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First time writing female perspective, hope yall like it.

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Your name is Ancient Roots.

You were born with kirin scales and thestral wings, which is unusual in its own right, but neither of your parents have those traits.

You never really fit in among the other foals at grade school, always preferring the calm of solitude. There was one filly you liked, but you never had the confidence to tell her.

You discovered your interest in genealogy and earned a cutie mark by tracing your family tree, eventually linking hundreds of names across dozens of generations - except for one branch that suspiciously dead ended. 

On the day you became a stallion, your parents gave you two items: a visibly aged bronze key, and an equally old parchment scroll with the following message:

> I have foreseen that there will someday be another who is different -
> Raise them well and true, and when they come of age, give them this key;
> If they can open the lock, they are worthy.

That's when the dreams started. All were nearly identical, from the eyes of either a kirin mare or thestral stallion, chasing each other through the night; laughing as they went, content to simply enjoy what the gift of life alone could provide. All were strangely gratifying.

You continued trying to expand the tree, but never found the right direction for that branch to grow - everything before that point was just too fuzzy. There were several nights where you passed out at your desk, midway through searching obscure historical records for possible leads.

After one particularly frustrating evening, another vision occurred, far more vivid than the others; you were the thestral stallion again, engaged in coitus with the kirin mare, passionately united next to a smoldering campfire.

That was your first (and so far, only) wet dream. You got off to that memory of them many, many times.

The next morning, you began to see a faint beam of gold-silver light emanating from the key, always pointing west. No one else could perceive it.

More dreams. More research. It all blurred together.

You took the key to an antiques specialist. They didn't think much of it.

You took the key to a thaumologist. They were able to identify two distinct charms - a relatively simple geolocator and something far beyond their knowledge, both at least several hundred years old.

That explained what the light was pointing toward, but you didn't know how far away its target was. Definitely not anywhere nearby, if anything; the direction barely changed between Baltimare and Fillydelphia.

So after scraping together some supplies and some days off, you started making your way across Equestria - first by train, then on hoof, keeping a notebook of towns and the associated compass headings as you went. When laid out on a map, they all converged at the east end of the Smokey Mountains.

Which is where you are now.

The beam is aimed directly into the ground.

You look around. Nothing but dense forest for dozens of kilometers in all directions. (Not literally, of course - trees don't grow in midair or underground.)

...

You start digging with your hooves. One of them scuffs against something firm; a few minutes later, you've excavated a small, rectangular wooden chest. After brushing some dirt off, a weathered lock set into the side is revealed.

The key's light is unwaveringly drawn to said lock, as if magnetized.

> If they can open the lock, they are worthy.

You set the chest on the ground, insert and turn the key - the mechanism still works, somehow - and open the lid to find ...

Paper.

A neat ream of it, bound with twine.

You blink.

You take a closer look.

It seems to be very old paper, albeit in immaculate condition. Likely made by hoof, given the thickness and rough edges.

You untie the stack and remove the first sheet, careful to avoid damaging it. The second has an impressively lifelike rendition of the kirin mare and thestral stallion, with their respective hoofprints stamped in faded orange and blue inks; the next ten or so are filled with charcoal sketches of the mare in various poses, many of them quite provocative.

Another blank sheet. The ones that follow it are filled with text from the early Twilight Era, judging by grammar and spelling. It appears to be a journal entry of some sort.

You begin reading.

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Arcadia 1123/05/08

I'm reminded of a proverb I first heard as a filly: /some of us are born to stay, and some of us are born to go/. It seems fate has seen fit to firmly place me amongst the latter.

My family must have realized such at some point. They gave me three items for my twentieth birthday; an instant camera, a cartography kit and a set of saddlebags. All are well worn by now, carrying the memories of faces and places long since passed, but they haven't failed me yet. I do my best to send the occasional letter and photo of where I've been back home.

