Some short stories for the characters I've made in their pasts, presents and futures.
The following shorts are meant to accompany my longer stories. Reading these isn't necessary to understand the original stories, and if I've done my job right, then the reverse is also true. But I certainly recommend reading both.
Be sure to hold ctrl and click the picture,
M-
Chapters:
1 – Dealt Too Soon – Another Perspective of Up There 2 – Good Knights Write Home – The Aftermath of Stage of Discovery 3 – How To Not Get Killed By A Unicorn: A Guide – The sixth paragraph of Stage of Discovery from another angle 4 – Harriet and the Moose – First-person biopic of Harriet, from ?????
The shock I was in that night is a painting. It sits – practically alone – in my museum of memory for whenever I need a reminder of what cruelty is.
I didn't know at the time, of course, how far I had gone. No, the experience itself is just vivid on its own. It felt like my body was giving up fighting, while my heart desperately raced to stay awake and my mind revealed how long ago it had broken.
But that was how I felt, not her.
"The next time it happens, it'll be round six. Nopony's ever needed a round six before. The rate for round four alone is just shy of fifty percent."
That was the tinder, I suppose. And when round six began, and it was different, he decided to throw the match on me as well.
"Get out of my way. You know you can't help. Just leave him here and come back later."
"I should have given her a name."
My son looks at me for all of three seconds. The first passes and he registers what I said. The second passes and it repulses him. The third, and he wordlessly turns away. Then I walk away, and let the shock guide me to the kitchen.
The ambient heat wraps around my fore-hooves and suspends my fur in a lifeless wisp that entrances me. My wings are devoid of semblance. My legs shake just slightly. That’s wrong, I finally think. She doesn't need to a name.
She isn't Diamond Spark, Morning Pasture, Purely Whites, anything like that. Nopony can call her anything except 'that strange white filly in the window’. What’s wrong with her? Oh, that poor thing. That was how I wanted it. They wouldn't care to know her name, anyways. She would always be that damaged little filly from down the road. Maybe she could come out and play? Oh, of course she can’t. My mistake.
But to us, she is Love. She is Sis', Kiddo, Sweetheart, Shortstop, Li'l Slugger. My son is better at pet names than I am. I often just use his, since she likes them so much.
Oh, except Munchkin. Munchkin is mine, and I love it. What in Equestria is a munchkin?
“She seems fine... maybe it’s a false alarm?”
“It's strange... but that's impossible. Pay attention.”
No, I don’t want to listen. Don’t make me listen.
I stare at the moon through the window. It's disgustingly bright. I can never understand why Celestia does that every few months. An ‘Ultramoon’, they call it. She brings it so close to us, and she angles the sun so precisely for it to bathe us with its entire illuminated face. How can she find the time to construct such a perfect image above us, when there are children she's not writing back? She needs help, I think. Controlling the sun and moon and stars for thousands of years has left her clueless. After all, in her rush to so perfectly place that chunk of pointless rock she didn't realize how close she left the sun to my hoov—
"Ah!"
I wrench my hooves out of the water, stumble back and thrust my rump into the dirt floor. It's not a hard thing to do, sitting down. But when your heart is running at the aching speed mine does during every round, you tend to stumble. As I desperately hope I hadn't caused a disruption in the other room, I blow on my hooves and chuckle madly, yet sincerely, at how dirty they are.
"I forgot the soap."
I take a deep, capitulating breath and relax my muscles as my heart pathetically quickens. I break free from my trance and adjust my ears to hear the room down the hall. He is ordering him around in there, as always. As if he has the right. As if obeying his every word will cause everything to repair. As if my son was to blame for the everything that she endures.
There is a crash, a bit of a gasp, and a tiny tirade. I let my singed hooves cool in the air.
Fine. I'll listen. But I won't pay attention.
"Do you want to knock over her bookshelf while you're at it?"
"I said I'm SORRY, okay? Just... focus, please!"
As I stand up and make my way back to the sink, I wonder what's so special about tonight. Why, the moon is so gorgeous behind the lightly falling snow. She could be spending her night staring out her window, refusing to rest. What does it want from her now? Is it because she kept standing up? Is that what she was doing wrong? Maybe after she finally catches up with herself Celestia can take a moment to answer my questions, too.
Following the soap, I pour a few drops of cold drinking water into the bath. Then a few more, and a few more; and with a frightened laugh, I tip the whole bucket in. The water splashes over the counter and floor, and it slashes my face with a small stream of searing liquid. The soap stings my eyes and my bangs stick to my forehead. I wait for the water to stagnate again and put the first dish in.
It's hers. Of course it's hers. She had just finished her night's meal of dry, mashed potatoes, an assortment of nuts and a side of applesauce. I had slipped the capsules into the potatoes this time. She always knew they were in there somewhere, but she liked making a game of finding them. One last wash, I think, and I want to cry.
But nothing is coming, and I know why. It finally stuck. It had taken long enough.
"Stop crying, Mom. Crying doesn't help. It only makes it worse."
So feisty. So sure of herself for age 6. One of the two things she got from her loving father. If only he had stuck around to teach her as well. She would have had somepony to talk to, and so would he.
Crying could help, I think. Why, how else am I going to get out of wracking by brain for a way I could actually help?
A pattern of beeping starts in the other room. Heart rate. Yes, that's how it started last time, as well. Except last time, it had been all three at once, and the doctor and I just froze in horror. Heart rate, respiratory rate, blood pressure. Three steps down.
And then I remember what those three sounds really mean. They mean that in just a few sleepless days I'll be standing in front of a small crowd of family and friends, with a 7-year old black dress and a few flowers in my mane.
"What a stallion"
They didn't notice it at the time, but I was being sarcastic. I stood in my stunning dress, beautifully tossed mane and freshly glistening eyes as the tears streamed down my face and successfully ruined the whole image.
"What a stallion."
It caused me to catch my tongue and stutter, and that was the end of my speech. The rest was just blubbering and consoling as I held my aching stomach and walked back to my seat while his father sheepishly took my place. I wasn't crying for him. No, I had done quite enough of that. I was crying for myself. My stupid, useless, flower-arranging, waste of—
The next crash comes from me. There's a shattering in between my hooves and a sharp pain stabs my leg. I bite my lip to not make a noise, but I fail.
"Shit."
She didn't need that dish anymore, I remind myself. I pull my hooves out of the water and watch as the chunks of ceramic either float or sink depending on their size. I watch the red spot manifest itself rapidly onto the cloth draped over my hoof. I stop myself halfway through a sigh to listen for the beeping.
It’s gone. All there is is panting now. What a pity, I think. It’s happened.
My body continues to relax as my heart slams my calm into submission and runs at full speed. I remove the cloth and gaze at the tiny stream of blood emptying me into the sink. It isn't very deep. I can continue.
At least the doctor is no longer occupied. He can finally put himself to good use and bandage me up before he takes all his awful equipment and finally leaves forever. He can even get another chance to scowl at me like some special needs child he had been forced to make friends with by his teacher.
"It's coming back. Stay sharp."
Oh, the school. That beautiful, sweet school. What was I going to tell them? Every two weeks I was there to discuss the plan. How it would start, how they would catch her up to the level of the rest of the fillies and colts, how they could help her make friends despite having missed the first recess ritual. That saintly principal would always place his hoof on my shoulder and in the most polite tone say:
"The date doesn't matter. She has a place here whenever she’s ready."
