When the Plot Met the Clop and Neither Cared

Hah, as if. Cy’ knows better than to cross me in the matters of heart.

“Hahah, come on Cy’, let’s not make her feel awkward,” says Freight. “Not that I think many things could do that.”

It would seem, then, that I must take seriously the possibility that this time, Cy’ delivered entertainment that she wishes to last past the night. “We all just want to help you?” Wasn’t that what she said yesternight?

“I’m not strong at shame, it’s true,” I say. “I’ve never seen the point, really.”

“Never?” asks Cy’ under her breath.

I turn my head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“Clever, is what I said. You’re clever, always have been. In your own way.”

“Seems like you two go a long way back,” says Freight. “How long, I wonder?”

I keep my smile intact and eyes on her. She loves to tell this story, I know. Yet the suspense drags on, and I can feel his gaze matching mine. It’s the way how she breathes.

“Since foalhood,” I answer, looking at him. “We shared all but one class in the school. She spent her first in the–”

“–care of my home teacher,” she finishes. “My parents saw it more fitting, but the feeling wasn’t mutual.”

“All the home-teachers you drove to early retirement agreed,” I add.

“From there, our friendship was only a matter of time,” she continues. “Our mothers went way back, you see, and when they realized that their little fillies shared a classroom…”

“They made sure we spent every waking hour together,” I say. “It was more sensible than anything, really. I needed an escort to accompany me wherever I went, and she needed some dead weight to prevent her from running into trouble at every passing opportunity.” I pause to sip my wine, and to listen if his amused chuckle is genuine or not. My little story certainly was.

“Inscrutable are the ways of the parents,” he says. “Still, the arrangement must’ve paid off eventually, right? I mean, you’re still living together, and your mothers hardly have a say in that anymore.”

“At least mine does not,” I say. “She passed away years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says quietly.

“That is sweet of you.” In actuality he sounds sour. Bitter. A fellow orphan, perhaps? Perhaps. It’s no use prodding deeper now. The night is belongs to wine, the blood of festivities.

“I want to dance.”

The suggestion meets a brick wall in their muteness.

“Uhm… Right now?” he asks.

“Without music?” she continues.

I stand up and, in one uninterrupted motion, let my wings unfold against fabric of the night. The cloak falls from my shoulders, I don’t know where. The winds rush to greet me, to spur me, to carry me.

“Proud Freight.”

“Y-yeah?”

“Show me the moon.”

He flies to me, to the edge of the cloud.

“Leave the cape,” I tell him. He sheds it at once. So eager to obey, nothing but willing. Trained.

By her?

“Which ocean would you wish to swim in?” I ask. “On the moon, that is.”

I pull him over the edge, softly. So very gently. If my memory serves, we’re over half a mile above the city’s centre. Depending on the weather, the view must vary from incredible to breathtaking.

“I could never memorize them. Not post school exams, anyway.”

The cloud is lost, and we’re adrift. There is no direction, no plan, no strategy. No way to orient. It’s up to the winds to decide our fate.

“The Sea of Clouds is the largest,” I whisper. “Below that spread the planes of Crises, of Serenity, and of Fertility. Be quick, make your pick.”

“Or you’ll get sick?”

I give his cheek a tiny lick. “Rhymes are what make me tick.”

We laugh. His hoof wraps around my waist, another accepts my front leg. For a time, we float still.

“Cy’ was right: there is no music,” he says. “It’s difficult, dancing without music.”

I lean closer to his ear. “There is always music. All you need to do is listen.”

The dance begins with an interruption. An easy wingbeat to stop the wind’s flow, a simple turn to change our passing through the chilly velvet. Then, a stronger beat, one to fight against the gale, to bend them before the grace of our feathers. We skate through a cloud, I feel, and sink into the blue. This is what it means, being a pegasus. This is what it means, seducing another soul.

My lips enclose on his…

“Gosh, it’s cold out here,” remarks Cy’ behind me. I did not hear her approach. “How do you guys manage?”

How annoying. How strange. How terrifying.

“By keeping close,” I answer while withdrawing my lips from his. Barely a taste, is what I got… Her behaviour doesn’t make any sense.

“Room for one more?” she asks meekly.

“Sure,” says Freight. His hoof leaves my hip to give room for her.

That makes even less sense. Or can’t he take a hint?

“Nope, still freezing,” says Cy, huddling in between us. “Can we get inside?”

“Or you could recover your cloak,” I suggest.

“It’s not made for flying, dummy. Please? I’ll get us all into the Tip.”

“The Tip?” he asks. “Isn’t Vinyl Scratch playing there tonight? The house must be stuffed.”

“I can get us to the backstage, no problem there. Heck, I’ll pay for a private show if we go right now. Yeah, let’s do that.”

As she guides us into the restaurant proper, I find myself unable to escape the notion that she purposefully hit the brakes on me and Fright’s first kiss. Why would she do that? What’s her angle?

Is this one her mother’s schemes?

Ah yes, the mother. Perhaps a word about her might be fitting here.

That word would be guilt. That would be all there is, for her.

And the story behind that word is a paradigmatic example of how shame, especially of self-imposed nature, is a plague on the soul.