Deafly Hollow

by TheTraxicEnd

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Sad
Length: 5278

Roseluck: a broken mare with the loss of life and purpose now searches for herself through the sounds of which her ears will let her hear. She must find this purpose of life soon, or the red capture her. Hopefully, she'll find it...

Roses give you beauty, but can they give you purpose?

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Luck made me rue,
The days of my youth.

Determined to find life, Roseluck sits tight, her eyes straight and emotionless. She must find the light or she will take flight with the sounds of those that are hollow. Carefully reasoning the reasons to live, Roseluck will find the will to forgive. Hopefully life will not capture her in stride, for all that's left is nothing but her hide.

If she chooses to do nothing, then one must think the light is fake…

…and a wreath of blood red roses will lay in its wake.

Picture done by: Raikoh.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-11-06 21:38:12 UTC

Meets and Blues [Part One]

The clock ticks, another second passes.

Roseluck stirs, her mind is drifting faster.

She slips, staring at the world that collapses.

Nothing stays, nothing continues forever.

Roseluck sighs as she stares at the door. Outside, night has taken its toll: the darkness prevalent, black as can be. She can’t help but feel the black being stronger, must it be the red who wills the strength of the black? Did the red come to take her back?

No, not this night, she mustn’t think of that.

After all, this is just a harmless meeting… right?

“Roseluck!” a voice happily calls.

She looks and eyes her partner: the charcoal mane swept to the side, bangs cut short; her attire not to fire, but intricate in its pattern, pink and all; and lovely her eyes glow, the night light shines bright to quell her fright. The red shall not harm them, for the light of the blue may still be shining through.

Roseluck smiles and approaches her, entrapping her visitor in her grasp. Even though they just met, it feels like forever. “Octavia!”

She holds Rose tight under the peering moonlight, their bodies melding together. A brief silence rules over the shop, their eyes closed in the embrace. Soothing as it is, Roseluck peels away, taking a quick lookover at the stunning mare. “I’ve been waiting for a while now!”

The clock ticks.

Octavia’s smile leaves her face momentarily. “I hope I wasn’t late…” She looks down.

“No, no!” Roseluck says nervously, pointing her hoof to her red clock. “It’s a minute before nine!”

Octavia steers her vision clear of Roseluck’s pointing hoof, carrying it towards the clock that hangs delicately on the wall which graces it. It ticks, tocks; showing the time rapidly moving. “I see…” Octavia says quietly, her soft tones hard to pick up for the flower girl.

Roseluck sighs, she’ll have to try harder to hear Octavia if she talks too low. She does not want her client to feel unheard, for her voice is delicate. “So,” Roseluck begins, bringing Octavia’s eyes back to life. “Where are we going?”

Contrasts vary as the light begins to fade, the darkness sweeping in: clouds covering the sky. Her mane loses its light glow, the charcoal blending in with the night. “Le Rouge Désolé (The Red Apology), a restaurant on the outskirts of town.”

Roseluck tries to recall the restaurant, but to no avail. She never knew such a thing existed, let alone on such a remote location outside of town. Why would something sounding so fancy be so far?

“Sounds great,” Roseluck lies, her false image fooling the other, that bright smile concealing the mask of one who writhes in pain.

Octavia gives her a coy grin. “Good!” she says with glee, turning around to exit the shop. Octavia looks over her shoulder, glancing at her partner’s attire. “Are we ready, Miss Rose?”

Roseluck’s mind thinks of another, a royal red flush appears lush on her face. Roseluck couldn’t think, for her own sake was being measured. She nods as a result, her mind gravitating towards its keeper.

Octavia giggles before turning her gaze promptly to the path. They travel down the center of it, nothing could not harm them as their hooves collide with the gravel. The hooves did not sound the same as they usually do, the clip-clopping noise pales in comparison to this foreign soundwave. Roseluck couldn’t shake the intruder’s alien sounds as she awkwardly walks forth with the light grey mare rubbing along her side.

