Piccolo Song fumbled through the Everfree Forest that evening. The lavender cloak drawn about her shoulders provided scant protection against the fierce gusts that shoved the filly from every angle and gave ample openings for the rain to pierce the exposed fur like icy needles. Fear twisted her insides, while the soggy ground made every step a Celestian effort. Earlier on, she had been able to rely upon the narrow dirt path that wound through the woods as a guide to return home to Trotter Town—and this was how she had kept reassuring herself while roaming deeper and deeper among the underbrush, chasing after sweet-smelling butterflies and admiring the strange and exotic wildflowers.
And, as is sometimes the way of things, Piccolo lost track of time and sight of the trail. Then the darkness had seeped into the forest like an overwhelming ooze, twisting the scenery into terrible shapes and contortions. Tall yet friendly-seeming trees, whose leaves sounded to her as wind chimes when breezes tapped their branches, transformed into bony figures that jeered and reached out to drag her into the shadows. Strange creatures screeched and cried out from nowhere and everywhere, and it seemed as if all of them were after her—seeking to drive away this intruder who had no place in their midst, or perhaps even to gobble her up.
Eventually, though, it was a tree root that caught ahold of Piccolo—tripping her face-first into a murky puddle in a glade. She gagged or a moment, coughing up a mouthful of mud and pebbles, before realizing the fall had also flung her flute onto the grass inches away. Scrambling forward, she picked it up. Thankfully, the wooden piccolo lay whole and unmarred upon her hooves, simple, serene, reliable, and able to produce such sweet yet powerful music.
So strong.
If only Piccolo could be that mighty, then maybe she would not need to fear the darkness or the wild things in the Everfree Forest.
Too bad she was just a scared filly, soft-spoken and plain, without wings to take to the skies or even a unicorn horn to light the way.
“I wish I had my own magic,” Piccolo apologized to her flute, hugging it close. “Sorry for getting us into this mess.”
Low growls sounded from behind, and Piccolo swirled about to find several pairs of yellow eyes opening just past the trees at the far end of the glade. Snouts fashioned from bits of wood and forest debris inched forward into view, opening to reveal glistening fangs. Then a howl broke free and Piccolo was off again, running hard and fast. This time, however, there were Timberwolves at her back and gaining all the while—and it was a miracle that she avoided stumbling over other exposed tree roots, stones, or numerous obstacles. She could hear them crashing through the brush, scattering birds and small creatures, and it was as if she could already feel their hot breath on the back of her neck.
Yet she didn’t dare to glance over her shoulder, because the sight might have done more harm than good.
Even so, any moment now the Timberwolves would surely overtake her.
***
Piccolo broke free from the trees once more, before an enormous cave set in the side of a craggy rock face. This cavern was so foreboding, she might have thought about turning to the left or right to avoid it. But out of the corner of both eyes, she glimpsed the Timberwolves surrounding the area. They had slowed, as if confident in the knowledge their prey couldn’t escape. And indeed, she must have appeared more vulnerable and weaker than before.
She had been such a foal, wandering into the Everfree Forest without any protection.
What could she possibly do?
Well, the only thing Piccolo could think to do at this crucial juncture was to place the piccolo to her lips and play, backing into the cavern on her hind legs. This might have seemed an awkward stance from any pony’s perspective, yet Piccolo found it easiest to perform that way. And the tune she chose was a rueful and gentle tune Piccolo had taken to playing for her mother, Kindred Spirit, in their small cottage near the outskirts of the woods. She had made this up one evening but thought it sounded nice enough to play again and again.
It was a melody that suggested lyrics and always had a certain way of making the world a little nicer even during hard times. Her mother sometimes said as much, which usually embarrassed Piccolo but excited her as well. The tune quivered in the thin air, combined with the continuous hiss of rainfall, and for a moment she only knew the memory of her mother brushing back her mane near a crackling hearth fire and missed her.
The thought struck Piccolo that they might never see each other again, which caused Piccolo to play such a high and shrill note the Timberwolves actually halted as if stunned by the sound as it echoed off the rocky walls.
That is when the earth beneath her started to quake, causing her to fall back on her rump, and thunderous rumbles erupted from behind further in the cavern.
The Timberwolves lifted their heads, ears falling back. Piccolo believed she even detected genuine fear in those ominous yellow gazes. They whined.
