The Trail Home
Of Sands and Wind
“Come along girl, not much farther before we can rest.” On a silent, empty road at night, an old man shuffled alongside a horse, leading the beautiful black mare with a bridle. She was little more than a filly, and had nothing aside from a worn wool blanket draped across her back, and the aging man carried on his back a small pack, stuffed to bursting with all sorts of paraphernalia.
As they walked, the moon, full and luminous, illuminated their path. Still, it was hard to see, and the two were dreadfully tired. After a while, the man stopped near a series of fallen trees, rich green grass poking up for his charge to eat, and enough room for him to rest. Achingly, he sat, his tired bones creaking in discomfort.
The horse whinnied, concern on her features for the old man who loved and protected her.
“It’s fine, Sharna. I’m fine. Just old.” The man coughed a few time, trembling with each breath. With a snort, the ebony mare plopped down next to the man and nuzzled against him, nickering in worry.
“Sharna, I am alright. You must take care of yourself. You are important, not I.” Another snort, this one of disbelief.
“Shhh, my dear. It will be fine. I swore to protect you. As Epona is my witness, I will not fail this final duty.” Another bout of coughing struck, and the man doubled over. He pulled back his hand, and grimaced as he saw fleck of blood on his tan, weathered palm. He wiped it off on the tree truck next to him, but Sharna had smelt the blood coming from him, and quickly nuzzled his check.
“Let us sleep, Sharna. I will be better in the morning.”
The moon drifted overhead, and the old man lay his head against the warm, soft flank of his comrade. Sleep overtook the both.
The sun rose, and with it, so too did the traveler and his horse. They made camp shortly, the man taking time to carefully clean the coat of his beloved Sharna with a golden brush. He untangled a few knots and removed a few burrs, and when he was done, handed her a small, dried apple. Sharna eagerly ate up her favorite treat, and the man chuckled as she did.
The pair soon packed up and moved on, the man swallowing a handful of trail rations before they did so.
A few more hours passed, and around noon, the pair arrived at a swiftly flowing stream. The old horseman cupped his hands and tasted it. Pure, with no traces of pollutants that he could tell. Once her handler assured her it was safe, Sharna gratefully took several gulps of the cool water.
As she drank, the old man looked into the water, staring at his reflection. He could hardly recognize himself. Thick lines creased his face, and his cheeks were sunken and gave him a gaunt look. His eyes, once a rich brown, were clouded with fatigue and pain, though he’d never admit the latter. His hair had been grey for many decades now, but what was left on his head was scraggly and in desperate need for a wash. His skin, brown and tawny, was likewise filthy, and though his heritage as a Saddle Arabian made it hard to tell, sun burnt in places.
Sighing, he stood, and patted Sharna’s withers.
“Let’s go girl, no time to waste.” A short coughing fit interrupted him, and the horse cast a worried look his way.
“I’m, I’m fine, Sharna. Let’s move.” Reluctantly, she trotted after her master, never taking her worried eyes off him.
The rest of the day passed by uneventfully, but the duo stopped early in the evening, as Sharna’s hoof caught a rock in it.
“Let me see. Good girl, it’ll be better soon, I promise,” her caretaker assured her. Using a pair of golden tweezers, he carefully pried the rock loose from where it’d gotten lodged in her unshod hoof.
A whinny of satisfaction let him know Sharna was feeling better, and she lay down next to him. Smiling, the man stroked the mare’s mane with the golden brush from earlier, softly humming a song to her. As he groomed her, he could not help but be amazed at this wonderful mare.
