Smolderby Jin ShuChapters1. Spark2. Old Flames3. Ash on the Wind1. SparkAuthor's Note The short version: this is an old project finally dug out of mothball drawer to be an experiment in rapid prototyping and release. The intent is to finish the whole thing in one to two weeks' time at the absolute maximum and force me to be efficient in both my writing and my editing. It also gives me an excuse to work on something other than Equestrian Horizon so burnout is less of an issue. Hopefully. 1. Spark “I have to admit, I like what you've done with the place!” Fletcher sighed and shook his head. Colonel Ironwing had an unusual knack for causing exasperation. While he had somehow managed to move past the stage that a school colt would pile upon his professors, Fletcher never quite got over the need to facehoof. “I haven't changed a damn thing since you were last here, old sire.” Fletcher poured himself another drink as he spoke. Ice kept magically cold. Caballo's gin. A splash of tonic water for taste. He'd never understand Ironwing's methods, but he supposed it was best not to question them. Aristotle Ironwing may well have been the polar opposite of Fletcher. His salt and pepper mane and ample wrinkles reflected his age, a great deal older than Fletcher himself. Most would consider him over the hill, but Fletcher knew better than that. The colonel was nearly a full head taller than Fletcher with a frame built like a draft horse and a wingspan to rival that of the Princesses themselves. Not that Fletcher was a slouch himself. The former Army captain stuck to a strict physical fitness regimen and an athlete's diet, a welcome change from Army PT and meals ready to eat while on field training exercises. Still, Ironwing was not one to be trifled with. “Well, it certainly feels different.” “I experimented with some new recipes. There might be a hint of floral scent still in the curtains from when I tried stir-frying that last batch of Unyasan Orchids. Don't do that, by the way.” “I'll try to remember that for next time, at least for long enough to tell my son. Sometimes he tries things out in the kitchen, but…” Ironwing paused for a moment to take a drink from his glass. “... well, let's just say there's a reason his cutie mark isn’t cooking-related.” Fletcher barely cracked a smile. Fletcher had never met the younger Ironwing, but he already felt sorry for all the bad jokes his old sire must have put him through. “I'm sure he means well. It's a great gesture to have somepony cook for you, regardless of how poor the outcome actually is.” “I suppose I must be the master of great gestures, then! I remember always being the one to cook while my wife and I were dating. By the end of it, I probably could have been a culinary instructor!” “Not that you'd want to be. I don't know enough Fancy swear words to describe the chefs I've met in Canterlot.” “Better switch to Stallian then! I hear they have a great selection of swear words.” “Swear words yes, but cuisine not so much. I never could get used to borscht. Can’t win them all I suppose.” The captain and the colonel shared a good laugh, clinking their drink glasses together before taking sips of their liquors of choice. Turning to look out the window at the night sky, Fletcher swished the drink around for a tick before gulping it down. The bitterness of the quinine remained behind, but Fletcher didn’t flinch. A bitter taste was far better than a bitter life. “So why are you really here, Colonel?” Fletcher figured he’d cut to the chase. Ironwing could be pedantic at times, but he never showed up without a plan and four contingencies. That he would drop by Fletcher’s apartment uninvited speaking of drinks and old times was ten different kinds of suspicious. “You know why I’m here, Fletcher.” No, not really. Fletcher had many guesses ranging from the inane to the catastrophic. With Ironwing, they were all equally likely. “I can guess, but you really don’t want me to guess. Changeling infiltrator attempting to kill me? Preparation to serve me court martial papers for something I did before my desk jockey days? Invitation to your son’s wedding?” “Not bad guesses to be honest.” “Evasive as usual. If you’re not going to tell me, old sire, you can finish your drink and get out of my house.” Ironwing shook his head and chuckled. “Fletcher, I’m just here to see how you were doing; making sure you were all right.” It took a moment for the true meaning to sink in. Fletcher’s bemused smirk immediately twisted into a hellish glower. Of all the things to be in all the times that were, it had to be this and it had to be now. The glass levitating next to his head in the glow of magic exploded, the glittering fragments clattering to the hardwood floor as Fletcher’s magical aura released its grasp. “Ironwing,” he said darkly, “We said we’d never speak of it again.” “I said I’d bury it if you did, which it is now quite obvious that you did not.” The mirthful countenance vanished, replaced now by a stern, stony visage more fitting of a monument than his old commanding officer. “How have you really been doing, Fletcher?” BANG. The crack of Fletcher’s hoof slamming into the display table by the window echoed through the living room. Glass clearly crackled and tinked when he brought his hoof away. The victim of his ire was an old photograph, now lying face down with splintered frame and broken display glass smashed into the table. But in the mess of splinters and shards, something metallic glistened. Realizing his mistake, Fletcher shuffled a hoof over the mess, trying to hide the glint behind the dull ruin of the old photo frame. But it was too late. Ironwing’s eyes fell upon the incriminating bit of evidence and he rose from his seat to address Fletcher face to face. The colonel's speech was flat and emotionless. “You kept it.” Fletcher's ears drooped for a moment before he forced himself to stand up straight and compose himself. He looked the colonel dead in the eye. “Haven't found a buyer yet.” The colonel closed his eyes and sighed. It was a bold-faced lie. Fletcher knew it and Ironwing knew it. Fletcher had never found a buyer. He’d never even attempted to look for one. And so the ring had remained in the photo frame with the photo that accompanied it. “Do you remember what I told you before you got on that airship to Stalliongrad?” “No, sir.” “I said you can't let somepony from your past write your future for you.” “I fail to see how this is relevant.” “You know exactly why it's relevant, Fletcher. I know you and Caesura were close, but it's been five years. You have to come to terms with it.” It was five years to the day, in fact. Five years since the engagement. Five years since they’re promised each other happily ever after. Four years since they’d married. Three years since he’d been deployed on mission after mission beyond the frontier with the Stallian Guard Rangers. Two years since he’d returned home to an empty house and a note telling him to move on. One year since he’d been transferred to a desk job in the interest of “recovery.” “I swore an oath of loyalty when I first enlisted, colonel,” Fletcher said. “Through all my years of service, I never once wavered from that oath.” Ironwing was nonplussed at the sudden change of subject, but it only barely registered on his face. Fletcher never expected it to faze him. Ironwing had dealt with spymasters and government spooks at the Aquellian consulate for years before Fletcher’s unit had been placed under his command. He knew exactly how to handle word games and back channel diplomacy. “This is your personal development we're talking about, Fletcher, not your career.” “I was getting to that,” Fletcher snapped. “Look. You don't just let things like this go, colonel.” “Fletcher, I'm sorry. I truly am. I know what it's like to lose a spouse. It hurts you — all the way down to your very core. There's that feeling in your bones that won't go away. It eats at you, corrodes your soul.” It would have been easier if it were a lie. The colonel, too, had lost his wife some time ago. Fletcher had even attended her funeral. But he wasn’t about to be played just because he’d borne witness to tragedy. “You think I don’t know that?” Fletcher shot back. “I have resources. I can reach out to them. We can help you, give you a fresh start.” “A fresh start? Don’t patronize me.” “I’m not patronizing. I’m not just your old CO, I’m your friend. I want to help you even if you won’t help yourself.” “Is that what Celestia said to you, too?” Ironwing finally flinched, his stony disposition cracking at the mention of things better left buried. What could have passed for pity before now transmuted into rage. Still, the army officer caught his own lapse in control and corrected his course. This did little to bridle his fury, however. Ironwing snorted in anger. “That was low.” “Said the pot to the kettle!” Fletcher growled in retort. “Weren’t you the one who brought up Caesura?” Ironwing remained firm, stern as a school headmaster to an ornery colt, the rolling thunder of his deep voice seeming to fill Fletcher’s head instead of his ears. “I brought up Caesura because I’ve seen how she’s still affecting you. You’re chasing ghosts, Fletcher.” “You still have my sympathy for Nausicaa. Nopony deserved to go like that and nopony deserved to suffer like you did for it. But when Caesura walked out, I didn’t have the Princess offer her ‘help’ to me like she did for you.” There was a beat of silence. Fletcher almost smirked, hoping he’d driven home the point. Behind, all he could hear the ice cubes in Ironwing’s glass clink together as he took another sip. He heard the colonel sigh and the clop of hooves on hardwood as he stood. Fletcher whirled around, thinking that Ironwing had finally gotten it through his head that it was time to leave. “You’re right,” Ironwing finally said. The sternness in his voice had vanished. Instead, he just sounded exasperated, tired, even. “You didn’t. And that’s probably for the better. I’ve been privy to things that could destroy empires. I’ve made mistakes, mistakes I am still paying for even today. But that doesn’t mean I don’t genuinely want to make it better.” Somehow, the concession didn’t make Fletcher feel any better. It was never that way with Ironwing. Even if he admitted he was wrong, he was still right. Fletcher hated it. “This isn’t something you can help with, Ironwing.” “You don’t have to fight this alone.” It felt like one last plea, one last attempt to coax the return of the prodigal son. “You were my protege, Fletcher. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I’m trying to help you every way I know how.” Fletcher could only stare blankly back. “Finish your drink, old sire. It seems we have nothing more to say to each other.” The colonel closed his eyes and sighed. He finally set his glass down upon the coaster on the coffee table, his drink unfinished. “I think my thirst has been thoroughly sated. Thank you for entertaining my visit, old friend.” Ironwing turned and trotted to the door, stepping outside and closing it without so much as a glance backward. The living room fell silent. For a moment, Fletcher could only stand and stare blankly into the carved and decorated wood of the front door to the upscale apartment. Finally, he sighed in resignation, turning his attention back to the window where Luna’s moon watched over the floating motes of faerie fire that were the lights of homes in the valley below. 2. Old Flames“I don’t give horse apples about your job. If all you are is Captain, you’re not worth the uniform you’re wearing. I’m far more interested in Fletcher.” Fletcher shot to his senses, bolting upright in bed. He rubbed his temple with a hoof. Caesura’s honeyed words hung thick in the moonlight, the saccharine afterglow of their memory stubbornly clinging to his mind’s ear. The captain flopped back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. It didn’t take long for him to open them again and snarl exasperatedly into his pillow. Whenever Fletcher closed his eyes, he was back at the bar with her and that same sex-charged swagger. That same lush cream coat. That same luxurious auburn mane. That same sultry voice that melted inhibitions and corroded defenses like gentle acid. Fletcher threw himself out of bed and onto his hooves. There would be no sleep tonight. He’d never lied to Ironwing about getting over Caesura. He’d just hoped that Ironwing would never think to ask. But that was wishful thinking. Ironwing was in the intel business. There was no way he wouldn’t notice. The captain rolled out of bed and made a beeline for the liquor cabinet. It was a weekend. He could afford to self-medicate. The recipe was the same. Ice kept magically cold. Caballo's gin. A splash of tonic water for taste. Bitter quinine rolled over Fletcher’s tongue, shallow comfort for the beginning of a long night of unrest. He planned to skip the tonic water for the next round. But that was quickly ended by a rapping from the front door. Fletcher glanced at the clock. “What the hell? It’s ten at night.” He trotted to the front door, curiosity competing with paranoia for first billing on the stage of the mind. Ironwing’s visit had set him on edge. What could it possibly be at this hour of night? Fletcher threw the door open. Whatever he was expecting, it was not this. “My darling Fletcher. It’s been a very long time.” Before him stood a cream-colored unicorn mare, her green eyes framed by an auburn mane kept short but well-coiffed. Her emerald gaze met Fletcher’s and a wistful smile tugged at her lips. Fletcher froze. He couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t possible. It was fake. It was a hallucination. He was drunk. He was stressed. He wasn’t seeing what he was seeing. Fletcher tried with all his might to convince himself that his senses were lying. But every facet of his ability to perceive screamed in protest. Caesura was very much real and very much standing in front of him. “Are you going to let a girl in or are you just going to stand there gawking?” As if in a trance, Fletcher waved her in, shutting the front door behind her. He continued to stare in shock long after she had already sauntered on in and taken a seat on one of the couches in the living room. Finally Fletcher returned to his senses. Senses, however, did not enforce civility. “You sound like you’ve got something on the tip of your tongue,” Caesura said. Fletcher glared, refusing to sit and instead continuing to stare her down from standing position. “I only have one question, Caesura.” The fire in Fletcher’s eyes as he asked the question could have ignited stone. “Why?” Caesura hesitated for a split second, finally deflecting, “It’s a long story.” “I’ve got all night.” Fletcher retorted. “I don’t know how else to put this eloquently, so I’ll skip the smalltalk.” Caesura sighed. “I hurt you, Fletcher. For that I am well and truly sorry. I know you won’t take me back and I’m not asking you to.” “Then why did you even bother coming?” Fletcher snapped. “Why not just stay away since I obviously wasn’t good enough for you?” “That’s not why I left!” Caesura shot back. She immediately regretted her words, as the burning red of her cheeks and the anguished rub of hoof on forehead revealed. “I left because I couldn’t contain my wanderlust. I felt locked in, trapped. I thought that walking out would let me take care of that while leaving minimal fallout for you.” “We both know how well that went.” “I hurt you when I walked out. But it hurt me, too. I didn’t realize just how much it hurt until after I was long gone.” Really? She was sorry now? What the hell kind of shitshow was this? Here she was, coming into his house and apologizing to someone whom she’d cut to the bone. What kind of cruel joke was this? “Well that’s fan-fucking-tastic,” Fletcher growled, vitriol dripping from every word. “Now we’re two ponies who hurt each other more than we ever thought possible standing in the same room because someone on a whim decided it would be a good idea to show up at my house in the dead of night.” “It was not a whim.” Caesura’s whisper was barely audible. Fletcher wanted to pretend he didn’t hear it. He was conflicted. Part of him wanted to lash out; to punish her for her perceived insolence, especially under the circumstances. The other part of him read her body language and pitied her for what she must have suffered while she was away. Had he not suffered the same way? Perhaps he wasn’t the only one nursing a proverbial sucking wound? Caesura continued, “I... I thought long and hard about this, for weeks -- months even. I kept putting it off because I was too proud to think of anypony than myself. But it kept bothering me. It was a feeling in my bones that wouldn’t go away. It --” “Eats at you. Corrodes your soul,” Fletcher finished. “Yes.” The two sat and stood in silence for a moment, though the mood had noticeably changed. That tiny thread of connection, the linking of the same words between two ponies had gone leaps and bounds toward easing the tension that stretched between them. Fletcher was hurting, that much was certain. But he could not bear to throw his compassion away because of it. Perhaps the least that he could do was to listen. Finally, Caesura spoke again. “So I have a proposal.” “Shoot.” “I want this to be our last night together. Forever. We do what we need to do, say what we need to say, and come morning we part ways and move on.” “What good would that do?” “Closure. We could properly mourn times past instead of forlornly wishing for times we’d never have. It’s healthy.” Were it anypony else, Fletcher would have thought it a cheap grab for sex. But he knew Caesura. While the sex they had was definitely fantastic, there was far more to her than a simple piece of ass. She was erudite and inquisitive, somepony who craved intellectual stimulation just as much as she did physical. An offer to talk and love-make it out was completely within her character. Still, Fletcher was torn. Walking out was not easily forgiven, even less so when that was followed by two years of sequestration before materializing out of nowhere. Yet deep inside, Fletcher knew this was the very moment he had been waiting for. It was a second chance to say goodbye, to finally hash out the differences between them, and move on. As Caesura had said, closure. Finally done staring at his drink, Fletcher looked up, meeting his ex-wife’s gaze. “Would you like a drink?” “Caballo’s,” she said with a smile. “And tonic, on the rocks,” Fletcher finished, putting together the drink between them in the glow of his magic. Caesura gently accepted the glass with her own aura before lifting it in toast, “To us. To our past together and our future apart. May we be ever stronger for it.” “Tak skazat', vse my.” Fletcher assented in Stallian. “You and your Stallian,” she said with mock derision, waving her hoof as a cat would bat away an unwanted toy with a paw. “It’s nearly second nature to me now. Spend enough time in Stalliongrad and it starts to rub off on you.” “Do you even remember what you were like before you were assigned to frontier operations?” A hell of a question to be sure. The assignment to Stalliongrad had eaten a chunk of his life recently and the tempo of operations had been so high intensity that it was easy to forget he had once been stationed in a garrison in Canterlot. But there were some things to garrison life that weren’t so bad. “I remember what you were like!” “Do tell,” she cooed, batting her eyes in anticipation of flattery. “You were flirtatious, manipulative, and your impropriety knew no bounds.” Fletcher smirked at his own barb. Caesura gasped in feigned offense before breaking out into laughter. “Oh come now, Fletcher! If I weren’t any of that you wouldn’t have paid me any mind.” “Really? I never really thought needy conservatory fillies were my type!” “Good thing I’m all that and more,” she nickered happily. “I was always glad to see you weren’t of the pseudo-intellectual machismo officership ilk. All talk and no brains and not even proper fun to make up for it. So boring.” “Should have gone into masonry instead of music if you’d wanted to talk to bricks all day.” “Rude. Almost as rude as your little tirade to the officer’s club.” “I’m fantastic and hilarious.” Fletcher smirked before taking another drink from his glass. “Somepony had to help that poor griffon explain democracy to the peanut gallery.” “It’s actually pretty amazing how democracy is such a foreign concept to so many in the military when they are first and foremost the tools of the state,” Caesura mused between sips. “Then again I suppose it makes sense, given that Equestria has had monarchy of some form or another for the past two millenia.” “Your history is pretty good for a needy conservatory filly.” “I’m not your average airheaded conservatory filly, captain.” “I think some of the other officers at the Ponyland or the Veridian would have preferred that.” “Tch! Of all the other eligible stallions at the Veridian, why do you think I chose you?” “I don’t know,” Fletcher chuckled. “Because I’m better-looking and infinitely more charming?” The same words that were spoken all those years ago echoed in his head. Familiarity embraced Fletcher with soft, fuzzy warmth. His cheeks flushed a bit as the memories warmed his chest and allowed him to finally relax. Fletcher moved as if under a spell, putting a fresh vinyl record onto the player and letting it run even as he set down his drink and offered a hoof to Caesura to dance. It took only a moment before he was back at the Veridian, the smooth notes of the bass and jazz trumpet floating by while he slowly danced cheek to cheek with the mare before him. Awareness vanished into euphoria-fueled fugue. The background noise of patrons faded to muted babbling, the slow strobe of the ceiling fan blades against the café lights blurred to