Fly West, Love, Towards Canterlot

by Cynewulf

Rating: teen
Tags: Romance, Caramel, Big Macintosh, Main 6, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 4498

A collection of short fiction.

A grab bag of sorts--stories inspired by conversations, scraps of music and poetry, the look in someone's eyes. Impressions. Sometimes they will intersect, and sometimes not. The world's a big place, after all.

(I write these as sort of catharsis, therapy, etc. So they update in bits and pieces.)

Published 2013-05-20 21:50:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-05-20 21:50:02 UTC

West

Pinkie smiled out at the clear sky, high above the cloud line.

She could smell it, feel it, taste it even. Adventure, the start of something new! It was in the air. It ran along her coat and in her wild mane like electricity, and she couldn’t help but grin. As a sudden gust battered at her pink mane, she remained undaunted. The sky was hers, today. The day was hers, and this morning was hers. All was right. She was going home, and that was the way of the world.

The sun was rising behind her. She could feel its warmth on her back, and took it as a sign. It was time!

“Pinkie?”

She turned.

The stallion who stood in the doorway was wrapped up tightly, his clothing conceling all but his face. A smile played around his lips. Pinkie trotted back to him for a moment, a bounce in her every step.

“Hey! I was wondering when you’d be up, Mr. Wizard!”

“I am hardly a wizard, Miss Pie,” the stallion said with a chuckle. “I’m only an old fellow. I just happen to inhabit... strange environs.” He gestured around. “The Tower is a lovely place, but it is sometimes a bit empty. I was glad for your company.”

“I know. I’m sorry I have to go! But Dashie will wanna see me.”

“It’s quite alright.” He paused. “The Tower... you know, I think it would be in better hands if there were two curators.”

Pinkie smiled. “You silly, you can just ask me.”

“We are on the edge of the world, my good friend.” He looked away from her, out towards the clouds that were catching the first nascent rays of dawn. "I have loved my home away from the world, but my days grow late. I think it is time for my journey to the Walls of the Morning. I’ll go through the gate, and be in the Far Country. But the Tower should have inhabitants to share it. Will you return?”

“Of course!” she replied brightly, and surprised the old stallion with a hug. “Dashie will love it!”

The stallion at the edge of forever smiled and patted Pinkie on the back before releasing her. “Then I am content,” he said softly. He coughed. “Will this contraption of yours fly? It seems a bit...”

When he failed to find a proper word, Pinkie laughed. “Of course it will! It’s a Pinkie contraption and that means it always works! Unless it not working would be funny... but me falling out of the sky wouldn’t be funny right now! So yes, it’ll work.”

“And you will fly then, through the morning?”

“And the day, and the night!”

He nodded. “You truly are a remarkable mare, Miss Pie. Goodness. You created that thing in roughly three hours, and you’re convinced of its utility already! To be young.”

“Mhm! I’ve got the fires of youth in my belly, Mr. Wizard, and that’s the truth! I don’t even know what that means! Twilight said it once, maybe.”

“It’s true, despite your lack of understanding.” He sighed. “Well... ready?”

“Mhm! All ready to go. I was going to wait for you to climb all those steps!”

The two ponies walked to the edge of the overhang, where Pinkie’s strange apparatus sat. She patted the metal frame, glancing at the little dials. Truth be told, it was easy to build things on the edge of Eternity, with the sea of mountains to your back and the sun so bright in the fiery morning.

“It’s called a helicopter,” she said happily.

“Hm?”

“It’s a helicopter, silly! That’s the name.”

She climbed aboard, taking the throttle in hoof with a grin that defied the heavens. It was infectious, irresistible, like the wind or the tide. It was a force of nature, and the stallion couldn’t help but join in.

“Good luck, Mr. Wizard!” Pinkie cried as she pumped at her bizarre machine’s primer pedals.

“I’m not a wizard!” he answered, laughing over the sound of the whirring blade.

“Only wizards live in towers!” Pinkie insisted, but it was swallowed up in the noise and she lifted off, waving to him as she left the tower behind.

