An alicorn — a creature thought to be myth — is admitted to Whispering Pines General Hospital. The old mare is weak and nears her final breath, but she has one last story to tell...
An alicorn — a creature thought to be myth — is admitted to Whispering Pines General Hospital. The old mare is weak and nears her final breath.
The relentless storm that arrived in the early hours of morning had pounded upon them from all directions. It was only when they had the old mare in the back of the ambulance, and had removed her ragged cloak, did they discover the elderly unicorn had wings.
Now, everypony at Whispering Pines General was watching her through the old mare's window: the doctors, the nurses, the janitors, and even the patients. All had come to see for themselves, to look upon the mare resting beneath a swath of blankets.
Many would not believe it, even with the proof right before them. Others couldn’t even remember the name for such a creature. For alicorns were nothing more than folklore — ancient mythology relegated to fables. Nopony had actually taken them to be real.
But she was there, right before their eyes. A living, breathing (if struggling) alicorn.
She did not have long now; nopony needed to see the doctor’s reports and lab work to understand that.
A deep grey saturated her mane in leaden streaks. A coat, once brilliant alabaster, hung from her frail frame like a sun-washed rug. It was etched with deep wrinkles, the mare wearing her age.
The alicorn lifted her head, mustering the strength to look out at her audience. They sat pressed against the glass, little whispers passing between them, their eyes never leaving her. A few snapped pictures, but they were quickly scolded by the nurses nearby.
With a tired sigh, she rested her head once more. She did not have the strength for such spectacles, not anymore. In fact, she was only concerned with one pony for the moment — the one sitting before her, a pen and pan clutched in his lap.
He was a middle-aged stallion, the first few specks of grey peeking through his light stubble. If he was just as amazed by her presence, he didn’t show it. He was more occupied with jotting down notes on his pad of paper, his eyes sliding across the pages as he peeked over the rim of his glasses.
“Quite a time to caught outside,” he finally said, setting his pen reverently atop his legal pad. The storm was still raging relentlessly, the rain painting the windows with wet murals of droplets caught by the howling winds.
"So—he—talks," the old mare managed, sounding the words out, her voice a gravely rumble of horseness and phylum.
The stallion gave his glasses an unnecessary clean with the corner of his cardigan. They were already spotless. “The medics said you were on the verge of hypothermia," he recounted. " You’re quite lucky somepony stumbled upon you and called for help.”
“I suppose — I am,” the mare spoke, her throat working up and down and her jaw shaking with each syllable. Her voice was surprisingly sweet and soft, soothing to the ears behind its many years. She was drawn to the clouds rolling across the covered sky, a roiling blanket of wind and rain, then back to the stallion by her bedside. “I’m so sorry dearie,” she apologized in a motherly tone. “My memory isn’t what it used to be. What did you say your name was again?”
The stallion adjusted his glasses, placing the frame back atop the bridge of his snout before pulling his chair closer. “I’m Pen Stroke,” he replied, crossing one hind leg over the other and leaning back.
“Oh, right,” the mare feigned, a wrinkled hoof wavering over her bottom lip. “Though, I suppose you have already told me that."
She turned back toward the window, milky eyes alighting upon the town below them. Their lights burned bright in the nestled foothills, standing out against the storm. "This place? What is it called again?”
“You’re in Whispering Pines,” Pen answered dutifully.
“Strange,” the mare pondered, “how such places change over time. For even the ground beneath our hooves has changed so much here as well. The mountain — once the highest in the land — I believe once stood here. Now weathered away to little more than hills,” she said, studying the valley ringed by towering pines. “And you work in this place?”
Pen jotted down a few notes first. “Yes,” he answered, with hardly a hint of emotion. He was a blank slate, a featureless expression hiding any hint of sentiment beneath. “I’m one of the psychologists on staff here.”
“So they sent you in here to talk to me?” the old mare accused him half-heartedly. "Come to pester an old mare? How could I not have guessed."
“We can talk, if that is what you want,” he offered with a shrug.
“But that wasn’t what I asked,” she chided him, catching the hint of deeper intentions in his voice.
Pen couldn’t help but relent. “Yes,” he admitted. "The department heads want me to try to converse with you. To discern who and what you are, if you so choose to cooperate.” He turned to look at the scores of ponies watching the two of them. “But I can understand if you choose not to,” he said, levitating the blinds closed. They were alone.
