Imagine, if you will, the experience of spending the better part of five decades sleeping on surfaces ranging from light cots that were little better than planks to stone slabs to rot-covered dungeon floors. Imagine further that, in that time, the softest surface upon which you had slept was the sands of the desert, but that your sleep had often been restless under such conditions because of the fear of attack in the night.
Now imagine that, after all that time, you found yourself sleeping on a mattress large enough for a king and plush enough to cushion a fall from a castle wall. To say that the experience would be unusual would, at that point, be redundant.
All of which is to say that Jacques found it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. Not so much because he did not want to get up, but rather because his sleep-addled mind found it challenging to position his still weak limbs in such a way as to extricate himself from the distressingly cozy embrace of the mattress and blankets. By the time he actually swung his legs over the side of the bed, he felt like he’d just fought a wrestling match with a cuddly bear.
Defeated by a mattress, he thought with a smirk. What an ignominious end that would have been. He could not complain about the rest he’d received, however. His body felt far better than it had the day before, and his thoughts were the clearest they’d been since arriving in this strange land. Glancing out the window and realizing that the sun had not risen yet, he considered going back to bed, but rejected the idea out of hand. I must return to the discipline of the Liturgy of the Hours; without my brethren around to keep me regimented, extra care must be taken. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. I suppose I could invite folk from amongst the ponies to join me, but… no, he decided, recalling an experience praying alongside an Eastern Rite Catholic. To do so would be akin to the confusion of that poor Maronite multiplied a hundred-fold.
Based on the light of the sun that had just begun to invade through the curtains, he guessed that he’d already passed the early hour of Lauds, but not yet Prime. Lacking the sound of a bell to mark the time, he decided to simply pray from one directly to the next, with Mass between, trusting that God valued his piety over his precision under the circumstances.
Considering that he did not want to risk Redheart’s ire by walking around too much first thing in the morning, he cast his gaze about searching for a suitable implement with which to support himself. To his surprise, he found an implement quite well-suited to the purpose: a walking stick. Cut from a stout wood that he could not identify and beautifully polished, it was too perfectly sized to have belonged to any of the Apples. Meaning that one of them must have cut it for me yesterday and left it in here for me; I simply did not notice. How profoundly considerate of them.
Rising to make his way over to his impromptu altar, he faintly recalled falling asleep on his knees. It wouldn’t be the first time. But then, how did I get to bed? His mind conjured up faint images of his sister Jeanette easing him off the floor. Which seems highly unlikely for a number of reasons, he chuckled. The thought did shed some light on the incident, however, as Jeanette, God rest her soul, had been blonde. This suggested that Applejack had been the one to come to his aid last night.
Putting aside his speculations for now, he once more knelt to say his prayers, making a quick entreaty to God that he have the strength to rise afterwards. Without the need to homilize or serve a long communion line, the mass was short, and even Lauds and Prime were made brief by his solitude. As at the hospital, he sang the hymns under his breath as the dawn brightened outside.
As he finished his final hymn, he became aware of another voice raised in song. The voice was female, rich in emotion and haunting in beauty. The words were soft, and he doubted that he would have even heard but for the utter silence of the morning. With slow reverence for the angelic quality of the singer, he let the sound guide him to the source, taking him across the room to the window. He pulled aside the curtains with caution, lest he alarm whoever was singing.
Outside, seated on a patch of grass several yards away from the house, was Morning Song. The mare was watching the sun as it crept over the clouds. She had dispensed with her armor, and the rays of dawn transformed her white coat to a pale golden hue. From his angle he could see that her eyes were closed as she raised her voice unto the heavens.
The music was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic, and he found himself sitting on the windowsill to listen.
The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
As she sang her voice rose in triumphant, hastening, defiant crescendo, the repetition to which she built sounding like a warcry in spite of the muted tones with which she sang.
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!
Shall praise thee!
Shall praise thee!"
The triumphant notes hung in the air, and for a moment, Jacques thought that the song had concluded.
Then the next verse came, soft and slow, and full of grief, her voice almost breaking with emotion on the third word.
The Minstrel fell, but the tyrant's chain
Could not bring that proud soul under;
Jacques felt a tug at his heart as he returned to the last moments of his tortured brethren. Tears formed in his eyes as he felt afresh the painful honor of witnessing their defiance. As though sensing his distress, tears ran from her eyes as well.
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder.
Just as it seemed that the lament would be overcome with grief, a deep, swelling note of somber triumph rose from her soul, lifting the song from the dead unto what the dead had died for.
And said "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!"
Such was the beauty and emotion of the moment that Jacques sat in stunned silence for a moment, unable to even wipe the evidence of passion from his eyes. When he regained his composure, he wasted no time seizing his walking stick and heading downstairs.
While he was eager to make his way outside, he was not so foolish as to force himself at a pace that would earn him a painful trip to the floor. As such, he had plenty of time to take stock of the fine craftsmanship of the Apple home. Or ‘craftponyship’ I suppose. That will take some getting used to. Among other things he noticed a wall clock, the small hand of which lay between five and six; assuming that it functioned the same as the hospital clocks had, that meant that it was not even time for Prime yet. Well, Lord knows I tried to be punctual.
The trip also gave him time to consider Morning Song. Based on what Medevac had told him of the ponies’ so-called ‘special talents’ and this morning’s performance, he would have assumed that her special talent lay in singing. Yet she told me yesterday that she is a ‘psychologist’ by training and avocation. And now she is a soldier. What manner of soldier is she if her talent is music and her profession the mind?
Eventually winding his way outdoors to where he’d seen Song, he had one of his questions answered. Still armorless, Morning Song was running herself through what he recognized as unarmed combat drills, throwing punches, strikes, and kicks in the formulaic dance of a practiced martial routine. Ah. A warrior bard. Naturally.
Taking a moment to rest before crossing the distance between them, he observed the mare’s technique. It was a peculiar hybrid of the bucks, kicks, headbutts, and trampling techniques that warhorses were wont to use and moves that resembled something more akin to boxing or grappling. With bewildering swiftness she switched between fighting on all fours to fighting on her hind legs. Most of these latter stances were eerily human, some resembling techniques with which he was familiar while others had a more acrobatic and flowing style than what he’d learned in the West.
After a time, she paused in the middle of her exercises, panting slightly from the exertion. She addressed him without turning to look. “You’re up awfully early for a man half dead, Friar,” she observed. Glancing over, she gave a cheery smile. “No need to stand on ceremony. Come on over and sit down. I’ll grab you a seat.” She trotted over to the nearby barn to fetch a crate.
Making his way across the grass, he replied, “I didn’t wish to disturb your training. I knew many knights who could become quite… irritable when their practice of arms was interrupted.”
Song chuckled as she pushed the crate over for him to rest on. “Yes, well, I think you’ll find that I have a very high threshold for annoyance. Which is why I haven’t busted Krucjata down to buck private.”
Jacques smirked as he sat. “Yes, he does seem quite, shall we say, un excentrique. Though a good soldier, I’d imagine.”
“Very good,” replied Song, sitting on her haunches in front of him. “He might look like a beggar, but he’s one of the most bloody-minded stallions I’ve ever met. Which, in my profession, is saying something.”
In your profession… which one I wonder? he pondered, still not sure what to make of the pleasant mare. He decided he needed to know more. “I heard your singing this morning.”
She winced. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No need to apologize,” he said hastily. “I was already awake for my morning worship and, even had I not been, there are far more unpleasant awakenings than your angelic voice.”
Song blushed slightly. “That’s kind of you to say, Friar, though if you want I’ll take greater care to move farther away from the house in case you want to sleep. I only picked that side of the house to watch the sunrise and because the Apples all sleep on the far side of the house; I assumed human ears weren’t as sensitive as ours.”
“They likely aren’t, but I’m glad I heard you. It was…” he thought back to the experience and felt his throat tighten with emotion. “It was truly exceptional. Quite moving indeed. Is it…” he hesitated to broach the topic, but reasoned that he needed to learn about the soldiers he might well end up fighting alongside. “Is it a song of your own creation?” Based off your own losses, he didn’t add.
She shook her head. “No. The song is from an old war, one even older than the Reign of the Royal Sisters.” He nodded, recalling some of the brief history of the land that Twilight had taught him the night before. “Back when the Three Tribes were still at odds with each other, most of the earth pony realms were subjugated by the pegasi and unicorns. But the earth ponies of the warrior clans to the north continued to fight, in spite of famine, fire, and massacre. ‘The Minstrel Boy’ was a song of defiance against tyranny. After the Unification, it remained popular amongst the soldiery and eventually became incorporated into the united military forces of Equestria.”