mottled watercolors, and the once sharp clip-clops of his hooves on hardwood flooring echoed against the aether around them. “Well I certainly wasn’t expecting this...” The hot breath from Caesura’s lips gently caressed his cheek as they continued their slow dance to the tune emanating from the record player. Fletcher said nothing, instead pulling her closer. Together they spun, their bodies becoming entwined and their lips sliding from brushing to locking. Caesura tugged and Fletcher followed. The dancers drifted down the hall and through the bedroom door, coming to rest upon the bed in preparation for passions fulfilled. ****** “Why do you think we ever stopped, Fletcher?” Fletcher heard her loud and clear, despite the fact that Caesura’s face was pressed against his barrel as they basked in passion’s afterglow. Truthfully, Fletcher didn’t have the answer. If their marriage had always been like they were tonight, then why had it ever failed? “Beats the hell out of me. I mean, if you were any better at lovemaking they’d have to make you a princess!” “Oh hush. You don’t have to flatter me to get me to ride you again,” Caesura chuckled. “Besides, we both know we were in it for more than the sex.” “Jokes aside, I can’t put my hoof on it,” Fletcher sighed. “If everything was perfect, why did it all break down?” “Hm.” Caesura paused in thought, the only sounds remaining being the distant, muffled tunes from the record player in the living room and the soft whispers of her breath beneath the sheets. Luna’s moon now peeked through the window of the bedroom. Fletcher idly thought about all the lewd acts that Princess Luna would have to wade through while walking among dreams, the absurd humor being enough to make him chuckle inside. But the surreal suggestion left an impression he could not ignore. “Maybe,” Fletcher began, “it was because we were perfect.” “Too perfect to exist?” “I mean we were perfect for each other in our minds’ eyes. When imperfections came to light, we glossed over them or buried them. But we both knew they were always there no matter how much we lied to ourselves. It created dissonance.” “I love it when you talk nerdy to me, but I hate it when you’re right,” Caesura sighed. “It makes sense,” Fletcher said before kissing Caesura’s muzzle. “We may have been in love, but we were ultimately incompatible. We loved the idea of each other more than the actual pony.” “I guess it’s poetic in a way,” she whispered. “No matter how much love we give, we’re so full of ourselves that it’s all worthless in the end.” “I wouldn’t say worthless. They were the best years of my life.” “So far,” Caesura cooed, nuzzling his chest. “What if there’s no more?” Fletcher wondered out loud. “There will be more, Fletcher,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. “I promise you. There’s a whole wide world of Equestria for you to see. No sense in getting hung up on a needy conservatory filly.” “You were always more than that. But I see your point.” The pensive mask melted into a mischievous smile. “Although I’m sure there’s something a certain needy conservatory filly wouldn’t mind being hung up on...” Caesura purred happily, locking lips with Fletcher before forcefully rolling him over to straddle her. “Shut up and love me, you miserable cur!” ****** Fletcher awoke to rays of golden sun stabbing into his eyes. Luna’s moon had been replaced with Celestia’s searing sun. By its position in the sky, dawn had broken long ago and the morning had already passed Fletcher by. He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes with a hoof to clear the sleep from them. It was then that he realized Caesura’s absence. The captain leaped out of bed, his eyes darting around the room for any signs of her. Had it all been a fever dream? Had he imagined the entire night? His fears were allayed with the squeak of the shower faucet turning off and the sound of the door opening. Fletcher bolted out of the bedroom to the entrance of the bathroom, almost knocking over Caesura as trotted out, mane still damp from the shower. “Easy there, captain. I knew you were excited to see me, but I didn’t think you were that excited!” Fletcher stiffened at the jab. They’d gone all night like that, exchanging light-hearted jabs cycling with more introspective discussions and bouts of intense lovemaking. Noticing his discomfort, Caesura stepped closer, giving him a quick peck on the muzzle. “What’s on your mind, Fletcher?” “Is this real?” “How do you mean?” “You’re here. I’m here. We’re here. We had drinks. We talked. We danced. We made love. Last night was real. I felt it with all of my senses that it was real. But I’m still afraid that it wasn’t.” “It was real, Fletcher. It wasn’t some magic spell or Equestria imploding or you hallucinating from too much tonic. You’re you. I’m me. We talked. We drank. We danced. We made love. It happened and that’s life.” It happened and that’s life. Her words echoed in Fletcher’s head. Those words could sum up the entire experience from start to finish: their engagement, their marriage, the adventures in Stalliongrad, the falling out, the lonely years, and the reunion. It happened and that was life. “I think…” Caesura said after a long pause. “I think it might be time for me to go.” Part of Fletcher wanted to beg her to stay, to try again, to make things work. But the other part, the part that had conversed long into the night with Caesura herself knew that the best option was for them to part ways. Though the lovemaking had been grand on all levels, the introspection between sessions had gradually highlighted everywhere they had fallen short. “Yes,” Fletcher said sadly. “I’ll walk you to the door.” The two trotted to the front door in silence. The walk was slow and deliberate, but at the same time burdened with a halting weight, a funerary air that seemed to cast a pall over the whole house. Fletcher gingerly opened the door, allowing the crisp Autumn breeze to gently ruffle his mane. “It’s been wonderful, Fletcher,” Caesura said, her emerald eyes glistening. “I truly wish you the best in life. May war never find you unprepared and may those you keep forever hold you in regard.” “Thank you, Caesura,” he rasped. “I don’t know what you’re looking for out there, but I sincerely hope you find it. May your wandering bring you ever closer to home. Goodbye.” “Goodbye, Fletcher.” Caesura gave one last wan smile before stepping outside and gently closing the door behind her. 3. Ash on the WindDeals were something made in back alleys and dark, smoky rooms. Colonel Ironwing did not indulge in deals; he crafted policy. Every step was painstakingly researched, every line item meticulously placed and worded so that there would be no mistake about the will of the Princess as it pertained to her finest soldiers. But where policy failed, deals had to be made. Soft shadow enveloped him, wrapping the booth in protective darkness that was only broken by the milky white circle of light cast by a tiny fixture above. The colonel idly swirled his drink around in the bottom of his glass before taking a small sip; slowly, deliberately as if stalling for time. He reached down to table level and took an already-lit cigar between his lips from its prior resting place in the ashtray, taking a long, slow puff on it before allowing it to idle at the corner of his mouth. The bar was quiet, most of the patrons having turned in early on a weeknight. Only the most stalwart of drinkers and staff remained and all knew to keep their distance from the burly pegasus stallion in the long coat and cigar in the corner booth. It was the perfect place to make a deal. But when Caesura walked out, I didn’t have the Princess offer her ‘help’ to me like she did for you. Fletcher was not wrong. The elder Ironwing’s impropriety had very nearly cost him everything. He snorted angrily at his own dilution of the narrative. No, it did cost him everything -- everything that mattered. He was not one to believe in the old gods or karma or fate, but Ironwing could not help but feel at times that his late wife’s death had been some cosmic entity mocking him for his sins. It was only the whims of said cosmic fate that prevented the scandal from fulminating into the cataclysmic destruction of his career. The twist, of course was that it came with the cataclysmic destruction of his family. Ironwing took another drag of his cigar. Now was not the time to dwell on past sins. Celestia’s instructions had been clear. Look forward, not back. There was work to be done. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long.” The mare’s voice was thick like honey and just as sweet. Barely glancing up at the new arrival, Ironwing merely gestured with his muzzle to the seat across the booth. Caesura’s mane was worn in a tightly wound bun, tucked under a faux flower trimmed with lace. Her cream white coat glinted in the dim light, her lines clearly standing out against the dark slate of her trench coat. “I’m notorious for arriving at appointments early,” the colonel said, smoke slowly wafting out of his nostrils and the ashen tip of his cigar. “So no, I didn’t wait for long.” As she took her seat, the bartender trotted by, delivering her drink without so much as a word exchanged. “I trust your journey was a pleasant one, Aristotle?” “As pleasant as a weather-beaten redeye airship from Canterlot to Stalliongrad and a mile’s trot in the rain could be, yes.” “Such is Svetlahorse. The price one pays for privacy these days.” The mare chuckled to herself before sipping at her drink. “So what brings you to a dive bar in a farming village in the shadow of mighty Stalliongrad?” “You know exactly why I’m here.” “For an officer of the crown, you certainly don’t tolerate much smalltalk.” “Smalltalk is for self-satisfied courtesans, not those who can truly consider themselves in the know. Now what do you have to report?” The lady unicorn produced a small cigarette case from her pocketbook, drawing a single hoof-rolled cigarette to her lips and lighting it with a mild flash of magic. She drew a tiny draught, cupping the smoke as if to taste it before blowing it out through her nostrils. “Mission accomplished, if you can really call it that. Honestly, Ari, if you have to resort to this kind of methodology to get what you want, perhaps you should reconsider your choice of friends.” “Do you have a good doctor?” “Well...” Caesura paused, somewhat surprised but mostly bemused at Ironwing’s intent to keep questioning off himself. The relish dripping from her words gave away any attempt at euphemistic subtlety. “Being -- how shall we say -- doted upon means I am rarely in want of much.” “A good doctor doesn’t ask the patient what the cure is; they tell them.” “A good doctor also doesn’t force the cure upon their patient,” she countered. “Then why do institutionalized wards exist? Vaccines? Thaumaturgy? Sometimes the cure needs to be administered whether the patient wants it or not.” “You’re a piece of work, Ari,” Caesura scoffed. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any darker dipping into your abyss of intel and spec ops, you go even deeper.” “I’m doing everything I can to save my country...” Ironwing grunted. His voice suddenly softened. “...and the closest I have to a second son.” “What of your first?” “I’ve kept him as far away from the intel community as I could. He needs the opportunity to grow up without being tangled up in my world.” “Still working that mail job?” “He’s happy there. No one snoops around. There’s no need for protection details or counter-surveillance. He may think I’m aloof and disinterested, but a normal life is the greatest gift I could ever give him. If that comes with the necessity of keeping my distance, then that’s the way it has to be.” “That at least makes sense and involves minimal deception. But did you really think doing this to Fletcher would help him heal?” “Fletcher has a tendency to fixate on things, which is an asset on mission. But with Caesura, he’d gotten stuck. Caesura was the only thing on his mind, a mind where the talents we needed were locked in a prison of his own making.” “Didn’t you ever think to reach out to Caesura herself?” “She wanted nothing to do with him or us. She went to pursue her dreams as a violinist in Long Guo and we left her at that. There was nothing I could say or do that would bring her back.” “But you needed Fletcher and the only way to Fletcher was Caesura, so...” “So I called in a favor.” “Of all the things I’ve done in my line of work, this was by far the most bizarre.” “Surely you’ve cavorted with far more salaciously eccentric marks?” The mare turned her nose up at the remark, clearly annoyed at the implication but all the while stifling a laugh at its absurdity. The bartender was making his final rounds, shooing out stragglers and bussing and wiping down tables as closing time drew near. The mare waved her hoof to dismiss him as he got close, making the bar keep skip over to the next booth. It wasn’t long before Ironwing, his companion, and the bartender who knew better than to ask questions were the only ones left. “I think it’s safe to drop the act now,” Ironwing said. The mare leaned forward, carefully eyeing Aristotle before sighing deeply. The air around her seemed to shimmer a faint green, the pupils in her eyes disappearing in unearthly glow before settling on a fine emerald green color. The cream of her coat faded to a dark grey that glinted like polished onyx and her auburn mane rotated hues until it arrived at an iridescent morpho blue. The changeling had shown her true form. “Pulling intel from horny MPs or councilors is nothing,” the changeling said. “You can manipulate a lot of weak-minded individuals with a flick of the tail and the right kind of wink. No matter how weird their kinks, the sex never bothered me. It was all part of the job.” She took a sip from her glass before continuing. “But impersonating somepony’s ex-wife to give him closure on her departure? I’ve been infiltrating for most of my life and even I think that felt wrong. Protecting your son using obfuscation is one thing, Ari, but trying to cure your old protege with an outright lie is another thing entirely.” “It’s not the lie that cured him,” Aristotle countered. “The lie was merely a catalyst. It broke his fixation, made him focus on something else, a place where he could truly use the full extent of his talents and leave the disaster of his former marriage behind. Fletcher cured himself. We merely facilitated his awakening.” The changeling took one last drag on her cigarette before snuffing it in the ashtray. “I know you’ve been in the game for a long time, but I must remind you that lies are only foolproof if you intend never to see the pony you lied to ever again. I’ve had to burn identities because somepony missed an old lover and decided to come calling at an inopportune time.” “I assure you, Arete, I pick my fights very carefully.” “That’s what I’m worried about, Ari dear. We’ve worked together a long time and you’ve never steered me wrong before, at least from assignment to assignment. But what if the entire game is wrong? All the little white lies you told to set things up, all the little things you did to tweak ponies and assets into place could suddenly come crashing down and we’d never know it until it happened. Then what would we do?” “I’m well aware that it’s a house of cards. But we’ll deal with that when the time comes. Until then, we continue to gather intel and hope that it’s better than that of our enemies.” Ironwing said. The colonel downed the remainder of his drink, took a last puff of his cigar, and snuffed the stub in the ashtray before shuffling out of the booth. “I believe we’ve overstayed last call.” “The barkeep knows me,” Arete chuckled. “We can stay as long as we need to.” “Duly noted. But I’m done for the night. My flight is out of Stalliongrad tomorrow morning.” Arete slid out of the booth, the green shimmer returning for a split second as she reapplied a disguise. In an instant, she was a different mare, an earth pony with a fiery red and orange mane and a pearl white coat. Arete dropped a hoof full of bits on the table from her pocketbook before joining Ironwing at the door. “You’re playing a dangerous game, old sire,” she whispered as they stepped outside. “Only because I understand the stakes,” the colonel replied. “We live in interesting times, Arete.” “Let us hope the excitement of it does not make fools of us all.” ****** Fletcher’s muzzle was buried in a book when the knock on his apartment door came. He rose from the couch, flicking his tail and stretching from head to toe before trotting to the front door. The magic glow of his horn gripped the handle and swung the door open. “Colonel Ironwing. To what do I owe the honor?” Ironwing was out of the customary military garb, sporting only sunglasses and saddlebags. The elder stallion pushed his sunglasses up onto his head before looking to Fletcher. “It’s less of an honor and more of an apology.” “Apology?” Fletcher raised an eyebrow. “For the presupposing that my help was needed or desired.” Well that was certainly new. Fletcher was almost certain the number of times Ironwing had ever apologized was in the single digits, if ever. But now he was apologizing to him? As much as it was an eyebrow-raiser, Fletcher wasn’t about to be impolite. He stepped out of the doorway and waved Ironwing inside, shutting the door behind him. “What’s that in the saddlebag?” Fletcher craned his neck to peek at the box that protruded from Ironwing’s saddlebags. Ironwing reached behind, gently nudging the box out of its harness until he was able to present it to Fletcher with his hoof. “It’s a glass set, since I seem to have ruined your old one,” the colonel said with a wan smile. “Old sire, you really shouldn’t have,” the captain chuckled. “It was probably my cue to stop drinking anyway!” “Then accept it as a new beginning for your collection.” A new beginning. Ironwing always chose his words carefully, and the slight clunkiness at which the words’ fit was clue enough to Fletcher’s analyst sensibilities to know something was up. He cocked his head to the side and looked Ironwing in the eye. “What’s this really about, colonel?” “Fletcher, don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt somepony while they’re admitting they’re wrong?” Ironwing mock implored. Fletcher raised an eyebrow. Ironwing placed the box of glasses down upon the coffee table and began pacing around the couch. He continued, confirming Fletcher’s understanding of the true nature of his visit, “The Princesses are not terribly fond of recent political developments in Aquellia. I’m sure you’ve read the papers.” “Of course,” Fletcher said, tallying off articles with motions of his hoof in the air. “The post-Indrek row, the Hammercrest scandal, the emergency election scramble, and the proverbial fisticuffs between the Nationalist Party and the Aquellian Progressive Party in Parliament are all over the radio.” “But have you been following the intel trail?” “I’m an analyst now, Colonel. Of course I have. The entire thing is one enormous mess. Nopony knows how deep the rabbit hole goes; that’s how pervasive the corruption has become.” “I won’t pretend that Equestria is exactly a beacon of purity...” Fletcher shook his head. “I never expected you to.” “...but it is in the best interest of the Princesses to remain on top of things. The diplomatic situation is dangerously unstable and Celestia fears it has the potential to escalate into all-out war.” Fletcher blinked, his mind finally coming to grips with what the colonel was telling him. He knew most of the information already. But it was the way the colonel addressed him that felt different. This wasn’t declarative talk on politics and personnel, it was the preamble to a request. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because I need you back in the saddle, Fletcher. The Princesses have quietly signed off on a new mandate to establish and train a new asymmetric warfare group and we are in need of your expertise.” Ironwing’s proposition hit like a bomb blast. Fletcher immediately was on alert. Expertise? As in analyst expertise? Or the expertise that came with years of being a soldier? It couldn’t have been the former. Fletcher had already served his year as a desk jockey analyst. Why would the colonel make a special trip just to ask him to do more of the same? “We?” Fletcher ventured. “I’m hoof-selecting individuals for this initiative. The Royal Equestrian Army has been keeping pace with Aquellian military developments, if only barely, but we need every edge we can get in the coming fight.” “REIN said they wanted me on analysis,” Fletcher said flatly. “It’s been ages since I’ve done field work.” “You were never one to take things sitting down, Fletcher. Do you plan on staying at your desk forever?” If Ironwing had asked weeks ago, Fletcher would have said ‘yes.’ He every bit deserved his prison of sheet metal and old concrete, barred with stacks of papers eternal. But after the previous night, it felt like a great weight had been lifted from his back. Fletcher may not have been any cheerier, but he was energized. His hoof involuntarily tapped on the floor and every computational fiber in his mind was chomping at the bit to be challenged with something; anything. “Get me back in the field, colonel,” he finally said. “That’s the Fletcher I know.” Ironwing smiled. “So I have to ask. Why the sudden change of heart? Last weekend you seemed intent on kicking me out of your house and having nothing more to do with anything I could possibly bring to you!” “Because I realized I couldn’t dwell on the past. You’re still a bastard, sir. But there’s nopony else I’d rather be working for.” “I’ll see you in my office tomorrow, then,” Ironwing said. “Good to have you back, son.” “Good to be back, colonel.” Author's Note Extremis malis extrema remedia.
