White Lightning and the Elite Pony

by Impossible Numbers

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, White Lightning, Other, Romance, Drama
Length: 10272

On Hearts and Hooves Day, White Lightning and Ponet get together at the café, as usual. They exchange gifts, as usual. They hide their own deepest, darkest fears and miseries from each other, again as usual.

On the outside, White Lightning the pegasus and Ponet the unicorn have a perfectly normal, perfectly fine relationship. At the very least, a meek and nondescript weather pony going out with an artiste harbouring high aspirations is... well, there have been stranger combinations in Equestria.

Unfortunately, things are a little more complicated than they seem, and neither side can fully open up to the other. Not even on Hearts and Hooves Day.

Published 2017-02-14 18:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2017-02-14 18:10:02 UTC

White Lightning's Dream

Overhead, the domed roof of icy blue was scratched and carved with artistic curls like skater’s tracks on a rink. Beneath her, the stratus quilt oozed and groaned under her lowering weight. Around her, the frozen whirlwind of her bedroom was throwing half-open books and slumped frilly saddles and rotting fruit on untouched plates.

White Lightning folded her wings tightly and peered at the cover. Coldheart’s Guide to the Fashionable Lady’s Courtship of the Gentlecolt. It was new, and therefore relatively undamaged. She dumped it on the bed and rested her ergots and chin on the pillow. Irritatingly, the page began to turn over of its own accord, and she stuck out a hoof to stop it.

“Most stallions,” said the crisp, legal-document page with its tiny writing, “will remain obstinately oblivious to even the most blatant and uncouth of affectionate demonstrations; hence, it would seem to the untutored eye, ipso facto, that no manner of courtship, however elaborate or explicit, would be sufficient to warrant, much less maintain, their romantic interest.”

Oh good grief, no. Not a chance. She clipped the book around the back cover. Flipping, it sailed over the edge and thumped on a pile of uneaten apples. What was I thinking?

Without hesitation, she picked up another book and settled back into position: On the Nature of Young Mares, and the Purposes and the Pursuits of the Good Life.

“Traditionally, there are three stations in life which a young mare – indeed, any pony of sufficiently mature age – must consider and reflect upon before she can hope of enjoying the good life. The first being: the domestic, that which maintains or nourishes those within the sphere of the home.”

Face carefully blank, White Lightning took in the unopened letters heaped on her desk. Dust lightened the few bits that could be seen.

I think the boat’s sailed on that one, she thought, and she jumped ahead to the next paragraph.

“An easy one for the common mare to dismiss out of hoof is the second station, this being the nature and purpose of her leisure activities. Yet, what is considered mere frivolity and emptiness by many is, in point of fact, one of the most crucial and sophisticated of all, for in lowering our inhibitions and relaxing the pretences of quotidian life, our approach to leisure is our purest expression of inner character, and thus of the nature of the life we intend to lead. This profound insight –”

Hoof stretched out as a bookmark, White Lightning closed the tome and let her gaze stray to the open window. Beyond, the stars came and went, but the edge of the moon stared on, utterly indifferent to her tiny, insignificant mind.

Would going to shows and things count? On the calendar pinned to her wall – one of the calendars, for she hadn’t taken one down in years – one or two days for the month were circled, and she found herself drifting off to the next Pinkie Pie party, and then to the following fan club meeting for Rainbow Dash Raconteur Day. And maybe it wasn’t too early to think about the Grand Galloping Gala, or maybe she could persuade a certain unicorn to take her to the Canterlot Garden Party.

Yes, very nice, but what did she actually do there? Last month, she’d gone to Canterlot with a few unicorn friends for the latest in good eating. What a night out that had been! Exotic curries at the Tasty Treat, burnt crunchy bits at the Smoked Oat on Restaurant Row, and a little sweet-tooth action at Doughnut Joe’s. She hadn’t said a word throughout the whole thing. Half the time, she’d been a white shadow hovering over them.

Any other time, there was so much weather-work, and the push-ups, and for some reason this year’s Best Young Flyer Competition was being bumped forward to springtime instead of its usual summer slot, and she had no idea whether she was too old to audition for it –

Shaking her head, she opened the book and jumped again to the next paragraph.

“Lastly, the most widely feared station is that of employment: how one justifies one’s purpose to society for the common benefit of all –”

Under her cold glare, the book snapped shut. She batted it off the bed and didn’t even care when it bent a few pages landing on the previous book.

Work, work, work.

She hovered over the bed and cast about for another title to read.

I used to like Exercise Hour, but Rainbow’s gone insane. We’ve done more push-ups this week than we’ve done in the last two months combined. It’s not like it would do anything even if we WERE applying for the top tier. Cloudchaser and I managed to get into the Wonderbolts Academy just fine before all this “intensive initiative” nonsense.

Her gaze met Top Ten Most Magnificent Flying Feats, 986th Edition before she snorted at the pegasi on the cover. On the other hoof, the one next to it was an old friend, both earth ponies on the front poised and elegantly undulating for their upright waltz: Ritzy Razzmatazz and the Hottest Hotshots of Modern Manehattan.

Her hoof reached down for it before she caught a glimpse of the cover underneath, and instead she slipped the book across and aside. Sternly peering back at her was the face of Princess Luna under the silvery curls of the next title. But she’d read Reputation and Rank: A Royal History literally a dozen times. Even the best bits were starting to feel a bit stale.

No, she thought, rising up. I simply can’t decide.

I might as well leave it for a bit.

In any case, that’s how it always ended. Halfway through a book, she’d flit over and pick up another one. She was starting to run out of bookmarks.

Opposite her, the wardrobe gaped. A space large enough for two dozen dresses boasted only two. Neither of them were aquamarine.

Oh, who do I think I’m fooling? White Lightning drifted over to the window, batting aside the pile of letters until they cascaded onto the floor. I’m background. I always have been, and I always will be. What on earth does Ponet see in me? Can’t clean up, can’t have real fun, can’t even like my job anymore. What was left when you’re done with all that?

What was left, now?

Beyond the blinding sheen of Cloudsdale’s puffy plains, the land below was nothing. Only the rounded mountaintops and jagged forests on the horizon marked where land ended and the fresco of stars began. The eye of the moon continued to stare, but where she’d squirmed or grimaced under it, now she found it oddly reassuring.

True, the cosmos itself agreed: she was insignificant, tiny, barely worth the speck of time and stretch of space against the empty infinity. But at least it noticed her long enough to agree.