It went on forever. The Tower, the Last Tower before the Sea of Mountains and the Land, the one beyond sleep itself, and there was Pinkie, a tiny dot above the bronze clouds that also stretched on forever, it seemed. It was breathtaking, and Pinkie loved it, yes, but it wasn’t truly hers. Not yet. It did not quite take her breath away. She had miles to go, places to be, dreams to transverse. After all, how else would she get home?

So Pinkie set off west, towards Canterlot and then on home, to her own dream and the mare who no doubt lay sleeping.

Sweet Red

The move to Canterlot hasn’t been perfect. I know that. I pride myself on noticing things, but it doesn’t take my astute eye to heed the obvious signs. Rainbow sighing, for one. Honestly, Rainbow, sighing?

So I smile at her. I levitate the precious dark bottle with tender care, with gravity and with some veneration. I angle it perfectly, enjoy the way that dark and beautiful liquid finds its home in the crystal that has the emblem of my House on it.

She smiles back. It’s a different smile, yes, but it is still genuine. Genuine feeling has many different shades and textures; I know this. Any connoisseur of wine will tell you that all reds are not created equal. I am no snob—at least, I do try not to be. I understand in my finer moments that the variety of both vintage and life does not always equate to a hierarchy.

So I smile at Rainbow Dash, my favorite pegasus whose eyes seem flatter than normal, less bright. “Rainbow, dear, how was the day?”

It’s a simple question. It’s how I prefer to begin my campaigns, with my favorite pegasus. Innocent, short, simple. This is the first step of the dance.

“Eh. Alright, I guess. Didn’t exactly… do much. I’m working on like a one or two days out of the week sorta basis with the Canterlot weather team. It’s kind of weird.”

I take my first sip, savoring the taste. It’s sweet red, nothing exotic. Nothing terribly expensive, even, but that’s no matter. I brought it with us from home, and I know a piece of Ponyville is appropriate, in all of the grand newness of Canterlot.

I wonder if she notices. I hope so, as she takes her first drink. I pity earth ponies and pegasi, sometimes. I envy their wings and their fortitude, but what of the finer art of control?

“But you are enjoying it, aren’t you?”

She had looked away, thinking, but at my tone she looks back and meets my eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. I mean, it’s weather work, you know? I’ve told you how much I love it. And really, there’s less in the way of storms here, and I miss riding the lightning… but it’s still weather work. I still like it.”

I realize that my face is a bit taut, like I was bracing. Curious, I smooth out the muscles, achieve my poise. It has been a long day, after all, perhaps for us both. The new boutique, here in Canterlot, is doing marvelous business. On the positive side of things, this has meant plenty of money as I renovate and restore the good name of Belle in this city. On the negative, it has kept me from Rainbow more than I would have liked.

“Dash, what have you done with yourself today? It was your day off, if I’m correct?” It annoys me that I’m not sure. I really should be. I do mean to be.

“Yeah. Read some, kind of loafed. Took a walk in that big garden park thing, the one that’s in front of the big silver gates.”

“Oh! I know the one.” I take another sip, remembering. “Do you like it? It’s a splendid little park. You know, it’s been there as long as the Argent Gates have…”

So the evening goes, the two of us on our little couches, the bottle losing its treasure, the night growing older. Maturing, if I’m in the spirit of things, which I often am. Rainbow is no fan of wine in the way that I am, but she will partake if it’s with me. I enjoy the leisurely air of it, as the sun retires and makes its long exodus down into its bed, the two of us here. I will be sitting, I suppose, years and years hence, sipping wine or tea and talking with Rainbow. I am content with this.

The night passes. The bottle is done with, its part played. My campaign goes smoothly, and we lie at opposite ends of the couch. I recount my day. I have measured my life out in coffee spoons and bolts of fabric, in stitches and frazzled, eager apprentices—she has much to say on them, and her lack of… tact, I suppose, is sometimes refreshing. She rolls her eyes at many of my associates, and sometimes I join her. The things that make Rainbow perhaps not the best suited for life as consort to the Lady of House Belle make her a splendid choice for my spouse. So the world moves on.

The glasses are done with. I move slowly, as the talk continues. It is the way of things, with these campaigns of mine. I’m curious if Rainbow senses my mood, if she can notice the wind that changes and the angle of my eyes and smile and the way, lidded, that I watch her as she shares in the vagaries of the morning.

