> Histories > by Anonymous Potato > -------------------------------------------------------------------------- > Book 2: The Pegasus > -------------------------------------------------------------------------- There once lived a King in Anima, the first Kingdom, whom the heavens refused to grant an heir. Though the King was mighty in his power and rich beyond measure, he was of a proud disposition and would not lower himself to prayer. Day and night, he would shout his demands to the skies for a son or a daughte. But the skies were vast, and his voice drowned feebly in the Four Winds. One day, through sheer happenstance, a young mare named Artifex was brought into the King’s court. The mare was bright of mind, and of beauty unparalleled, with rainbows in her eyes. She pleaded with the King: the last of her family had been struck by famine and had driven her to the court in search of respite. Such was her poise, her purity of spirit and delight of manner, that the King warmed up to her instantly. He agreed to aid the family on the condition that the mare remain in his court indefinitely. The King’s wife, Invidia, grew bitter and jealous of the interloper, however. She bade the mountains to take the young mare away. Although equally proud, Invidia was far more insidious than her husband, and feigned feebleness in her prayers. Thus, unlike the King’s haughty demands, the mountains heeded her sinister call, and the young mare vanished from Anima. What Invidia did not account for was, when a young mare disappears, word of mouth spreads. And like the wind with its wings of liberty, the news flew into the coastal town of Spurta. A young farmer, youngest of his late father’s three sons, Pteron, had been on his way from the market when the declaration reached his ears. ‘A lady of the King’s desire lost yet not found. He who finds her yonder, shall riches abound,’ the King’s heralds cried. And much awhirl set the Forum in motion. But Pteron, calm of mind and peace at heart, bolted not like his fellows. He returned to his humble acreage calmly because he knew that the mind runs faster when the feet are slow. His load of seed, corn, rye, olive, and grape, he set down and retired in his yurt for the day, despite the night being young. The next day he returned to the messenger, and was made known of the Lady Artifex' disappearance, of the particulars, to which he replied with a solid proclamation that he knew of the mare’s whereabouts. The lands the King’s men had scoured, the seas, the caves, and left not a stone unturned. But the mountains rose high, higher than anypony could climb. Where could they have taken her thence? The answer was simple: the sky. This satisfied not the heralds of the King. They were akin to the mongoose, diligent with their skins thick and immune to the poison tongue of those who talk. ‘How would the lady be then retrieved,’ they demanded him, ardent caretakers of their coffers that they were. Pteron pondered and said he’d need ten days and then ten days more. It was him given but was told to hurry, for if he could do it in days twenty, a more able kinsman would surely in a fortnight. Pteron left the Forum in a storm and swore they better pray the hypothetical kinsman would, for if he were to find the mare first, she would not be let back into the King’s court. For the first day, Pteron prayed. As he was not of noble blood, a mere pedestrian, he was ignored. The second, third, and fourth he meditated. From the fifth day on, he realized he wouldn’t find a solution inside his yurt. Pteron wandered around his farm. Unlike his older brothers, who’d inherited his father’s gold and his trade, he’d been left with his land, meager and barren. Still, he did come across some reeds, hollow, light, and durable. On the shadowy side of a small hill, he found a small patch of cotton trees swaying. Their twine proved likewise durable and malleable. On the dawn of the tenth day, he sat by the seashore, staring not into the horizon but into the froth of the sea. The waves lapped at the coastal rock, and a warm breeze blew up in his muzzle, sending his mane billowing. As he watched, there! by the surface! he spotted a glimmer unlike that of the reflecting splendor of the rising sun. In tiny droplets, it skimmed off of the water’s surface. A school of fish leaped up and out of their watery demesne. They shot up from the waves like javelins from a spearman’s forehoof and fluttered airborne, catching in their mouths the low-flying insects. On their backs, they had thin, flat membranes that carried them aloft in the dawn breeze. That was when Pteron realized that if he wasn’t able to fly himself, the winds would have to carry him. At first, he tried to makeshift himself wings by sticking feathers onto himself, and in doing so, only managed to scare off any birds trying