Maybe this is what being an artist feels like all the time, she thought. Her chest rose as though to merge with the empty space, to fill it. Ideas twinkled inside the shadows within her skull. She gave one last look around the warzone of her inner life, and then stuck a tongue out at it and flew outside.

Cold air flowed over her, bright lights reflected off her barrel, and then she was past the edge of the cloud and into the void.

White Lightning closed her eyes.

Turbulence moulded itself around her wings. She took a breath, and the pattering scents of moon flowers rained down on her nostrils and trickled down into her lungs. Opening her mouth to taste it, the steel-cold grip of the night petrified her tongue and scoured her gums. She winced; a few sensitive teeth had been stung.

From sheer muscle memory, she knew where to go. No one else could know about this secret place, but then pegasi hardly ever flew around at night.

After all, it’s their fault if they don’t understand where I’m coming from. It’s hardly a secret. They just can’t accept it. As if it makes me any less of a pegasus anyway. Who can say what can and can’t be done here in Equestria?

Nevertheless, the burning bit against her frozen cheeks.

She shook herself down, and opened her eyes.

All about her was darkness: not that it impeded her in any way. No sign of Cloudsdale. Under this moonlight, the pegasus city would shine like a beacon. Mountains spaced out all around her; though she couldn’t see them, she could feel the upward rush of deflected air, and knew she was in the right spot.

Focusing her stare, she found the merest patches of grey against the blackness. White Lightning rubbed her hooves together.

What a bunch! One by one, the clouds drifted into her consciousness as she spotted each in turn. I knew I still had some leftovers from last night.

Which was just as well, as smuggling them out of the factory always left her in a sweat. No one frowned upon it per se, and there was no danger of a foremare lifting her wings up and tutting, but they would ask what she fancied doing with them. Lying wasn’t an option.

Dad never approved of lies. Even when her brothers and sisters said “thank you” to a gift they clearly didn’t want, he’d glare at them. He might not do anything more than that – he was a gentlecolt, after all – but it clearly hurt him.

While she worked, White Lightning practically heard the doubtful humming. Mom had no problem with wings or clouds in themselves, but she was a lady. She’d be darned if her daughter was going to just throw clouds around any old how.

Barely seconds later, White Lightning had a ring of clouds around her, a grey necklace, and – she giggled into her hoof – a magic ring on her left leg, in the manner of the Great Perlino, most artistic of all magicians. Or, at least, it would be in that manner soon enough.

She raised a hoof.

Then, she lowered it. Not stylish enough.

With a twirl of her fetlock, she brandished the rear hoof and then stretched out, according to the axioms of ballet. Poised, graceful, with punch.

At once, the thump of the cloud was lost to the boom. Arcs of lightning flared into life, zapping the clouds neighbouring the first. They boomed. More lightning chained along the ring, the booms rivalled by the brilliant links. Crackling, writhing, sizzling arcs of white and yellow and red and blue blinked and blinked and blinked, surrounding her. They never stopped; each burst triggered more bursts, which triggered more bursts. Only by intuition did she understand this; the real display was too fast for her to keep up.

Like magic.

Weather and magic, combined as one.

White Lightning couldn’t help herself. She clapped her hooves so fast they were simply vibrating into each other. The grin stretched up to her wide eyes. Thousands of afterimages built up until she was surrounded by a wall of purest purple.

Like magic, the spell of lightning burned away the lingering aches and chaotic mess. Everything was so much simpler, so much more beautiful, with lightning. She could stay here until the dawn went on somewhere else, and then stay some more to watch the rainbow sky of a coming day clash with the pure lights near her.

Then the clouds packed up.

Nothing but afterimages remained, yet they too faded away, and all was darkness.

Aches flared up again. Thoughts once banished now came tumbling back in. White Lightning groaned. Not a cloud remained.

I knew I should have gotten some more.

Dully, she flipped round and plunged back into a life she’d been shoved into anyway. At least this way, she could pretend she’d wanted to go back.

Cloudsdale loomed around the slopes, but she no longer noticed. Once she was through the window and under the ice rink ceiling, she barely remembered the journey back. Just blackness, and then whiteness.

Not that she needed to memorize it when she’d seen the curly profile of the cloud city hundreds and hundreds of times. Oh sure, it looked chaotic, but really it was a regimented mishmash of boltholes. Ooh and aah though the grounded ponies would, at they end of the day they were admiring a factory and a bunch of houses. They could get that on the ground. They weren’t even particularly stylish; just cloud swirls and cloud swirls and cloud swirls and cloud swirls and the occasional rainbow. Not even that much thunder and lightning. What kind of freedom was that?

After she landed on a pile of books, she noticed the poster on the wall. Wonderbolts grinned out at her, trailing blue due to the sheer speeds of their flight.

For a moment, she frowned.

Then, she remembered. A gift. Just got in this morning.

This morning…

The letter!

Clumsy hooves dived into the pile. Urgently, she threw aside bills, invitations, charity appeals, something that was addressed to next door, a leaflet for a new cloud cabbage shop, and… There!

White Lightning lifted out of the mass a single crisp, scented, pink envelope. Tape still clung to the back where she’d ripped off the package over breakfast.

Scraps of envelope rained down under her working hooves and teeth. Cringing, she unfurled the letter.

Why oh why didn’t I open this earlier? How could I have been so distracted? I knew I was going to do it. I just didn’t know when! And then I had to find that box for the sceptre-thing, and then I was running late for work, and then – Oh my gosh just read it already!

White Lightning hunched over the desk. Her gaze darted to and fro.

“Dear Little White,

“Thank you for the painting! Mom has already hung it over the mantelpiece, and we’ve had two guests already inquiring about its provenance. We have considered getting a connoisseur over to evaluate it, but whether they agree or not, either way this Ponet fellow is a hidden gem.”

White Lightning smirked and nodded. Did she know how to catch the right ones, or what?

“Your brother is doing splendidly. Recently, he discovered the Canterlot Archives and left home to move to the city itself. I haven’t heard from him yet, but knowing him it’ll be impossible to get him out of there without hiring the Royal Guard to drag him out.”

Sighing, she glanced at her own book minefield.

“Alas, your sister is not faring as well as she could be. This appears to be the same illness making the rounds, and I regret to say she might have caught it off of me just before I was completely recovered. She hopes to return to Manehattan once she is better, but there is talk of cancelling the Festive Feast this year, so I doubt she will go after all. Haute cuisine is the only thing that gets her out of the country home nowadays.”