The two walk close, not for affection but for protection. Out here, anything could happen. To Roseluck, this is a survival situation. She has heard stories of the past where one pony walked at night, hoping to deliver a midnight snack when they were never seen again. According to some local sources, the pony may have been taken.

Not to mention that Roseluck does not acquire the will to love any mare, for she would not be able to bear the countless glares that could rise from winning the ‘prize’. Besides, she could not and would not think of her company in that aspect. She is the keeper of the blue. Blue is not who she must love.

Roseluck’s mind begins to drift to the red. It comforted her when she did not know of it, for the red is supposed to be her enemy. Yet, she cannot help but remember Big Macintosh: his warm body resting as their furs mixed, his eyes fixed on her face, the smile he wore when he gave her comfort; everything this stallion is is what Roseluck needs.

Yet, he is red.

Can she break free from the stigma that the red placed upon her being?

The question lingers as they pass the many trees that dot the path they slowly walk on. Side-by-side they trudge on, the gravel making its presence known as if it was a god of aching and shaking.

“You too?” Roseluck hears her company ask.

Roseluck looks over, the mare of which speaks her concern stares back with a slight tilt of her head. She wears a bright, radiant smile, something that shines in this dark, unknown realm. Roseluck returns the gesture, content with herself due to the blue being ever-so-present.

Octavia grimaces as she steps on another sharp rock. “They should really make this a dirt path…”

“I agree,” Roseluck says with a giggle. “Or at least something that’s a bit more pony-friendly.”

Octavia chuckles with Rose as the two walk into the night, the moon lighting their way.

Thank Luna for the blue…

It sure looks… red.

Roseluck stares at the distinct rounded hill, upon it lies the restaurant of which she and Octavia are to dine. The windy path in front of them twists up the grassy knoll, leading to the castle-like construct of red and white. Roseluck sighs.

It reminds her of her time at the hospital, the red and white streaks that blot the glowing white room makes residence in her mind. The specific patterns that swirl into one circular unified piece is the sight on the restaurant’s sign, which looks quite odd for something such as this. The main entrance consists of two, simple wooden doors that had a small square opening for those to peak in. Roseluck walks close, peering inside the establishment. The lights were at a dim output, allowing enough light to bring out the true condition of the restaurant: simple, plain, yet had a surprising twist with booths laid out in a circle, the center being a large, round table.

Roseluck sighs as she pulls away, giving Octavia a chance to peek at the sight she saw. Most of it was dark, in her mind that is. The blacks and whites always dance in ways that Roseluck could not imagine: tints of several various shades make way into the desaturated climate; Roseluck wishes she could see more, but all is red and blue.

While her mind drifts, reality exists, traveling so fast that she could not even comprehend Octavia’s departure, the doors shutting just enough to wake Roseluck out of her visual world. She opens the door with her hoof and walks in, letting energy take the wheel as the door closes, leaving the darkness outside.

Roseluck trots over to Octavia’s side, the two waiting for the waiter to usher them in.

Of course, that was not the case.

“Hello, Octavia Melody!” a stallion whose voice transcends the normal barriers of pitch calls, his being coming into fruition as he enters, his white puff fit snug on his head. He turns to me, his blue eyes gazing into mine. “Oh! Who must you be?”

“I could ask the same of you, sir,” Roseluck replies lamely.

The stallion stutters as he slinks down to her height, “S-sorry, ma’am!” The stallion pauses, gaging Roseluck’s reaction, who stands still as a board, stiff and deadpanning. He takes note of this and continues his speech, much of the chagrin to the already annoyed Rose, whose luck must be played by a stallion. “My name is Blues, the proud owner of Le Rouge Désolé!”

Sounds like one of those traveling salesponies…

Roseluck shakes the thought. It’s impolite of her to judge this pony this way, even though it is natural.

Octavia gives her a sheepish smile. “He’s a good friend of mine.”

“Friend?”

The stallion answers that question with pride. “Of course! I’ve known her for a long, long time.” He turns to Octavia. “Ever since the first tier, hasn’t it?”

