The Only One In Color

by RazgrizS57

Rating: everyone
Tags: Pinkie Pie, Sad, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Rainbow Dash
Length: 16093

When I was little, I came to understand the true meaning about a particular trait of mine. I don’t like to talk about it because it’s just something I find difficult to discuss. But it’s not like anyone could understand it anyway.

When I was little, I came to understand the true meaning about a particular trait of mine. I don’t like to talk about it much because I’m just not much of a talkative pony. Or, well, I’m not anymore, but that’s beside the point. It’s just something I find difficult to talk about, much less explain, because unlike what I see, it’s not all black and white. It’s not like anyone could truly understand my condition anyway.

Well, except for maybe her.

Published 2013-10-30 02:10:03 UTC
Last updated 2013-10-30 02:10:03 UTC

The Only One In Color

—[To anyone who reads this with the “dark” background: to get the full effect of reading this story I suggest you read it in the “light” background. You know you’re fine if you can’t read this text.]—

“Okay, dearie, stay in the carriage now,” my aunt tells me, as if I have a choice in the matter. “We won’t be gone too long!”

It would be useless for me to try and reason otherwise, so I simply nod and give her my best impression of a smile. She merrily returns one herself before shutting the carriage door. Through my one entrapping window I watch her wander off into some large, obscured and clouded building with her husband. They are talking about something—I wonder if it’s about me—but their voices are lost to howling wind and thunderous rain.

With a sigh, I sulk back into my seat, or at least what I can find of it. Suitcases and cardboard boxes crowd around me, filling the carriage interior above my neck, even though I’m on my haunches, leaving me with only this small patch of sitting space. Most of this luggage isn’t even mine; the only bag I own I’m holding tight against my chest. I trace my hooves along the saddlebag’s canvas, through which I feel the uniquely round and edged curves of my dear friend Rocky.

My hooves bump into something else, the only thing of mine larger than Rocky: a book. My book. In its pages there are secrets, the thoughts I had scribbled down as a filly in my brief, energetic stupor, among other things. My mother had given it to me way back then, and every page would be blank until I found the audacity to scrawl something into it. My entire life is written in this book, and it’s something only my eyes can see.

And then there are the crayons themselves, sharp and pointy and orderly. Oh, how I do enjoy drawing. I almost want to take them out right now and scratch some more random doodles into my book, but inside this claustrophobic prison on wheels there’s nothing I find worth the inspiration.

Distant lightning flashes high in the sky. A clap of thunder shakes the entire carriage and the rainfall is torrential. The longer the storm persists, the more everything outside becomes hazy and unfocused. I share a grimace with the clouds as they become thicker and stretch across the sky. My nose itches for some reason.

Unexpectedly, I hear a sharp panging noise that somehow overrides the storm outside. It’s a feverish tapping, reckless and desperate, and with the ruckus comes a pleading voice that cries, “Hey! You in there! Let me in and out of this rain! Please!”

I stare out the window and see a figure through the mist. She’s shivering, hugging her freezing self, and is being completely drenched. She may be a stranger, but who am I to make somepony sit out in the rain? No, I’m not cruel like that. I stash my saddlebag away and reach out to the door to undo the latch.

The door is ripped from my hoof and thrown open. Wind surges into the cabin, rustling me and blowing dirty water into my face. A deafening howl rattles everything inside and buckles the very carriage itself.

But it’s all over faster than I have time to register it. Before I know it, the pony I have let in slams the door shut behind her and now invades my sitting space. She’s soaking wet and reeks of earth.

“Hey, thanks for letting me in. It’s really wild out there!” she says happily. Her voice sounds like a squeaky wheel. The bony protrusions on her back poke at my ribs. My body is now scrunched up against hers and a heavy suitcase. I immediately think letting her in was a mistake, or at least I should have tried to move some things aside beforehand, however futile that would’ve been. Thankfully she scoots towards the window a little and I can regain some breath. I blink and try to focus, and as soon as my mind is clear enough, I find myself mesmerized.

Her fur is light and if there’d been ample lighting, it would probably be glistening from the rainwater that’s seeping off her coat and onto me. But her fur, beautiful in its own right, is outdone spectacularly by her mane. It’s striped with many grays, the strands come together and intertwine, and it creates this sort of disordered elegance. I’m surprised that such a thing has so many shades. On account of the storm, I doubt her mane would be so unkempt on a regular basis, nonetheless I wish it was. To be gifted with such hair, to have it on every waking minute of one’s life... she does not deserve it. Nopony deserves to be blessed so.

It reminds me a little of the sun flower and, like I had many years ago, I reach out for it. But this time it’s tangible. I actually have a length of it in my hooves. No surprise it’s soaking wet, but through that the texture is immaculate. It’s glossy and straight, albeit in some places matted. Oh, how I would love to feel it warm and fluffy!

“You know that’s not how you dry it, right?”

I look up to her. Her wonderful mane has been parted from her sparkling eyes, but there’s a taint to their shine. Their shade is a degrading one, though it’s her only flaw I can see. I wonder how she sees with those disconnected eyes, if she observes the world like I do but reversed: where pink is the only color she can’t comprehend. I’d much rather live that way, not being able to see the color pink. She must be a very lucky pony.

She takes the hair out of my hooves and my heart almost breaks. I want to beg for it back, but I choose to remain silent. I turn away from her and I try my best to hide under my pink sheath of a mane. I don’t know this mare, therefore she does not know me. She’s just a pony in distress that I was kind enough to help. Nothing more, nothing less.

Thunder booms, the rain drones, and lightning does little to brighten this lackluster cabin. I want to go home.

“So, uh, I suppose I should be thanking you,” she says sheepishly, yet at the same time she chuckles. “Storms like that don’t really pop up out of nowhere. I really should’ve paid more attention to the schedule...”

I glance over my shoulder to see she’s giving me her full attention. And if the tilt to her head says anything, she’s got a lot to say..

“Name’s Rainbow Dash,” she proudly tells me. I struggle to hear it, like there’s an expected slide in a reel that’s mysteriously absent. But I do hear those graceful words—even the ghostly one—and how I highly doubt them. To not only have such lovely hair, but a blissful name as well? Her parents must have been saints to have foaled such an angel.

I glance down and realize she’s offering a sodden hoof. However, I waited too long to notice and now it’s awkwardly receding. She lowers it to herself, for that’s all she has here in this carriage: herself and the miniscule space we both occupy. If I hadn’t a basic concept of claustrophobia before, I sure do now. My fur is being made wet just by her presence. It’s a little annoying.

“So... what’s your name?” she asks me.

I take a bit longer of a pause than I intend, but idle conversation, regardless of who it’s with, has never been a strong point of mine. I’m not a very talkative pony.

“Pinkamena Diane Pie,” I answer. I make sure my voice is honest and direct, just like Father says it should be.

“Haven’t heard that kind of name before,” she muses aloud. I’m not sure if she meant to be insulting, but I’m not offended. I haven’t heard a name like hers before either. “Anyways, thanks again for saving my flank. You do not want to know what it feels like to be dumped on by a class-four raincloud!”

I don’t respond to that. I can’t. We lock eyes, our silence only being interrupted by sporadic gusts and thunder. I then look away from her and I think she did the same to me. I don't want to be here, and I can tell she'd rather be somewhere else, but fate has prevented either of us from leaving.

I steal another quick glance at her mane. I’m tempted to reach out again and touch it, but I don’t. I then notice she hadn’t looked away from me, but rather around. Her eyes scan the many suitcases and trinkets that aren’t mine that take up what space we don’t have.

“Oh!” she exclaims in sudden revelation. “Are you moving into town?”

I don’t give her an answer, nevertheless I know she’s receiving one.

“Trust me, you’re going to love this place,” she tells me. “Ponyville is so quiet, everypony’s friendly and understanding, and I swear the sky here is one of the bluest in all of Equestria! Well, you can’t see it now though. Heh.”

My ears lay flat against my skull. The rain suddenly gets a lot heavier. She coughs.

“So, uh, Pinka... Pink-ah-meena? I’m just going to call you ‘Pinkie,’ that alright?”

For simplicity’s sake, I give her a nod. I don’t want to be rude and try and stop somepony who only seems to want to learn something new. It looks like she’s taking that to heart, evident by the warm smile on her face. I don’t know what I’m feeling, but I don’t think it’s something worth smiling over. She fidgets beside me, probably trying to get relaxed. At least I know we’re both uncomfortable.

“So, if you’re new here, then your family must be inside town hall registering for a house, right?” she says, gesturing out the window. That must’ve been the big building my aunt and uncle went into. But I can’t see it now. There’s too much rain in the way.

I don’t speak, although part of me thinks I should. Yet I’m not a very sociable pony. I like to be by myself. I like to draw. I like to move around. Not that I don’t like being confined, it’s just that I’d rather be spending my days outside in a field of rocks instead.

I think I like Rainbow Dash, but I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s because she’s nice. She has nice hair. I notice she’s also an open pony, not afraid to be first and say what’s on her mind. That must mean she’s brave. Or maybe she’s just nervous and being cooped up forces her to speak, like it’s an outlet of some kind to help keep all that anxiety hidden. Or maybe it’s to hide something else she’d rather keep secret. I don’t know, because I’m not her. I don’t have hair like hers. I don’t think I can ever be her.