“An admirable thing that your three peoples have all come to adopt a song which once spoke in defiance of two thirds of your number. You seem a rather forgiving people.”
The pony chortled. “Well, we’ve had over a thousand years to get over our pettiness, but we try.”
Jacques nodded, thoughtful. Song has answered his spoken question, but given more of a history lesson than an answer to his deeper inquiries. Deciding to be more direct, he changed tack. “Morning Song, I hope you’ll forgive my lack of understanding, but I am a little curious about your own story.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “You want to know why and how a pony whose special talent appears to be singing ended up as a War Dog of Celestia.”
The friar frowned, suddenly concerned. “Are you certain you are not a mind-reader?”
Song laughed. “I promise you I’m not. I’ve just heard that question more times than I can count. It wasn’t hard to guess.” She stroked her chin. “As to the ‘how,’ special talents aren’t as narrow as they often first appear. Many, including ponies, tend to assume that they only represent a single specific ability, but they’re often more conceptual. For instance, my talent isn’t singing by itself. It’s tied to what singing accomplishes.”
Jacques’ brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”
Song tilted her head to the side and her jaw twisted in such a way as to suggest that she was chewing on her inner cheek. After a moment’s pondering, she asked, “Friar, what is music?”
He blinked. “I’m… sorry?”
“What is music?” she repeated. “Is it merely melodies created with instruments and voices, or is it something… more?”
Jacques sat back and considered this. He recalled the emotions that had coursed through him as she sang of the minstrel; the comradery of a ballad on the campaign trail; the mixed grief and consolation of a funeral dirge; the tenderness of a mother’s lullaby; the revelry of a tavern song; the ecstasy of the Divine Praises. And so I begin to see. “It is more,” he replied at length. “Much more. Passion and love and sorrow and joy; life and beauty given form in the very air.”
Song quirked a smile. “You have a bit of a poet in you, Friar Jacques.” He spread his hands modestly. “But you’re right; music is so much more than mere sound.” She rose and fetched a bundle that she’d stashed nearby. Opening it, she began pulling out her armor one piece at a time, spreading them out on the grass between them. “Life and beauty, as you said.” She pulled out a rag and a flask of polish and began cleaning her kit. “And what is life without both joy and sorrow, birth and death?” Her hooves went about maintaining her armor with mindless precision, but though her polishing was thorough he could see that her eyes weren’t tracking what she was doing. She may as well be blindfolded. “Ever since I got my cutie mark, I’ve learned each and every day that music is so much more than we often make it out to be.” She looked up and gave a smile that was at once somber and content. “So too am I.”
The old man stroked his beard in thought. True enough, young warrior. “Yes, Medevac explained to me that the true nature of one’s special talent can prove multi-faceted. Yet I still confess some difficulty in wrapping my head around it.” He waved a hand through the air. “Ah well. Perhaps it is something only time shall cure.”
His remark elicited a long pause in Song’s work as her gaze narrowed in contemplation. After a moment, she resumed her work, remarking, “I could tell you the story of how I got my cutie mark, if that would help.”
Her offer gave him pause. It was less what she said, and more the long silence that had preceded it. “I wouldn’t want to pry,” he said carefully. “I know the princess asked you to help me learn about this world, but I wouldn’t dare take undue advantage of that fact. If such things are private matters amongst ponies, there is no need to share it with a man you scarcely know.”
Song gave a half-smile. “That’s kind of you to say, Friar, but I wouldn’t have made the offer if I wasn’t comfortable. And, yes, I happen to be an anomaly amongst most ponies in that I’m fairly private about mine but,” she winked at him, “I feel I have a good enough measure of you to tell the tale.”
Casual though her tone was, Jacques was not fooled. This was not a matter she brought up lightly, whatever she said. “Well,” he said with a humble dip of his head, “thank you for trusting me with your confidence.”
Retaining her half-smile, she began her story, eyes on her armor as she continued to work. “Most ponies get their cutie marks when they’re around Applebloom’s age, just shy of adolescence, if not younger. She and her friends are actually on the late side of the average, but still within the expected range.” Setting the completed helmet aside, she moved on to the peytral. “This was not the case with me. I was nearly an adult when I got my mark.” She glanced up. “Am I correct in guessing that human children and youths have the capacity to be quite cruel when they set their minds to it?”
Jacques recalled many moments of his youth that he was not proud of. “Quite.”
“Well, ponies are no different. Any filly or colt whose mark comes in a little late is bound to get teased and bullied. If your mark’s still not there when you’re getting ready for university… well…” she gave a mirthless chuckle. “Let’s just say that after I learned to fight back against the physical bullying, their verbal abuse became more creative.” Song paused her polishing to contemplate the grass, a wry twist in her lips. “I suppose in hindsight I’m thankful for the bullying, as it taught me to fight back against more than one kind of attack, quite a useful skill given…” she gestured to her armor. “Still, at the time I was in a pretty low place. My family and friends were nothing but supportive, of course, but, well,” once more she glanced up with a grin, “sometimes we can just get in such a funk that we sort of forget all the good things, can’t we.”
It wasn’t a question. Jacques nodded soberly. “The dark night of the soul,” he replied, “when no comfort seems to pass through, even when the comfort is truthfully there.”
“Precisely. That’s where I was to a T.” Jacques had no idea what that expression meant, but was able to guess from the context. “Anyway,” she set aside the peytral to move on to the flanchard, “one day I needed to clear my head. My favorite thinking spot was down by the river, where this big stone bridge crosses over the water; there’s an inlet underneath the bridge where you can sit in the shade and just…” Song swept a hoof out to paint the scene, “watch the water pass you by.” The mare paused her cleaning, letting the memory wash over her. “I always loved that spot. Logs and debris would often get caught under there, marring the current, but the river always flowed on until they were washed away. Sometimes it’d take days, weeks, even months and years, but in time all yielded to the water. It helped me remember that my problems were like these logjams; they might mar the entire river for years, but in the end are washed away like all the rest.”
A beautiful sentiment, thought Jacques.
“Well, this particular day I apparently felt like singing. To tell you the truth, I can’t even remember what song it was. Knowing how I was feeling it was probably something about weathering storms or triumph through tragedy, but it could have been a drinking song for all I can recall.” Chuckling, Song moved on to cleaning the crupper. “Whatever the case, when I finished the song and looked down, I had my cutie mark.”
Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” shrugged Song. “I couldn’t make any sense of it at the time. I was rather annoyed, to be honest. I’d sung under that bridge hundreds of times before that and it never appeared. But, there it was. So, naturally, I celebrated. Held a party, invited everypony I could think of, the whole shebang. When I went off to college I pursued a career in music, performed locally in choirs, bands, and solo shows… it was a good life,” she smiled fondly at the recollection. “I made a decent living and it always brought me joy to see how my music had the power to move hearts. And yet, in spite of all that, I felt empty. Well,” she amended, “not entirely empty; just that something was missing.”
The crupper now sparkled in the rising sun, but Song did not pick up the next piece of armor. “Then, one day, I found out what.” Her tone was so soft that Jacques almost didn’t hear it. “I’d just finished a show at a restaurant when a stallion came up to me. He was gaunt, with a stooped back, like he’d been carrying a heavy burden for too long. He asked if he could have a moment of my time. I didn’t have anywhere else to be, so I went over to his booth. At first I couldn’t really tell what he wanted, though he complimented my singing a number of times, but then he…” she shook her head and Jacques could have sworn he saw moisture in her eyes, “… he broke down sobbing. And he told me a story.” Her eyes met his, and now Jacques was sure that they were tears. “You see, Friar, many years before there had been a tragedy down by that river that I loved. I young filly had been out playing with her father. They were playing hide-and-seek and, after a while, he couldn’t find her.” She dabbed at one eye with a hoof. “It was days before they finally found her… washed up by the side of the river.”
“God have mercy,” murmured Jacques, horrified.
“Her father was wracked with grief, of course,” she continued. “It was an accident. Horrible as it was, it was only an accident, but try telling that to a father. It seems that one day he felt that it was just too much for him, so he went down to the bridge and stood on the edge, high above the raging waters that sweep all things away.”
