Brighteyes actually cared about how she looked. Her lower half more resembled a housecat than a lion and her fur was always clean. Even non-griffins looked at her and saw someone to protect. Moonfeather had never figured out how anyone could look sweet and defenceless when they had sharp claws and a beak. Maybe it was those big blue eyes. Genetic abnormality or not, they sure were striking. Then again, those looks were probably fate’s payoff for a head emptier than a hard drinker’s purse on payday.

“Honour is important,” Brighteyes said insistently.

“Bri, Bri, Bri,” Moonfeather sighed, leaning one elbow on the bar. “There are certain hard-won truths I will happily pass on to you while you work here, as a means of continuing your education in the school of life.”

“Huh?”
“Listen to me and listen good. Honour? Is a pile of wyvern dung. It’s just male pride with a different name. Defending one’s honour is just an excuse to act macho and get away with shit you wouldn’t ordinarily be allowed to get away with. I don’t welcome that sort of attitude in my pub. You get me?”

“Not … really.”

“Look, all you need to know is that fighting is bullshit, whatever the reason, and has no place here. The Pale Moon has a reputation as a friendly pub where any creature can go to get away from things for a couple of hours and just have a nice, quiet drink. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” Brighteyes’s face screwed up in an expression of pretty concentration. “No fighting inside the pub.”

“Good.”

“And if anyone starts fighting, I should bop them on the head and throw them out.”

“No, you call me. Then I’ll bop them on the head and throw them out.”

Brighteyes blinked at her. “But … doesn’t that mean you’d be fighting? Does that mean I’d have to throw you out too?”

Moonfeather counted to ten in her head. “No, I’d be enacting some public house physical management. It’s a very different thing.”

“It is?”

“Yup. Now head over to the table in the corner. Blackbeak and his fellow idiot’s flagons need fetching in. Take them through to Cripplewing. He’s on washing up duty today.”

Brighteyes’s face cleared. Here was something she knew how to do, without any complicated thinking involved. “Okay!” She twinkled off, causing several bucks to glance after her.

Moonfeather observed their lascivious looks with a jaded eye, wondering whether she would lose their custom if she banged their heads together for gawking. Her staff was populated by glitches in the great rolling mechanism that was Gryphona; those too weak, injured, old or dumb for anywhere else to take them. At least five times a night Moonfeather wondered what mental imbalance caused her to keep hobbling herself by employing them. Cripplewing was okay; an old war veteran with a scowl and cuss for every occasion. She had learned from other drinkers that he used to be called Valiantheart before a wyvern bit off part of his left wing joint and rendered him flightless. Brighteyes worked hard but the other barmaids often had to remind her how to do the most basic tasks. That wasn’t as reassuring as it sounded, considering some of them were only a few IQ points ahead of her.

Moonfeather was an anomaly herself, though not quite such an obvious one. She was less a square peg in a round hole, more a slightly too wide square that looked like it would fit in until you actually came to put it through. She could brawl with the best but found no joy in it and couldn’t quite understand how other griffins did. She had tried, and sometimes convinced herself she was enjoying it, but the feeling never rang as true for her as it seemed to for everyone else. Maybe if she banged those bucks’ heads together they would think she was coming on to them. That would be just her luck.

“So you think all fighting is stupid, huh?”

She blinked. She had been sure there was no-one else to be served, but a figure sat at the bar on one of the stools. She lifted her elbow off the counter and turned, taking in the deep hood and long cloak that hung far over the edge of the seat. “Everything has its place,” she said evasively.

“Just not here?”

“Bingo. Can I get you anything?”

“What’s the house speciality?”

She almost laughed. “Where do you think you are, bucko? This isn’t some fancy Equestrian bar. This is a Stalwart pub.” She paused. “An upscale Stalwart pub. Well, as upscale as this city gets. We clean the puke off the floor before it stinks out the place and you can be sure I’ll get rid of the bad sort before anybeast puts a knife in your back.”

“You aren’t exactly complimentary of your country’s capital,” observed the stranger.

“Have you seen Stalwart? There isn’t much to be complimentary about. I can get you a pint of ale, or there’s scrumpy cider if you’re feeling adventurous.”

“How adventurous would I have to be to try the cider?”

“Put it this way: how firmly attached is the back of your head?”

The stranger paused. “I’ll have a pint of ale, please.”

“Coming right up. That’ll be five golds.” She eyed the deep hood but the face inside was wreathed in shadow that hid the finer details of its features. Moonfeather’s raptor eyes made out a blunt snout and delicate nostrils but the stranger turned away before she could ascertain much more than species. She guessed gender by the voice, though she could be wrong. They didn’t get many ponies this far north. “You do have golds, don’t you?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You aren’t from around these parts.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only a lot. That’s some fancy stitching on that cloak of yours. We don’t get to see much clothing that fine this far north.”

The stranger’s head briefly dipped, though the cloak had to be too familiar not to know at its details already. “I suppose it is. Creatures don’t seem to go in much for much clothing at all around these parts, I’ve observed. Is that to show toughness or because of fashion?”

“Being fashionable isn’t exactly high on the list of priorities in a place where eight months of the years we’re dealing with buried under snow and the other four we’re preparing to be buried under snow.”

“But such conditions should mean clothing is more important than ever, at least on a practical level.”

“Not in Gryphona. Here the most important things … well, they don’t follow the same logic as other places. Strength, Courage and Resilience,” Moonfeather said automatically. She pulled on the lever, allowing golden liquid to ease into the flagon so a head formed without giving the drinker more foam than actual ale. The words echoed back to each and every school day when her whole class had stood to attention, put a claw on their chests and said them to the portrait of the king on the wall.