“So where’d you move from?” she asks me. I’m not frowning anymore because of the rain, but I’m not smiling either. She does like to ask questions, I notice. Mother says a pony should never be afraid to ask questions. And Father says a pony should speak when spoken to.

“Crestfall,” I answer her. As if on cue, the carriage trembles from a harsh gust of wind. There’s a look on her face of utter confusion, or more accurately a glint in her tarnished eyes. But her face still holds that warm, soft smile.

“Never heard of it,” she says flatly, yet inoffensively. “What’s it like there? I mean, if you want to talk. I don’t want to impose or anything.”

I look at her funny. She’s letting me decide? I hardly ever get to make my own decisions. I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t. I wish I was back home. I really don’t want to be here.

Her wings twitch. I can feel her feathers brush gently against my fur, sharing their coldness with me. A shiver runs down her spine, or perhaps it was my own. We are leaned up against each other so tightly, whatever one feels the other does too. I wonder if she can feel my heartbeat. I stiffen my forelegs to try and create some measly gap to separate us; our heads are so close together if we turned to face our snouts would likely bump. I probably smell like gravel and warm soup to her. I wonder what I look like.

She cranes her neck off to the side and looks out the window. Her beautiful, extraordinary mane looks dry now, yet I know it’s still dripping wet by the way it shines. Her chest barely expands before shuddering again. She must be very cold. It makes me sad that a pony, especially one as blessed as her, could be so cold. I wish I was warmer, that way I could share something meaningful with her.

I watch her as she looks away from me, turning her gaze out the window. I look outside with her, but all I see is my colored self. The rest of the world is gloomy and gray, but my pink body stands out as a blemish on everything black and white. I don’t like that: pink is not a pretty color. Because of that I can never be pretty, nor can her eyes. But I suppose I can forgive her. After all, it’s not like she was able to choose what color eyes she was born with. At least she isn’t an illusion of the eye. I wonder how she sees me like that.

I see her reflection along with mine and realize for the first time since we met she isn’t smiling. Her features are slack and she looks dejected, lost even. She then sighs heavily, her exhale punctuating the atmosphere like a carving knife by the way it drags, cutting the cool air down to its bone.

Perhaps I should try and talk to her, but I’m terrible at that sort of thing. Mother says that I should never be afraid to ask questions, but Father says I should only speak when spoken to. What should I do?

I bring up a hoof and touch her mane. Short of doing nothing, it’s the only thing I can think to do. It got her to talk before, so maybe it can happen again? The texture is sleek like wet granite, the strands stick together and they file into a point that outdoes the finest quills. The shades mix with each other, creating a swirly pattern to the length I’m holding. It kind of reminds me of an icicle.

“You like my mane, don’t you?” she says, as if not expecting a response. My heart jumps.

“It’s very beautiful,” I tell her, my voice honest and direct. “And it feels nice.”

There’s a pause after I say that. It sounds like she’s thinking. Lightning cracks somewhere in the distance.

“I’ve been told that before,” she eventually says. “My parents named me Rainbow Dash because, well, I think my mom put it best when she said I was ‘born with a dash of rainbow.’”

I try not to wince. Her name feels empty, like a chest with nothing inside. I know how she must feel, but for some reason I can't express my sympathy, and I stammer my thoughts before pushing myself away. She’s probably incapable of comprehending how I feel in the same way I can’t fully comprehend her name. I’m unable to understand it the way it should be appreciated, and because of that it hurts.

Then I remember I’m allowing her to call me by a shortened name, so maybe I can ask the same of her? I shouldn’t be afraid to ask questions, but I shouldn’t speak unless spoken to either...

“Can I call you ‘Dashie?’” I ask after some hesitation. The carriage shakes slightly from the storm.

I can see her reflection blink. Her frown slowly melts back into a smile.

“Sure,” she tells me.

I release a breath I didn’t know I’ve been holding. I continue to fiddle with her mane, running my hooves through it delicately and careful not to pull and cause accidental pain. She doesn’t seem to be bothered by it, or at least she’s not objecting. She’s still smiling though, but I don’t think it’s directed towards me. No, I think she’s smiling to herself.

“Hey, Pinkie,” she begins, her voice sweet like the scent of a freshly baked cake. She gently brushes my hoof away as she turns back around. This saddens me, but I’m not about to protest. Her mane is not my own, so I have no say in what she does with it. If I’m no longer allowed to touch it, then that would be just fine. She cranes her head towards mine, or at least as far as she can without breathing my breath. My nose itches.

“Tell you what: let’s play a game,” she says. “I ask you a question and you answer it, and then you ask one and I answer it, and we keep doing that until this storm passes. If you agree to that, I’ll promise to be your first friend here in Ponyville!”

The ever-present downpour is static to my ears. There’s a clap of thunder, so strong it rattles the carriage, but at the same time it seems so weak. I look at her and she merely smiles back at me. Mother says that promises are important to keep, but I’ve never actually made one before. Her fur is still wet and it’s making the seat, and the both of us, damp. But now that I think about it, it doesn’t really matter much. She undoubtedly feels cold, and now I’m kinda cold too. We could both be cold together and that’d be alright with me.

I think over her proposal. I think I like Dashie. She’s a good pony, that much I know.

“Promise?” I ask her.

“Of course!” she answers with a euphoric grin. She then confidently beats a hoof against her chest and exclaims, “Cross my heart and hope I might, that the Wonderbolts will join my flight!”

Once more, I’m hypnotized by this pony. Her hooves do a wild dance in front of her, their movement quick as lightning but without the jagged disarray. Her gray, multi-shaded mane flashes before my eyes as her entire body dances to her hooves. That is, until the movement ends with a salute and her spreading her wings. It’s strange, feeling not only her body shake against mine, but her expanding wing slipping behind me. The gentle feathers feel like a blanket being drawn slowly over my body, and it reminds me of how Mother would tuck me in at night. This blanket drapes itself over my withers—a pinion even brushes my cheek—for only a moment before swiftly receding. To have it taken away so quickly makes me feel robbed. Now I’m being poked in the ribs again.

She notices my staring, but her happiness does not diminish in the slightest. She's jumpy in an excited away and stares back at me with a funny smile on her face. I sense I'm supposed to do something but I don't want to interrupt her, so I wait patiently for her next move. Besides, I already took my turn. She still needs to ask her question.

“That’s the Wonderbolt’s promise!” she chirps and points one hoof towards the ceiling. “They’re totally the most awesome fliers in Equestria! And so am I! Heh, after I get done with my training, I bet they’ll wonder why I wasn’t on the team sooner!”

I don’t know what a Wonderbolt is, but she makes it sound like a profession, like something to be proud of. Father says a pony should take pride in their work and that’s why our rock farm is one of the most well known in all of Crestfall. I want to go back home and work some more, to be amongst familiar faces again. I wonder if I could take Dashie with me. I wonder if she’d understand if I couldn’t.

“Wanna learn how to do it?” she suddenly asks me, a foolish grin on her face.

I look at her, confused. I don’t know how to answer that, but somehow I did and I must have said yes, because she’s pulling my forelegs and lifting them in front of me. She lets them hang there like little puppets.

“Okay, follow my lead,” she says and lets go of my hooves. I don’t know what to do so I let them sit there. My hooves are heavy when they’re not being supported, I realize. I wish she’d pick them up again, to take away this burden, but her hooves are hanging free in front of her just like my own. She doesn’t need support, so why do I?

“First you do this,” she instructs me, then makes a quick swipe across her chest with one hoof and back again. I follow the motion as best I can, but I think I did it wrong. I didn’t dance in our seat like she did earlier, but I notice she isn’t dancing now either.

“Great!” she says. “Now do this.” She sets her hoof down and brings up her other, planting this one on her forehead in the form of a salute. I try to do the same but I miss and end up covering my eye. I feel embarrassed to have failed, but her encouragement is undying. Just who is this pony?

“Awesome!” she applauds. I don’t get why she thinks that. I know I made a mistake. She has me do the hoof motions again and then once more for good measure, yet I keep ending up short with the salute. I think that’s because my hooves are heavy. I wish she was holding them again.

“Now repeat after me,” she directs and I notice now she’s preparing to do the entire passage. My chest is empty, nonetheless I ready myself as well. She exclaims, “Cross my heart and hope I might, that the Wonderbolts will join my flight!”

That wasn’t a question, but I’m being talked to so I have to speak. Father says that’s the right thing to do.

There’s a flash of lightning somewhere close and the thunder rolls.

“Cross my heart and hope I might, that the Wonderbolts will join my flight,” I quote word for word. I quickly realize my hooves become their own puppeteers and along with my words I find my body dancing. We make our promise at the same time, so we’re a little awkward in our motions since we try not hit each other. Her mane shakes radiantly in the dim light. Her wings expand, and again I feel a gentle stroke trace across my withers and back again.

Our little dance stops when I accidentally place my hoof over my eye again. I don’t know why I keep messing up on that part. I try my honest best not to. I glance at her, worrying of what she might think.

“Atta girl!” she applauds, making a playful strike at my shoulder. It didn’t hurt but, oddly enough, even if it had I don’t think I’d mind.