Sharna was a throughbred horse, with a lineage dating back four thousand years. All the way back to the final years of the Great Winter. As the Windigos choked the world in ice and snow, the gods had seen fit to grace the few surviving bastions of humanity with great and powerful gifts. All knew that the people of this land, Equestria, were given powers by Epona, Jupiter, and Titania, and later Faust with her two daughters. In the wilder lands of the Griffon folk, Zephyr, God of the Northern Winds, gave them the gifts of flight, weather control, and sharper senses. The Tauren were blessed by the Bronze Bull, Minos, with great strength and innate understand of metalwork. The Dracan became patrons of the Dragons themselves, creatures older than humanity by many eras. The Zebricans were blessed by the Twin Stallions White and Black, who shared one mind but two bodies, and gave their followers great flexibility and knowledge of runes and potions. And to the people who would become the Saddle Arabians, two gifts from Epona were granted.
To them, the first gift was a mastery of wind and sand, to push and shape the dunes that resisted the ice and snow, and to hide in the oasis that abounded. Their second, and perhaps greatest, gift, was a herd of twenty pure black horses, ten mares and ten stallions. These horses each carried three drops of blood from Epona herself, and this gave the steeds great speed, endurance, stamina, and the ability to cross any danger when ridden. No rider would fall from their backs, unless they wished them to. No horse would stumble and trip while guided by a kind human hand.
It was these twenty horses that were the first of the Purebreed Saddle Arabian Chargers of the modern day. Though many years and generations have passed, many of the thoroughbred still had a few traces of Epona’s powers. That is, until a few years ago.
The old caretaker scowled as he recalled the day the insurgents rose up and overthrew the rightful Sultanate. They clamped down hard on the people of Saddle Arabia, outright banning the worship of any deity other than Epona. Her horses were well cared for, at first, until almost all of the usurpers were thrown from the backs of the Purebreeds. The horses rejected these men as their owners, and it was clear what it meant; these men who gained power through their revolution were not worthy to ride the mounts of Epona herself, and thus were unfit to rule her chosen people.
And this infuriated them. Soon, there were raids on the Holy Stables, dozens of the thoroughbred slaughtered and their caretakers butchered. As word of this spread, the citizens of the oppressed regime fought back, attacking government soldiers and spilling more and more blood. The Men of the Golden Bridle, groomsmen of the Holy Stables, fled the country, seeking amnesty. Like his brethren, this old man had fled as well with Sharna, the last of the Purebreeds with the purest blood. In Equestria, he’d planned to make his way to Canterlot like his fellows and turn her over to the Princesses so they might protect her.
However, dark rumors had reached his ears that the new powers in Saddle Arabia were even worse, and demanding the return of their horses under penalty of trade embargo. He knew Equestria could not risk such a thing, as Saddle Arabia had the largest crystal mines in the world, aside from the frozen mines in the Crystal Mountain. Many nations needed the special crystal to store magic and power their various tools and appliances. Even items that used electricity needed the crystals to store and process the energy it required.
No, he could not let those murderous tyrants get their bloody hands on Sharna. He would die before that happened. He would wander the land, seeking a proper owner to care for her, one who would hopefully never learn of Sharna’s true nature. A violent fit of coughing broke his thoughts, and he was soon doubled over, retching up blood. Sharna began to whinny in fear at the scent of blood, and began to prance nervously around him.
He could hardly make a sound, but he gasped out for Sharna. She quickly nuzzled him, and he held her close, stroking the sides of her neck.
‘I’m not going to make it,’ he thought. He soon fainted, his mind gone black.
He awoke, panting in pain, to see the sun starting to set. At first, he was confused, as the sun had been like that before… With a start, he realized he must have been out for at least a full day! Swearing, he tried to stand, but toppled over, his muscles cramping. He gave a pitiful cry, and Sharna, who had been grazing nearby, galloped over to him, worry in her lovely eyes.
“I need my bag. Please, Sharna, get my bag,” he begged, his voice little more than a whisper. With a nod, she trotted over to his fallen pack while the old horseman sat himself up as best he could, learning against a tree truck.
Sharna returned, teeth clutching his pack, and he gratefully took it. Reaching inside, he removed a silk pouch. He carefully opened it, and poured a steady trickle of pure white sand into his right palm. When she saw the sand, Sharna started to neigh and nicker, but her keeper gave her a soft soothing hum.
