Chapters “Be a dear and bring that set of pins, would you?”
Spike opened his eyes in that alarmed way that took over when the body was half-way between sleep and almost-sleep. The shake when simply breathing was enough to bring consciousness forward, and suddenly woosh there was the world.
He told himself he wasn’t tired.
“This one?” Spike pointed to the closest container, a greyish silver box held shut by a clasp. There may as well be pins in there, as much as anything else.
“No, the one just to your left.”
Looking down, then up after a few seconds, Spike gestured with wide eyes to the wood-finish box with a painted pattern adjacent to the grey one.
Rarity sighed and rolled her eyes. “No, dear, your other left.” Her horn glowed, and Spike jumped as a telekinetic poke prodded him in the side. He spun towards it and his eyes fell immediately on the open pin-compartment, holding a set of long, delicate needles arranged by size.
He looked back to Rarity, who nodded.
“Thank you, Spike.” Rarity’s horn returned to its usual, matte ivory-white as Spike placed the box of pins on the nearby table.
She could have just picked it up herself. Her horn glowed.
“I’m sorry, Spike, I missed that. You were saying?”
“—Oh? I... no, I wasn’t. Didn’t, sorry.”
Rarity pursed her lips, but spared Spike only a moment’s attention before turning her stare back to the thread held between her hooves, overtop the garment she was working. “No need to be sorry,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she her horn glowed again, raising one of the needles and threading it with the fine white thread she was holding. A small pin floated in a similar fashion, out of the box Spike had brought over and into the fabric on the table, holding together two neatly tucked pieces.
As she worked, Rarity hummed a soft tune, too muffled in her mouth held shut to make out.
Spike closed his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. The floor felt unusually comfortable.
Digging up weeds all afternoon. The sun, so hot. And bugs. I hate bugs. When that big beetle jumped at me I almost couldn’t—
Lemonade. Cold, more than ice, she’d brought the tray out. That had been something.
A tiny clatter of pin against pin jolted Spike’s eyelids to a raised position again. He kept back the usual start that came with sudden half-waking, though Rarity’s focus probably meant it was likely she wouldn’t have noticed anyway.
A shimmer of the sun on the floor underfoot caught Spike’s attention enough for him to look towards the window. As hot as it had been in the afternoon, it was still as hot now, and hotter still in all likelihood. There was at least the shelter of the Carousel Boutique’s luscious indoor drawing room to keep the air from turning the place into a sauna.
The floor did shine. It shone . It would if it knew what was good for it, spent all of yesterday morning with that mop. Back still hurts, no help from pulling those weeds up. Slipped in a bucket as I was putting away the mop, had to soak it all up again.
A voice crooned behind the dark of Spike’s closed eyes, worrying, fretting, floating him up from the ground and gently rubbing the back of his neck to ally the sudden onset of tingling anguish after his fall.
The sound of Rarity’s voice outside his eyes made them open again.
“... over by that drawer, if you would be so kind.”
“Huh?” Spike blinked several times, shuffling slightly from side to side as though he might rock his body into wakefulness. “Sorry, I missed that.”
“I was just saying I think I’m all done with this one for the day. I don’t suppose you could fetch the sewing kit box in the far drawer, so I can put all these things away properly, hmm?”
Spike hurried on the floor with a remarkable urgency in the wake of his wakefulness. He found the drawer after a false start trying to tug at the floor, blinking furiously as his claw pulled the compartment open. He’d no sooner turned than the glow of Rarity’s magic surrounded him, letting him watch as the white aura levitated all the pieces of Rarity’s working implements neatly into their places. The drawer closed shut with the same glow and a satisfying swish.
“Thank you very much, Spike.” Rarity stood from her work, tilting her head forward and letting her sewing glasses settle on the table. Spike walked toward her, slower than he had gone a moment ago, ambling with half-open eyes to the center of the room.
“My goodness, Spike. You look positively dead on your feet!”
Spike blinked blearily, pushing out as much of the haze of sleeplessness as he could manage.
“Nah.” He could taste his tongue over his teeth. “I’m fine.” And three days ago, he’d been tearing up siding. Nicked a claw from that.
“Are you sure?” Hot bath afterwards. “I’d hate to think I was working you to an early grave.” Soft towels.
“It’s fine. I’m just a little—” Spike stretched his sentence with a yawn. “—tired.” Scratch scratch, the cold of his nose with eyes closed just a second longer than normal.
“Well, I think you’re more than due for a nice long nap. You’ve been quite invaluable over the last few days—I simply don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Aw, shucks.” Spike waved a claw ineffectually in the air, his eyes still closed. Rarity was there somewhere in front of him, so hopefully he wouldn’t nick her by mistake. His hand caught air, and he lowered it to his side, sighing. Finally, after what must have been two minutes since their last close, Spike opened his eyes again.
Rarity’s smile shone at him, softly tapered at the edges of her mouth.
“It’s no big deal,” Spike said. “I’m always happy to help however I can.”
“Well, I can see why Twilight is so protective of you. I wonder if she’s soliciting offers to steal you away for good.” Rarity laughed sweetly, walking towards the door of the boutique as she did so. Spike followed her, feet so sluggish on the floor it felt like the only thing moving them was the magnetic allure of Rarity’s voice.
“Well, nevermind all that. I do greatly appreciate all your help, Spike. You’re simply a dear.”
Spike stood at the doorway as Rarity opened it. He moved his lips slightly several times, but nothing worth saying seemed eager to come.
Siding. Mopping. Weed-pulling. Fetching after fixing after finding. So, so tired.
As Spike stood, silent, Rarity leaned forward and pursed her lips. The soft tingle of a kiss was on Spike’s forehead as he looked onward, unblinking.
“Now, you go home and get some sleep, and don’t show up intent on working any more until you’ve had a few days vacation; understand?”
Spike nodded. He raised his right claw above his chest, holding it open as though he didn’t know what to do with it, but slowly lowered it after a few seconds, looking up at Rarity with a suddenly awake expression.
“Gotcha. I’ll go get some sleep.”
A moment passed before Spike stepped over the doorway. He looked steadily at Rarity, into her eyes, and she back into his, neither of them speaking, as several seconds drifted past in the warm glow of the sun that filled the hot summer air.
Without another word, Spike turned and left. Rarity watched him for a moment before shutting the door with a neat flash of her horn.
Closing her eyes, she leaned against the door and smiled.
There’s a great deal a musician gets to see that nopony else pays attention to.
When you play an instrument, everyone assumes you’re supposed to be wherever you happen to be. Run your hoof across something, make a pretty sound, nod like you belong, and nopony gives you a second glance. That means you get to hear a lot, if you can listen underneath the notes you have to make. It also means you get to see things, too, if you’re watching close enough.