“The Gryphona Credo,” said the stranger, as if she actually knew what it was.

Moonfeather nodded and placed the flagon on the counter. She held out her palm and the stranger placed five gold coins into it. She noted the hoof without surprise. “So what brings you to our beloved butt-crack of the world?”

For a long moment the stranger didn’t answer. The top of the flagon flipped back, as if the eyes hidden within the hood were making sure Moonfeather wasn’t trying to pull a fast one. This theory was disproved when it flipped shut and then open again several times. The stranger wasn’t checking the drink, just playing for time. “Would you believe I’m on a quest?”

Moonfeather snorted. “A quest? Seriously? I thought those were only in legends and tabletop games.”

The stranger’s head twitched back in surprise. “You have tabletop games in Gryphona?”

Evidently this pony was not as familiar with their culture as she had seemed. Moonfeather tapped the counter with the tip of one claw. “Eight months of the year under snowdrifts, remember? We have to find ways of passing the time. It’s not all fighting and fucking, y’know.”

Another twitch. Was that a flinch? “Ah, yes. I’m sorry.” This pony was somebeast with higher sensibilities, apparently. Moonfeather wondered whether it was her wording or the implications of it had caused the reaction. Ponies were a funny lot: either to blind to realise they were insulting other races or hyper aware about not offending anyone accidentally.

Well, what can you expect from creatures who think their rulers raise the sun and moon?

Moonfeather shrugged. “Whatever. It’s not like you made up the stereotypes.” And it wasn’t like most griffinkind didn’t exacerbate them at every given opportunity, either. Most liked the way they were thought of by the rest of the world. They loved the idea that creatures outside their borders feared them as a warrior race, even though the last war Gryphona fought was over fifty years ago against the wyverns, and that has ended with a peace treaty. If your nation was going to be known for something, it was better to be warriors than weaklings. There was a reason that legends like Dread Air-Pirate Bloodspill and Captain Gravemaker were more famous than Littletail the RPG champion. What would the Crystal Empire think if they knew that their nearest neighbours were experts at tiddlywinks as well as warfare?

The stranger sipped her ale. Moonfeather watched and waited a whole minute before speaking again.

“So, what’s this quest about?”

“I’m … searching for someone.”

“Oh yeah? Who?” She was used to making conversation with patrons and had developed a good eye for reading who wanted to talk, who needed to talk and who should be left the fuck alone. This lone pony, shrouded in fabric and manners that separated her from The Pale Moon’s usual clientele, radiated the loneliness of someone who had come in from the cold in more ways than one.

The stranger toyed with the flagon some more before replying. “A friend. Or was.”

“Yeah?”

“Once upon a time.”

“And you think this friend is here in Stalwart?”

“In Gryphona somewhere.”

“Gryphona’s a big place.” Full of icy wastelands, barren mountains and valleys where no-one would ever find your body if you flew wrong.

“And who is this friend?”

“Not someone you’d know.”

“Try me.” Moonfeather plunked both elbows on the counter and rested her beak on a fist. “I’m pretty well-versed in who enters and leaves the city. One of the advantages of owning a pub on the outskirts. This is the first open house creatures find, the first they go to for something to scorch the frost out of their insides and the first they unload their troubles in. Maybe I’ve seen your friend, or at least heard tell of … him? Her?”

“I doubt it.” The stranger spoke so emphatically that Moonfeather was tempted to believe it. Just tempted, though.

“What’s her name?” she tried, hazarding a guess at gender. The ratio of male to female ponies was weighted in that direction.

“Him, and that depends on who you ask.”

Ah, male then. No indication of species, though she would still guess another pony. The hoof that took the flagon had not been crystalline and those in Equestria only ever ventured from their homeland for one of their own. “Y’know, this whole ‘air of mystery’ thing has its place and all, but I’m calling bullshit now. Straight answers please, bucko.”

The stranger sighed and sipped her ale again – sipped, not glugged or gulped, the way most regulars treated their first drink. She had good manners that didn’t belong in a city like Stalwart. “He hasn’t used his real name in decades. Sometimes he goes by Demolisher. Sometimes creatures call him the Wandering Claw. Since I came to Gryphona I’ve heard him called Esper but–”

“Wait, Esper? The Esper?” Moonfeather dropped her fist onto the counter with a thump. “You’re yanking my tail. Esper’s just an old story.”

“He isn’t,” the stranger said quietly.

“Bullshit. I heard Esper stories when I was newly hatched and I’m ... well, older than you, I bet. They were just legends even then. Nobeast took them seriously. Whoever your friend is, he’s not Esper.”

She thought of Blackbeak’s favourite story, told many times over steadily emptying flagons of scrumpy cider: how during a blizzard he had been flying through Silver Pass and been ambushed by a something that knocked him out of the air and tried to tear off both his wings. He claimed to have fought the thing and won but no-beast believed him. Blackbeak was better known for his ability to drink than his ability to fight. If he had found something out there, he had escaped from it, not beaten it, and Moonfeather would wager a night’s takings that it had been only an apparition brought on by hypothermia. Why else would anybeast be stupid enough to try flying through Silver Pass at night in a blizzard unless they were already half out of their mind?

“It’s possible he adopted the name of the legend, or someone else gave it to him. Like I said, I’ve heard him called that but never by himself. Creatures have called me some names before that aren’t the one I was born with but that doesn’t make them mine.”

