Cozy Glow Plays Tiddlywinks with Her Fatherby the dobermansChaptersDisciplineand punishTormentDisciplineThe Happy Home Fireplace Restoration service wagon jolted as it rolled up and over a crack between the sidewalk and the driveway of its destination. A wooden house lay at the end of the crosshatch pattern of weeds and uneven cobblestone, the light behind its two white-draped windows dull and yellow. Patches of starlight were blossoming in the sky opposite the sun. Hickory Kindling unhitched the heavy load from his shoulders, and as the buckles slid down his back, he took a few staggering steps to his mailbox. The sight of the empty street made him stop and give its rows of quiet cottages and townhouses a quick inspection. Tin Whistle’s bedsheets rippled on the clothesline next door. The dirt around her dwarf maple was still dark from watering. A black peephole slit between venetian blinds snapped shut as his gaze found them. Down the line, the other mailboxes stood ready for duty. He sighed. His own little door opened with a creak of metal hinges, revealing its daily surprise. “Holiday Beach,” he muttered, squinting at the poses of the straight-lace cover mares, all smiles and swimsuits. He frowned and checked the address. Ms. Citrus Vanilla 101 Teaberry Lane Fawn’s Meadow, Equestria Holiday Beach, is it?, he mused. Like Citrus would flaunt her flanks like that. Sirens, the lot of them. He flicked through the rest of the mail: Fireback’s Kiln and Anvil. Bill. Downhill Wagoners. Bill. Busy Bee Apiary. Bill. All that was left was a scroll, bound with a red ribbon and matching red wax seal. He teased it out with his hoof and turned it over so that he could see the tag. To Ms. Citrus Vanilla and Mr. Hickory Kindling From the desk of Princess Twilight Sparkle, Headmare The School of Friendship Admissions Office Castle of Friendship Ancillary Academy Ponyville, Equestria He sighed again, tucked the post into his saddle bag, and headed up the driveway. Citrus met him at the door. “Hi sweetie,” she said, giving him a one-hoofed hug. “Any good business today?” Her curtain of a mane swung against his face as she reached up to kiss him on the cheek. “No. Not really. Got some bills, though. Suppose you can count that as business.” Citrus shrank back, letting him step inside and doff his hat. He spat the stack of letters onto the lampstand they used for late nights, when he got home after Cozy was in bed. The scroll fell with them, batting against the wall. The rhythmic rapping of uncut claws on the floor announced his second nightly greeting. A jiggling mass of fur and jowls romped out of the kitchen and jumped at his chest. “OK, OK. Go find your bone, Chester,” he said, pointing back the way the dog had come. Chester, still wagging, almost somersaulted to obey. “Oh, is that what I think it is?” asked Citrus. She grabbed the wax seal of the scroll between her teeth and pawed at the end to crack it. “Yeah,” Hickory sighed. “It’s from the School of Friendship. Time to see if Cozy made the cut. So. Fireback wants his money for that load of bricks I bought last week. What am I supposed to tell him? ‘Sorry, the job at the dam fell through, would you settle for an I.O.U.?'” Citrus had paused, and was glaring at him. “She has to make it. She has to.” He took a step back. Citrus’s tail was limp. A limp tail, he well knew, preceded a tongue lashing more often than not. He kept his mouth shut. Citrus resumed prying the scroll open, and when it began to uncurl, she drew the bottom end down and read aloud: “Dear Ms. Vanilla and Mr. Kindling, Upon reviewing your daughter’s scholastic achievements and special circumstances, as outlined in your application letter and attached doctor’s note, I am pleased to inform you that she has been accepted as a full-time student at the School of Friendship. You should be proud of her academic ability. Please be assured that the staff and I will do our best to instill in her sound friendship fundamentals; the lessons we ourselves have learned over many years of first-hoof experience and trial and error. Let me add that I was a newcomer to Ponyville once myself, and completely untrained in the ways of friendship, so I know her situation well. Therefore, I will take special care to ensure that Cozy makes the grade! Warmest wishes, Princess Twilight Sparkle, Founder and Headmare" “She’s in, Hickory!” Citrus cried. “Isn’t that great news?” She hugged the scroll to her chest. Hickory shrugged. “Yeah. Not bad. About time some pony in our family got into one of those princess schools.” He shook his head, visions of his mop-headed daughter toddling through the lofty doors of a schoolhouse under a giant saddlebag of books beginning to take shape. Leaving his work boots by the door, he made his way into the kitchen and sat down at the fold-out table next to the stove. Citrus followed him in, carrying the scroll in her mouth like she'd unearthed a trophy carrot. A wisp of sweet smoke broke above her head. Chester beamed pure love at him from his water dish. “She’s finally going to make some friends,” she said, taping the acceptance letter to the cupboard. “No more angry parents. No more trips to—“ “Fireback’s not going to be happy,” Hickory grumbled. “What a dope I am, thinking they would let a small-time outfit like me patch up a dam. Hey, were you able to sell any candles today? Two crates of your Peach Surprise, like we talked about? That would about cover it.” He slid a pair of glossy sheets of paper that had been left on his placemat so he could read what was printed on them. “Cracked hearthstones?” he posed in his best salespony voice. “Sooty mantle? No problem! Happy Home Fireplace Restoration specializes in curing whatever ails your old chimney. Just call on Hickory Kindling, licensed contractor with over fifteen years of experience in the field, and he’ll fix your sick bricks in no time! Customer satisfaction guaranteed!” It went on. He looked at the picture of the pristine brick wall and his face inset, and laughed. He pushed the sheets to the side as he read the slogan. “’Happy Home Fireplace Restoration: Home is Where the Hearth Is’. These the new brochures?” “Yes," said Citrus, "aren’t they nice? They’re samples. See? One says Fawn’s Meadow, and one says Ponyville. Guess now we know which one to order!” She opened the oven and pulled out a hot baking sheet. A cinnamon haze rose from the steaming spread of oats piled on top. With a gentle kick, she shut the oven door and shook them off of their wax paper into a bowl. Hickory breathed it in, rubbing his belly. Citrus had, over the years, learned to pinpoint dinner to within five minutes of whatever time he stepped through the door. How she managed it, whether by how late in the evening it was, or by some internal clock, he had never deciphered. Cozy Glow high-stepped out of the shadows of the hall and curtsied. “Good evening, Papa, welcome …” She stopped herself when she saw the look on his face. “Is there something you wanted to say?” he growled. She curtsied again. “I’m sorry for speaking out of turn. I really should mind my manners. Fillies are to speak when spoken to.” “That’s right. Unless you ask permission.” “May I ask you a question, sir?” She floated upward on hummingbird wings. “Yes, go ahead.” “May I speak to Chester, even if he doesn’t bark first?” She hovered in the air, grinning and hugging the dog’s head. Hickory blinked longer than he intended. The little cockatrice is mocking me. The words arced in his mind like lightning at midnight. There were whispers too, and images that came and went before he knew they were there. “No, Chester’s just a dog. Read him the blooming dictionary if you want. And I told you a thousand times: no flying in the house.” Cozy giggled. “Oh Chester! He’s such a snickerdoodle.” She spiraled to the floor and knelt down so that her face was next to Chester’s smiling, drooling snout, and patted his head. “You’re a good doggie. Papa, can you tell Chester what a good doggie he is?” Hickory ground his teeth. Chester and Cozy smiled together and waited. He turned back to his dinner. Citrus had added half of a baked potato to his plate in the meantime. “’Snickerdoodle’,” he grunted. He'd realized it had been a mistake introducing her to the word after she'd used it fifty times last Sunday. “May I ask you another question, Papa?” asked Cozy. “If you have to.” “You seem rather distraught this evening. Perhaps a game or two of tiddlywinks would cheer you up! Would you like to play?” Citrus set a glass on Hickory’s placemat hard enough to get his attention and filled it with orange juice. “I’m going to make something special to celebrate. How does apple pie sound? Why don’t you spend some time with your little scholar, Hickory? Maybe tell her the good news?” She snatched her apron from its hook and slung it around her neck. Hickory didn’t miss the twinkle in Cozy’s eyes. It was the weekend, he considered, and he hadn’t really had a moment to spare the past few days. He supposed he could do his fatherly duty, then try to figure out how he was going to pay Fireback. He took a few mouthfuls of oats and potato. “Yeah, sure, a couple games, maybe,” he said while he chewed. “Then it’s bed time.” Cozy shot a foreleg into the air. “That’s the ticket! Customer satisfaction