But what I don’t get is why she’s so happy. I fouled up at the end and she must know too, though for some reason she acts like that doesn’t matter. I’m confused by that, since back home if I did something wrong Father would usually ground me. But no, she’s not bothered that I failed, dare I say even pleased. Maybe she’s just oblivious. I watch her eyes watch me and then they bounce between our sides.

“Something’s wrong though,” she says, bringing a hoof up and pointing it at my back. “You don’t have any wings. You can’t really say the Wonderbolts will ‘join your flight’ if you can’t fly to begin with.”

My eyes widen and for the sake of confirmation I take a quick peek at my back. But of course there’s nothing there. It should have been obvious from before we made our silly promise. Our agreement can never hold any ground if I can’t even take part in it.

“But... I think we can fix that,” Dashie says. I look at her funny; I don’t know how she can give me wings. Apparently we are thinking different things though, since she’s mumbling to herself and going over the hoof motions again. She probably has an idea. She must be a very smart pony.

“Cross my heart and hope... hope to fly?” she mutters, going over the first half of the Wonderbolt’s promise to herself. But she’s doing it wrong: those aren’t the right words. Her wings twitch and I feel the bones rub into my side.

I watch in great confusion as she goes about the second half, but instead of doing the salute she places her hoof over her eye like I had done. I don’t know why she would intentionally make a mistake. I almost think she’s mocking me, but she’s so deep in concentration all I can do is watch in fascination.

“Hey, Pinkie,” she says, looking my way. “Give me something you wouldn’t want to put in your eye.”

“Arsenopyrite.”

She gives me a weird look. “I meant like your favorite food or something. Something less... painful,” she says, correcting herself.

“A cupcake,” I answer next. “One with an intricate design of frosting and lots of sparkly toppings.”

She looks at me and her smile grows.

“Cross my heart and hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye!” she suddenly chants. I blink in surprise at this, not because of the changed verse, but because she replicates my failed at attempt at the Wonderbolt’s promise. She even dances to it, her wings twitching against her side and rubbing more water off of herself and onto me.

She finishes the impromptu display and turns back to me, a wide and foolish smile on her face.

“Try that one, Pinkie!” she encourages. The rain quiets some, though not by much. Maybe I’m just growing used to it; it still stampedes against the window like a shower of pins and needles. I look at my hooves and then back to her encouraging smile. I gulp.

“Cross my heart and hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye,” I repeat. I trace my hooves like normal and once again cover my eye, but it feels different. This time my blunder was intentional, so does that mean it’s no longer a blunder? I warily look at her, half-heartedly wanting to know what she thinks.

She apparently thinks well. “Well, there ya go,” she says, rolling her hoof. “Now that’s a promise, Pinkie. Heh, a ‘pinkie promise.’ That kinda rolls off the tongue, don’t you think?”

A lump forms in my throat and I feel as though I just watched her stab me through the heart. My mouth open but no words are spoken. Had our promise just been for naught, now that she had just labeled mine as something so meaningless? She probably sees nothing wrong with her words: to the unlearned mind it would seem an innocent enough comment to make. But pink is a deceptive, awful thing that should not even exist, let alone be tangible.

“Hey, Pinkie...” she starts with a bit of concern in her tone. Her eyes sharpen at me, wide and curious and maybe even a little afraid. “Are you feeling alright, girl? You look a little pale.”

I hug myself to dispel the shudders before they even begin. I glare at her through my mane and try to speak my mind, yet all I mutter are the words, “Our promise...”

She blinks. “Oh, yeah,” she says plainly and then laughs. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’m definitely your friend from here on out.”

If my mind had been a machine she just threw in me the biggest wrench she could find. “But...”

“Hey, a promise is a promise!” she happily chirps. “And believe me when I say I keep my promises. A pinkie promise is something I would never break!”

I lift my mane from in front of my face and continue staring. I’m stunned, breathless even; I don’t know how to properly explain it, but it feels as if a veil was just lifted from my eyes. Although, I’m not sure if I like what I’m seeing. I blame her words on her blindness. She does not know what she sees. She does not know the true meaning of her words, nor of the color pink.

But, as she just said and Mother would be sure to agree, a promise is a promise, no matter how futile or biased it may be.

“But hey, I’m your friend now!” she says. “That’s all that matters, isn’t it? Heh... I think I’ve asked my fair share of questions. Why don’t you go first?”

“Four,” I tell her. She tilts her head at me in confusion. I lift her hoof off me and clarify, “You’ve asked me four questions since I made my pinkie... promise.”

After some thought her head snaps back and her eyes pop open. “Whoa!” she exclaims. “I... Heck, I didn’t even realize. Sorry, I guess. I suppose it’s only fair you get to ask me four things then. Do you, like, pay attention all the time to that sort of stuff?”

“That’s five.”

She smirks.

My face relaxes and I nod. “Yes, I can remember a lot of things and rarely do I miss fine details. I try to stay observant of my surroundings, you could say.”

I tap my hooves together and glance at her. Dashie just sits there, smiling at me. I don’t think she’s cold anymore, though I still doubt she’s warmed up. Her fur is still damp, as is my own from sitting against her for however long now. The storm outside continues to rage and with it all perception of time is lost. The sky above bellows thunder angrily and the flashes of lightning are obscured by rainfall.

I’m not a very sociable pony, but Mother says one shouldn’t be afraid to ask questions, not to mention I made a promise as well.

“How are you?” I ask her.

With one eyebrow raised and without skipping a beat she answers, “Awesome.”

I think she likes that word. “Do you like that word?”

She shrugs. “I think it’s fitting.”

“How so?”

“If all my still-standing high scores back in flight camp say anything, then yeah. ‘Awesome’ is a pretty fitting word for me,” she says, smirking. “And hey, when this storm is over you should come see me fly. I’d like to see you try and find a more suitable word.”

“‘Stupefying?’”

She waves me off. “Nah, that doesn’t really flow well. Besides, it sounds like you’re saying ‘stupid.’”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not like you did anything wrong.”

“Why is that?”

She looks at me funny, as if it were a foolish thing for me to ask. However it is a genuine question. I’m the one who brought up the word in the first place, so it’s obviously my fault. How could she say it’s not?

“Because you shouldn’t be ashamed for learning something,” she answers. “If that’s the right word... I mean, don’t get me wrong! ‘Stupefying’ is a cool word, I guess, but just because you think something different than what I do doesn’t necessarily mean you’re wrong.”

I don’t know what to think about that. I look to the air between us, as if trying to physically see the words she spoke so I can have another try at understanding them. There’s wisdom here, I know it, but I can’t find it and it makes me feel lost.

I wonder if that’s what learning is: searching for what is lost. I’ve been doing a lot of learning then, especially over the past few years, ever since I saw the sun flower. Learning must be a subconscious thing in that case, something that gets taken for granted, because I’ve probably been learning all my life but never realized it. Then by that logic, what have I been searching for?

I wonder if Dashie knows. She’s a smart pony, she can probably help me.

“Pinkie, are you alright? Hey, Equestria to Pinkie,” her voice says. I blink at her. “You kinda spaced out for a minute.”

I blink again. I look at her and she’s looking at me with one eyebrow raised. I don’t think she understands my message. Dashie raises her other eyebrow and turns her head out the window. I wonder what she could be looking at, so I glance outside as well. The thunder clouds are thick and black like angry smoke, spotty lightning lets in a few thin shards of light for only a moment at a time, and the rain hums steadily inside my ears. It's no different than before.

There’s an inner silence between us as the carriage rumbles under our seat. The world suddenly seems to be a lot darker. I brush my mane from my eyes and see hers sparkling in reflection. Her glossy eyes peer outside to the aggravated storm, puzzled in how they dance.

She presses a hoof against the glass and looks back to me as if there was something I had to explain.

“It’s your turn,” I tell her.

“What... Oh.” She snickers a bit and returns to herself. She brings a hoof to her chin and ponders. “Uhm... Okay, I got one. How old are you?”

“Twelve years.”

“Hey, me too!” she gabs. After a pause she asserts with a roll of her hoof, “Now it’s your turn.”

“Oh,” I mutter. I go to speak but hesitate. I need to think over my question carefully. I need help searching, that much I know, but for what? I think it might just be best to ask, “Can you help me find what I’m looking for?”

She looks at me quizzically. “Well... I don’t know exactly what you’re looking for...”

“I don’t either,” I answer. My voice is honest and direct.

Her nose scrunches and she looks up to the ceiling while scratching at the back of her neck. “Well, in that case...” She says, unsure of where to begin. There’s another pause before she continues talking. “Can’t say I’ve got the slightest idea,” she then says, shrugging. “But I’ve found that, personally, whatever it is, you’ll probably just stumble across it. Like, there’s times when I lose a few bits, and then the next day I find some in between the couch cushions.”

I blink. She gives me another one of those encouraging, warm half-smiles of hers. I move and fidget into the suitcase opposite me as far as I can, and then drive a hoof deep into the crevices of the seat cushions. I can feel the bottom, but unfortunately there’s nothing there. I frown and pull my hoof out and see it’s lined with faint traces of dust and lint.

She giggles. “You’re funny, you know that?”

I lower my hoof and turn back to her. I don’t know what she means by that. I’m not trying to be funny. Neither am I laughing or even smiling for that matter. Maybe I feel content, but I’m not too sure about that either. Every time I look into her eyes all I’m reminded of is entropy, and her innocent, loving, cute, jovial face only emphasizes the pain. I wonder if she even knows the meaning of her flaw.