Moonfeather chuckled. “They’ve called me a fair few too. Not many of them very flattering, either.”

“I don’t want to debate semantics with you,” said the stranger. “I know what I know and you know what you know.” More elegant sipping. That flagon had never been treated so well. Finally the stranger put it down and stood. “Thank you for the conversation. I should be going now.”

Moonfeather watched the stranger get down from the stool, which was the right height for a griffin but slightly too tall for a pony. She listened to the distinctive sound of hooves on the old floorboards and debated with herself. Blackbeak was full of shit. Everyone knew it. This pony was trying to catch smoke if she thought Esper was real. It was bullshit. It was all bullshit. She turned away to mop up the bar-top but stopped when she heard a raucous voice above the general racket.

“Hey, pony!” one of The Pale Moon’s regulars belched.

The stranger stopped. “Yes?” If she had taken any offence, none showed in her polite tone.

“You’re after Esper?” He laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Got a death wish or are you just stupid?”

“Neither, actually.”

Moonfeather swivelled her body just enough to see what was transpiring without looking obvious. A minotaur reclined in his seat, flagon balanced on his large belly. He worked in the forge in the centre of town and had soot stains permanently embedded in his fur. He looked at his drinking buddy and winked. He clearly thought he was being subtle but he was about as subtle as a brick to the head.

“You should try Silver Pass. Confirmed sightin’ of the ol’ bastard there.”

“Really?” The top of the pony’s hood moved as her ears perked.

The minotaur nodded, burping into his fist. “Uh-huh. True as I’m sittin’ here.”

The stranger said nothing for a moment. Moonfeather willed her to smack the guy but knew she wouldn’t. This pony was not that sort, she could tell even after their brief chat. “Thank you, friend,” the stranger said. She didn’t promise to check it out but she didn’t promise not to, either.

The door opened and shut with only a brief flurry of snow making it inside.

“Who was that?” Brighteyes paused en route to the kitchen door, a tray of empty flagons balanced on her claws.

“Not a clue,” Moonfeather replied. “Some idiot who thinks Esper’s real and is going after him.”

“Really?” Brighteyes’s eyes went wide.

“Apparently.” Moonfeather turned away, picking up a damp cloth to wipe spills from the counter. “Here, take this one with you,” she said, placing the stranger’s flagon on Brighteyes’s tray. It was still half full of ale.

“Ooh!” Brighteyes dipped a little under the added weight.

“You break anything, it comes out of your pay.”

“Yes, Miss Moonfeather.”

“It’s not ‘Miss’!” Moonfeather called after her as she disappeared through the swinging door to the kitchen. In a much quieter voice she added, “And I’m not your friend, pony.”

The minotaur’s table burst into raucous gleeful laughter. Clearly that had been the highpoint of their day. Moonfeather didn’t vault the bar this time. She lifted the hinged portion, walked calmly over as if she was coming to clear their flagons, took his from him and emptied it over his head. The minotaur spluttered but she pushed her beak so face in his face it squashed his nose.

“You pull a shitty stunt like that again and I’ll do more than ban you from my pub, bucko. Get it?”

The minotaur, seconds ago all bravado, nodded timidly. He leaned further back in his chair to get away from her. With a screech not unlike Moonfeather’s own, the legs skidded from under him and he fell head over heels out of it.

Moonfeather stood straight. “Good.”

Moonfeather came awake suddenly and completely. It was the only way she knew how. Sleep did not cling to her the way it did to others. She stared into the gloom of her bedroom, wondering what had woken her. It was still dark outside, the moon high and full. For once, it wasn’t snowing. The world outside her little round window was eerie and still, blanketed in white that looked almost blue in the moonlight.

Something darted past.

What in the name of King Redclaw?

Darting out of bed, she opened her window and leaned out to get a better look. She had lived above her pub her whole life. After her parents died and left it to her she had converted the old attic into a bedroom, giving her an excellent view of the main road in and out of Stalwart.

A dark speck hovered at the edge, as if unsure whether to enter or leave the city. As Moonfeather watched, it seemed to come to a decision and flew off.

That damn fool.

All griffins had superb eyesight bequeathed by their raptor heritage. Moonfeather’s family, however, did not descend from eagles, hawks, falcons or any other daylight bird of prey. As her name, white feathers and lack of ear tufts indicated, Moonfeather was descended from the magical union of lions and owls. She was built for cold conditions and her eyesight was even better at night. No other griffin would have been able to make out the deep-hooded cloak the speck was wearing, much less the colour of the hooves that briefly stretched from beneath it as the stranger adopted a flying pose.

She pulled her window closed and went back to bed. It was nothing to do with her. She proved every day that she didn’t suffer fools and was more likely to grab them by the scruff and hurl them into the snow than take pity on them for their foolishness. She pulled the blankets over her head and breathed into their hessian weave, breath reflecting warmly back at her. After cleaning the pub, locking up and the dozen and one other jobs that needed to be done every night, she had only been in bed an hour. In the morning she would have to get up and dig out her front door, plus the downstairs windows if it snowed again. In really bad winters the snow could reach all the way up to the first floor, forcing citizens to use their upstairs windows to enter or leave their homes. She needed sleep. She should just close her eyes, count sheep and …

“Tartarus damn it!”

She threw back the covers, cursing herself as an even bigger fool. Pushing the window open, she balanced on the edge for a moment, allowing only her upper half out into the cold. The biting air was the kind that left the inside of your throat sore when you breathed in. Moonfeather was Stalwartian, born and bred. She was used to such conditions. A pony from Equestria, however …

She brought up her hind paws and launched herself out into the night.