A few nights ago, going by counting of the moons, I was in attendance at the royal court, as I often am. Hoofpicked by the Princess herself—Celestia, that is—to serenade the companies of courtesans, the nobles and the ignobles, the attendants and the obligations and anypony else who happens to be there to listen. Mostly it’s a nice gig—they give me smiles and nods, sometimes a bit of pocket change, which for a court minstrel is enough to pay for next week’s meals with a fair bit left over. I’m certainly not complaining.
The one thing worth noting is that, when you mix into the crowds of all these ponies mingling — most of them rich, with old, old , money, old enough it’s probably seen more days than the Princesses, Aurora bless their heavenly souls—is that you realize how much goes on in plain sight—or under plain ear, I guess,—that’s absolutely unbelievable. Ponies, in broad daylight, in the classiest of company, will discuss plans for war; for profiteering, for hostile land-takeovers, for subversion and deceit and illicit love affairs and Aurora knows what else. It’s like they don’t even notice that right next to them, there’s a group of supposed ‘nobleponies’ who could tune into their conversation and oust them at the blink of an eye.
But of course, they don’t. They’re too busy having their own discussions.
The overhearing is left to me.
Most of the time, I don’t bother to listen. It’s all the same. So, the one night I happened to wish afterwards that I’d tuned in, I didn’t catch more than an earful until the night was already over.
It was one of their banquets—the Princesses are very fond of banquets, Celestia most of all. She seems to enjoy the food and drink, if nothing else, and the big feast tables are an excuse for her to bump shoulders with all the ponies who come to ‘pay tribute’ everytime there’s a catered meal involved. If all there is to being royalty is hobnobbing with suckups and eating expensive dinners, I could probably go in for it. But anyway, that’s besides the point.
I think it was more than halfway into the night when it happened — timekeeping isn't my strong suit, as you might guess from the harp on my side. There was a sound that, even in the burbling of bad behaviour and equally awful discussions, everypony in the hall managed to hear: A scream. The kind of scream that, if you heard it in your sleep, would be enough to make you sit up and think about what’s really out there after the big light in the sky goes out, for us, for good.
Which, as it just so happens, is what at least one pony had to ask that night. Just not the one anypony expected.
Because I sidled up to the scene like I was supposed to be there, no one batted an eyelash when I snuck in close enough to catch a peek. I always hold my harp like it’s some kind of passport, shoving it at people when I can see they’re about to ask what I’m doing there. Luckily, everypony at the time was too distracted to pay attention to lil’ ol’ me, so I got a full view of the aftermath. That is to say, the sight of Princess Luna, may Aurora bless and keep her heavenly soul, lying face-first down in her plate of food with a silver dagger in the back of her neck.
A few ponies didn’t seem to believe it at first—but when they came around, finally, their screams caught up with them, and it wasn’t long before the whole room was in hysterics. Me, I just stood there, watching. Didn’t seem right to play anything, aside from maybe a sad little ditty. Possibly prematurely. Something in A minor, maybe. Anyway.
The place was in complete panic. What was even more unbelievable was Celestia; I don’t think I’ve ever seen her stumped by anything before then. She just looked down once or twice, then back up, staring straight ahead, like everything in the world was right, aside from her not being able to move, or speak. She wasn’t smiling, exactly, but her face was kind of frozen, like she expected somepony to jump out from the big crowd and yell “Gotcha!”, and Luna would lift herself out of her potatoes and clean up the ‘fake’ blood pouring out of her skull, and smile, and the everypony would have a big laugh.
I think one of the chancellors eventually took her away. That was when I made myself scarce, because even though it’s easy not to be noticed when you’re carrying an instrument, the guards start to ask questions to everpony in a situation like that. I don’t get along so well with the guards. They rub me the wrong way.
So that was one night, a couple days ago, if I figure right. If that was all that had happened, that’d be enough—but of course, something like that doesn’t exactly just get smoothed over at night. I mean, for one thing, there was no night to smooth it over. Without Luna around to put the sun away, the whole evening was bright. Made it a bit hard to sleep, as a matter-of-fact.
Of course, a meeting was called. Probably by one of the chancellors rather than Celestia. She didn’t seem in any state to be making council decisions when I saw her get led away that night. But, sure enough as I snuck into the meeting, hiding in the corner and fiddling with my strings, Celestia was there, as bright and in charge as I’ve ever seen her. Well, bright in the sense of the word like the sun might be ‘bright’ during a record heatwave, when just stepping outside will melt your cutie mark right off, and your fur to your bones besides. She was the maddest I’ve ever seen her, which I suppose isn’t a big claim; in all the time I’ve been at the palace, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her more than a little peeved. At that meeting, she was livid.
“I want the pony responsible for this at my hoove in a day’s passing,” she said. “Am I understood?” There was a general kind of nodding, on account of you didn’t want to be on the Princess’s bad side on a day like that. I think the matter of national consul came up at some point: what to tell the public, what to do about mourning. All of that kind of got put on hold though. Everything around went into full-blown game-hunt.
Naturally, I made myself less-than-visible, on account of not having any friends in the guard that were all over the place anyway. Not that they’re not nice enough ponies, I’m sure, but some folks you give a big gold helmet and a stick with a point on it and they get just belligerent. Better to stay at home and practice my etudes than stick my nose in places it didn’t belong.
Of course, little bits got through here and there. A conspiracy was the word going around. An assassin had been hired by a warring nation—no, by one of Celestia’s most trusted ministers—the duke of a nearby fealty—or Celestia herself! Bunch of horsefeathers, if you ask me. But, you don’t have to take my word for it. The important thing is to ask questions, in a situation like this.
So a bit of time goes by, and the next day on the hour there’s another meeting. Celestia was still fuming, and even more so when, of course, no one managed turn up even a hair of whomever was responsible. The guards looked like they were going to cry, which was a sight I didn’t particularly mind. Celestia gave them a stare like she wanted to burn them into a crisp. ‘course, she shared that with everyone else too, including the cabinet to her left and right. The old stallions sitting up there looked like colts on their first school-day, told there was going to be a five pages pop-quiz.
One of the council-ponies spoke up, after a bit.
“N-now, my liege... please, you must abate your temper. While we are all greatly saddened by Princess Luna’s passing — “
“Her murder, you mean.” Celestia’s eyes shone so sharp I thought she might light the whole meeting hall on fire. The councillor certainly felt it, anyway.