But before Piccolo could fully register or absorb this strange turn of events, great shifting sounds followed the rumbles—reminiscent of great stones sliding across one another and the rush and clinking of bits and gems.
Warmth swept about her, yet Piccolo shivered. For a dreadful suspicious had seized ahold of her.
Pivoting about, Piccolo glimpsed stunning blue eyes much brighter and larger than those of the Timberwolves amid a white mist, with thin, sharp pupils set into a massive dark head that lifted and unleased a baleful roar. This resounded through the cavern, jolting stalactites from above and causing several to come crashing down. Piccolo managed to lunge to one side to avoid a particular large specimen, but another speared an unfortunate wolf and sent the rest fleeing back into the forest. Through some natural magic, however, even the smashed Timberwolf pulled itself together—yet it didn’t pause for a moment in chasing after its pack.
***
Of course, the momentary surge of relief at seeing the Timberwolves leave quickly got swallowed up by another, much bigger problem.
A dragon.
Piccolo sat up just as the giant head craned her way, and the blue orbs narrowed. She couldn’t move, although this time it was not so much from fear as utter exhaustion. And at a lack for anything else to do, she allowed herself one or two short toots on the flute as the dragon stretched its neck higher, opened its mouth once again, and demanded:
“What creature has intruded on my domain?” The steam—not smoke (Piccolo noted in absurd curiosity)—still hid most of the dragon’s form, though the booming yet melodious voice (revealing the dragon to be female) was enough.
“Pic—Piccolo,” she squeaked out.
“Hmm?” the dragon grunted. “You’d better speak up, or else I’ll have to seek you out.”
“Piccolo Song!” Piccolo called, forcing her voice much higher than usual. It sounded strange to her ears, and apparently to the dragon as well.
“That sounds like a pony name to me.” Despite everything, the dragon did drew closer with her great snout, making Piccolo flinch back. Then an odd, curt chortle escaped her throat. “Humph. But I know better. It must just be a frightened mouse, judging by the shrill cry and all the squeaking before.”
“I’m not a mouse,” Piccolo surprised herself by shouting. This time her words came out clear and seemed to echo themselves, which was another surprise. She hadn’t known she could be loud enough for that. But still, the dragon halted, and she pressed on, “And I am a pony.” Then, because she was in trouble anyway, “Why should you know better?”
“Because most ponies tend to stay away from a dragon’s cave at this time of the night.” So saying, her nostrils flared in a whiff, and Piccolo had to dig in her hooves to keep from getting sucked into them—only to get sent tumbling backwards at another snort. The dragon cackled. “Well, how about that? It is a pony, and a little one at that.”
By this point, the steam had begun to clear somewhat, being drawn out into the coolness of the rain. And now Piccolo caught sight of a thin layer of coins and jewels toward the back of the cave, like a thick sheet, and these gave off a certain dim radiance that was enough to reveal the torso of the dragon among the mist. Her scales were mostly gray, from what Piccolo could tell, with the rusty tinge of old metal. Her neck sagged, and with every movement, Piccolo noticed the distinct crackling noises of her bones. In addition, there was a certain weariness she had only known in her grandmother at odd moments.
Grandmother Song.
At this, Piccolo squeezed her flute tighter.
“Imagine that,” the dragon mumbled to herself, settling her head upon the floor and yawning in quite a relaxed manner. “I suppose there is a first time for everything, even at my age. Well, I’ll be. I’ll be.”
A peculiar silence followed, where the dragon rested there and stared at Piccolo in the same lazy fashion while Piccolo sat back and watched her—awaiting whatever might happen next. She had heard of snakes laying so still until the slightest movement from their prey caused them to strike out.
Yet the minutes passed, and despite everything, Piccolo started to calm down. Her breaths came out in regular rhythm, her pulse stopped racing, and a question rose to the surface and broke free:
“So, you’re not going to—?”
“Eat you?” The dragon finished.
“Well, yes.”
This earned more laughter from the dragon, followed by a bout of congested hacking. “Don’t make me laugh,” she said, neglectful of the fact she had done and was continuing to do just that. “A filly such as you wouldn’t make a mouthful, and it wouldn’t be worth the risk of throwing out my neck trying to gobble you up. Besides,” here the ghost of a smile creased her lips, “even if I could get to that point you’d be sure to give me indigestion and ruin my teeth on the way through.” She opened her mouth, with teeth yellowed and crooked. They appeared to be all there, though, even if a foul odor made Piccolo’s nose crinkle.
