Two to Light the Sky (part 1)
Nine dark-coloured candles burned upon a large wooden table. The pure heat from the candles rose, aiming to leave their mark upon the cool, mid-October sky. The Skylighter family were celebrating the coming-of-age of their daughter, Flameborn Skylighter, for her thirteenth birthday was today. Flameborn was not yet at the table, rather she was currently in the midst of a strict dressing session – it was after all vitally important for a filly to look her best on such occasions. Today was her last day in the Skylighter household: tomorrow she would be sent away to boarding school to further her mind and seek her talent. It was a rigorous competition; a battleground where only the best would succeed.
The last part at least bode well for Flameborn in theory. However, the theory was all but shattered when considering the fact that this rigorous competition was filled with gruelling rules and a strict system to comply to: one which her mother, Cloudfort Skylighter believed would sap every piece of the powerful flame that burned within her daughter. Cloudfort and Flameborn (or more accurately, Cloudfort) surveyed the chosen dress for the coming-of-age and neither thought it to suit Flameborn in any way. The dress was long and of a dark, rich pinkish colour with a black and gold vertical stripe down the middle, one that when worn would eclipse Flameborn’s rays of sun. Deep down, Cloudfort did not want Flameborn to wear it; except that Cloudfort did not believe herself to have a choice. The dress of which she had bought served a simple aristocratic function, to indicate that her daughter was of a wealthy background. Cloudfort did not truly feel ready for her daughter’s liveliness to be stamped upon by duty and rules. This wasn’t how things should be.
“Flameborn Skylighter… I will forever love you.” A teary Cloudfort said, as through her mind flooded oceans of old memories, those from a far-gone time where happiness was ever bound in the air of the Skylighter household; the household a prosperous land where the Skylighters lived in peace: Cloudfort as a teacher and mentor to her children (for although not a Skylighter by birth, she had a true Skylighter heart and her penchant for humour and wit adapted her to the ways of the Skylighters almost instantly.) and Sharpwing, once an actor who had only become more joyful and happier after leaving his job to run a major racing arena in Cloudsdale; one that was thriving in popularity – Sharpwing had every year expanded the size of his venue, for his hearty charisma won the ways of many. It was all-the-sweeter that he had switched his career to satiate the Skylighter children’s quickly established love of racing. Little was it known to the outside world that he had closed the arena one night to allow Brazen and Flameborn a taste of pure adrenaline, with Sharpwing and Cloudfort commentating the way. And Cloudfort would never (she repeated this last word) forget her children: Brazen, whose mighty yet graceful flights brought forth with them skies of serenity. And Flameborn, who in each flight vigorously slashed the blocking winds; for unbound she was by barriers. Or at least that was how she dreamt that they would one day be. She didn’t think that either case seemed an unlikely one.
“I won’t forget you.” Flameborn replied passively.
“I can’t help but look back to the past and how things have changed. You’ve grown, Flamey.” The days of the past ever clearened in Cloudfort’s mind: those days before Flameborn’s older brother, Brazen Skylighter left for boarding school. They had been happy times, for Brazen and Flameborn had held one another in high regards, frequently rough-housing with one another. To celebrate the occasion, Brazen had been given permission to return home for one night.
Cloudfort took one last look at the true appearance of her daughter. Her mane was a wild, pale, flaming red. Her golden coat shone brightly and intensely, its intensity serving as the fuel for her fiercely focused and bright rose eyes. She bore a slight but constant smile of adventure and playfulness upon her face, which strengthened the more she focused upon her surroundings. Flameborn looked (and was) far too free-spirited to be forced into such rigid environments as boarding school. In an inescapable fight from the bitterness and ambivalence that she had buried beneath glaciers of fear, Cloudfort underwent a slight grin as she thought about the measures that the authority would have to take so that her avenues of escaping to freedom were blocked – it was more than likely that she would find one anyway. A thought then crossed Cloudfort’s mind, “Why make her wear anything that shatters her image?” but the thought was quickly erased by “For Flameborn’s future, she must wear this dress and I insist upon it!”