A life on the move is not easy. I've faced more than my fair share of challenges - chasing off thieves, constructing shelters from loose vegetation, doing favors and odd jobs for a hoofful of bits, foraging for fruit and wild berries, rummaging through wastebins for food scraps. There have been times where I was desperate enough to sell my own body for a decent meal - none of which were particularly unpleasant, thankfully - but opportunities for matters of a more amorous nature were always few and far between.

/Were./

About half a year ago, I was making my way southwards from the Crystal Empire through vast plains. A light snowfall had begun around noon, becoming progressively heavier throughout the afternoon, and the ground was nearly completely covered by sunset. I was starting to consider weaving a blanket from the straw of the fall's harvest when I quite literally stumbled across the collapsed remains of an abandoned barn.

I'd started arranging some of the wood into a makeshift windbreak, but was interrupted by strained calls for help from somewhere under the debris. Half an hour of careful excavation revealed a young thestral stallion by the name of Nightshade pinned under heavy timber, and it took the better part of the evening to entirely free him.

As I worked, he told me how he'd ended up there: a disagreement in a tavern near Neighagara Falls had become heated, then violent. The first thing he could remember afterward was an unconscious earth stallion lying in a pool of blood and deep red stains on his forelegs. Naturally, he assumed that a murder had transpired by his own hooves and ran. The past week had been spent wandering aimlessly, trying to physically distance himself from the incident.

I couldn't fully assess his condition in the darkness, but it didn't seem critical. I gave him some bread and water and went to sleep, curling around him to conserve warmth.

The weather had cleared by morning, leaving the air cold but clear. It took only a few moments to see that, other than some minor cuts and bruises across his barrel, he'd survived relatively unscathed. I did my best to patch him up with bits and pieces of medical magic I'd picked up on over the years, then we ate a meager breakfast and departed.

That's how life with him began. Six moons later, he's learned to thrive in spite of his self-imposed isolation from society. And even though there have been situations where it would've been easier to abandon me, he never did.

My saddlebags have gained a small collection of books over the years, mostly atlases and field guides, but the most recent addition is considerably dissimilar - /Wings of Leather: an anthology of firsthoof experiences amongst thestral society, third edition/, written by Foreign Trails. Two of its excerpts:

> ... Since traditional thestral culture did not have any form of standardized currency, an extensive system of guidelines for bartering evolved, which included goods, services and private favors ...
> ... If a thestral finds itself in a position where it believes death is imminent, it is highly likely they will consider themselves indebted to anyone who happens to rescue them, regardless of circumstances, gender, age or tribe ...

That certainly explains his reluctance to leave. The only times I've been alone for an extended period are when I venture into someplace populated; he's still concerned about being recognized. He says he never intended to take anyone's life, and expresses genuine remorse for his inability to control his emotions in that moment. For the record, I do believe him.

In our time together, we've traveled south past Canterlot to Appleoosa, west to Las Pegasus and back north about halfway to Vanhoover, currently making our way along the eastern edge of the Smokey Mountains. He's learned to read and write, and I've learned of his surprising natural aptitude for illustration. Every one of his works rivals what my camera can capture, whether it be an animal, a plant, an object or a landscape. There's been one instance where I was thoroughly startled by an exceptionally detailed drawing of a snake.

When we set up camp for the night yesterday, I unfolded a blanket to find several loose sheets of sketches. At first I wondered why they had been stowed in such a seemingly haphazard way, but soon understood the reason - all were figure studies of myself, several firmly crossing the line into erotic territory.

I'd stared at them for a minute, then turned to him. His face was painted with a complex blend of emotions; fear, guilt, hopelessness, regret. He looked like he expected me to invoke my nirik form at any moment.

I'd calmly asked him why he hadn't shown them to me. He'd taken a brief moment to acknowledge I wasn't going to flay him alive, then admitted he thought I would've been angry for thinking about me in such ways. I'd assured him I wasn't angry, but disappointed; both for keeping his art to himself, and for not being honest with his feelings. He'd seemed flustered at that, trying to avoid looking at me.

I'd used magic to bring his head back to mine. I'd stared deep into his eyes, filled with conflicted uncertainty. I'd told him my own, similar thoughts about him.