“I’m an idiot, I’m an idiot, I’m an idiot, I’m an idiot –”

“That’s funny. You look like a griffin.”

Moonfeather pulled up and hovered in place. “Correction, I look like a half-frozen griffin.” She paused. “Who is also an idiot.”

The pony flew up from the tree in which she had perched to observe Moonfeather’s approach. Wings made her a pegasus. That was the right word for flying ponies, wasn’t it? “You’re the griffin who owns the tavern. Why are you following me?”

“Because you’re an even bigger idiot than I am.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.” The pony fluttered as if trying to keep warm.

“Okay, I’m trying to save you from your own idiocy. Is that better?”

“You still think Esper is only a story.”

“Yep.”

The pony waited for her to continue. She didn’t. “Do you often fly after strangers in the middle of the night if you think they’re being stupid?”

“No.”

“Then why did you do it this time?”

“I … don’t know,” Moonfeather admitted. “Like I said, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re too harsh on yourself. I think you were just being kind.”

She snorted so hard she nearly choked. “Kind? Me? Turd buckets, you really haven’t been in Stalwart long. I don’t do kindness. No-one around these parts does. Kindness is just another word for weakness.”

“And yet you followed me out here.”

“Maybe I just want to pick over your corpse.”

“Maybe.” The stranger regarded her from within that damn hood. “But I don’t think so.”

“And you know so fucking much about me.”

“I know not everyone would do what you’re doing.”

“I should knock you out and drag you back to Stalwart.”

“I wouldn’t advise attempting that.” The pony dropped several feet and had to flutter to stay aloft. There were no thermals to ride in these mountains and every wingbeat was a chore. “I have to keep moving. You can come along if you wish.”

“I wish I was home in my damn bed,” Moonfeather grumbled, but she flew after the pony all the same.

Silver Pass was a ridiculously narrow gorge between two ridiculously tall cliffs of ridiculously jagged malga rock. Tougher than diamonds and blacker than obsidian, malga rock existed only in Gryphona and typified life here: tough, ugly and arbitrarily cruel. It was so dark it seemed to absorb light, making Silver Pass a ridiculous death-trap for anyone stupid enough to fly through it at night. Not even snow made it easier to see. The helpful whiteness didn’t cling, but slid off to gather at the base of the cliffs in great drifts.

“Hold it!” Moonfeather called.

The pony pulled up. “What?”

“Do you know this area?”

“No. I purchased some maps in town after I left your pub, but they weren’t as detailed as I would have liked.”

“Then I should lead. I can see better in the dark than you.”

The pony nodded.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re an idiot. Why? No survival instincts! You don’t know me from a hole in the ground but you’ll willingly follow me into a place like this? I could be leading you straight into a blind gorge so I can kill you and take your carcass home to make hamburgers.”

“But you won’t.”

“Don’t be so sure, bucko.”

“Are you going to make hamburgers out of me?”

Moonfeather regarded what she could see of the pony. “Nah. You look like you’d make some good bratwurst though.”

The pony actually laughed. Not many of her kind would have. They were squeamish about meat-eaters and preferred not to talk or think about what griffins ate, even when there was a menu written on the chalkboard behind the bar. Moonfeather had never been to either Equestria or the Crystal Empire but she heard they ate things like daffodils and hay there. She had never even seen a daffodil before in her life.

Moonfeather shook her head. “Idiot pony.”

“You’re nicer than you make out, barkeep.”

“Call me that again and I’ll play jump rope with your small intestine.”

The pony chuckled again. Moonfeather wondered what the fuck kind of creature she had gotten herself mixed up with. Only she could find the most mentally unbalanced equine in Gryphona and get stranded with it in the wilderness.

“Then what should I call you?” the pony asked.

“Moonfeather. And you? I’m fine just calling you ‘idiot pony’ but you probably have some less accurate name too.”

The pony hesitated. “Velvet.”

Soft, fuzzy and more ornamental than use. Yep, that sounded like an Equestrian. “Okay, Velvet, follow me. Fly where I fly, do what I do and maybe you won’t die out here tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We’ll fly through the gorge so you can see there’s no way anything or anyone could survive out here, then we’ll head back to my pub.” Without waiting for a reply, Moonfeather pushed off.

Velvet followed, matching her almost exactly. She was more manoeuvrable than Moonfeather would have guessed. Faster, too. Usually ponies were either one or the other, but Velvet competently wound her way through the jutting spines of malga rock that thrust upwards and outwards like they were actively trying to spear anything that passed. Moonfeather had only been here a clawful of times and on each occasion she would have sworn the spikes looked bigger than the last time.

There was no opportunity for speech. Fortunately Velvet didn’t try to get her attention or make her stop. They wound through the gorge, cliffs shielding them from wind that always gusted at these altitudes. The rock spikes were thicker and more densely packed the closer to the floor you went, though they stood at nastier angles near the tops of the cliffs. Moonfeather thanked whatever was listening that it wasn’t snowing. Snow in Silver Pass became a deadly blizzard in a few seconds.

She alighted on one of the jutting rocks, slipping twice before she found her balance. There was a trick to perching on malga but she hadn’t mastered it. The surface was smooth as polished glass and too tough for her to dig her claws in. She watched Velvet try to alight on another. She failed three times, eventually lying lengthways with all four legs hanging over the sides, cape tucked beneath her to protect her stomach. Her fur wasn’t as thick as Moonfeather’s. She must have felt the cold terribly, yet she gave no sign.

“Look around you,” Moonfeather called. “You see any way anything could live in this place?”