1. SparkAuthor's Note The short version: this is an old project finally dug out of mothball drawer to be an experiment in rapid prototyping and release. The intent is to finish the whole thing in one to two weeks' time at the absolute maximum and force me to be efficient in both my writing and my editing. It also gives me an excuse to work on something other than Equestrian Horizon so burnout is less of an issue. Hopefully. 1. Spark “I have to admit, I like what you've done with the place!” Fletcher sighed and shook his head. Colonel Ironwing had an unusual knack for causing exasperation. While he had somehow managed to move past the stage that a school colt would pile upon his professors, Fletcher never quite got over the need to facehoof. “I haven't changed a damn thing since you were last here, old sire.” Fletcher poured himself another drink as he spoke. Ice kept magically cold. Caballo's gin. A splash of tonic water for taste. He'd never understand Ironwing's methods, but he supposed it was best not to question them. Aristotle Ironwing may well have been the polar opposite of Fletcher. His salt and pepper mane and ample wrinkles reflected his age, a great deal older than Fletcher himself. Most would consider him over the hill, but Fletcher knew better than that. The colonel was nearly a full head taller than Fletcher with a frame built like a draft horse and a wingspan to rival that of the Princesses themselves. Not that Fletcher was a slouch himself. The former Army captain stuck to a strict physical fitness regimen and an athlete's diet, a welcome change from Army PT and meals ready to eat while on field training exercises. Still, Ironwing was not one to be trifled with. “Well, it certainly feels different.” “I experimented with some new recipes. There might be a hint of floral scent still in the curtains from when I tried stir-frying that last batch of Unyasan Orchids. Don't do that, by the way.” “I'll try to remember that for next time, at least for long enough to tell my son. Sometimes he tries things out in the kitchen, but…” Ironwing paused for a moment to take a drink from his glass. “... well, let's just say there's a reason his cutie mark isn’t cooking-related.” Fletcher barely cracked a smile. Fletcher had never met the younger Ironwing, but he already felt sorry for all the bad jokes his old sire must have put him through. “I'm sure he means well. It's a great gesture to have somepony cook for you, regardless of how poor the outcome actually is.” “I suppose I must be the master of great gestures, then! I remember always being the one to cook while my wife and I were dating. By the end of it, I probably could have been a culinary instructor!” “Not that you'd want to be. I don't know enough Fancy swear words to describe the chefs I've met in Canterlot.” “Better switch to Stallian then! I hear they have a great selection of swear words.” “Swear words yes, but cuisine not so much. I never could get used to borscht. Can’t win them all I suppose.” The captain and the colonel shared a good laugh, clinking their drink glasses together before taking sips of their liquors of choice. Turning to look out the window at the night sky, Fletcher swished the drink around for a tick before gulping it down. The bitterness of the quinine remained behind, but Fletcher didn’t flinch. A bitter taste was far better than a bitter life. “So why are you really here, Colonel?” Fletcher figured he’d cut to the chase. Ironwing could be pedantic at times, but he never showed up without a plan and four contingencies. That he would drop by Fletcher’s apartment uninvited speaking of drinks and old times was ten different kinds of suspicious. “You know why I’m here, Fletcher.” No, not really. Fletcher had many guesses ranging from the inane to the catastrophic. With Ironwing, they were all equally likely. “I can guess, but you really don’t want me to guess. Changeling infiltrator attempting to kill me? Preparation to serve me court martial papers for something I did before my desk jockey days? Invitation to your son’s wedding?” “Not bad guesses to be honest.” “Evasive as usual. If you’re not going to tell me, old sire, you can finish your drink and get out of my house.” Ironwing shook his head and chuckled. “Fletcher, I’m just here to see how you were doing; making sure you were all right.” It took a moment for the true meaning to sink in. Fletcher’s bemused smirk immediately twisted into a hellish glower. Of all the things to be in all the times that were, it had to be this and it had to be now. The glass levitating next to his head in the glow of magic exploded, the glittering fragments clattering to the hardwood floor as Fletcher’s magical aura released its grasp. “Ironwing,” he said darkly, “We said we’d never speak of it again.” “I said I’d bury it if you did, which it is now quite obvious that you did not.” The mirthful countenance vanished, replaced now by a stern, stony visage more fitting of a monument than his old commanding officer. “How have you really been doing, Fletcher?” BANG. The crack of Fletcher’s hoof slamming into the display table by the window echoed through the living room. Glass clearly crackled and tinked when he brought his hoof away. The victim of his ire was an old photograph, now lying face down with splintered frame and broken display glass smashed into the table. But in the mess of splinters and shards, something metallic glistened. Realizing his mistake, Fletcher shuffled a hoof over the mess, trying to hide the glint behind the dull ruin of the old photo frame. But it was too late. Ironwing’s eyes fell upon the incriminating bit of evidence and he rose from his seat to address Fletcher face to face. The colonel's speech was flat and emotionless. “You kept it.” Fletcher's ears drooped for a moment before he forced himself to stand up straight and compose himself. He looked the colonel dead in the eye. “Haven't found a buyer yet.” The colonel closed his eyes and sighed. It was a bold-faced lie. Fletcher knew it and Ironwing knew it. Fletcher had never found a buyer. He’d never even attempted to look for one. And so the ring had remained in the photo frame with the photo that accompanied it. “Do you remember what I told you before you got on that airship to Stalliongrad?” “No, sir.” “I said you can't let somepony from your past write your future for you.” “I fail to see how this is relevant.” “You know exactly why it's relevant, Fletcher. I know you and Caesura were close, but it's been five years. You have to come to terms with it.” It was five years to the day, in fact. Five years since the engagement. Five years since they’re promised each other happily ever after. Four years since they’d married. Three years since he’d been deployed on mission after mission beyond the frontier with the Stallian Guard Rangers. Two years since he’d returned home to an empty house and a note telling him to move on. One year since he’d been transferred to a desk job in the interest of “recovery.” “I swore an oath of loyalty when I first enlisted, colonel,” Fletcher said. “Through all my years of service, I never once wavered from that oath.” Ironwing was nonplussed at the sudden change of subject, but it only barely registered on his face. Fletcher never expected it to faze him. Ironwing had dealt with spymasters and government spooks at the Aquellian consulate for years before Fletcher’s unit had been placed under his command. He knew exactly how to handle word games and back channel diplomacy. “This is your personal development we're talking about, Fletcher, not your career.” “I was getting to that,” Fletcher snapped. “Look. You don't just let things like this go, colonel.” “Fletcher, I'm sorry. I truly am. I know what it's like to lose a spouse. It hurts you — all the way down to your very core. There's that feeling in your bones that won't go away. It eats at you, corrodes your soul.” It would have been easier if it were a lie. The colonel, too, had lost his wife some time ago. Fletcher had even attended her funeral. But he wasn’t about to be played just because he’d borne witness to tragedy. “You think I don’t know that?” Fletcher shot back. “I have resources. I can reach out to them. We can help you, give you a fresh start.” “A fresh start? Don’t patronize me.” “I’m not patronizing. I’m not just your old CO, I’m your friend. I want to help you even if you won’t help yourself.” “Is that what Celestia said to you, too?” Ironwing finally flinched, his stony disposition cracking at the mention of things better left buried. What could have passed for pity before now transmuted into rage. Still, the army officer caught his own lapse in control and corrected his course. This did little to bridle his fury, however. Ironwing snorted in anger. “That was low.” “Said the pot to the kettle!” Fletcher growled in retort. “Weren’t you the one who brought up Caesura?” Ironwing remained firm, stern as a school headmaster to an ornery colt, the rolling thunder of his deep voice seeming to fill Fletcher’s head instead of his ears. “I brought up Caesura because I’ve seen how she’s still affecting you. You’re chasing ghosts, Fletcher.” “You still have my sympathy for Nausicaa. Nopony deserved to go like that and nopony deserved to suffer like you did for it. But when Caesura walked out, I didn’t have the Princess offer her ‘help’ to me like she did for you.” There was a beat of silence. Fletcher almost smirked, hoping he’d driven home the point. Behind, all he could hear the ice cubes in Ironwing’s glass clink together as he took another sip. He heard the colonel sigh and the clop of hooves on hardwood as he stood. Fletcher whirled around, thinking that Ironwing had finally gotten it through his head that it was time to leave. “You’re right,” Ironwing finally said. The sternness in his voice had vanished. Instead, he just sounded exasperated, tired, even. “You didn’t. And that’s probably for the better. I’ve been privy to things that could destroy empires. I’ve made mistakes, mistakes I am still paying for even today. But that doesn’t mean I don’t genuinely want to make it better.” Somehow, the concession didn’t make Fletcher feel any better. It was never that way with Ironwing. Even if he admitted he was wrong, he was still right. Fletcher hated it. “This isn’t something you can help with, Ironwing.” “You don’t have to fight this alone.” It felt like one last plea, one last attempt to coax the return of the prodigal son. “You were my protege, Fletcher. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I’m trying to help you every way I know how.” Fletcher could only stare blankly back. “Finish your drink, old sire. It seems we have nothing more to say to each other.” The colonel closed his eyes and sighed. He finally set his glass down upon the coaster on the coffee table, his drink unfinished. “I think my thirst has been thoroughly sated. Thank you for entertaining my visit, old friend.” Ironwing turned and trotted to the door, stepping outside and closing it without so much as a glance backward. The living room fell silent. For a moment, Fletcher could only stand and stare blankly into the carved and decorated wood of the front door to the upscale apartment. Finally, he sighed in resignation, turning his attention back to the window where Luna’s moon watched over the floating motes of faerie fire that were the lights of homes in the valley below.
