3 April

Ever since that thing with Tirek, I thought it might be wise to keep a journal. The princesses did it, my friends do it, why shouldn't I? If I ever feel tempted to fall back into my old ways, I can just read back through some old journal entries and remind myself how much my life has improved since I learnt to value friendship.

Anyhow, today I went to visit my good friend at her cottage. She'd been chasing around after some kestrels all day and her wings were looking pretty messy — covered in sweat, all her feathers out of place. I told her, "you simply must let me preen you."

"Oh, it-it's really no big deal…" she said. "Well… maybe… if-if you really think so?"

I explained what a horrible ugly state her wings were in. She almost burst into tears. (Note to self: never use the "U" word to describe a mare to her face.) But I think I got the message across. She needed a good preening.

"Are you sure you know how?" she asked.

"Why, of course!" I insisted. "After all, I have wings myself!"

"But only one of your wings has feathers," she objected.

I snapped my fingers and was suddenly covered in dozens of feathered wings.

She got the point. I clicked my fingers again and I was back to normal. "Okay, but please be gentle," she cautioned. "Pegasus wings are very sensitive, you know."

So I sat down on the floor of her cottage, and she sat in front with her back to me. She opened her wings, and I started work. I began with her left wing, using my claw and paw in tandem. Finding a twisted feather, I gave it a gentle twist and it snapped back into place. I ran my claw carefully along the wing, looking for other feathers which were not aligned. With each one I did the same, twisting it back into place.

She made the cutest little squeals and sucked in her breath when I had to pluck out the occasional feather that was too far gone to be corrected. She winced when I had to pull one of her larger feathers out, and I twisted my neck around to look at her face. "Are you alright?" I asked.

"I-I-I'm okay!" she stammered somewhat out of breath.

I wasn't so certain. Her cheeks looked as pink as her hair. But she insisted I continue, and I've never been able to turn that mare down. "Di--" she started.

I put a claw to her lips. "No names. Just call me 'papa' instead," I suggested. I have no idea why, really. Sometimes I just say things like that. I'm so random. The left wing was looking fine now, but I wasn't sure she'd want to continue. "Would you like me to do the other wing?"

She answered, but a bird screeched at the same time. "I couldn't hear you," I said.

She turned to me and fluttered her eyelids, "papa, please preen my other wing…" A rabbit hopped past.

I moved on to her right wing, treating it in much the same as the left one. I was really starting to feel concerned for her health — she was breathing very heavily and with the colour of her cheeks I suspected she might be coming down with some kind of infection.

Soon the right wing was looking as perfect as the left one did. Her day looking after her animals had clearly been stressful because her wings, which had been soft and supple when I'd started, were now stiff as a board. "Would you like a wing rub?" I asked.

"Please, papa, rub my wings," she whispered hoarsely. The infection was clearly going to be a bad one, as her voice had started going. As I rubbed her wings, her breathing became more and more laboured. Her back legs started twitching and shivering — a fever, I suspected.

All of a sudden she sighed, and I felt the stiffness melt out of her wings as they returned to their usual softness. She folded her wings up and I gave her a hug from behind. The poor thing was covered in sweat, so much so that a damp pool had formed on the floor between her legs.

She seemed tired, but deliriously happy — more signs of her illness, I'm certain — and I helped her get up onto her hooves. She could barely stand. "You need to get to bed," I told her.

"Yes, papa," she replied, and I was pleased to note that her voice had begun to return to normal. Perhaps all she needed was a rest to get her over her infection.

I led her to her soft, little bed, and tucked her in amongst the pillows, covering her with a warm blanket. "Goodnight," I told her, "I can let myself out."

"Night, night, papa," I heard as I shut the door.

You know, I'm already glad I decided to keep a diary, because writing all this down has helped me to organize the thoughts in my head. And I'm beginning to suspect that my dear friend might not have been suffering from an infection at all.

Author's Note

This diary entry was translated from Equestrian to English by VitalSpark.