Velvet’s hood swung to and fro, taking in the cruel landscape. Long ago, when the world was made, every ounce of nature’s brutality and spite had gone into Silver Pass. Never had a place looked so still and yet so malicious. Moonfeather got the feeling the rocks were waiting like predators for a taste of blood.

“Well?” Moonfeather demanded after a long moment of silence.

“No.” Velvet’s reply was nearly inaudible. She was still looking around, as if a cave might suddenly appear by her willpower alone.

She looked so silly, dangling there like a new-born kitten in an extended claw. Last winter a stray cat had made a nest in the air vent behind the pub’s kitchen and Brighteyes had tearfully brought in the half-dead mother and babies. If only to make her stop the damn crying, Moonfeather had allowed them to stay on the strict proviso that she wouldn’t have to look after them. Brighteyes had happily agreed and stayed over to feed them every two hours, her task stretching long into the night. She had diligently dripped warm goat milk into their mewling little mouths, cooing like some soft-hearted nanny goat. When he was around Cripplewing had even been pulled into her madness, warming the milk on the stove for her, grumbling all the while but never refusing to do it. Moonfeather had traded a barrel of mead for the milk on market day, claiming mead tasted like crap and she could never sell it anyhow.

Just before dawn on the second day Brighteyes had fallen so deeply asleep that not even the kittens’ mewling could wake her. To shut them up Moonfeather had scooped up one and fed it herself. Looking at Velvet now, she was reminded of that soft, furry little body, wriggling against her palm as it searched blindly for the pipette. In the end only two kittens had survived. They were pretty good mousers, though they tended to avoid the patch of ground where Moonfeather had buried the bodies of their kin.

“Ready to head back?” she called.

Velvet shook her head. “I want to fly to the other end first. I need to check everywhere.”

“Idiot pony. We should turn back now. This is a worthless venture.”

“Not to me.”

Moonfeather unclenched her tenuous hold and tumbled backwards off her perch, opening her wings only when she hit a bit of air without such long spikes in it. “Follow me.”

Velvet did likewise and they set off again.

The two sides of the pass got further apart at this end. The malga spikes grew longer as if in retaliation, their tapering tips corkscrewing once they formed past a certain length. Moonfeather flew carefully, beating her wings only as much as was strictly necessary. One wrong beat and she would have to rename herself Cripplewing Two – for the five minutes it took her to fall to her death.

They reached the far end without mishap. Moonfeather soared gratefully into open air. She turned to see Velvet also coming out of the pass unscathed. The wind was stronger now, knocking the pony off course as she emerged into it. On instinct Moonfeather looped around, placing herself in a better catching position, but Velvet righted herself and they hovered, facing each other.

“Happy now?” Moonfeather asked sternly.

“No.” Velvet looked back. “But I am satisfied that you were right. There is no way anything could live in that pass.”

“Good. Now let’s go ba-”

Moonfeather didn’t finish her sentence. The breath whooshed from her as something huge rushed up from below and cannoned into her. The force shoved her upwards at such speed that she couldn’t re-inflate her lungs. Her beak gaped and her eyes widened, but all she could see was a smear of sky and stars as an iron band seemed to tighten around her chest and skull from lack of oxygen. The whatever-it-was dropped away abruptly, leaving her suspended for a second before gravity kicked in. She glimpsed sharp yellow teeth and a slimy red throat but did not have time to process the sight.

Something crackled in the air. The teeth and throat vanished. Moonfeather fell. Seconds after it should have mattered, she had enough wherewithal to flare her wings and slow her descent. She flapped drunkenly, sucking in air. More than twenty feet after she had started falling, she stopped and began to climb again, looking around to see what the name of King Redclaw was going on.

Another crackle. A flare of light to her left. Moonfeather smelled burnt ozone and something like incense. She had encountered such a scent only a few times before but it was so distinctive that she easily recognised it now: magic.

“Velvet!”

The hooded pony barrelled upwards as if chasing something. A huge dark shape shot away from her, twisting in the air to face her oncoming rush. It opened its jaws, revealing those sharp teeth and red throat again. This time, however, the throat was less red. It flickered and lightened to pink, then slightly green.

“Fuck!” Moonfeather was in motion before rational thought could kick in. “Velvet, move!”

She smacked into the pegasus from the side, rushing flames scorching her tail and backside. The two tumbled through the air until Moonfeather spread her wings and caught them. She held the pony out in front of her, yelling, “What the fuck are you playing at? You nearly just got barbequed!”

“It’s him!” Velvet replied frantically, looking over Moonfeather’s shoulder.

Moonfeather turned her head. The gigantic bulk turned in their direction, far too easily steering itself through the thin air. It stayed high but she could see its green eyes focussed on them and her superior vision let her know exactly how little mercy showed in their slitted gaze.

But … Esper’s just an old wives’ tale, her brain told her, even faced with such irrevocable evidence to the contrary. He’s not real. He’s just a story mothers tell their chicks to make them stay close to home. No dragon can live in this kind of weather –

Velvet struggled to get free. “Let me go! Let me go!”

“The fuck I will!” Moonfeather gripped her harder and beat her powerful wings. “You’re coming with me. That’s a fucking dragon!”

Dragons couldn’t live in Gryphona. It was too cold for them. Dragons needed hot places to warm their blood. That was why no-one ever put much stock in the stories of Esper. Moonfeather had heard the stories since she was a fledgling and even then she hadn’t believed them. She had heard Blackbeak swear blind that he had seen one and she had scoffed at every word. Yet here she was, flying away from one too fast and too recklessly for where they were.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck …”

“Let me go!”