Morning breath.
Or evening, depending on how you looked at it.
“Believe me now, little pony?” the dragon said at length.
“I guess so, and it’s Piccolo.”
“Piccolo,” the dragon corrected. “And I suppose you’ll want to know my name as well. Or did that never occur to you?”
“Well—” Piccolo blushed. “Actually, I thought it might have been ‘Dragon’.”
“Children. They’re all the same, no matter the species,” the dragon sighed as if in exasperation. “My name is Aria, just so you know.”
“That’s a peculiar name.”
“Yours is stranger, named for that instrument you were tooting at the Timberwolves, no doubt.”
“Yes, actually,” Piccolo replied musingly, because this fact had (for some reason) never really occurred to her until then. “It’s kind of special to me.”
“’Kind of’?” Aria snorted again. “If you squeeze that thing any tighter it’ll probably snap clean in half.” Immediately, Piccolo loosed her hold a bit. “In any case, either it is or it isn’t. But I hate when creatures cannot make up their minds or decide what they like or don’t like—and all that mess. I start getting dissatisfied, and a bit hungry.” Her forked tongue popped out, licking her lips. “Especially when they disturb my extended naps, and the one you disturbed must have gone on for decades already.”
“This piccolo is special to me,” Piccolo spoke quickly, using the hem of her cloak to gently wipe at the instrument. “My grandmother gave it to me for a present for my birthday this year. She’s a crafts pony and makes instruments for great musicians, but she whittled this one just for me.” She ran a hoof along the side, tracing the small illustrations of flowers, blooms, and other pictures Piccolo had long since memorized by feel alone. “There isn’t another I would rather have, even though I wasn’t very good at it at the beginning. But Grandma said she gave it to me, to give me strength even when she wasn’t around, and I’ve tried to practice every day since then. So it is a best gift I have ever gotten.”
Rainfall filled the ensuing silence.
“Gifts,” Aria grumbled at last. “Of course, I wouldn’t know of such things.”
“Haven’t you ever received a gift?” The thought was a strange one to Piccolo.
“Never,” Aria answered. “Dragons don’t often give each other presents such as you ponies do. We are known for our selfishness and greed, and especially in the world I lived in as a youngster our policy was to take or fight for whatever we wanted—even between kin. And when we got old or hurt, other dragons forgot about us.” At this, wistfulness and anger flared in her eyes. Then Aria stretched out one broad wing, and in the dimness Piccolo could just make out several tears in it, made as if (she noted) by great claws. But then, just as quickly, Aria’s anger seemed to dissolve, deflating into a great tiredness. She dropped onto her hoard. “Well, I suppose that would be of no concern to a little pony like you either.”
Piccolo watched Aria sigh, seeing in her a sudden and strange vulnerability. Dragons were so huge, with powerful claws and fire-breathing abilities, while fillies like her seemed small and fragile in comparison. Yet it had never occurred to Piccolo that dragons might get lonely or hurt in such a way. Piccolo had always had such a close bond with her grandmother and friends that it was hard to imagine what it would have been like without those ties. She would never had wanted Grandmother Song to be all alone, and Aria had sounded so despairing. She was indeed a worn dragon, both in soul and body.
At that moment, more than anything else, Piccolo wanted to give Aria some kind of gift or present. When Grandmother Song had given Piccolo the flute, it had been one of the happiest days of her life. She had made her hopeful that someday she would become a strong pony, brave and able to withstand all the difficulties which might lay ahead. And Piccolo thought of those evenings at her home, playing tunes for her mother.
And an idea occurred to her.
“Aria?” Piccolo asked.
“What?” Aria had closed her eyes, as if intent of forgetting Piccolo and drifting back off to sleep. “You don’t have to worry about me snapping you up or anything. The rain should have passed by the morning. Then you can be on your way.”
“I know, but I want to give you a present.”
At this, Aria’s ears perked up, her eyes popped open, and she looked at Piccolo. “You want to give me a gift?”
“Yes.”
“And what could you possibly have to offer me?” A smile began to creep across her face again. “Perhaps a few bits, or that cloak across your shoulders? Although then it would probably just be in payment for chasing off those Timberwolves.”