guaranteed.” She leapt upward and did a sharp loop before swooping back toward her bedroom. “No flying in the house!” Hickory called after her. Citrus stomped out of the kitchen and roared, “Cozy! Hooves back on the floor. Right now!” Hickory made quick work of the rest of his dinner, gulped down his orange juice, and let free a long belch. Citrus’s tail had drooped again. Tiddlywinks was starting to sound like an excellent proposition. He made his way into the living room and fell into his spot on the couch, the worn fabric already warm from the fire blazing in the hearth. He eyed the fine brickwork. Five weeks and a month’s pay. Not a smudge of mortar on the faces, he’d made sure. If nothing else worked in his stars-forsaken house, the fireplace was going to be top-of-the-barrel. The door opened and shut behind him, and in came the sound of wooden game chips rattling against glass. Cozy stopped at the edge of the couch, a jar of colored tiles tucked under her foreleg. “A hoof-ful of fun, coming right up!” “Alright Cozy. Are we going to start, or what? Papa’s busy.” “Yes sir, right away,” she replied, struggling to climb onto the couch without her wings. “Papa, may I sit beside you?” He held out a hoof for her to grab and lifted her onto the cushion next to him. “Sure. Snuggle up.” She sat back on her haunches, leaning her head against his shoulder. Bits of yarn and paper came out with the game pieces as she upended the jar. Last to fall was a knit bean bag, with buttons and strands of yarn glued to one side for eyes and hair. “Miss Pretty is here to officiate,” Cozy assured. “OK, sounds good to me. How’s my sweet lollipop?” he asked, ruffling her mane. He buried his muzzle into the thick pile of curls and inhaled, letting one wrap around his nose. She’d been using Citrus’s mane powder like he’d told her. The teachers at the School wanted to see confidence, he knew, and nothing showed confidence like a well-kept mane. He gave the sweet tangle a kiss. She nestled her slender shoulder against his. As she wormed closer and settled in, her attention wandered to the fireplace. “A cozier glow you’ll never know …” she sang to the flames. “What’s that? I don’t recognize that tune.” “It’s the song of me!” “Is that so? Well, Miss Glow, you want to go first, or shall I?” “Oh, definitely you first, Papa! Here’s your squidger. Now don’t you budge: I’ll set up the winks.” She jumped down from the couch cushion and began sliding her jar around on the floor, tongue curling from one corner of her mouth to the other. When she’d satisfied herself that she’d found the middle of the room, she scooped up the tiles and arranged them into two piles, both an equal distance from the jar. “Blue for me, lucky green for you!” she said. Checking the position of the piles and jar one more time, she rejoined him on the couch. Hickory balanced his squidger on his hoof, giving Cozy time to wriggle herself under his free foreleg. “OK, here we go. Are you ready?” “Yes siree bobkins!” said Cozy, balancing Miss Pretty on her lap. Hickory cast his piece, aiming for the middle of his pile. The winks scattered apart in a diffuse circle. A few landed within scoring distance of the jar. “Capital shot, Papa!” Cozy cheered. She bounced Miss Pretty up and down. “She’s clapping,” she explained. Hickory struggled not to smile. “Yeah, maybe, but too far to squop you just yet. And I thought Miss Pretty was supposed to be impartial. Anyway, your turn.” Cozy put her doll down and balanced her piece on the flat of her hoof as he had. “She is; she just appreciates skillful play. Now let’s see what I can do.” She played her move. Back and forth they went, pelting their winks ever closer to the jar. With every set of turns, Cozy hopped away and retrieved the squidgers, each time scrutinizing her father’s face before climbing back into her warm perch beside him. He ribbed her for her missed opportunities at first, ruffling her mane and giving her tail a tug when she overshot the winks completely or landed her squidger under the bookshelf, but as the game went his way, he stopped responding to her misplays and sheepish exclamations. He stared deeper into the hearth instead, mumbling about payments and Fireback and Tin Whistle who wouldn’t keep to her side of the property line when pruning the lilacs. More and more the jar filled with his winks, and before the thinnest log in the fire collapsed into a plume of ash and sparks, all but one of the blue pieces were covered by the last remaining green. Seeing her impending defeat, Cozy paused in her turn long enough to draw him from his ruminations. “Gee willigers, I wasn’t expecting such stiff competition,” she said, pushing her shocked expression into his face. “Looks like this is my last shot. Pay attention, Miss Pretty. Make sure I don’t engage in any foul play.” She threw her squidger. The green wink flipped into the jar. “Oopsie! What a blunder,” she tittered behind her hoof. Hickory wasn’t laughing. “You did that on purpose. You let me win,” he said, his jaw clenched tight. Cozy waved her forelegs in a criss-cross motion. “No, Papa, I would never do that. ‘Win fair, lose square’; that’s what you always say.” He removed his foreleg from her shoulder. “You let me win, and now you’re lying to me. That’s very dishonest, Cozy. Can you tell me how upright folks deal with dishonesty?” She inched away, setting Miss Pretty down between them. “They chase it away,” she replied, adopting a perfect smile. “And does it go away easy?” “No Papa.” “That’s right. It needs a kick in the britches. A kick and a bite.” “A kick and a bite to set things right,” she sang. She raised a hoof and brought it down on her hind leg, as hard as she could. The little clap made Hickory’s insides jump. A piece fell into place; a familiar corner of the puzzle that always fit, no matter what kind of day he was having. Cozy saw it in his face, and her smile grew. Hickory shook his head. “Cut that out. You know what to do.” “Yes sir,” she said, giving him a salute. “Right away!” He leaned back and reflected as she bounded out of the room. It had been Citrus who had convinced him to give the doctors a try. It had gone against his better judgment, but there was no contradicting her when she put her mind to something. The head shrinks had babbled for hours about how sick they thought Cozy was. Borderline this and dark triad that. Not a full-blown wacko yet, they’d implied, but would get there soon if they didn’t give her their top-of-the-line medicine. Once a week. Five hundred bits a pop. First they tried the same kind Citrus used for her major malfunction, but all that had done was turn their angel into a brain-dead vegetable for a month. He would change the diapers, while Citrus managed the spoon-feeding. It all gave Citrus another episode, and that had sealed the deal: no more pills and risk the consequences. Besides, no daughter of his was going to spend her life a drooling mooch. No, he’d known all along what she needed. The doctors could stuff their journals and case studies and prescriptions. Cozy needed old-style medicine. and punishThe door clicked open. Cozy had returned, carrying her big girl switch in her mouth. Hickory pointed to a spot on the floor below him. “Tail down, flanks up.” She placed the switch in his waiting hoof, and pressing her muzzle into the floor, raised her backside high enough for him not to have to lean forward. Hickory wrapped the old red cord around the end of his foreleg, tight so he could feel the wood bite into his hide. The work-worn woven reeds of the strop came into sharp focus as Pa’s all-time favorite phrase came to mind. Only one thing separates a horse from a pony. He swung the strop down across Cozy’s flank and watched for her reaction. She was grinning into the carpet, like she had yesterday and the day before in her room, pleased as punch. There was no doubt her pelt was getting tougher. It was only natural. He gave it to her again, working both sides, but there was only so much the flexible reeds could do. After a few minutes without provoking so much as a coat shiver, he figured he needed to try someplace more tender. “Up here,” he said, and when she turned he tapped his haunch. “Like when you were a yearling.” She clambered onto his lap and lay down. “Spread out. Let me see your tummy.” As if imitating Chester when he was about to be given his chew toy, she rolled belly-up and stretched out her legs. A blue wink was stuck to her cheek. Hickory let her stay that way, balanced, warm on his lap. Pa’s voice rumbled through the background of his thoughts. Let ‘em stew on it. Let it sink in what they done. So he waited until he could feel her sweat, damp between them, before he let the strop fall. It landed not quite where he’d aimed it, just below her ribs. “Tum, tum, tummy!” she laughed. His vision blurred for a moment, and it took all of his will to reign in the urge to throw her against the wall. It had happened once or twice, and only after the fact had he realized that was what she’d wanted him to do. She’d been a step ahead. The moment passed, and he was back in control. “Oh, you think it’s funny?” he shouted. She was saying something, repeating his usual phrases in singsong taunts, but he’d stopped listening. The switch pistoned up and down, forcing its cadence