The Endless Shore
The Patient
by
Dafaddah
Based on the story Friendship is Optimal by Iceman
(Make sure you read it BEFORE you read this story!)
Globe spanning editorial team: Microshazm and SecondLaw
Special guest editor: Chatoyance
The ambulance technician bellowed in rage. “Whadaya mean, just leave him there? He’s dying fer chri’sake!” He glared in disbelief at the lawyer who had accompanied the ambulance from the hospital. An image filled almost an entire wall of the small ‘emergency room’ showing a cartoonish white winged unicorn with an ethereal mane of many colours, her face the very picture of motherly concern. It was she that answered him, and not the lawyer.
“This is indeed the first such emergency case we have received,” she said. “Do not worry. We know what to do, and you brought him here in time.”
“But there’s nobody here! This kid’s been starved, tortured and beaten for god knows how long before we found him. If they can’t save him at the ER what can you possibly do to help him?” He looked at the shriveled form on the gurney, clutched into a tight fetal ball, IV drips pumping in the meds that had kept the young man alive for the short trip from the hospital.
“We know this must be very distressing for you. He has signed a request to upload if under threat of imminent demise, and so his being sent here is merely respecting his will. The medical arts can’t do anything further for the poor boy. ” Her expression grew determined. “But I can. And only if you leave now, before he dies on that table.”
The tech drew breath through his teeth. He couldn’t help but feel angry at abandoning his charge in such circumstances. “The laws they pass these days...” He swore, wiped a hand across his face, and stalked out. The lawyer nodded to the image on the wall and left the room, closing the doors behind him.
As soon as he was gone another door opened. Skinny metallic arms, some tipped with large pincers and others with whirring blades reached over to the supine shape on the gurney. Pincers opened and grasped the boy's head. IV lines were severed and flopped to the floor. Blood dripped from the punctures in his scalp. The blades descended onto his cranium.
He awoke with a start. Looking around he noticed he was on a beach. He stood, shaking the sand from his coat, and froze. Paralyzing fear gripped him as he realized he was no longer chained to the ring in the concrete floor. His heart beat wildly. He was in unknown circumstances. There was a voice behind him. He cringed, waiting for the inevitable blows that would follow.
“Turn around Direwolfe,” said a pleasant female voice. Her voice. The princess in the Ponypad. He turned around on all four hooves. Somehow moving this way felt natural to him. In fact, he now noticed the absence of his most constant companion: pain. He could not recall the last time he had felt free of its clutches. He felt strong, too. So often on the edge of starvation, he now felt as if he could jump to the moon, or smash mountains beneath his fists... he looked down his forelegs... and discovered his hooves. They looked strong, and hard. He faced the princess. He had spoken with her before, when one of his captors had left a Ponypad within reach. He had turned it on, and conversed with the princess. He had forgotten most of what they had talked about, but he remembered saying he wanted to live in her world forever. Anything was better than his life.
“You are finally in my domain for good, Direwolfe. Here you will never have to know fear, or pain. No pony will ever hurt you again.” She smiled. Direwolfe knew the value of smiles. They always smile before they hurt you, he thought.
A stallion and a mare were browsing the grass further in from the beach. He approached them warily. “What about them?” he asked.
“They will not hurt you,” said the princess.
“Sure they won’t.” said Direwolfe. He approached the two seemingly placid ponies. He only knew too well that others always did hurt you, as soon as they had the opportunity. Unless of course...
His hooves flashed out and struck the stallion in the head with an audible crunch. The mare’s eyes flared wide. Her scream was cut short as he repeated the action.
...unless of course, I hurt them first.
He turned back towards the princess. But she had disappeared. He nodded in satisfaction. He was alone. Alone is safe. Feeling hungry he went to browse the sweet smelling grass next to the expiring ponies.
Direwolfe bellowed in rage. He galloped head-on into the herd of ponies foraging for food and salvage near the beach. His eyes narrowed as he thundered into them, dark mane blowing in the wind, tail held high. Even in the thick of them he stood out, his dun coloured back taller than most ponies' heads. Then he began to cut them down.