Jacques’ heart ached for the poor father. To have lost so much… even any sense of hope… that poor soul.
“He was ready to jump, but,” Song sucked a breath in, “it seems that just then he heard a voice, a filly just turning to marehood, singing beneath the bridge.” The friar’s eyes widened. “He couldn’t bring himself to jump in front of her, so he waited. And listened. And, by the time the singing ended, he’d stepped back down from the ledge.”
Letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in, Jacques exclaimed, “Laudate Dominum! Praise God!”
Song let out a long sigh and stared off at defocus. “It was incredible, the fact that I happened to be under the bridge just then; that I happened to be a depressed blank flank who needed to sing to cope with the bullying; and then, years later, after counselling and support helped him get his life together, he happened to be eating lunch at the spot I was performing so he could show me my purpose in life. It’s the sort of thing that really makes you believe the stuff they teach you about things happening for a reason.” She shook her head, as though still unable to process it all. “Incredible.”
“Providential,” added Jacques. She nodded. “So, this is what set you on the path to being a, how you say, psychologist?”
“More or less,” said Song. “I changed the course of my studies from music to psychology and signed on for another few years to get my Master’s Degree and open a practice. Of course, my family isn’t exactly wealthy, so I went through the Reserve Officer’s Training Corps to pay for my schooling, which left me with a Second Lieutenant’s Commission in the Reserves and,” she chuckled, “also set in motion the chain of events that would lead to me wearing this uniform. More strange happenstance, I suppose.”
“The Hand of Providence was at work, no doubt,” replied Jacques, “but how exactly do you mean in this case, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Song resumed cleaning her armor, this time working on the guards which covered not only her hooves but, now that he noticed, her pasterns and cannons as well. And with a rather heavy metal at that. I do not recall the other soldiers having guards that covered that much. The friar could only speculate as to the reasons for the difference but, as Song had begun speaking once more, he resolved to ask another time. “I opened a practice relatively close to the borders, in a region where our neighbors aren’t exactly the kindest.” She scrubbed at the guard with a vigor approaching harshness. “I spent most of my days helping war veterans, civilians, and refugees suffering from trauma. As time went on and my name became known to the REF, more and more difficult cases were sent to me because of my expertise.” The guard was now clean, as far as Jacques could tell, but, apparently, she still saw some imperfection in its surface, as the scrubbing did not slow. “Most of these new patients, a few other species but mostly ponies, had been trafficked.” She spared the briefest glance in his direction. “Slaves.”
Jacques felt the familiar chill of righteous outrage stiffen his back. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh,” she grimaced. “I… I did what I could to help them patch up their psyches and move on with their lives.” Her polishing halted, and she stared at the guard for a moment with the scrutiny of one seeking to root out the stain of imperfection before setting it down and picking up the next one. “Some fared better than others, but I think I helped them all to some extent.” She fell silent after that, and remained that way for some time as she continued her work. Jacques was loathe to upset her, and said nothing. As she cleaned the fourth hoof guard, her story resumed abruptly. “It was around that time that I met Argent. She knew my work and trusted me. The captain and her command were trying to crack down on a particularly vicious slave ring. All slavers are a particular kind of deplorable, but this lot was, as Argent put it, ‘especially wretched’.” Song smiled, but it was without warmth. “She’s always had a way with insults. Anyway, one pony that Argent rescued knew something about where the slavers would strike next, but she was too traumatized to speak to the soldiers because… well…” she swallowed, “anyway, I spoke her tongue and I didn’t look like a soldier so I talked to her and… and I…” she blinked several times, then turned to him with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Friar, but I may become quite angry if I talk about what I learned that day, and I think it would be best if I told you another time.”
Jacques held up a reassuring hand. “Pray, do not apologize!” he exclaimed. “The peddling of flesh is a damnable offense, and I do not wish to grieve you by asking after something that is not my business!”
Song gave him a sunny smile. “That’s most kind of you, Friar.” Finishing the last piece of her armor, she began repacking her bundle. “At any rate, that was when something woke up in me, the same as it did when I met that father years before.” Her smile remained, but there was steel in her blue eyes. “I realized that it wasn’t enough for me to just patch them up when they came to me. I needed to keep them from getting hurt in the first place. It wasn’t enough to be a healer. I needed to be a soldier.” She smirked. “Something that a Hospitaller can appreciate, I’m sure.”
The monk waggled a hand from side to side. “In truth, I was always a poor healer,” he admitted. The two shared a chuckle.
Putting aside her bundle, Song struck one hoof against the ground. “Well, there you have it, Friar. The tale of the singing psychologist soldier. A regular Renaissance Mare, if I do say so myself.”
The term ‘Renaissance Mare’ went clear over Jacques’ head, but that didn’t surprise him at this point. “Well, I must say that you’ve risen far in my estimation, Lieutenant Song,” he remarked earnestly. “Many times you have answered the call to love and compassion, so naturally that you do it without realizing. We should all be so lucky as that stallion on the bridge to have such a mare as you in our lives.”
She shrugged modestly. “I just listen, really. Ninety-percent of a patient’s recovery is about them realizing just how strong they can be in the midst of their weakness. I just provide the tools they need to find that strength.”
“An important ten percent,” he replied. “The greatest impediment to holiness is the belief that it is impossible. What nobler profession, then, than a physician who removes the blindness in another’s eyes?” Song nodded, but didn’t meet his gaze. Sensing that she was uncomfortable receiving such praise, he decided to change topics. “Well, thank you for telling me your story. I now feel that I have a better understanding of how cutie marks work. Though I am also curious about your martial tactics, as well as the formation of your military. Would it be alright if I asked about that?”
“Of course, Friar. We are allies and friends, after all.”
Friends, he repeated to himself, smiling. Indeed.
One of her ears twitched towards the homestead. “It sounds like the Apples are up. Why don’t we discuss broad military principles over breakfast, and then I can demonstrate our actual fighting techniques when Marble and Krucjata show up for combat practice?”
“I think that sounds like a marvelous idea, Lieutenant,” he answered, levering himself up with his walking stick and gesturing towards the house. “Ladies first.” His polite gesture was almost ruined when one of his legs threatened to buckle.
She raised an eyebrow. “Ordinarily I’d thank you graciously, but why don’t I walk beside you in case that happens again?”
He chuckled and did as he was bade. “I suppose that would be wise. Thank you.”
Dagger wasn’t sure what roused him from his pleasant dreams, but whatever sense urged him to wakefulness brought with it an instinctive discretion. The russet-coated pegasus did not stir as he lay in his cot, but kept his breathing even and unhurried, as though he were still asleep. He could tell by the slight light upon his eyelids that the only illumination in the dormitory was that of the solitary lamp that hung at the center of the room. Far more important, however, his ears detected other ponies nearby; far closer than they should have been. Beneath his folded wings, his inner feathers shuffled the blades hidden there, readying them for use should the need arise.
He maintained his breathing.
The other ponies had drawn closer now. An ordinary pony would likely not have been able to tell, but Dagger’s senses had expanded since coming to the Temple. Had they been ordinary ponies approaching, he would have been able to tell just from their breathing how many there were and where they stood, even their approximate builds. Of course, it wasn’t ordinary ponies who surrounded his bed, so that made matters trickier.
He maintained his breathing.
They were all around him, at least three for certain but probably five if history were any indication. Not a one of them said a word, but he knew they were there. The air shifted by his head, and he fought the urge to tense as a muzzle leaned uncomfortably close to his ear.
Still he maintained his breathing.
With a sigh, the muzzle whispered in his ear. “Come now, Meat. We all know you’re awake.”
Dagger exploded from the bed, his hoof striking the speaker square in the jaw and sending him crashing into the next bed over. His silver eyes took in the scene at a glance.
As expected, his usual tormenters had arrived in force. Two unicorns were at his back - a pure black mare named Silhouette and a pale blue and white stallion from the Far East named Sai. To his right was fellow pegasus Thorn, a dark green stallion with crimson mane, and to his left a cream and black earth pony stallion known ominously as Guillotine. Directly in front of him was Falx, a tall, handsome-faced unicorn with purple coat, brown mane, and a rapidly developing bruise on his face.
Falx’s glare was murderous, but his cohorts had frozen in momentary shock. Dagger exploited this advantage ruthlessly.