By the time I am close enough to lay my head on her chest it no longer matters to me. It is a simple thing, really, but it is always good. Profoundly so, I would say. She strokes my mane, and the dance is in full swing. The orchestra is playing, somewhere in mind, and we are moving in synch. She smiles down at me, and I notice that the earlier look is gone. I am glad, for it churns up things in me which…

She kisses me softly, and I revel in it. The taste of the wine is on her lips, and I love how it lingers with her, how when my hoof touches her soft, colorful mane she accepts it with a soft grace which would perhaps shock our friends. But the world has layers.

So Rainbow smiles as we break for air, and I’m sure I mirror it. It’s enough, I suppose. There’s nothing permanent in it. It is only a smile and a look that will lead on like a path, but that’s alright. It doesn’t have to fix everything, my first true break in a week. It only has to be a moment to breathe and to come back together, to say hello and to remember.

I can work with that.

Author's Note

TMP Prompt #350, which was a song one. It was a nice little tune from a Japanese game/anime I think! It was lovely.

Slipping Surly Bonds of Earth

With closed eyes, Scootaloo has come unstuck in time:

Her hooves are on the hard roof, the heat radiating up from it in waves that crashed against her face and sapped her of her will. She stretches each leg in turn, humming with the thrill of beginning as the sun rose to witness.

Her wings flare out, beautiful orange that clashes with the pink dawn and will not fade into it. They flap once, catching two great scoops of air just to prove that yes, they can, tell Celestia thank you very, very kindly.

Her smile blossoms, no—it erupts like a brilliant star on the horizon. The birth of a new sun, almost. Yes, that's exactly what it was.

Scootaloo brings the goggles down and secures them. They catch the glare of morning, casting intense light elsewhere.

She leans forward.

The Ponyville roof is slanted, and her slight momentum is enough to set her down, hooves pounding to keep up, as she sprints right off the edge.

At the last moment, right at the edge, she jumps forward and up.

For a brief, holy moment, she is suspended. Gravity opens up its awful maw to swallow her up, and the sky calls her to rise, and she is caught between heaven and hell. It is so short, and it is very important.

Her wings unfurl and grasp the dewy morning air with strength.

She is rising, speeding up, wings and mind listening to the song of a hundred generations of pegasi before her, the innate lore of wind and gust, lift and drag.

The wind tears at her mane, but she cares not a bit.

Scootaloo spins, turning and turning, corkscrewing through the air. Gravity tries to clutch at her hooves and pinions to pull her back down to the prosaic safety of dirt, but it cannot. As far as this particular pegasus is concerned, it never can again if she doesn't let it, and as she straightens out in mid-air she laughs like she can never remember laughing. It is like a bark, or a cry of challenge, like something she would do after scoring some point in childish games. It's winning and it's silly and it's important to her.

She heads up, up where only clouds go, up where the unicorns used to whisper that gods flew, and she looks down. She surveyed the paradise that was home, the familiar walks and hills and trees, the homely roofs and charming rustic windows that caught the rising sun like little secret fires. All of it is hers, the familiar places and the space beyond, every open field and shaded walk, every road and every house. Just for a moment.

Scootaloo smiles, young again and still on the Ponyville roof of her parents' house. Her wings are small, her frame is a little too thin, and her wild mane is even wilder before a shower and a good brushing. She is thoroughly unprepared for the day. The filly smiles, though, and climbs back down to her window with a sigh, wishing she could hover there. She can't.

And that's okay. As she steps into her room and sets off on her quest for a warm shower, it's perfectly alright because even as a child she knows that she is a child and time is long.

There are other things to worry about first, and other things to do. Many, before she sleeps.

You Just... Can't See Him From the Road

It’s amazing what you notice and what you don’t.

I sigh and wipe my sweaty brow with a hoof as he chuckles.

“Good day, eh, Caramel?”

I nod, smiling. And it had been. I’d done a lot of thinking, working my long line of trees. I work at the farm for the Apples during the harvest and the planting, and this stretch of land is almost becoming as familiar to me as my own apartment in Ponyville.