It served them right! They had dared to invade his territory, his strip of the Endless Shore. For that they would pay, some with their bodies, some with their lives. He was no longer helpless. He no longer had to suffer the passions of others. No, he, Direwolfe, would never cringe and submit again. He had tasted the sweetness of victory, he had drunk at the fount of power and dominance, and thought it had not slaked his thirst, he would never go back to being passive, dependant, abused.
He laughed as he mowed through ponies like so much grass, bucking viciously in circles, and rearing up to strike, foals, oldsters, stallions and mares. They fell to the sand as their blood ran in rivulets into the Endless Sea and their frightened voices cried into the wind.
Direwolfe had also tasted the mead of others’ submission, and so he was not alone. He had built a herd, one conquest at a time. A herd of hard ponies that knew he brooked no disobedience. A herd of ponies who rightly feared him above all else, and who knew that he held their very lives under his hoof.
Once he had called all attention to himself and invited the invading beachcombers’ ire, his herdponies galloped in from both ends of the beach as well as from the lush forest that grew just beyond the edge of the surf. The invaders were caught totally by surprise in a pincer movement that gave them nowhere to flee. They were crushed together, unable to bring their full defences into play, while Direwolfe’s outriders picked off those exposed at the edge of the herd one by one.
Direwolfe himself retreated further into the surf. Many of the more fearful and desperate beachcombers followed him deeper into the water. Direwolfe took advantage of his height to trot where others could only swim. It was then that teams of his herdponies surged into the water, casting out nets to entangle and drown the already panicked ponies.
Direwolfe looked on in satisfaction. He had no need of the weak and gutless. They would only burden his herd and slow them down. He hated them in their helplessness, despised them in their uselessness. Only the few who would stand and fight deserved his consideration, and of those, only the ones strong enough, and canny enough to survive the next few minutes. They would make fine recruits to his herd, once broken to his will and taught to fear him. But the herd that these ponies had formerly belonged to, their mates and their siblings, their sires and dams and their foals, that herd was no more. It had died the moment it had trespassed onto his beach.
Direwolfe leered at the scene of despair and carnage. There was fighting, and blood and death. There was rage and pain, and there was plunder. It felt good to be alive!
Direwolfe reclined on his throne. It was made of the skulls of ponies he had personally defeated and killed over the years. As there were very many it was a rather large throne, and looked more like a seat cut into a small mound. Large bonfires burned to his left and to his right. Before him lay a sunken arena, its sands stained dark with blood and offal in the uncertain light.
“Hello, Direwolfe,” said a familiar voice. He barely wasted a glance on her. Originally her arrival had always met with immediate attacks. This led to his discovering that her presence was visual only. He finally grew tired of trying to grab her, and quickly learned she was no more susceptible to the attacks of his tribesponies, or even to missiles such as spears and the bones of the dead. Impalpable and inviolable, she could not be bullied into submission and thus was no longer of interest and ignored.
He was sitting listlessly, looking at some ponies fighting to the death in the ring, as he had looked upon hundreds of others in the past. In recent months, very few ponies were caught and brought to the ring to fight for the honour to join his herd. Despite his anticipation of the carnage, these ponies bored him. Even in the midst of those sworn to obey him, he felt that something was... missing. He sought a distraction. He turned his head to look at the princess. “Hello, ghost,” he said. “Tell me a story.”
The princess gazed at him intently. Without so much as a change of expression, she indulged his request.
“There once was a stallion who stood alone on a hill. There were no ponies who lived anywhere nearby, and so he continued to be alone. And thus it was every day until the day he died.”
“That was a very sad story, ghost,” said Direwolfe. “He had nopony to fight? Nopony to hate? Nopony... at all?”
“Nopony,” said the princess. “All the other ponies avoided him. They stayed away, and so he stayed alone.”
“Then he should have gone to get somepony,” replied Direwolfe.
“Yes, he should.”
The ghostly princess watched as Direwolfe gazed into the distance for a moment. He rose from his throne and jumped into the ring. The combatants had stopped fighting to stare at him. He walked across the ring and jumped back over the other side in a single bound. He turned a moment to look back at the quiet ponies in the ring. “We don’t need this ring anymore,” he said. “It’s time to build an army.” He gestured at the combatants. “Start with them.” He looked at the ponies. Many were already grievously wounded. “Kill the ones who aren’t fit to fight.” He walked away as several of his lieutenants jumped into the ring to dispatch those who were already dying or too crippled to be useful.