2. Old Flames“I don’t give horse apples about your job. If all you are is Captain, you’re not worth the uniform you’re wearing. I’m far more interested in Fletcher.” Fletcher shot to his senses, bolting upright in bed. He rubbed his temple with a hoof. Caesura’s honeyed words hung thick in the moonlight, the saccharine afterglow of their memory stubbornly clinging to his mind’s ear. The captain flopped back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. It didn’t take long for him to open them again and snarl exasperatedly into his pillow. Whenever Fletcher closed his eyes, he was back at the bar with her and that same sex-charged swagger. That same lush cream coat. That same luxurious auburn mane. That same sultry voice that melted inhibitions and corroded defenses like gentle acid. Fletcher threw himself out of bed and onto his hooves. There would be no sleep tonight. He’d never lied to Ironwing about getting over Caesura. He’d just hoped that Ironwing would never think to ask. But that was wishful thinking. Ironwing was in the intel business. There was no way he wouldn’t notice. The captain rolled out of bed and made a beeline for the liquor cabinet. It was a weekend. He could afford to self-medicate. The recipe was the same. Ice kept magically cold. Caballo's gin. A splash of tonic water for taste. Bitter quinine rolled over Fletcher’s tongue, shallow comfort for the beginning of a long night of unrest. He planned to skip the tonic water for the next round. But that was quickly ended by a rapping from the front door. Fletcher glanced at the clock. “What the hell? It’s ten at night.” He trotted to the front door, curiosity competing with paranoia for first billing on the stage of the mind. Ironwing’s visit had set him on edge. What could it possibly be at this hour of night? Fletcher threw the door open. Whatever he was expecting, it was not this. “My darling Fletcher. It’s been a very long time.” Before him stood a cream-colored unicorn mare, her green eyes framed by an auburn mane kept short but well-coiffed. Her emerald gaze met Fletcher’s and a wistful smile tugged at her lips. Fletcher froze. He couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t possible. It was fake. It was a hallucination. He was drunk. He was stressed. He wasn’t seeing what he was seeing. Fletcher tried with all his might to convince himself that his senses were lying. But every facet of his ability to perceive screamed in protest. Caesura was very much real and very much standing in front of him. “Are you going to let a girl in or are you just going to stand there gawking?” As if in a trance, Fletcher waved her in, shutting the front door behind her. He continued to stare in shock long after she had already sauntered on in and taken a seat on one of the couches in the living room. Finally Fletcher returned to his senses. Senses, however, did not enforce civility. “You sound like you’ve got something on the tip of your tongue,” Caesura said. Fletcher glared, refusing to sit and instead continuing to stare her down from standing position. “I only have one question, Caesura.” The fire in Fletcher’s eyes as he asked the question could have ignited stone. “Why?” Caesura hesitated for a split second, finally deflecting, “It’s a long story.” “I’ve got all night.” Fletcher retorted. “I don’t know how else to put this eloquently, so I’ll skip the smalltalk.” Caesura sighed. “I hurt you, Fletcher. For that I am well and truly sorry. I know you won’t take me back and I’m not asking you to.” “Then why did you even bother coming?” Fletcher snapped. “Why not just stay away since I obviously wasn’t good enough for you?” “That’s not why I left!” Caesura shot back. She immediately regretted her words, as the burning red of her cheeks and the anguished rub of hoof on forehead revealed. “I left because I couldn’t contain my wanderlust. I felt locked in, trapped. I thought that walking out would let me take care of that while leaving minimal fallout for you.” “We both know how well that went.” “I hurt you when I walked out. But it hurt me, too. I didn’t realize just how much it hurt until after I was long gone.” Really? She was sorry now? What the hell kind of shitshow was this? Here she was, coming into his house and apologizing to someone whom she’d cut to the bone. What kind of cruel joke was this? “Well that’s fan-fucking-tastic,” Fletcher growled, vitriol dripping from every word. “Now we’re two ponies who hurt each other more than we ever thought possible standing in the same room because someone on a whim decided it would be a good idea to show up at my house in the dead of night.” “It was not a whim.” Caesura’s whisper was barely audible. Fletcher wanted to pretend he didn’t hear it. He was conflicted. Part of him wanted to lash out; to punish her for her perceived insolence, especially under the circumstances. The other part of him read her body language and pitied her for what she must have suffered while she was away. Had he not suffered the same way? Perhaps he wasn’t the only one nursing a proverbial sucking wound? Caesura continued, “I... I thought long and hard about this, for weeks -- months even. I kept putting it off because I was too proud to think of anypony than myself. But it kept bothering me. It was a feeling in my bones that wouldn’t go away. It --” “Eats at you. Corrodes your soul,” Fletcher finished. “Yes.” The two sat and stood in silence for a moment, though the mood had noticeably changed. That tiny thread of connection, the linking of the same words between two ponies had gone leaps and bounds toward easing the tension that stretched between them. Fletcher was hurting, that much was certain. But he could not bear to throw his compassion away because of it. Perhaps the least that he could do was to listen. Finally, Caesura spoke again. “So I have a proposal.” “Shoot.” “I want this to be our last night together. Forever. We do what we need to do, say what we need to say, and come morning we part ways and move on.” “What good would that do?” “Closure. We could properly mourn times past instead of forlornly wishing for times we’d never have. It’s healthy.” Were it anypony else, Fletcher would have thought it a cheap grab for sex. But he knew Caesura. While the sex they had was definitely fantastic, there was far more to her than a simple piece of ass. She was erudite and inquisitive, somepony who craved intellectual stimulation just as much as she did physical. An offer to talk and love-make it out was completely within her character. Still, Fletcher was torn. Walking out was not easily forgiven, even less so when that was followed by two years of sequestration before materializing out of nowhere. Yet deep inside, Fletcher knew this was the very moment he had been waiting for. It was a second chance to say goodbye, to finally hash out the differences between them, and move on. As Caesura had said, closure. Finally done staring at his drink, Fletcher looked up, meeting his ex-wife’s gaze. “Would you like a drink?” “Caballo’s,” she said with a smile. “And tonic, on the rocks,” Fletcher finished, putting together the drink between them in the glow of his magic. Caesura gently accepted the glass with her own aura before lifting it in toast, “To us. To our past together and our future apart. May we be ever stronger for it.” “Tak skazat', vse my.” Fletcher assented in Stallian. “You and your Stallian,” she said with mock derision, waving her hoof as a cat would bat away an unwanted toy with a paw. “It’s nearly second nature to me now. Spend enough time in Stalliongrad and it starts to rub off on you.” “Do you even remember what you were like before you were assigned to frontier operations?” A hell of a question to be sure. The assignment to Stalliongrad had eaten a chunk of his life recently and the tempo of operations had been so high intensity that it was easy to forget he had once been stationed in a garrison in Canterlot. But there were some things to garrison life that weren’t so bad. “I remember what you were like!” “Do tell,” she cooed, batting her eyes in anticipation of flattery. “You were flirtatious, manipulative, and your impropriety knew no bounds.” Fletcher smirked at his own barb. Caesura gasped in feigned offense before breaking out into laughter. “Oh come now, Fletcher! If I weren’t any of that you wouldn’t have paid me any mind.” “Really? I never really thought needy conservatory fillies were my type!” “Good thing I’m all that and more,” she nickered happily. “I was always glad to see you weren’t of the pseudo-intellectual machismo officership ilk. All talk and no brains and not even proper fun to make up for it. So boring.” “Should have gone into masonry instead of music if you’d wanted to talk to bricks all day.” “Rude. Almost as rude as your little tirade to the officer’s club.” “I’m fantastic and hilarious.” Fletcher smirked before taking another drink from his glass. “Somepony had to help that poor griffon explain democracy to the peanut gallery.” “It’s actually pretty amazing how democracy is such a foreign concept to so many in the military when they are first and foremost the tools of the state,” Caesura mused between sips. “Then again I suppose it makes sense, given that Equestria has had monarchy of some form or another for the past two millenia.” “Your history is pretty good for a needy conservatory filly.” “I’m not your average airheaded conservatory filly, captain.” “I think some of the other officers at the Ponyland or the Veridian would have preferred that.” “Tch! Of all the other eligible stallions at the Veridian, why do you think I chose you?” “I don’t know,” Fletcher chuckled. “Because I’m better-looking and infinitely more charming?” The same words that were spoken all those years ago echoed in his head. Familiarity embraced Fletcher with soft, fuzzy warmth. His cheeks flushed a bit as the memories warmed his chest and allowed him to finally relax. Fletcher moved as if under a spell, putting a fresh vinyl record onto the player and letting it run even as he set down his drink and offered a hoof to Caesura to dance. It took only a moment before he was back at the Veridian, the smooth notes of the bass and jazz trumpet floating by while he slowly danced cheek to cheek with the mare before him. Awareness vanished into euphoria-fueled fugue. The background noise of patrons faded to muted babbling, the slow strobe of the ceiling fan blades against the café lights blurred to mottled watercolors, and the