I make the decision to not show up again. It's a happy decision. What a load off my back that will be. They would figure it out. They're smart ponies, after all.
Everypony would figure it out. No more twinkling eyes peering out the window despite strict instructions that she should remain in bed. No more awkward glances and smiles at the prisoner. Once I empty her room and rent it out to another soul, the whole town will know. I can be consoled. I can go back to work. I can run errands again. I can have the normal, empty life that I dreamed of since she was born without a speck of colour in her fur. I can be me again. I can be—
"Mom?"
I stay still. It's about to become real. I hate that part. The realization that her tiny voice no longer belongs to me. That her drooping eyes no longer have the energy to open. I turn to see my son resting his foreleg on the kitchen entrance, with his forehead against the wood. Draped across his back is the crumpled pile of pure snow, eyes almost closed and barely holding form. For a moment my mind toys with me and plays me a minuscule flutter in her eyelids.
Oh, that’s good. He’s getting a head-start on clearing out her roo—
There it is again.
It's so small, but it's there. It must be the last breath leaving her body, I think. That must be her muscles’ last amount of energy bringing her shoulder to her neck. That must be the final trick of death, cracking open her eyes and locking them onto mine.
And my heart finally breaks.
"Wh—... what..." I pathetically breathe.
The water overflows from his eyes.
"I don’t know... she was... but she... but she just... calmed down, and-and she’s—"
He heaves an exhausted sigh and smothers it with his leg. He almost bites through his own skin when I drop the next plate and it splits on the floor. I charge over and he recoils, leaning his side against the wall and accidentally letting the barely lifeless body on his back slide down his wing. He gasps and tries to prop her back up.
But she falls directly into my forelegs. I come to a complete halt and the tears come to a complete start. I embrace the fighter and roll back onto the dirt. A few seconds pass, and I feel a response. A small hug back. A murmur.
I cry so pathetically. So stupidly and undeservedly I hold her tightly to my chest. My nest. She should have been in bed, sure, but she also should have been...
"Does this mean..." I finally whisper. I don't dare dream.
"She won," comes the answer at the door. The doctor is standing there, packed and ready to leave.
I sit up straight and clutch her defensively to me. He reaches towards me and rips my leg away from her, inspecting it rudely and scowling. My son jumps up and lays a stern hoof across his neck.
"Well done," he teases me with a sniff at my soaking red hoof and a glower at my son. "I’ll get my gauz—"
I tear my leg back from him and hold her impossibly closer. He stares at me like the offended God he thinks he is. My heart slows, and my body tenses, and I realize what I want from him.
"I told you kids have better chances, didn't I? She’s not fine, mind you," he begins, "FD might be beaten, but she’s missed very important developmental stages for a filly. Her wings are stunted most of all. She’ll likely never fl—"
"Get out?" I interrupt. My head slowly oscillates on my neck as a dumbfounded smile spreads across my face. My son moves to shepherd him.
"What did you just say to m—"
"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" I scream. It's rude. Unthankful. I catch the bags under his eyes and his slouched head soon after he flinches, but I just need him gone. I can always apologize later.
"Let’s go," my son orders him. He sputters a retort, but decides against speech, and I get the chance to watch the horrified visage of my daughter’s saviour disappear.
No, that’s wrong. She had no saviour. Ponies who needed saviours were ponies incapable of surpassing the impossible themselves. He helped. My son helped. But she was the one who made it.
She wasn't the one in the room who needed a saviour. She was the saviour.
She clings tighter to my chest. She shudders a little, and I caress her mane. Truthfully, I'm looking for the new colours to start growing in, but I only find white stained red. It's too early.
"M—...Mom?" She squeaks gorgeously.
"Shhhh..." I whisper, folding her ears back and holding her close, "you should be in bed..."
"I don’t..." She pauses to take in a stuttering breath. "I don’t wanna be in bed."
"Then forget it," I reply, "let’s do something else."
And she falls asleep in my embrace.
...
It’s a dark place I went to that night. I hope I never go there again. But whether it be for a night, a year, or a millennium, I suppose just being there doesn't make you undeserving of miracles.
I was just about ready to wake her up, standing awkwardly in the empty hallway, with my hoof hovering over the room number. I was also pretty close to just walking away and coming back later. It’s not her thing after all, getting up.
“No, no... Five o’clock is too much already.”
We both needed an update.
I rapped the door with my hoof like a feather, and after shaking my head and rolling my eyes, I cleared my throat and rapped it like a rock.
“Minny?” I sternly spoke to the door. After seconds of no response, I cracked it open and peeked inside. It was anything but a sleeper’s paradise; the setting sun had completely illuminated her room in brightness. The dust was refusing to settle in the air, and neither was the catastrophe sprawled on her bed. There were two complete opposite legs and a bandaged wing sticking high in the air, and a bushy, red tail splayed out the back of the covers like a palm tree. I chuckled a bit and entered, loudly closing the door behind me. I saw the catastrophe flinch and a head with shuttered eyes snake it’s way out of the covers. I gasped and quipped.
“It’s... alive?”
Its eyes opened and it grinned all the way through an engulfing stretch. Thankfully, the bandages wrapped around it were clinging on much better than the covers. This city had good doctors, that was for sure.
“Shhhh,” it hissed.
“C’mon, captain,” I said nudging her hoof with mine, “you should come get dinner with the recruits.”
She let out a yawn that sounded like a howl and smacked her lips together a few times. She shielded her eyes from the light of the sun, and I assumed she thought it was rising. I probably should have known better, now that I think about it.
“What’s the time?” She muttered.
Just as I answered her, I saw her try and sit up, wince and fall down annoyedly. She blew her mane out of her eyes and squinted at me. In hindsight, I suppose she could have been milking it.
“Are you okay to make the trip tomorrow?” I asked worriedly.
She made another attempt to sit up and succeeded. The covers fell off her chest and revealed the cast around her foreleg. She gave an exasperated sigh and rubbed it tenderly.
The nurse told her that nothing would scar (thank Celestia) and that she shouldn't be on it for a few weeks, but she and I both knew she could fly alongside us as long as she wanted. And it wasn't like they were going to keep her in a hospital any longer than it took to patch her up. Good, old, foolish Minny.
“Maybe one more day?” She guessed.
“Yeah, sure,” I nodded, “we can wait,” I said politely, knowing it wasn't going to stick.
“Nah, you go ahead. I can catch up.”
She always claimed to be such a good reader of others, but she never knew how much that rubbed off on me. Though, I suppose my talent only worked on her. She kept oscillating between her smiling self and some introspective teenager looking to find their way in life, or whatever. Everything had turned out fine, but something was definitely bothering her. I wanted to know what.
I set my saddlebags on the floor and floated out some items. I set my watch on her desk, took out my portable inkwell and featherpen, and flattened the piece of paper the hotel had left on the desk for such an occasion.
“Alright, well you should write a letter to the Princess,” I suggested as I popped the cork out of the well.
“Why? It’s one day.”
“Oh, come on. She loves getting letters. Especially from her field knights.”
She rolled over away from me and wrapped the top of the sheets around her neck, despite the rest of her body being uncovered.
“Alright, fine.”
“You won’t get much writing done if you stay in bed... Here, I’ll get you started.”
I pulled out the chair and planted myself in it. I peeked over my shoulder to see her slowly exhaling as if getting ready to fall asleep again.