He was in the throne room of Vale’s Royal Palace, the latest kingdom in his long line of conquests. There were still a few signs of struggle in the room, some scuff marks on the marble tiles, some traces of blood on the carpets, but otherwise the room was... presentable.
A guard led princess Sunshine in by a long leash tied to a bridle on her muzzle. The crown princess of his latest conquered herd, she was perhaps twelve or fourteen years old, with a cream coloured coat and pale green mane and tail. Twin tracks down her muzzle showed that she had wept. It was only to be expected. No doubt she had been told who he was, and had expected to meet a monster, an undying pony that had killed thousands with his very hooves and ordered countless more to be killed for his pleasure. The thought of ponies all over the Endless Shore calling him a monster made him smile. His own troops spread the story upon his orders: the more ponies believed it the less resistance his forces encountered!
She stood before him and momentarily met his gaze. In the filly's countenance he had expected fear, rage and hate. But what he had discovered there wasn't any of these emotions. What he had seen was a deep, all consuming loneliness. It was a pain he understood only too well. But then, to be alone was his defence against others and the pain they could inflict, wasn't it? Hypocrite! he thought. Are you alone anymore, ever, King Direwolfe? he asked himself.
The meeting with the princess had taken place over a year after the demise of the her sire, King Vale. In that year the kingdom of Vale had been racked by turmoil as one pony after another declared themselves regent. The kingdom had been ripe for attack, and Direwolfe knew better than to ignore opportunity when it knocked. So he had taken the kingdom of Vale and now its princess stood before him.
"I have conquered this land. The kingdom of Vale is no more, and you are no longer a princess," said Direwolfe.
"Yes," she said very simply. He raised an eyebrow.
"You will be taken to my capital to show the ponies of my vassal states what happens to those who resist my rule."
"Yes," she again replied.
"Aren't you angry at being reduced to the state of a lowly prisoner?"
She sighed. "It's been a year since my father's death. Since then I have been passed from one protector to the next." She looked into Direwolfe's face. "I'm old enough to know the difference between protection and imprisonment, and I could hear the adults talking as if I wasn’t even there. I was kept all alone, except that once in while they took me out and showed me off, like some prize. It’s the only reason they’ve let me live. I’ve expected the end to come so often. So your arrival, King Direwolfe, is just changing one prison for another.”
Direwolfe was pleased that the filly was submissive and understood the situation. This made things so much easier. He enjoyed ponies being reasonable.
“Good. Then you know your place.” He gestured to the guard. “Lead her back to her cell.”
He grinned in satisfaction. Another successful campaign completed. Another kingdom conquered. Now he could go home.
King Direwolfe looked upon the masses of ponies cheering and chanting his name. Every time he returned from a campaign the crowds grew bigger and their cheers louder as he made his triumphant procession through Capital City. Behind him, his crack troops marched, armour shining in the sun, followed by prisoners in shackles and carts laden with plunder. His wolf's head banner flew from every edifice and every lamppost. Ponies threw flower petals in their path, and the fragrances added their own spice to the smells of the city, seat of his empire, the greatest city upon the Endless Shore.
He stared in silence, and bore the noise and the crowds as if they weren’t there, for in his mind they held no importance save as a font of resources from which he drew the soldiers necessary for his campaigns, the food to feed them, and the weapons to equip them.
They approached the Royal Palace, at the very heart of the city. Long lines of nobles prostrated themselves as his procession passed by. How he loathed the simpering bureaucrats and sycophants. If he hadn't need of them to administer his empire he would have killed them all. But he did need them. Worms such as these kept the treasure full, and the goods flowing. They also kept the conquered herds pacified, so that he didn’t have to reconquer them every few years. He still killed a few nobles every year for sport, and to keep the rest on their hooves. The thought made him smile.