to feast on his crop. At the insistence of a by-traveling sailor, he tried cloaking himself in sailcloth, hoping that an updraft would lift him up. No such wind came. Many of these and many more local novelties he tried. A winged dreidel required too much strength, a kite lacked a proper means of navigation. He ended up wasting the last of his bits on a mish-mash of wooden gears and wheels in the facsimile of an avian. Pteron went back to his farmstead and sought out the patch of reeds by the shore. He spent the day reaping the reeds of all different sizes and drained them of their sticky sap. He went out to the side of the hill and picked every ball of cotton hanging from the trees, and when he was done, he cut the trees, turning their brambles and sticks into twine. The following days, he processed what he had cultivated: made the cotton into sheets, spun the twine into rope, hardened the reeds with lining until they couldn’t be hardened any more. As the change came incrementally, he never saw it come over him. His hooves hardened, calloused from the labor. His back straightened and tensed. He lost weight, for he allowed himself no more respite than that of a sip of water in order to stave off his draught. From morning to evening, he worked until sleep finally overcame him and whisked him away to dreams of a cloud by the night sky, where sat a mare with rainbows in her eyes. The final three days of preparation, he spent working and reworking the materials into the wooden likeness of a bird’s wings, sticking them to his back with the gluelike sap. By the dawn of the nineteenth day, he was ready. Pteron stood on the cliffs by the seashore, watching the fish skip on the surface. The rising sun reflected off of their backs, making the water shine and sparkle like gold. With the wind in his nostrils, he spread his wings and leaped. For what was but a moment, he was held aloft, unbound by gravity. The weightless feeling was akin to nothing he’d experienced and could only be described as like that of a dream. As if he was completely removed from his body and all its faults. Then the wind slammed into him, pushing him back onto the dirt of the cliff. Pteron lifted himself up, stared into the sunrise, and jumped again. Like fighting an impenetrable wall, all the more humiliating for it being intangible, he wasn’t allowed more than a pony’s length away from the cliffs. Over and over, he leaped, lunging for the open air. The Four Winds looked on from above with disinterest. As the stallion kept up his feeble attempt, however, they started fighting amongst themselves. ‘A pony’s rightful place is on the ground and not in the skies,’ stormed Boreas. ‘One has already been sent here by the mountains,’ blew the capricious Zephyr. Much like their arguments, the winds buffeted the very earth. But then the smallest of the Minor Winds, the Wind of Change, whispered in the first one’s ear. ‘To return the balance, have the second pony return the first to the ground.’ This idea suited the old-fashioned Northern Wind. He roused such a stormy gale that it tore reeds and cotton shrubs from their roots. When Pteron coiled his legs for one final jump, he found himself not pushed back into the ground but rising from the cliff up into the clouds. The open-air welcomed him. Carrion eaters, sparrows, seagulls, messenger pigeons speeding afar from one town to another, albatrosses gliding inland from across the sea, the humble peasants of the sky greeted him as they flew by. The Kingdom of the Winds was vast, greater than all the land from here to eternity, and it would have taken him a lifetime to arrive at his destination had the Winds not guided him there. They dropped him off on a cloud at the roof of the world, where sat a beautiful mare, graceful and demure. Artifex was seemingly surprised to find another pony in the skies. She offered him her condolences, saying she was sorry that the Winds had imprisoned him like they had her. Pteron swiftly corrected her. He told her his tale, and her surprise only seemed to grow. But when prompted to return to the palace with him, Artifex adamantly refused. No-one else had been aware of it, but during her stay in the court the King and Queen had not been kind to her. In truth, the mountains had done her a favor by taking her away. Artifex disdainfully pointed at the edge of the clouds, whereon a crimson colt lay, tugging at the cloud yet failing to grasp its silver lining. The young mare had birthed the King a son, one whose eyes had beheld the silver linings on the clouds, the golden rim of twilight, and the brass gleam of the sun over water. That son, who had seen such beauty, would eventually become the most avaricious of Kings, aptly named after his greedy bird-like croaks: Crowsus. Pteron pondered. He had by no means forgotten the belittling