Istanbull was a city that never slept. Bright lights burned round the clock, whistles blew announcing the end of one shift as well as the beginning of another, and the streets never ceased being crowded. This was a place alive with purpose, so much so that Dim could feel it. Makeshift factories churned out weapons of all kinds. Ore was smelted into useful metals, which were then turned into boilers, weapons, hulls, and useful consumer goods. This had ceased to be a city and had become an organism, pregnant with purpose.

Creatures of all kinds cooperated with one another, each working towards a common goal, the same common goal that had united so many throughout history: war. Istanbull was gripped with the feverish fervency of war. Posters were everywhere, left on walls, nailed to door frames, secured to light posts, each one a message pleading for unity against the Black Hand. Newcomer though he was, Dim found himself caught up in the spirit of things, the sheer romance of it all, and he knew—he knew—this was a place where heroes could get their start.

The overall effect was intoxicating.

Sitting in a wrought iron chair on the deck of a rooftop bistro, Dim looked out upon the city and nibbled upon his greasy hemp bread while listening to Bombay as she tried to coax a tune from her mandolin. Blackbird was watching Bombay’s claws, which plucked at the strings, and Munro—no doubt up past his bedtime—struggled to stay awake. Pâté au Poulet, the Bard, he was finishing a chicken pot pie with a sleepy, relaxed expression upon his face while watching two lovers canoodling behind a potted fern.

A cold wind tore between the peaks on both sides of the city, but Dim was warm enough in his jacket. The outdoor rooftop bistro stood as a bold testament to the spirit of the city, the patrons enjoying themselves in courageous defiance of the bitter, bleak, wintry wind—the wind of summer. In the middle of the city, the white hand towered over everything else in the city, a dominating silhouette that drew the eye with some indescribable, irresistible force of compulsion.

“There is hope here,” Bombay Sable said to Dim, intruding on his thoughts. “Do you feel it? Modesto, Mars, and Eerie, they have brought hope to this place. The Midreach and beyond, all of it, it has fallen on hard times. But hope burns like a flame, and Eerie wants to set the Midreach ablaze. She made promises, Dim… big promises, and she told everyone that when you came, you would light our way forwards.”

“But… I… why would she do such a thing?” Dim demanded.

“Eerie has hopes too. All of us have to believe in something, Dim.” Bombay strummed on her mandolin, her ears twitching at the sound, and her whiskers quivered. “I think, and this is just what I think, mind you, is that Eerie wanted to inspire a bit of hope in you. Dim, she sees your potential, she talks about you constantly, and she wants nothing more than to redeem the Dark family name. I think it is her way of moving forwards from everything that happened, and you… you’ve become central to that. She believes in you. Dim, she sounds as though she’s your mother at times—”

“I don’t understand why this would be.” Dim put the heel of his bread down upon his pale blue plate and looked Bombay in the eye.

“I don’t understand it either, but this is one of her driving motivations.” Bombay’s paw traveled up and down the neck of her mandolin and from her other paw, a sweet tune began to form as her claws twanged the strings. “Eerie… she thought that Starling might be her lightning bolt—”

“Lightning bolt?” Blackbird leaned in until her muzzle was inches away from Bombay’s ear. “What do you mean, lightning bolt?”

“A single lightning bolt can burn a forest down,” the Bard muttered and then he smacked his lips.

“Yeah… she had hopes that Starling might be her lightning bolt, her catalyst for change, but poor Starling was consumed. She had the drive, she had the ambition, she had the motivation, but she was in no position to inspire others. Her grief… it consumed her. It left her unable to think about much else.” Bombay pulled her paw from the neck of the mandolin, reached out, and touched Blackbird. “Don’t get consumed, Blackbird.”

Blackbird’s sudden vulnerability was too much to bear and unable to look at her, Dim turned away. When he heard a sniffle, all of his muscles tensed, so much so that it hurt him, and both of his ears pivoted to face her direction. What was she feeling right now? How much did this hurt? Was there anything that he could do? Lifting his hat, he reached into it, pulled out a cigarette, and his long silver holder.

While Dim was lighting up, he heard the Bard say, “Ah, to know such a love. Even at the risk of the pain of separation, it is a blessing to have such love. A great gift. To give yourself over to it, to allow it to consume you… if only such love was far more common. Alas, the world is not given to such love as far too many only wish to satisfy lust.”

“Oh, there was a lot of lust satisfying,” Blackbird remarked while she wiped her nose with the back of her left talons. “I want to know a love like theirs, but to do that, I think I’ll need to know when to call this off. For now, I’m not giving up… but… but I’d like to think that I have something to live for. I wish my mother had felt that way… about me, I mean. I wish she’d felt that way about me. I hope she’s okay.”

Dim found himself wanting to comfort Blackbird, but he had no idea what to say.

Something did not seem right about her companion because Dim was acting weird. Well, more so than usual, that is. Somehow, he was even more quiet and reserved than was typical and Blackbird wondered what was going on with him. Several times, she had glanced to look at him, only to find him staring at her, and then turning away when he noticed he was being watched.

Ignoring Dim for a moment, Blackbird watched a gaffer—that is to say, someone who works with glass—perform her trade. An older jasper jackal bitch with a few singed bald patches and a great many grey hairs made glass beads over a hissing, spitting flame. She was quick, making skilled, deft movements, and it was obvious to Blackbird that the old jackal had been doing this for a long time. Nearby was a display shelf covered in her wares, but Blackbird ignored these, fascinated by how the gaffer plied her trade.