Octavia nods. “First Tier of school, the grades where you not only pretended to cook meals in the cafeteria, but also the year that you hooked up with Minuette.”

“You hooked up with Minuette?” Roseluck asks, her mouth agape.

Blues grins. “Yep, she was a looker!” As if the world crashes on him in an instant, his eager demeanor shifts to a melancholy-like state, his eyes taking notice of the grey carpet. “She’s not around anymore,” he mutters before turning to the wide assortment of booths.

Octavia shrugs at Rose, the two looking at each other with varying degrees of confusion. “So…” Octavia mutters, stifling the mood of the owner, who pays them heed as she continues, “Where can we sit?”

The now happy stallion chirps, “Anywhere you’d like.”

The two pass the stallion and journey over to the farthest booth from the door. “Would here be fine?” Octavia asks, her eyes pinned on the booth in question. “Because none of the others look.... sanitary.”

Roseluck eyes them, the smell of the room alone reeks of prior use, the vision of unclean tables and possible projectile vomit enters Roseluck’s mind before she could even stop them. Rose turns away from the booth, grimacing. “You alright, miss...?”

“Roseluck,” Rose replies, the stallion’s concern rather appealing to her, but the drastic measures that needs to be done in order for her to even think of sitting her body in that booth. “And I’d like to know if there are any clean seats here?”

The stallion looks around. Each booth had something used or from previous customers on them. Whether they’d be plates that needed to be washed, or items that certainly did not belong to Blues' does not matter. What matters is the disgusting stench that still pierces Roseluck’s nostrils with agonizing pain.

He gasps as he spots a booth, clean and pristine. “That one,” he says with glee, apparently glad that he found a spot for the two lone mares. He sighs and begins his trek without noticing the two staring at the rest of the wreck. He smiles and presents the table, standing proudly beside the not-so-disgusting table. “Your seats, mademoiselles.”

Flattery gets you no where when you can’t even clean your own restaurant…

Roseluck smiles as she wishes she addressed the issue, but Octavia beats her to it, her voice projecting her distaste of the whole matter. “Thank you for not giving us one that isn’t infested with toxic fumes!”

The stallion ignores the insult, returning to his post from behind the curtains.

Curtains?

The two take their seats, settling into the lush, cushioned padding of the booths. Roseluck smiles as she sits.

At least the seats are comfortable.

She sighs, placing her forehooves on the table. Rose loves to dine, but when things like this happen, she can’t help but feel irritated. Besides, this was all Octavia’s idea, it would be too late to try and head back to one of the other places anyway.

“I’m sorry about this, Roseluck,” Octavia apologizes as she looks down, twiddling her hooves. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Roseluck gazes at her. “It’s alright, Octavia,” Roseluck replies. “No one knew this would happen.”

“I’m glad,” Octavia responds with a half smile. “I didn’t suspect he’d be this untidy.”

Roseluck raises an eyebrow. “What you do mean?”

A snort from Octavia tells the tale, but not without Octavia’s commentary did she really understand. “It’s… complicated.”

“Ho—”

“Blues used to be my roommate,” Octavia explains with her hooves laying gently on the wooden table. “He was a slob.”

“Way to put it bluntly,” Roseluck says with a chuckle.

Octavia begins to crack a smile, but as soon as it came, so does it leave. “He had gotten this behavior due to his brothers picking up everything for him.”

“Everything?”

Roseluck spots an affirmative, her mind racing at the possibilities of this… unkempt pony being influenced by his own kin. “How could one let themselves go like that?”

“He was a rebel, a whining slacker when it came to chores,” Octavia answers.

Roseluck tilts her head slightly to the right. “He wasn’t responsible?”

“Not one bit,” she says blankly.

Roseluck sighs. “Then how does he have control of an entire restaurant?”

Octavia eye rolls as she looks at the curtains. “His father passed the business onto him.”

“Figures,” Roseluck says with an eye roll. “He was the youngest too, right?”

“Yes,” Octavia states with a venomous tone. “Blues got the whole business to himself, I guess his brothers didn’t want it.”