I kind of just wanted her to fade back out. She deserved it, really. Not even just for the day before; I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for her quick thinking and, well, idiocy. It's a funny, dual world she lives in. One day making a fool of herself, the other talking the most sense you've ever heard. I wonder if others in her world found her as interesting as I did.
Sorry, I promised I wouldn't do that anymore.
I cleared my throat and withdrew the feather. I heard her shuffle the covers behind me as I dotted the paper and began to write.
"Dear Princess Celestia,
"How’s it hanging, boss? Hope everything's flizzity-fly down on the south side,"
"What the...“ She sputtered and sat up again, “I would never talk to her like that."
”It’s your girl Minerva here. Just wanted to write you about how our trip kinda fell off the trails a bit. I mean, it wasn't so bad. Foghorn was there with his handsome smile and his strong, chiseled jawline, and his-”
“Stooooooop.”
I chuckled and re-dipped the feather.
“You can always contribute,” I teased.
”Anywho,
“I’m totally bummed out that this trip went super bad. But hey, it was pretty cool too. I met this huge, evil, ice dragon in the mountains who nearly took Foghorn’s head off! It was pretty sweet."
“She missed on purpose... Probably. Was pretty sweet, though.”
”I got some good news! We stopped a bunch of the Freezies – I'm not sure what they were thinking either - during their supply run, and I even chased away that big bully Icetooth! He won’t be bothering the fair citizens of Equestria ever aga-“
“Stop,” she demanded more sternly than before. I winked back at her, not noticing the offense in her eyes and tried to continue.
”Next time you see him, he’ll be short a few tee-“
“I killed him, Foghorn,” she declared, rather nonchalantly and inconsequentially. My pen stopped writing and the silence robbed the room from us. The words thrust my heart down a hole. It made me wonder how deep it had fallen compared to hers. I shook my head dumbly and spoke:
“But I didn't see-“
“Snowstorm, remember? He’s buried where I left him.”
The ticking of my timepiece seemed to triple in volume as I floated the pen back to the inkwell and inserted it silently. I peeked over my shoulder to see her laying back on the pillow, foreleg clutching the sheets and eyes frozen on the ceiling.
“Are you okay?”
“Better than he is.”
I bit my lip and turned away again.
“You... you had to,” I tried to explain, “he was going to kill Turnpike.”
“Nooooo,” she corrected, “he was gonna kill me.”
“Yeah... I guess. But at least now the Freezies will disband, right? No more leader?”
“No again. I’m not convinced bandits can operate without a few second-in-commands plotting to steal the reins. I did one of them a favour, I’m sure.”
She paused to scan me over as if I was a toy on a manufacturing line she wasn't sure whether to approve.
“You have to think about these things,” she reminded me.
I just frowned and avoided her stare. I wanted to retort, but all I could come up with was how I was two years older than her, or how I wasn't the one bedridden at sunset looking like their mummifier was on a lunch break.
Or how she shouldn't talk about such things as if she had experienced them. I knew everything about her. She hadn't; she just read too many fantasy novels.
“So... what do we do about them?”
“Ignore them. They weren't planning on hurting anypony till they thought they were going to prison, anyways.”
I didn't like that answer. I mean, they were still pillagers. I decided to speak to the Princess later, but for now to finish coercing her out of bed.
”Anyways, Big C. The real reason I’m writing this letter is that-“
“I need a vacation.”
My eyes lit up and I swiveled towards her. She was still looking up stoically.
“Oh? Well that sounds nice. Where and when?”
She rotated her head to peer at the sun as it began to turn red and be eaten by the mountains.
“Here and now.”
Ah, I thought. Okay then, I thought. It wasn't that ‘something’ was bothering her, it was ‘everything.' I always hated that mood. I floated the letter in the air and stared at it momentarily before stripping it in two.
“You should proooobably be the one writing this.”
I threw the paper in the waste bin and packed my things. I knew I wasn't getting her on her hooves that night, but from some reason I still wanted to try. I placed a hoof on her bed and shook it gingerly. She didn't move.
“You sure you don’t want to come to dinner?”
No response.
As I trotted away, I felt the lopsided heaviness in my saddlebags. I pulled the heavy side open and withdrew a bag of coins. I floated it on her desk and dropped it loudly onto the wood. She jolted upright and threw her gaze at the noise.
“You’re going to need to buy a new sword, right?” I explained, “might as well spend it, otherwise we’ll get less next time.”
“We still have our budget?” She asked in shock.
“Turnpike held onto it. He’s a pretty good treasurer.”
She chortled in bewilderment.
“He had a knife to his friggin’ neck.”
“Yeah, but if he lost it, you woulda been upset with him.”
She laughed heartily before falling back hard on the bed with a groan. She rolled over to view the bag of bits again.
“Thanks,” she muttered warmly. It was strange for her to laugh about the bandit like that. I really, really should have noticed that there was more on her mind than 'everything.' Just what in Equestria had that dragon done to her?
“Tell you what: I’ll take the kids back to Canterlot, and then I’ll come back and see you in a week or so.”
She rolled her head across her pillow and stared questioningly at me. Then she smiled gently.
“’Kay.”
“Don’t forget that letter.”
“I won’t, Mom.”
And I got out of there before I got another knowing reminder of what a good friend I was.
*
*
Dear Princess Celestia,
I’m writing this letter as both a formal request and a formal apology. I hope this does not overstep my boundaries.
First, the apology: The danger that the new recruits, Foghorn and I found ourselves in was the result of my own pigheadedness. I heard the bandits were rolling through the mountains on a supply run, and I figured a quick little ‘fear arrest’ could do some good for St. Paddocksberg and leave the recruits with some good experience. The leader being with them was something I should have considered. Though his ‘never bothering you again’ may make the endeavour a net gain, I accept any and all due punishment you throw my way.
The only plus side to everything is that the recruits, both independently and otherwise, did a spectacular job. The future is bright, as you say.
Second, the request: This trip has left me exhausted, injured, and downright confused. For me to better serve Your Highness, I am requesting a short leave of absence to gather myself again. I can stay awhile here to recover and return in due time to accept my penance.
The cider here is supposed to be excellent.
Regards,
“What are you reading?”
“Gah!”
I jumped and folded the letter up quickly. Turnpike looked up at me and curiously tilted his head.
“Something I shouldn't be,” I declared, “eyes ahead, recruit.”
He frowned and trotted away. Why was that crossed out? I stashed the letter in my saddlebag, where it came from and belonged, and did a quick headcount. Everypony was ahead of me, of course, where I could better keep an eye on them. Why was that crossed out? I took a deep breath and grinned awkwardly and with a full set of teeth at Turnpike, who was still watching me curiously. Why was-
I missed something. I retrieved the letter in a flash and unfolded it. There was an extra crease that I hadn't noticed before, and I foolishly released it.
Regards,
No, my apologies again, but I’m not done. I will not shirk the blame for this natural disaster of a field trip onto anypony else, but I am still uncomfortable with something. Once I return, if you have time for an audience, I wish to speak with you about the benefits of having Foghorn on a field mission. I have always thought him a tremendous ally and a cool head, until yesterday. He is an excellent member of the knights, and a great friend, but his talents do not lie in action, however few and far between it is we even see action these days.
He is a great horn player. Perhaps he is better suited to playing in your chorale.