But if she doesn’t, do I want to make her aware? If she’s hiding her knowledge, her façade is impeccable. I don’t think that’s the case, however. No, I think she’s just oblivious. It’d probably be best if she stays that way. I don’t want to ruin everything for her.

“Pinkie, it’s your turn,” she says forwardly. Her squeaky voice makes my ears twitch. She smiles and brings up a hoof between us. “See, you asked me a question—” She brings up her other hoof “—and then I asked one!” She pauses and drops both her hooves, then her face slowly starts to contort. “And then I asked another one... Huh. I, uh, guess you get to ask two then. Sorry, I really need to stop doing that.”

“It’s okay, Dashie,” I say. That seems to get her out of her minor dejection and I relax a little at the sight. But there’s been something itching at the back of my mind as of late. It makes me feel incomplete, for lack of better term. I twiddle my hooves and whisper, “Uhm... Can I touch your mane?”

She looks at me strangely, but then giggles again and says, “Here, I’ll do you one better.” She awkwardly shuffles on her haunches, bumping into my side as she digs a hoof underneath herself. Soon thereafter she pulls it back out and my eyes widen in amazement at what she’s presenting me with.

Her laughter is euphoric and for an instant it drowns out the rain from my ears. “Here,” she says, poking the hairs into my side. “Just, uh, try not to pull on it. Please.”

She rests her beautiful, extraordinary, multi-shaded and immaculate tail in my hooves. It feels like I’m holding an enormous, although cold, dandelion. I don’t know how else to properly describe it! It’s captivating to say the least.

It’s still damp from the rain she had escaped from long ago, probably because she was sitting on it. The rest of her body isn’t so wet anymore but her tail trickles water finely and the drops converge on the mass’s tip before dripping onto my leg. The strands are disordered and shine their irregular beauty with every fragment of light that leaks into the cabin. I sink a hoof into the body and it feels like a big pillow envelops my hoof whole. And, much to my delight, I discover the deepest innards are dry!

“You get to ask another question, you know,” her voice rings.

I can feel the corner of my mouth twitch downwards a bit, but my eyes are fixed on her beautiful tail. I trace my hoof through its tangles, attentive with every motion. Its wondrous shades intermingle, creating a plush mosaic that I could never hope to replicate with my crayons. I see granite, iron, limestone; her tail is like a beautiful rock except it’s made of feathers rather than hard stone.

“Pinkie...”

I look up at her while gently petting the plush mosaic.

She looks back at me expectantly.

“Oh,” I mumble. My mind blanks as I try to hide from the agony of her stare. Nonetheless I’m able to stammer the words, “I-I don’t know what else to ask.”

She looks away. “Well...” she begins to say but stops herself. She brings a hoof to her chin, probably thinking over her words carefully. I let her take her time and continue to fiddle with her tail.

“You could ask me what my special talent is...”

There’s a brief pause before a nearby lightning strike sunders it.

“What’s your special talent?”

“Glad you asked!” she rejoices and claps her hooves. “You see, I’ve got this thing for speed.” She twists, almost tearing her tail from my hooves yet I keep my hold, and she flashes me her side. And does it flash, just like the bolt of lightning her cutie mark represents. To my surprise it too is shaded wonderfully! Is there no part of this pony that contains shadow?

“You ever heard of Cloudsdale?” she askes me. I shake my head. Her face twitches a little, but it doesn’t take away from her excitement. It’s like she’s a foal presenting me with their latest piece of crayon art by the way she smiles. “Okay, so Cloudsdale is a city in the sky and it’s, well, made of cloud. Its entire population is all pegasi like myself” —she flexes her wing and it rubs into me— “and when I was a filly I went to flight camp. It’s like a school for flying and stuff.”

I give her my attention and nod my head, although I still absently pet her tail. She smiles and goes on with her story. “See, I was still a blank-flank at the time, but this one race, I pushed myself to the extreme! And I mean, extreme—extremer than anypony’s ever pushed themselves before. And I’m not just tooting my horn, either!”

I give her a look. She’s not a unicorn.

“Because this pegasus right here,” she continues, pointing at herself, “did what no pegasus has ever done before in over fifty years!”

“What is that?” I ask.

“A sonic rainboom, that’s what!” she hollers. Lightning strikes dangerously close, illuminating the cabin the brightest it has ever been; it makes it look like the self-confidence practically radiates off herself. But her eyes gloss over me and, just like the fleeting light, her cheerful mood dampens into almost disbelief.

I think my cluelessness stings her, like it stole a breath that was rightfully hers. But I didn’t mean for it to. Now I feel disheartened to have inadvertently caused her pain again, like the first time I made her frown. I hug her tail for comfort. I pray she could find the heart inside her to forgive me, though I would understand if she didn’t. I wouldn’t want to be around myself either if I kept causing grief.

“You don’t know what a sonic rainboom is, do you?”

I sink into my seat and look off into the distance. After much hesitation I shake my head a little and hear her sigh.

“Eh, I guess that’s understandable,” she says. I blink and it feels like she stole her breath back. “After all, you’re an earth pony. I shouldn’t really expect you to know what a sonic rainboom is.”

I peek out of the corner of my eye, still clutching her tail no less, but her attention is diverted outside. Her neck is craned upwards to the stormy sky. I see her reflection and it looks like she’s searching for something, or maybe losing herself to a memory. She shows no sign of anxiety, fortunately.

She turns back to me and says, “Okay, imagine a rainbow, but instead of just an arc it’s like a full circle.”

I wince but am able to hide it. “Like your name?”

“I... yeah! Like my name!” She giggles. “So, a sonic rainboom is like a circular rainbow that expands across the sky, kinda like a balloon but flat. They’re generated when a pegasus flies really, really fast—fast enough to break the sound barrier.”

Sound has a barrier? Flat balloons? I’m hardly understanding these things she’s saying, but she obviously knows what she is talking about. Dashie has to be a smart pony to know so many confusing terms.

“And when that happens...” she continues, her tone gradually lowering. She draws in her legs and almost hunches up into a ball. Then, to emphasize her next point, expands outward like a blooming flower. “There’s this huuuuge explosion! Like, the sky quakes, an immense shockwave rocks everything, and it’s just really, really awesome.”

I still don’t fully understand what she’s describing. Skyquakes? Shock waves? I know none of these things, yet the picture she’s trying to paint—even if I can’t properly imagine it—sounds beautiful with all these pretty words she’s using. Although, I can’t help but feel left out, and for some reason this only makes me draw even closer.

Her explanation of a sonic rainboom, however, seems to be finished. With a happy smile she slumps back into her seat, her hooves crossed over her chest in a relaxed fashion. She then turns to me and, with one eyebrow arched, says, “It’s my turn to ask a question now, right?”

My hooves resume caressing her tail. “Well, not anymore...” I murmur.

She chuckles. “Alrighty then. Go on, ask me something.”

Ask her something.

“What’s your favorite food?”

A low hum emanates from her throat. She seems to lose herself again but this time to a ghostly scent by the way her nose twitches. I don’t know what she could be smelling, as there is no lingering scent of earth or soup anymore. All I smell is her gradually desiccating tail.

She taps her chin and makes a thoughtful face. “Hmm... y'know, I can’t really decide. Any day with some sweet apple cider is a good day in my book.”

I’ve never had that before, but its sound delicious. I think someday I’d like to try it. I wonder if Dashie knows the recipe. She probably does. She’s a smart pony.

“Okay, now I got a question for you,” she chirps. In the most innocent way possible she asks, “What’s your special talent?”

I open my mouth to speak but no words come. Instead I feel the air seep out of me, like Dashie just reached her hoof inside my throat and is pulling out one long string of it. It’s sickening and the aftertaste is unpleasant. A lump casually forms to stop her theft of my lungs, but now my cheeks are tingling? That’s never happened before. Why are my cheeks tingling? I don’t know the answer to that.

I hear a sound but it seems so distant. I feel pressure, however, like a deflated balloon just landed across my withers. Why is it so warm all of a sudden?

Something shakes me. “Pinkie,” I hear a voice say. It sounds like Dashie’s. “Pinkie, you...”

I blink. Dashie is in my face. “What?”

“You spaced out again,” she deadpans.

“Oh. I-I’m sorry,” I quickly apologize. The warmth I felt now trickles away and it leaves me freezing. I realize now I’ve been clutching her tail as some sort of lifeline and let go. “I just... Don’t...”

“Are you sick or something?” she asks but it sounds a little harsher than I think she intended. I gulp and that’s when I discover yet another side of Dashie. Her ears are pulled back and there’s a sparkle in her eyes like I’ve never seen before. She has a tiny frown, and by the way she wears it it makes her look like Mother that one time I got influenza and had to stay in bed for a few days. But she’s not a mother—at least, to the best of my knowledge—nor do I have influenza. I wonder why she looks so distressed.

“Pinkie—”

“No,” I say sternly. “I-I’m not sick. I just ne... nyeah, what was the question again?”

There’s a pause. “Your special talent?”

“Right,” I merely acknowledge. No matter how hard I try and hide it, I can feel my features fall. I think Dashie sees it too. There’s nothing I can do about that and the prospect of causing grief yet again evicts a beaten sigh from me.