White Lightning read on, a smile twitching on her face as she did so. In truth, she could only gloss over the exhaustive lists of opera shows and ponies who’d fallen from grace among the Canterlot elite. Still, she knew she’d have to read it in full sooner or later. Family was family.

Turning the paper over, she continued to skim the paragraphs. “Magic,” said one of them.

Magic?

At once, she stopped to read it fully.

“After we attended the Wonderbolt Derby, Mom and I found something else that might interest you. The Enchanted Museum of Alicorn Studies, which I mentioned in my last letter to you, had an exhibition open to the public this week to commemorate the upcoming Hearts and Hooves Day events. Princess Celestia recently donated a collection of magic items, and before most of them went into storage, we were allowed to see them on display.”

White Lightning frowned, but realization crept up on her.

“What a display! One of the rarest and most valuable was the Ascension Crown, which was apparently crafted by Princess Luna herself during the pre-Classical era in a bid to swell the alicorn ranks. Allegedly, the crown has the ability to give a non-unicorn magical powers.”

White Lightning gaped.

“I thought that would be right up your alley, as they say out in the country, so in case you did not have the time to come and see it for yourself, I have enclosed a photograph for you.”

Panic hit her. What photograph? She turned the paper over and over. She shook it down. She pounced on the wreckage of the envelope and saw nothing even vaguely like a torn-up photograph.

Give a non-unicorn magical powers… Oh, he must have forgotten to put it in again. He always does that. Why did he have to do it this time?

Groaning, she pressed her hooves into her face. Last week. This letter would’ve been sent last week; the postal service seemed to be getting worse. Now that it was Hearts and Hooves Day, that exhibition was almost certainly done by now. Besides, how much would it cost to get in? Did they let you in for free at the museums of Canterlot? She’d never been in one.

Glumly, she read the final paragraph of the letter, ignoring the storm crashing inside her head.

“Whatever the case, we all hope you are having a wonderful time in good old Cloudsdale – how I envy you and your special talents! – and may your Hearts and Hooves Day be a magical one. Mom wants you to know you are most welcome to visit whenever you have your next vacations. Let us know ahead of time so we can organize some fabulous days out in the city. I fear we did not do your last stay justice.

“Always proud of you,

“Mom and Dad.”

Always proud of you. They put that in every letter. Why?

White Lightning’s shoulders slumped. More than ever, she regretted flying up, all those years ago, to the lofty peaks of Cloudsdale. It had made sense at the time.

She glanced at her cutie mark. Dark cloud. Jagged lightning. Nothing else.

Sniffing, she placed her chin on the desk and covered her eyes with both hooves. It was stupid. They put it in every single letter. It was supposed to be dull to her by now.

Under her eyes, half-submerged in the mess of dust, one cracked picture lay where she'd knocked it over weeks before. It showed several ponies all standing in their best suits and dresses for the photographer. All unicorns. Except one.

Dots of moisture smeared the glass over her smiling filly face.

After a while, she gave a shuddering sigh.

Fake smile on her face, she straightened up and reached for a blank sheet. She placed a pen on top. She waited for inspiration. “Dear Mom and Dad,” she wrote, and then she stopped and stared.

Beyond the window, the moon had long since risen out of sight. Nothing remained but the emptiness and its feeble stars.

Instead, she pulled open a drawer and scattered coins over the page. Her puffy eye focused on the little numbers engraved into each one. Hoof patted the coins while mind crunched the numbers.

Better late than never, she thought. I hope. Even if it’s not enough…

Ponet's Inspiration

Not for the first time that day, Ponet wished he hadn’t brought the wretched stick along.

What on earth had possessed her to get that sceptre-cane? It’s hideous. And it’s so obviously cheap. A baby wouldn’t use it for a toy.

Nevertheless, he stuck his muzzle up as high as he dared, flicked his sinuous fringe as casually as he could, and strode along the streets of Ponyville, ignoring the raised eyebrows and mumbling comments. Beside his glowing horn, the wretched stick stepped onto the ground, fell behind for a moment, and then arced up and over to step forwards again.

There: the unicorns Twinkleshine and Minuette tittered into their hooves. Here: even the earth stallions Caramel and Noteworthy blushed for him. Hauteur rose up in his defence. What does it matter? One does not simply abandon a graciously offered gift. And I think I have enough style and elegance for the both of us.

All the same, he passed any number of tempting trash cans, and longed to hurl it into one.

Soon, the marketplace of Ponyville opened its arms to embrace him. The hub of rural hubbub, the wooden stalls and the hundred smells, ponies of all tribes and colours scattered about to hawk their wares or haggle over prices. As though basking in the sun, he stopped and stretched himself up to his fullest extent.

In the middle of the marketplace was his true calling. Among the shouts and the rustle of clothes and the chink of coins, he let out a long breath as though sinking into a hot bath. The muse awaits.

Perhaps this warmth, this radiance, this reassuring bustle was part of the Canterlot legacy. Oh, born and bred in Ponyville, of course, of course, but one inevitably feels the rising urge of noblesse oblige, does one not? So long as I live and breathe, I live and breathe Canterlot.

Waiting for him, his faithful canvas stood as a bulwark against the common dirt and timber. Even if he’d had any issue with the rustic charm and wonderful community that washed over him now – he waved and smiled at various stall owners, and shouted greetings back – the canvas was a portal to another place.

Gently, he propped the sceptre-cane against the support and summoned his paintbrush. A box of paints flipped open at his magical command.

“I wake up today,” he said cheerfully, “and I think, ‘This Ponet, this Elite Pony; what wonders will he perform?’”

His paintbrush rose to his teeth, and he clamped the gnashers tight over them. Thus armed for the glorious battle, he sat down and waited for inspiration to strike.

The market carried on. Ponies walked along. Ponies sold things. Ponies bought things. Ponies said things. Ponies waited for any of the above to happen.

Overhead, the sun drifted across the sky.

Paintbrush drooping from his clenched teeth, Ponet glanced at each stall in turn. Apples. Did them. Carrots. Did them. Cherries. Did them. Ooh, corn on the cob… no, wait, I did them last month.