Kind Regards,
Minerva
3 – How To Not Get Killed By A Unicorn: A Guide [Adventure] [Violence]
Look, I’m not saying The Frozen North isn’t a good name for that place; I just think it could be way more descriptive—like ‘My Eyeballs are Frozen Solid North’ or ‘Bandits Have Stupid Hideouts Tundra.’ Oh! Or how about 'In No Universe Is It a Good Idea to Bring Trainees to This Stupid, Frigid Wasteland.' See? If it had a name like that, maybe the spontaneous field trip for the Princess Luna Knight Academy's new earth pony recruits wouldn't have ended up such a cold, anxious disaster.
The recruits behind me were coming up with some creative names for it too. My eyes stung as I searched for Icetooth and Turnpike in the white, whistling winds, but they had it better than my ears. I could hear loud hoofsteps and louder bickering from six out of my seven responsibilities—all of them putting more effort into whimpering than into finding their comrade.
I stopped walking and crouched suddenly. "Shh!" I shot back at them, and the noise stopped.
"See them?" My lieutenant, Foghorn asked. He was bent down next to me, shielding his eyes from the winds with a weak wall of magic.
"No. I wanted them to shut up."
"Ah."
"Ohhhh, wait, yep."
"What?"
"There they are."
Foghorn leaned in real close to me while I tightened the scabbard straps around my right foreleg and squinted. It was faint, but the caped unicorn and the earth pony in leather armor stuck out like food colouring stains in sugar. I even caught a glint of the metal held close to the kid's neck. That wasn't good. I mean, sure, it was a dangerous place to have a knife, but when you don't think anypony's following you and you're still holding your hostage at knifepoint, you're bordering on schizophrenic.
"Left or right?" Foghorn whispered. He was trying to put on a brave face for the recruits, but I knew he was out of his element. I mean, even more so than a pony in a snowstorm.
"There's a cliff on our right," I answered.
"Huh?" Foghorn checked the ground next to us and stepped back.
"They're following a cliff. Tell me you noticed."
"Uh..."
"Answer me later."
I signalled to the teenagers to stay put and sprinted to my left, drawing a half-circle around the targets. The wind halved my speed, and I nearly collapsed in the weak snow, but I kept running. I was grinding my teeth—the thought of what losing a recruit would do to me burned inside my head.
I finished the semicircle and stayed just out of their view, backing away every time I saw their colours in the storm. I unhooked the strap on my leather sheath and cringed as I clenched my teeth around my sword's hilt. It was like biting into an unbreakable ice cube. Plus, the pretty little ruby in its hilt poked me in the lip and drew a trickle of blood. I grumbled and drew the weapon gently and quietly, which was a challenge since I had to bite the blade a few times just to get it all the way out, but such is the life of the pony without magic.
"Now!"
My mouth opened wide and my sword fell back into place with a clang. The plan was so ridiculously simple. I would approach them – sword drawn – and when the bad guy was all shocked and angry, in came Foghorn to swipe the hostage away. At no point did I ask for a freaking cue.
I charged forward and watched the two blotches of colour resolve into ponies. At the very least, Foghorn's "signal" had turned their heads away from me, but at the same time, The World's Most Directionless Bandit was now as close to his hostage as ever. With no hope of getting between them and the assurance that Turnpike was about to become a kitchen knife block, I got low and leapt straight for the stallion in the cape.
"Augh!"
The impact rocked my cold body. I stopped almost dead against his weight, and heard a metallic scrape as my sword flew out of its sheath. We crashed into a bare face of ice and slid away from each other, but there was a lucky brush of wind that swept my light body up and let me flip back onto my hooves. It gave me a chance to search for my lost weapon, but with no luck.
The other thing I lost in the snow was where in Equestria everypony had gone. I scanned the biting blizzard quickly, swearing repeatedly in between breaths. First, I found Turnpike running wide-eyed towards his friends. From where he ran I found Foghorn, running towards me worriedly. Lastly, I found Icetooth when his hoof connected sweetly with my jaw.
It smarted, but hey, at least that was the fastest anypony's ever applied ice directly to an injury.
I spun away from the impact and leapt back, but stumbled when I landed and winced at a pressure around my leg. One of the straps had twisted and found its way over my hoof, tightening it. It dangled just above the ground as if in a sling, holding my attention for a few frustrating seconds.
Foghorn hollered and drew his sword as fast as a unicorn can, and we stood on either side of the bandit. He looked about my age – or maybe a bit younger – and he was in tremendous shape. I backed up and my hoof slid off the cliff. A few rocks fell below me but I didn't hear them land.
"I told you to let me go," Icetooth reminded us. He was switching his gaze between Foghorn and I, panting and looking ready to snarl.
"You don't know how captains work," I said proudly.
"We came because your friends requested another cellmate," Foghorn added.
I smiled and nodded to him. "Nice," I said.
He winked at me.
My smile went away.
"Canterlot's prisons have enough of my friends... Don't tell me you let them escape."
"Have you ever visited?" I asked, leaving out the fact that Canterlot's number of prisons wasn't plural. "It's actually pretty nice. Free food, shelter, books.... It's at room temperature... There's no reason to escape, y’know?"
Icetooth gulped and glanced at my hooves for half a second. "I'll pass," he blurted. He then put his head down and charged towards me, leaving Foghorn to rush after him pointlessly. He was going to return the tackle, but I was prepared. One step to the left and I had a move that would subdue him, and it only needed one good foreleg. I lifted it and focused.
"Captain, the cliff!" Foghorn shouted.
I stomped my hoof on the ground and shouted back, "I KNOW there's a cl– oof!"
Icetooth zoomed past me and held onto my neck, pulling me towards the drop. I slipped free at first, but he clasped my braid between his hooves and pulled me back into a headlock, making sure that I went down with him. We were a few meters off the cliff when I heard the second most stomach-turning scream from that night.
"MINERVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaa....."
I get it. If you see your girlfriend get thrown off a cliff in the middle of a huge blizzard, you might feel the need to scream her name in some kind of epic, romantic gesture. But not when it's your ex-girlfriend. And not when she has wings.
Foghorn faded into white as we dropped out of sight. I broke out of the headlock and bucked the bandit’s stomach. After he recovered, his horn glowed with his hooves and he suddenly disappeared above me. I tried to gain balance in the air myself, but when I unfurled my wings I discovered a huge downdraft that just threw me down faster. Thankfully, pegasi like me are a lot better at direction when we’re not standing on the ground, ironically enough. I couldn't slow down, but I could at least tell where the ground was about to be—if there even was a ground.
The wind settled down and I beat my wings as hard as I could, but I still met the snow with my hooves, then my shoulder, and finally my face. I slid more than a meter before I bolted to a stance and scanned the area, planting my ass into a snow bank and finally coming to a stop. The storm was still thick down here, but the winds were calmer. There was nothing but white to my left and right, and in front of me was a face of grey, jagged rocks. You could practically see the snow crawling up its walls.
"Oh, for Celestia’s sake."
The fall gave my scabbard a chance to leave my foreleg even less room to move. I tugged on a loose strap with my teeth, but I only managed to bring my leg closer. I swore and decided not to try pulling on any of the other twenty or thirty thousand bands of leather around me. I instead unhooked the sheath and let it fall to the floor.
A gust of wind brought me to my hooves from behind me, and I swiveled to see an enormous cave winding into the stone. The entrance was at least ten times my height and twenty times my width. In fact, it was so big that the snow had fallen far enough in to cover the ground inside as far as I could see. It seemed a strange place for such a big cave, but then I remembered failing elementary school geography was one of the reasons I joined the knight's academy.