“Throwing parties,” I grumble, but it comes out harder than I intended. For some reason my brow hurts. “...or, at least, I once thought it was. I forget. I don’t really know anymore.”

The air grows still as I wait for some sort of a response that I just know is inevitable despite how much I don’t want it. Even with the storm billowing just outside the carriage, everything seems silent. She’s just sitting there, staring at me.

“What do you mean you ‘forgot’ your special talent?”

“It’s my turn to ask a question,” I tell her.

“But—”

“We pinkie promised,” I tell her. “Y-you don’t break a pinkie promise...”

She falters. Her hoof is raised as if to make a point but she lowers it. She then snorts, smiles, and shakes her head a little.

“Yeah, I can respect that,” she says. “We did make a promise after all.”

Her eyes waver over me from head to haunch. I think she’s trying to get a look at my cutie mark, not that I find that problematic, although I think I know what her next question will be. But that’s a story I’d rather not talk about.

She brings her eyes back up to mine. “It’s your turn.”

I twiddle my hooves through her tail. I hope she can forgive me. “Can you not ask me about my special talent, or my cutie mark?”

Just as I suspected, she doesn’t seem to be enjoying that. Her nose scrunches and she bites her lower lip. I’m starting to think all this pony wants to do is study me, search me for information, like I’m some sort of research topic or a news article she finds interest in. I’m not sure if I like that, even if her intentions—whatever they may be—are good at heart. Dashie is a good pony, that I’m certain of, but perhaps she might be a little too intrusive.

Although that’s probably because that’s just who she is. She’s obviously upset now, the flustered and conflicted look on her face being evidence of that. My heart aches to see her like this and I feel sick to know I have caused it yet again. I need to stop doing that to her. What kind of pony hurts their friend?

“Fine...” she eventually says with a sigh, then for some reason she starts to chuckle. She doesn’t seem to be dismayed anymore, which is good. “To be honest, I don’t know what else to ask then.” She shakes her head again, then begins to look for a question elsewhere in the cabin. Eventually, she finds one. While looking up at one of the flowery suitcases she asks, “Is there anything we can do in here until the storm passes?”

I look around as well. “I don’t know,” I admit, but then remember my saddlebag, and more specifically its contents. I wonder if Dashie likes drawing? I rest her tail on my seat and then bury my hoof into the crevice where I had stashed it, pull it back out and then hold it in front of me. Her eyes immediately lock on to it and I can see the curiosity in their shine.

I trace my hooves across the canvas, how it feels more like an old and dirty rug than the nice fabric it had once been years ago. I carefully undo the loose buttons holding the flap down and open it, letting Dashie get her first look inside. Although she keeps quiet and doesn’t reach out, I can tell the temptation is there.

“Can you hold Rocky?” I ask her as I take out my old friend who happened to be in the way. She looks at me weirdly, but she does put out her hooves and I place Rocky carefully in her hold. “Be gentle,” I tell her, not that I don’t trust her or anything, but I don’t know if she understands how to take care of something so small.

“Okay...” she says, looking down at Rocky. “Why?”

I dig out my set of crayons and present them to her. I think that’s a good enough answer. “Do you like drawing?”

She blinks at Rocky and then back up to me. “What? Oh, uh, no. Not really, to be honest. I’ve never really been the ‘artsy’ kind of pony.”

Oh. That’s alright, I guess, and so I slide the crayons back into my saddlebag. I wonder what Dashie would like to do then? Perhaps I could tell her more about Rocky.

“But I’d love to see what you’ve drawn!”

“Really?” I try to say but am interrupted by a sudden sneeze. The jolt makes me lose my grip on my saddlebag.

She giggles. “Well, yeah! Of course! We are friends, aren’t we?”

I don’t know why I hesitate to answer that. I could feel the urge inside me rise and then suddenly vanish with a pathetic hiss. True, I can call Dashie my friend—she promised me that much—but can she call me hers? I think that’s what she’s trying to imply. She must be just wanting my verification. It’s not like I can say no to her. I have to say yes. I don’t want to make her feel bad ever again. That’s a commitment I don’t want to break.

“Of course,” I say, nodding. She smiles exceptionally wide, claps her hooves and buzzes her wings, although it’s cramped in here so all they do is grind into my ribs. But I don’t mind. It was a little ticklish anyway and kinda funny to watch.

I reach into my bag and produce my book. It’s not that old, considering I’ve had it since I was a young filly and am not too old myself, nonetheless its bindings are deteriorating. The gray hardcover is battered and cracking and so is the spine in several places. It’s a bit of a miracle it hasn’t fallen apart completely by now. However, that isn’t to say the pages are no longer crisp. The untouched ones are still fresh anyway, and the others aren’t that worn in comparison either. I’ve only used up about half the pages so far, even if I’ve had it for a while. It’s not a particularly thick book.

Dashie leans over me as much as she can to get a proper view without blocking my own sight, almost pressing her cheek into mine. I don’t really mind, but she has to be uncomfortable having to shift herself like that.

“Do you want to hold it?” I ask her and she suddenly snaps back as if my voice had scared her. I have to admit that was a little funny too. “I’ll hold Rocky if you want to hold my book.”

Without any hesitation she chirps, “Sure!”

“Please be careful with it though. It’s fragile,” I tell her as I hand over my book and receive Rocky in return. She acknowledges with a happy squeak and immediately opens my book to the first page.

Her brow gradually furrows. “What am I looking at here?” she asks, pointing to the middle of the rough drawing. That’s understandable, as it was my first so it’s not that easy to identify. I can hardly distinguish it myself.

“Rocky.”

Her gaze casually shifts between myself, the drawing, and Rocky. “Huh.”

“Is something the matter?”

“Not at all,” she says with a small chuckle and flips to the next page. “I just didn’t see it at first. I guess, uh... I take it you’ve had him for a while?”

I nod. “Quite some time. He’s the first rock I farmed.”

Dashie looks up at me, her fallible eyes wide and confused. “Rock farming? What’s rock farming?”

Lightning flashes just to remind me it’s still there and for a brief moment the storm ravages with a surge of strength, like a dying fire that was just given a new source of fuel. My grip around Rocky tightens. “Crestfall is known for its rock farms,” I begin, “and my family’s, while small, makes enough for us to get by. Rock farms, by and large, dig up and distribute various types of stone for use all across Equestria, mostly for construction. Streets, buildings, walls, et cetera. Although there are some, like my family’s, that harvest geodes and other crystals for the jewelry industry.”

She looks at me deadpan for a moment and then out the window into the haze. Her mane is still shiny and is probably still a little bit damp, although I don’t think it’s so wet anymore. The insides are probably dry now. I want to touch it but I’m holding Rocky right now. Her tail flicks gently against my leg.

“Sounds bleak,” she comments. “You’d think they’d just take what rocks they find around towns to build...”

I shake my head. “There’s a law in effect that protects Equestria’s natural ecosystems and landscapes. It takes a lot to acquire land for building and settling purposes, even more to expand on lots already granted. With trees it’s even harder: it’s all about preservation. That’s why most if not all of the rock farms are in regions that don’t have constantly changing weather, that lack diverse ecosystems or have little landscape worth preserving; places that are ill-suited for settling.”

Dashie doesn’t say anything to that and, after she finishes her distant look out the window, returns to my book. She turns to the next page. I hold Rocky closer. I hope I answered her question.

“Did I answer your question?”

“Yeah, you did,” she says and then flips to another. “Is this Crestfall?”

She holds my book up and presents to me. It’s one of the earliest drawings I did, as it’s so crudely done. It is of my farm—actually, my family’s farm. I myself don’t live there anymore, so I can’t say its mine. There’s the windmill beside the house and the silo a bit off in the distance. A simple fence marks the boundary and in the background is the mountain range against overcast skies. There’s a few piles of farmed rocks stacked around and a lone cart rests beside one of them. It’s been so long since I actually looked through my own book, I’m having a hard time remembering everything.

I nod my head. “Yes, that’s where I lived.”

Dashie takes my book back. “It’s very pretty,” she says, as if those very words surprised herself.

Whatever thought I had is suspended. “Thank you.”

She smiles and continues to look through my book. She quietly flips through the next five pages and then pauses on the sixth. She shows the drawing to me and asks, “Is this your family?”

I look at the picture. The gray figures off to the corner are my sisters and they are sitting on the ground close to each other. Father is standing tall and strong on the opposite end with who I suspect is Mother is standing between them, evenly spaced between Father and my sisters. I forget what was going on in this scene, if anything at all. It’s just so hastily drawn. All their characters lack the detail I would include nowadays.

“Yes,” I answer. “Father, Mother, and my sisters.”

Dashie grins at me and then back down at the picture. “You did a good job. I love their colors.”

Lightning cracks inside my head. I can’t help but cringe at the utterance of a ghost-word. I highly doubt she would say it on purpose, but it’s a cruel reminder of my condition nevertheless. I don’t want her to know about this aspect of mine, about the ailment we both share. She doesn’t deserve to be burdened with such an accursed understanding.

I open my eyes and see Dashie staring at me, a startled and confused expression on her face.

“Pinkie...” she begins but her voice wavers and becomes slurred with the ambiance.

I rub my temples. “I... I’m fine,” I say, though I doubt my words even if they’re true. “I’m sorry, were you saying something? I uh, just got a headache.”