He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

That morning, he’d open the special chest in his attic and run a critical eye over the paintings. What it was supposed to do was inspire him to new works. Yet he’d seen Remembrance’s Night Watch so many times he was running out of ways to replicate it interestingly. The Last Eclipse, once the centrepiece of his Princess Luna collection, now was nothing more than yet another daub with too much darkness. His imitation of The Whinny left a lot to be desired too. In fact, all of the paintings suddenly seemed to be hopelessly inadequate. Mere shadows of the originals.

Is this all I’m going to be remembered for? said a loud voice inside his head. Imitations?

Ponet shook it down and jumped forwards as – who else? – Rarity the unicorn happened to walk by. “Good morning, Miss Rarity!”

A sidelong glance took in his blank canvas, his drool-slick paintbrush, and to his horror the wretched stick laughing at his dream. However, Rarity smoothed it over and bowed, her expertly curled mane having just the right amount of shiver to it.

“And a delightful afternoon to your good self, Mister Ponet,” she said.

“Afternoon?” He checked the position of the sun. “My my, how time flies. I, uh, I hardly noticed. Such a busy morning, you can imagine.”

Once more, she caught his empty canvas full-on.

“Oh, I’ve already done a few,” he lied at once, and then wondered why he’d done so. “Inspiration like a fountain, I can tell you. I shall produce my masterpiece any day yet, just you wait and see!”

“Indeed I shall.” With a graceful dip of her head that made him stare in envy, Rarity granted him a smile and moved on.

“Goodbye,” he called after her, waving and grinning for all it was worth. As soon as she was lost to the bustle, however, he glared at the wretched stick. “Oh, most gracious, Mister Ponet,” he muttered under his breath, “with his country works and his useless garbage. I’ll get there someday, you just wait and see. If she can do it, so can I.”

Only then did he notice his mouth was empty of brush. After glancing about, he spotted it on the grass in a hoofprint, and hastily summoned it to eye level. Someone with muddy hooves had trodden on it. Bits dripped off.

“Darn it,” he said.

While the sun sank lower and the crowds thinned and the songbirds crisscrossed the blue sky, Ponet sat down and waited. Occasionally, he waved and grinned at passing ponies, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Around the time Applejack was closing her stall and wheeling it away, he turned and stared at his cutie mark.

“One yellow star, four smaller stars,” he said, and then he groaned and picked up his dropped brush. No matter how many times that happened, the great artists of history had always used their teeth, and he’d be darned before he did it any way the great artists of history had not.

It’d made so much sense at the time, he thought grimly. A star, a celebrity surrounded by many admirers. An aficionado of shape and colour. A connoisseur of the night – what ho! Maybe that’s why I don’t like my daytime works. Oh no, wait, I don’t like my night-time works either. No joy there, old bean.

Now, something in his head was laughing at him. That was how it was supposed to go, though: turn up the Canterlot-isms in the speech, show a little class and hauteur, always keep an eye on art.

Nevertheless…

One lone pegasus flashed by overhead, and he recognized Blossomforth’s hues. Another followed, which he instantly identified as Thunderlane. A third passed by, and he half-wondered if calling out “Raindrops” would be a good move.

But no, they must have their dance. More and more flew by, defying he who had to be stuck on the earth and the grass amid the wood and the fruit. They could look down and see everything. They could land if they so wished. They could zip and glide and spiral all over the sky, seeing fields stretched out like patches on a quilt, seeing things he, little earthbound struggling worm that he was, could not even hope to see. The baby Ponet looked up wide-eyed, the colt Ponet looked up with the knowing smirk of one who’s just got his cutie mark and figured out life, but the stallion Ponet looked up and watched the pegasi fly on, and he did not.

He sighed, and didn’t even bother picking up his paintbrush.

“Oh well,” he murmured. “Time to call it a day. You win some, you lose some, as they say out in the fields, what?”

Leaving his canvas behind him, Ponet picked up the sceptre-cane and shuffled along the empty stalls to the street. Not even bothering to make the gift go step-by-step, his magic fizzed and glowed along his horn.

“What exactly am I doing?” he said to the ladybugs flitting by. They gave him weird looks and hurried onwards. “I had everything planned out: become amateur artist sensation, catch some elite attention, work my way up to Canterlot, get painting in gallery. Where did I go wrong? Too predictable? No. Too unproductive? I’ve got chests of the stuff. Too dull?”

No one else was on the street. Soon, his unthinking hooves led him outside of town. As he cleared the last of the cottages, he wound his way up the path. One hill loomed above him. At least he could always watch the sunset.

Provided he didn’t mind company at all: some silhouette was already there, sitting and staring out at the horizon. As for said horizon? Only greens and a few pinks at this point, but his artistic eye could at least see some ethereal hues there that would appeal.

The silhouette flapped its wings, and her head turned around.

He’d recognize that lumpy fringe anywhere. “White? Is that you?”

Weakly, she smiled down at him. He never did find out why she never spoke. Not that it was his place to pry, after all. A gentlecolt would not be so unseemly as to pry.

As he drew closer, he could see another package lying beside her. Blushes tinged her cheeks. Oh for heaven’s sake, he thought, she hasn’t gone and tried that stunt again, has she? As much as I won’t shed tears over this sceptre-cane, it’s not as if I ask her to splash out what little money she has. Who is she trying to impress?

“Wonderful scene, is it not?” he said, forcing a bright-eyed smirk where he felt only the urge to roll his eyes and grimace. “I’d fetch my canvas, but I’m afraid I’ve done this one a hundred times already. A true artiste must never become a rolling stone, what?”

Ponet sat down beside her. He wasn’t sure of the phrase himself, but then a rolling stone gathering no moss sounded like a very dead stone to him.

Once more, he was painfully aware of how close he was sitting to her. Surely, a gentlecolt would have granted his lady a tad more room, but he’d barely thought about it. He was too busy trying to hide the sceptre-cane on his other side.

Staring though she was at the sun, her eyes were shining orange and the skin underneath was puffy. Fear shot through his chest. Tears did not fit into his view of her.

“I had the most delightful conversation with Miss Rarity this morning,” he said, ignoring the twinge from his heart. “Wonderful mare she is, too. Did you know she’s selling a new line of accessories at Rarity For You in Manehattan? Spoon-inspired tiaras, eh? Culinary accoutrements, or so she told me. Where oh where does she get her inspiration from?”

White Lightning looked at him as though his words had meant nothing to her: still shiny-eyed, weak smile disintegrating into an overturned crescent, simple blink that barely registered his presence.

“You’re right,” he said, giving up his act in relief. “Nothing important.”