“I’m an old mare,” she chuckled dryly. “What do you hope to hear in our short time together?” she wondered. Even she was blissfully aware her hour was upon her.
Pen spread his hooves over his lap. “That part is up to you," he cleared his throat, brushing away an imaginary speck from his notepad. "We believed your kind was nothing more than myth before this morning. Perhaps you can leave us with something to recount of an alicorn,” he suggested.
"An account of an alicorn," she scoffed, interrupted by a mild cough. “Where would I even begin?” she sighed deeply, recomposing herself. Her eyes fluttered with an unseen heaviness, though she pressed them open. “I have walked this ground for countless moons, seen mountains rise from the ground only to crumble to dust. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Perhaps with a name?” Pen offered, turning to a fresh sheet on his pad. “You could tell me who you are.”
She waved a hoof. “Even that has been lost to the ages. It was so long ago that somepony called me by my own, that even I have forgotten.”
“That’s ok,” he assured her. “Maybe you can just tell me a story?”
“A story?” she asked skeptically. "Excuse me, young colt, but I don't think you're here just for some story from an old mare like me."
Pen wasn't swayed; the pony never flinched.
The alicorn gave a heavy sigh. "Fine," she glibbed. "What kind of story did you have in mind?"
“Whatever you want," he shrugged. "Doesn’t have to be a memory or even something that actually happened.”
She narrowed her glazed eyes. “Why? Why do you want to hear the mindless ramblings of somepony who can’t even remember what she had for breakfast?”
Pen softly tapped his pad with his writing utensil, his lips pulled into a thin line. “Perhaps it's because I believe somepony who has walked the earth for centuries might have something interesting to say.”
The alicorn gave a sly chuckle. “Only centuries?" she rattled. "My little pony, you really have no idea what I am, do you?”
“I’m all ears,” Pen assured, taking up his pad. “Where would you like to start?”
The old mare searched in her hooves, wringing them loosely. “That’s a hard one,” she admitted. “My earliest memory – it is all so blurry.”
“Take your time,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “It sometimes helps if you picture yourself there.”
The old mare closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the sterile hospital air. “I was running,” she finally said after a minute. “We were running, my sister and I," the alicorn recounted, drawn into the trance of the memory. Her eyes fluttered, half-closed.
We were in the city when it happened, my father with my sister, and me by his side.
Even to this distant day, I cannot forget the sight of the buildings; they soared above us, far higher than anything I have seen since then. Their spires reached above the clouds into the heavens, and their size was greater than mountains.
I don't remember what it was, in particular, we had set out to do in that early twilight, the red sun slowly receding beyond the horizon. Carefree — that is the only word I can describe that first memory — my sister on my father's back, and me loyally by his side. The endless city around us so full of life, it assaulted the senses. And the ponies — like us.
Time: a strange force, it clouds my recollections. My father's face is a blur, his features buried beneath the weight of so many years that have passed. Only his spirit remains, as does the feeling of being close to somepony you love.
Love is a bond stronger than any memory; it does not fade with age or muddle with time. That is the only way I can remember my mother or father, no faces, just a sense of love. I wish I could remember their names.
Which is why, I expect, my father did what he did when we experienced the first blast.
It came from nowhere, a monsoon of hot air and thunderous noise that instantly tore through everything in its path. It struck us where we stood, myself knocked to the pavement, my father holding onto my sister before she could fall from his back. There is no way to describe the force that hit us, just this wall of air that arrived and left in the blink of an eye.
When I finally found my hooves beneath me once more, my ears were ringing terribly, and my chest was burning for air. The blast had knocked the breath clear out of me.
My sister's cries, the filly hardly older than a foal, was the first thing I could make out as the ringing slowly subsided. Father was calming her and pulling me close at the same time. All around us, the other alicorns were as stunned as we were and were getting shakily to their hooves.
Father — there was something in his eyes. Fear, realization, terror; looking back, he had to have known. I was about to ask him what was wrong when the sirens started.
In the distance, over the horizon, a dark cloud was rising into the atmosphere. It burned red and spewed orange firestorms from within it, it's light so bright as to turn away. It roiled and bubbled through the clouds, the whisps of white erased by searing heat that could be felt for miles.