I was gaping at the cave when I heard Icetooth make a landing just as graceful as mine. After a few seconds and a loud curse, he ran out of the storm and skidded to a halt at the sight of me. We stared at each other for a few seconds, panting heavily.
"Let me go," he said, following it up with several coughs and a long groan. He lifted a dagger out of a small sheath on his shoulder and glared.
"Yeah," I said, gradually turning my head towards him, "you know I can't do that."
He took a step back. "You're not in a position to make demands."
I looked at the crumpled leg next to my chest and my complete lack of a weapon. I bit my lip and was reminded of the throbbing spot on my chin. I took a deep breath and answered, "You're gonna find this weird, but hear me out. You're... the one in a bad spot here."
He scoffed with all the self-importance of a Canterlot noblemare. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah, but let's talk about something else. What's your real name, Icetooth? And your cutie mark?"
He shielded his flank beneath his cape. "What's it to you?"
"Whatever it is, I'll bet we can find something you can do in Canterlot. Something productive, y'know? I mean... after you've served some time."
"I'm not going to be one of Celestia's pawns."
"Okay, first off, ouch—second off, I don't know where you get the idea that she's some awful, dictator who treats her ponies like dirt, but she's actually probably the nicest pony in the world. Seriously, you should meet her."
We were interrupted by a vague yell from the sky. I could only make out a few vowels, but I figured out what it said when a flash of steel fell from above and slashed through the snow. The snow, that is, that was in front of Icetooth. The ruby in my sword's hilt sparkled sarcastically at me.
"Nice throw, Hawkeye," I whispered to nopony. I was disappointed that Foghorn didn’t hear me.
"Who's in trouble now?" the bandit asked.
"Still you, actually."
"Oh?"
"Yup. I'd say it's even worse now."
"What… How do you figure?"
"Well I can't tell you."
He gritted his teeth. I hadn’t lied; I wasn't about to give it away by telling him. Actually, here's a tip for any of you who are planning to fight a unicorn and don't want to get killed: Unicorns are cocky as shit. I would be too if I had the ability to grab things from several meters away. Give one a weapon and pit them against a pegasus or an earth pony and they think they're unstoppable. After all, there's no reason to get close—just let the pointy end get the job done.
You know what? I think an example will work best.
This unicorn – suddenly a fan of irony – floated my sword towards me in a position to strike. The whole thing was coated in his brown-ish magicky stuff. I don't know what the name of it is, but I do know that he should only have been holding it at the hilt. He raised the freezing blade high in the air, and from his "safe" distance just ten paces ahead of me he craned his head to make sure he was going to connect properly. He didn't smile or frown at all; he just took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes.
Suddenly, there was something terrifying behind him. I know because I shrank down, opened my mouth and eyes wide and said, "What the hay is that?!" as loud as I could.
Did I fool you? I doubt it, but thankfully you’re smarter than he was. I know, I know, it's the oldest trick in the book, but somepony wrote it down for a reason.
Before Foolish in the Frozen North could curse and turn his head back around, my teeth were already clutching my blade through his mist. It was still cold as ever. He winced in pain and immediately released it, and with a glower he shot the dagger rapidly towards me. Luckily—I mean—just as planned, I had enough time to plant my teeth on my hilt and deflect the dagger above me. I landed, and with a flap of my wings, I spun and smacked it as it came back down, sending it far out of sight.
"Air!" I said through my sword as I touched the ground again. "See wha' I mea'?"
Without skipping a beat, the bandit blew open his cape with a gust of magic and revealed two more daggers on either side of his flank.
"Fun of a witch."
The next step to not getting killed by a unicorn – presuming you completely botched step one and he's now a little more self-aware – is to wait for him to do something stupid. That's actually the same with fighting anypony, though. You see, fighting is a lot like sports: the player or team who screws up the least, wins. Comparing fighting and killing to a sport is kinda messed up and I wished I hadn't written it down now, but these things happen.
"I-i-if you don’t let me go," my opponent shivered, "I'm going to kill you."
See, that's an example of saying something stupid. That's close.
His last two daggers – at least, I hoped they were his last two – came flying at me. I chomped on my sword and blew out some air before smashing the first dagger away and jumping over the second. I spun my sword to my other side and blocked both strikes of his next attack. His knives warped out of my sight and I spun around. When I didn't see them, I jumped forward and rolled as they stabbed the ground from above me.
Sparring with Foghorn had taught me how levitation magic worked. You see, unicorns can either focus on one thing at a time, or they can move everything they're holding in a pattern. I picked up on Icetooth's fondness for patterns, meaning the daggers were always sort of mirroring each other when they flew at me. When his daggers split up and stopped on my left and right side, I knew I just had to dodge one of them.
And when I did, they deflected off each other. One was sent into the snow, and the other disappeared into the cave. I dove to grab the last dagger with my hooves but he withdrew it just before I reached it. There was a brief moment for us to pant and stare at each other.
"Last chance," I breathed.
"Stop talking!"
His final dagger started to circle me slowly. I closed my eyes and exhaled. I shifted the sword in my mouth and felt the ruby in the hilt reopen the scab on my lip. For a moment my anger grew, but I was able to let it go, because in my head, I saw a clock ticking down. Soon, it would be time for him to do something stupid.
3 O'clock.
4 O'clock.
5 O'clock...
I spat out my sword, flapped my wings and shot at him. He gasped and shot his dagger in pursuit. I was no match for its speed, but it was a race I was okay with losing. When I saw his horn brighten, I broke and took a single step to the left, closed my eyes and cringed, ready for the worst.
And then he just screamed for what seemed like an entire minute. It started with a sharp, very low tone. He then stepped back twice in the snow, and his voice sputtered once before crying in a new, much higher pitch. He was definitely younger than me. I heard his body crumple into the snow and struggle to stay still. I didn't want to look, but I didn’t like where my imagination was going.
"Oh, shit," I breathed.
He hyperventilated and slowly brought his hooves to his face.
"It’s okay! It only went in your eye. Doctors can fix that. Just try to relax and—"
The noise stopped. It was probably for the best, I thought. Maybe Foghorn could patch him up before he woke up. Either way, he wasn't getting away now.
Speaking of Foghorn, my mind finally decided to start thinking about my exit strategy. The thin line of sky above me looked like a hassle to get through, but if I stuck to the wall, I figured I could probably climb out. We even had some rope and some recruits I was eager to put to work that could help me get the Cyclops out before sunrise. I breathed in as far as I could and let it out all at once. And for some reason, I found myself drawn to the cave again. I flapped my wings and carried my aching body over to its entrance, hopelessly trying to straighten my leg.
I took a few steps into the snow-ridden cave. It had a small light source far inside in the form of a crystal poking out from the ceiling. I flew up to it and watched it carefully, gradually opening my mouth and blinking. It looked as though a drop of water had trailed down its side, and then turned into snow just as it came off. I shivered and floated back down, shaking my head. Something inside me urged me to explore, but there was a squad that needed to get home.
I looked back outside and my heart sank.
"Where… Where’s the moon?!"
The ravine outside was now darker than the cave itself, and the flurries were now whipping faster than during the fight. I bit my lip and winced, before sprinting back into the storm.
"He’ll be buried!"