“Her... yes. Well, be that as it may. I understand your grief, but you must temper your temper. No amount of anger will bring her back—“
I thought her eyes might have been enough to do it, but I imagine her horn probably had some part to play into the whole thing. It was as strange a sight as I’ve ever seen, in any case. One minute the crusty old minister there with his beard twirled over his old robes, and the next minute a pile of black dust, settling to the ground with a big curl of smoke coming up.
You could have heard a pin drop, I bet.
Something told me a G# would be the perfect note for the occasion.
That set them all off. You’d figure that ponies have one of two ways to go in that kind of situation: either you clam right up and cower like you never cowered before, until Her Highness decides to tell you what to do next, or you just lose it . The ponies in the meeting picked the second one; except for Celestia, weirdly enough. She just kind of stood there, like she’d calmed, or maybe tipped far over into mad that she’d come out on the other side, which I suppose is an eventuality in this kind of thing.
Normally in this kind of situation I’d hoof it out for a bit, but not in this particular instance. I mean, some ponies say music is meant to be a tool of soothing in times of panic. I’m not sure I believe that, but I certainly knew there was more that I wanted to see. There was a slight chance of me getting melted into dust, sure, but that’d probably be more fun than running off and not knowing what happened.
Celestia waited until the whole courtroom had finally panicked themselves out, throwing themselves against windows and walls and doors, which I don’t think they realized Celestia had probably padded with some kind of magic—her horn was glowing, anyway. I stood there and watched them settle. Everypony kind of turned at once. Some of them were crying. It was a rough scene.
“Let me make myself very clear,” Celestia said. “I have no interest in being patronized. I am not hysterical—I am not out of my wits—nor am I ‘grieving’. I have lost the pony dearest to me in the world, and I am taking the proper steps to enact appropriate consequences upon the pony responsible. Do I make myself very clear?”
There was a general chorus of nods. I think I even bobbed my head a little bit.
“Let me further make it clear,” she went on, starting to walk in a very deliberate, slow fashion around the room “that I have no interest in further detractors from this pursuit. If anypony present has more words of banal sympathy to attempt to dissuade me, I ask that they make themselves very clear right now.”
Would you say anything in a situation like that?
Of course, no one there wanted to. But some poor sap in the front row must have felt like he needed to speak up, because he tottered forward, shaking and blubbering and wringing his hooves like he was praying, which he probably was. Dunno who you pray to when the only God is the one in front of you that might want to burn you to a crisp—excepting the Aurora, may she reign forever in spirit throughout Equestria amen.
“My Liege,” he said, sounding a bit younger than the last pony who went up. He didn’t have a big complicated beard either—just a pencil-looking moustache and a slick of hair that looked sort of like he painted it on. “I must truly apologize for my colleague’s actions. Clearly he had no idea the level of pain you are going through right now—“
He tensed up then, like he was expecting to be breathing a puff of smoke next, but Celestia didn’t do anything. She just looked at him with one of her eyebrows up. So, he went on.
“But, I have to ask, on behalf of everypony present... truly, is this the right thing to do? You have always been so kind, and wise, and we have basked in your benevolence. Is a sudden turn to vengeance really the proper path?”
Everyone’s breath was caught up at that point. Having anywhere be that quiet with so many ponies around is sort of upsetting—it always feels like I should play something just to fill the air. But, there’s a time and a place. Besides which, I was watching with everyone else.
Celestia’s face softened. Everypony in the room sighed when her head lowered. You could feel the relief go through ‘em like a wave or a chorus.
The pony at the front of the room breathed the loudest of all. I could see the sweat pouring off him from where I was standing. He looked like he’d been dunked in the moat.
“You may be right,” Celestia said. A relieved smile caught on a few faces, including the pony front and center.
“Thank you Princess. I knew you would see reason.” The court-pony stepped forward, resting his hoof on Celestia’s wing and leaning towards her with a sympathetic glimmer in his eye.
“After all,” he said. “Isn’t this what Luna would want?”
The sizzling sound he made as he went up was definitely unique. I certainly don’t think I’ll forget it anytime soon.
From that point on, still just a few days ago, I think, things have been a little different. Guards on high alert, which is to be expected. No more council meetings. Celestia sits in her throne room now more than I’ve ever seen her. The council’s been disbanded, as much as I can tell. That’s all that’s going on in the castle, anyway, but there’s a lot more outside. Canterlot, the whole place around, is in the same kind of state. There are posters on every wall, even though they don’t have a face yet—they plastered up a sad picture of Luna instead, asking for any information about the attack. I hear they’re in every town in Equestria by now, and even in some of the not towns. Guards in all places coming out like beetles in an old log. Ponies are on high-alert. Homes being broken into. Questions being asked with broken bones and similar things before or afterwards. Not exactly what I’d call a fun time.
That’s the goings on inside, anyway. But you don’t hang around the castle long enough without picking up words on the current ‘political climate’. Sounds hostile, at least. Celestia turning down meetings with ambassadors—threatening them maybe. Some of the ponies in the castle still talk about her, though they do it in whispers now, because they’re not sure who’s listening, aside from me. Say Celestia’s gone completely crazy. She’s paranoid now; sleeps with thirty guards at her chamber door. She’s managed to get into pulling the moon up by herself, though I’m not sure what that does to her sleep schedule. Doesn’t she have to be up the whole time to keep it in the sky? Dunno how she manages to get any rest between that and the sun. I’d probably be a bit put out too if I was missing that much sleep.
All in all, I think I’m up and done with the castle. As nice as the pay is, or was, it now being the case that banquets aren’t exactly a regular occurrence, I think I’d be better off finding somewhere to be. Just to my benefit, in the long run.
Even with all this going on, everypony in a proper fear-of-Goddes state, they still don’t notice the green pony playing music in the background. Let me slip out of the castle nice and easy. Guards didn’t blink when I left. Heck, they didn’t even notice when I popped into Luna’s room the night before, to swap that silver dagger with a steel one. The guy who gave it to me did say he wanted it back. Not that there were hoof prints to worry about—why use a hoof for anything other than music when you have a horn?—but you don’t really ask questions about this sort of thing.
I’m sorta looking forward to seeing where things take me next. I don’t really imagine I’ll have a problem fitting in wherever I end up. After all, when you’re a musician, you don’t have to worry much about anything at all. You always just sort of fit right in.
Over the static bustle of afternoon Ponyville, great white clouds ambled through the sky, lazily drifting towards and away from each other as though there was a game to play in their pointlessness. On the largest, fluffiest of these clouds, a blue pegasus with a mane of seven colours lounged, yawning and tucking her head back into the puff of white.
Without any notable change in atmosphere or happenstance, her eyes snapped open.