Cloudfort had taken ill ever since Brazen had left. She had once been a constant joker, teaching both Brazen and Flameborn such arts. However, since Brazen had left for boarding school, she had become thoroughly traditional and dutiful, afraid to do anything outside the perceived norm. She had become controlling of Flameborn and obsessive about the only child she had left. Cloudfort had also become anal about social etiquette, religiously attempting to teach Flameborn manners befitting of a civilized mare and refusing to have any appreciation for a uniqueness that she had once celebrated.
Meanwhile, the father of the Skylighter household, Sharpwing Skylighter sat upon the outside cloud table with his son Brazen having just walked in. “Welcome back, Brazen. We have long been waiting for you.” The stallion’s hypnotic eyes opened deeper: this was his common cue for demanding a reply.
“Hey there. Glad to be back.” Brazen replied, softly and calmly. His dynamic seemed a clear-cut contrast from his sister’s, exhibiting a laid-back and sedate self who came close to seeming detached; skilled at entering and exiting conversations. Only he never seemed “disconnected” from those around him. From a young age, Brazen had been passionate about music and frequently used conversations as fuel for his passion. His appearance would have seemed ethereal were it not for his messy dark blue mane, which marked unruliness characteristic of coltish frolic in an otherwise forceless presence.
“Still not much of a talker. Ah well, it would seem that I’m the speaker tonight. What’s new from young Skylighter?” Sharpwing moved closer to Brazen and eyed him carefully, maintaining his piercing stare. “I may be a kind stallion, but my kindness extends itself only when I desire for it to.” Sharpwing warned, mixing his hearty choruses with the sinister tones of the legendary Discord.
“I’m a slightly faster flier than before.” Brazen said in a completely deadpan state.
“Your deadpan voice reveals a good liar in one. I also happen to know that you’re a troublemaker but as a Skylighter, I can gloss over that. However, do tell me about your music. How is it coming along?” Sharpwing asked. His sonorous voice was hearty and animated.
“Urrr… Maybe it’s worth hearing.” Brazen said, quietly laughing.
Although Sharpwing was no longer an actor, the skills he had obtained would be forever embedded in him – and in his best imitation of the Royal Canterlot voice, rose up from the table – forehooves to the air and shaking as though wise and all-knowing ancestors were speaking through him to Brazen. “WORDS, GOOD BRAZEN, ARE THE ESSENCE OF POWER! DO NOT NEGLECT POWER WHEN IT IS FED TO YOU!”
“Quite impressive. Pity your eyes didn’t change colour.” Brazen continued in his deadpan state.
“It’s a project I’ve been considering now for sometime, which maybe in a year will be completed. Imagine this: the owner of the Aerodome Negativus-578 stepping out before the race, to greet his crowds, announcing the opening; his eyes a flaming red. As he looks up, those eyes light the stars and travel where nopony has been before! I am simply in need of a unicorn to give me such magic.” Sharpwing lit up with excitement as he began to imagine this epic ceremony. “Maybe, good Brazen, one of the racers to see it will be you!”
“Sounds pretty exciting. My racing’s not been bad this year: came 3rd in Wind Tunnel Scramble and various others, scored 2nd in No Way Out and won the V-leap.”