I went a few meters in the air and threw my gaze everywhere. “Brown and red,” I said in a panic. “Brown fur, red hair… and blood. Uhhh… There!” A glint of red in the blizzard spurred me forward. The wind threw me into the ground, and when I regained my balance I came face to face with my reflection on a shiny plate of steel standing in the rock. I gasped and slowly turned my gaze upwards, and a bright, red gem sparkled at me once more.
"…What the—"
Icetooth roared and pounced from my right. He collided even tougher than before and shoved my face into the snow, before lifting my chin and slamming his hoof into my head. I grunted and turned onto my back, and he fell on top of me, snaring my hind legs in a vice. I threw a punch into his face that turned into a light slap, and he pushed my good foreleg into the ground, setting my shoulder on fire. He tried to do the same with the other, but he had a bit of trouble with the straps. He was yelling at me like a maniac—not bothering to form full words. His dagger was still dangling from his eye-socket, and his blood dripped into one of my eyes, forcing it closed.
"Stop! Get... OFF!"
He punched me again and fell onto my shoulder. I shrieked in pain from his weight and bared my teeth at him.
"I SAID…"
It was then that I heard a horrible snap in my constrained leg, not unlike a stalk of celery. I hollered and he raised himself up again, trying to give my face another belter but hitting my leg instead. My eyes stung with tears, my ears began to ring out of commission, and my body was electrified. It was like being struck by lightning yet somehow it was my fault.
But as I gritted my teeth in pain and anguish, I found myself loose. I let my leg crumple – now that I was numb to pain – and lunged my head forward. I found a hilt in my teeth, and yanked it loose. He howled into my face, and another drop of blood forced my other eye closed. My teeth felt like they were about to crack on the dagger’s hilt. When I tried to break free again I felt his hooves press against my neck.
The last thing he heard me do was growl. I gave him two seconds to get off me, but I’ll admit, I never quite got the chance to warn him. The pressure grew tighter and tighter, and after the two seconds finished, I found a new place to put his knife.
And that’s step three to not getting killed by a unicorn. Same as any other opponent again, though. I’ve done it before. It's a long story, and I won't get into it, but I've had the experience. Just like the first time, I felt the same, overwhelming emotions. It's a little bit of good, and a whole lot of bad. This time though, there was a lot more blood. My armor was stained with a new colour—fat load of protection it had done me that night.
The pressure on my neck went away, and I took the chance to punch him as hard as I could in the side of the head, knocking him off of me and out cold.
"We’re NOT—!" I started.
My senses slowly came back to me. My ears stopped ringing and I heard myself panting. My nerves came back and my leg reminded me how broken it was the only way it knew how. I turned over and shoved my face into the snow, rubbing it and staining it with red.
"She said we’re not supposed to do that anymore." I finished.
I shuddered and stood up in the snow, before quickly falling down into a sit. Icetooth’s body was completely still now—a small patch of red showing in the snow that was burying him. Maybe it was because it was my second time, or maybe I was still in shock, but I never shed a single tear for him. I just shook my head and lightly pat the snow with my unbroken foreleg.
"I’m okay," I reassured myself.
I shuffled over to Icetooth's body and moved his cape with my fractured leg to see his flank. My scabbard straps finally slid off of my leg and onto him.
"Anvils."
I grabbed my sword loosely and dragged it across the snow, limping the whole way. When I arrived at the cave I stabbed the blade into the ground next to the entrance and cursed in pain. I turned back to the blade—not a speck of blood on it. I thought of all the ways it had let me down that night, and I spat on the ruby. Then I looked at the body in the ravine, slowly being swallowed by the snow. His undamaged eye was slowly coming to a close. I muttered a few more words before turning inside.
My name's Harriet and I'm a griffon born and raised in the town of Hawkthorne. I run the local meat distribution for all the hungry griffons in this town, and I even export to other places in the country. That's right, I run a business. Little old me.
At least, that's how it looks on paper. What I actually run is Hawkthorne itself.
Seriously, though, if you ever find yourself meandering through Hawkthorne and you get your stupid ass mugged in an alley by some scumbag, you could try going to the police. They'd draw up a sketch of the guy as well as you could describe him, they'd run an investigation, then they might find him and they might get your stuff back to you and lock him up in jail for a good while. You could do that.
What you could also do is go to your local meat shop and ask for some help from your good friend Harriet. My boys will be on that mugger's ass in less than two days and he'll be handing you your stuff back with a bloodied-up talon or hoof, apologizing faster than you could well understand what he's even saying. And if we found out you were lying, well, you'd get a similar level of hospitality.
The police wouldn't condone any of that, obviously. Why would they? Vigilantes can get power mad and go out of control and seriously hurt someone and blah blah blah blah BLAH.
Freaking bureaucrats. Never can shut them up.
That is, unless you can get on their good side. How? Simple.
You fill their cravings for grade-A deer, elk, beef, pork, chicken—their mouths water just thinking about this stuff. Even ponies could be sated with a good meal. That's one thing I learned from running this business: Everybody has a price, and it's always way lower than they think.
I inherited the business from my dad. He was a no-nonsense juggernaut of a griffon named Grisham. He built the whole business from scratch on one thing and one thing alone: Family.
It's actually a pretty common thing that you find with griffons from this country. Probably over in Equestria, too. Sure, every creature has some kind of attachment to their family, but none like a griffon. If any shithouse, loose-talking mongrel tried to tell a griffon anything bad about each other's brother, sister, you name it? They'd get a fist full of freshly-sharpened talons right on their cheekbone faster than they can backpedal. Literally or otherwise.
And that's how we damn well like it. Sure, sometimes family can do stupid things and get themselves into shitty situations, but there's no point beating each other up for it. And there's definitely no point siding against them. Besides, if you know you've got your ma, pa, sons, daughters, and siblings sticking out for you, it takes a pretty empty conscience to be an assplug on purpose. And who deserves to go down for shit that wasn't on purpose?
I don't expect any other creature to understand. Growing up with griffons is a pretty unique experience. It's how I got my family values. Just my mom, my nana, and especially my dad. All my life, he's always been there to stick up for the three of us.
He only really had to do it once, though. It was when I was nine.
See, this prick from out of town had got drunk at a bar and talked a whole lot of shit on my nana. Lots of griffons and ponies in town thought she was crazy, and this birdbrain decided it would be a good idea to spread rumours about some shit in our walls that was making us all go nuts. Something-toes. I don't know. Started with an A.
Turns out he wanted to cause a little uprising in the ranks of our employees and somehow find a way of worming his way into top spot.
"Turns out" is a shitty way of putting it. Everyone wanted what we had. Ponies and griffons alike. Only thing was he was the first one who tried.
It was me, actually, who brought it up at the dinner table one stormy, summer evening. The kids at my school had gotten talking and were making fun of me for being scatterbrained. I wasn't scatterbrained at all, but it got me so worked up that I couldn't hide it over supper. Dad got me to confess what had happened pretty quickly.
Mom was silent and still. Nana just kept eating. My dad ripped one last piece of his drumstick, stood up, and at the same time as a lightning's crack outside, he declared, "I know who's responsible for this."
We all heard him clear as a sunny day.
Mom put her talons on his shoulder and pressed him to sit back down, saying, "Don't worry about it. What are dumb rumours?"