Roseluck cranes her neck around, checking each and every spot of the restaurant. From the outside, it looked interesting, appealing to the naked eye. The castle wall-like theme definitely brings about the idea that homey, yet outlandish feel. However, the inside gives it a sense of wear and tear, a sign that a building is beginning to give way.

“I wouldn’t blame them,” Octavia continues, her eyes still settling on the curtains. “He doesn’t even show provide maintenance for the building, but greets the customers like it’s in top shape.”

“Sounds bizarre,” Roseluck unconsciously states. “But I wouldn’t doubt it now that I know him more.”

The two sit quietly as they wait. For some reason, the stallion is taking longer than expected. They haven’t even ordered yet.

Roseluck sighs.

Red doesn’t die.

She looks around.

Red doesn’t cry.

She glances at the floor.

Red doesn’t fly.

Roseluck gasps.

Red doesn’t *sigh*.

“O-octavia!” Blues shouts before falling silent.

“What was that,” Octavia states as she slides out of the booth and on all fours.

The chilling, blood-curdling screams soon follow.

Roseluck slides out as well, her eyes set forth on the curtain.

A pot falls.

The light bulb flickers.

The voice begins to groan.

“Rose!” Octavia shouts as she whizzes on by, keeping up a quick, speedy trot. Roseluck follows close behind her partner, the two entering behind the curtain.

The lights flicker.

A moan emits.

Another trench, another ditch.

A loud groan.

A slice of bone.

The red has returned.

She can smell him.

Roseluck slides in, her mind tapping into his scent.

“He went that way,” Roseluck states as she points with her forehoof, moving swiftly towards the swinging door. She passes through the entrance and into a hallway. The culprit had vanished.

The scent is gone.

Roseluck curses underneath her breath. The red is quick, forceful, unrelenting; she can’t stop the red.

Octavia rushes to her side. “Where did he go?”

“You mean it,” Roseluck corrects her friend. “And I have no idea.”

The two look at each other before shrugging, returning to the kitchen to help the stallion server who lies on the ground, covered in the red. He moans, the red exiting his being. The skin of his is crying, for agony loves to take heed in those who deceive others. Roseluck shakes her head as Octavia bends down to assist the poor soul.

“Blues, climb on my back!”

He groans, before nodding, red dripping from his cheek. Roseluck shakes her head again. She smells him.

“Octavia, get him out of here,” Roseluck states. “I’ll meet you outside.”

“You’re su—”

“Just get going!” Roseluck shouts as Blues climbs onto Octavia, his weight weighing her down.

“Oh sweet Luna, you’re heavy!” Octavia turns to look at her luggage. “What did you eat to get that big?”

He stifles a laugh before coughing the red.

Octavia sighs, nuzzling him as she begins to trot. “Don’t worry, hold on tight!”

With that, Octavia leaves the vicinity, the red curtain sways from her sudden departure.

Roseluck sniffs the air, trying to track the red, her eyes glazing over the black and white kitchen. She walks beside the metallic table, a variety of knives and other assortments of kitchen must-have utensils lie, scattered about.

With another whiff of the air, Roseluck gasps and proceeds to grab the base of the knife with her straight teeth. She slowly approaches the swinging door again, the large beige door not intimidating her in the slightest. She hesitantly pushes it open. It swings wide once again, the air that whips past Roseluck’s spine sends a tingly, sharp cold shiver down her back, the hairs standing on end.

A deep breath and two checks behind her later, the mare enters the hallway she previously entered, the deep descent begins. She must find the culprit, so that Octavia can tell her what she needs.

No one ever interrupts Roseluck’s dinner.

For Struggle, Comes Pain

Clip-clop the hooves on the pavement sounded as the mare whose sluggish gait staggered and her ears twitched in desperation. She was not like this before: her cream coat and lush red mane were a thing of beauty; her trot was full of life, a skip in her step could be noticed from miles away; and her once happy demeanor now ceases to exist, replaced by a wrinkled shell of time and stress.