into her rhymes. “A whack and a crack so it never comes back!” she chirped. Hickory raised his voice higher, trying to find a place that would make her flinch. “You …” “Knees, please!” “… will …” “The hip bone’s connected to … connected to the back bone.” “… not …” “One, two, hammer my shoe!” “… lie …” “Tag, I’m it!” “ … to me!” On the other side of the door, Chester was barking and whining. Dull claws scratched at the gap between the plywood and the carpet. Hickory paused to yell behind him. “Quiet, Chester!” The snuffling and the rattling didn’t stop. “Citrus,” he called, “could you please put the blamed dog outside?” Hoofsteps approached, and the door opened a crack. Citrus’s muzzle appeared, along with her leg blocking Chester’s efforts to get in. “Is everything OK in there?” “Yeah, honey. I’m just giving Cozy her medicine.” Cozy craned her neck upward. “It’s true, Mama. I was a bad filly again.” Chester lapped at Citrus’s planted hoof, trying to push his way through. The fire coughed. “Oh. OK. Will it … will you be long?” “I think so. Papa’s still looking for my funny bone.” Citrus retreated, taking Chester with her. Hickory could hear the clanking of his collar receding through the house. The front door slammed, and it went quiet. The smell of nutmeg and apples had crept in, released from the kitchen during the interruption. He took a hard look at Cozy, who was still had her legs and wings spread far apart like she was flying upside-down. It was no good, he decided. She thought it was all so funny. A joke, like an idiot pony who fixes fireplaces for a living is a joke. Some part of him hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the time had come. He was going to need Old Hick. “You’re not welcome here anymore,” he whispered to himself. “Time to make your own way.” That’s what Pa had said when he’d come of age.“Fly up to the mantle; behind the portrait of me and Pa,” he told Cozy. “Bring me back what you find there.” She rolled over and obeyed, returning with a knotty rod of aged, rigid wood. When he took it, she resumed her place on his lap. Every pony else does it. They just don’t talk about it. He studied her as he removed the binding of the outgrown switch from his foreleg, scanning for a place to start anew. Her coat was smooth like Citrus’s, but she’d gotten the Kindling looks. Some foals looked less like their parents as they grew up, but the older she got, the more looking at her was like looking in a mirror. Pa’s voice grew louder. A bonk or two on the noggin. The mane hides it. None the wiser. He cinched the buckle on Old Hick’s strap and hit her between the ears, hard so that the curls wouldn’t soften the impact. She grunted, and forced out a laugh. The wink slipped off of her face. Hickory waited to make sure she wasn’t going to bleed all over the cushions. When nothing dripped down the side of her face, he ran the side of his hoof over the spot where he’d cracked her. There was a lump, but otherwise she was clean as a whistle. Progress, he thought. Pa was usually right. He went for her belly again, eager to see what kind of difference the hardwood could make. “Tum,” she said. No laugh this time, he noticed. And he thought he felt her shift, so that he wouldn’t hit the same place again. He went further down, where it was softer. “Tum,” Cozy repeated. Her smile wasn’t half as big as when they’d started. There was nothing genuine about it, now. Hickory slid the rod along her belly, another inch toward her tail, so she understood where it was landing next. It fell with a hollow thud. Cozy winced. “Tum.” It came out as a groan. Hickory raised Old Hick, admiring how it glistened in the firelight. He’d found the secret to getting through to his willful daughter at last. The only thing that separates a horse from a pony. He needed to take care, though. He had to stay in control, lest he tear up her insides. There would be no easy way to hide that. Keep it north of the belly button if you want grandfoals. Yes, that was right, he knew. Pa was always right. He checked for damage. As he poked at her belly, he got a misplaced glimpse of a shallow valley and the twisted, weeping canyon beyond, and shuddered, and thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t been born a mare. “Cover up your business,” he commanded. “No one wants to see that.” The single thick curl of a tail slipped upward between her legs. “That’s better,” he said. Her wings were trembling against his haunches. He didn’t know much about Pegasi, so he would have to stay away from those too. One wallop too many might make her a cripple, and that was the last thing he needed. With that, he’d exhausted all of his remaining worries. He smiled and let Old Hick fly as it would, drinking in Cozy’s bitten-off cries, and the various light of the fire, and the smell of wood smoke and apple pie. Chester was howling outside in the dark. Before long, Cozy reached her forelegs across her heaving chest and belly. “OK, Papa, I’m sorry. Can … can we stop playing now?” Hickory pried her legs back up above her head and held them there, lost in conversation with Pa. As Old Hick’s strokes started falling once more, he listened. She’s hiding a worm inside, and if you don’t find it—I mean if you don’t make her show it—it’ll grow and eat away what’s good in her, and she’ll grow up rotten. I seen it before. You’re a father now, so today’s the day I’m givin’ you Ol’ Hick. You well know this is how I made you what you are, and I’m proud of the stallion you’ve become. What had he said to that? He couldn’t remember. Cozy was struggling for air, her tiny front hooves pushing in vain against his pinioning foreleg. “Please”—she coughed—“please stop. I promise I learned my lesson.” Raise her the same. You may need this some days. Use it if you got to. And here she was, her ribs and gut waiting for him like his oats had, soft and warm, not ten minutes prior. The day would come when this prettied-up sack of meat gave birth to his grandfoals, and they would try to hoodwink her same as she was doing to him. Dirty bags of horseapples they’d be, like her, like him, and like Pa. He considered her faceless, mute bottom half, stretched to the limit like it wanted more, while her front end fought and pleaded. Why was she here, the flames asked him, spitting short-lived stars in chaotic time with Old Hick’s drumbeat. The bow, the curls, the careful grooming of the velvet coat; the stamp of his own face on a delicate filly. What brought her into focus, the silver of the mirror that threw back his reflection, was the sting of Old Hick. The question and the answer both. She was murmuring against his coat. “Chester’s sad. Maybe you should let him inside.” He lifted his weight, tapping the end of her muzzle with his rod. “And let you run off and hide somewhere I can’t reach you? I don’t think so.” Keep hitting her said the flames in his dead father’s voice. “Keep hitting her,” he spat in her face. His foreleg descended on her neck again like a guillotine, and he was off, running to his secret place, where the hearth cradled its fiery heart like a dear friend, surrounded by the absent dogs’ lamentations who approached its light in another glad reunion; long-legged legislators in their private cabinet, hale in their cups and the haze of their pipes, and Pa was there too, making darn sure he did the job right. He galloped strong and free, yearning for the ache in his shoulders to grow, and itch he could tend to as he needed; the more the words were screamed—stop stop stop please stop—the more he needed to hear them, the long-winded wails rising and falling, ending in needful squirming sweet ragged protest. He ran through a forest of bursting ripe fruit and ancient spices, warm on the wind, and as the merciless sunlight was shown and shaded by the trees, Cozy’s sun-kissed face pulsed in and out, nearer and farther, flickering between a huge, open-mouthed frown and a bitter, snarling mask of hatred. Peel back that onion. Good idea, Pa. You peeled me all the way back. There it was, he thought. Now she hated. Now she could go out into the world and not be stomped flat by it. “Peel it back, now, Cozy. What did you do wrong?” “I was a bad … a bad filly,” she hiccupped. “Why?” “I lied! You were just trying to enjoy a good honest game and I lied!” She writhed in his grip, growling and shrieking while she tried to pound herself with her hooves. He nodded. “And what do you deserve?” “I deserve to go to Tartarus and burn like garbage. I’m a piece of trash and trash gets thrown away and burned and …” Her livid scream lapsed into a fit of coughing. Hickory smoothed back her curls, bunching them back under her ribbon. “That’s right. And you will, if you don’t shape up. You know we go through this because I love you, Cozy, and I want you to be the best you can be. No pony is going to help you”—he shook her by the shoulders—“no pony is going to help you!” “Yes Papa, you’re right. You're always right. No pony is going to help me. I have to help myself.” “You got it,” Hickory replied. He eased back, letting her curl up and clutch her bruised, swollen belly. As she raked her welts, experimenting, he toweled the sweat and snot and tears from her face with the couch quilt. The flames gave one last wise whisper. “I love you, Cozy.” Her listless