"Dangerous," my Dad replied, swallowing a piece of gristle and leaving the rest of his meal on the plate. He kissed my mom's claw, placed it on the table and said, "Thanks for the meal, love. I'm going out for awhile."
A chill went down my spine when he turned to leave. The smile he gave mom just up and vanished in that one half-turn, and the look that replaced it could make the dead turn in their graves.
"Don't get hurt," mom called after him.
"I won't."
He lied.
He was gone for an hour. When I asked mom and nana where he'd went they wouldn't answer me. They just said he'd be back soon and not to worry. I kept staring at his cooling meal on the kitchen table. Mom refused to clear it.
When he did get back, he was soaking wet and beaten up something fierce. His lip was cut open and he had these huge gashes down the side of his face that would never fully heal. His beak was all scratched up and a piece of his neck was missing. Mom rushed to him and nana went to get bandages, but he just smiled and told them it was fine.
"What happened?" I asked him, all scared and confused like the dumb kid I was.
He bent down to me as mom kept rubbing some chemical on his wounds. It must have stung like a bitch, but he didn't have a tell. "Someone was spreading rumors about us, Harriet. I had to put a stop to it."
"What did you do to him?"
"He agreed to leave town." he explained. To this day, I'm not sure how much truth was in that. Definitely not a full measure.
But that was all he said about him. With that, he just walked away from mom and sat back down where his cold meal was waiting for him. He took another big piece off his drumstick and sighed.
My daddy wasn't one to waste food.
I could tell mom didn't agree with any of it. Heck, I didn't either, really. I hated violence when I was that age. I was always the "had to be a better way" sort of kid. I was looking at him like he was some kind of monster.
He noticed, put down his meal and said, "Nobody's gonna make fun of our family anymore, Harriet. That's what's important."
And I said I understood.
A couple strange things happened the next day. The first was that my mom cooked twice as much food as normal. Not just meat, either: Vegetables and carrot-cake like those soft ponies might eat. She even had me help, and wouldn't tell me who was going to eat any of that crap. Certainly not us.
The second funny thing, which got right into explaining the first thing, was that the cops came by. Knocked right on our front door. Two griffons with shiny metal badges and small, blue notebooks.
I was terrified. I though they were taking my daddy away. I thought if they tried he'd fight them right there. I thought he was outnumbered. And if he wasn't, that meant mom and nana getting hurt, too. Or me. If it started, I didn't think it would ever end.
In hindsight, I think the cops were just in to ask some questions about what happened the night before, but they never got the chance. Before they got to open their notes, mom and dad welcomed them inside like they were responding to an invitation. They brought them glasses of wine and coaxed them to the dinner table when they started getting concerned. It was like my parents had been birdnapped and replaced with the most gracious hosts in the world.
That dinner ended up being one of my most important memories. Laughing, drinking, congratulating, it went on all through the night. I even got to stay up late and talk with one of them for awhile about school and my favourite classes. They were awfully nice when they weren't hungry.
We packed up some of the meat for them and gave them the veggies and cake in separate care packages for "their pony friends back at the station." And that was how the family meat business became the best damn company Hawkthorne had ever seen.
That was actually the second time that I realized how important family was to, well, my family. The first time was just a few months earlier, when I asked my nana about my ancestors.
That was when I learned I'm lucky to be alive.
See, my great grandfathers and grandmothers lived in this ancient city far, far away from Hawkthorne called Grifforra. The griffonfolk were prosperous there: They had water, food, shelter, government, an economy, law enforcement, the works! The only problem was that they were sat real close to some prominent dragon nesting grounds. Sure enough, they were attacked.
It was two of them. Males. Enormous beasts that cared so damn little for the smaller species like us. They swooped down and toppled a whole street of buildings, killing several of my own ancestors. Nana couldn't even tell me why they did it. It was like a sport to them, she guessed.
When the griffons of Grifforra brought this up with one of their leaders, things got worse. It was a dragoness by the name of "Minerva" who started a river of tears when she'd heard what happened, apologizing like she'd done it herself. And then, after all those waterworks, she had the gall to then tell the relatives of the victims that there was nothing she could do.
It wasn't that the dragons couldn't be punished. It wasn't that they had run away. No, Minerva just said that carrying out punishment on each other was not the dragon way. And apparently that was more important than several griffon lives.
She offered to set up protection around the city until things calmed down. But the griffons told her to shove her protection directly up her snivelling, green snout. They packed up their things and abandoned Grifforra, splitting up into tribes and making their way all across the world. Lots of them couldn't make the journeys, but there was no choice. They needed to get as far away from dragons as possible to make sure a disaster like that never happened again.
Filthy, gangly beasts. They think their size gives them extra rights over us. They don't know any decency like us griffons do. They thought they were the highest species, but they were the lowest dirt. I have more respect for worms.
When nana told me this cruel story, she followed it up with something even crueller. She said dragons live for hundreds and hundreds of years. They sometimes even capped a thousand.
She said Minerva was probably still alive.
"Perfect," I said.
"Why'zat?" nana replied, cupping her claw to her ear.
"When I grow up, I'm going to find her and make her pay for what those dragons did."
Grandma laughed. She patted me on the head and said, "Good luck with that, twerp."
Now, my family influenced me a whole lot growing up—that much was clear. But there was one friend of mine who also owned a sizeable portion of the things that made me who I am today. He was a pony, of all creatures. And he went by the name of Moose Tracks.
Shortly after the fiasco with the griffon and the cops, my dad made a new friend. This big, grey unicorn carrying a tightly-strung great bow over his shoulders. His "cutie mark", as the ponies called it, was of three sharp-looking arrows wrapped together in golden string.
He said he had a business deal for my dad, and my dad loved business deals.
He said he had a son who'd recently got his cutie mark. Go figure, it was a set of moose tracks. The stallion said he'd discovered his talents as an animal tracker. He said other things, too, like "survivalist" and "woodspony", but he focused a lot on the animals. He said with his bow skills and his son's tracking abilities, he could "increase your company's throughput" or whatever.
I don't know. I wasn't listening. I was busy wondering where he had left the kid.
Of course, my dad took the deal and offered to make the stallion and his son into employees. The stallion accepted, but said to not worry about his son. My dad didn't think it right, but hey, family matters were family matters.
I met the kid when they made their first delivery—ten fully-grown bucks, all with red holes in various vital points on their bodies, all slung across the big stallion's back. The kid was there behind him, head down, not really paying attention to the whole thing. A unicorn himself, he had grey fur and a really, really pale blue mane. It was kind of a miracle I could even see his colours past the dirt and scratches he was covered in. Poor thing looked worn down from the hunt.
I psssst'ed him over. It took a few tries, and even when he noticed me, he still didn't move until I motioned over to myself and whispered 'c'mere' twice.
"Hey. You Dad's new tracker?" I asked him.
"Um. Yeah. I think so."
"Cool. I'm Harriet."
"Moose Tracks. Nice to meet you... Miss."
I scoffed at him pretty hard. "Don't call me Miss. It makes me feel weird."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. Me too."
"Why?"
He blinked. "I've never met a griffon before."
That didn't feel like an answer to my question. I couldn't wrap my head around this kid being raised by the high-walking beast of a stallion that hauled in ten bucks on his own.
Speaking of which, not two minutes into our vastly engaging introductions, the kid's dad turned towards us and scowled at him. It made me gulp, and I wondered if my dad ever scowled at me like that when I wasn't looking.