Ponies are always surprised when I tell them that I work seasonally like this, on a farm. Of course, a lot of my friends don’t know much about where I come from. Mostly they know that I paint, and they know sometimes that I sell paintings up north to Manehattan. That’s true, sure enough.

Big Mac lays back on the cart and chews on his little stalk of grass like he always does.

But I’d been thinking. Why, I have no idea. But I’d been looking over at the rows to my left, where he bucked apples out of the tree without a word. Big Mac doesn’t talk much, but he smiles like a champion. To be fair, he doesn’t really need to say much, because he’s fine with the silence and when he looks at you, it speaks volumes. At least, it always did for me. When we were foals, we could go a long time without much talking.

I thought a lot about running along the dirt roads with Mac, before he ever got his yoke. And I thought about my own family’s farm, farther south. We lived and worked just north of the Riverlands, before Pa lost his farm and we ended up working on the Apple’s land.

And I had thought about Mac. Perhaps it’s the artist in me, rearing its ugly, acrylic-stained head, but I can’t help but notice. How he’ll sometimes pause in the work day and smile a soft smile when he thinks no one is looking. He’ll just look out over the land that his family loves and love it along with all of them and seeing him happy made me smile. Or how he works with a kind of devotion I can only dream of replicating, how he goes on and on, energy burning like a mighty flame.

I sit on the cart beside him as the other hooves get water and talk about going into town. I glance over at him, and shiver. I...

How his green eyes light up when he gets an idea. Or how like my father he would rather be broken then give up, no matter how heavy the burden or tough the task. How he works until the bell for supper and then sometimes just a little after, and will not do anything less than his best. How he smiles and... it makes me happy.

I shake my head and look away from him.

I’ve always wanted to paint him. I wonder if he’d understand, but the desire has been there... gosh, how long? I even had kind of a scene in mind: Mac, standing in the orchard like always, but in one of those pauses in the workday. I imagined what it might be like today as I worked.

My eyes find him again almost of their own accord. They run across his well-toned body, his legs hard with muscle from work and honest toil. He’s a sketchbook’s dream, all glorious detail and figure. The mares in town all watch him walk the streets, on the rare days he goes to Ponyville. I always watch him too, and always tell myself it’s for aesthetic purposes. Mostly.

I have no idea why he weighs so heavily on my mind, but he does. It’s like the yoke he’s laid down between us is on my neck now. I can feel it, and suddenly I’m caught between two inexplicable notions: flight and speech.

What do I want to say? I have only this sort of nameless feeling.

It’s rooted somewhere in a welcome smile and wise green eyes and how his mane is flowing and how he smells of the earth our mother and how...

How maybe it’s not just that I want to paint him.

It occurs to me that I’ve only ever done portraits of loved ones. My mother. My sisters, laughing as our father takes them on a ride. My cousin in her mourning black, from my memory.

And now I want to paint a new painting, contemplate something else, and it’s him. And for some reason it scares me. When I paint, I think and I focus. I look at the object, I meditate on it, I try to figure out what it means to me and why I want to do what I want to do.

“Hey, Mac,” I say, and I hear my voice shake.

He opens one eye, curious. “Yeah, Caramel? Whatcha need?”

“I... I just wondered if you were busy.”

“Hm?”

I fidget. My hooves shake. I cough.

I paint things, I find, because I want them to continue on. Because I love them.

“I mean, if you’re not... we could... hang out, I guess.” My voice is weak, and I curse it for its betrayal.

I’ve got a reputation. Not a bad one, of course, but one all the same. Big Mac knows what way I swing. He’ll see right through my pathetic attempts to play it cool, and he’ll see what I’m thinking. Those beautiful sharp eyes see more than he lets on, I’ve learned that well.

Because I think I love him.

Maybe I always did. Maybe I didn’t until this very moment, thinking about why I want to paint a portrait of him and how he makes me shake and how I love his smile and his bassy voice. Maybe I always loved him, when I looked for him from the road, and was sad when I couldn’t see him on my way to town. Maybe it’s why I always come back here, whether I need the money or not, because I want to see him and I want him to see me and say hello so that I can say hello back, so that we can talk and he can smile at me and we can be friends. Because I want to be that, that much I’m sure of. I want him to like me. Because I like him.