What day is it?
Rainbow Dash rolled sideways off the cloud like a firepony rolling into a call out. She spun with an unparalleled calculation of movement as she tumbled towards the ground, eventually landing on the grass with barely even a whiff of her hooves on the green blades.
What day is it?
Dash scanned sideways in either direction. The cloud had taken her further out of Ponyville proper than she could recognize. As much as she knew the town like the back of her hoof, the bit she was in now looked the same as every other bit she didn’t spend any time in: Green. Bland. Boring. Full of trees and tall grass, save the single path carved through.
A sudden thump of wheels and hooves snapped Dash’s attention to the right.
“Howdy, Rainbow Dash.” A familiar voice, and a face to go with it, lugged themselves slowly into Rainbow Dash’s vision: Applejack, hauling a cart of apples, which somehow would have managed to look fitting and appropriate even if it were to happen in the most fearsome, fiery depths of Tartarus. Applejack pulling apples. The world was at least in some sense of organization.
“Do you know what day it is?”
Applejack’s brow furrowed. She scrunched up her face as though she were chewing something unpleasant.
“Well hello to you too,” she said, stopping in her cart-pulling and shuffling the harness on her shoulders.
“What day is it?” Rainbow Dash repeated, not even bothering to bat an eyelash at Applejack’s pointed passive-aggressiveness.
Applejack sighed and rolled her eyes. “It’s Wednesday, last I remember. Why—somethin’ important happenin’ today?”
“I... don’t know.” Rainbow Dash stood up with her sentence, high on her hind-legs. She held the pose for a moment, looking around as though something might emerge suddenly from the horizon. As seconds passed, nothing seemed eager to make itself newly apparent, and Dash settled back onto all fours with anxious eyes and a fallen frown.
“Somethin’ the matter, RD? You look like you’re a bit out of sorts.”
“I just realized I had no idea what day it was,” Rainbow Dash said. Her voice was higher than normal, coloured with a tinge of tenor that seemed out of place. Anxious, maybe.
Applejack raised an eyebrow and chewed down on the strand of hay between her teeth.
“So what? I thought you’d be the type to brag about not knowin’ what day o’ the week it was. No responsibility, and all that.” Applejack looked upwards to the puffy white blobs looming over Ponvyille, threatening to burst into rain any moment. She lowered her eyebrows and chewed down on her hay again.
“I didn’t know what day it was yesterday,” Dash said.
Applejack blinked. “Yeah, and? Now you know it’s Wednesday, so ya’ should be able to figure out yesterday was Tuesday. Remind me to get you a calendar some time—”
Applejack’s sentence ended abruptly as Rainbow’s hooves on either side of her face squeezed out her last syllable. Her eyes widened as she became aware of the blue blur that had materialized in front of her, holding her head like it was a worrisome mirror to be stared into.
“No, AJ. I mean I never know what day it is. What week it is, month, year...”
Applejack pulled her head back with considerable effort and rubbed a hoof on the side of her cheek where Rainbow Dash’s grab had left a slight mark.
“Yeah, so? Maybe you’ve just never heard of a calendar...”
“You don’t get it!” Rainbow Dash huffed herself up suddenly, her volume raising loud enough that it echoed off the branches of the nearby trees.
Applejack’s expression of perpetual incredulity, at last, softened. “What don’t I get?” she asked.
“That it doesn’t matter what day or month or year it is... just that I didn’t know. I’ve never bothered to know. It could be thirty years from now, tomorrow, for all I know...”
“Well, some of them do have the year in nice pretty big letters at the top...”
“Applejack!” Rainbow Dash threw her hooves up in the air and turned, hauling herself up and then falling back to all fours with her head settling against her chest.
“I could...” Rainbow Dash trailed off as Applejack stared at her from behind. Applejack waited for something to break the rapid onset of silence. After a series of long, uncomfortable seconds, Rainbow Dash sighed, and turned back around.
“I could wake up tomorrow and my whole life might be gone,” she said.
Applejack’s tongue felt heavy in her mouth. Though the sky overhead was bright, despite the ambling overcast, Applejack was certain the air had just thickened with the hint of rain.
“Now... come on now, RD. That’s blowin’ things a bit out of proportion, don’t you think?”
“What if I wake up tomorrow and I’ve never gotten into The Wonderbolts?” Dash began to pace, then seemed suddenly to think better of it and stopped, flapping her wings in quick bursts on her back. “Or if I wake up tomorrow and all you guys are married with foals and friends and I’m still asleep on a cloud somewhere...”
“Where is all this comin’ from, Dash? You ain’t the type I woulda pegged for gettin’ all existential-like outta nowhere.”
Dash hung her head again, looking sideways with a glimmer of precipitation in the corner of her eye.
“It just kinda... hit me all of a sudden.”
Applejack looked on, and cleared her throat to allay the sudden pause. Rainbow Dash kept her head low, unspeaking. After a few more seconds, Applejack cleared her throat again.
“Well,” she said, “there’s a not too tricky way to not hafta worry about all that anymore.”
Rainbow Dash’s ears seemed to perk, but she only raised her head slightly, turning her eyes in Applejack’s direction.
“Yeah?”
“Well... start doin’ stuff. Make the most o’ your days, and you won’t have to worry about them goin’ away.”
“But what if no matter what I do, every day is just a day? What if even if I try hard, starting right this second—and let’s be honest, motivation is not my strong suit—I still don’t manage to do anything more than remember, in thirty years, that it’s a Wednesday?”
Applejack scratched the back of her head with her forehoof.
“Geez. That’s uh...”
“What did you do today?” Rainbow Dash asked, stepping suddenly closer, so close Applejack could feel a breath on her nose. She tried to back up, but found her progress halted by the impedance of her apple-cart.
“Uh...” She could feel Dash’s stare, closer than she’d ever be keen to let any pony stare. “I, uh... I helped Big Mac get the last of the west orchard all holed up, and I’m draggin’ ‘em back to the cellar now until we ship ‘em out next week.”
“So what if you just do that for the rest of your life?” To Applejack’s great relief, Rainbow Dash pulled her head slightly back, though her stare stayed, unrelenting. “What if on a Wednesday thirty years from now, all you can say is that you hauled thirty years worth of apple shipments?”
Again, Applejack scratched the back of her head. She eyed the surrounding ground as though it might be worth looking at, but returned to Rainbow Dash after a few seconds.
“Well... I mean, I did more than that today.”
“Oh?” Dash leaned in closer.
“Yeah. I, uh... I helped Applebloom with a school project, and uh... well, I added a stitch to my quilt.”
Rainbow Dash stared, blank-faced, at Applejack.