"Moose!" he hollered, "Come tell the good griffon what you've been meaning to say."
Moose gulped. "Oh... Right," he muttered, before he turned his whole body toward my dad and lowered his head. He blurted as quickly as he could, "I'm sorry I couldn't carry any of the bucks!"
"What the crap?" I asked.
"The bucks," he explained. "I was gonna carry two and my dad was gonna carry eight." His head dropped. "...But I couldn't carry any."
"Whaaaat the crap?" I asked again.
Dad sort of turned his head curiously. "That's... alright, lad." He looked at the kid's dad and smiled. "Maybe next time."
I blew out a quick huff. "How much do you weigh?" I blurted. "You're like ten! How can he expect you t—"
"HARRIET!" my Dad shouted.
I stuttered and sat down. He stared at me with a glare I'd never seen for years. So fierce and dangerous yet so disappointed. I didn't say another word.
I should have known better. Family matters were family matters.
The next few weeks was more of the same. Every other day the two ponies from out of town would bring in several beasts for us to harvest and sell. And every other day the kid would apologize for failing to carry a fully-grown wild animal across his tiny-colt back.
Every now and again I would psst Moosey away from his dad to talk to him. Not that our talks were interesting at all. I just felt like cheering the poor sap up.
It didn't take long for my Dad to offer a local, fancy apartment to the two of them so that they could increase their output. Daddy Tracks wasn't sure at first, but he accepted after a little pushing.
The first night they stayed in that apartment I had recently turned seventeen. Dad and Mom suggested I run down to their place to check on how they were doing and ask if they needed anything. I thought it was a complete chore, but I always did what my parents asked.
When I got there it was already late—the sun had gone halfway under the horizon. I was a few moments from knocking on the door when something crawled out of the alley and spoke.
"Hi, Harriet," it said.
"What the SHIT!?" I shouted back at the mess of a pony crawling out from under some old rags.
"What's wrong?" Moose said.
"He's making you sleep OUTS—"
Moose thrust a hoof in my beak. "SHH! It's okay! Please."
I spit him out and pushed him back. "Watch it," I warned.
"Sorry, just... don't... wake my dad."
I looked Moose up and down, left and right, back to front. Not a single bruise on him. I was shocked. "Why do you let him treat you like this?"
"Treat me like what?"
I swore and spit on the ground. I didn't care about family matters anymore. "Like a pile of trash? He's forcing you to sleep outside!" I hissed.
"I chose to sleep out here."
I scowled. That made it even worse. "Run that by me again?"
Moose held up a small book with his magic instead of responding. There was a little leaf in between the pages. I don't remember what it was, but he held it pretty tightly.
"He bought me this book today. Said it cost as much as one night indoors. He gave me the choice."
I was speechless. I tried to take the book to look closer but he pulled it tighter in.
"I always have a choice," he stated.
And that got me curious.
Moose and I sat against the walls of the little alley the sad thing called a bedroom. We spoke for a few hours. Just when I thought we'd have an actual meaningful talk and I'd break him out of his shell, though, he went back to being his usual, closed-up self.
I tried to press him a little about what it was like growing up in that monster's shadow, but he just gave short answers and deflected like an expert. I didn't get anything out of him worth anything. Just pointless small talk about Hawkthorne. Nothing worth bonding over. But that was because I was doing something wrong. I was asking all of the questions.
I was about to call it a night at the end of a fifteen-second silence. But in that silence, he looked up to me and asked me the toughest question I've ever been asked.
"Hey, Harriet?"
"Yeah?"
"What would you do if your dad died tonight?"
At first I was mad. What kind of a shitty question is that? No build-up? Just hey, what if your dad died? What are the next steps after that little event?
What the hell?
"I..."
I didn't have an answer. I blew out all my air at once in a vain attempt at making him laugh, but he just kept staring at me, patiently waiting for the response.
"I don't know what I'd do," I eventually said, glaring at him.
He lifted his hooves up and squeaked, "No! Sorry! I didn't mean—! I'm not threatening your dad! Please don't—"
"Whoa, hey! Calm down, you psycho. Hadn't crossed my mind."
"I'm... I'm sorry, it's just... It was just on my mind... Like if... If my dad..."
"What would you do?"
He stared at me. He looked blank, but little did I know he was forming a careful answer.
"I would find my mom, move somewhere new and use my tracking skills to help instead of hurt."
"...Shit, huh?" was all I could reply.
I left shortly after.
I spent the whole walk home thinking about that damn question. My dad did everything for me. He was the food on the table, the roof on my head, the damn money that got me my schooling. If he died, I'd be the one to take over his business. And I wasn't anywhere near ready for that.
Here's this ten-or-eleven-year-old kid, and yeah, he's being treated like garbage by his dad, but he has a damn plan. He knows where to take his life if something awful happens. Me? I would probably cry for weeks and run his business into the ground out of grief and a baby's worth of experience.
I got so mad I ripped a fence post out of the neighbour's lawn. I put it back, though.
The next morning I gave my dad a big hug. He asked what it was for but I didn't answer because "you survived the night" is kinda hard to explain. Then I asked him for a job in the business. I asked him if I could help the Tracks with their hunting. He said of course.
I could only help on weekends because I was still in school, but I really looked forward to those days. Hunting with them was a hell of a time. They were just so fast and reflexive. They were a lethal team. The animals they hunted didn't stand a breeze's chance of moving a mountain.
I learnt more about the animals on my hunting trips. I learnt about cuts of meat from my dad. I learned about styles of cooking from my mom. If I was going to own the business someday, I had to damn well be ready.
Years went by and more and more griffons that worked for my dad went on hunting trips with us. The business absolutely BOOMED and it was all thanks to these two freaking ponies of all creatures. Moose and I became great friends, especially when he decided to stop being a mopey freak all the time. Growing up did that to stallions, I guess.
But just as suddenly as he'd come into our lives, we never saw him again. One day after several weeks of nothing from him and his dad, my dad got a letter from Moose saying that his dad had been killed by some disease. Said he passed away in a hospital in some small town on the other side of the Whiteeth mountains and that he was not going to be able to hunt for us on his own.
That was a lie. He could have done it just fine on his own. He might have needed help carrying, sure, but it's not like I wouldn't have done it.
But still, I never saw Moose Tracks again. I wish I had the chance to tell him that he was responsible for getting me prepared to take over the business, but he grew into a smart stallion. He probably figured that out himself.
My Dad retired two years ago as of writing this. The boys had trouble adjusting when I took over, but my dad told me to lead with an iron claw that dishes out everything that everyone needs, and not a scrap more. That worked wonders. I know every employee's name, now, and they all sure as hell know mine.
My dad's so damn smart.
So that's where I sit these days. At the top. Where my family belongs.
Moose still writes every few months or so. I hope to see him again someday. He lives in Morroward now—that town opposite the Whiteeth mountains. He did exactly what he said he would after his father died and more. He reconnected with his mom and discovered a brother he never knew he had. He's even got a wife and a kid now.
I really should start thinking of starting my own damn family. Everyone talks about it like it's the hottest gig in the world.
I like my own family well enough, though. I don't see why I have to invite others in.
Besides. I have bigger things to cross off my list.
And right at the top of that list sits a green, scaly pile of bones of poisoned meat. Minerva. She'd had a lot of time to figure out why she hadn't crucified the dragons that killed my ancestors, and she was going to answer for it. One way or another.