He'd sworn he never intended to take advantage of me. He'd cinched his eyes closed, as if he thought I might see his true self within. He'd insisted I deserve better than someone who had killed.

I'd said I knew he wanted me, and I wanted him too; not in spite of the flaws, but because of them.

I'd kissed him. Cautiously, tenderly.

All was still for a few seconds -

- his eyes snapped open, blazing with what must have been moons of repressed desire -

- he snarled possessively, bit my throat, and threw me to the blanket below us.

I didn't try to resist. I could finally see the real Nightshade, not the costume of his more reserved self; a majestic herald of Luna's glorious nights, bearer of an ancient tribal flame that refused to be snuffed out. A beautifully imposing figure I was instantly enamored with, coat standing on end from anticipation.

In hindsight, I'd catastrophically underestimated how much of him there was.

> ... While gender identities and preferences are often freely expressed, most individuals are relatively conservative when it comes to sexual activities, especially outside of formal relationships. Such norms almost certainly lead to the intensity most affairs exhibit, as if their emotions burst forth under pressure ...
> ... I've shared a bed with a thestral on more than one occasion, and even amidst nearly a dozen other species the experiences have been nothing short of incomparable ...

Several words come to mind when I attempt to describe his passion - fervent, ravenous, unrestrained. None of them are anywhere close to adequate. My body strained to accommodate his, sparks reverberating throughout me with even the slightest movement, trapped in the heart of a euphoric maelstrom and completely exposed. There was a moment where I briefly lost consciousness.

I /reveled/ in it.

By the time he had finally expended himself, I was thoroughly wrecked; breath ragged, legs numb, trails of pinprick bite marks crisscrossing my neck, the point where we were connected matted and stained. He'd claimed my body as if it were the spoils of a hunt, and had more than earned the right to do so - I continued to periodically shudder underneath him until the stars revealed themselves.

We fell asleep there, still intertwined atop the blanket.

The dreams that came to me were filled with visions of our descendants. Most of their spirits are dim and dull, but some shine brightly with kirin scales and thestral wings, deemed worthy by fate to receive the gift of premonition.

I awoke this morning with an unfamiliar sense of purpose. After Nightshade helped me attend to the mess from last night, I began writing, documenting everything that has led to our current circumstances - my restless nature, his fear of consequences, the bond we'd forged during our travels. How his poorly hidden artistry had revealed our mutual yearning for each other, how my encouragement had unshackled him from his cultural baggage, how our union has sown the seeds of a long and vibrant lineage.

How the few who will read this came to be.

This is your origin - two misfits who chose to not only walk along trails less tread, but blaze them ourselves.

This is your destiny - to carry the flame of a legacy of seers, employing your gift to ensure this wondrous world is preserved for distant generations.

Cherish what precious little time fate has allocated, and cherish the ones you spend it with.

- A&N

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You finish reading.

The sun is on the horizon by now.

You camp there overnight, reading through the text again in the light of an electric lantern. You don't really feel any more worthy than before.

Another dream of the kirin mare and thestral stallion during intercourse, this time watching from the side. As she climaxes, a brilliant arc of magic leaps from her horn to a key lying on the ground nearby, illuminating their surroundings like an ephemeral bonfire.

When morning comes, you take care of some "private business", pack your belongings, and return everything to the place you found it in. Taking the chest or its contents with you feels ... sacrilegious, somehow.

You make your way back home over the next few days. Your parents ask if you found anything; you tell them about the buried chest, Arcadia and Nightshade (omitting the explicit details, of course). You add two names to that dead end branch on your family tree.

About a week later, you're lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. You check the clock; three hours past midnight.

You sigh and sit upright. Your eyes wander around the room, eventually finding the key resting on the nightstand.

> If they can open the lock, they are worthy.

"/I already opened the lock/," you mutter.

As expected, it doesn't respond.

You pick it up.

You stare at it.

You close your eyes.