“Do you think any of that meant anything?”
“It’s more than I did yesterday.”
Rainbow Dash stared, her expression frozen like a glass carving. Applejack looked back at her: Not staring, but with an unshaking glint in her eyes regardless.
After a few seconds, Dash pulled her head back. Her face softened.
“Huh.”
Applejack blinked a few times, then lifted her head properly to give Dash a small glare.
“Whatta you mean ‘huh’? I had a good enough time helpin’ Applebloom, ‘specially when she’s at the age where she’s gonna be too old for spendin’ time with her big sister soon. And my quilt—”
Rainbow Dash held up a hoof like a stopper, waving towards Applejack and halting her mid-sentence.
“No... that’s okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to... I bet you have a really nice quilt.”
“Darn right I do,” Applejack said with conviction and just a hint of self-humoured chuckle.
Overhead, the clouds danced and parted dances between one another, swirling in circles, breaking off bits into newer, smaller clouds, and then joining again into puffy formations that threatened to become voluminous white masses if left unchecked. The wind blew, nudging them across the sky, helping them along on whatever it was clouds decided to do on a Wednesday.
Rainbow Dash flapped her wings for a moment. The ground felt hard underneath her hooves.
“Thanks, Applejack. I’ll see you later.”
Without giving time for Applejack’s look of bewilderment to clear, Rainbow Dash crouched, leapt, and took off, flapping her wings faster than any pegasus ought to be able to, before she exploded into a jetstream of colour, soaring in a direction behind that Applejack wasn’t quick enough to see.
After a few seconds, Applejack cleared her throat. She adjusted the harness on her shoulders and began to walk again. The cart was heavy, but it was only a mile or two more to the orchard, and the day was still young. She might even have time to ask about calendars on the way back through town.
As the grass bristled underfoot, a hint of a grin caught AJ’s lips.
She’d have to do some more quilting when she got home.
The flimsy hoof-made wooden door shook slightly as it settled into place, leaning sadly on the broken branches that made up its hinges. A pony’s hooves on the dirt floor made a soft skittering sound as they settled, kicking away errant pebbles and collecting the bearings of the pony they were attached to.
Rumble’s back ached from the weight of the things he’d carried in, stuffed into saddlebags slung over his shoulders. He leaned forward and let the bags fall the short distance to the floor as he turned and adjusted the door to ensure it was as closed as possible.
The cave was silent, save for the sound of breathing.
“Shoot, it’s dark in here. Lemme...”
The sound of hooves transferred to the nearby wooden table as Rumble propped himself up, holding a match between his teeth. After a few false starts, a scratch across the wood brought the head of the match to life, and subsequently the wick of the waiting candle, half-melted and drooping miserably on its dirty, white plate.
The light was dim, but it was enough.
There wasn’t much to see. Aside from Rumble and his bags, the cave held only a few other things: a bookcase with a few tattered volumes, including a magazine or two shoved carelessly onto the bottom shelf. Atop the bookcase a small potted plant withered, it’s lone leaf leaning wearily into the malnourished dirt that surrounded it. On the far wall, a mirror. Nothing else, besides dirt, and rocks.
And a small, orange form, huddled in the corner, almost hidden underneath the black hooded sweater surrounding it from the waist up.
“Hey,” Rumble said. His voice died on the damp cave walls almost before it had left his lips.
The silence hung in the air as Rumble rifled through the bags he had brought, biting his tongue between his teeth as he scoured. After a minute he pulled his hooves out with a softened triumph on his face, and turned around, holding out the thing he had been looking for.
“I brought you some food,” he said. “I know you’re probably not hungry, but...” Rumble’s sentence trailed off. His eyes went to the orange form in the corner, then down to the morsel he was offering: a sad collection of grass and dying flowers.
Again, silence seeped from the walls.
Rumble held the flowers for a few moments more before lowering his hooves.
“Are you sure? I mean... it’s been a few days. You should probably... you should probably eat something.” Rumble raised the attempted offering once more. The orange and black form stared at him, unspeaking.
“Well... okay. I’ll just... I’ll leave them here, so you can have some later if you want, okay?” He waited a few seconds for a response. Nothing. Rumble turned to the table on which the candle still sputtered and scraped the unappetizing looking weeds from his hoof, onto a pile of other abandoned meals. Crackers, carrots, and at the bottom, a bowl of soup which had begun to collect mold on the top.
Rumble cringed as he kept his eyes away, and breathed in a sharp sigh. He closed his eyes, but opened them after a few seconds.
“You should lemme... lemme take a look at your leg. See how it’s doing.”
Still silent, the orange, hooded pony watched Rumble as he stepped closer. It made no move to assist him as he placed his hooves, resting them underneath the figure’s left foreleg, which was wrapped, underneath the sweater, in a thick layer of gauze.
“Can you... here, if you just...”
Rumble fidgeted with the sleeve as he attempted to move it upwards. He stuck his tongue out between his teeth again as he held the apparently injured appendage aloft with one hoof, and did his best to reveal the wound’s wrapping with the other. After a brief struggle, the leg fell from his tenuous grip, and landed against the rest of the sweatshirt with a soft ‘pap ’. Rumble cringed violently, and sucked in a quick breath of air — but the form made no sound to suggest the drop had hurt, and Rumble exhaled with a wave of relief that swept across his eyes. Gritting his teeth again, he lifted the limb once more, and this time managed to reveal its bandages without further fumbling.
“Does it feel any better?” he asked.
No response.
Rumble’s eyes stayed on the bandage for a long time. Outside the wrapped around padding, he couldn’t tell the difference between this leg and one that worked just fine. He couldn’t see the tiny fractures of bone that prevented it from staying stable — couldn’t see the torn muscles or damaged viscera that leaked blood like the last drops of a juice from something ripe and sweet as it was squeezed dry. All he could see was the outside, and was left to imagine the rest.
Rumble swallowed thickly, feeling the lump inside his throat slide down as it vanished.
“Lemme... I should probably take a look, at least. Clean it up a little bit.”
As uneasy as the words came, so did Rumble unwind the bandage, once more with his teeth over tongue, concentrating with his eyes narrowed as he unspun the layer of gauze. The limb lulled limply against the orange pony’s side as Rumble worked around it, until at last the final layer came, and the leg bared itself to the almost-darkness of the cave and Rumble’s narrowed eyes.
He couldn’t tell if it looked any better.
“— …”
Rumble opened his mouth to speak, but could find nothing to say. He looked up into the eyes staring back at him, but found nothing to draw his words forth.
“It... it looks like it might be getting better.” Stuttering, always. The cold air made his tongue numb.