hoof dropped onto his chest. “I love you too, Papa.” He unwound Old Hick’s strap from his foreleg. The cuts it had made in his coat felt good and right. “Hey, why don’t we get some apple pie? I bet Chester would like some too.” “That old snickerdoodle. I’ll share mine with him.” “That’s very nice of you. Just one more thing, though. Where’s that doll of yours?” “Miss Pretty?” Cozy asked, looking up. “In your dollhouse?” “No, Papa.” “’No, Papa’? Well if you know, tell me where she is!” “She’s right here, Papa.” She pointed to where she’d been sitting beside him. “Pick her up. And take a good look at her.” Cozy uncoiled herself, laboring to retrieve the shapeless bag from between the cushions. She held it up for her father to take. “I’m going to need you to put Miss Pretty in the fire.” “But she's—” “Do it, right now.” The fire had shrunk to skeletal ash, spreading a faint glow broken by a few snarls of orange. Cozy took the doll in her mouth, and limping through the wash of shadows to the hearth, dropped it into the embers. “Tell me what’s happening to her,” said Hickory. “She’s … she’s turning black. Her hair’s gone, and—“ “That's what happens to bad fillies. What else?” “Her eyes. I can’t her eyes.” The last of the firelight was receding into the flawless, blackened brickwork. “That's good. That's really good. Never let them see your eyes. Do you understand? Never let them know what you’re thinking. Never, never what you're feeling. Never let them see your …” TormentThere was a rustling. Restless smoke and whispers shifted as one in response to the ringing of metal being forced through metal. A tiny figure was struggling alone on a ledge of obsidian slag, trussed within an iron-ribbed box, and all the unaging intent of the surrounding fog bore down on it in delight. A word was fighting to be freed from the prisoner’s muzzled mouth. It fizzed through the drool that trailed from her clenching jaw, repeating like a riddle’s answer being borne to a sphinx lest it be forgotten, and everything lost. The thing that watched knew the word. With false urgings it called for it, only to suffocate it with a flood of denials. Somewhere on the ledge, an angry hum grew, then faded. Light had broken the immanent reverie; one star in an empty universe. A voice began to speak above the cage. "Hmm. It appears as though your bindings have loosened. You have been straining much since my last visit." A light blue cloud of magic enveloped the steel cord attached to the bar that had been forced through Cozy’s teeth as a bit. "Allow me to remedy that." The tension in the cable grew in ticks as each new braided segment slipped through its fastener. By degrees it pulled Cozy's head backward, strangling her groans into desperate, puling gasps. The stream of saliva leaking from her ruined mouth turned pink, then red. "What's the trouble?" Luna asked, sitting back on her haunches. "Only our third ... appointment ... and already you seek other engagements?" She chuckled, and was silent for a time, letting the child’s cries drown in the ageless void. "Well now. As I have matters of my own to attend to, why don't we begin?" She stood, and began to channel her magic through the spiral of her horn. Cozy twitched in her tightened snare, jerking her head from side to side as if to refuse what was coming. “You spent your short life a restive spirit, contriving to fly harder than your wings could carry you. To run faster than your legs could bear, ever jealous of magic you were not born to; trapped inside the dainty carriage of a foal. So, you may be surprised to hear that the immortality you sought has been granted. For none perish in the Womb of Tartarus. Here, it is the spirit that imprisons the flesh.” The whispers coincided for a moment, weaving through the voluptuous curls of fog in vague assent. Luna lowered her voice. “Can you hear her, all around, and within? She is so pleased to have adopted you. She holds you as her own, and will never relinquish you.” The soundscape fell back to chaos once more. “But perhaps you still hold out hope for rescue. It happened once before, did it not? Although, I would remind you that your impulsive saviour merely sought to use you as a pawn in a much larger game. Be assured, henceforth you shall never be free. It was I who sang the Song of Perdition that sundered you from the world of the living; I who wove the unbreakable chain that tethers you to her—here—your new mother, and I made no misstep.” Cozy’s chest heaved. Her hind legs, bent the wrong way above her back, pulled at her makeshift rein. She rocked on her belly, going nowhere. Luna watched her from above. “Not a single voice asked for mercy on your behalf,” she continued. “Indeed, we considered that Discord’s escape from his stone prison was all too easy, and that your case required a more permanent solution. What was it that sister said, on the day of your defeat? ‘There isn’t a punishment worthy of all you’ve done.’ I wholeheartedly agreed. And so, when all was said and done we recalled this place, lost to memory before the time of Alicorns came to an end, ages upon ages ago.” She breathed in, immune to the half-spoken wordplay and caresses of the mist. The stream of light had reached the tip of her horn. It hung there above her cross-swept mane, a droplet of icy water poised to fall in the midnight haze. “For children, the stars are just stars, and the Princesses are distant features of the horizon. Yet, here we are. Was that truly your dream? To be a Princess? To show us all how great you could become?” Cozy had begun to cry. “Of what value was your conquest? No, I know you have no answer. Every empire in history has fallen, and the same fate will meet every empire to come, until the sun burns out, and the moon drifts away. All are held together by the same faulty thread, so all come apart in the same predictable ways.” She kicked pebbles of black glass off the ledge, one by one. “Domination. Corruption. The will to harm. To power.” Luna sat once more, unable to drive the sneer from her face. “Eventually you will come to understand that your life, such as you led it, had neither meaning nor value. You have heard of the shared fate of the King and the Pawn, I trust? The pieces have all been put away, back on their shelf.” She flourished a hoof over the depthless cliffside. “If suffering begets wisdom, then you will be wiser than the greatest sages among our kind. For with your scant few years, wisdom was what you sorely lacked! Had you used your power to create, rather than destroy, mayhap sister and I would have embraced you, and let Twilight take second place. What you desired was always within your grasp!” Bright drops welled at the edge of the band that clamped Cozy’s eyes shut. They shone in the dim illumination like fireflies following their leader to the end of a summer’s night. The fog called to them, too, and as they slipped downward, they drifted away. “Fear not. Though you live on, your mind will not fail, for you lost it long before you came here. I admit, I worried that even all of this would fail to reach you. But some things all ponies have in common, from the youngest filly adjusting to her new life at school, to the most hardened stallion of the Royal Guard. Should what you experience here still inspire no remorse, I say that you will be known. I will share every detail of your innermost fears with Princess Twilight, whom, I have no doubt, will transcribe and catalogue every detail. She is, as you know, very thorough. I expect every library in the land will have record of the dysfunctional machinery of your soul, so that there will be no chance of another like you rising to prominence.” The livid light at the point of her horn flared bright white. “Keep fighting, child. Now receive what you deserve.” Cozy started to twist, until she felt the grinding of the shattered bones of her forelegs. She screamed through her constricted throat. A glowing white thread of magic wormed downward into the cage, and dug its way through her grime-caked, tangled mane. In an instant she was asleep and dreaming, and her dreams were of immolation; of living death within a blazing furnace; of burrowing leeches throbbing in vermicular joy beneath her coat, infecting her with hot fetid pestilence as they engorged on her blood; of her parents raging, beating her unconscious again and again and again, shutting her in a crate and casting her into the sea; of all the ponies of Equestria rejecting her, spitting on her, calling for her execution and damnation to Tartarus where all of the world's filth collects and burns; of aeons alone in boundless space, yearning for a single word, yearning to be able to feel, yearning even for unbearable suffering so long as she was able to feel. When the uncountable years of the nightmares had passed, Luna spoke. "Fascinating, is it not? How so much time can seem to pass in dreams, while in the waking world only a few moments have slipped away." She lowered her head to Cozy's level, her great, sea-green eye burning with cold hatred. "One might say, an eternity." Luna said no more. Time passed; an hour, or a year. Exhausted in the void, Cozy fought to speak the last sane thought left to her. Papa. Author's Note Thank you for reading. Chapter 3 was heavily influenced by one of the final scenes of Hellraiser: Inferno.
