Feathers and Flame

by KwirkyJ

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Dark
Length: 968

A peculiar midnight reunion between two comrades in arms.

In the dead of night, a disfigured warrior pays a visit to a handicapped soldier retiree. They reminisce. They share some tea and tales of their own. Sure, the hour is peculiar…

Then, why does the one have to keep requesting that the other put down the knife?

(Rated Teen [Gore] for insurance.)

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-06-10 05:20:01 UTC

1 - Stained Glass

"Who's there?"

The voice carried sharply through the pitch black of the room. Surprised, I froze for only an instant. I hadn't expected being noticed so quickly. My gaze following the sound, I glimpsed the faint amber rippling of a unicorn's telekinesis. In its grasp was something very thin. If I were to guess, a boning knife.

Well, I had just broken in.

"I wasn't expecting company tonight," the voice added, steady and calm. He was a good stallion. Perfect Guardspony. Shook off that sleep haze in seconds.

"Sorry," I said at length, "that I couldn't call in advance."

A beat passed. With another flare of magic, a few candles along the parlor walls sparked to life. Their warm glow lit the entrance, its homely furnishings, and, from the cover of a wide doorway -- to a reading room, I guessed -- a cream-coated stallion, his horn ablaze. Like fire, itself.

"Katto," he said. "It's been a while."

"You and your stuffy attitude." I couldn't help but jibe back. "It's been years, and you are still too uptight to stop being so... Proper about it."

"And you are just as brusque in your demeanor as ever. Now, what business brings you to my home?"

"How about you put down the knife, first? Hard to strike up a conversation with pointy things, you know."

I caught myself gesturing slightly for emphasis. Funny, how those automatic reflexes are so... well, automatic.

"You and I both know better than that." He shifted uneasily, probably unconsciously. The blade did not waver.

"I was rather fond," he continued, "of the stained glass you so rudely broke to unlock my door. That's crude, even for you."

I felt my wing bristle a little. I stole a glance back, and saw that I had indeed smashed some rather fine glasswork. It had been difficult to see before, and I supposed it was just a decal or painting on the door's window. To say I felt no shame in the deed now would be a lie, but it was very little -- not enough red, too many secondary colors. If I had a trove of my own, I might have been in a better position to mourn the loss of such 'fine art,' but that was so far above me to be beyond considering.

Turning forward again, I took in the room around me with some greater scrutiny that I had at first. While by pony standards it might have been considered spartan, what homely features there were had all the tellings of a refined occupant -- or occupants: polish on the escutcheon, elegant oil paintings, even a stylized sundial from what I guessed to be of Buffalo make.

"Would it help if I offered to pay for it?" I offered.

"Probably not," he answered after a second of feigned consideration.

I shrugged.

"Can't say I didn't try."

"Most visitors choose to knock. And not call at..." He paused, his ears flicking in some irritation. "It must be past midnight. And unannounced!"

"Ah, yes," I said, meeting his mockery of scandal, "What would the neighbors say!"

Throughout all this, I was wrestling with the frustration that had arisen the instant his voice called out. He wasn't supposed to be awake. He wasn't even supposed to be downstairs! Of all the nights he had to fall asleep with his snout in a book, it had to be tonight. I hadn't expected my reunion to take place quite like this...

"But," he interrupted, "Where are my manners. Might I offer my unexpected guest some tea? A few cookies? I would offer some pie, but we have only blueberry."

"Some tea, right? That's what you stuffy ponies have for visits?"

I let his joke about pie slide. Ponies, fruit pies. Ponies and their fruit pies. The closest thing they have to real pie is the rare bean sprout pasty, and it is my humble opinion that declaring such an abomination a pasty should be punishable by flogging. Maybe even talon-pulling. Or, in their case, Cutie Mark disfigurement?

"Right, then," He chimed. "I'll just get the kettle on." A new glow through a doorway to my right, accompanied with a few audible clanks, suggested that a fire was now burning beneath a kettle in the kitchen.

I found the apparent ease of the action -- as my... host... had not moved -- troubling. My anxiety that had been writhing for the past few minutes doubled.

"Maybe," I ventured, "You would like some pie, yourself? Put that knife you're holding to good use?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly. I'd have to use a paring knife for such an effort. Using a dirk cum letter-opener would be a greater faux-pas than your very arrival!"

I caught myself giving him a deadpan glare. I scowled at myself and stopped.

"If you're saying that it's just too big for the job, you could just say so."

"Not quite," he said, calmly. "This is how I speak, so in a very real sense I did so so. However, as I am sure you already have surmised, I am also informing you that there are quite probably many other such utensils at my disposal."

"Yeah, yeah, you old show-off. You got lotsa toys, I get it." I had stopped myself from batting my claw dismissively. There was no point to it.

"But isn't there something about not 'taking' tea while standing around? Maybe me and you can find a seat for that."

He paused, then nodded.

"Quite right you are. Why not the table in the kitchen. And please be quiet."

A few delicate cracks and an increase in the light to my right I guessed was my cue to move. Nothing to gain by staying, I moved into the glow.