The sunset faded into a yellowing streak over the horizon. A v-formation crossed the glowing disc, honking and flapping in waves.

He was barely aware of her hoof sliding the box over the ground, and a flicker of curiosity bloomed inside his chest. Sadly, the flower was a stranger in his weed-ridden gardens, and it soon wilted and died like all the others.

“Have you ever gotten the impression,” he said to the sun, “that you’re stuck where you are in life?”

The sliding sound stopped. Despite himself, a few drops of water nourished his insides. Ah, sweet relief, he thought.

“Not that I’m stuck at all,” he said. After a furious shouting match in his head, he continued, “Well, granted, I am a little stuck, but it’s only a temporary pothole on the road to success. At least, I darn well hope so.”

In the distance, a few shadows rose up from the fields. He counted six pegasi, presumably playing some ineffable game as they weaved trails amongst themselves.

“Notwithstanding all that,” he said, “and supposing for the sake of argument I were to paint something monumental. I could be in the history books! First, Mare Meadows, then the Griffon de Grenouille, and lastly, me. Ponet, the Elite Pony! Such class, they’ll say. Such sophistication! Can you imagine it? I’d be there, seeing my signature in the gallery. I don’t mind telling you, White; it would feel” – he groped for the right word, and then smirked and grabbed one popping up – “positively electric.”

He cast a sideways glance in case she’d spotted the flash of wit. No. Still staring at the sunset.

Oh, why do I even bother trying to be smart? Groaning, Ponet kicked at the grass by his hooves. Stop beating about the bush, Ponet. I wish she’d say something, though. I feel like I’m trying to talk for both of us, and I just can’t do that. It wouldn’t be right.

“I envy you, White,” he said to the sky. A few clouds hovered over their heads.

Movement: he looked down, and she was facing him, one eyebrow raised. He’d seen that one before, and he cleared his throat.

“I mean,” he added, avoiding her eye again, “you get to do whatever you want. Flying around, no barriers, getting as hooves-on or as muddy as you want, saying whatever you like…”

He glanced back. A more skeptical eyebrow raised itself at him.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

He tried a grin and then watched the pegasi zooming back and forth.

“Make no mistake: it’s not as if I actually dislike being the Elite Pony. The suave, sophisticated socialite that I am, eh?”

Waggling his eyebrows did nothing. He still squirmed inside his chest. Fires burned along his horn. For once, he wished he could rip the stupid thing off.

“But sometimes,” he said, forcing himself to speak, “you look back and think… and think: where am I going with this? When do I get off the train? I keep telling myself it’s the next stop, but then it’s not. It’s always the next stop, never the one I’m actually at.”

No one listened like White Lightning did. He could almost see his own pathetic words vanishing into the void. No nonsense could survive there for long. Hastily, he checked the hill for signs of ponies, but only the bushes and the grass and the trees listened in.

I hate my life. He didn’t dare say it. He didn’t know if it would vanish into the void as well. It's garbage. I hate what I’ve wasted on it.

To his shock, he realized he hadn’t asked her about her yet. Talk, talk, talk, and all about myself. What must she think of me? Some stuck-up snob? Well, no. I won’t sink that low.

The skies finally did it; yellow streaks gave way to a golden veneer, bordering on wonderful oranges. His muse stirred.

“So,” he said, and his vision was blurry, and he wiped his eyes at once. “I believe you wanted to show me something?”

Blinking in apparent surprise, she nodded. Beside her, the box slid across the grass once more, and then stopped. A determined frown crossed her face. She stuck up a hoof.

“Wait here?” he said. “Whatever for? Wait a moment!”

Too late: White Lightning took off from the hill and zipped down to the rooftops and streets of Ponyville. For as long as he could, he followed her swooping and undulating flight with his narrow-eyed gaze until she randomly ducked down and vanished.

The box lay unguarded next to him.

He skewed his jaw thoughtfully. One errant leg reached across, and then snapped back again.

He tapped his hoof, and shivered a little.

It’s, uh, awfully quiet up here.

A moment later, she shot up again, zooming straight towards him. Whether she was carrying something or had angled her wings in a funny way, her flight seemed stiffer and her outline more jagged. Then the wooden stand stood out against her white fur.

“My canvas?” he said. “And my paints?”

With a clatter, she dropped the lot next to him. A few tugs of the parts later, she had it erect and ready. Opening her mouth, she let the paintbrush drop onto the grass.

White Lightning landed on his other side, flapping so easily that she barely shook the sceptre-cane. To his surprise, she beamed at him, reached down, and rose up preparing to throw it down the hill.

“Now now, hold on!” He found himself spluttering. She tried to hurl it like a javelin, but her hoof went over, and she frowned and looked up.

The sceptre-cane hovered in midair. Horn aglow, Ponet placed it by his side.

“Of course, I can paint the sunset, if you so wish,” he said sternly. “But this is frankly ridiculous. Why on earth would you throw this away?”

White Lightning gave the levitating thing a pained expression. Then she stared at the grass.

“No, don’t you even think that!” In spite of his inner critic shouting him down, he puffed out his chest and adjusted the profile of his head with a curt rising of his muzzle. “I shall keep it. OK, maybe not parade it out and about again, but it is most emphatically not garbage anymore.”

Her suppressed chuckle turned into a grunt. This time, he recognized what the twisty-lipped look was saying: You serious?

“Whatever else it is,” he said, determined not to break eye contact, “it is a gift from you. That’s all there is to it. I am not a slave to outward appearances like some artists I could name. It might not make sense to you to keep stuff like this for more than a day, but it makes perfect sense to me. The thing stays.”

And he placed it onto the grass as reverentially as a princess would place a royal orb.

“I, uh,” he continued, “apologize if I came across as a bit curt.” He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, it has been one of those days, what?”

Once more, she was staring at him. After a while, he shuffled where he sat.

Then, apropos of nothing he could tell, she tackled him. Alarm shot into his chest – what offense had he committed now? – but then she squeezed his ribs. Both of his forelimbs chafed against his torso. He was horribly aware of her clumpy cerulean mane pressing against his neck.

Hoping to the heavens he was doing the right thing, he waited a few seconds before tapping her scalp with his chin. Her warmth still clung to him even after she’d stepped backwards, her smile stretching almost to her ears.

Finally, he relaxed. He could breathe again. He could breathe easily again.