words of the King's Heralds, nor his own proud proclamation. He decided to offer the mare a plan; he’d lie to the King and let the mare remain and take the son in her place. Artifex accepted for she had no more love for her wicked son as she did the prideful King. But when Pteron set out to leave, the mare asked him to stay. As she told it, she’d been been alone for so long, long even before her exile. She longed for intelligent company, and as was her curious nature, wished to hear more about his peculiar wings. As the wind was buffeting, impatient, the clouds made a safe haven in a storm. Pteron decided to remain until it was night, when the Four Winds were asleep, before gliding down. Pteron stood at the gate to the palace, the young colt in tow, and the sun at his back. It was the dawn of the twentieth day. Pteron presented the court with the colt, whom they agreed could only be the King’s son, for their eyes were much too alike. Him they demanded for the whereabouts of the mare, whom he then claimed to have perished. For what could have been there to sustain her when no food or water grew on clouds? This brooked no further questions. Ground-bound, the heralds were naturally unaware of the life that could birds, insects, and bats bestow; and unthinking of where all the rain comes from. Pteron gazed up at the throne and allowed himself to feel disappointed. The gilded linings were gleam, off-color to him. The platinum and the silver shone opaque. The steel looked sharp but ultimately unwieldy and useless. Still, he prostrated himself at the hooves of the mighty King. “Are you the pony who has returned me my son?” the King asked. “Yes, my Lord.” The King ignored his reply and turned to his advocates, who begrudgingly verified his words. “And you wish to be rewarded?” “Yes, my lord.” “Let it be known that I’m nothing if not a generous ruler. Despite not fulfilling your quest, I shall reward you. Name thy price.” “My lord, I request a prayer to the Gods.” “A prayer?” “Yes, my lord. For, while arable, the land of my father’s is prone to the whims of the skies. When the ground is parched, I am given nothing but sunlight. When flooded, rain. When the ground is frozen, the wind tears away any little warmth still there.” Pteron raised his gaze. “All I ask is that you pray. Because when a King prays, the Gods are sure to listen.” “I see." The King sneered. "Would it suffice I grant you the power to change the weather to your own liking?” Pteron paused, confused, before voicing his acceptance. The King rose to leave. “Then it would appear I have already parted you with my boon.” Pteron rose up to object, but the King only pointed at his flimsy wings, at the sap dripping from the reeds, at the dented and emaciated cotton webs and shedding feathers, made a dismissive gesture, and then left. That night, Pteron went home and dreamed of open skies, high heavens, and the mare with rainbows in her eyes. She lay on a cloud lined golden by the sun, her hooves crossed and her eyes closed. He couldn’t hear for what she prayed. In the morning, he woke up hungry. His fields were barren and scarred. The plow lay where he’d left it amidst the untended crops. The once blanket-like mattress of oat had withered, died in a struggle against an inedible army of weeds. The ground crunched underhoof, dry down to bedrock, as he circled, not like a farmer, but like a vulture circling a carcass. The land was covered in a shade, while the clouds hanging above refused to shed their water. Pteron hitched himself to the plow but found himself too skinny and powerless to pull. The ground was stiff with the cold, and the plow remained stuck to the crust of the earth. Something rustled at his side, and Pteron was taken by a violent fit of anger. He reached into his back and tried to wrench his makeshift wings off. He tugged, and he pulled, shedding blue feathers and fur, but soon found that he couldn’t. With every pull, he was met only with a violent twinge of pain. When Pteron then looked in close and noticed that the sap and cotton had turned into fur and feathers, the reeds into bones, and the twine into pulsating veins, his anger turned to wonder. He took to the skies. Some say that his take-off was of such unbridled joy that he left a ring of rainbows in his wake. And no matter how the mighty Winds tried, they were no longer able to force him back down. The mare with rainbows in her eyes smiled on from above and thanked the Gods. She would pass their tale on to their many children, living both of the open skies and the resplendent land. And from then on, it has been said that the skies belong not to the Kings, Queens, Princes, and Princesses of Anima, who may hold to their name the land, the seas, the riches and the might, but to the Pegasi, who’d gone out and earned their wings. The End.