“Shut up and hold still, idiot pony!” Moonfeather beat her wings harder, until her joints shrieked and her shoulders ached. She screamed through the air, zigzagging in an attempt to throw the dragon off their trail so she could double-back into open sky. It would send them away from Stalwart but it was better than getting stuck between a dragon and Silver Pass.

Talk about a rock and a hard place!

“Please!” Velvet begged.

Moonfeather didn’t respond. She turned another sharp left, but a blast of green fire caught her wing and she weaved for a moment, off course and unable to right herself through the pain. Her wing contracted and wouldn’t open again. She let go of Velvet so at least one of them didn’t fall like a stone.

At once, she found herself enveloped in a warm, tingly sensation. The whole world turned vaguely purple and she found she no longer needed to flap her wings to stay airborne. Looking up in fresh shock, she spotted a similar glow emanating from within Velvet’s hood. Everything around Moonfeather stank of magic.

“What the –”

“Stay on the ground where it’s safe,” Velvet instructed, lowering her the hundreds of feet to the frozen earth as easily as Moonfeather would have poured ale into a flagon.

Moonfeather touched down and the magic immediately evaporated. She craned her neck to see what she assumed was a battle above her. Sure enough, Velvet flew straight at the dragon, yet she did not attempt to fight it. Moonfeather didn’t expect her to use her puny hooves or teeth, but Velvet did not use magic in any combative way either. Moonfeather watched in shock as the pegasus ducked and weaved, avoiding the dragon’s fiery breath and claws that reached for her. Her cloak trailed in almost graceful loops as she somersaulted through the air. She was shouting at the dragon, but Moonfeather’s ears were not as good as her eyesight. It was not until they descended lower that she was able to make out a few words.

“It’s me!” Velvet yelled desperately. “Please, don’t do this!”

The dragon belched flame at her. Velvet dodged and circled its head in a dizzying cyclone of flapping cloak and pedalling hooves. She chanted words Moonfeather could hear but not understand. That same purple glow enveloped the beast, shrinking like a bubble that welded itself to its scaly hide and sank in.

The dragon stopped. It hovered, cocking its head to one side as if puzzled – or maybe listening. Velvet approached the beast. She spoke too quietly for Moonfeather to hear but the tone was not as desperate anymore.

Suddenly the dragon flared its wings and released a roar that Moonfeather felt vibrate up her legs. It turned and swung its tail, catching Velvet unawares. She ricocheted towards the ground and crashed in an explosion of snow and other white things.

Moonfeather galloped to the resultant crater. She crested the edge and slid down, coming to a stop at the pony’s side. Bits of paper and rolled up parchments were still fluttering around them, though the bag they had burst from sat in a ruined heap a few feet away. The papers were not what made Moonfeather gape. Velvet’s hood had been thrown back in the rapid descent, revealing a pretty face, as ponies went. Moonfeather was no expert in what ponies found attractive. She was, however, knowledgeable enough to know that pegasi did not have horns in the middle of their foreheads.

“What the ...”

Velvet stirred. She lifted her head and blinked groggily. “It … it din’ … work. I was so sure … this one would … work …” Tears slid from the corners of her eyes. “So m-many … times …”

Above them, the dragon roared.

Moonfeather dropped into a crouch and slung Velvet over her back. There was no time to worry about broken bones or doing more damage in a rescue attempt. If they stayed here they were both dead.

“N-No …” Velvet slurred. “He’s n … not … hisself …”

“Talk later. Run now.” Moonfeather ran, utilising the strength usually reserved for flying in her legs instead. She was no slouch on foot, though not a patch on the speeds she could achieve in flight.

“No …” Velvet protested. “Under … spell … not him … this isn’t … please …”

A blast of green fire melted the snow where they had been three seconds earlier.

Moonfeather cussed as she ran. Faced with few other options, she headed for the only place that seemed like it might offer a crumb of shelter. At least on foot the malga spikes would not spontaneously stab them, though at this speed she would still have to be careful.

“Hold on!”

Moments before another fireball landed, she reached the entrance to the pass, leaped inside and immediately hid behind an outcropping. Heat radiated above and around their hiding place but she didn’t find herself abruptly ablaze so she counted that as a victory. A short-lived one, of course, but the best usually were.

“We need to get further into the pass,” she muttered. “That thing can’t follow us in here. It’s too big. It’d impale itself.”

“I n-need to … get to him …” Velvet struggled and tumbled off Moonfeather’s back. She got shakily to her hooves. “This isn’t him. He’s not like this.”

“The fuck are you talking about, idiot pony? That’s a dragon. This is exactly what they’re like.”

“Not him,” Velvet said resolutely. “He’s my friend.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe. I’ve been chasing him for nearly a hundred years, so it’s a possibility.”

Moonfeather wondered if she had ash in her ears. “Say what?”

Velvet looked at her – really looked at her. She had eyes like amethysts. They conveyed such deep sadness that Moonfeather was momentarily silenced. Velvet’s face was young but her eyes … they were old. Older even than Cripplewing’s. That was the only other place Moonfeather had seen the same misery. They both had eyes that had seen too much and regretted most of it.

“You’ve been very kind,” Velvet said, “But I have to go to him. This is my fault. I did this to him.” Her gaze flickered, unable to stay steady with her words. “I … I didn’t mean to but … but I have to set it right. I promised a long time ago that I would set it right. He’s my friend,” she finished, as if this single sentence actually meant something.