“You’ve been having a lot of headaches then,” she mumbles and then breaks away as she seems to lose herself to her thoughts. She’s been thinking a lot, I’m noticing. Dashie looks back to me and asks, “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

My heart skips a beat. “No!” I say immediately. I don’t want her to know this secret of mine. It’s for the better, because if she knew of just how meaningless the pink of her eyes is, who knows what sort of depression it would send her into? She’s so peaceful, so full of life and energy, so happy... I would hate to be the one who whisked that all away from her. Just because I am cursed with a fixed understanding doesn’t mean I must make others see from my perspective, especially when all it’d do is make others miserable. I’m no monster. I won’t make that mistake.

Now that I think about it, maybe letting her look through my book was a mistake. I wonder how many of those I’ve made.

I just now realize she’s been looking at me in a weird way, tilting her head and looking like one does when trying to read very tiny text. But before I can do or say anything she silently returns to my book and turns to the next page.

A weak sigh escapes my lips and I hold Rocky nearer to my chest.

Dashie continues to flip through the pages. Her tail is lying limply on the seat between us. Her mane isn’t shining like it had been, and the rain is just as ceaseless as before. Thunder claps every now and again, but it sounds more like the snapping of the last few kernels of popcorn, not the cascading booms it had once been. The storm must be starting to pass. I wonder when it will. I wonder if Dashie will leave when it does. I’m not sure if I want her to or not.

“This is cool.”

“Hm?”

She holds up my book again to me and I’m presented with a ripple, a tidal wave of luster and radiance crashing through a column of thick smog like two clashing armies. The wave is distorted, full of differentiating shades and casts and grays and chromes and energy, mixed together like smoke suspended in water. This cascade emanates from a single point in the far corner of the page: a brilliant, shining dot of light and... and...

Now I remember. I remember what this is, what it was.

“What is it?” she asks.

I twiddle Rocky between my hooves. Letting her look through my book was a mistake. I don’t see how I can get out of this one, but I just need to be careful with my words. That shouldn’t be too difficult. I usually am.

“It’s the sun flower,” I say. I hope that’s a satisfactory answer, but knowing her that’s a pipe dream.

“It doesn’t look like a sunflower,” she says, scrutinizing the image. She looks at me a little intently and adds, “It’s very colorful though. Can you... well, uh... elaborate, please. I don’t quite get where the sunflower is here.”

My ears fall back. Even though I’m trying not to say too much, I can’t help but get confused by what she means. It’s the entirety of both pages! “That’s... it. That is the sun flower. How can you not see it?”

“Doesn’t really look like one.” She shrugs and then purses her lips. “No offense,” she hastily adds, “but it doesn’t look like any sunflower I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve only seen one. That one,” I point out.

“Maybe we’re thinking different things,” she muses, bringing her gaze back down to the drawing. “Do you remember when you saw this?”

“Yes, I...” Whatever words I had lined up next die in my throat. Dashie looks at me curiously, so innocent in her appearance it’s practically misleading. I can’t really go on without ruining her complexion. I don’t want to be responsible for that, but I have a feeling that if anything she’ll end up forcing my turn. She might be already. Maybe that’s what she wants—what she thinks she wants—but she just doesn’t understand. Nothing good will come of it! If only she understood that.

“Come on, Pinkie...”

I hug Rocky tight against my chest. I feebly mutter, “I-I don’t want to talk about it...”

“Okay, no—we are not doing that!” she suddenly snaps. I jump away from her and into the suitcase opposite. She is absolutely seething, glaring at me with eyes that could melt ice, her brow furrowed deep in frustration. I try to scoot away from her but that’s a physical impossibility so I throw my mane between us. I grip Rocky tighter. I don’t like this. I don’t like anything about this. I don’t like it when ponies get angry. Anger only leads to pain.

“Just...” She tries to say something but for some reason can’t. Instead she smacks herself in the face and I hear her exaggerate a sigh. “Pinkie, tell me what’s wrong. Something’s bothering you and that’s bothering me, and you have to tell me what it is. I’m not about to sit around any longer and just watch my friend suffer.”

I shift away from her. “Le-eave me alone...”

“No,” she says in a commanding tone. “...no, not anymore. I think that’s happened enough times already.”

Lightning explodes so close I can feel the static in the air and it jolts my heartbeat skywards. But that shouldn’t be right. The storm was passing, wasn’t it? It can’t just come back like that with newfound vigor and strength. The rain continues to spill. I want Dashie to leave. I feel so cold all of a sudden. I try and curl up for warmth but that doesn’t seem to do anything. I think I’m crying. I don’t care if I am. I just want Dashie to stop. I want her to go. I want her to stop being mad at me.

Something begins to caress my back. I don’t care what it is.

“Come on, Pinkie,” I hear a voice say. It must be Dashie’s. I don’t know who else’s it could be. Mine? There’s another sigh. I’m shivering. “I really don’t like seeing my friends—or anypony for that matter—like this,” she says. “You’re really starting to scare me.”

Scare her? How in the world am I achieving that? I don’t know what she means by that. She sounds so sad now. I tell myself I don’t care but do I really mean it? I don’t know the answer to that. My cheeks are starting to tingle.

The seconds pass by excruciatingly slow.

“This isn’t really my kind of ‘thing,’ I guess, but...” she begins and she sounds so distant, “I’ve always been the kind of filly who wants to do something on their own, y’know? Sure, I stood up for others, but there was never really anyone who’d stick up for me so I had to do it myself. When I first moved to Ponyville some years ago, I didn’t have an easy time making friends at first. Not that I found it hard or anything, rather I just didn’t see much of a point to it, I guess. I was definitely a little spitfire then, feeling like I had to do everything alone because I was alone. Sure, I got my parents, but my mom wasn’t really...” She stumbles for words, taking with it the last of her breath. She clears her throat and then continues, sounding much stronger than before. “My dad’s awesome though. Like, seriously, he’d always be there to encourage me and stuff right when I needed it most.”

The caressing continues, soft and deliberate. It feels like my breaths are solidifying inside my throat.

“Things did get better though,” she whispers. “I mean, it took some time for sure, and one thing eventually led to another and... I dunno, I guess I kinda see myself in you a little bit. The point is that I get where you’re coming from.”

No she doesn’t, but I don’t say anything. Nor does she, but her gentle touch doesn’t cease in the slightest.

“Pinkie, tell me what’s wrong. I know it’ll make you feel a whole lot better.”

“N-no,” I stammer. “Le-eave me a-alone...”

“Not going to happen,” she says, her voice carrying a sense of warmth. “First thing you should learn about me is that I don’t leave my friends hanging, Pinkie. Especially when I know they need me, and definitely when they think they don’t.”

I taste something salty trickle into my mouth. I think I’m crying. But I can’t tell since I can barely feel my face. I feel so cold, so very cold.

“Look,” Dashie says after an immeasurable amount of time. I don’t. “I swear whatever you tell me will not leave this carriage, alright? I pinkie promise that I will not tell a soul.”

Her touch stops and it leaves me freezing. I steal a peek at her through my mane and see she’s lifting a hoof right over her chest.

She stares back at me and dances in her seat. “Cross my heart and hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye,” she chants, doing the motions precisely.

I look away down at myself and pull Rocky in even closer. I feel like I just swallowed a bag of cement. I don’t hear anything now. No lightning, no thunder, no rain nor wind, and not even Dashie’s breathing. Everything is silent. Everything is cold. I want Dashie to go away but I don’t want her to go. I want to be alone but then I’d be alone. Should I care about her? But she’s my friend. Should I give her a chance? Does she really think she can bear such an onerous truth?

I just don’t know what to think anymore. I feel so conflicted, so wronged, so misguided.

I feel her loving caress resume at the base of my withers.

“When I was seven...” I hear a voice whisper. I’m startled to find it’s my own. I want to curl into a ball and make myself stop but I don’t. I can’t. I mustn’t. I won’t. “I saw the sun flower. It... It really did look like a wave. It was so pretty, I was just so mesmerized when I saw... I sa-aw... I saw. I saw blues and reds and greens and more blues and violets and greens and even more blues and yellows and rainbows and every single color and... I-I just don’t know how I saw it! But I did, and I had never felt joy like that before. For the first time in my life I was smiling, laughing, seeing the world for what it truly is. The world is beautiful, Rainbow Dash, and for once I actually understood that. I wanted everypony to understand that, a-and I remembered one time Mother had said that the world is like an everlasting party and we are all its guests, so we might as well have fun while we’re here and smile all the while. I... I-I suddenly wanted to have fun! I wanted to make ponies smile! I thought rock farming was fun but no... that is not what fun is. Fun is a party, so what better way to show the beauty in life... than with a party? So, I started out small. I put together a small party in the farm’s silo with some music and games and of course balloons because Mother says balloons make everything better, don’t you know? They really do; I filled that silo with so many colorful balloons that when my family walked in they started smiling for the first time in I don’t know how long and we laughed and had fun and even Father was smiling and everything was just so colorful and beautiful. A-and then I-I got my cutie mark! Three whole balloons! I... My spe-ecial talent is throwing parties, Rainbow Dash! But then... that was the only one I threw.