“Now!” he said at once, moving to the canvas. “I believe I have one sunset to paint. Coming right up” – briefly, a giggle escaped his lips – “Lady White Lightning.”

She shot forwards and a rather hopeful side of him stretched out his forelimbs for a second hug. Instead, she shot round, gripped him under each pit, and flapped her wings hard.

“Wait a moment, wait a moment!” he cried out. Hastily, he turned his anticipated hug into a grab for the canvas and box. “What are you doing?”

Her head over his shoulder, White Lightning looked up. He followed her gaze.

“You want me to paint clouds?” he said.

Grinning, she shook her head and began beating her wings faster. Their turbulence fanned his flanks. Already, his stomach tried to drop out of him.

Realization dawned. “Oooooh,” he said.

Both of them escaped the pull of gravity, and he looked down at once. The carpet of green became stains on the hill, which became a lump beside the swirling, spiralling, brown-marked streets of Ponyville. Fear and joy widened his eyes. A whoop escaped from his mouth, yet the mosaic of cottages shrank further, became an eye in the face of a complex portrait of green. The gleaming palace and the white dot of Rarity’s boutique fell away from him. His whoops became screams.

Look at all that! His inner artist bounced around his skull. Look at it, look at it, look at it! It’s even more beautiful than I imagined! So much complexity! So much life!

They reached one of the clouds overhead, a lone platform just large enough to place his canvas and box onto. Nothing else impeded his view. Although the sunset hadn’t changed, he fancied he could see the new slope, the green edge of the world. Below him, the fields stretched out like patches on a quilt. The baby Ponet fell silent with shock, the colt Ponet gaped with shock, but the stallion Ponet looked down and watched the pegasi fly on, and he did too.

“Oh, thank you!” he cried out. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Behind him, White Lightning groaned.

“Uh oh.” Ponet levitated the canvas and box out of her grip at once. “Are you… OK back there?”

He felt the shrug through his pits.

“Well, if you say so. I did ask.”

Sparkling, the canvas settled onto the platform. He placed the box next to it and flipped the lid open. When he levitated the brush into his mouth, however, he got a jolt from the pegasus, and hastily took it back out.

“What?” he said.

Her head was just visible over his right shoulder. Her gaze was on his levitating brush, and he saw it flicker towards his own horn. For a moment, he thought he saw his own hungry look in there. Her grip around his torso tightened.

Grinning, he turned back to the canvas. “Oh, if you must. It’s… not my usual style, but… Whyever not? Watch and learn from the master.”

The oranges blushed to a rosy red. Ponet, one moment making the brush dance across the paper in imitation of the sunset fields, glanced to one side and smiled. White Lightning never took her eyes off the sparkling golden sheen, her chin resting on his shoulder.

Ponet chuckled under his breath. The Elite Pony, and his faithful lady. Never change, White Lightning. Never change.

Hearts and Hooves, Horns and Wings

White Lightning, one moment galloping around the corner and onto the town green, skidded to a halt and stared. The box and letter on her saddle bounced off the back of her head.

Pink paper hearts dangled down from the parasols, and every table had a pony to it: mostly, she noticed, pairs or quartets for double dates. And why wouldn’t they be out and about? Scarcely a cumulus to be seen between them and the blazing blue sea overhead. Even if there had been no one else sitting outside at the café, however, her gaze would still not have flitted any faster to the one table at the edge.

She took a step back, and then held up both wings to support the box package in case it fell off.

Sipping from a straw – doubtless, he’d be sampling the finest fermented grape juices that Berry Punch and Cherry Berry had to offer – adjusting his top hat, and clearly shuffling under the ridiculous dinner jacket and shining golden tie, Ponet the unicorn turned his gaze back to the skies.

Narrowing her eyes, White Lightning followed suit. Pegasi zipped back and forth, many with partners but some without. Not a few single mares passed by.

She glanced back at Ponet. What was his expression? Even from here, she recognized the curving eyebrows, the tiny downward tips of his mouth, the creakingly slow lowering of his expressive ears. He didn’t seem to have picked out any particular pegasus, but there were mostly mares up there. No doubt about that: her keen pegasus senses could take in the full contours of a cloud-splashed rainbow, and then tell from that alone that it was sunset.

Of their own accord, her teeth bared, but then White Lightning shook herself down.

That’s not fair, she thought guiltily. You know him. Maybe he’s just looking for inspiration, or maybe he’s bored. Maybe he’s trying to spot me among the flocks. Whatever she tried, however, the boiling pit of acid bubbled away inside her stomach.

He’s not the sort. I’ll prove it to you. Watch.

All the same, as she ambled forwards and winced at the jarring of her hooves against the brickwork bridge, she wished he hadn’t donned the Canterlot look. Oh, it was fine enough, the golden ribbon serving as a rich accent to the top hat’s dark brim, the way his frizzy golden mane so perfectly complemented his brass buttons and the golden cabochons of his tails. Despite herself, she imagined her own aquamarine ensemble cloaking her in turn – a true Canterlot lady! – and she swung her haunches a little to show off the imaginary hemline.

And yet… and yet…

Her lumpy fringe bounced off her brow under each step. She had nothing but the whiteness of her fur, and even that felt slick under the morning’s weather-work and under the midday sun. Why oh why hadn’t she taken a bath first? She looked like she was meeting just another Cloudsdale stallion.

It took forever to cross the grass and see the table looming up before her, but then Ponet looked down and suddenly forever wasn’t long enough.

He smiled at once. Not the stiff, glazed-over smile she’d seen him wear at garden parties or while listening to some stuffy unicorn at a Star Swirl convention. It was the smile a puppy would’ve given.

“White!” Ponet stepped around the table, jolted it accidentally, winced at his gaskins, and then carried on and wrapped a forelimb around her crest. “Such dreadful timing, as usual!”

He chuckled, and she breathed the relief out of her chest.

“Ah well,” he continued, “can’t help how we’re made, what? Can I get you a drink? Pomace d’Appleloosa? Cherry Hill Ranch Supreme Cider? Ooh, ooh, you must try the latest concoction from the Golden Harvest Plantation: the Sweet Celestia Carotene Kick! I hear it’s all the rage in the rustically minded districts of you-know-where, ahaha!”

Inside her own head, White Lightning giggled. Lady Lightning, and her gallant gentlecolt. Never change, Ponet.

For a moment, she considered graciously waving a hoof to decline, but then the dryness of her mouth sucked her brain dry too, and she grinned sheepishly and nodded.