Rather than taking immediately to the air, as they doubtless expected him to do, he dove low and fast for the weakest link: Thorn. The pegasus could be a ferocious combatant when he had room to maneuver, but he couldn’t take a hit like the others could. So Dagger hit him first. Before the small pegasus could properly react, Dagger was upon him, snapping a sharp kick to his left wing. There was an audible crunch followed by a squeal of pain as the bones snapped. That squeal was cut short as Dagger drove a hoof into Thorn’s ribs, forcing him back onto his hindlegs, and then there was another crunch and squeal as the larger pegasus shattered Thorn’s right rear metatarsal bone.
Not pausing to examine his hoofwork, Dagger took to the air, launching off the crippled Thorn’s head and driving it groundward in a parting strike as he flew for the exit. Instinctively he swerved, and it was well that he did, for a flung sai hissed past his wing and embedded itself in the far wall. Twisting his neck, he saw the weapon’s namesake lining up for another attack. Unsheathing his wingblades, he deflected the second sai with ease. Just as he was about to congratulate himself, though, a heavy blow from behind knocked him from the air. Hitting the floor, he rolled to the side just in time to avoid a sword being shoved into the hardwood where his leg had been.
Silhouette stepped forward, yanking her arming sword from the floor and menacing him with it, her eyes cold. Smoke trailed from her body, and Dagger cursed, realizing that the room’s poor lighting had allowed her to shadowstep between him and the door without him noticing. “Now, now,” she chided, her tone bespeaking refinement. “Can’t have you running off without learning your lesson, can we, Meat?”
“Especially after what you did to poor Thorn,” rumbled Guillotine, whose Prench accent was almost lost in the guttural basso that seemed to fight its way out of his belly with great difficulty.
Thorn whimpered pitifully.
Falx trotted past the little green pegasus with a snort of contempt. “Serves him right for letting his guard down like that.”
Dagger knew he was in trouble. Before, his only chance had been escape. Now, his only chance was that he could split his attackers up. Make just Falx my enemy, and I might be able to take him. So, with a sneer, he said, “Sort of like when I clocked you, eh, pretty boy?”
The tall unicorn stopped. He blinked several times, as though having difficulty processing what Dagger had just said. Then he pulled out his hooked sword and remarked, “You know, Meat, until you said that, I was considering letting you keep your wings.”
Well, that backfired, thought Dagger.
Further thought was cut off by the jet-black smoke that leapt from Falx’s horn and eyes like flames, and Dagger sprung to his hooves and snapped his blades into a tight defensive posture. In a blur, Falx crossed the room, his shadowstep bringing him to Dagger’s side with inequine speed. The pegasus snapped his guard into position with not a second to spare as the sword crashed against his defenses. He shifted the weight of the block to one wing and attempted to fling one blade with the other, but Falx saw the attack coming and drew a short hook with his magic, catching the strike and turning it aside. Wielding both his weapons with his magic, the unicorn advanced mercilessly, using the heavy falx blade to hack away at Dagger’s defenses while the small hook alternated between shielding the unicorn and attempting to catch one of Dagger’s limbs.
The pegasus was forced back steadily. His wingblades had much shorter reach than Falx’s cleaver, and the confined space combined with the speed of his attacker meant that flying wasn’t an option. The hook kept the daggers he flung from striking, and every blade he threw meant one fewer to stand up to his foe’s relentless hacking.
Which was why he changed tactics. The next time Falx’s hook flew out to snatch his wing, Dagger caught it on one of his blades and wrenched it from the unicorn’s grip, sending it flying across the room to bounce off the unfortunate Thorn’s head and elicit a loud curse from the little pegasus. As Falx was briefly distracted by the audacity of the move, Dagger thrust for his side. Blade met flesh and only Falx’s quick use of shadowstep saved him from a crippling injury. His rapid dart took him around Dagger, and the pegasus could do little but brace himself as a sharp kick from behind sent him sprawling across the dormitory floor. He rolled with the impact and saw Falx striding towards him, eyes smoldering with black hate. “You impudent little—”
The unicorn was forced to bring up his blade to deflect the two daggers flung at his head. The move spared him death, but one blade still scoured a gash along his cheek. Dagger allowed himself a cocky grin as he sprung to his hooves, flexing his blades. “Sorry, Falx, did I cut you off?”
Falx’s eye twitched. “You will bleed now,” he declared flatly. “Sil. Guil.”
Dagger’s eyes widened as he realized he’d overplayed his hand. He shifted to a defensive posture. Oh shi—
Guillotine might have been as tall as the average Solar Guard, and was considerable bulkier, but Dagger had to admit something. That fat bucker is fast. No sooner had the words left Falx’s lips than the earth pony moved, shadowstepping in a straight line for Dagger. His mastery of the Dark Art was not so impressive as to avoid splintering the furniture in his path, but that didn’t matter much to Dagger as the flat of Guillotine’s axe met the side of his head and sent him flying.
He didn’t fly far, as his torso met the pommel of Silhouette’s sword and he was smashed to the ground. To say that the wind was knocked out of him would have been an understatement. He gasped for air like a pony half drowned as he stared at the ceiling.
“Sai,” said Falx mildly.
Lying on his back as he was, Dagger had a magnificent view of Sai appearing above his head in a puff of smoke, hindlegs down. This is really gonna—
“Hrraugh!” he retched as Sai drove his hooves into his stomach. He tried to strike at the unicorn with his blades, but the pain slowed him down and his attack was easily blocked.
Then Guillotine and Silhouette stomped their hooves onto his wings. He screamed in agony as they pinned him, but was powerless to do anything else. With slow contempt Falx crossed the distance to him, dabbing at the blood on his cheek with a kerchief. “You are a singularly troublesome stallion, you know that?” he asked. “How they let a magicless runt like you into the Temple is beyond me.”
Dagger coughed and tasted blood. “Well, we can’t all have our heads as perfectly up our flanks as you, Falx. Sorry to bring the standard down.”
Why did I say that?
His captors seemed equally befuddled. “Dagger,” said Guillotine, “you are really stupid, mon ami.”
Might as well hang for gold as for copper. “And you’re a fat sack of horseapples, Guil. Tell me something I don’t know.”
Falx took that challenge as being addressed to him. “How about the fact that I can remove your wings in such a way that you’ll feel each blood vessel be severed individually,” he offered.
Dagger swallowed, but forced a defiant grin on his lips all the same. “Well, technically I didn’t know that, but it also doesn’t surprise me, so we’ll call that one a grey area. Care to try again?”
“I have one,” offered a new voice. “How about you release my brother or I’ll air out your brain.” Falx froze as a pony wrapped in a flowing black mantle seemed to materialize from thin air behind him, a stiletto firmly pressed to his temple. “Seriously, Falx. I’m not screwing around here,” said the pony conversationally. “I’ll kill you and sleep well.”
Dagger let out a pained chuckle as Falx’s lackies stared in shock. “What took you so long, bro? You missed all the fun.”
“Shaddup, stupid,” replied his brother lovingly. “Well, Falx? What’s it going to be?”
Falx gritted his teeth. “This doesn’t concern you, Cloak.”
Cloak’s face was obscured beneath the hood, but Dagger could tell that his brother gave a long and disbelieving blink. “I- I kinda think it does concern me, Falx. What with him being my brother and all.”
“You tell him, bro!”
“Shaddup, stupid.”
“Weakness has no place amongst us!” hissed Falx. “Your pathetic brother cannot even shadowstep! What kind of a Blade would he make?”
In spite of himself, Dagger looked away in shame.
“The kind that was apparently whupping your flank until your entourage stepped in,” replied Cloak blithely. A whimper echoed from the other side of the room. “Oh, and he kicked the snot out of Thorn too. Now, my hoof is getting tired, Falx, so if you’re gonna make a decision…” He pressed the stiletto hard enough to draw blood.
“All right! All right!” hissed Falx. With a last, hate-filled glare at Dagger, he addressed his minions. “Let him go.”
Reluctantly, the other ponies released Dagger. He bit down his pain and forced himself to his hooves, grinning with a confidence he couldn’t feel. “Good workout, gents.” He looked at Sai and Guillotine. “And ladies. I’m not sexist.” Sai spat something back in his own tongue.
“Much better,” said Cloak, still not relaxing his hold on Falx. “Now, why don’t you idiots go and collect poor Thorn. The boss wants us all upstairs and I don’t think the little pissant can walk.”
“The First Blade has summoned us?” demanded Silhouette with reverence. “Why?”