Then we were running; everypony was running absolutely mad.
Luna, my sister, was screaming and crying terribly, and Father was dragging me along. My hooves had been as heavy as stone, for I could barely move out of shock. My whole life, I had never seen so many ponies so afraid.
Enmass, the population clogged the streets and filled the sky with their wings. Except it didn't appear if anypony knew where they were running to. It was madness, ponies crashing into each other and trampling their own beneath their runaway hooves.
Father was saying something as he herded us. It was hard to hear, what with the chaos, the sirens, and the screaming. But I think it was "No." Those same words over and over, a chant he kept repeating.
Now, at this time, I can accurately say it was the most frightened I had ever been. The pony that was my pillar, my rock, Father, was terrified. I had never seen him like this before, which is why I was so scared. What could be so horrible as to shake this invincible pony?
It was only by a matter of luck that we weren't trampled in the stampede. Father had pulled us into a small alley at the base of one the skyscrapers. The cloud of smoke and fire had extended into the sky, spreading its fingers of ash far and wide.
Father was poking his head out of our little hiding spot, looking for something. "Higher," he kept saying. "We need to get higher. It's only starting."
On his back, Luna's cries had softened into little whimpers, and her tears had run out. I can remember my mother's words from time to time, if not her face. 'Take care of you're little sister. You're the alicorn she is going to be looking toward as she gets older. It's up to you to watch over her.'
"It's ok," I tried to tell my sister, drying her face. "It was just a loud noise." But even for my young age, I knew by the way Father was acting, everything was far from ok.
By this point, Father had found what he had been looking for. "There," he told me and pointed.
It was a skyscraper, much higher than any of the others, with a spire of beautiful metal that glowed under the twilight sky. "Hold onto your sister," he instructed me, lowering Luna off his back. He then pulled both of us close to him, beneath his forelegs. "Hold onto me girls, and don't let go," he told us.
I had Luna grip his foreleg tight with me. Her eyes were wide, and she made little hiccups, but she didn't cry.
Father was focusing his magic, the glow of his great big horn encircling us and snapping shut around us with a clap.
Before I could even blink, we were up high, higher than I had ever been, and a cold wind was howling fiercely. Father wobbled on his hooves in the strong gusts, shielding Luna and I from the worst.
We were on the towering building he had pointed at moments before, teleported to a small platform beneath its highest spire. All around us, wires snaked from conduits and lights blinked atop dish-like objects pointed skyward.
From so high up, I can recall seeing the metropolis in all its glory, stretching from peak to peak of the mountains surrounding it. And in the distant, enormous fires where a neighboring city once stood burned.
Everything was happening so fast. Father had his head turned skyward, his horn glowing and his eyes searching among the stars that twinkled in the coming twilight.
Above, I could see streaks, like shooting stars, cutting across the sky. There must have been over a dozen. Father paid little attention to them when I pointed them out; he was more focused on the constellations making their nightly debut.
The 'shooting stars,' not all of them were falling, I soon saw; some were rising, bound for distant lands, leaving behind tails of white smoke and exhaust. I tried to ask Father what they were, but he only shushed me. His eyes were full of stars.
"We don't have long," he told me, in a panic. Many of the objects spewing fire across the sky were descending quickly around us. "There has to be someplace out there. Someplace safe."
The next thing I remember, I was watching as one of the shooting stars fell to earth at the edge of the city, and the world was filled with light — a blinding, consuming light. If my sister or I had been staring directly at it, we would have surely gone blind.
As I blinked away the spots, we were assaulted once more by a shockwave, a wave so powerful as to knock us to our knees. Luna was screaming, and I think Father may have been, too.
The ground was torn asunder by the explosion, a wall of fire racing toward us, vaporizing everything in his path.
Father was pulling us close. His eyes weren't fixed on the light that rushed toward, but another, one high in the heavens. It was a bright star, one among countless constellations in the sky.
"There," he breathed and pointed, his seeking spell falling. I remember him hugging us tightly, tears falling down his face. I had never seen my father cry before.
"Look after your sister," he whispered to me, his mane whipping in the blistering winds that barreled toward us. "It will be up to you to look after her where you are going. Mother and I won't be there to help you. I can only hope it is safe. I'm so sorry," he wept, holding us one last time. "I'm so, so, sorry, my sunshine."