DisciplineThe Happy Home Fireplace Restoration service wagon jolted as it rolled up and over a crack between the sidewalk and the driveway of its destination. A wooden house lay at the end of the crosshatch pattern of weeds and uneven cobblestone, the light behind its two white-draped windows dull and yellow. Patches of starlight were blossoming in the sky opposite the sun. Hickory Kindling unhitched the heavy load from his shoulders, and as the buckles slid down his back, he took a few staggering steps to his mailbox. The sight of the empty street made him stop and give its rows of quiet cottages and townhouses a quick inspection. Tin Whistle’s bedsheets rippled on the clothesline next door. The dirt around her dwarf maple was still dark from watering. A black peephole slit between venetian blinds snapped shut as his gaze found them. Down the line, the other mailboxes stood ready for duty. He sighed. His own little door opened with a creak of metal hinges, revealing its daily surprise. “Holiday Beach,” he muttered, squinting at the poses of the straight-lace cover mares, all smiles and swimsuits. He frowned and checked the address. Ms. Citrus Vanilla 101 Teaberry Lane Fawn’s Meadow, Equestria Holiday Beach, is it?, he mused. Like Citrus would flaunt her flanks like that. Sirens, the lot of them. He flicked through the rest of the mail: Fireback’s Kiln and Anvil. Bill. Downhill Wagoners. Bill. Busy Bee Apiary. Bill. All that was left was a scroll, bound with a red ribbon and matching red wax seal. He teased it out with his hoof and turned it over so that he could see the tag. To Ms. Citrus Vanilla and Mr. Hickory Kindling From the desk of Princess Twilight Sparkle, Headmare The School of Friendship Admissions Office Castle of Friendship Ancillary Academy Ponyville, Equestria He sighed again, tucked the post into his saddle bag, and headed up the driveway. Citrus met him at the door. “Hi sweetie,” she said, giving him a one-hoofed hug. “Any good business today?” Her curtain of a mane swung against his face as she reached up to kiss him on the cheek. “No. Not really. Got some bills, though. Suppose you can count that as business.” Citrus shrank back, letting him step inside and doff his hat. He spat the stack of letters onto the lampstand they used for late nights, when he got home after Cozy was in bed. The scroll fell with them, batting against the wall. The rhythmic rapping of uncut claws on the floor announced his second nightly greeting. A jiggling mass of fur and jowls romped out of the kitchen and jumped at his chest. “OK, OK. Go find your bone, Chester,” he said, pointing back the way the dog had come. Chester, still wagging, almost somersaulted to obey. “Oh, is that what I think it is?” asked Citrus. She grabbed the wax seal of the scroll between her teeth and pawed at the end to crack it. “Yeah,” Hickory sighed. “It’s from the School of Friendship. Time to see if Cozy made the cut. So. Fireback wants his money for that load of bricks I bought last week. What am I supposed to tell him? ‘Sorry, the job at the dam fell through, would you settle for an I.O.U.?'” Citrus had paused, and was glaring at him. “She has to make it. She has to.” He took a step back. Citrus’s tail was limp. A limp tail, he well knew, preceded a tongue lashing more often than not. He kept his mouth shut. Citrus resumed prying the scroll open, and when it began to uncurl, she drew the bottom end down and read aloud: “Dear Ms. Vanilla and Mr. Kindling, Upon reviewing your daughter’s scholastic achievements and special circumstances, as outlined in your application letter and attached doctor’s note, I am pleased to inform you that she has been accepted as a full-time student at the School of Friendship. You should be proud of her academic ability. Please be assured that the staff and I will do our best to instill in her sound friendship fundamentals; the lessons we ourselves have learned over many years of first-hoof experience and trial and error. Let me add that I was a newcomer to Ponyville once myself, and completely untrained in the ways of friendship, so I know her situation well. Therefore, I will take special care to ensure that Cozy makes the grade! Warmest wishes, Princess Twilight Sparkle, Founder and Headmare" “She’s in, Hickory!” Citrus cried. “Isn’t that great news?” She hugged the scroll to her chest. Hickory shrugged. “Yeah. Not bad. About time some pony in our family got into one of those princess schools.” He shook his head, visions of his mop-headed daughter toddling through the lofty doors of a schoolhouse under a giant saddlebag of books beginning to take shape. Leaving his work boots by the door, he made his way into the kitchen and sat down at the fold-out table next to the stove. Citrus followed him in, carrying the scroll in her mouth like she'd unearthed a trophy carrot. A wisp of sweet smoke broke above her head. Chester beamed pure love at him from his water dish. “She’s finally going to make some friends,” she said, taping the acceptance letter to the cupboard. “No more angry parents. No more trips to—“ “Fireback’s not going to be happy,” Hickory grumbled. “What a dope I am, thinking they would let a small-time outfit like me patch up a dam. Hey, were you able to sell any candles today? Two crates of your Peach Surprise, like we talked about? That would about cover it.” He slid a pair of glossy sheets of paper that had been left on his placemat so he could read what was printed on them. “Cracked hearthstones?” he posed in his best salespony voice. “Sooty mantle? No problem! Happy Home Fireplace Restoration specializes in curing whatever ails your old chimney. Just call on Hickory Kindling, licensed contractor with over fifteen years of experience in the field, and he’ll fix your sick bricks in no time! Customer satisfaction guaranteed!” It went on. He looked at the picture of the pristine brick wall and his face inset, and laughed. He pushed the sheets to the side as he read the slogan. “’Happy Home Fireplace Restoration: Home is Where the Hearth Is’. These the new brochures?” “Yes," said Citrus, "aren’t they nice? They’re samples. See? One says Fawn’s Meadow, and one says Ponyville. Guess now we know which one to order!” She opened the oven and pulled out a hot baking sheet. A cinnamon haze rose from the steaming spread of oats piled on top. With a gentle kick, she shut the oven door and shook them off of their wax paper into a bowl. Hickory breathed it in, rubbing his belly. Citrus had, over the years, learned to pinpoint dinner to within five minutes of whatever time he stepped through the door. How she managed it, whether by how late in the evening it was, or by some internal clock, he had never deciphered. Cozy Glow high-stepped out of the shadows of the hall and curtsied. “Good evening, Papa, welcome …” She stopped herself when she saw the look on his face. “Is there something you wanted to say?” he growled. She curtsied again. “I’m sorry for speaking out of turn. I really should mind my manners. Fillies are to speak when spoken to.” “That’s right. Unless you ask permission.” “May I ask you a question, sir?” She floated upward on hummingbird wings. “Yes, go ahead.” “May I speak to Chester, even if he doesn’t bark first?” She hovered in the air, grinning and hugging the dog’s head. Hickory blinked longer than he intended. The little cockatrice is mocking me. The words arced in his mind like lightning at midnight. There were whispers too, and images that came and went before he knew they were there. “No, Chester’s just a dog. Read him the blooming dictionary if you want. And I told you a thousand times: no flying in the house.” Cozy giggled. “Oh Chester! He’s such a snickerdoodle.” She spiraled to the floor and knelt down so that her face was next to Chester’s smiling, drooling snout, and patted his head. “You’re a good doggie. Papa, can you tell Chester what a good doggie he is?” Hickory ground his teeth. Chester and Cozy smiled together and waited. He turned back to his dinner. Citrus had added half of a baked potato to his plate in the meantime. “’Snickerdoodle’,” he grunted. He'd realized it had been a mistake introducing her to the word after she'd used it fifty times last Sunday. “May I ask you another question, Papa?” asked Cozy. “If you have to.” “You seem rather distraught this evening. Perhaps a game or two of tiddlywinks would cheer you up! Would you like to play?” Citrus set a glass on Hickory’s placemat hard enough to get his attention and filled it with orange juice. “I’m going to make something special to celebrate. How does apple pie sound? Why don’t you spend some time with your little scholar, Hickory? Maybe tell her the good news?” She snatched her apron from its hook and slung it around her neck. Hickory didn’t miss the twinkle in Cozy’s eyes. It was the weekend, he considered, and he hadn’t really had a moment to spare the past few days. He supposed he could do his fatherly duty, then try to figure out how he was going to pay Fireback. He took a few mouthfuls of oats and potato. “Yeah, sure, a couple games, maybe,” he said while he chewed. “Then it’s bed time.” Cozy shot a foreleg into the air. “That’s the ticket! Customer satisfaction guaranteed.” She leapt upward and did a sharp loop