Little Redd: the Lost Concept of Peace

Chapter Twenty Four

Eyes on the Moon

Hawk Eye shook himself off, paying no mind to Eagle's dismay, and picked another hoof full of strawberries.  He suddenly remembered his marefriend, who was probably wondering where in Celestia's name he was at that particular moment.

You would be so much more enjoyable if she were here, he thought as he began to retrace his steps back to the clearing he visited a dozen times a year.  He stopped.

I'm talking to a clearing.

He rolled the thought around his head for a few more seconds before blinking and stepping back into the trees.

The starlight was completely blotted out by the heavy deciduous forestry and ancient, moss-covered boulders tossed about as if giants had a hearty game of marbles.  Hawk kept an ear out for Eagle Eye and Zecora to detect any misdirection from his trail.  Nothing but anguished cries of frustration emanated from his sibling as he scuffed himself on various annoyances such as briars and rabbit holes, and Zecora moved silently only a few paces behind Hawk Eye.

"You're gonna wake the dead," the bronze-headed stallion growled irritably at his brothers inability to cope.  He heard Eagle pause a second before quickly trotting back over to re-close the distance that had resulted.

"I see you've forgotten that I'm like twice your size," he said, rubber-necking from beside of his brother to look him in the eye.  Hawk Eye shrugged with a half-lidded, nonchalant gaze, avoiding eye contact.

"You seek companionship, yet argue like colts," Zecora suddenly said from behind them, making Hawk Eye jump.  He had forgotten that she was there.

She's too silent.  It's creepy.

He glanced at his brother at his side, also with a startled look on his face.  Eagle cleared his throat, and began watching leaves pass by beneath his hooves.

The trees thinned and the boulders eventually stopped recurring entirely as Hawk Eye came across the oddly comforting clearing, continuing to traverse the more familiar area.  Finally, after an hour's walk from Hawk's oasis, the trio came to Zecora's front door.

"I assume you have a bed to lay in tonight?" Zecora asked as they stopped.

"We'll be alright," Hawk said, Eagle Eye snickering.

"You rhymed together."

Zecora and his sibling turned to face the bleach-white stallion with identically cocked brows, taking a moment for a surprisingly awkward silence to settle at the childish remark.  Eagle looked down and to the side.

"Sorry."

A grin slowly spread across Hawk Eye's face as he chuckled and shook his head.

"You're an idiot."

Zecora smiled, and nodded to the brothers.

"Goodnight."

"Reflected," Hawk said, smiling, as his brother returned her nod.  She turned and entered her hut, the light of a single candle temporarily flooding the stoop.  Hawk caught a glimpse of long, pearly red and white mane curled in the corner, and nearly called a greeting to the sleeping form of Little Redd as the door closed and he was again left in darkness.  He heard movement, and he turned to find Eagle walking back towards Ponyville.  He looked up at the moon, bathing in the cool blue light and listening to the crickets.

"Hey bro."

Eagle's hoof falls became silent, and Hawk kept his blue gaze on the moon.

"Yeah?"  He patiently awaited an answer, though it was several expectant seconds wasted as his brother continued to watch the sky.  Eventually he turned to continue down the road, startled by Hawk's delayed response.

"I'm gonna hang around here a while longer."

Eagle turned around again to find Hawk Eye already continuing deeper into the Everfree, down the thin path they had left a few moments before.  Alarm sprang up within Eagle Eye, as he had never known his brother for his eagerness to explore the Forest.

"Hawk Eye!"

The black stallion paused, already practically invisible within the foliage.  He looked over his shoulder, his dark eye urging Eagle to continue.  Eagle's brow furrowed as he finished his call.

"Are you okay?"

Hawk Eye didn't blink as he looked forward again.

"I'm fine."

"Hawk Eye!"

This time he didn't respond, vanishing within the Everfree as if he had merely been an illusion.