This is Roseluck: one whose hearing loss affects her everyday life. She can’t hear proper sounds, only those who defy the volumes of the normal tones that everypony but her can fully appreciate.

This is not fair to her: a fine, individualistic mare who loves tending to her flowers and selling them at a quality price that simply nopony can deny. Of course, most males cannot order flowers at her shop due to the inaudible low tones of their masculine voices. However, other mares can communicate with her, but only if they speak extremely close to her ear.

Roseluck sighs as she begins to clean her work station, dragging the red towel in her possession across the smooth, cobblestone counter to bring out the true beauty of the majestic block of rock. She could not help but be in tune with nature. Even though her cutie mark tells her that flowers are her speciality does not mean she can’t spruce up her flower shop in a more sensible taste of nature. Of course, she couldn’t do it alone.

Roseluck shivers as a cold, nippy pulse zips down her spine. She remembers the time when Big Macintosh had to rush to her aid after she tried to lug a large stone slab into the shop. That almost killed her when the slab slid off her backside and onto her left hind leg, shattering the bone for the remainder of her life. Not only does being partially deaf haunt her being, but the horrific flashbacks of her painful misadventure plague her once innocent mind.

Not one being could corrupt her now, life has already tainted her only few venues of choice: the venue of the good life, which she still tries to strive for yet fails due to these horrific memories, and the venue of reason, which has been stalling after being unable to find a true purpose in her life. Flowers didn’t bring about purpose. It was more than a simple tattoo on one’s buttocks. She had to find it.

Roseluck lunges her foreleg forward, flinging the dirty rag into the bin labeled ‘Dirty Towels’. The near silent clinking noise enters her vicinity—her eyes glazing over that horrid smelling bin. She saunters over, peering at the metal bin with intrigue. The dirty red rag lies in a ball, curled around the clean, snow white insides of the bin. She gasps.

Roses are red.

She takes a step back before slinking into the confines of the counter, sliding down to the hard, cold floor.

Violets are blue.

She whimpers as the bin begins to shake.

Luck made me rue.

Tears cover her face; the universe entrapping her inside her safe house.

The days of my youth.

The frequencies of the sounds halt while the mare huddled underneath her counter whimpers still, not knowing if she is alive or in another nightmare.

“D-don’t kill me,” she cries, her eyes closed shut, blocking the moisture from ever leaving her being.

She stays still, the silence reigning.

The time never known.

“Rose!”

She hears a low tone.

“Rose!”

It’s calling her name.

“Rose!”

But it does not sound the same.

“Rose!”

Maybe its her mind making things up.

“Rose!”

Her mind is good at making up things.

“Rose!” A light pressure develops on her shoulder.

Maybe it’s another being…

“Rose!” The pressure begins to sting.

She opens her eyes.

“Roseluck!” the red stallion shouts, grabbing her forehoof with his much larger one.

“Big Mac?” Roseluck questions in disbelief. “W-what are you doing here?”

Big Macintosh ignores her question, walking over to the clean rag bin to obtain a red handkerchief. “That’s not important,” Big Macintosh states as he approaches her once again, the higher quality rag languidly rests on the back of his neck. He grabs it with his teeth and gently rubs her cheek.

Roseluck blushes, her body frozen as the large stallion wipes her tears away, one red swipe at a time. Her ears splay back, twitching all the while. She shivers again, the red filling her vision. “B-big Mac?”

“Eyup?” he says with a slur as he discards the rag without much care in the world.

“I…” Her voice trails off, her gaze coasts to the cold, tile floor.

Big Macintosh sees this, bringing her close. “Eyup…” he mutters, nuzzling her neck.

She gasps, feeling the red give her comfort. This feeling, this oh-so-comforting feeling was unheard of by her: comfort was the blue’s job. Blue gives her life, not the red. Why must this day confuse her?

She sighs, succumbing to the comfort of the stallion’s care. “Thank… you,” she weakly offers.

He smiles and squeezes her, holding her tight in his forelegs. “Eyup,” he says proudly.

The two stand still, reveling in the comfortable embrace.