“Didn’t you know?” exclaimed Cloak with mock astonishment. “Our cause has succeeded! We rule the world! All the nations are bowing at our hooves, and we’re gonna have a parade! How in Tartarus should I know? Just get out of my sight while I’m still in a good mood!” With little choice but to obey, Falx’s cronies collected their brutalized comrade and withdrew. Once they were gone, Cloak leaned in close to Falx’s ear. “Now, you should know, the only reason I’m not killing you is because I think Kuro Ken would be peeved at me. If you ever pull something like this again, I think I’ll just deliver you to Mistress Inkling’s tender mercies, eh?”
“You’re a fool, Cloak,” snarled Falx.
“And I got the drop on you, so what’s that make you?” With a shove he propelled the other unicorn towards the door. “Piss off.”
Now released, Falx glowered at Dagger, his eyes promising that this wouldn’t be their last encounter, whatever Cloak said. Dagger winked at him and blew a kiss. A guttural snarl rose in Falx’s throat, but he left without a word.
Once he was gone, Dagger sagged against his brother and let out a pained cough. “Cutting it a little close, aren’t we brother?”
“Sorry,” came the contrite response. “I didn’t catch wind of it until I realized Falx and his stooges weren’t amongst the other Initiates at the service. I figured your lazy flank was oversleeping and was on my way to investigate, but His Edginess waylaid me.”
Dagger chuckled, then hissed in pain. “Don’t make me laugh. I think my ribs are cracked.” He started limping towards the exit, his brother keeping slow pace beside him. “Any idea what His Edginess wants with us?”
“Not a clue,” replied Cloak, dabbing at the blood on his brother’s face with his mantle. “But one thing’s for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“Anywhere’s better than here.”
A beautiful song indeed, I was surprised to see it here.
Music is a truly marvelous thing. it can speak on every level,
Love,
Fury,
Joy,
Sorrow.
What a marvelous thing is music.
This story is forever leading me to sit and think on stuff. That's how you know it's a good story, when you look at the clock and realize you've spent the better part of an hour contemplating the horse words you've just read. Thank you for that.
A bit of a contrast in ways to wake up, to be sure.
Thank you for what you said about depression and suicide. It's something I've dealt with too, and it's improving, but it's hard.
Seriously though, I loved Morning Song's story. You can tell you're doing something right when the characters get away from you like that and do something much more striking and powerful than you were planning.
Maybe more words later. Tired now. Good stories worth staying up for.
Damn.. this was a such a great chapter, had so many emotions in it.
I was listening to some good ol' Powerwolf.
That could be arranged
Your writing leaves my mind in a state of wonder... that usually happen at night, in bed and behind closed door. Only without silly liquids and strange noises involved.
From inner ruminations of Friar to the story itself - everything is so... tasty. And I'm not a changeling.
And Song's story is actually became believable thanks to the turn you gave it.
And said "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
And upon reading this, I got goosebumps. It might have just been a combination of the aircon and sweat, but I like to believe that this song was so good as to stir up emotions with it's mere lyrics, written.
Aha! And here are the defectors I'm looking for.
In the theory I made in a previous comment, I said that Equestria must have an informant if they have any hope of putting up a good fight, at least at the beginning.
And lookie here, that's prime deserter material (for the cult, at least; for Equestria it's defector material) right there. Hah! This situation might just get better. After all, intelligence holds a lot of sway over how a war progresses.
There's one teenie little problem, though. One of the might-become defectors has (good) control over the Dark Arts. Considering how he might be treated, I don't know if he'd want to defect to Equestria. But then again, he did say anywhere would be better... Do they have a Geneva Convention over there?
P.S. "Dark Arts" just sounds so Harry Potter-ish. I like it.
P.S.S Didn't expect an update this soon. I'm glad for it!
P.S.S.S I suddenly felt like shouting this: Glory and Harmony be to Equestria and the Princesses!
The story just keeps getting better and better. I was jsut thinking yesterday that it had been a while since you uploaded, and poof, here it is! :D And, I can also sympathize with the more somber side of the tale. I’ve never really considered myself suicidal, but depression I have and still do deal with on a semi-regular basis. Today is no different. Due to family problems, I’ve likely got some mixed depression and anger still incoming for me, later today. That said, you’re so right. It isn’t the end, and I know that. It will get better, given time.
Thank you, Antiquarian, for another great chapter! I look forward to the next!
Yeah. This chapter was bipolar. The first part was really good and gave a good rapport with the two characters. The song did its job establishing the mood and the interaction between the two. The second half was like a bucket of cold water on the head. Mood whiplash at its most severe. It left me with questions and that's a good thing. Overall I liked this chapter.
9155192
*bows graciously* Thank you for affirming my labors.
9155211
I'm glad to hear that you're improving. Remember, just because we cannot see the good doesn't mean that the good isn't there. That's why it's so important to reach out to other people. Stay strong, my friend! In time, the habit of optimism shall replace the habit of depression - the mind heals, but rewriting those paths is a journey. Rejoice in the triumph of your progress rather than obsessing over the hardships. Joy is your birthright.
9155571
The Geneighva Convention.
9155586
Well, more power to you for fighting the depression. It's so important to expose ourselves to reality checks in those times. So many people have had their entire worlds destroyed - I read a lot of accounts from genocide survivors, and one thing that always strikes me is how many (most really) go on living, finding new life and new joy. In the end, no pain has the final say unless we let it, and in the struggle we often become more than we have ever been.
"The Flower Mare," eh?
The Flower Girl
And I needed that last part. I am very worried and depressed at the moment because my beloved mother, for the second consecutive year at this exact same time, has suffered from low sodium. Last year she went to the hospital for over two weeks and then two weeks in rehab. She's not there yet, thank G-d, but she's obviously in bad shape and her memory is very, very hazy (last year she went out of her head for a while at the hospital). I took her to the doctor yesterday who recommended Gatorade for a couple days and then, if no change, to come back in and let them giver her an IV.
She's back on home health again today, thank G-d. Waiting for the nurse to get here.
9155840
So very sorry to hear about your mother. Hopefully she shall return to good health. Good on you for recognizing your own struggle with depression and confronting it. Whatever we face in life, we can endure, and for every pain now there can be many joys in the future. It's just hard to remember that sometimes. But we shouldn't be down on ourselves for struggling. Courage is not the absence of fear, but the defiance of it. So too, sometimes happiness is not the absence of sorrow, but the refusal to be mastered by it.
Shadowsteping is clearly an inferior technique to sonido, the ability of a true evil spirit!
lol, Bleach.
9155840 Chronic hyponatremia, eh? Does she have any underlying heart, kidney, or liver issues?
Also, any diagnosed hypothyroidism or adrenal insufficiency?
9156605
She's lived without a thyroid gland since 1953.
She has A-Fib and is prone to heart failure, though she hasn't suffered that in a while, tG. She also is vulnerable to a stroke, which is why she is on Pradaxa.
She's had a very hard, sad life, but she's so good. She loves everybody and doesn't understand why anyone or any creature of any kind has to suffer. But she's been in poor health since the day she was born.
She also has scoliosis of the spine, neuropathy, fibromyalgia, a hiatal hernia, and a decades long case of irritable bowel syndrome which in recent years has been worse than it's ever been.
Three years ago come December she went to the emergency room with heart failure, and shortly after that we learned that she had a blood clot in her lung and breast cancer. I was absolutely inconsolable, but she came through every bit of that.
Then last year at this exact same time she had to go to the ER again and they told us she had dangerously low sodium. They brought it back up, but unfortunately that's when the trouble really started. She went out of her head. She suddenly didn't know where she was (her first two days she was completely normal). And they actually discharged her in that shape!
It was Labor Day weekend of last year, and my sister and I took her back to the ER on Monday, when they decided to admit her again. Then her mind really left her. They had to tie her down to the bed and she was convinced they were trying to kill her. She got out one time and had to be caught and put back. My poor sister was there at the time and said it was heartbreaking to hear her cry out so.
And then the next day (or the one after) her blood pressure suddenly dropped and they sent her to the ICU. We all thought she was going to die. We had all written her off. But in the ICU (where she stayed about two days) she not only survived but returned to her regular state of mind. Two weeks in the hospital and two in rehab and she was back home. Since then she's been in the ER three times, the most recent last Sunday. They said her vitals were good, she had no infection, but she was retaining urine in her bladder. They squeezed some out and she felt a little better and they sent her home, but she's done nothing but go down since. She looks awful, she is lethargic and sleepy, hurts all over, and her mind is once again messing with her, mostly with regard to short term memory.