“I... I don’t know what it is or what it was, but, the very next day, I woke up ready to smile only to find all the color I found had been sapped from my life. Like it just wore off! I had been given a sweet taste and then never again. I went back to living my life how it’d always been. This heavenly gift of color, this ability to finally see the world how it had always meant to be had just swept me out from under the rug it gave me. I-it might’ve been radiation, some sort of magic, divine intervention, I just don’t know! That’s when I discovered I am colorblind, Rainbow Dash, and never knew that until then. I had pure achromatopsia and that’s how it always had been. As in no reds or blues or yellows or rainbows—all I could ever see before the sun flower was black and white a-and it’s all I can see now. But now I’m left with a scar. I... I did research to see if it was possible if I could ever see the world again like I had that one blissful day. I was desperate, and I found absolutely nothing. But... b-but you know what I did find? It’s... Pink, Rainbow Dash. Did you know there’s no pink light? It’s not a real color... i-it simply doesn’t exist! It masks all the gamma rays and microwaves and UV rays and all the things scientists say would kill a pony between red and violet beneath some silly impression of a color and it’s all I can see in a world of black and white! Wha-at does that mean about me, my life, Rainbow Dash? I can’t... Look. Look at yourself and tell me where the pink is. Did... D-do you know it’s in your eyes? How do you see with those pink eyes, Rainbow Dash? Do you see me? Am I just another shade of gray or do you really see the pinkness of my being? I... E-everything I had known... My whole perspective of the world had been enlightened and then damned in less than forty-eight hours. I wish I’d never saw the sun flower, Rainbow Dash. I really do. I-I wish it’d never ha-appened. I would so much rather be a blind fool than be cursed with such insufferable wisdom...”

I don’t know when I finally regained composure. My senses just started working again. I don’t know when anything started working. I had just come to from wherever I’d been and now I can’t move. I try but I just can’t. Something cold trickles down my tingling cheeks. I must be crying. I don’t know who else would have something to cry over. Dashie?

Only after I find the will do I recover the strength to turn my eyes but all I see is her luscious mane thrust into my face and entangled with my own. Her arms are wrapped around me like a clinging mother’s and she’s pulled herself close, burrowing her snout into my neck. I can’t see her face nor can I imagine what she’s trying to do. I think her wing is draped over my back. She’s practically making herself a blanket and is sharing with me her warmth.

Then I hear a soft weeping. I’m unsure if it’s hers or my own but I most certainly hope it’s not hers. I don’t want to see her cry. But she made me tell her. I didn’t want to do it. I just don’t know what came over me. I never should have told her. This is all my fault. It’s my fault she’s crying and feels sadness and I told myself I would never make her feel grievance again but I did it anyway.

“Dashie...” I try to say and her grip only tightens. “Dashie, don’t...”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Come on, Dashie. Please don’t...”

Still nothing. I can’t just let her stay like this. What kind of friend would I be then if I just sit by and watch her suffer? I have to remedy this. Somehow. But I don’t know what! Only now do I realize how little I know about her and that makes me sick. But there has to be something here that can cheer her up, something that she likes.

She likes my book, doesn’t she? But it’s left all the way over there on her side of the seat. Without thinking, Rocky rolls out of my hooves and I reach for it as far as I can. “Dashie... stop...” I try to reason with her but she’s anchored where she sits and her grip is set like iron. Nonetheless I wriggle and twist, and finally I stretch far enough to get a grip on my book. I have to get her to see it, see something inside that can bring her joy.

But there’s nothing. I flip through my own pages and there’s nothing in here that would inspire her. There’s nothing here to evoke a smile. Thinking quickly I reach for my saddlebag which somehow wound up on the floor, so I have to recover it with one of my legs. Within Dashie’s vice grip I use what little room I have to rip into the saddlebag and take out my set of crayons. But her hold is strong and only seems to tighten with every move I make, causing me to accidentally spill the crayons. Fortunately I’m able to secure one before they all tumble away. I open my book to a fresh new page and begin to draw.

This worked once before, so it should work again.

“Dashie, look,” I say as the pink crayon scrawls across the page. I can’t see her face but I hope she is. “Come on, Dashie. Look, I-I’m drawing you something. It’s a balloon, Dashie. See it? Balloons are supposed to make everything better.”

I feel her head lift from my neck but I still hear the muffled sobs. I think that means I’m the one crying. That would make sense, explaining the tiny droplets that appeared on the paper as I drew. It’s silly that I hadn’t figured that out sooner.

She pulls me into her hug a little closer and rests her head against my own.

“Pinkie...” she whispers, her voice trailing off, yet it doesn’t seem to die. She pauses and then, for some reason, she lets me go.

There’re a few more droplets on the page now. “I’m sorry...” I apologize. “I sh-shouldn’t have told you—”

“Do you really believe that?”

I turn to look at her but all I’m given in return is an impassive stare. She just sits there, calmly, watching me with her head slightly aslant, as if the words I had rambled off fell deaf to her. I really do wish that’s the case, but I know better: she’s too smart of a pony.

I tense up waiting for something to happen, but I wait too long to and so Dashie hangs her head and sighs.

“Don’t be sad, Dashie,” I say and try to show her my new drawing. I wonder why I can’t keep it level. “See? I-I drew you a balloon.”

Very gingerly she brings her sparkling eyes back up, much like a curtain being raised atop a stage. But she doesn’t look at my book, instead she looks straight through it into me. She isn’t smiling nor is she frowning. Her eyes are shimmering with a radiance I have never seen in them before: a little misty, almost like she’d been crying but I know she hasn’t; she must be sad but she doesn’t show it.

She sighs and tries again. “Look...” she begins, scratching at the back of her neck. “I’m sorry that you’re sad, I’m sorry that you’ve got achro... mo... are colorblind, but, I mean, come on, Pinkie! Seriously? Is that really how you see everything?”

“Yes,” I croak. I wonder why she says she’s sorry? It’s not like she’s done anything wrong. “All I can see is black and white—”

“No, not that!” she says, throwing her head back. “I meant that stupid pink science color thing whatever. Heck, I didn’t even know that was a thing until now and I’m having a real hard time believing it.”

“Sorry...”

“Don’t be!” she yells and there’s notable pain in her tone. “It’s not your fault, so don’t act like it is! You have done nothing wrong, Pinkie.”

“But—”

“But nothing!” she squeaks. It sounds like her throat is starting to pinch itself shut. She looks like she wants to hit something but she can’t find anything to hit. She pauses again to catch her breath and then continues with a lackluster amount of strength. “Just don’t think like that. I swear it isn’t healthy and nopony, absolutely nopony deserves to think of themselves like that.”

“Then what do you want me to think?” I say, the words stumbling out. “Wha-at do you want from me?”

“I’d like to see you smile for once,” she says and that’s when I see the mist solidifying in the corners of her eyes. “More importantly, what do you want from yourself?”

I try to say something to that but I can’t. I feel lost all of the sudden, lost and very alone. Hollow, even. Gravity brings my head down and I see the balloon I had drawn to try and cheer her up, but the page looks more like a porous rock with one big pink hole in its center. The air is suddenly a lot heavier and it’s really hard to move.

“I-I don’t want to be alone...” The sentence leaks out from mouth like the last breath of a waterfall. I don’t know how long it’s been since anything happened. My cheeks are stinging.

“Well, you’re not,” Dashie states, “because I’m here for you and you have to believe that, not what some stupid book may have told you.”

I wonder if Dashie is crying now. I can’t tell because I’m becoming blinded from my own, so I clamp my eyes shut. All I hear is sniffling which I know for sure is my doing. If Dashie is crying, I wonder what for. She’s too smart, too strong, too good of a pony to have to cry. It’s not like she has anything in this cabin to cry over. I’m her friend though and good friends don’t leave their friends hanging, as Dashie had said. Only now do I find myself considering exactly what that means.

It means I am her friend, of course. But I’m pink, which is nothing but at the same time I am something. Would she be crying over me?

“And books can be wrong,” she then says, and it sounds like she’s trying to laugh. “If anypony, I would know! They haven’t helped me at all in school. Maybe that’s because I’ve just been reading them wrong.” She snorts. “I dunno, maybe you just read that book wrong too. That’d be reeeeally silly, don’t you think?”

It takes some effort but I blink away the fog from my eyes. My book is closed, sitting on the seat between me and Dashie’s tail. She herself paws at her own eyes, wiping to and fro as she faces off into the distance. Rocky’s somewhere on the floor with most of my crayons.

“I don’t know,” I eventually say as I look down at myself.

“Then what are you thinking?”

My lips part but only empty air trickles out. Dashie crosses her arms and huffs, shaking her head away. I want to say something but I have a feeling whatever I say would only serve to be counterproductive, so I don’t say anything. My mind is swimming and my cheeks are burning. I know I’m not sick, but I feel like I am nevertheless. I’m crying.

I really want to say something but for the life of me I can’t pull the words from the tumult in my mind. I’ve always had a hard time doing that. Being talkative has never been a strong point of mine. I’m not a very sociable pony. And yet here I am, inches from a pony, inches from a friend who hadn’t found the need to beat a conversation out of me. She’s just been herself, and so have I, but this self is completely alien, and oddly enough I know it isn’t.