Silence.
“Well, let me wash it a little bit and... you’ll tell me if it starts to feel better, right? If you can move it?”
Rumble waited for fifteen seconds before he sighed softly, almost inaudibly, save for the catching dead echo of the cave’s acoustics, and turned back to his bags. He rifled through them until he found a small cloth and a bottle of water, the stopper of which he pulled out with his mouth, turning it sideways and letting a trickle of the clear liquid fall into the cloth. Before he sealed it up, he held the bottle towards the orange figure.
“Thirsty?”
Again, a count of seconds and he put it away, pushing the stopper firmly in place. He turned back around with the cloth in hoof.
“Let me know if this hurts, okay?”
Rumble’s hooves worked in silence as he massaged what he imagined must be the wounded area. To his relief, no starts came, nor shaking to indicate he was pressing too hard. There was no soak of blood, though when he pulled the cloth back it came away tinted a dark red and brown mix, tarnished by some unknowable taint. He clucked his tongue against his teeth as he looked at the cloth, then back down at the injured leg.
“Is... your fur was normally this colour, right?”
No response. Just the sound of breathing.
Rumble shook his head and gave a few more once-overs with the cloth, finally throwing it on top of the saddlebags piled by the door. With some difficulty, he managed to pick up the leg and a new roll of bandages on his second try, and wound them around with the same struggle, eventually getting a loose-fitting semblance of a proper binding. He didn’t say anything, bandages between his teeth as he pulled the sleeve down. He tossed the bandages back with the cloth, and sat, staring, his hind-legs even with the orange ones next to him, almost touching.
The cave was always cold.
Breathing.
“Well...” Rumble’s eyes flicked as he spoke, darting to the side of the cave, the door, and then back to himself, sinking with a sort of resignation. “I should probably... head out again. But I’ll come back tomorrow. Is that okay?”
Silence. The sound of breathing.
“It... it’s gonna be fine, Scoots, I promise. Just a few more days and you’ll feel better... and, and your leg will be better, and you’ll... you’ll be able to talk, and you’ll tell me you’re okay, and you’ll say you’re ready to eat, and then you’ll get up with me and go home, and we’ll... and we’ll...”
Rumble’s sentence trailed off, caught in the sudden faltering of his lips as they shook. As tears trickled from the corners of his eyes, leaking down his cheeks as though a river had been unbound on either side.
“Please,” he said, his voice trembling. “Say something. Tell me you’re okay, that it’s... that you’re gonna be o-okay...”
Silence.
Rumble raised his hooves and grabbed Scootaloo’s head on either side, her cheeks and ears covered by the pulled up hood of the black sweater. In a swift motion, he turned her head towards him, set it staring straight forward. His eyes flashed with a sudden spark of something besides sadness, though the tears still leaked.
“Say something!”
Silence. Heavy breathing.
“It’s not my fault! I didn’t... I just... you finally wanted to talk to me, and I... I’d never fallen before, Scoots! I’ve been over the river every day and I never fell! Why didn’t you tell me your stupid wings didn’t work yet!”
Silence. Breathing.
“Why did you have to fall?! I told you we’d get in trouble if my brother found out...”
Rumble let go of Scootaloo’s head, which stayed planted firmly in place, staring at him. He looked straight back, staring too, tears still pouring from his eyes, his chest rising and falling with the strength of his breathing.
Just orange and black looked back at him.
“This is all your fault!”
Rumble pushed forward, a shove, and it met Scootaloo’s chest firmly with a dull thud. The orange filly’s body jostled slightly with the force of the impact. But she kept silent. Only the sound of breathing; the dim sputter of the candle as it struggled to stay alight in the damp air, and the sound of soft, settling dirt around Rumble’s hooves as his shove turned him.
He stared at the ground for a few moments more, breathing heavily.
“I... you’d... you have to get better, Scoots. You have to.”
With his hoof on one side of her face, Rumble turned Scootaloo back towards him.
Her cold, dead eyes stared at him, unblinking.
He stared back. Said nothing. The last tremble of a tear dripped from his cheek onto the dirt beneath. The seconds ticked by endlessly, until at last, he let go, and Scootaloo’s head lolled against her shoulder again. Low, against her chest, hanging like a broken doll.
“I’m sorry,” he said. A few breaths passed. “I’ll be... I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”
Silence.
“I didn’t mean all that.”
Breathing.
A tickle of dust caught in Rumble’s throat, and he cleared it loudly, the rough noise bristling in the cold air before it faltered on the rock walls. Rumble stood up and turned to his bags.
“Try to eat something, okay?” he said, looking back towards Scootaloo.
Silence. Scootaloo’s body laid at rest against the wall of the cave, covered in a black hoodie, unmoving.
Rumble stared at her for a minute longer before he turned, pushed the door open and left.
Outside, the rain fell, soaking the forest ground, the grass and the dirt, coating the floor in a slick layer of leaves that stretched from under every tree to cover the whole of all the eye could see, from the forest boundaries to the river than ran through its center; the river running swiftly, cold, and dark.
The snow is falling.
When it lands, the ground welcomes it with the white caress of outstretched fingers, guiding familiar flakes to open palms. The floor of the forest is thick with it, and further on from that the plains, and further still the sleeping form of the town, lulled into peaceful unconsciousness by fading fires and air laced with frostbite.
A small patch of snow clears when she settles in it. Her wings brush away a faint trace of her landing, sending soft marks out on either side. Her hooves make four indents in the densely packed ground—it croons softly with a muffled crunch under the weight of her body.
In an instant, the snow is upon her as well. Falling soft, but heavy, clinging to her wings and refusing to finish its descent.
She breathes out slowly as she walks forward. The heat of her breath becomes steam upon the air.
She’s always come here, when the world is too much. Other ponies always seem to see in dull greys—but to her, the whole of the world is a canvas, waiting for the trace of her hoof on the blank page. Bubbling to life as she breathes.
She holds a hoof to her mouth as she exhales. The steam causes some of the drops clinging to her to melt. She smiles and continues forward.
Even in the clouds of a winter storm, the sun finds a way. It marks her path through the snow, guiding her forward with the beacon of its brightness. Go west. She lets her hooves settle in the snow. The places where she has stepped have already been covered over.
She was young when she first learned about the winter, and how, on the best or worst of days, it could wash the world away. She found it in a teardrop tumble of crossed eyes and uneasy flapping of her wings. She faltered on the frozen rain’s uneasy footing, and slid forward into the unfamiliar welcome of a waiting drift. It wrapped over her like a blanket, washing away the tears on her cheeks with the damp touch of melting water. The hot feeling in her chest was consumed by the cold, and when she blinked and tried to tried to find the familiar shake of her sobbing, it was gone. The snow drew her to giggles. She splayed out under the falling sky and made an image of herself on the ground. When she felt better, she flew back up into the clouds. The snow was gone when she next came back, but she knew it would return.