I had no idea what my father meant by those words at the time. All that I knew was that I wasn't ready to leave his side. "Don't go!" I told him, hugging him even tighter before he pulled me away. Luna was petrified beside me. The wall of destruction was growing closer with each second, the skyscraper swaying like a cane stalk in a breeze.
More explosions had touched down around us, the world filled with poisonous fire and burning light that consumed everything.
My father's horn glowed brighter than ever before, and his eyes were pinpointed on the spot in the night sky. "I'm sorry," he kept repeating, shouting to be heard over the roar of the explosion that was pulling the ground up before it. "I'm so sorry, my children. I only wish I could be there with you. The spell — somepony has to stay behind."
The tears were flowing freely down his face. Annihilation was almost upon us, but he stood against it, his magic wrapping around Luna and I. "Always know that we love you — both of you — and that your mother and I will be with you always. Even if cannot see us, we'll always be there watching you."
I wanted to run to him, to stop him. But his magic had us in its grasp. The last image I have of him was the wave of fire rolling up the side of the skyscraper, his back to the mushrooming cloud of the lives of millions of alicorns extinguished, and a city gone. Then, blackness as we were pulled by into a void of emptiness, and the world disappeared.
I would eventually awake, to my suprise, surrounded by trees, the smell of putrid swampy air assaulting my senses. No fires, no falling stars, just trees and the glow of strange bugs that blinked with a dim light in the crisp night air.
Where we were, I hadn't the faintest clue at the time. Everything looked unfamiliar, — foreign and alien. Something croaked in the distance from some puddle of mire, and then more of the creatures joined in with a chorus of deep, bellowing ribbits.
Luna was right beside me, shivering and huddling against me. She wasn't looking at our new surroundings, but rather, at our new night's sky. "S-Stars," she managed to tell me with her limited vocabulary at her age. "Stars."
That was when I looked up and knew, when we both knew, that we were in a place very, very far away from home.
We sat huddled beneath the night, flinching at every peep and rustle in the brush, and gazed upon a sky of stars entirely new to us. No matter how hard I searched that night, I never found a familiar constellation.
Sometimes, when I'm alone and it is dark, I try to look up at the sky and wonder where they are — our parents, where we once called home. And sometimes I like to believe that my father's final image was of that bright star he had pointed to in his night sky, knowing that we were safe.
I watched over Luna all through that first night, alone, in a strange new place, with nopony to call our own. It was only when an orange light, much softer than the sun I knew, lifted above the trees in the morning, that we heard the sound of sompony approaching. They were whistling, and it sounded like they were pulling a creaking cart through the trees.
Whistling, and the tinkle of dozens of tiny, little bells.
"Tell me," the old mare asked, her grey eyes shifting in their sunken sockets. "Where is your home?"
Pen Stroke looked up from where he was writing in his notepad. His pen froze on the paper that was quickly filling up. "I'm sorry?" he wondered, mildly surprised at the story's interruption.
The old alicorn simply smiled and gave a weak chuckle. "Where is home for you?"
Pen Stroke quickly finished his last line in his transcript, flipping to a new page, his attention demanded from his notes. "Where I live?" he repeated. "I have an apartment here in town." He absently pointed a hoof out the window. "Just a few minutes down the road."
The mare cocked a floppy ear. "And you like it here?" She gazed out the rain fogged window at the huddle of civilization down the hill. The high-scale townhouses and tight-knit suburbs peeked out from between the piney trees, like timid wildlife hiding in the brush.
"It's alright," he shrugged, finishing off his last note. "It's rainy most of the year, and we can get some nasty winds rolling off the hills, but it's a nice place to live. Nice ponies."
Droopy eyes narrowed at him slyly. "But that wasn't what I asked," the old mare chided. "I wanted to know where home was. Not where you lived."
Pen Stroke sat back and scratched confusingly at his scruffy mane. The corners of his lips jerked almost imperceptibly, and he inhaled deeply, watching the rain cut absent patterns in the window. "Home," he said, twitching his nose, the stallion lost in memory. "Home is a small farm out in West Bend, just a few hours from here," he replied with a modest grin. "Rural country, a few fruit farms, a few cell towers. Just like anywhere else."
"You grew up there, didn't you?"