once sharp clip-clops of his hooves on hardwood flooring echoed against the aether around them. “Well I certainly wasn’t expecting this...” The hot breath from Caesura’s lips gently caressed his cheek as they continued their slow dance to the tune emanating from the record player. Fletcher said nothing, instead pulling her closer. Together they spun, their bodies becoming entwined and their lips sliding from brushing to locking. Caesura tugged and Fletcher followed. The dancers drifted down the hall and through the bedroom door, coming to rest upon the bed in preparation for passions fulfilled. ****** “Why do you think we ever stopped, Fletcher?” Fletcher heard her loud and clear, despite the fact that Caesura’s face was pressed against his barrel as they basked in passion’s afterglow. Truthfully, Fletcher didn’t have the answer. If their marriage had always been like they were tonight, then why had it ever failed? “Beats the hell out of me. I mean, if you were any better at lovemaking they’d have to make you a princess!” “Oh hush. You don’t have to flatter me to get me to ride you again,” Caesura chuckled. “Besides, we both know we were in it for more than the sex.” “Jokes aside, I can’t put my hoof on it,” Fletcher sighed. “If everything was perfect, why did it all break down?” “Hm.” Caesura paused in thought, the only sounds remaining being the distant, muffled tunes from the record player in the living room and the soft whispers of her breath beneath the sheets. Luna’s moon now peeked through the window of the bedroom. Fletcher idly thought about all the lewd acts that Princess Luna would have to wade through while walking among dreams, the absurd humor being enough to make him chuckle inside. But the surreal suggestion left an impression he could not ignore. “Maybe,” Fletcher began, “it was because we were perfect.” “Too perfect to exist?” “I mean we were perfect for each other in our minds’ eyes. When imperfections came to light, we glossed over them or buried them. But we both knew they were always there no matter how much we lied to ourselves. It created dissonance.” “I love it when you talk nerdy to me, but I hate it when you’re right,” Caesura sighed. “It makes sense,” Fletcher said before kissing Caesura’s muzzle. “We may have been in love, but we were ultimately incompatible. We loved the idea of each other more than the actual pony.” “I guess it’s poetic in a way,” she whispered. “No matter how much love we give, we’re so full of ourselves that it’s all worthless in the end.” “I wouldn’t say worthless. They were the best years of my life.” “So far,” Caesura cooed, nuzzling his chest. “What if there’s no more?” Fletcher wondered out loud. “There will be more, Fletcher,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. “I promise you. There’s a whole wide world of Equestria for you to see. No sense in getting hung up on a needy conservatory filly.” “You were always more than that. But I see your point.” The pensive mask melted into a mischievous smile. “Although I’m sure there’s something a certain needy conservatory filly wouldn’t mind being hung up on...” Caesura purred happily, locking lips with Fletcher before forcefully rolling him over to straddle her. “Shut up and love me, you miserable cur!” ****** Fletcher awoke to rays of golden sun stabbing into his eyes. Luna’s moon had been replaced with Celestia’s searing sun. By its position in the sky, dawn had broken long ago and the morning had already passed Fletcher by. He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes with a hoof to clear the sleep from them. It was then that he realized Caesura’s absence. The captain leaped out of bed, his eyes darting around the room for any signs of her. Had it all been a fever dream? Had he imagined the entire night? His fears were allayed with the squeak of the shower faucet turning off and the sound of the door opening. Fletcher bolted out of the bedroom to the entrance of the bathroom, almost knocking over Caesura as trotted out, mane still damp from the shower. “Easy there, captain. I knew you were excited to see me, but I didn’t think you were that excited!” Fletcher stiffened at the jab. They’d gone all night like that, exchanging light-hearted jabs cycling with more introspective discussions and bouts of intense lovemaking. Noticing his discomfort, Caesura stepped closer, giving him a quick peck on the muzzle. “What’s on your mind, Fletcher?” “Is this real?” “How do you mean?” “You’re here. I’m here. We’re here. We had drinks. We talked. We danced. We made love. Last night was real. I felt it with all of my senses that it was real. But I’m still afraid that it wasn’t.” “It was real, Fletcher. It wasn’t some magic spell or Equestria imploding or you hallucinating from too much tonic. You’re you. I’m me. We talked. We drank. We danced. We made love. It happened and that’s life.” It happened and that’s life. Her words echoed in Fletcher’s head. Those words could sum up the entire experience from start to finish: their engagement, their marriage, the adventures in Stalliongrad, the falling out, the lonely years, and the reunion. It happened and that was life. “I think…” Caesura said after a long pause. “I think it might be time for me to go.” Part of Fletcher wanted to beg her to stay, to try again, to make things work. But the other part, the part that had conversed long into the night with Caesura herself knew that the best option was for them to part ways. Though the lovemaking had been grand on all levels, the introspection between sessions had gradually highlighted everywhere they had fallen short. “Yes,” Fletcher said sadly. “I’ll walk you to the door.” The two trotted to the front door in silence. The walk was slow and deliberate, but at the same time burdened with a halting weight, a funerary air that seemed to cast a pall over the whole house. Fletcher gingerly opened the door, allowing the crisp Autumn breeze to gently ruffle his mane. “It’s been wonderful, Fletcher,” Caesura said, her emerald eyes glistening. “I truly wish you the best in life. May war never find you unprepared and may those you keep forever hold you in regard.” “Thank you, Caesura,” he rasped. “I don’t know what you’re looking for out there, but I sincerely hope you find it. May your wandering bring you ever closer to home. Goodbye.” “Goodbye, Fletcher.” Caesura gave one last wan smile before stepping outside and gently closing the door behind her.
3. Ash on the WindDeals were something made in back alleys and dark, smoky rooms. Colonel Ironwing did not indulge in deals; he crafted policy. Every step was painstakingly researched, every line item meticulously placed and worded so that there would be no mistake about the will of the Princess as it pertained to her finest soldiers. But where policy failed, deals had to be made. Soft shadow enveloped him, wrapping the booth in protective darkness that was only broken by the milky white circle of light cast by a tiny fixture above. The colonel idly swirled his drink around in the bottom of his glass before taking a small sip; slowly, deliberately as if stalling for time. He reached down to table level and took an already-lit cigar between his lips from its prior resting place in the ashtray, taking a long, slow puff on it before allowing it to idle at the corner of his mouth. The bar was quiet, most of the patrons having turned in early on a weeknight. Only the most stalwart of drinkers and staff remained and all knew to keep their distance from the burly pegasus stallion in the long coat and cigar in the corner booth. It was the perfect place to make a deal. But when Caesura walked out, I didn’t have the Princess offer her ‘help’ to me like she did for you. Fletcher was not wrong. The elder Ironwing’s impropriety had very nearly cost him everything. He snorted angrily at his own dilution of the narrative. No, it did cost him everything -- everything that mattered. He was not one to believe in the old gods or karma or fate, but Ironwing could not help but feel at times that his late wife’s death had been some cosmic entity mocking him for his sins. It was only the whims of said cosmic fate that prevented the scandal from fulminating into the cataclysmic destruction of his career. The twist, of course was that it came with the cataclysmic destruction of his family. Ironwing took another drag of his cigar. Now was not the time to dwell on past sins. Celestia’s instructions had been clear. Look forward, not back. There was work to be done. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long.” The mare’s voice was thick like honey and just as sweet. Barely glancing up at the new arrival, Ironwing merely gestured with his muzzle to the seat across the booth. Caesura’s mane was worn in a tightly wound bun, tucked under a faux flower trimmed with lace. Her cream white coat glinted in the dim light, her lines clearly standing out against the dark slate of her trench coat. “I’m notorious for arriving at appointments early,” the colonel said, smoke slowly wafting out of his nostrils and the ashen tip of his cigar. “So no, I didn’t wait for long.” As she took her seat, the bartender trotted by, delivering her drink without so much as a word exchanged. “I trust your journey was a pleasant one, Aristotle?” “As pleasant as a weather-beaten redeye airship from Canterlot to Stalliongrad and a mile’s trot in the rain could be, yes.” “Such is Svetlahorse. The price one pays for privacy these days.” The mare chuckled to herself before sipping at her drink. “So what brings you to a dive bar in a farming village in the shadow of mighty Stalliongrad?” “You know exactly why I’m here.” “For an officer of the crown, you certainly don’t tolerate much smalltalk.” “Smalltalk is for self-satisfied courtesans, not those who can truly consider themselves in the know. Now what do you have to report?” The lady unicorn produced a small cigarette case from her pocketbook, drawing a single hoof-rolled cigarette to her lips and lighting it with a mild flash of magic. She drew a tiny draught, cupping the smoke as if to taste it before blowing it out through her nostrils. “Mission accomplished, if you can really call it that. Honestly, Ari, if you have to resort to this kind of methodology to get what you want, perhaps you should reconsider your choice of friends.” “Do you have a good doctor?” “Well...” Caesura paused, somewhat surprised but mostly bemused at Ironwing’s intent to keep questioning off himself. The relish dripping from her words gave away any attempt at euphemistic subtlety. “Being -- how shall we say -- doted upon means I am rarely in want of much.” “A good doctor doesn’t ask the patient what the cure is; they tell them.” “A good doctor also doesn’t force the cure upon their patient,” she countered. “Then why do institutionalized wards exist? Vaccines? Thaumaturgy? Sometimes the cure needs to be administered whether the patient wants it or not.” “You’re a piece of work, Ari,” Caesura scoffed. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any darker dipping into your abyss of intel and spec ops, you go even deeper.” “I’m doing everything I can to save my country...” Ironwing grunted. His voice suddenly softened. “...and the closest I have to a second son.” “What of your first?” “I’ve kept him as far away from the intel community as I could. He needs the opportunity to grow up without being tangled up in my world.” “Still working that mail job?” “He’s happy there. No one snoops around. There’s no need for protection details or counter-surveillance. He may think I’m aloof and disinterested, but a normal life is the greatest gift I could ever give him. If that comes with the necessity of keeping my distance, then that’s the way it has to be.” “That at least makes sense and involves minimal deception. But did you really think doing this to Fletcher would help him heal?” “Fletcher has a tendency to fixate on things, which is an asset on mission. But with Caesura, he’d gotten stuck. Caesura was the only thing on his mind, a mind where the talents we needed were locked in a prison of his own making.” “Didn’t you ever think to reach out to Caesura herself?” “She wanted nothing to do with him or us. She went to pursue her dreams as a violinist in Long Guo and we left her at that. There was nothing I could say or do that would bring her back.” “But you needed Fletcher and the only way to Fletcher was Caesura, so...” “So I called in a favor.” “Of all the things I’ve done in my line of work, this was by far the most bizarre.” “Surely you’ve cavorted with far more salaciously eccentric marks?” The mare turned her nose up at the remark, clearly annoyed at the implication but all the while stifling a laugh at its absurdity. The bartender was making his final rounds, shooing out stragglers and bussing and wiping down tables as closing time drew near. The mare waved her hoof to dismiss him as he got close, making the bar keep skip over to the next booth. It wasn’t long before Ironwing, his companion, and the bartender who knew better than to ask questions were the only ones left. “I think it’s safe to drop the act now,” Ironwing said. The mare leaned forward, carefully eyeing Aristotle before sighing deeply. The air around her seemed to shimmer a faint green, the pupils in her eyes disappearing in unearthly glow before settling on a fine emerald green color. The cream of her coat faded to a dark grey that glinted like polished onyx and her auburn mane rotated hues until it arrived at an iridescent morpho blue. The changeling had shown her true form. “Pulling intel from horny MPs or councilors is nothing,” the changeling said. “You can manipulate a lot of weak-minded individuals with a flick of the tail and the right kind of wink. No matter how weird their kinks, the sex never bothered me. It was all part of the job.” She took a sip from her glass before continuing. “But impersonating somepony’s ex-wife to give him closure on her departure? I’ve been infiltrating for most of my life and even I think that felt wrong. Protecting your son using obfuscation is one thing, Ari, but trying to cure your old protege with an outright lie is another thing entirely.” “It’s not the lie that cured him,” Aristotle countered. “The lie was merely a catalyst. It broke his fixation, made him focus on something else, a place where he could truly use the full extent of his talents and leave the disaster of his former marriage behind. Fletcher cured himself. We merely facilitated his awakening.” The changeling took one last drag on her cigarette before snuffing it in the ashtray. “I know you’ve been in the game for a long time, but I must remind you that lies are only foolproof if you intend never to see the pony you lied to ever again. I’ve had to burn identities because somepony missed an old lover and decided to come calling at an inopportune time.” “I assure you, Arete, I pick my fights very carefully.” “That’s what I’m worried about, Ari dear. We’ve worked together a long time and you’ve never steered me wrong before, at least from assignment to assignment. But what if the entire game is wrong? All the little white lies you told to set things up, all the little things you did to tweak ponies and assets into place could suddenly come crashing down and we’d never know it until it happened. Then what would we do?” “I’m well aware that it’s a house of cards. But we’ll deal with that when the time comes. Until then, we continue to gather intel and hope that it’s better than that of our enemies.” Ironwing said. The colonel downed the remainder of his drink, took a last puff of his cigar, and snuffed the stub in the ashtray before shuffling out of the booth. “I believe we’ve overstayed last call.” “The barkeep knows me,” Arete chuckled. “We can stay as long as we need to.” “Duly noted. But I’m done for the night. My flight is out of Stalliongrad tomorrow morning.” Arete slid out of the booth, the green shimmer returning for a split second as she reapplied a disguise. In an instant, she was a different mare, an earth pony with a fiery red and orange mane and a pearl white coat. Arete dropped a hoof full of bits on the table from her pocketbook before joining Ironwing at the door. “You’re playing a dangerous game, old sire,” she whispered as they stepped outside. “Only because I understand the stakes,” the colonel replied. “We live in interesting times, Arete.” “Let us hope the excitement of it does not make fools of us all.” ****** Fletcher’s muzzle was buried in a book when the knock on his apartment door came. He rose from the couch, flicking his tail and stretching from head to toe before trotting to the front door. The magic glow of his horn gripped the handle and swung the door open. “Colonel Ironwing. To what do I owe the honor?” Ironwing was out of the customary military garb, sporting only sunglasses and saddlebags. The elder stallion pushed his sunglasses up onto his head before looking to Fletcher. “It’s less of an honor and more of an apology.” “Apology?” Fletcher raised an eyebrow. “For the presupposing that my help was needed or desired.” Well that was certainly new. Fletcher was almost certain the number of times Ironwing had ever apologized was in the single digits, if ever. But now he was apologizing to him? As much as it was an eyebrow-raiser, Fletcher wasn’t about to be impolite. He stepped out of the doorway and waved Ironwing inside, shutting the door behind him. “What’s that in the saddlebag?” Fletcher craned his neck to peek at the box that protruded from Ironwing’s saddlebags. Ironwing reached behind, gently nudging the box out of its harness until he was able to present it to Fletcher with his hoof. “It’s a glass set, since I seem to have ruined your old one,” the colonel said with a wan smile. “Old sire, you really shouldn’t have,” the captain chuckled. “It was probably my cue to stop drinking anyway!” “Then accept it as a new beginning for your collection.” A new beginning. Ironwing always chose his words carefully, and the slight clunkiness at which the words’ fit was clue enough to Fletcher’s analyst sensibilities to know something was up. He cocked his head to the side and looked Ironwing in the eye. “What’s this really about, colonel?” “Fletcher, don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt somepony while they’re admitting they’re wrong?” Ironwing mock implored. Fletcher raised an eyebrow. Ironwing placed the box of glasses down upon the coffee table and began pacing around the couch. He continued, confirming Fletcher’s understanding of the true nature of his visit, “The Princesses are not terribly fond of recent political developments in Aquellia. I’m sure you’ve read the papers.” “Of course,” Fletcher said, tallying off articles with motions of his hoof in the air. “The post-Indrek row, the Hammercrest scandal, the emergency election scramble, and the proverbial fisticuffs between the Nationalist Party and the Aquellian Progressive Party in Parliament are all over the radio.” “But have you been following the intel trail?” “I’m an analyst now, Colonel. Of course I have. The entire thing is one enormous mess. Nopony knows how deep the rabbit hole goes; that’s how pervasive the corruption has become.” “I won’t pretend that Equestria is exactly a beacon of purity...” Fletcher shook his head. “I never expected you to.” “...but it is in the best interest of the Princesses to remain on top of things. The diplomatic situation is dangerously unstable and Celestia fears it has the potential to escalate into all-out war.” Fletcher blinked, his mind finally coming to grips with what the colonel was telling him. He knew most of the information already. But it was the way the colonel addressed him that felt different. This wasn’t declarative talk on politics and personnel, it was the preamble to a request. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because I need you back in the saddle, Fletcher. The Princesses have quietly signed off on a new mandate to establish and train a new asymmetric warfare group and we are in need of your expertise.” Ironwing’s proposition hit like a bomb blast. Fletcher immediately was on alert. Expertise? As in analyst expertise? Or the expertise that came with years of being a soldier? It couldn’t have been the former. Fletcher had already served his year as a desk jockey analyst. Why would the colonel make a special trip just to ask him to do more of the same? “We?” Fletcher ventured. “I’m hoof-selecting individuals for this initiative. The Royal Equestrian Army has been keeping pace with Aquellian military developments, if only barely, but we need every edge we can get in the coming fight.” “REIN said they wanted me on analysis,” Fletcher said flatly. “It’s been ages since I’ve done field work.” “You were never one to take things sitting down, Fletcher. Do you plan on staying at your desk forever?” If Ironwing had asked weeks ago, Fletcher would have said ‘yes.’ He every bit deserved his prison of sheet metal and old concrete, barred with stacks of papers eternal. But after the previous night, it felt like a great weight had been lifted from his back. Fletcher may not have been any cheerier, but he was energized. His hoof involuntarily tapped on the floor and every computational fiber in his mind was chomping at the bit to be challenged with something; anything. “Get me back in the field, colonel,” he finally said. “That’s the Fletcher I know.” Ironwing smiled. “So I have to ask. Why the sudden change of heart? Last weekend you seemed intent on kicking me out of your house and having nothing more to do with anything I could possibly bring to you!” “Because I realized I couldn’t dwell on the past. You’re still a bastard, sir. But there’s nopony else I’d rather be working for.” “I’ll see you in my office tomorrow, then,” Ironwing said. “Good to have you back, son.” “Good to be back, colonel.” Author's Note Extremis malis extrema remedia.