I’ve felt this way before, way back then, back to that fickle moment of my life when I first saw the chromaticity of the world the way it’d always been intended. Then I felt joy, a sense of belonging and attachment, but then it was swept away from under my hooves. I’m not entirely sure, but I think that same blissful sensation is being offered to me now. If so, then why am I trying to run away from it? If that’s in fact what I’m feeling right now, or rather the experience of losing it all again. I know I don’t want that. I glance over to Dashie but there’s a wall of pink hair in the way.

Right. Regardless of what I want, this is what I have. I am nothing. But I’m Dashie’s friend, so therefore I am something. I wonder then how that could be: something coming from nothing. I don’t think I could ever answer that because the concept alone confounds me. Maybe that’s not what’s important. Maybe instead it’s how it all gets interpreted, because even then there’s something to take away from emptiness. Maybe that emptiness is just waiting to be filled.

Suddenly, I don’t think it’s all that important anymore. All I want now is for Dashie to stop being sad. I don’t want to lose her. I just want her to smile.

“...or if it’s something in the head?” Dashie mumbles to herself. I wonder how long she’s been doing that for. I haven’t been paying attention. She brings a hoof to her chin and looks up towards the ceiling. “Maybe if I hit hard enough in the right spot...”

I wipe my eyes clean. “Dashie?”

She stammers the rest of her words and bites her lip, eyes wide and staring blankly ahead. After a long silence she falls back into her seat, scratching at the back of her neck. “Oh, uh... Hey, Pinkie. Back from... uh, spacing out?”

“Yes,” I say to appease her. It doesn’t seem to do anything. She’s trying her best not to show it but I can tell she’s still upset by the way she sits, how her eyes wander, by how heavy she’s breathing. The corners of her face dip into a frown and in turn that makes me frown.

“Do you, uh... like... cupcakes?” I ask in an attempt to stir some emotion out of her. All I get is a look of confusion.

“I... guess?” she says, bemused. A minute passes as she looks at me funny again before she returns to herself.

I scrunch my nose and try to think of how else I can win over and yet nothing really comes to mind. I do my darndest to think back to earlier when she was happier, but all I remember are her smiles. I don’t recall what made her smile to begin with at all. There’s nothing else I can turn to that she would like because I don’t really know what she likes, and I feel so wrong to realize I’ve been paying a lot attention to what she does, but not so much her herself. It’s a hollow feeling, like a sunken chest that has the appearance of holding some grand treasure inside only for there to be nothing at all. It’s disappointing.

I scratch my nose. This chest needs filling, then. Off the top of my head, I know she likes my book. She likes the Wonderbolts, whatever those are. She likes the word ‘awesome.’ And I’m her friend, so therefore she must like me as well. Perhaps she also likes some of the things that I like.

I like her hair. I wonder if she likes mine?

It’s a bit difficult for me to reposition myself in such a small place, but I’m able to reach under my rump and I pull out my tail. It takes me by surprise at how light it is; I’ve been sitting on it for so long, it’s become all fluffy and warm. It still holds that characteristic straightness of mine to it, but whereas ordinarily it might’ve been perceived as something sharp and hard, all it is now is soft like a blanket.

I gently poke Dashie in the side with it and she turns her attention to me, still wearing that confused look on her face. She takes one look at me and my tail and remarks, “What?”

“Do you want to, um, touch my tail?”

Dashie just stares at me. It feels like an eternity before something happens, even if all she does is blink. But then she giggles.

“Sure,” she says with a chuckle, a sound that whisks away an overbearing weight I had completely forgotten about. My tail isn’t so much as taken from my hooves as it glides out into her featherweight hold. She experimentally rolls a hoof through the pink strands, not quite sure what to think of it but she smiles. My heart swells up in my chest to see her smile and I can’t help but fall in love with this prospect.

I feel... happy.

Happiness isn’t something alien to me, I’m sure of it, but it feels so odd, so fulfilling right now. I can’t quite explain it but it’s a good feeling. It’s a warm and fuzzy feeling and it’s good and right now more than anything I don’t want to stop feeling so warm and fuzzy. I don’t want it to stop, I truly don’t. I don’t want Dashie to stop smiling. I don’t want to stop being happy. I just want... I want to...

“Pinkie?”

I blink. “I... I spaced out again, didn’t I?”

She giggles again and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you did.”

“Sorry,” I say impulsively but before she can call me out on it this time I excuse myself. “I was just... thinking.”

“About what?” she then asks.

“Happiness.”

I see her eyes spark a little. She takes pause after I say that and looks down at my tail. She stares intently at it, almost like there’s another pair of eyes in there staring back at her. But there isn’t. I would know. Instead she just stares at it and then her smile widens in the same way a balloon expands. It’s, if there’s a word for it, sincere. Although I don’t understand why she’s smiling like that, all I’m happy for is that she’s smiling.

“I take it you’re not sick anymore?”

Now that I give her a look for. I wasn’t even sick to begin with, was I? She thought I was earlier—for reasons that still elude me—but now she’s thinking I’m not? Perhaps we have different views on what sickness is then. For me sickness is a fever and lying in bed with a warm bowl of soup.

I touch my forehead just be sure. “I’m not sick,” I tell her.

She chuckles again. “Good to know.”

“What do you think sickness is?” I then ask her. I’m curious now, since I didn’t know there were other forms of sickness. Sickness is something physical, something that can be treated with sleep and warm soup and blankets and some nasty cough syrup that secretly I don’t think is important at all.

Dashie blinks at me. Now I think she’s the one spacing out. But before I could call her out on it she answers.

“Ponies can be sick in more than one way, Pinkie,” she explains with a tone so flat it’s captivating. “Being sick just means you’re not feeling normal. I mean, sure, you can get something like the flu that makes you throw up, but there’s other things too. I guess an example would be like, having a sick mind and seeing the world in wrong ways and doing bad things.” She immediately bites her lip and turns away. I hear her mutter, “Okay, poor choice of words...”

She’s frowning now. “Am I a sick pony, Rainbow Dash?”

She quickly snaps her head back around, her frown gone and in its place there’s a look like she’d just seen a ghost. Then, very slowly, a smile melts through the expression and, for lack of better word, it’s awesome. It’s so small but it carries a weight to it I would never expect and her eyes deepen and sparkle. She brings up a hoof and playfully scratches the top of my head. It messes up my mane a little but I don’t mind.

“No, you’re not a sick pony,” she says and pointedly taps the tip of my nose. I sneeze at the intrusion and she laughs.

Suddenly the carriage door opens and the entirety of the cabin is assaulted with a brilliant light. I see Dashie’s form try and take shelter but then the light swallows her whole. I too turn away and pull a hoof over my eyes, and as soon as I can see I hear a voice.

“Terribly sorry about the wait,” says that characteristically cheerful voice. “There were a lot papers to sign and...”

I glance around Dashie to see my aunt standing there, holding the carriage door wide open with a perplexed look on her face. Fresh air pours into the cabin like an opened casket and the sun’s unmistakable heat is carried with it. It’s so intense, I can’t help but wonder when the storm ended.

“Oh,” my aunt says, a little bit startled. “Who’s this?”

I know the answer to that. I speak up and say, “This is my friend—”

A hoof cuts me off however and Dashie hops upright. “Name’s Rainbow Dash!” she declares with a friendly wave. “Heh, sorry, I was just waiting out the storm here, Mrs. Pie. Pinkie let me in and—”

“Pinkie?” Mrs. Cake blinks and then shakes whatever thought is on her mind away. “Oh, that’s not a problem, dear. It’s... I’m not her mother, actually. I’m just her aunt, Cup Cake.”

“Oh.”

Mrs. Cake looks up to the sky. There doesn’t seem to be a cloud out there now.

“Well...” Dashie suddenly turns towards me with a smile as bright as the sun. “You wanna come watch me fly? I got this awesome trick I’ve been trying out and I’d still like to see you try and find a better word!” With that she leaps from the carriage, spreading her wings in one graceful move without even touching the ground that takes me and my aunt both by surprise, and shoots straight into the sky.

I look to my aunt with a look I don’t think I’ve ever given her before. “Can I?”

It takes her a moment to answer, but when she does she’s smiling so sincerely it makes me feel happy to see it. “Of course you can,” she says and steps away from the door.

I crawl out of the carriage and onto the wet cobblestone road. My hooves clack sharply, but my eyes are aimed at the open sky above and I see a small blur zigzagging its way through the air. Dashie glides down to my level and waves at me as she drifts away at a leisure pace. I suddenly catch a breath and my chest swells like big balloon. It’s kind of a painful feeling, but it’s not an unbearable one. I might even say the pain is pleasant.

“C’mon!” she yells, flying not a meter above the ground, her mane and tail radiating in the sunlight, herself wearing a blissful smile on her face. It’s encouraging, inviting, and before I know it my hooves are digging into the ground, carrying me along until I’m running right under her shadow. I smile up at her and Dashie glances down at me and laughs, those pink eyes of her filled with happiness and excitement. She takes off towards an open hill on the horizon and I run alongside her the whole way there.

Special Thanks: Pilate, PropMaster, shortskirtsandexplosions, TheBrianJ, theworstwriter, and WardenPony
Written by, RazgrizS57

Author's Note

This took too long to write. This took too long to publish. Too much time was wasted. RIP time. ~~I wish I knew you better.~~

This story was inspired by the video There is no pink light by minutephysics, the song Only One In Color by Trapt, and the song Rumors Of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated by Rise Against.

Approved by Twilight's Library.