"Until the time I left for college," he nodded, standing up from his chair and stretching. He gave a stifled yawn and shuffled over to look out the window. "Do you need a break?" he wondered. "We can get you something else to eat." He nodded at the barely scratched tray of food beside her bed. Applesauce lingered in an untouched cup.
"I'm fine, dearie," she assured him, shifting weakly beneath her mound of blankets. "Tell me more of this place," she begged of him. "Your home."
"What do you want to know?"
The old mare feigned shocked impatience. "I don't know," she scoffed with a small crack of a smile. "Anything really. Describe it for me. Or are you going to keep shrugging me off."
Pen Stroke flinched at the verbal jousting. She may be older than anypony alive, or even their distant ancestors, but she had a sharp tongue.
"It's a modest little place, a few dozen acres tucked where the highland meets the Red Rock River. The house was already there when my parents bought the place, moved in from Central City. It's pretty simple: a rough cut fence around the house, white pine siding, flowerbeds around the front, a big porch that my mom had added on."
"And a bright red entrance door, of course," the old mare quickly added in.
Pen Stroke spun softly on his hooves away from the window. His eyes studied the old mare, his jaw working, chewing over her words.
"Yes, a bright red door," he nodded. "How did you know that?" he wondered, his brows furrowing across his forehead.
"It's a common tradition, even in my time," she replied, resting her head on a propped up pillow. "It's a sign of—"
"Luck," he finished for her quickly, his words coming faster. "That's what my dad always told her. My mom thought it looked out of place and didn't match the rest of the house. But he insisted it was for good luck."
"A smart stallion, your father," she nodded, mane waving beneath her sagging neck. "But don't just describe to me, how the farm looked. I wanted you to tell me about it. What was it like? Were you happy growing up there?"
"Happy?" He blew air through his nostrils, striding aimlessly back to his chair. "I don't think I ever used such a word to describe the place."
"Bad memories?" the old mare ventured.
Pen shook his head. "Never," he breathed. "I never called it happy because it is too simple a word to describe it. It's a different feeling." He struggled to find the words. "It's so hard to articulate. It's safety, security, this sense that everything is alright with the world, absolutely carefree. It's just—"
"Home," she interjected. "The best word to describe that elusive feeling is home," she answered. "Tell me, do you miss it?"
He pressed his lips in a thin line, eyes sinking to the polished linoleum, the elated feeling fading and wilting. "Of course."
"What happened to it?" the old mare wondered. "Home?"
Pen shrugged. "Life, I guess. I moved to college in Southern Reach, got my degree, trained in a few districts. I always went back to visit during the holidays and when I had time between semesters. Mom and dad always had fresh sheets on my old bed every time I came around." He lowered himself back into his chair, the pad and ped resting in his lap, unnoticed.
"And then life caught up," he continued. "The visits became further and further apart. My parents were getting older, as well. I found a permanent job here at the hospital as a psychologist. Had a few relationships, but nothing ever took," he relayed.
"But then dad had a heart attack." He bit his lip. "He had been complaining of chest pains the night before, and I promised I would drive down to check on them that weekend. But it happened in his sleep."
"Mom told me afterward that he lived a full life, that they had made old age together. That he had been able to see me become the pony he wanted me to be." Pen Stroke returned his attention back to his notepad, dismissing the recollection before he could delve any deeper. "Mom went with him less than a year after we buryed him in the back apple orchard. Just like he went — in her sleep."
The old mare waited a minute for the silence to settle. "And what happened to the place?"
Pen levitated his pen, doodling random lines and circles on the corner of the paper. "I had mom buried out back, right next to dad. They had left the farm to me, of course — house and land and orchard. I sometimes travel the old place every few years, see mom and dad," he admitted. "But I never stay. That feeling that you describe," he told her. "That feeling of home. It feels like it left the place long ago."
"But it can come back." The old mare sat a little higher in her hospital bed. "If you give it enough time, it will always come back. Just as it did for my sister and me."
Pen Stroke's attention was relit as the old mare wandered back into her story. He leaned closer, pen ready to write down everything. "The bells," he steered her. "Tell me about the little bells."
"The bells," she smiled, a grin painting her weathered face. "That was who stumbled up and found us at dawn's light after that frightening first night. By the stars, my sister and I hated those little bells," she said with a huff. "He wore such an ugly hat..."