Hawk Eye walked back, his pristine memory proving itself as it guided him back to his pond.  The waterfall drowned out the crickets and sparkled like a shower of diamonds against the light of the late moon, bringing a calming feeling over him that blotted out the pain he continued to harbor from the previous day's wolf encounter.  He sat by the glistening pool, ignoring the temptation to pick more strawberries, and just kept gazing at the sky.  Left only to his thoughts and the silence of the forest, the sensation of helplessness came over him.

The world was whizzing by, spinning in confusing circles.  Events that would bring his home to its knees that had had no control nor power over stopping.  He kept his eyes on the moon with these thoughts in his head, searching for anything, any sign of a spark.  He didn't know what he was looking for, but he knew that he would need to be able to summon the darkest corners of himself for the long war ahead.  Before he knew it, the moon was nearly gone over the horizon and the morning had begun to wash over the Everfree.  Finally, he looked to the pristine blades of soft grass beneath his hooves before turning with a disappointed sigh and walking home.

A simple black space.

"Void of anything, aside from nothing."

His voice chuckled, echoing through the area infinitely before dying out.

"Well, obviously."

Suddenly a foreign sound invaded the bleak peace, a quiet ringing that slowly grows in intensity until it's making the void vibrate.

"Bloody-- what is that?"

The echoes faded, replaced with the accursed ringing of a bell-based alarm clock and a red-orange space instead of the previous black one.  Irish Cream peeled his eyes open, squinting under the sunlight of his open-curtained bedside window.

Fucking curtains.

He groaned and silenced the clock, knocking it off of the nightstand.  Sitting up, he stretched his wings and considered preening them.  He had lied to Party Hard the previous evening; he actually hadn't preened for a couple of weeks, and it was beginning to show in both his wings' appearance and the nonstop itching that accompanied them at the moment.

It'll take awhile.  Fae'd be put on overtime.

He looked up, avoiding the light from his window, as he recalled his previous work hours.

I've taken overtime more than once this week for her to go out.

He shrugged as he stood, stretched again, and threw his curtains closed.  Picking up the clock and placing it back on the table, he walked out of the room to find his front door partially agape and sounds of retching coming from outside.  Continuing into the kitchen, he retrieved a teapot from his rustic cabinets, and filled it with water before striking a fire in his woodstove.  Party Hard stumbled inside as the pot was set on the stove, his eyes red and watering.  Cream turned around to face his friend, an amused look on his face.

"You alright there?  You look a bit distraught."

Hard teetered, and suppressed another gag as he looked at the green stallion.

"Never let me drink like that again," he replied, collapsing on the couch.

"You wouldn't listen last night."

Despite their lack of eye contact, Cream was sure his friend was glaring through the back of the couch.

"I don't give a shit what I say.  Keep me out of that god-forsaken bar."

Shaking his head, Irish Cream's spine shivered as the itching in his wings intensified.  Sighing, he sat on the armchair next to the couch and brought his right wing around to his front, analyzing it thoroughly.  The feathers were uncomfortably, sometimes painfully crooked, held in the wrong place by the rest of their kind.  He grunted as he stretched his wing; he hadn't flown for a few weeks.

I need to get back in the air.

He made a futile attempt to somewhat straighten his feathers with his forehoof before letting go of his wing, yet leaving it extended.  He took his feathers in his teeth and gently began straightening them, flexing his wing and flicking it every few minutes.  Far too soon, the teapot in the kitchen began to whistle, and Party Hard groaned, jamming his hooves in his ears.  Sighing, Irish Cream broke his concentration to walk into the kitchen and take the pot off his woodstove, pouring a cup in one of his surprisingly few alcohol mugs.  Despite his profession and heritage, the stereotype that the Irish drink ungodly amounts didn't click on Cream's silhouette.  He brought the mug, now with a tagged string hanging over the edge, to his coffee table and set it down.  Sitting back in his armchair, he watched his friend reach for the mug and take a drink, immediately sending a steaming spray of tea across Irish Cream's extended wing.

"Hot as ballucks!"

"Well, what'd you expect, you bloody knobhead?"