before swooping back toward her bedroom. “No flying in the house!” Hickory called after her. Citrus stomped out of the kitchen and roared, “Cozy! Hooves back on the floor. Right now!” Hickory made quick work of the rest of his dinner, gulped down his orange juice, and let free a long belch. Citrus’s tail had drooped again. Tiddlywinks was starting to sound like an excellent proposition. He made his way into the living room and fell into his spot on the couch, the worn fabric already warm from the fire blazing in the hearth. He eyed the fine brickwork. Five weeks and a month’s pay. Not a smudge of mortar on the faces, he’d made sure. If nothing else worked in his stars-forsaken house, the fireplace was going to be top-of-the-barrel. The door opened and shut behind him, and in came the sound of wooden game chips rattling against glass. Cozy stopped at the edge of the couch, a jar of colored tiles tucked under her foreleg. “A hoof-ful of fun, coming right up!” “Alright Cozy. Are we going to start, or what? Papa’s busy.” “Yes sir, right away,” she replied, struggling to climb onto the couch without her wings. “Papa, may I sit beside you?” He held out a hoof for her to grab and lifted her onto the cushion next to him. “Sure. Snuggle up.” She sat back on her haunches, leaning her head against his shoulder. Bits of yarn and paper came out with the game pieces as she upended the jar. Last to fall was a knit bean bag, with buttons and strands of yarn glued to one side for eyes and hair. “Miss Pretty is here to officiate,” Cozy assured. “OK, sounds good to me. How’s my sweet lollipop?” he asked, ruffling her mane. He buried his muzzle into the thick pile of curls and inhaled, letting one wrap around his nose. She’d been using Citrus’s mane powder like he’d told her. The teachers at the School wanted to see confidence, he knew, and nothing showed confidence like a well-kept mane. He gave the sweet tangle a kiss. She nestled her slender shoulder against his. As she wormed closer and settled in, her attention wandered to the fireplace. “A cozier glow you’ll never know …” she sang to the flames. “What’s that? I don’t recognize that tune.” “It’s the song of me!” “Is that so? Well, Miss Glow, you want to go first, or shall I?” “Oh, definitely you first, Papa! Here’s your squidger. Now don’t you budge: I’ll set up the winks.” She jumped down from the couch cushion and began sliding her jar around on the floor, tongue curling from one corner of her mouth to the other. When she’d satisfied herself that she’d found the middle of the room, she scooped up the tiles and arranged them into two piles, both an equal distance from the jar. “Blue for me, lucky green for you!” she said. Checking the position of the piles and jar one more time, she rejoined him on the couch. Hickory balanced his squidger on his hoof, giving Cozy time to wriggle herself under his free foreleg. “OK, here we go. Are you ready?” “Yes siree bobkins!” said Cozy, balancing Miss Pretty on her lap. Hickory cast his piece, aiming for the middle of his pile. The winks scattered apart in a diffuse circle. A few landed within scoring distance of the jar. “Capital shot, Papa!” Cozy cheered. She bounced Miss Pretty up and down. “She’s clapping,” she explained. Hickory struggled not to smile. “Yeah, maybe, but too far to squop you just yet. And I thought Miss Pretty was supposed to be impartial. Anyway, your turn.” Cozy put her doll down and balanced her piece on the flat of her hoof as he had. “She is; she just appreciates skillful play. Now let’s see what I can do.” She played her move. Back and forth they went, pelting their winks ever closer to the jar. With every set of turns, Cozy hopped away and retrieved the squidgers, each time scrutinizing her father’s face before climbing back into her warm perch beside him. He ribbed her for her missed opportunities at first, ruffling her mane and giving her tail a tug when she overshot the winks completely or landed her squidger under the bookshelf, but as the game went his way, he stopped responding to her misplays and sheepish exclamations. He stared deeper into the hearth instead, mumbling about payments and Fireback and Tin Whistle who wouldn’t keep to her side of the property line when pruning the lilacs. More and more the jar filled with his winks, and before the thinnest log in the fire collapsed into a plume of ash and sparks, all but one of the blue pieces were covered by the last remaining green. Seeing her impending defeat, Cozy paused in her turn long enough to draw him from his ruminations. “Gee willigers, I wasn’t expecting such stiff competition,” she said, pushing her shocked expression into his face. “Looks like this is my last shot. Pay attention, Miss Pretty. Make sure I don’t engage in any foul play.” She threw her squidger. The green wink flipped into the jar. “Oopsie! What a blunder,” she tittered behind her hoof. Hickory wasn’t laughing. “You did that on purpose. You let me win,” he said, his jaw clenched tight. Cozy waved her forelegs in a criss-cross motion. “No, Papa, I would never do that. ‘Win fair, lose square’; that’s what you always say.” He removed his foreleg from her shoulder. “You let me win, and now you’re lying to me. That’s very dishonest, Cozy. Can you tell me how upright folks deal with dishonesty?” She inched away, setting Miss Pretty down between them. “They chase it away,” she replied, adopting a perfect smile. “And does it go away easy?” “No Papa.” “That’s right. It needs a kick in the britches. A kick and a bite.” “A kick and a bite to set things right,” she sang. She raised a hoof and brought it down on her hind leg, as hard as she could. The little clap made Hickory’s insides jump. A piece fell into place; a familiar corner of the puzzle that always fit, no matter what kind of day he was having. Cozy saw it in his face, and her smile grew. Hickory shook his head. “Cut that out. You know what to do.” “Yes sir,” she said, giving him a salute. “Right away!” He leaned back and reflected as she bounded out of the room. It had been Citrus who had convinced him to give the doctors a try. It had gone against his better judgment, but there was no contradicting her when she put her mind to something. The head shrinks had babbled for hours about how sick they thought Cozy was. Borderline this and dark triad that. Not a full-blown wacko yet, they’d implied, but would get there soon if they didn’t give her their top-of-the-line medicine. Once a week. Five hundred bits a pop. First they tried the same kind Citrus used for her major malfunction, but all that had done was turn their angel into a brain-dead vegetable for a month. He would change the diapers, while Citrus managed the spoon-feeding. It all gave Citrus another episode, and that had sealed the deal: no more pills and risk the consequences. Besides, no daughter of his was going to spend her life a drooling mooch. No, he’d known all along what she needed. The doctors could stuff their journals and case studies and prescriptions. Cozy needed old-style medicine.
and punishThe door clicked open. Cozy had returned, carrying her big girl switch in her mouth. Hickory pointed to a spot on the floor below him. “Tail down, flanks up.” She placed the switch in his waiting hoof, and pressing her muzzle into the floor, raised her backside high enough for him not to have to lean forward. Hickory wrapped the old red cord around the end of his foreleg, tight so he could feel the wood bite into his hide. The work-worn woven reeds of the strop came into sharp focus as Pa’s all-time favorite phrase came to mind. Only one thing separates a horse from a pony. He swung the strop down across Cozy’s flank and watched for her reaction. She was grinning into the carpet, like she had yesterday and the day before in her room, pleased as punch. There was no doubt her pelt was getting tougher. It was only natural. He gave it to her again, working both sides, but there was only so much the flexible reeds could do. After a few minutes without provoking so much as a coat shiver, he figured he needed to try someplace more tender. “Up here,” he said, and when she turned he tapped his haunch. “Like when you were a yearling.” She clambered onto his lap and lay down. “Spread out. Let me see your tummy.” As if imitating Chester when he was about to be given his chew toy, she rolled belly-up and stretched out her legs. A blue wink was stuck to her cheek. Hickory let her stay that way, balanced, warm on his lap. Pa’s voice rumbled through the background of his thoughts. Let ‘em stew on it. Let it sink in what they done. So he waited until he could feel her sweat, damp between them, before he let the strop fall. It landed not quite where he’d aimed it, just below her ribs. “Tum, tum, tummy!” she laughed. His vision blurred for a moment, and it took all of his will to reign in the urge to throw her against the wall. It had happened once or twice, and only after the fact had he realized that was what she’d wanted him to do. She’d been a step ahead. The moment passed, and he was back in control. “Oh, you think it’s funny?” he shouted. She was saying something, repeating his usual phrases in singsong taunts, but he’d stopped listening. The switch pistoned up and down, forcing its cadence into her rhymes. “A whack and a crack so it