And I’m afraid because I don’t know if it’s something he’ll return.

He raises and eyebrow, and I want to flee.

“Eenope. Not busy.”

I let out a breath. “Well...”

“Sure.”

And I promptly shut up, because that is all I need. He grins at me with that smile and my heart melts. I can practically hear it do so. My hooves want to jump and dance with elation, and my head spins from confusion. My thoughts trip over themselves.

“Whatcha got in mind?”

I have no idea.

Author's Note

CARAMAC CARAMAC

TMP submission.

How Changed From What She Was!

How Changed From What She Was

She lies there.

If she sees me watching her from the stairwell, she makes no acknowledgement of it. Rainbow is still as much as she can bear. She breathes, she stares. The Daring Do novel Twilight brought by a few days ago lies on the table with a bookmark between its almost virginal pages. I know it's stayed somewhere between pages twenty-five and twenty-six for a while now.

The glass of water remains half-empty, as it was when I last saw her.

I consider calling out to her, greeting her. Of course, I know what will happen: Rainbow will turn around, smile at me, and she’ll even manage conversation. I can almost map out the conversation now as I stand on the stairs.

“Heya, Rares,” she’ll say, giving me that lopsided smile that I love.

“Are you alright, Rainbow?” I’ll ask her, unable to do anything else. I cannot hide my worry when it comes to her; it is a flaw in my pursuit of decorum and a stoic face. With her I have always worn my heart like an amulet around my neck.

“I’m fine. Just a little sleepy. I should thank Twilight next time I see her, this book is great.”

And so it would continue. I would dance and she would dance, but it would be so unlike our regular waltz. There would be no teasing or smiling, no suggestion. No, perhaps it was not a dance. A chase. But not the kind I adore leading her on. It is not the kind where I always plan to be caught in the end. The end of this chase frightens me.

So I say nothing.

Her head lies on her hooves. Her wings are bound to her back as they have been since the day I carried her in my magic’s hold. I can almost feel the strain of it now, as her every groaning and squirming caused me agonies I would never tell her of. From Twilight’s house it was a long walk to the hospital. Big Macintosh’s help had not made it any better, for then there had been the blood, and my skills had been so useless.

But I say nothing. I walk up the stairs quietly, my hooves carefully mounting each wooden step. A Lady does not throw pearls to swine. She speaks only when it will do good, or when perhaps there is still hope.

I pause.

When there is still hope. Once, when I was younger, I had a list I kept. On the the top of the paper was the phrase “A Lady...” followed by maxims of things I imagined in my girlish innocence defined a lady of true refinement. I still remember writing those words, the enchanted pen recording my thoughts.

My will to clean is gone. The living areas in the boutique will survive another day of being slightly dirty and out of order.

Instead, I enter our room and find myself drawn to our bed. I lie down.

Below me, I know Rainbow is still.

I look over at the calendar on our bedside table. When she wakes up in the morning, Rainbow finds it groggily and checks off yet another day. At the end of the appointed marching days, I know there is a red circle around a date and words declaring it “Doctor. Wings.”

But that doesn’t mean that they’ll be fixed. Only that we’ll know by then which way the wind blows.

I imagine, as I always have. In my discontent, I picture Rainbow Dash standing on a wooden fence as she has done before on Applejack’s farm. She is balancing, careful not to fall one way or another. She will not hope. She will not feel pain and tell me. Instead, she stands with all four hooves where there is not enough room for even one, and she despairs and thinks I will not see. She will not move away from the fence. She will stand on it and die.

Why won’t she choose? Why can’t she care? How is it that I am apart from her, my own pony, and I care more for than she does? When will she love herself as much as I love her? I would rather she be cold or hot, because what sits on my couch is lukewarm and it is not Rainbow. I would spit it out of my mouth, for it offends me. It steals Rainbows eyes and face and voice and wallows in discontentment.

I blink away my tears and look again at the calendar. I think I will move it down to the kitchen, so that at the very least she will have to come down stairs and hopefully speak before beginning the day’s sitting.

She doesn’t come up the stairs. I wish that it was night, so that she would return to our bed. In the dark I can lie and tell myself that with a kiss I can convince her to choose something besides sitting, but when the lights are on I know she may not.