Her local doctor yesterday said she thought it was low sodium and said for her to drink Gatorade which she's been doing, but so far there have been no changes. She's going back tomorrow.
The home health nurse came today and most distressingly told us that her sodium was not really that low, which made me think that it's not that at all and the Gatorade won't help. The nurse said she thought she'd be okay, but now my imagination is running wild.
I live with her. Her only other child is a daughter who lives in the adjoining county and has a full time job. And I am an absolute nervous wreck. On top of everything else, apparently I am on the "spectrum" (something no one knew about back when I was born), which explains why I've always been different from everyone, have never been able to hold a job or earn money for any length of time, and why I've always been picked on. I'm totally out of my element. I'm not a doctor. I have no one to help me. I just have to watch her suffer and worry if she will even know who I am in the morning (maybe that's paranoia). I'm trying to be brave but I'm absolutely failing.
I confess I feel totally alone and friendless right now. Just a few years ago, even though I had very little, I was totally happy and content with my lot. But the past few years, especially the last one, have been the worst time of my life. And since I am on the "spectrum" and physically disabled as well and can only afford to live her and have Internet because Mama's on Social Security, I have absolutely no idea what's going to become of me when that horrible day finally does come. I have so often wished we could both go at once. She has been my one anchor throughout my life. Now she's already switched places with me (and I'm totally unqualified). But I have never lived in a world that didn't have her in it and I don't think I want to.
Things look really black right now. I don't know what to do but pray and take her to the doctor. I am so scared.
Sorry for cluttering up the thread with my personal problems, but I so needed to let that out. I so love the Ponies, but have found myself every bit as isolated and alone in this "wonderful" fandom as I have always been in real life.
I wish the ponies were real. I like to think that they would at least like us.
9156654
Don't apologize. You're not "taking up space." No work is more important than a human life, and your life is more vital and precious than any comments on my story. Let's talk. And, if my response here isn't enough, I'll message you and you can message me and we can talk more. It's no bother. I promise! (Standing offer to anyone struggling - when I say 'reach out,' if that means me then that means me. I'll talk. I'll listen.)
One of the most important lessons that I've ever learned in my life is that we're all in some way broken. Sometimes its vice. Sometimes its outside influences. But we're all broken. In a sense, that is our weakness. But I also see it as a strength, because it is one more reason that we are never alone. It means that even the most fortunate amongst us will walk through fire, and that even the most unfortunate can find joy.
People who know me are often shocked to find out that I've been suicidal. They look to my family and friends and they think, "You're so blessed? How could you feel so low?" And, in truth, I am blessed. I have been privileged to have many close friends. My parents are incredible and have always loved and supported us. They're not perfect, but they're as close as you reasonably get. The same applies to my many siblings, and the same applies to the people they married. Yet even those with everything going their way can find themselves standing at the top of a tall flight of stairs, looking at the tiny concrete landing at the bottom and screaming up at God to give them a reason not to jump. My brother did that. He stood at the top of the stairs of our barn shouting that very thing and none of us knew until years later because he hid it so well. But he was different (still is), he had no close friends (at the time) outside of the family, and life was hell for many reasons that I don't feel comfortable divulging for someone who isn't me. He didn't jump that day. Today, he and his wife are expecting their first child.
I was an addict for many years. The scars of that haunt me still. At the time I thought I was a monster, a freak, and I wanted to step in front of a bus (that was my plan anyway) because I couldn't see how life could get any better. I couldn't imagine life without my addiction, and I'm honest enough to know that temptation never really goes away (though it does get manageable). At the time, I didn't understand that beating addiction wasn't about going clean for the rest of my life, but rather that it's about a series of days, a series of moments wherein I decide to do the right thing; decide to love myself and others enough not to give in. I didn't understand that, so I wanted to end. Recognizing that I shouldn't kill myself, I next had to overcome the desire to cut. Rationally I knew that I couldn't "cut the evil out," but that didn't mean much at the time. I knew it was irrational, but I wanted to anyway. I still catch myself sometimes thinking these thoughts and have to overcome them consciously. I've had to learn to change my outlook to choose happiness and choose love in my life. I make the choice daily, and it has become increasingly habitual.
I will never be without my brokenness as long as I walk this earth. None of us will. But here's the beautiful thing: We're all weak. We're all broken in some way. We all look to a future that we can't control, and we all become afraid, whether we admit it or not, because we aren't sure how to walk that long journey. It doesn't seem doable. And the reason that this is beautiful is that if everyone is like this, then it means that you have ample evidence to prove that you can make the journey because millions of other weak, little, scared people have made it before you. We can walk the journey because we don't have to be superhuman to make it.
Here's the thing: beating an evil, whether its an addiction or depression or anxiety or anything, is not about beating it all at once. It's about doing it moment to moment. Not sure you can make it a year? Fine. I'm not asking you to make it a year. I'm asking you to make it a day. Then, tomorrow, I'll ask again. We live moment to moment. The future cannot be guaranteed and the past is unchanging, so don't obsess over either. In this moment, this one here, choose to be good. It doesn't have to be big. It can be laughing at a silly joke; choosing to shrug off an inconsiderate driver; smiling at co-worker whose name you don't know. It can be letting yourself grieve. It can be letting yourself cheer. It can be taking that thing in you that's broken and using it to make a connection to someone else. Big or small, it doesn't matter. What matters is that, in that moment, you chose to be good. Then, when the next moment comes, do it again.
I once heard a woman talking about how, when she wanted to kill herself, her husband once came home with flowers to surprise her. She broke down in tears because she was in such a dark place that all that made her happy was flowers and sunshine. Rather than be offended that he wasn't on the list, her loving husband replied, "Well, you've got flowers, and you've got sunshine, so I'd say you're doing pretty good." She later went on to find healing, peace, and joy in the remaining years of her life, to the point that when her husband died of cancer she was able to mourn him with that bittersweet sorrow by which she wept while smiling, remembering sixty wonderful years together.
I know I'm rambling here, but I guess my point is that strength means nothing without weakness. And you are stronger than you know. You are bigger than you know. And, while you and I and everyone else may be broken, our brokenness is now our identity. Our experience is not our identity. We're more than just our weakness - we're every single day that we've kept going in spite of our weaknesses. We're every thought, every action, every love. We're beautiful, body and soul. And I truly mean that. Morning Song's comment on the 10% she does as a psychologist is adapted from a story I once heard of a shrink talking about how, when people who were suicidal would come to him, he knew they had it in them to go on living - that them coming to him was, in fact, a sign of tremendous strength, that they'd keep fighting if only they had even a stick to fight with. So he regarded himself as being in the business of distributing sticks.
At the closing of your comment, you remarked that you wished the ponies were real. While I share the sentiment of desiring to have more honorable people from a loving culture around, the fact is that people like the ponies do exist. Take it from a guy who studies genocide - there are amazing and heroic and loving people all over. They don't get reported like they should, and our culture tends to focus only on the bad, but I truly believe that there are far more good people in the world than bad, and that even from the darkest depths people can emerge to find life. Tolkien lost his family as a child and all his best friends to the Great War - he went on to marry, have children, and create one of the greatest books. Immaculee Ilibagiza saw her family literally butchered in Rwanda. She went on to promote peace and love around the world. Nick Vujicic was born with no arms and no legs, and tried to drown himself as a child. He's now a world-class swimmer and a motivational speaker, married with children. The future is unwritten, so don't write yourself into a corner. It's a lie to think that you can't be happy. Happiness is for us all. Life is for us all. Please, if you ever need to be reminded of this, reach out to someone. Reach out to me if you need to - I don't always see messages soon, but I always, always respond.
Peace be with you.
9155282
Take a second and think about what might happen when Jaques, who might actually know about bears, learns about this particular circumstance with Fluttershy?
Song tilted her had to the side
head
There were two other mistakes but for the life of me I cannot remember them. Both were something like you restructured the sentence and forgot to delete a word. Dang I wish I could remember. Good shit though mate.
9156898
Thank you. I'm sorry for all your own trials.
Best to take this private now.
9157434
Thank you
9156654 If she's retaining urine in the bladder, have they checked for a urinary tract infection? This can dysregulate sodium levels as well as cause confusion, possibly due to bacterial toxins entering the blood stream, especially when the infection is in the upper urinary tract, called pyelonephritis.