never comes back!” she chirped. Hickory raised his voice higher, trying to find a place that would make her flinch. “You …” “Knees, please!” “… will …” “The hip bone’s connected to … connected to the back bone.” “… not …” “One, two, hammer my shoe!” “… lie …” “Tag, I’m it!” “ … to me!” On the other side of the door, Chester was barking and whining. Dull claws scratched at the gap between the plywood and the carpet. Hickory paused to yell behind him. “Quiet, Chester!” The snuffling and the rattling didn’t stop. “Citrus,” he called, “could you please put the blamed dog outside?” Hoofsteps approached, and the door opened a crack. Citrus’s muzzle appeared, along with her leg blocking Chester’s efforts to get in. “Is everything OK in there?” “Yeah, honey. I’m just giving Cozy her medicine.” Cozy craned her neck upward. “It’s true, Mama. I was a bad filly again.” Chester lapped at Citrus’s planted hoof, trying to push his way through. The fire coughed. “Oh. OK. Will it … will you be long?” “I think so. Papa’s still looking for my funny bone.” Citrus retreated, taking Chester with her. Hickory could hear the clanking of his collar receding through the house. The front door slammed, and it went quiet. The smell of nutmeg and apples had crept in, released from the kitchen during the interruption. He took a hard look at Cozy, who was still had her legs and wings spread far apart like she was flying upside-down. It was no good, he decided. She thought it was all so funny. A joke, like an idiot pony who fixes fireplaces for a living is a joke. Some part of him hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the time had come. He was going to need Old Hick. “You’re not welcome here anymore,” he whispered to himself. “Time to make your own way.” That’s what Pa had said when he’d come of age.“Fly up to the mantle; behind the portrait of me and Pa,” he told Cozy. “Bring me back what you find there.” She rolled over and obeyed, returning with a knotty rod of aged, rigid wood. When he took it, she resumed her place on his lap. Every pony else does it. They just don’t talk about it. He studied her as he removed the binding of the outgrown switch from his foreleg, scanning for a place to start anew. Her coat was smooth like Citrus’s, but she’d gotten the Kindling looks. Some foals looked less like their parents as they grew up, but the older she got, the more looking at her was like looking in a mirror. Pa’s voice grew louder. A bonk or two on the noggin. The mane hides it. None the wiser. He cinched the buckle on Old Hick’s strap and hit her between the ears, hard so that the curls wouldn’t soften the impact. She grunted, and forced out a laugh. The wink slipped off of her face. Hickory waited to make sure she wasn’t going to bleed all over the cushions. When nothing dripped down the side of her face, he ran the side of his hoof over the spot where he’d cracked her. There was a lump, but otherwise she was clean as a whistle. Progress, he thought. Pa was usually right. He went for her belly again, eager to see what kind of difference the hardwood could make. “Tum,” she said. No laugh this time, he noticed. And he thought he felt her shift, so that he wouldn’t hit the same place again. He went further down, where it was softer. “Tum,” Cozy repeated. Her smile wasn’t half as big as when they’d started. There was nothing genuine about it, now. Hickory slid the rod along her belly, another inch toward her tail, so she understood where it was landing next. It fell with a hollow thud. Cozy winced. “Tum.” It came out as a groan. Hickory raised Old Hick, admiring how it glistened in the firelight. He’d found the secret to getting through to his willful daughter at last. The only thing that separates a horse from a pony. He needed to take care, though. He had to stay in control, lest he tear up her insides. There would be no easy way to hide that. Keep it north of the belly button if you want grandfoals. Yes, that was right, he knew. Pa was always right. He checked for damage. As he poked at her belly, he got a misplaced glimpse of a shallow valley and the twisted, weeping canyon beyond, and shuddered, and thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t been born a mare. “Cover up your business,” he commanded. “No one wants to see that.” The single thick curl of a tail slipped upward between her legs. “That’s better,” he said. Her wings were trembling against his haunches. He didn’t know much about Pegasi, so he would have to stay away from those too. One wallop too many might make her a cripple, and that was the last thing he needed. With that, he’d exhausted all of his remaining worries. He smiled and let Old Hick fly as it would, drinking in Cozy’s bitten-off cries, and the various light of the fire, and the smell of wood smoke and apple pie. Chester was howling outside in the dark. Before long, Cozy reached her forelegs across her heaving chest and belly. “OK, Papa, I’m sorry. Can … can we stop playing now?” Hickory pried her legs back up above her head and held them there, lost in conversation with Pa. As Old Hick’s strokes started falling once more, he listened. She’s hiding a worm inside, and if you don’t find it—I mean if you don’t make her show it—it’ll grow and eat away what’s good in her, and she’ll grow up rotten. I seen it before. You’re a father now, so today’s the day I’m givin’ you Ol’ Hick. You well know this is how I made you what you are, and I’m proud of the stallion you’ve become. What had he said to that? He couldn’t remember. Cozy was struggling for air, her tiny front hooves pushing in vain against his pinioning foreleg. “Please”—she coughed—“please stop. I promise I learned my lesson.” Raise her the same. You may need this some days. Use it if you got to. And here she was, her ribs and gut waiting for him like his oats had, soft and warm, not ten minutes prior. The day would come when this prettied-up sack of meat gave birth to his grandfoals, and they would try to hoodwink her same as she was doing to him. Dirty bags of horseapples they’d be, like her, like him, and like Pa. He considered her faceless, mute bottom half, stretched to the limit like it wanted more, while her front end fought and pleaded. Why was she here, the flames asked him, spitting short-lived stars in chaotic time with Old Hick’s drumbeat. The bow, the curls, the careful grooming of the velvet coat; the stamp of his own face on a delicate filly. What brought her into focus, the silver of the mirror that threw back his reflection, was the sting of Old Hick. The question and the answer both. She was murmuring against his coat. “Chester’s sad. Maybe you should let him inside.” He lifted his weight, tapping the end of her muzzle with his rod. “And let you run off and hide somewhere I can’t reach you? I don’t think so.” Keep hitting her said the flames in his dead father’s voice. “Keep hitting her,” he spat in her face. His foreleg descended on her neck again like a guillotine, and he was off, running to his secret place, where the hearth cradled its fiery heart like a dear friend, surrounded by the absent dogs’ lamentations who approached its light in another glad reunion; long-legged legislators in their private cabinet, hale in their cups and the haze of their pipes, and Pa was there too, making darn sure he did the job right. He galloped strong and free, yearning for the ache in his shoulders to grow, and itch he could tend to as he needed; the more the words were screamed—stop stop stop please stop—the more he needed to hear them, the long-winded wails rising and falling, ending in needful squirming sweet ragged protest. He ran through a forest of bursting ripe fruit and ancient spices, warm on the wind, and as the merciless sunlight was shown and shaded by the trees, Cozy’s sun-kissed face pulsed in and out, nearer and farther, flickering between a huge, open-mouthed frown and a bitter, snarling mask of hatred. Peel back that onion. Good idea, Pa. You peeled me all the way back. There it was, he thought. Now she hated. Now she could go out into the world and not be stomped flat by it. “Peel it back, now, Cozy. What did you do wrong?” “I was a bad … a bad filly,” she hiccupped. “Why?” “I lied! You were just trying to enjoy a good honest game and I lied!” She writhed in his grip, growling and shrieking while she tried to pound herself with her hooves. He nodded. “And what do you deserve?” “I deserve to go to Tartarus and burn like garbage. I’m a piece of trash and trash gets thrown away and burned and …” Her livid scream lapsed into a fit of coughing. Hickory smoothed back her curls, bunching them back under her ribbon. “That’s right. And you will, if you don’t shape up. You know we go through this because I love you, Cozy, and I want you to be the best you can be. No pony is going to help you”—he shook her by the shoulders—“no pony is going to help you!” “Yes Papa, you’re right. You're always right. No pony is going to help me. I have to help myself.” “You got it,” Hickory replied. He eased back, letting her curl up and clutch her bruised, swollen belly. As she raked her welts, experimenting, he toweled the sweat and snot and tears from her face with the couch quilt. The flames gave one last wise whisper. “I love you, Cozy.” Her listless hoof dropped onto his chest. “I love you