For the briefest of moments, Blackbird wished that she had learned a trade. What was she? It was hard to tell. A tinkerer? A dairy farmer? She knew things, useful things, but she wasn’t sure if some of the things she knew could be considered a trade, unless of course she called herself a locksmith. There was no way that she was a mercenary, was she? So far, the most impressive part of her life was that she had been present for a full-scale massacre.

At least the gaffer knew peace—probably.

Casting a sidelong glance at her companion, Dim, Blackbird knew that she was heading towards war, a conflict, and if she kept going this way, she would be swept up into it just as her mother had been. Dim would no doubt be fine, she was confident about that after what she had seen, but she wasn’t so self-assured about her own abilities.

Having been awake for far too long, Blackbird yawned and then told her companions, “I don’t mean to ruin a good time, but I think I’d like to go to bed.” Tired as she was, she wasn’t in the mood to sleep. No, what she really wanted was a quiet place to do a little thinking so she could sort out all of the troubling thoughts bouncing around on the inside of her skull.

“You know,” the Bard replied in his malaise-stricken voice, “I think I’d like to do the same. Also, poor Munro is pretty much dead on his hooves.”

As Blackbird’s head settled upon her pillow, Dim felt a strange sense of fondness for her. She seemed tired, but also anxious, perhaps; something felt off but Dim didn’t think that now was the time for subtle interrogation of his companion. With his head so far up in the clouds, it was easy to drift closer to Blackbird’s bed without realising that he was doing so.

“Dim...” Blackbird said in a low, somewhat muffled murmur as she pulled the blankets up to her chin. “Dim, come’re, come closer to me.”

Much to his own surprise, Dim found himself far closer to Blackbird than he had anticipated, no more than a yard from her bed. This was exciting, which was silly, because he and Blackbird had slept in a hammock together, and he couldn’t figure out why being so close thrilled him—but it did. He was tempted to climb into bed with her—for an entirely innocent snuggle. Things were going well and he had no desire to risk losing her friendship.

“I’m scared, Dim… scared I’m gonna lose my way.”

“I don’t know if I ever had a way,” Dim found himself replying, and even though it kept happening—time and time again awkward words just poured out of his mouth—he was left shaken by his own honesty.

“I left home to look for my mother. Now, I find myself getting pulled into a war. I want to do what is right, but at the same time, I don’t know if I have what it takes to survive a war. After what happened to me… being captured… my confidence isn’t what it was. You see, Dim, I had this moment where I realised I was a hippogriff, and I was big, and I could throw my weight around, and I could scare those smaller than me, and then right after that happened, I got pepper-bombed and I found out just how weak and helpless and useless I am in a fight. It was humbling, Dim, and I’m having a hard time with it.”

What should he tell her? Dim didn’t know. She was staring at her own hubris, and Dim was still mired down with trying to sort out his own. Comforting others was not a strength of his and he knew all too well how wretched it felt to face down one’s own shortcomings. What could he do? What could he say?

“I watched a gaffer tonight, Dim, and now I keep thinking about my life. My skills. I don’t think I have a trade and I don’t know if I have a career, unless hunting down your parent counts as one. You’re a vagabond but you are also a vizard for hire. I don’t know who or what I am, Dim, and it feels like everything in my life is coming into doubt. Feels like I have a crisis coming on, and it scares me. I don’t wanna lose my nerve.”

“There is no shame in being a soldier, Blackbird.” Emboldened by the earnestness of his words, Dim nodded and continued, “War is a trade all of its own. This conflict is a chance to learn much. To train and gain skills. Your mother learned the fine art of conflict but still managed to settle down and live a somewhat normal life. You can do the same.”

“That’s… actually pretty helpful,” Blackbird replied as she tugged on her blanket, squeezing and pinching the edge of it between her talon-fingers. “What’s your plans for the rest of the night, Dim?”

“To study.” Dim thought about salt for a moment, and cold iron, but then held his mind in check before he become distracted. “It was nice going out with the others. That is not something I am accustomed to, but I found that I enjoyed myself during our outing.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

Dim nodded, noticing the distress in Blackbird’s voice. “It wasn’t a date. Just an outing.”

“It feels wrong to have a good time while my mother’s fate is unknown.”

Again, Dim nodded. “It feels wrong sometimes to have a nice time while my mother still lives. Well, continues her unlife. I killed her, she is no longer among the living, but now exists in an undead manner. I feel obligated to put her down, but I don’t know how. Perhaps Chantico will reveal some means, some method of extermination to me as a reward for faithful service.”

As Dim was speaking, for some reason he thought about salt licks and how much ponies loved them. Was there, perhaps, some deeper meaning or purpose? Ponies needed salt, just like any other creature, but what if there was some deeper meaning, some greater purpose? Ponies were intensely magical creatures and what if salt purified them in some way? Cleansed them? What effect might it have?

“Stay with me while I drift off?”

“Sure.” For the third time, Dim nodded.

“Thanks. Good night, Dim.”

“Gute Nacht, mein Fräulein.”

Author's Notes:

Fimfic needs an Eigengrau theme, ja?