That was the first snow, but it was far from the last.
It became a waiting game. Though the mark on her side spoke to her of a faraway sea, or at best the shimmers of summer playtime, in fields with wands and buckets of soapy water, she wondered from then on if it wasn’t a snowflake that belonged instead. Life was stern enough to teach her that, at every occasion, decisions were not made to be rescinded or forgiven. But that was alright. She only needed one day a year to forget.
The snow glows under the sun. Bright enough to blind the unsuspecting, sharp enough to block out everything but the steel-like shining of the ground. It glistens like a mirror waiting to be broken, and she is someone with no fear of bad luck.
It stole her breath the first morning, and in later years, her first kiss. The sweet nothingness of snow on her tongue was enough to pretend she was wanted. She pretended the cool caress of water as it melted beyond her lips was the gentleness of a lover, and she fell forward into the blanket that washed away her heat. She emerged in a pool, and left before the snow could be the first to leave.
With only once a year visits, she made due.
When it became something certain, instead of hopeful and unsure, she would come prepared. She’d bring with her enough sense to remember, and practice facing things in the snow. She would write her name, honing it over time into a readable cursive that matched her best. She scribbled out days and dates, letting them flash behind her closed eyes one last time before they became drawings on a white canvas, wasted away in mere minutes by the perpetual falling of the sky. She wrote names, numbers, moments and memories and all the things that she had kept inside until year’s end. And, when she had written the last one away, she fell into the snow and spread out like an empty easel, letting the white everywhere fill her vision until the world was empty again.
She walks. The sun is setting, and the plains lie forward. She can feel the ground here, solid beneath the snow. The open fields are pristine and bare in the silent downpour. Every inch of them is unmarred by touch. While the reach of the eye extends for miles in every direction, the light dusting knows it is sufficient because no one will touch it.
She lingers with a soft whispering breeze at her sides, still for a moment before she turns to leave. This it not where she belongs. The shelter of the forest has always felt safer. She flies, and dusts the ground in her wake.
When the trees greet her, they bow. Their boughs are heavy with white capes, and she takes pains to move underneath them, disrupting as little as possible in her intrusion. She knows, no matter the consequence, that the forest will find her no stranger—but this is all the more reason to be considerate.
After the steady sound of her hooves on the thick crystal carpet has gone on for many minutes, she breathes. Her breathe evaporates in the air and spirals in remnants upwards—her marking that she is at the forest’s center.
She leans against a nearby tree.
The sky will never run out of snow. Never for longer than a year. There are some places it will linger through that time, but it will not be enough to keep cold.
The melting river of white will not wash away everything.
She releases the tree from her standing. Breathes. A thick mist and dissipation.
She kneels low into the snow. Her leg will not bear the heat otherwise.
The ambling airborne shimmers in summer will always burst, but the snow will stay until it is no longer needed.
Steam. A patch bigger than her hoof begins to fade away. It will be replaced, as so the snow still falls.
Grey has always fit amongst white. The red seems almost like an insult. Her hoof shakes as she sets steel among frozen steel. She uses it to trace the sharp edges of a heart just beside her body. Though she fears the warmth, she rests her head next to the patch of growing colour.
She smiles. Cold. The chill that keeps her nerve-endings at bay. She’s never properly thanked it.
As she rests her head on the grove’s frozen pillow, she turns to it and mouths her thanks into the soft, malleable ice. Her lips taste the melting of water, tainted by metal and crimson.
Her body blooms as it grows cold. The only flower that blooms brighter in the winter.
She looks up as the sun leaves the sky, and with it, the light.
The snow is falling.
The darkness is falling from the sky. The chill of its fingers fumbles towards the ground, great arms flowing and shaking as they take hold. Limbs like portal passages in vibrant smoke, churning as they reach, blurring as they touch, whispering, the sky is thick in midnight, yearning to take over the ground.
The body of the darkness’s reach is its silent core. A unspeaking sphere of stone, blemished, circling its older sister like detritus. Sick with sores, unwanted. It is a mirror of its missing glow.
Afoot on the moon, the air is blood and silver. It rains, perpetual rain, up from the flat grey surface and onward to its nonexistent atmosphere. The clouds are empty, and emptying, thick, spasming and burbling as their contents pour out. A thick-red wash, misting, mercury, breathing fire and ice-cold white-hot acrid fog.
She stands at its center. At the crested pole of its convergence. She looks up. She blinks through the weeping haze of air torn apart. She breathes, and her lungs ache with agony. Her step, resistance in an ever-washing tide, maelstrom baring down on her from all directions.
Sunken in the sanguine liquid steel, there is a black flourish. In the flow of unmaking air, a spire of midnight moves from her mane. Its eyes form dying stars in the moon’s churning canvas, collapsing upon themselves and the world. Smiling, and sending her to her knees.
There is oblivion in this visage. There is a horizon echoing the end of days there is the death of hope the spiral of being unwound a cold, dead center. Her shadow’s mouth moves, laughter, and sends ripples through the red sea.
The darkness is the place of failure. The turning side of silver is where consequence settles. Do you feel accomplished?
She cannot breathe. Her body has no need. She coughs in a sudden vapor of expulsion. Her soul struggles to remain inside.
This pain is yours. This misery belongs to you. Aching lungs grant her body to the ground.
Her shadow sneers. What hoof guides besides the one at your behest? Jealousy is crafted the same as any tool. It is a blade forged in the mind, turning inside. Shirking your failure is only evidence of weakness. Admit to the faltering of your conviction. Sink into nothing.
The solid unsurefoot is resistance reluctance barely open eyes still the burning wheel of remorse. Bloodsweat as oxygen abandons its mortality. She has no choice.
Amid the umber whorl of star-lit nebula encircling her collapse, she looks for the swirl of Chaos hidden within. She finds only her reflection.
The moon will glow blood-red. The mirror glint of her sadness will sustain it. Her tears allay the inferno as it swims, as it burns, as she sinks. Regret burying her to her asteroid core.
Silver is the sun’s lunatic refraction in the sky. The dark soul of eternity’s dissatisfied twin can be unmade, but it will age slowly. She will count the years. When they have gone, only grey ash and forgiveness will remain.
Until then, there is penance.
“Haaaaaaaaaaaaappy birthday, Gummy!”