“Oh, you like that one, do you? Very well.” Ponet tapped the tabletop and returned to his seat, barely placing his coat-tailed haunches on the grass before a waiter materialized beside him. “Garçon, one Sweet Celestia Carotene Kick for my very special somepony. Extra sweet, I believe. Toute de suite, s’il vous plait!”

Airily, the waiter about-turned and strode away, muzzle a little higher than White Lightning thought was entirely warranted. In spite of the package slipping down to her left flank, she was as light as a songbird. Both wings had to be forced still.

“I’ve just had the most splendid week.” Ponet removed his top hat, and she marvelled at how even his wavy fringe seemed to invoke the caramel sheen of liquid gold under a sunset sky. “Miss Rarity hosted the most exciting fashion show in her boutique. I hear she’s taking inspiration from her Manehattan branch, and let me tell you, the artistry, the exquisite yet quirky melange of urbane modernity and old-timey class frankly has Hoity Toity’s World Culture Wonderful Couture beat, hooves-down. It certainly made for a good tonic to that poisonous freakshow she came up with last time. Do you remember me telling you what I read in Cosmare the other day…?”

Opposite, she could see him circling his heel and tapping the table and stretching his forelimb wide in a sweeping gesture. His face flitted naturally from beaming smile to curl-lipped frown to rolling-eyes disdain while his voice tap-danced from one register to another.

This is where I belong, she thought, and she sighed, elbows on the table, hooves pressed against her cheeks. I just wish I could understand half of what he’s saying.

The waiter dropped her glass onto the tabletop. Despite herself, she frowned slightly at the drops sliding down the outside. No unicorn would get such a disrespectful drop. Even as she watched, the same waiter switched Ponet’s drink for another without a single tremble or splash. She watched the snooty-looking popinjay shuffle off smoothly, with his oil-slicked mane and his too-good-for-the-likes-of-her jacket and vest.

White Lightning turned back to the speech, and groaned and buried her face in the table’s varnish. Sometimes, he does go on. And on and on and on and on…

“So anyway, one too many sour grapes for my liking,” he finished, and she wondered if he even knew what the phrase meant, “but overall a splendid bushel of a week. Oh, I say, new drink. Ha! I didn’t even notice.” A slight sip preceded a pause. “White, are you OK?”

Feeling the blush squeeze her cheeks, she forced her face up and offered another grin. He was looking at her almost warily, eyes wide and mouth small again.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “This must sound incredibly boring to you. So, how was your week?”

The coach was sure timing her now. White Lightning straightened up. How do I begin to describe it? Push a cloud. Kick lightning. Do a few Wonderbolts-inspired exercise routines… yes, Rainbow Dash joining the Wonderbolts doesn’t bode well for the rest of us. I swear she sees us as just another squad. We’re only weather ponies.

I’m only a weather pony, she thought sadly.

To him, she screwed up her face and tilted a hoof in midair.

“Oh, well,” he said, casting about as though he’d dropped something. “‘Fraid I can’t help you there. Pegasus life is a closed book to me, what?”

He tried a nervous chuckle. She wished he didn’t. It was worse than the monologuing; at least he had his heart in that.

What do I do, come to think of it? I haven’t been to a decent gathering in ages. It’s all just drill, drill, weather, drill, exercise, weather, drill. I can’t remember the last time I went to see a maiden voyage. Those airships, such feats of unicornian design, such majestic magical machines. Of course they’d figure out how to join us pegasi in the air. Meadowflower herself worked on spells to defy gravity, and oh! If she had just gotten the formula right…

“Hello?” A hoof waved in front of her, and she noticed it was Ponet’s. “Anyone at home?”

Guiltily, she blinked out the daydream and focused on his rising eyebrow.

“I was just asking,” he said a little stiffly, and something small in her heart wilted, “whether you had any plans for today?”

Uh oh, she thought. A shrug and a crouch combined into one shrinking gesture.

Ponet blew sharply between his lips; he was far too genteel to actually spit, but a few microscopic flecks arced out briefly. “I see. I see, indeed. Once again, it’s up to the Elite Pony to draw up a schedule. You promised last week you’d rustle something up, and you had all week to do it. What were you doing?”

By way of explanation, she flapped her wings. For a moment, his glare softened and he stared at them long after she’d folded them. She wished he didn’t. From a pegasus, it would seem intimidating. From a unicorn, it just seemed random.

“Well,” he said, a little more charitably, “I suppose I can’t blame you. Always late, never without a plan, sometimes” – his gaze flitted to her fringe, and she raised a hoof at once to cover it – “uh… too… free-spirited to fuss over the small details. Actually, I don’t mind telling you how nice it would be to let my mane down sometimes.”

His face exploded with panic.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with frumpy – er, I mean with different manes, of course. I mean, some of my best friends are manes – wait, what!? No! Why would I even say that? I wouldn’t say anything so silly. I meant to say that it’s hardly my place to – I mean, uh, different strokes for different folks, what?”

She folded her forelimbs and glared him into silence. Sometimes, just sometimes, it would be nice to go one drink without him acting stupid.

Curling her wing round – she caught his gaze and glared until he apologized and turned away – she held up the glass and, in defiance of the little Lady Lightning in her head tapping her hoof meaningfully, quaffed the orange slop. Dribbles ran down either side of her cheek.

Then she woke up. Hastily, she wiped the running cold off her face and swallowed. Sweet had been right, she thought. I might as well be drinking caramelized sugar. A shudder of sugar rush ran through her jaw. With a plonk, she put the glass down.

“Here.” Ponet summoned a lacy handkerchief from his breast pocket, his unicorn horn aglow. “You appear to have a bit on your chin.”

Any other way, she’d have plucked it from him and dabbed it herself, but she found her gaze wandering to his glowing horn, to the sparkle along its length, and to the wonderfully slight sound of magic charging and crackling against the air. She let him dab her chin, without any resistance whatsoever.

Then she caught his gaze, and hastily looked down at her drink. His expression was the specialist hauteur eyebrow mixed with wry smirk. She’d always found it a little too knowing for her liking.

Beaming up at him, she gripped the package in both hooves and reached across the table. Not that the contents were heavy, but it was a large box and she winced at the stretching tendons in her spine.

“What’s this?” he said theatrically, as if he didn’t know. “Oh my, a present for me?”

Now the smirk’s on the other muzzle, she thought, though she nodded as regally as she could. Lady Lightning was owed big time.

