Maud; A Monodrama

by PrussiAntique

Rating: everyone
Tags: Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance, Maud Pie, Slice of Life
Length: 1955

A short vignette. Maud has been gone for a year, and one heart that loves her misses her terribly. On the night of her return, who will be waiting for her at the gate?

A short vignette. Featuring Maud x OC. Nothing explicit or even suggested.

Maud's research trip has lasted about a year now, and one stallion, whose little garden sits right next to the Pie rock farm, misses her immensely. Written in the third person, this is really nothing more than the thoughts of a lone stallion on the night of Maud's return to the rock farm. He wonders if she'll come to see him that night. He certainly hopes so.

Cover vector by CenCerberon

Thanks to Tennyson for inspiration and Hasbro/Lauren Faust for creating the mare we all know and love, Maud.

Published 2014-06-17 19:30:03 UTC
Last updated 2014-06-17 19:30:03 UTC

Come into the Garden, Maud

Maud; a Monodrama

Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the rose is blown.

The evening was cool for summer, though in the air one could feel a warm easterly breeze that hinted at oncoming rain. The stars gleamed overhead even as the moon approached the descent of her orbit, retreating from a sky that would redden and gild with the morn. The low gate was curled with ivy, heavy moss-green ivy swollen with the summer heat and the summer dews. The clinking latch was lifted; the gate was pushed open and then close, the rusty hinges yielding slowly to his hooves.

How still it all was! How still, surrounded in this quiet cloister of greenery that was his own. Behind him, distantly, the warm light of lanterns of the house could be seen, momently flashing and flickering as ponies passed before them. Voices, too far away to be heard, were yet vividly imagined; laughter, sincere and unrestrained; many words, shared between husband and wife, between sister and sister, between parents and children all. Still he stood and waited, even as her promise whispered in his ears with the breeze and sweetened the heavy scent of the flowers that bloomed in their myriads beside the gate.

Roses blossomed all around; some closed, some open in the fullness of their richly layered petals. Some had burst forth in handsome crimson, but more bloomed in the quiet whiteness of the moon and the stars. So too, did the pale milk-blooms of the acacia that shaded one side of the garden. Here and there up-sprung the larkspurs in their purpling hues; here and there the lilies sighed and swayed into the breeze. All about him the garden breathed its soft sounds, its breathy music, and waited beside him beneath the night sky.

He felt warm, warmed more by the thought of her than by the night air. He had not seen her for many a month,- a year in fact,- not since she had left to see the world beyond, beyond her family’s little farm and his neighbouring little garden. She should have come back today, or so she had told him before she had left. He had remembered the date perfectly: indeed had tried not to remember it; had tried to bury it under work and tending to his garden in the hope that it would make the wait and the wondering all the less melancholy. He had missed her; still missed her.

The lights still burned brightly in the distance. He had not brought a lantern with him, but he had not needed it, in truth. He looked away from the lighted windows and up to the stars, as he had done many a night before. It was a cloudless night and far out in this quiet countryside, the full beauty of Luna’s artistry shone with singular radiance. He recognized the constellations, though he knew not their names. Neither had she when they had sat silently, close together, watching the many stars above and the rocky field before. He had often wondered in the days after she had left, if those same stars shone on her as well. He had wondered if she saw them in the same way, perhaps even thought of him in such a way. He had wondered if she had missed him as well.

In truth, he often found himself uncertain regarding her. She was a difficult person to read, oftentimes seeming indifferent to even the most startling of things. He had not courted her for long, perhaps for a year before she had left for the world, and he still had yet to truly know how she felt. When he had tentatively begun courting her, made his clumsy attentions clear to her, she had not rebuffed him. However, neither did she seem to much enjoy his affections. Her usual expressions only varied ever so slightly from indifference and he was hardly the most observant of ponies. Perhaps he was being too sensitive about it, but even the slightest confirmation of mutual affection would have been nice. She was so very difficult to read.

A sudden change in the distance, one of the lights had gone out. Then another, and another, until only two in the upper windows still shone. The party beneath had been concluded. Now it was time for bed. He watched, waiting. One of the lights disappeared. Finally, the last flickered out, leaving an inky blackness where the old farmhouse stood. All about the darkness sank into a sleepy gloom. The trees that ran along the margin of the farm gently yawned in the wind. In the garden, the flowers sighed. On another night, the fireflies might have been dancing in the breeze, playing laughing counterpoint to the slow movement of the stars above. On another night perhaps,- but not to-night.