Pinkie grabbed the tiny green gator with both her forelegs, holding him above her head and spinning. Gummy, as usual, was mute, but Pinkie’s smile paid him no mind as it shone brightly in the low light of her bedroom. The windows were covered by a thin curtain, tattered in places, letting only a hint of the morning light through.
“I hope you had a good sleep, because we’ve got a lot planned today. There’s gonna be cake and ice cream and dancing, and more presents than you’ll know what to do with!” Pinkie beamed upward at Gummy. Gummy, as usual, was mute.
“Come on!” Pinkie said, her voice bouncing off the walls. “Lets go downstairs and start the day.”
The stairs groaned as Pinkie dashed down them. The bannister in particular seemed to protest, wobbling and tossing flakes of its decaying wood into the air. Pinkie ignored it on her way down until she reached the final step, and a chunk of it broke off and splintered into her side as she leaned against it.
“Ow,” she said. She sucked her lip as she leaned to examine the damage. A sizable wooden spike jutted out of her dull, pink fur. Her hair hung over her eyes as she grabbed it with her hoof and wrenched it free.
“Ow,” she said again. Gummy, as usual, was mute.
“Come on, Gummy,” Pinkie said, walking from the stairs to the room she had set up. “Aren’t you excited? We’re gonna have an awesome party, just like we used to have! Just like... well, not like last year, that one was no fun... and not the year before, nopony decided to come, but they missed out, really, it was their loss...”
Pinkie’s voice became muttering as she walked past the doorway to her kitchen. The paint on the walls was mostly peeled away now. In one or two places on the wall, there were holes, about the size of a hoof.
A dark, deflated balloon hung from the kitchen ceiling. It sagged as Pinkie walked under it, casting one eye up beneath her bangs to look over its wrinkles. She blew a breath out of her nose and returned her eyes to the kitchen table.
There were familiar friends there for Gummy’s party. Madame LaFleur. Rocky. All the gang was there, just like old times.
Pinkie set Gummy in his special seat at the head of the table. She smiled at him, the edges of her mouth wiggling as they struggled to stay up. Gummy, as usual, was mute.
“Isn’t this great, Gummy?” Pinkie sat at the opposite end of the table. She reached forward to the plate she had laid out, chipped at the edges and, from the look of it, unwashed for months. The cake it held was an unappetizing, stale green.
Pinkie smiled across the table. Gummy, as usual, was mute, until his body shifted, slowly, from his slump against the chair to a full recline, and then a lazy roll sideways, off the chair, onto the floor where he landed with a loud thump.
Pinkie shot up in an instant. Her hooves picked the tiny gator up tenderly and cradled him against her chest.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her mouth turning to a frown. She held Gummy aloft and stared at him with wide, imploring eyes.
Gummy, as usual, was mute. A black hole stared back at Pinkie where one of his eyes had been. A worm wriggled slowly behind the other socket.
“You’re fine,” Pinkie said, and pulled Gummy close again.
The sun was removed from the kitchen as it had been upstairs, the windows shielded by dark, tattered curtains. Outside, the sun shone brightly, casting light over the whole of Pinkie’s house, crumbling at the edges, and broken elsewhere. The walls were marred by scratches and bricks thrown. The front-step was grown over with grass, untouched by visitors for years. Further away, the mailbox was stuffed with letters, filled to the brim and rusted shut by rain.
On the side of the house, somepony had written a single word in bright, pink, spray-paint, but it too had washed away in the rain.
Inside, Pinkie put Gummy back in his chair, and returned to her seat to take her first bite of cake.
It tasted the same as it had last year, and every year before for as long as she could remember. But at least she didn’t have to share it with anyone.
Derpy stood overlooking the ocean. Under her hooves, the sturdiness of the coastal bluffs kept her in place, reassuring her with the crunch of rocks beneath each hoofstep.
Ahead, the ocean stretched as far as she could see. Further than that, even. Was there a word for further than she could see? Forever?
The seafoam sparkled as it burbled against the base of the cliff far below. The waves were strong, and loud, but they were down there, and Derpy was up here. She wasn’t scared.
She remembered the storm.
It was a grey day. She looked like the clouds. Her mom said that. Said.
The clouds were angry. Derpy could tell because they hissed when her mom flew over them. Derpy didn’t fly over them because she couldn’t fly. Her mom flew, and carried her. It felt safe, but not during the storm.
She remembered the last hiss, so loud, and the crack , and the sha-thump , and then the cloud was very angry and Derpy’s whole self hurt and then her mom let go and the cloud was too mad to hold her so she fell.
Even though it hurt, she opened her eyes. The whole ground was a cloud that was moving, except bigger, and getting closer and bigger and still hurting and then it caught her. it wasn’t a cloud because it was too dark, and Derpy didn’t bounce. She fell. It was cold and wet.
She thought she would fall forever, and after a while she opened her mouth but found out the water was bad for breathing and then she got really scared – but it was okay because her mom found her and pulled her up and she could breathe without hurting.
Her mom had trouble swimming. She splashed a lot and had to hold Derpy up and the cloud got worse and turned to a big rain really fast, and then into wind, and then Derpy couldn’t see anything but grey and cloud and her mom and sometimes more water.
After a while Derpy was really tired and had a hard time staying up, and her mom was splashing even more and kept saying things but Derpy couldn’t hear them because the storm was too loud and there was more and more water.
Derpy’s mom looked really sad when she went underneath the water. Derpy was sad too, and she went under the water also and because she couldn’t stay up and it was dark and far and scary and she couldn’t see or breathe and where did her mom go and she thought she would close her eyes and never wake up.
But something pulled her up. It felt like a big poofy ball underneath her, so light that Derpy was floating, and she shot up and there was the sky and the clouds were going away and Derpy didn’t have to hold herself up when something else was. So she floated for a long time until she got splashed onto a beach and laid down and rested because she was so tired, and when she woke up there were two ponies there who picked her up and took her somewhere and gave her ice cream and said look, and when she looked her side had bubbles on it and they had stayed there after that.
Derpy opened her eyes.
The crackle of the skyline greeted her every year, but it wasn’t enough to keep her away. She came anyway, for her.
On the horizon, the clouds of a thousand storms brewed. But they were there, and she was here. Derpy kept her stare to the distance as she held up the flower she had brought with her. Red, with a grey wrap, like a cloud, and foil that crinkled like lightning when you touched it.
Derpy closed her eyes and let go of the flower. It fell gently until it reached the dark, turning surface of the ocean, where it was swallowed instantly, the bright petals disappearing beneath the waves.
Derpy remembered.
After a few minutes of remembering, she opened her eyes and flew up and away into the clouds. They were grey, just like her.