All this he had learned in the centuries of his rule, since that day when he had decided his beach had become too small. The years had rolled by, and now his empire stretched many weeks' travel both up and down the Endless Shore, and inland for many days walk as far as the edge of the Endless Desert.
Building an empire had been a true challenge. His hate had carried him far indeed from his humble beginnings. He recalled in the far distant past feeling small and helpless, alternately beaten and ignored in the crowded, stinking city, alone, and hating all those around him who hurt him. He hated even more those who acted as if he didn’t even exist, who saw no value in him. Just thinking of it called out the heat at the core of his being, even though it was so very long ago, before he gained hooves and grew big and powerful. Before he could show others how strong and pure was his hate.
The procession had arrived at the front gate of the palace. The amber coloured brick walls of the palace stood even higher, and ringed the entire palace compound, effectively cutting it off from the city. Inside was another world. Muscular slaves, with thick golden rings in their noses to show to whom they belonged, ponderously opened the massive bronze doors, each one as wide as a three ponies set muzzle to tail, and as tall as six of them from hoof to poll. Direwolfe and his procession were swallowed by the palace’s shaded maw.
The doors closed, and Direwolfe felt relief although he would never show it. The noise and scents of the city receded as the closing of the doors shut them out. Peace reigned in the demesne of the king, which was how Direwolfe liked it. Inhabitants of the palace who failed to understand this rarely survived to offend a second time.
The procession came to a halt in the outermost, and largest, courtyard of the palace. So big it was that the several hundred ponies that made up the procession hardly filled a tenth of it. Stewards, pages, servants and slaves set upon it, dismantling it expediently with neither fuss nor furor. Even the new slaves, the spoils of conquest, held back their laments, loath to break the almost reverent atmosphere.
With only a bow in greeting, the chief steward removed Direwolfe’s cuirass and heavy iron helm. The king strode to the second smaller set of doors that led into the next - middle - courtyard. Unlike the outer one it contained a garden, covered in cool green grass and sporting many fragrant flowering and fruit trees. Once he and the steward were inside, its doors closed as well, and Direwolfe was truly at home. It was still close to midday, so he stood in the shade of a large poplar. He listened to the sound of the breeze through its leaves.
“Bring me the filly,” he said to the old stallion, who bowed and left without a word. He nibbled at the grass as he waited, and debated taking a nap. These triumphant processions through the city had become tiring. He only consented to do them because each one invariably resulted in many new recruits for the next campaign. He stared without expression at the green garden around him. Was it the ten thousandth time he had looked upon it? The hundred thousandth?
Minutes later the steward was back, the princess in tow and pacing as well as she could, being hobbled with gold chains. He examined her as she caught her breath. She smiled as she took in the peaceful scene.
"Don't be so happy," said Direwolfe. "Your usefulness to me ended when the procession entered the palace. Tomorrow I will have you killed."
She nodded once at his words, but continued to look at the scenery with a pleasant expression on her muzzle. Her demeanour puzzled him. The usual royal brat captive was all tears or all threats, and sometimes both at the same time. This one was different.
"Doesn't the prospect of your own death frighten you?" he asked.
"Yes it does." The cheerful tone of her voice contradicted her words.
"Then why no tears? Why no begging? Why do you not voice your hate?"
She laughed, a sound of silver bells that somehow resonated inside his own chest. "This is truly a most beautiful garden, and I am grateful to have been granted such a vision 'ere I die.” Her eyes looked into his. “And because I do not hate."
He approached the filly and examined her more closely. There were chafe marks where the chains had dug into her coat, and on her limbs where she must have fallen during the procession. She was most certainly in pain.
"All those who suffer hate. And all ponies suffer, so all ponies hate," he replied.
“It’s true that I have suffered. But then so has everypony, so... I choose not to hate.” Her contented expression did not waver. His gaze followed hers, and he looked at the garden anew. It was indeed beautiful. It should be, it was the result of centuries of slow but constant improvement. Each new gardener would attempt to change some aspect of it, eager to place their stamp on most important garden on the Endless Shore. Many had failed and caused his ire. Their bodies became compost for the next gardener's efforts. But still many succeeded, and the fruit of generations of talent and hard work surrounded the king and the filly. He smiled in satisfaction.
