Ulrik

the engineer

One by one they gathered to string him up on the pyre, listing his sins. Only, what they listed were not sins at all. Each of them condemned his few and brightest virtues, snuffing out the lights one by one. He knew better than to care – better than to try. The stallion had learned so long, long ago. Even as a child, his strengths were weaknesses, fuel for bully’s weapons as he clung to the shadows, taking solace in the unfeeling and cold nature. Souls were fickle. Souls were cruel. He didn't give a shit how many warriors told him that words did not injure; they did. Often, a careless yell would cut deeper than any knife and do more damage than broken bones.

He wanted to shout out at their stupidity. He wanted to laugh in the face of their irony. Every single one of them had tried to take from his herd. They were liars and fools to pretend that they didn't. They spat their injustices, blamed him for their faults when the truth was simple.

None of them were fast enough, strong enough, or smart enough to save their precious Midas.

Oh, they had come in droves, chasing after his own. But they failed. How dare they pretend to be righteous? How dare they pretend to be better? All of these agents of the Falls were the same as him. They bled the same. They tried the same for their family, but Ulrik was part of a herd that was simply stronger. With cunning and strength, the Aurora Basin had performed beautifully for their allies. Against all odds, their spies had pulled their very leader from the fighting force, tactics beautiful and ingenuity amazing.

And this wasn’t even their fight.

If they wanted to yell and blame someone, they should only look to themselves and their utter failure at every chance of peace. Ulrik stood silent, strong, velvet ears turned back. The sorrow lingered on his tongue like a bad aftertaste. He mourned for their loss, but he could not pity their blame. Deimos stood nearby, and he wondered if he was thinking the same. Honestly… Ulrik was grateful for the silent support as he hung his head, waiting and watching.

No words he could speak would clear his name. Adamant retelling of the story would make him seem suspicious. A factual turn of events would make him callous. A simple ‘sorry’ would be inadequate. Admission of guilt would be a lie. Ulrik’s only crime was being damn, fucking good at what he did. His honor didn’t matter. Bringing the body back didn’t matter. Maybe he should have burned it.

All of that faded away when he dared to look up, trying to glean anything from Essetia’s expression. She was speechless. He knew the feeling. The engineer dared to show concern, brows dipped low over his shadowy, bronze eyes. Every fiber in his body told him to step forward and say something… anything. Her struggle was palpable, so thick he could almost taste it. One, cloven hoof stepped forward as she moved away, and he found himself caring because she was the only one in the droves of anger who seemed as lost as he was.

The pale-eyed mare put a feather in a one-winged mare’s mane, and then she left. Ulrik watched her go, breath hitching once in his chest.

Could he turn back time?

Could he make a machine to bring back life? To go back to when she was delightfully amusing and he was a beast in the dark – mysterious? No. No such machine existed. The dead were dead. And he was… accused. Suddenly, he was that angry little boy again. He was outcasted and small, laughed at and mocked. Ulrik wanted to tear them all apart like he did then, heart pounding so hard in his chest as he made them see that he was not the weak and weird fool they all thought.

With a sharp snap, his gaze settled on Africa. “I do not hate you,” he said, deep and heavily accented voice as soft as it would ever be. He did not do this for himself. He did it for… Kahlua. Ophelia. Deimos. His allies. “I did not hate him. I did not know him.” Ulrik frowned, quickly diverting his gaze. “I’ll… leave you now. Keep… keep the machine. There’s a button on the… side. You’ll find it, I am sure.” The stallion stammered, finding each word more damning to his ears.

Slowly, he backed away, having to tear himself from the fading red blur on the horizon.


[[The machine can go to whoever is taking care of Midas' body <3]]