He stood, lonely and alone. The breeze died down. The flowers, and the stems, and the grassy tufts, and the leaves of the slender acacia all ceased to rustle. Again he cast his eyes to the stars and wondered. Would she come? Would she at all remember his affections? Would she remember his promise to wait for her at the gate when she returned? Would such a promise, year-old and probably forgotten, be enough to bring her back to him? Would she return to his garden and make it once more theirs? Still he wondered. Still he waited. Still he stood, lonely and alone.

He had never been certain of her feelings, but of his own he had no doubt. He loved Maud and knew he loved her. The more time he had spent with her, the more he liked just being with her, whether it was listening to her talk about her most beloved subject and her poems, or just watching the constellations pass overhead in his garden. He looked forward to seeing her when they were apart. He enjoyed listening to her voice. He felt wonderfully warm in her company. He loved Maud; loved her with all his being, although he hardly knew if she herself knew of how deeply he loved her. O dove and dear! O life and fate! He named her the queen of his heart, of all that made him and of all that quiet world that was dear to him. Would that she could come back to him!

Still he waited. How long had it been since the dimming of the lights; an hour, two hours? He could not tell. He had lost count, lost in his thoughts of her and his doubts. He turned away from the gate, stepping into the sanctuary of the garden and its comforting darkness. He felt cold from the night air, still colder from his loneliness and his longing. Overhead, the stars were beginning to fade in the twilight. The moon was sinking towards its western margin. The dawn would soon be here and he,- he would be alone. No! He could not doubt her so; should never allow the shadow of doubt to touch her in his heart. She would come, surely. Surely, she would come.

His ears perked up. He heard the soft sound of hooves on the gravel path that passed by the gate. His breath hitched in his chest. The gentle warmth of her familiar scent touched upon his nose. He heard the lifting of the latch, the muted moan of rusty hinges; then silence.

“Maud,” he breathed, turning to the gate, “Maud.”

“I brought along Boulder,” her quiet monotone replied, filling the still air of the garden, “he said you might have missed me.”

He rushed forwards, sweeping her up in a tight embrace. Joy and relief strengthened his affection and he pressed kisses into her, again and again upon both her cheeks, again and again on her forehead, even as he held her, clung to her, felt her real warmth pressing back into him. He held her tightly to himself, his muzzle nuzzling her, nuzzling into her mane. His cold limbs and his cold fears all seemed to melt away as he gave his earnest and unconditional affections to the one he so loved. He would not, could not let her go, not for the moment. He had to know; had to show her that he had missed her so and that he would be hers always. He held her close to himself, as though it were the only way for him to know that she was truly here before him; here for him and him alone.

One of her grey hooves gently patted him on his back and he loosened his embrace, if ever so slightly. He turned to look at her and, for once, he could tell that she was smiling. She leaned forwards as did he, the two softly placing a chaste kiss on each other’s lips before pulling back to look at one another again. He smiled broadly, his emotions plain as the dawn and its daffodil sky. She smiled too, in her own quiet, reserved way that was so very her. They nuzzled into an embrace once more. They were all that mattered to each other in that moment. The garden with its lovely flowers and its quiet shade was the only world they needed; their secreted cloister from the world beyond; a hidden sanctuary that was theirs and there for them. They were alone and together, two ponies held lovingly in each other's embrace.

The sky began to redden from the deep purple of the night into the rose-gold of the morn. Ever so softly, he heard her murmur from over his shoulder as the first rays of the dawn slowly lit upon their garden.

“I missed you too.”

She is coming, my own, my sweet,
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

Author's Note

Inspiration from Tennyson, from his 1855 poem 'Maud; a Monodrama', Part I, XXII, which provide the opening and ending stanzas of this little vignette. I absolutely adore Tennyson, and I absolutely love Maud, which is why I'm quite amazed no one's done anything with her, based on the poem. I highly recommend the poem, especially in its totality, so if you've a hankering for the very best of Victorian poetry, go have a bash at it. :)

I am indeed still working on the Passacaglia of the Heart, but I've been ridiculously busy this last year. Final year of my undergraduate degree and having to write a dissertation on top of everything else has just killed any spare time I had originally devoted to writing for myself. It'll be better from now on, although I've got a summer job that's been taking up quite a bit of time. Hopefully it gets better cause I'm itching to start writing again. Fingers crossed!

P.S. Oh, and usual disclaimers apply at the end. My usual style,- read purple and long-winded,- is what I'm most comfortable with, and I do tend to like it, so pfffft to flames about the wordiness of the whole thing and many hearts to people who actually seem to like it. To those who want to BURN BABY BURN this little story, at the very least please be constructive with your criticism. It would be very much appreciated. Thank you!