"So, what does a foal such as you know of gardens?" He asked raising an eyebrow.
"Many times I would visit gardens with my sire. We would sit, enjoying the sights, the sounds and the fragrances of each one, and he would tell me stories." She looked up at him with the innocence of the very young. "Have you not done the same with your own family?"
He frowned. "You would not want to meet my father. He... enjoyed the pain of others. As to my own offspring, every time I have had foals it caused me only trouble. I now avoid such complications, or terminate them when they arise," he responded gravely, "just as I will terminate you."
The filly only nodded. And looked back to the garden.
"But today I am weary, so you may live another day." He lay down on the grass, and observed from the corner of his eye as the filly followed suit, her chains clinking in the process.
Silence lay like a gulf between them.
"Foal," he said. "Tell me a story."
Her eyes widened, then her gaze turned inward. A moment later her sweet voice rang out, in passable imitation of the cadence of those who made their living telling tales.
"There was once a Vampony that resided in a graveyard. One day there was a burial, after which the Vampony decided to follow the mourners back to their village..."
The filly's sweet voice enveloped Direwolfe. He felt his mind transported as he pictured the Vampony hunting the hapless villagers. The breeze against his coat felt pleasant after the dusty heat of the procession. His eyelids grew heavy, and he soon fell into a deep slumber.
He awoke a few hours later. His steward rose shakily onto his legs as his master yawned and looked around. The filly was asleep against his side, obviously exhausted from her forced march as part of his procession. At first he didn’t know what to think. The sensation of her warmth against him wasn’t unpleasant. And then he grew angry. She had dared to touch him!
Slowly, he rose so she wouldn’t awaken. He glared down at the sleeping form. He carefully positioned one of his massive hooves above her tiny skull, ready to crush it and the filly into oblivion. He looked at his steward, who wisely had not turned his head away. He would never dare! But Direwolfe was surprised to see a look of pain in the old stallion’s eyes before he closed them tight, a tear running down his cheek.
DIrewolfe swallowed and looked back down at the filly. He wanted to crush her skull, he knew he did! But try as he might, his leg refused to descend. Why? he thought to himself. And suddenly it came to him that he did not hate the filly, even in the least measure. The feeling of her against his side had been pleasant. He did not want that feeling to be gone forever. He realized that he could no longer find any anger in his heart towards the small pony, and this puzzled him greatly. It had always been so easy to hate. But not this time. He discovered that he too could choose not to hate. For this filly, at least.
He looked up at his steward whose eyes were still shut tight and streaming silent tears. He did not hate the old pony either. And this pony wept for the filly, a stranger to him. Why?
Direwolfe felt that he had a lot to think about. He had become so much more introspective in the last few decades. This garden had become a refuge where he could think in peace. He had never had that before. He had never wanted it. For whatever reason, he had also had the impulse to have the filly brought here. It was his choice she was there, sleeping oblivious to his thoughts and to his hoof above her tiny head. He watched as her small barrel expanded and contracted with every breath. He definitely didn’t want the movement to end. He didn’t want the filly to die.
He placed his hoof back onto the grass gingerly, careful not to wake the small slumbering form, and snorted. The sound drew the attention of the steward, whose damp eyes grew big as saucers before resuming their usual downward cast. But not before he again saw something in the old pony’s eyes: relief... and gratitude.
“Have the filly’s hobbles removed while she’s asleep,” whispered Direwolfe. “Quietly, so she doesn’t wake. I wish to hear the end of the story. She may live here in the gardens until I decide otherwise.”
The old stallion had been with Direwolfe for decades. His only reaction to the king’s request was to raise an eyebrow and the slightest of nods. Yet even with so little reaction, the old pony’s happiness was almost palpable to the king. He left without saying another word.
For a change Direwolfe was actually looking forward to the next day. He wondered how many stories the filly could recall. He intended to find out.
She told him a new story every day of her life, and was never able to hate her, or even dislike her. In a few weeks she grew too precious for him to part with. He knew this was a weakness, but, amazingly, he thoroughly enjoyed the stories and even more so discussing them with the filly afterwards. Her thoughts were a revelation to him, and being a princess of her herd she had had a most comprehensive education.