A sudden gasp overtook Sharpwing, which quickly mutated into roaring enthusiasm. “The V-leap? Where each racer releases themselves into a freefall. The whistle sounds, and each racer leaps forward, cloud hoops created as boost terminals as well as to show the most direct racing line! Each racer hunts for where the maze next moves; gliding around and down, using every slab of velocity; every kick from their hooves and every sand of adrenaline, many unknown to each racer before; as they now spring alive, accelerating. They now fly downwards to the lowest point of the sky; now watch as they reach for the upwards hoop and use every blood-vessel of speed within them to begin the arduous ascent! (He seemed to quieten down now) And you won it? I’ve set-up V-Leaps in my arena! I’ve heard Nether likes them too, so they’ll only be more prominent as of now.” Sharpwing explained with mighty gusto, whinnying his pride to a son of whom nopony else could ever claim as their own. Quickly realizing that his roaring enthusiasm still lay inside, he continued. “Thinking about it, did you have a commentator bellowing “And after many trials and tribulations, young Brazen Skylighter takes the first win of his racing career at the V-Leap: a thoroughly deserved one – and I personally have no doubt that it will be the first of many!”” Sharpwing said, in his best imitation of popular racing commentator Murray Trotter.
As much as Brazen loved his father’s warm-heartedness and rich mirth, there was a certain pony Brazen had longed to see and his
patience had finally deserted him. “How’s Flameborn?”
Sharpwing’s rose eyes remained shiny but their brightness had dropped: revealing that inside laid a stern and worried but loving and seemingly selfless father figure. His deep but calming voice served almost as an antidote for his sorrowful message. “Flameborn is well. But relations have worsened between her and your mother. I suppose it’s best that you see things with your own eyes. Go on up.” Sharpwing pointed his hoof to the interior of the home.
Flameborn’s door was made of solid oak; for such mighty wood had quickly proven to be the only guardian that could withstand Flameborn. Her active and impulsive ways had destroyed three doors over the course of her fillyhood. Brazen gently tapped upon the oak, only that in his excitement of seeing Flameborn once more, he abandoned his manners and entered anyway, the room revealing a curious-looking filly who had been stirred into motion and a frustrated-looking mother. Though naturally quiet, Brazen was not averse to bursts of excitement, as he called out his sister’s name, oblivious to the sound of his voice as he thought of only re-union: “FLAMEBORN!”
Flameborn now seemed decidedly perkier, except that she was silenced by her mother, who sternly moved towards Brazen. “Brazen Skylighter! You know far better than to intrude a changing mare!” Cloudfort shouted.
A bewildered voice called from across the room: “Why?” Flameborn asked a knee-jerk reaction towards that which she perceived only as her mother’s eccentricities.
“Flameborn Skylighter, do not speak to me in such a rude manner! As a Mother, I expect you to obey. It is customary for a mare’s dress preparations to be done privately, without her brother’s intrusions!” Apparently such customs existed. Flameborn, at least had never heard of them.
Brazen slowly powered his wings back to the wooden table where Sharpwing remained and looked into the candles, from where Sharpwing’s wise and trusting voice calmed him. “Cloudfort misses you. Ever since you left the Skylighter household she lost her sense of humour. She didn’t think that you could handle boarding school.”
“I get by.” Brazen said, ambiguously but lightly.
“I do like your crypticness.” Sharpwing gave Brazen a threatening glare.
Brazen smiled. “I’m under enough rigid control as it is. When the lights are out, it’s time for some mischief!”
Brazen was returned a warm-hearted and bruising chuckle from his father. “Please elaborate. I want to hear more.” Sharpwing opened his eyes, fixated his gaze upon Brazen and froze, his son’s words now the only sound in the sky.
“So yeah, I once placed glitter all over a colt’s “playing stick” while he was asleep. Next morning, he woke up and ran to the officials for help, thinking he had an infection of sorts! He ran, proclaiming of doom and the apocalypse! The officials would have nought to do with “lunatic preachers” and he was punished on the spot. I gave him a cookie later, so all’s well.” Brazen said, punching his words with excitement.
Intense and uncontrollable laughter emerged from Sharpwing. “Wonderfully done! Especially the extra “Brazen gives cookies” part. Promoting the family business, eh?”
The coltish festivities were silenced by a mare and a filly approaching. The filly looked downbeat and eclipsed by a dark dress. The mare’s look was serious and rigid.