Ponet levitated the box out of her grip. At first, he began telekinetically peeling back the wrapping paper and sliding off the ribbon, but then he lowered it onto the grass beside him and cut out his magic.

I wish he didn’t do that, she thought. Maybe he’s trying to make me feel comfortable, but honestly, I’d be more comfortable if he’d just use his magic. Maybe that’s why he stares at pegasi: to find out more about them. Canterlot living is part academia, after all. Studying would be very… Ponet of him. Or it could just be his inner artist.

His gaping excitement closed. Squinting inside the box, he hummed. It wasn’t an encouraging hum.

She felt her ears droop of their own accord. Now that she was actually giving it to him, it seemed a bit, well…

“Oh ho ho,” he said gamely, forcing a smile onto his muzzle while his eyes drew up the lids protectively. “I see. How very interesting.”

Out of the box, he levitated her gift.

“A garnet-tipped Enchanted Enterprises modern sceptre-cane,” he said, and now his game chuckle ran like blades across iron bars. “How very… quaint.”

Oh dear. Inside her head, Lady Lightning thumped her own face with a hoof.

“Quaint.” That’s Ponet for “It’s awful, but I’m going to pretend it’s still a good gift.” And not some cheap knock-off of a real museum-worthy work of artisanship. Not some shiny, over-glittered, mass-produced, barely weeks-old bit of tourist kitsch only a foal could love.

She wanted to give him something like the Staff of Wiseacre the Smartmouth, or like the enchanted cane of Grim Tidings the Dark Mage. Even outside of the history books, she’d seen palaces of shops with magical artefacts discreetly arranged as though it were simply a jeweller’s, or a tailor’s fit for Princess Celestia herself. They had class. They had style. More to the point, even a non-unicorn could wield one or two of them.

Unfortunately, she’d taken one look at the molehill of coins in her bank vault and knew they were a million years beyond her. Besides, if they turned you away at the entrance, then by definition you were not the kind of pony who belonged in the enchanted emporium anyway. Think of all the spells a pegasus could perform if they just had a hold of one of those amazing artefacts.

Her eyes lit up under the parasol, and through the light she could see herself with a festooned wooden staff in her hooves. It wouldn’t be as good as the real thing, but think of all the everyday mugs she could levitate without raising a hoof, think of all the strange devices she could slip her magic through instead of forcing her clumsy wings in to get stuck.

“I have a present for you, too,” cooed Ponet.

Like a kicked cloud, the dream poofed out of existence. He’d just levitated another box across the table to her.

What a box! Finest silk ribbon from the Canterlot Carousel, wrapping paper like the pages of a glossy magazine, tailored and decorated – her heart fluttered and she fanned herself – with grey cumulus clouds discharging zigzag lightning. Her cutie mark.

Wings a blur, she shot over and tackled him in a winding embrace. She couldn’t squeeze hard enough.

Then she zipped back into place and ripped away and tore out and bit through and spat out every scrap before she realized what she was doing. What would it be? A volume on ancient unicorn lore? A noble genealogy catalogue like Dimwit’s Regally Impeccable Peerage? Jewel-encrusted aquamarine dress she’d always, always, always stared at through the boutique windows?

White Lightning flipped the lid aside, tipped the box over, and drew back.

She cocked her head. She narrowed one eye and stretched her brow over the other. She skewed her jaw.

“Ta da!” Ponet beamed around the upturned box. “I sculpted it just for you. Well, if I’m brutally honest, I asked Miss Twilight Sparkle to apply that famous cloud-walking spell over it, but I was in charge of the actual artistry. What do you think?”

Hooves shaking slightly, she reached in and eased it out of its bubble wrap. Indeed the cloud was hard as ice, yet warm as a fuzzy blanket crumpled into a ball. Gently, she upturned the sculpture and watched it in case it did anything.

It was a good likeness, she had to admit. And it was a very Ponet thing to do. More to the point, it was a kind of Canterlot-level artwork. But…

She put it down on the table and leaned left, and then leaned right, and then was upright again.

“I thought you’d be amazed by it,” said the smug voice of Ponet. “Pegasi love clouds, and I love art, so what better way to combine both loves than with a classic pegasus piece of style and sophistication?”

She hadn’t the heart to tell him pegasi carved clouds all the time. It was like handing an earth pony a rune-inscribed brick.

“True, I couldn’t quite get the fine detail of the face right, and I simply could not find a way to get the delicate cutie mark in place.”

It was a little sculpture. Of her.

A little White Lightning reared up on the small podium, wings spread in takeoff, front hooves reaching for the sky. The face was a cloudy mirror of her own, down to the serene smile and calm eyes. Vaguely, she wondered what on earth he saw wrong with it.

She bit her lip. Feeling like an utter traitor, she forced a smile onto her face and nodded keenly.

“Wonderful!” Rather more noisily than his wont, Ponet sucked the fermented grape juice through his straw. She noticed his gaze drifting to the pegasi flitting overhead. “I don’t mind telling you I was worried for a moment there. You looked so absolutely shocked by my statue. Yes, I know painting is more my style, but I wanted to go the extra mile. Exercise a little artistic freedom.”

Until she ducked back behind the box and the tattered paper, White Lightning continued beaming to mouth-breaking point. Out of sight, however, she pressed both hooves into her forehead and wiped down, smearing the slight sweat over her eyelids, pulling the ridge of her muzzle, and slapping her lips back. Her own wings drooped.

Once more, he began talking about his latest attempts to combine apples with acrylics, or something like that. How could he be so easy-going all the time, as if the last few minutes of whatever had happened… hadn’t happened? She had to knock the remains off the table herself. Moodily, she took a shot of the glass and stared at the tabletop.

Pegasi love clouds, he says. Fair enough, he’s not actually wrong. Nothing like a good storm cloud to get me out of bed every morning. Maybe if he’d sculpted one of those dark, brooding thunder-makers instead of the typical cumulus type, I’d have been more impressed. Or at least he could’ve sculpted me kicking or pushing one. That’s who I am. Not some generic flapper.

Whatever she thought, it didn’t stop her suddenly wanting to gallop away. His was still a perfect present. Hers was not. She wondered why she’d ever thought it would be.

Around her, the couples talked on and nuzzled each other’s snouts and laughed and sang and occasionally shouted arguments at each other. Beneath her, the grass crunched under her shuffling. Overhead, the sun beat down and the whoosh of wings went on.