E. coli is the most common pathogen, with Staphylococcus, Klebsiella, Pseudomonas, and Enterococcus as other frequent microbes. It can also involve the yeast Candida albicans, most commonly in women.
Presentation of UTI in the elderly is often vague. Diagnosis for the presence of infection can be done by screening urine for nitrates and white blood cells, followed by bacterial culturing.
Also, I would note not to look merely to a fandom as a 'treatment' for any psychological issues. It's simply another crutch, and an unstable one at that. You must identify a more solid foundation for yourself, and only you can determine what that is, as what someone finds an anchor differs drastically between individuals.
We are all the same in basic ways, but also very different in others. Unity requires multiple aspects: becoming aware of one's own 'center', being aware that all others will not share that center, understanding differences between people while regarding that which is the same for all. It is in this comprehension of those things that unify around which society is born, while the fruitful differences allow for necessary variation and the fulfillment of niches. The Cutie Mark, as it was first conceived, was not a 'fate stamp' as it has drifted into being, but was merely a clear sign that a pony had found something fulfilling and which they possessed the natural talent to do.
To find your own, you must find a way to calm the mind and think about yourself without becoming ensnared within yourself. Separate the rational mind from all else and study yourself with indifference and transparency. Then, perhaps you will see yourself more clearly and know the path to tread.
9158134
Thank you.
I wish it were as simple as a UTI, but that possibility has been eliminated. I'm afraid it's just age.
9158141 Sometimes there simply is nothing more to be done.
My mother suddenly succumbed to severe acute dementia about 5 years ago after the onset of several simultaneous conditions: normal-pressure hydrocephalus, a renal infection, head trauma from a fall, and severe hyperglycemia.
She'd been having some trouble for about 6 months, but the final downfall was over the course of a single day, after which she was no longer the same person ever again. With the help of specialists, we have her condition mainly stable, but it will never improve.
The brain is by far the most difficult and delicate organ to treat. Not the least reason for which is that the human neocortex possesses a level of genetic regulation not so far seen in any other organism. It may be the reason humanity has made the leap to full cognition. We have thousands of non-coding RNAs expressed in the cortex which have tremendous effects on the amount and timing of the production of many proteins. These nuances other mammals lack could be the Holy Grail of human higher brain function.
9158155
I'm very sorry. Sometimes life just seems to expect too much of us.
I see Jacques converting a few misguided fighters in the future
Also these are some real sad boy hours in here. I’m sorry for everyone’s predicaments and hope that it gets better for everyone.
9158768
Your compassion is appreciated. It strikes me that Jacques would probably respond with something like "To every thing there is a season and a time and purpose under heaven... a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and an time to dance." Of a similar sentiment, I always appreciated Karen Traviss's contribution to the Star Wars canon of the word Aay'han, a term meaning the emotion one feels when in the midst of family, friends, and loved ones, enjoying the moment to the fullest, while also feeling the grief for the dead - shying away from neither emotion, but rather embracing the fullness of the human experience in all its sweet sorrow. Such complexities of emotion are simply human, and it is better to feel the pain for the joy than to feel neither.
Really, I need to thank you for this. I've already had severe depression issues for the majority of my life―I've attempted three times now, and my first experience with existential crises came when I was seven―but despite my own lack of piety and faith, I find myself growing ever more attached to Jacques because of his selflessness and respect for others' feelings; even if his belief in God and the way thereof is what drives him to do so, what matters is how much he's willing to put into helping others, saving their lives, whether through kind, uplifting words, or a keen, well-handled sword.
Particularly the first part.
I harbor a deep love for several people in my life, but that so many of them almost instinctually invalidate another's suffering, unintentionally or otherwise, is profoundly irritating. It's good to see a human, especially one from such a harsh time as medieval Europe, go the other direction, even if he's fictional.
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Well, I am certainly glad that you didn't succeed those three times. I have great admiration for you for continuing to face the challenges of the world. It may not always feel like it, but you are courageous and stronger than you know! Thank you for living! I mean that! And I am moved that my little story can be of help to you now. I believe in the truth of human dignity and the value of life, and I don't think people need to be religious to appreciate such a loving way of seeing the world. Life is worth living, and worth saving. Thank you for sharing your story with me (and thank you to others who have responded to this as well), because knowing that I have helped someone helps me in my own dark times.
If it helps, you should know that, while Jacques is fictional, his love for his fellow people and how he acts is based on many people from my own life and oh so many that I have read on, including people who lived in brutal times. The Catholic Saint Vitalis of Gaza, for instance, would raise money so that he could go to brothels at night and spend the money so that a prostitute could have a night of peace without being abused - he'd then do what he could to help them leave the flesh trade and begin new lives where they didn't have to sell their bodies to survive. One day, a man who didn't know what he was doing and thought he was a hypocrite struck him with a stone and killed him, discovering too late the real reason Vitalis was in the brothel. Vitalis' funeral was attended by literally hundreds of former prostitutes whom he'd help make new lives for themselves. Joan of Arc was known to stop her riding when she'd come across dying English soldiers and dismount so that she could say with them and comfort them until they died, singing lullabies that he mother had taught her as she cradled her enemies in their final moments. One English soldier repaid her in kind - while she was burned at the stake, begging for a cross to hold, an English archer tied two sticks together and ran through the burn pile to give it to her. These are not mere stories - they are the truth of what it means to be human. Even in the midst of the greatest sorrows there is beauty and love. If I can share that precious truth with people through a hobby, then I am truly blessed and humbled.
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This morning I was inspired to write this thanks to all of you. While there is some comedy to it (it being a somewhat shameless reference to Red vs Blue PSAs), it is intended as a genuine set of tips for dealing with emotional pain. I hope it is to your liking.
9159451 I do appreciate it. But, I'm one of those people who simply adapts to what is.
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Fair enough
I get it. The Renaissance Period hasn't occurred in his world yet. Very clever!
Also,that was just a beautiful song at the beginning.
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That is a very good passage, I've always found immense meaning in Ecclesiastes.
nichevo, yes? I am content.
There's not really much I can say.
On the one hand, and I do feel sorry for being the one to point it out, the link to "One More Light" is wrong; it leads to a search query for "In the End". A better link might be https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tm8LGxTLtQk (the official video to "One More Light". The graphical definition of "tearjerker" :D)
... Unless it was your intention to link to a search query to "In the End", in which case you can ignore everything I just said xd
On the other hand, I wholeheartedly agree with Venerable Ro:
Whether it's theology (especially in the earlier chapters), a particular custom or belief in Medieval Europe and the way it has changed over time, the topics touched upon in this chapter, or perhaps simply a good joke, I've found myself thinking about this 'ere little fanfic quite some time. Hay, I read this last night, and here I am, writing a comment because I kept thinking about it.
On the topic of depression and suicide... I honestly don't know if I've ever dealt with depression. I mean, AS FAR AS I KNOW, and GENERALLY SPEAKING (I'm stressing this because I can definitely be wrong, since I'm no expert on the subject), depression is usually related to profound sadness, a feeling of helplessness and despair, feeling worthless compared to everyone else, and, in the darker moments, desires of killing oneself to put an end to one's suffering since you feel like no thing, and no body, can possibly save or help you. Besides, it's essentially caused by imbalances in hormones or neurotransmitters (again, I'm no expert). I did feel like that a few times during my adolescence, but it probably had more to do with normal teen angst than with depression proper.
Does it qualify as "depression" when your mood and state of mind are of near-total apathy rather than sadness? When you don't feel helpless or... uhm, "despairful" (is that even a word?) (EDIT: huh, it is. Nice), because you don't care? When you can't bring yourself to care, whether possitively or negatively, about pretty much anything related to "real life"? When you feel you no longer have any hopes, dreams or goals, because you just don't care about them? When, instead of feeling like YOU YOURSELF are worthless, you feel EVERYONE -yourself included, of course- is equally worthless? When you've reached a point of apathy that you feel you can't even suffer from stress or anxiety anymore (issues I DID have to deal with these last couple of years) simply because you don't, and can't, give a single flying fuck in the first place? When you don't have any possitive intention or willingness to kill yourself, but at the same time you simply don't care about living anymore? (I mean, I would NOT go looking for a way to kill myself, but if Death does happen to come knocking at my door, I'd probably just shrug and be like "cool, I guess?") When you can't even go to a therapist because you don't even care about how you feel, or even about "getting better"?