“You’re insane and an idiot,” Moonfeather replied. “You’ll die.”

“Maybe. That’s something I reconciled myself with a long time ago. Probably before you were born.”

“Bullshit.” Moonfeather shook her head. “This is bullshit. It’s all just … bullshit!”

“No, it’s not. It’s real. There really is a dragon out there, he really is my friend, and –” Velvet drew herself up, setting her unsteady hooves and arching her neck in a way that reminded Moonfeather of the portrait of the king that used to hang on her classroom wall. “And I really am an alicorn, so if you don’t want to get in the way of this, I suggest you move aside.”

Moonfeather shut her beak. Stepped forward. Punched the purple pony in the face. Velvet’s eyes rolled back in her head. Moonfeather caught her before she could fall and slung her once more over her back.

“Bullshit,” she murmured.

She headed deeper into Silver Pass. Gradually the dragon’s roars quietened, and then stopped altogether. Moonfeather picked her way carefully along, her burnt wing and strained muscles aching as adrenaline leeched from her body. She listened but could hear no more roaring, which could only be a good thing. Clambering over low spikes and avoiding higher ones, she painstakingly carried Velvet through the pass on foot.

Velvet came to when they were three quarters through. She immediately tried to get down and nearly impaled herself on an outcropping. Moonfeather grabbed a clawful of mane and roughly yanked her away. Some came away in her claws. She didn’t care.

“Listen, idiot pony, I don’t expect thanks or anything, but the least you can do is not negate my hard work by getting yourself killed now.”

“Why did you do that?” Velvet shrieked. “Why? Why?”

“Because you were about to go off and die.”

“But I told you –”

“I don’t care what you told me!” Moonfeather also shrieked, hers heightened by an owl’s screech. The noise actually made Velvet’s ears flatten against her skull. Moonfeather’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous murmur – the kind that could empty The Pale Moon in under a minute. “You were being stupid. I don’t know what an alicorn is, and I won’t pretend I understand enough about pony magic to know how you could live for more than a hundred years and still look the way you do, but I do know that the dragon who just tried to murder us? Isn’t your friend.”

Velvet looked like she had been punched again. Her mouth hung open. Then her head lowered. Moonfeather cursed as the first tear fell onto the smooth, slippery rock beneath them. “He is,” she choked out. “Somewhere inside, he’s still the friend I knew. I have to get him back. I … I just have to.”

“Well you won’t do it by committing suicide,” Moonfeather snapped. “Don’t you know any of the stories about Esper?”

“… No.”

“Last year a settlement of minotaurs was slaughtered just east of here. They were almost a hundred strong but they were all dead – those who hadn’t been mutilated had run into the wasteland and frozen to death. Two months ago a convoy of sixty griffins travelling from Halt to Stalwart were attacked. We thought it might be wyvern radicals trying to restart the war. Some whispered it was Esper but no-one believed them. I never thought it was Esper either, but now I’ve changed my mind. There are always unexplained deaths in Gryphona. It’s that kind of country. How many of them can be explained away by … that thing?” Moonfeather gestured wildly at the way they had come.

“It … he …” Velvet prevaricated.

“Dragons eat meat, idiot pony. How long have you been looking for that thing in Gryphona?”

“Close to … two years.”

“When we get back to Stalwart, go to the city records office and look up how many creatures have been found dead from wounds that could be attributed to a dragon. Then look up how many just disappeared while they were travelling between cities.” Moonfeather snorted, her reserves of patience, never very liquid, not completely dry. “Come on, unless you want to stay in the pass.”

Or was it the past she wanted to stay in? Moonfeather shook away the unhelpful thought and carried on walking.

After a few moments, Velvet followed. “He really wasn’t always like this. He … he’s forgotten how to talk now.” She swallowed loudly. “He could still talk the last time I tried to cast a counter-spell. Not much but … he could still talk.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It was an accident,” she said after several more minutes. “He wanted to stay with me instead of sleep. I was … trying to help him.” She paused. “I failed. So very badly.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was young and naïve at the time. We both were.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I should have checked with … no, I should have known better. I had experience with casting spells recklessly, but I’d grown careless. I thought I knew enough to reverse it.” She paused, and then added, “I was wrong.”

“Uh-huh.”

After an even longer pause, she said, “My name isn’t really Velvet.”

“I’d guessed.”

“You did?”

“You didn’t respond when I yelled it at you back there.” Moonfeather stopped so abruptly that Velvet nearly ran into her. “Look … this is hard for me to say, especially since I just got done yelling at you, so shut up and don’t interrupt until I get it all out. Thanks. For saving me. When the dragon was about to eat me. And when I was falling. Thanks, okay?”

“You’re welcome,” Velvet replied. She seemed to take the words as permission to restate her case. “He truly wasn’t always like that. He used to be so kind and gentle. I raised him from an egg. He was my first real friend. We didn’t want to be parted when the time came so I tried to keep us together with magic.” She let out a bitter chuckle. “You would think I’d have learned by then that sometimes magic isn’t the answer. I tried to keep us together but instead … I just drove us apart. Dragons are meant to sleep for a century.” She blinked rapidly. “I stopped him from sleeping altogether.”

No sleep for over a hundred years? It boggled the mind – literally. Moonfeather’s wing hurt like a bitch. She could see snow ahead. They were nearing the end of the pass. There was still a lot of wasteland between here and Stalwart, but they could cover it. They wouldn’t be home before dawn, but it was doable.

“So what is your real na-?”

“Look out!” Velvet yelled.