Half a minute later, your forehoof moves on its own, pushing the key into your chest and turning.

Sparks dance behind your eyelids, tunneling and warping.

You see.

/YOU SEE ALL./

/ALL THAT IS BEAUTIFUL, AND ALL THAT IS HORRIFIC./

/ALL THAT IS JOYOUS, AND ALL THAT IS TRAGIC./

/ALL THAT THE GIFT OF LIFE MAKES POSSIBLE, IN ALL OF ITS TERRIFYING WONDROUSNESS./

You feel yourself tear the key out, throwing it across the room. Reality snaps back into place.

You look down at your chest. One of the scales on it, shaped like a keyhole, shimmers gold-silver.

Eventually, you stop trembling. Your breath and pulse slow.

Only one of the visions remains in your memory - the filly you liked back in grade school, but older, standing before you in a wedding dress.

You think for a while, then go to sleep.

For the first night in a long time, you have no dreams.

-

A bell jingles as you step into the flower shop. You walk over to the counter; a gray and pink earth mare turns to greet you, but hesitates for a moment.

"... Oh! Uh, sorry. I just -"

"Caught yourself staring?"

"... Yeah."

"It's fine. Is Carnation Blossom here?"

"She's in the back." The mare pokes her head through a curtained doorway. "Hey Bloss! Someone's here for you!"

About ten seconds pass before a different, more familiar face steps through the curtain. Her eyes widen.

"/Roots/?"

You wave, nonchalant. "Hey."

The first mare raises her eyebrows. "You know him?"

"Yeah, we were classmates before his family moved to Fillydelphia. That was ... four, five years ago?"

"Almost six," you say.

"Still, I'd recognize him anywhere."

"I don't know how /anyone/ wouldn't with those scales and wings," the first one remarks. "No offense."

"None taken."

Carnation taps a hoof. "So what brings you here?"

You take a deep breath. "... We need to talk. Privately."

"Oh. Well, I /am/ on the clock at the moment ..."

She looks over to the other mare, who shrugs.

"You can go ahead and leave early. I'll handle closing for the day."

"Oh, okay! Thanks."

Carnation goes back through the curtain, then reappears with a satchel around her neck, and you both exit the shop. You turn east on the street; she follows at your side.

"What do you need to talk to me about?"

"There was something I overheard you say back in grade school. About how you didn't know who your parents were."

A disappointed sigh. "Yeah, I'm an orphan. What about it?"

"Listen, I know this might sound ridiculous, but I think I know who they were."

She stops walking. You take a couple more steps, then look back.

"... You're pulling my tail."

"I'm serious."

"Swear on it."

You hold a forehoof to your chest. "I swear on my life to the divines above and Tartarus below, this is /not/ some sort of practical joke."

She thinks for a moment, then continues walking. "Go on."

"Your birth certificate says you were born in Baltimare General Hospital, 1600 Pleasant Street, right?"

"Yeah."

"That address is incorrect. It used to be there, but now it's at 1500 Pleasant Street."

She furrows her brow. "Why'd it change?"

"The old site burned down less than a day after you were born."

"... /Oh/."

"There was eighteen casualties. Most of the victims were identified by their relatives, but two had been disfigured beyond recognition. The visitor log didn't survive either."

You turn off the street into a small park - the Baltimare Medical Memorial. It's directly across the street from the new location, unpaved and bordered by flower beds, three black granite slabs in the center. The first is upright, engraved with a caduceus and some text; the other two are embedded in the ground, featuring the symbols for female and male.

"However, a married couple was claimed to have gone missing within the same week. Their names were Precision Potter and Orchid Blossom."

You both stop in front of the memorial. The air is eerily still; ambient noises seem distant and muffled. Probably an enchantment.

Carnation stares at the slabs for a while, then plucks two of her namesake and places them just below the symbols, and sits next to you. You sit too.

She rests her head on your shoulder. You wrap a wing around her.

You both stay there for a long time.

You'll be with her, no matter how arduous the journey ahead may be.

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