Does "feeling nothing", not even sadness, even qualify as "depression", or is it something else entirely? Whatever it is, that's what I'm "dealing" with. I kinda have a veeeeeery small hope that one day something might happen that might give me a reason to live, a reason to pursue a goal (AND a goal to pursue)... but, well, I've said it lots of times: I don't really care if it happens or not.
... To be fair, my mood isn't of total apathy 24/7/365. My normal mood is of apathy and not-giving-a-damn-ness, but at seemingly random times I can feel happy and content to a point of near elation; angry and boiling with rage to a point I actually want to kill someone (not that I ever WOULD; I just FEEL like I want to do it); or miserable and bored out of my mind to a point that Mean Pinkie Pie seems like the cheeriest, funloving-est person in the world. I can't remember the last time I cried out of sadness, but I probably will if I just happen to feel like that someday. I can also feel happiness or comfort from short-lived pleasures (such as watching MLP or playing computer games), so I'm not a total emotionless black hole or something.
Rationally, I know I'm blessed and that I don't really have any reason whatsoever to feel like this (especially since I'm only 24, still in University [though I'm not even sure if I chose the right career or not, so I can't even care about studying])... But, well, you probably know the drill by this point: I can't bring myself to emotionally give a crap... UNLESS it's a negative emotion: I've actually started to go "oh, sorry, it's not that I don't care, it's just that I had a 'fucksectomy' a while ago; they removed the organ that gave me the capacity to give a fuck, so... huh, technically, I actually don't care! Who would've guessed!", or something like that whenever I feel like making fun of someone or something I don't care about (especially in social media like Facebook. The sheer imbecility of people annoys the shit out of me; one of the few things that elicit an immediate emotional response out of me these days).
... Whatever. Sorry for taking up so much space talking about pretty much nothing (everything I just said can pretty much be subsumed in the acronym IDGAF), as well as for possibly coming across as an insensitive jerkass motherf*cker. I might not really care if I happen to come across like that, and I might even actively try to do it sometimes, but at least HERE AND NOW it wasn't my intention.
To finish on a lighter note,
I was almost expecting him to finish with something among the lines of "... and Falx here is in charge of confetti!"
P.S.: Thank goodness there was "not really much I can say"! Can you imagine how LONG this comment would be if I actually DID have something to say? It'd probably rival the Bible! (?)
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Thanks for the edit (it did require correcting) and I'm glad you caught the Red vs. Blue reference. That was the inspiration for Cloak's sarcasm there.
As far as the rest of what you described, yes, that is depression. Depression is one of those tricky things to diagnose because there's a difference between clinical depression and broader depression, as well as different forms of depression within those. For example, I haven't been suicidal for many years, but I do still have bouts of depression that's more tied to anxiety and stress; for a long period my depression was akin to what you've described in that I didn't seem to care about much. One of my oldest living friends suffers from this kind of depression.
What I will say about that is that it should be fought (see the PSA link in the author's note from some practical tips and a little bit more RvB inspired humor), and that if a therapist is needed there's no problem with that. When we get sick, we see a doctor. When we get emotionally sick, we see a therapist. We don't have to want to see them. We don't even need to see the point in seeing them. But we go, we deal with that particular ailment, and then we do our best to keep ourselves healthy. If we get sick again, we go back. No more and no less.
The listless kind of depression was called in old Christian philosophy by the name 'Acedia.' Also called the 'Noonday Devil.' It's a particularly pernicious and dangerous form of depression in that it masquerades as being harmless ambivalence. In truth, however, it restricts our full potential and damages our capacity for happiness. What's truly threatening about it is that we so easily become complacent in it. As such, it must be actively fought to be overcome. As an example of how subtle it is, I have a bad knee. I need surgery for it. My life will be better when it's done, because I'll be able to resume all the things I love doing (karate, skiiing, running, rock climbing, heavy labor, etc), but the scary thing about Acedia is that when my surgery got scheduled, I was actually listless, even annoyed about it. The reason is that I've become accustomed to my infirmity, to the point that I was comfortable in my reduced level of living. And that's wrong. We should never be content with mere stability over freedom, especially when the stability is illusory.
I suppose my point is twofold: First, this brand of depression is something that many people live with and there's nothing odd about you for dealing with it. Second, this depression is your enemy and it is worth fighting because it can be defeated and your life will be better for it. While in the midst of my acedia, there never seemed to be a point to anything I did and I was generally unhappy; people who were my friends during that time remember how cynical and dour I was all the time. But now I'm generally cheerful, happy, and love my life, and even when I'm suffering joy is never far from me; I'm more open with my emotions and healthier, in mind, body, and spirit, than I have ever been. Take it from me, that's worth fighting for, even if it doesn't seem like it at the time. The change is seldom noticed while it's happening (it's usually too gradual for that), but it's the kind of thing where you look back months and years down the road and realize how far you've come; at that point, the change almost seems to big to be real. I encourage you to begin taking these little steps forward; at a steady pace, miles towards happiness will be crossed.
Thanks for sharing!
This is some wonderful stuff all around. Gripping plot, novel protagonist, deep research, building tension, high stakes... Honestly, what more could I ask for? So, now that I'm following the story, where do I sign up for my torch and pitchfork?
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In all seriousness, thank you for the interest and please don't kill me.
It's kind of interesting that your Templar-turned-Hospitaller is so vehemently anti-slavery. I'm not sure exactly when the Order of St. John's occupation of Rhodes and expansion into naval brigandry (er, 'privateering', I suppose) turned into their eventual central place in Mediterreanean Christendom's portion of the slave trade. They really came into their own once they moved to Malta, but I have the vaguest notion that they picked up most of their Maltese practices in their centuries on Rhodes.
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Such slavery was not of Jacques' era, quite simply. During the Medieval period, slavery was virtually unknown in mainland Europe. Exceptions existed, true, but mostly along the Mediterranean. Chattel slavery as would later come to dominate the West was a product of a later era and would not have been seen in mainland Europe in Jacques' time.
It's also worth noting that the slavery practiced by the Hospitallers during the 16th and 17th centuries was a product of warfare rather than of the infamous triangle trade which infected the colonies. It must be understood (and for the record I know that you understand; I'm clarifying for other readers) as a part of the standard back-and-forth between the Ottomans and the various European kingdoms and powers. Grand Master La Valette of the Hospitallers (victor of the Siege of Malta) was once a Turkish galley slave; one of the opposing generals, a Barbary pirate named Dragu, had once been a slave of La Valette (purportedly, La Valette graciously told Dragu, with genuine sympathy, that it was the fortunes of war). The fact that these men, once each slaves of the other's people, respected each other was part of the rather unusual dynamic that existed in the time. This is not to say, of course, that slavery is not heinous; merely that not all forms are directly comparable. The linked article is mostly accurate, though the characterization of the 16th/17th century Hospitallers as a 'slaver state' is missing the point of the raids. The primary purpose was the destruction of Turkish naval capacity rather than the procurement of slaves; slavers were incidental rather than a motive in themselves. Small comfort to the slaves, perhaps, but an important distinction nonetheless.
TL;DR Mediterranean slavery during the 16th/17th centuries was really complex and well after Jacques' time.
As far as Jacques personally, he's the sort of man to be opposed to slavery on principle. His persona has much in common with clerics like the Dominican Bartolome de las Casas, who fought against slavery on religious grounds, or the early Jesuits, who painted God equidistant from the four corners of the earth in their main church in Rome to remind novices that all people were equally close to God regardless of race. With such men as his inspiration, even had Jacques lived in an era where slavery was common amongst the Knights, he would have opposed it.
Hopefully that all made sense. I'm doped up on painkillers right now, so let me know if I didn't explain something.
Thank you, good sir for sharing that powerful testimony. I wish there were more like you. Your OCs are some of the best I've ever seen. How you manage to tie all this together with so many characters is beyond me. Thank you again for this beautiful work of art.
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You're making me blush!
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This is you doped up?
...
Well, now we quite obviously have the dark order here, which is using the Revolutionaries. Perhaps we'll get lucky and it'll turn out some of the Revolutionaries aren't dumb or idiots, and are either aware or will learn they are being manipulated, and then turn on said dark order.
That was the wildest cutie mark origin story I've ever read
So, we get some more character building, not much worldbuilding. That is fine. Amazing work as always!