Burnt ozone filled her nostrils and Moonfeather felt herself lifted off her feet by purple magic again. The pulsing sound of Velvet’s horn was drowned out by the crash of several tons of dragon flesh landing where Moonfeather would have been, had she stepped out of the pass. The dragon opened its mouth to reveal the green flames building in its throat, aimed directly at them. There was nowhere for them to go.

“Oh sh-” Moonfeather started.

A pulse. A rushing sensation. A pop. Snow beneath her claws. She gasped for air and clutched her suddenly pounding skull.

“Sorry, I’m not used to teleporting more than one body,” Velvet apologised.

“What the –” Moonfeather’s stomach gurgled. “Grooargh …”

The dragon roared and turned on them, lifting itself into the air. The blowback from its scaly wings laid the meagre selection of nearby trees flat.

“Wait here,” Velvet said grimly. “It’s time for me to finish this.”

“No -” Moonfeather protested. Her stomach lurched and she retched into the snow, unable to hold the pony back. “You’ll … be killed …”

“I’m not as defenceless as you seem to think.” Velvet smiled. It was the saddest thing Moonfeather had ever seen. Sadder even than a dead kitten leaking milk from its mouth as she tried uselessly to feed it. “Thank you, Moonfeather, for your kindness.” With that, Velvet swooped away, up to meet the oncoming dragon.

Moonfeather could only watch, body weaker than it had ever felt before, as the two met in the air. As she had said, Velvet was not defenceless. The magic that erupted from her horn was at once both beautiful and intimidating. Twice, the dragon was knocked aside, but twice it came back at her, seemingly stronger than ever. It was a raging beast and the more she tried to evade it, the more it chased her, snapping and clawing at the air where she had been. Velvet did not seem to be trying to hurt the thing. Instead, it looked like she was trying to get close enough to talk to it again. Moonfeather couldn’t believe how foolish she was being for a second time, but her chest still tightened when the dragon lashed out with one huge claw and knocked Velvet into a downward spiral – straight towards Silver Pass.

Velvet saved herself from impalement with difficulty. It was clear that the blow had hurt her somehow. Her flight was not so assured, her movements not so quick. She still tried to get near the dragon but now its fire grazed her more often, its claws raked her and its tail clubbed her into a helpless corkscrew from which she did not recover. Moonfeather watched in horror as Velvet’s tiny body fell headfirst.

The dragon flapped its wings and pelted after her. It closed its grip around her and Moonfeather lost sight of Velvet. For the first time in her life, Moonfeather looked away from a kill, unable to watch as the stupid pony was crushed. Her stomach lurched again, but this time for a very different reason.

Crackling magic erupted in the air. Moonfeather’s head whipped up at the dismayed roar from the dragon as an enormous purple sheet appeared behind it, shoving it forward instead of letting it pull out of its descent. It flew headlong, struggling but powerless to stop itself as it flew straight into Silver Pass and the deadly malga rocks within. As it disappeared from view Moonfeather heard it cry out far more shrilly than she would have expected from something so huge. The purple sheet flattened over the pass for a moment and then vanished like a candle being suddenly snuffed out.

When the echo of the dragon’s final scream had faded, complete silence reigned.

“Moonfeather!” Brighteyes ran toward her, voice pitching higher and higher in alarm. “What in Redclaw’s name happened to you?”

Moonfeather dragged her battered, broken body into The Pale Moon with difficulty. She collapsed onto a chair and flopped across the table, too tired to speak.

“Cripplewing! Cripplewing, come quick!”

He emerged from the kitchen with a curse and came back with brandy and a promise that the doctor was on his way. Moonfeather didn’t even have the strength to drink the brandy. She left it sitting on the table in front of her, glistening in the afternoon light.

It had taken hours to finally make it back to Stalwart. Every inch of the journey had been wracked with pain. Her left wing trailed behind her like a broken pennant, her burned tail drooped in the cooling snow and she had realised only after a mile or so that one of her claws had been ripped out while digging the hard-packed, frozen ground. Her path back into the city was marked with uneven bloody footprints and a line like the world’s worst plough.

“What happened?” Brighteyes knelt beside her, throwing a blanket over her employer. It was from Moonfeather’s own bed. She remembered throwing it off right before she jumped through the window to follow a hooded speck into the night. Brighteyes must have flown in through the upstairs window when she arrived for work and found the pub deserted and still locked up tight.

“Went to Silver Pass,” Moonfeather finally croaked.

“What? Why? Didn’t you hear what Blackbeak said about what happened to him there?”

“Uh-huh. I owe him a drink. Should probably lift his ban from the pub, too. Not a liar after all.” Moonfeather closed her eyes. “Esper was real. Dead now though.”

“That bastard was real?” Cripplewing said incredulously.

“Uh-huh. Very real.”

“Did you … did you fight him?” Brighteyes asked in a hushed voice. “Is that how you got so beat up?”

“Kind of.” Moonfeather closed her eyes. She was so very, very tired. She thought back to the events of the night. There had been a lot of running, fleeing, rescuing, hunting and cussing involved, but she didn’t remember much fighting. Right up to the end, there had been no actual fighting. Not even any fighting back.

Moonfeather felt something dribble down her beak. The fuck?

“Moonfeather,” Brighteyes breathed disbelievingly. “You’re … crying.”

“What happened out there, hen?” Cripplewing asked, gentler than she would have thought him capable of being.

Moonfeather didn’t open her eyes. “Had to bury an idiot pony.”

Fin.

As long as we live, time passes by,
And we won't get it back when we die.

--from ‘When We Die’ by Bowling For Soup.