All the while, the faint sounds of the red tapers off…

Thanking Big Mac one last time, she lets him leave her shop. The warmth her friend provided is stilled in her being, spreading throughout. She must hold onto this, for the cold will return; she must prepare.

Keeping herself active is a way to do this: cleaning, counting bits, reorganizing inventory; all in all a way to continue the fire that steadily burns within her, keeping her alive.

The sounds of construction fill the room. Much to Roseluck’s chagrin, the sounds were too low for her to hear. She wants to hear them; they are part of her nature, her rock. This hearing problem has been the end of her. Not one thing will ever sound the same, the tones switching rather uncontrollably. She may hear the mare’s calling, but it will sound like a scream of death.

She may hear a stallion’s call, but it will sound like an explosion of fire.

She cannot stop this hindrance, for even doctors tried. Magic is ineffective and surgery only makes things worse.

She regrets being herself.

Roseluck: a mare of individual attitudes cannot like even her self.

What must she do?

Roseluck sets the pot on the table, the flowers inside glow brightly in the sunlight, red and all. A rush of air from a nearby window flows underneath her three legs, reminding her of that fourth, amputated leg. The lack of a hind leg has not hindered her ability to continue her job. Since the incident occurred, she’s noticed Big Macintosh keeping his eyes plastered on her, helping whenever he can; sometimes unexpectedly.

Roseluck blushes, the thought of Big Macintosh keeping her company emblazoning her mind. She cannot help but feel warm inside as the big, burly red stallion breaks the mental codes of the red that she knew. The magic that she felt when he wrapped his strong, buff forelegs around her thin, cream-coated form; it was extraordinary. She was left breathless in his grasp.

She stops, frozen at the sight of the red. Does this mean she’s being infatuated with the red? Does she want the red to plague her or make her?

The red has harmed her directly so many times. The beast of the red howls in the night, the darkness invades her being: shiver after shiver of cold would establish itself deep within the confines of her breast; never will she feel warm around the red. However, this view was shattered today, Big Macintosh gave red a whole new meaning.

But is it her red?

No, it mustn’t. It shan’t not be.

The red howls, it does not bring comfort.

The blue does; she should know. Blue stops the red from invading her being as if it was blocking the virus from spreading. Blue holds her tightly at night to protect her, not hinder her.

Roseluck looks out, the sun shines brightly in the light blue sky, no cloud could be seen. The blue is in the sky, happy as can be. Maybe, blue is watching her, keeping her safe.

No...

The red attacked her just an hour ago, the blue didn’t keep her safe.

She pulls away from the sun and the blues, her attention shifting towards the register. She sighs and shuffles behind the counter, waiting for a customer to come and pick up their red and white wreath. According to her sign-in sheet, the customer, Vinyl Scratch, was to be arriving soon.

Vinyl Scratch.

Roseluck gasps. They were friends at one point, but the rocky road they both slowly trudge on breaks beneath each step they take. All that Roseluck knew was that they split years ago after a fight, ending with the two covered in scars. For Rose, she knew her scars would heal, but the more psychological wounds…

She cringes.

A light blue tear slips down her cheek...

“Hey!” a cheery voice emits.

...another follows soon after.

“Rose?” the voice asks, changing to more higher tones.

She picks it up easily, as Rose peers up at the pony, the unwelcomed shade of purple staring at her.

“A-are you Vinyl Scratch?” Roseluck asks, the wavering strength of her being effecting her greatly.

Even though she knew the answer, Roseluck had to know who she was: this mare has never entered her shop before.

“No,” the mare replies. “I’m Octavia Phillamaronica, a good friend of hers.” The mare flips her charcoal mane, allowing her to see Rose more properly. “Sorry about this, Vinyl couldn’t make it.”

Roseluck internally groans. Could Vinyl not even bear to see her after all these years?

On the outside, Roseluck nods and pulls out the item. “Are you going to pay on her behalf?”

Octavia’s eyes shift towards the headpiece, staring at it with intent. “Yes?” she says with a raised pitch while she gently glides her hooves over the petals.