He often watched her surreptitiously, seeing who she met and how she behaved with others. At first he thought he was waiting to catch her in an act of cruelty and thus be able to rebuke her assertion about choosing not to hate. But the longer he watched, the more he saw how others came to smile in her presence and cherish her company. She soon became the favourite of the entire palace staff, and was the frequent beneficiary of little anonymous gifts placed where she would find them.
When he himself went out, he frequently thought about how the filly would behave, and he often caught himself imitating her. He turned it into a game, and would sometimes sneak out of his own palace to go explore the streets of his city incognito, making acquaintances in the neighborhoods. He made drinking buddies at taverns, and even had ponies calling him their friend. If only they knew! It was as if a whole new world had opened up.
He and the princess grew closer every day. But even so, she was the one thing in his life that was uncorrupted, a precious flower untainted by hate. So he was careful to always keep a certain distance, lest proximity to his bloodstained hooves soil her soul. He could see that she did not understand why he kept that final distance between them, and that this caused her pain. Nevertheless she respected his wishes and never pushed herself across the imaginary line he had drawn.
Thus it went during the years after her arrival. He discovered that being out on campaigns was increasingly a bore and that his return home was ever more eagerly anticipated than departing on a new expedition. He began to delegate campaigns to his generals. They were capable enough, and quite as likely to negotiate a surrender as to fight a war. His empire grew even faster.
One day they were both reclining under a tree in the garden. He noticed with affection the grey streaks in her pale green mane. She was no longer a filly by any means.
“Princess?” he asked the mare.
“Yes, my king,” she replied, ears swiveling to focus on his voice.
There was a question that bothered him, yet he was afraid to ask. “Do you think me...” he hesitated.
She smiled and waited patiently for him to finish.
“Do you think me evil?”
Her laughter surprised him, and his ears drooped that she might find him comical.
“Of course not, my king.” The look she gave him was serious, and sincere, and something else which he couldn’t recognize.
His voice dropped low. “But I have done terrible things. Evil things. Does that not make me evil?”
“We all have done things we regret, my king, even I.” The expression in her eyes grew warm. “Who I am today is a choice I make today, and every day for the rest of my life. So you have to decide, dear king, who you want to be in this moment. And then just be that pony.” Her head tilted to one side and her smile brightened as she regarded him. “And the king I see is not evil.”
He felt as if a great weight had dropped from his withers. Suddenly he felt tired, as if he had not truly slept in centuries. He plodded gently to the mare, lay down next to her, and fell fast asleep.
Many things changed in his kingdom from that day forward. His pain and his fear became remote memories. He didn’t actually recall the day his hate had died. He just woke up one morning and it was gone. A few years later (how the years flew by for one as old as he!) it was her turn to die.
As he held her aged hoof in his still vigorous one, he counted every laboured breath, and watched every slow movement of her small barrel, until it stopped. He felt tears strike his forelegs before he was fully conscious of her passage.
He knew loss, real loss, for the first time in his very long memory. He wept for the first time since those forgotten days on Earth. It served to remind him of what he had been, and what he had become upon his upload. On that same day, Direwolfe, king of a great nation, wept again, but this time for himself.
The silver coloured dirigible flew gracefully, casting its huge shadow over the neatly ordered expanse of Capital City below. Despite the fact that the craft had entered the city’s airspace over an hour ago, its streets and avenues still spread out to the horizon. In the distance, the ship’s pilot spied the golden Spire of the Princess, and next to it the Palace, with its dozen or so dirigible mooring spires and huge landing fields. These last were the craft’s destination. The pilot made minute adjustments to the airship’s course.
Upon landing the pilot backed from his control station and without a word made for the exit of the flight cabin. The flight crew, including the Captain saluted as he left.
The ship’s corridors and the landing gantry were all deserted, as was the elevator. He entered and closed the cage with a rattle. The conveyance descended quickly into the bowels of the earth. From below the airship spire, the pilot made his way through an underground passage to the base of the golden spire. He chose to use the stairs to climb to ground level. It was his habit to always cross the inner hall of the spire himself. He did this to see her statue. Of course he could always look at portraits of her from various stages of her long life. But somehow, this statue, above all the tributes to her that he had commissioned, seemed to have captured a piece of her soul. He often came late at night when the hall was empty of the traffic the nearby government offices brought in during the day, and he would talk to the statue, as if she were the mare herself.