“I know what must happen now, Sharna. I must protect you, but I cannot as I am. I am dying, my condition having gotten worse in our time in Equestria.” He brought the sand to his lips, his voice low and barely audible. “This is sand, taken from the dune where Epona landed and blessed us. Every Groomsman of the Holy Stables makes a pilgrimage to the Ivory Dune to take a handful of sand, and carry it with them forever. It is a part of our history.”
More coughing interrupted him, and he turned his head, bloody spattering the ground next to him. “It, it can bestow great boons to one who has mastered our style of magic. It can protect from a sandstorm, and draw poison from a wound. It can scour a foe to red rags in moments, and it *COUGH!* it can lead one where they need to go.” Sharna whimpered, and with his free hand, the dying man stroked the filly’s jet black mane.
“In the name of Epona and Faust, let my breath give this sand motion. Let the breeze from my lungs carry it onwards to its final path. Please, oh great Mothers of my people, let this sand, touched by sacred hooves, lead my beloved Sharna to a safe haven, where she can frolic and play and eat apples to her hearts content.” He touched his lips to the mound of sand in his right hand, and let out a deep, shuddering sigh. As his breath touched the white granules, they began to dance and spin, and soon a miniature dust devil floated above the head of Sharna. The filly, surprised, was soon entranced by the swirling sand. She turned to leave, but stopped, and quickly took the blanket off her back and draped it over the lap of her master, whose eyes were closed.
This final act done, Sharna galloped off after the spinning white sand cloud, chasing it and following it to her destiny. At the back of Sharna’s mind, a part of her wished she could cry. Yet, as she thought this, a warm, comforting light wrapped around her, and for a moment, two tall figures ran beside her. One was grand, earth brown coated mare with green mane and tail entwined with flowers and ivy of all kinds and colors. The other, a mare with pure white coat and crimson mane and tail. And, this one not only had a horn and wings, but a ghostly rider, who smiled at Sharna with love and affection, even as he faded from her side.
A sad, mournful whinny came from Sharna, yet she kept on running, following the white, flowing sand.
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“Wow, aren’t you a beauty!” A young, dark blue with cyan striped hair, crimson eyed Titanian girl gushed, cooing over a small, pure black filly.
“Where d’ya reckon she came from?” a second, blonde haired Eponian asked, looking at her over the dark blue haired girl’s shoulder.
“Who knows? She looks like she’s been wandering for days, at least.”
“Well, we should clean her up then. Maybe someone knows something in town.” The dark haired girl nodded at the suggestion of the blonde one, and led her along towards a stable located in a vast orchard of apples.
“Come along, Alizee!”
“Vinyl, why’re callin’ ‘er that?”
“I dunno, AJ, it just seems to fit…”
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Far away, down a dirt road, two young men in a worn wooden wagon were staring down with pitying expressions at a corpse leaning against a tree.
“Damn shame. Looks like one of them Saddle Arabian refugees. Wonder what he was doing out here?”
“Dunno, brother, but at least he died with a smile.”
“…It wouldn’t be proper to leave him lying out like this. We should at least get him properly buried.”
The two young brothers, with red and white striped hair, got down from their perch, and carefully lifted the man off the ground and laid him in the back of their old wagon.
“Good thing we sold out with our supplies this time. I’d hate to have mother and father yell at us for displacing some goods for the sake of a stiff.”
“Show some respect for the dead, Flim!”
“Take you own advice and stop looting his stuff, Flam!”
“I’m not looting, I’m looking for some ID! And besides, dead men can’t use it, and his family, if any, might want it back.”
“…Sure got some ritzy stuff in here, Flam.”
“I’ll say! Golden tweezers, golden hair brush, cashmere wool blanket, Dragon Silk purse… this guy must have been a Shaw or something!”
“Hey, I think there’s writing on the inside of this pack!”
Both brothers crowded around, peering at the worn name sewn into the lining.
“Amed Mohren Alize, Groomsman of Sharna, may his feet always find the right path.”