too, Papa.” He unwound Old Hick’s strap from his foreleg. The cuts it had made in his coat felt good and right. “Hey, why don’t we get some apple pie? I bet Chester would like some too.” “That old snickerdoodle. I’ll share mine with him.” “That’s very nice of you. Just one more thing, though. Where’s that doll of yours?” “Miss Pretty?” Cozy asked, looking up. “In your dollhouse?” “No, Papa.” “’No, Papa’? Well if you know, tell me where she is!” “She’s right here, Papa.” She pointed to where she’d been sitting beside him. “Pick her up. And take a good look at her.” Cozy uncoiled herself, laboring to retrieve the shapeless bag from between the cushions. She held it up for her father to take. “I’m going to need you to put Miss Pretty in the fire.” “But she's—” “Do it, right now.” The fire had shrunk to skeletal ash, spreading a faint glow broken by a few snarls of orange. Cozy took the doll in her mouth, and limping through the wash of shadows to the hearth, dropped it into the embers. “Tell me what’s happening to her,” said Hickory. “She’s … she’s turning black. Her hair’s gone, and—“ “That's what happens to bad fillies. What else?” “Her eyes. I can’t her eyes.” The last of the firelight was receding into the flawless, blackened brickwork. “That's good. That's really good. Never let them see your eyes. Do you understand? Never let them know what you’re thinking. Never, never what you're feeling. Never let them see your …”
TormentThere was a rustling. Restless smoke and whispers shifted as one in response to the ringing of metal being forced through metal. A tiny figure was struggling alone on a ledge of obsidian slag, trussed within an iron-ribbed box, and all the unaging intent of the surrounding fog bore down on it in delight. A word was fighting to be freed from the prisoner’s muzzled mouth. It fizzed through the drool that trailed from her clenching jaw, repeating like a riddle’s answer being borne to a sphinx lest it be forgotten, and everything lost. The thing that watched knew the word. With false urgings it called for it, only to suffocate it with a flood of denials. Somewhere on the ledge, an angry hum grew, then faded. Light had broken the immanent reverie; one star in an empty universe. A voice began to speak above the cage. "Hmm. It appears as though your bindings have loosened. You have been straining much since my last visit." A light blue cloud of magic enveloped the steel cord attached to the bar that had been forced through Cozy’s teeth as a bit. "Allow me to remedy that." The tension in the cable grew in ticks as each new braided segment slipped through its fastener. By degrees it pulled Cozy's head backward, strangling her groans into desperate, puling gasps. The stream of saliva leaking from her ruined mouth turned pink, then red. "What's the trouble?" Luna asked, sitting back on her haunches. "Only our third ... appointment ... and already you seek other engagements?" She chuckled, and was silent for a time, letting the child’s cries drown in the ageless void. "Well now. As I have matters of my own to attend to, why don't we begin?" She stood, and began to channel her magic through the spiral of her horn. Cozy twitched in her tightened snare, jerking her head from side to side as if to refuse what was coming. “You spent your short life a restive spirit, contriving to fly harder than your wings could carry you. To run faster than your legs could bear, ever jealous of magic you were not born to; trapped inside the dainty carriage of a foal. So, you may be surprised to hear that the immortality you sought has been granted. For none perish in the Womb of Tartarus. Here, it is the spirit that imprisons the flesh.” The whispers coincided for a moment, weaving through the voluptuous curls of fog in vague assent. Luna lowered her voice. “Can you hear her, all around, and within? She is so pleased to have adopted you. She holds you as her own, and will never relinquish you.” The soundscape fell back to chaos once more. “But perhaps you still hold out hope for rescue. It happened once before, did it not? Although, I would remind you that your impulsive saviour merely sought to use you as a pawn in a much larger game. Be assured, henceforth you shall never be free. It was I who sang the Song of Perdition that sundered you from the world of the living; I who wove the unbreakable chain that tethers you to her—here—your new mother, and I made no misstep.” Cozy’s chest heaved. Her hind legs, bent the wrong way above her back, pulled at her makeshift rein. She rocked on her belly, going nowhere. Luna watched her from above. “Not a single voice asked for mercy on your behalf,” she continued. “Indeed, we considered that Discord’s escape from his stone prison was all too easy, and that your case required a more permanent solution. What was it that sister said, on the day of your defeat? ‘There isn’t a punishment worthy of all you’ve done.’ I wholeheartedly agreed. And so, when all was said and done we recalled this place, lost to memory before the time of Alicorns came to an end, ages upon ages ago.” She breathed in, immune to the half-spoken wordplay and caresses of the mist. The stream of light had reached the tip of her horn. It hung there above her cross-swept mane, a droplet of icy water poised to fall in the midnight haze. “For children, the stars are just stars, and the Princesses are distant features of the horizon. Yet, here we are. Was that truly your dream? To be a Princess? To show us all how great you could become?” Cozy had begun to cry. “Of what value was your conquest? No, I know you have no answer. Every empire in history has fallen, and the same fate will meet every empire to come, until the sun burns out, and the moon drifts away. All are held together by the same faulty thread, so all come apart in the same predictable ways.” She kicked pebbles of black glass off the ledge, one by one. “Domination. Corruption. The will to harm. To power.” Luna sat once more, unable to drive the sneer from her face. “Eventually you will come to understand that your life, such as you led it, had neither meaning nor value. You have heard of the shared fate of the King and the Pawn, I trust? The pieces have all been put away, back on their shelf.” She flourished a hoof over the depthless cliffside. “If suffering begets wisdom, then you will be wiser than the greatest sages among our kind. For with your scant few years, wisdom was what you sorely lacked! Had you used your power to create, rather than destroy, mayhap sister and I would have embraced you, and let Twilight take second place. What you desired was always within your grasp!” Bright drops welled at the edge of the band that clamped Cozy’s eyes shut. They shone in the dim illumination like fireflies following their leader to the end of a summer’s night. The fog called to them, too, and as they slipped downward, they drifted away. “Fear not. Though you live on, your mind will not fail, for you lost it long before you came here. I admit, I worried that even all of this would fail to reach you. But some things all ponies have in common, from the youngest filly adjusting to her new life at school, to the most hardened stallion of the Royal Guard. Should what you experience here still inspire no remorse, I say that you will be known. I will share every detail of your innermost fears with Princess Twilight, whom, I have no doubt, will transcribe and catalogue every detail. She is, as you know, very thorough. I expect every library in the land will have record of the dysfunctional machinery of your soul, so that there will be no chance of another like you rising to prominence.” The livid light at the point of her horn flared bright white. “Keep fighting, child. Now receive what you deserve.” Cozy started to twist, until she felt the grinding of the shattered bones of her forelegs. She screamed through her constricted throat. A glowing white thread of magic wormed downward into the cage, and dug its way through her grime-caked, tangled mane. In an instant she was asleep and dreaming, and her dreams were of immolation; of living death within a blazing furnace; of burrowing leeches throbbing in vermicular joy beneath her coat, infecting her with hot fetid pestilence as they engorged on her blood; of her parents raging, beating her unconscious again and again and again, shutting her in a crate and casting her into the sea; of all the ponies of Equestria rejecting her, spitting on her, calling for her execution and damnation to Tartarus where all of the world's filth collects and burns; of aeons alone in boundless space, yearning for a single word, yearning to be able to feel, yearning even for unbearable suffering so long as she was able to feel. When the uncountable years of the nightmares had passed, Luna spoke. "Fascinating, is it not? How so much time can seem to pass in dreams, while in the waking world only a few moments have slipped away." She lowered her head to Cozy's level, her great, sea-green eye burning with cold hatred. "One might say, an eternity." Luna said no more. Time passed; an hour, or a year. Exhausted in the void, Cozy fought to speak the last sane thought left to her. Papa. Author's Note Thank you for reading. Chapter 3 was heavily influenced by one of the final scenes of Hellraiser: Inferno.