Roseluck giggles, the sight of the mare’s absolute shock at the work of her two very capable hooves couldn’t stop the inevitable light laughter. “Yes?” she repeats, startling the customer’s entranced gaze.

Octavia yelps as she falters, a bright red blush favoring her cheeks. “I-Yes,” she struggles to say as she scrambles to find her footing. “I will.”

Roseluck gives her a smile. “Fifteen bits, please.”

Octavia pulls out her coin purse and opens it up with a quick slap from her right fore hoof. In a few seconds, she grabs a small sum of bits and hoofs them over to Roseluck, a bright smile adorning her face. “That should be fifteen!” Octavia proclaims.

Roseluck counts out the bits; fifteen and all. Roseluck looks at her customer. “Thank you for shopping at Roseluck’s Flower Emporium!”

Octavia giggles. “I’m glad I did,” she begins, her eyes glazing over the counter. “By the way, would you like to come?”

Roseluck tilts her head to the side. “Where?”

“To Vinyl’s wedding!” Octavia states, as if Roseluck was supposed to know. She tilts her head. “Unless she didn’t tell you what the wreath was for?”

Roseluck sighs. “No, she doesn’t speak to me much, Octavia,” Roseluck says, her eyes shifting to the wreath. “After that fight…”

“Fight?” Octavia says as her brow rose to new heights.

“It’s a long story,” Roseluck states, depositing the golden coins into the register. “But one for the books.”

“Care to share the tale?” Octavia asks as she leans on the counter. “I don’t have much else to do today.”

Roseluck sighs, shutting the bit register with ease, the register locking itself in place. “It’s… personal.”

“Too personal to share,” Octavia begins, bringing Roseluck’s gaze to hers. “But not enough to state?”

She sighs. Octavia is right. Why does she run herself into the ground all the time? She mustn’t do this anymore, the red will take her easily if she doesn’t fix this.

“Yes,” Roseluck replies downtrodden. “It is too much for me to handle in detail.” She looks up at the charcoal maned mare. “Not to mention that I don’t know you too well.”

“Oh?” Octavia says with a smirk. “Then, how about I propose a meeting,” she begins, her eyes set upon Rose. “If you come with me to dine, then we shall ‘get to know each other’ just fine.”

The offer was tempting to Roseluck. Getting to know how Vinyl was doing would be nice, not to mention she’d be getting a meal out of this whole thing; made her feel happy and overjoyed. Roseluck nods. “Okay, what time?”

“How about nine?” Octavia asks, her gaze gliding over the sign-in sheet. “Judging by this,” she begins, her hoof pointing to the handbook. “You’re free at that time.”

Nine o’clock: a time that was always open for Roseluck. Never should she forget, lest she beset. This time was when she would be leaving the shop, of course, if business is not booming. Only once has this happened to her when Twilight Sparkle and her friends wanted flowers for the Summer Sun Celebration. The now crowned Princess comes in only on rare occasions, asking for one unit of purple petunias every time. Roseluck admires her: the regality, the attention, the studious demeanor; all of this did Roseluck desire. If only she knew of the inner qualities of the Princess’s life; it was something only those who dream of the profession would ask.

Roseluck couldn’t say this time was not a desirable time. After all, a free dinner from a mare who cares?

Sign her up.

Roseluck nods. “Sure,” she says. “I’m open to this time.”

Octavia gives her a warm, gentle smile. “Good,” Octavia announces. “Meet me here at nine, I will be here to pick you up!”

Octavia steps back, the wreath resting upon her contrasted mane.

The warmth begins to fade,

Roseluck nods. “Will do!”

To those who dare trade,

Octavia turns to leave, a short wave of her hoof was all to be seen.

The things that bring us comfort,

Roseluck waves back, smiling just as much as before.

And the things that bring us pain.

She sighs as she trots to the door, switching the open sign to a close, the red ink shown to all. Rose returns to her post, she has to prepare.

While she passes the counter, only one thing can be seen.

A little red rose lays comfortably, no one to bother its sheen.