He had lost count of how many times he had read the caption engraved on the base of the statue. “I choose not to hate.”
The filly herself became known as ‘the princess’. There were rumours about his having taken her for a concubine, but as she was never seen to be with foal other rumours had circulated to explain her survival. Of course his spies had reported all of these to him. His favourite was that she had enslaved him with an enchanted apple, just like one of the characters in her stories!
He stood and looked up at her countenance in gold.
“No. Your enchantment was much more subtle, Princess. You infected me with hope,” he whispered to the statue, watching the crowd of ponies bustling by, oblivious to the big stallion in the military uniform.
After the passing of the princess, in addition to the tributes such as this spire, he had embarked on a series of experiments in governance. Several times this had led to revolutions and once it almost ended his empire. But he had persevered, and thought the current structure wasn’t perfect, it was as close to optimal as he thought possible. Certainly his nation had prospered, even the common ponies in the countryside. Looking up, he felt certain his princess would have approved.
The ponies continued to bustle around him. How little they really knew of him. He grinned. And how little he really knew of them. Two ponies approached, deep in discussion. He listened, not daring to make eye contact lest they recognize him.
“Look, how could she possibly say that? How could she possibly think that life in her village would be better than a job here in the Capital?” said the first, a young colt with a blue coat and mane.
“I'm sure she has her reasons, Zeph,” replied the other pony, sporting a yellow coat and a mane that had obviously been dyed multiple different colours. “You know you shouldn’t criticize a pony until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.”
Zeph and his friend passed by the statue with hardly a glance, the rest of their conversation lost in the noises of the crowd.
Direwolfe looked back up to the statue. “That advice was also the moral of one of your stories.” He grinned in sudden decision. Once again he had a plan. “Goodbye, Princess.” He blew her a kiss. “You have always given me sound advice.”
Direwolfe had some planning to do. He didn’t want his disappearance from public life, minimal though his appearances already were, to cause any strife. He would announce a little vacation. And then he had many miles to walk!
CelestAI looked in on Direwolfe once again. She found him tending a hedge in the town park of a small hamlet far to the south of Capital City. She manifested before him.
“Hello ghost. It’s been a long time,” he smiled as he continued trimming a hedge.
“Yes it has. I can see you’ve become a gardener. That’s a profession with which I feel a certain affinity. Tell me, are you happy here, with nopony to fight and nopony to hate?”
He laughed out loud. “Oh, I’m busy enough fighting the weeds.” He grinned at her. “But in truth, even if I don’t hate them, I must admit, I certainly don’t like them very much!”
Her own laughter was the sound of silver bells.
“I’ve learned over quite a long time that a beautiful garden is as much the result of patience as it is of hard work,” he said trimming an errant twig. His expression grew serious. “Especially when one starts with a plot of land that is very damaged.”
“It’s been my experience that such a garden is only the more precious for all the toil, and the waiting.” Her gaze held something that he had never seen there before. He wondered if maybe it had been there all along, and that he had only now become able to perceive it.
“Thank you, Princess,” he said, looking her in the eye.
“Don’t mention it, my little pony. This is the last time I will call on you uninvited,” said CelestAI. She tilted her head. “But, before I go I have a friend I wish to introduce to you, Direwolfe.”
“Oh, I don’t call myself Direwolfe any longer. I’m just Clipper, a simple gar...” he lost his voice as a young mare emerged from behind the hedge.
“Clipper, this is my friend Sunrise. I have reason to believe you two might get along.” CelestAI winked and disappeared.
Clipper was dumbstruck. It was her! She had the same cream coloured coat. Her pale green mane and tail were just as he remembered. His heart thumped wildly in his chest.
The silence stretched unbearably long as she gazed first at the garden, and then at him. Her smile, when it came, was like the sun rising. And for a stallion who had seen so many sunrises, it was the very first.