“I do want to thank you for helping to save me from the Timberwolves. But this gift is just because, well—” Piccolo smiled, “you might like it.”
“Fine,” Aria said, evenly. “If I have to be awake anyway, I might as well get something for it. Besides, you are the first creature I’ve met in a while who has actually stopped long enough to talk with me civilly.” This almost sounded like a compliment. “All right, so what do you want to give me?”
“A song.” Piccolo carefully reached her hind hooves.
Then she began to play.
***
A certain calmness stole over Piccolo as the first notes rang out in the thin air, reverberating through the cavern and bouncing among the raindrops as they splattered down outside. Everything else in the world went silent for a moment, and the darkness crept in a bit—until with another crisp, high toot she blew the dimness away. Whenever Piccolo looked back on the situation later, even years from then, she would always remember those first few minutes when a certain tingling sensation crept through her. And while it was true that she had practiced and gotten much joy from playing the instrument over the last several months, something different seized ahold of her then, a rush that moved down her spine and throughout her entire form. She let the music flow as it would.
The song Piccolo played was a continuation of the tune she had made up earlier that morning, while romping about the forest undergrowth and chasing after the butterflies. And the surrounding cavern, her worries, and all else gave way to the images and joy she had known during that period. Such carefree wonder and abandon, drinking in the golden rays that coursed in through the canopy overhead and the way she had pranced through the wildflowers. The music bounced to accommodate each hop Piccolo had made, or the way she had rolled through the tall grasses.
Butterflies had a gentle and fluttering melody, while that of the birds was faster-paced and flighty. And it was a funny thing. For all this while, Piccolo had only thought of getting the notes just right and always been so self-conscious about her playing—because she had felt so small yet self-conscious among other ponies. But, for some reason, at this very moment it was as if she had let go, and the music filled her being. She became aware of the notes as being more than the correct way to play a melody, yet also of the way they represented things—or how subtle changes in inflection and such could signify vastly different subjects.
Nothing had ever made Piccolo feel quite this way before.
She loved it.
Yet throughout the entire performance, Piccolo was aware of Aria watching and listening. And she wondered if Aria could understand what she was trying to get across, while also continuing to do her best to portray her morning—leading into a slower-paced and more regretful section where the night had come on, gradually growing into a feverish frenzy to describe her chase through the woods and to the cavern.
By the time she reached the part with Aria, however, the melody weaved and rocked—moving along at a calm pace yet hesitant gait until the end.
The final notes faded on the air, and Piccolo sat perched on Aria’s tail while the setting reasserted itself. She was panting again, yet from excitement. There were also the strange yet contradictory emotions of feeling energized but drained at the same time, but she couldn’t stop smiling. For playing that song had been so wonderful she hadn’t wanted it to end.
“Beautiful,” Aria shattered the stillness at last, breaking apart what remained of the musical spell. Piccolo could tell the song had had the effect she wanted most. There were actually tears glistening in the ancient’s dragons eyes now, and a soft smile on her lips. “I truly underestimated the power of these gifts, and of ponies—if the rest of them are anything like you nowadays.”
“There are a lot of great ponies in Equestria,” Piccolo insisted. “You would probably enjoy seeing what the land looks like now. It must have changed a lot since you started taking your nap.”
“Yes. I believe I might just do that,” Aria returned, sniffing and wiping an arm across her snout. “Once I stretch out, that is.” Then she paused, and her smile deepened. “Of course, it seems you have gained much from this experience as well.” And with the tip of her tail, she tapped Piccolo on the back.
Piccolo looked and gasped.
For on her flank, a cutie mark had appeared—of a wonderful wooden flute.
“My very own cutie mark!” Piccolo shouted. “Wait until I go home and show every pony.” Then she remembered the rain, and the maze-like nature of the forest. “When I can get there, that is.”
Aria considered her for a moment. Then she said, “All right, Piccolo. Perhaps we can work out a deal, which is something dragons do very well. You will spend the night, safe in this cavern, and in the morning I will take you home. But, in exchange, you must come and visit me at least once a week. Somehow, I believe we have a great deal to offer each other. What do you say?”
Piccolo stood before the great dragon, feeling complete and stronger than ever, and grinned.
So began a wonderful friendship.
Author's Note
This just occurred to me on a rainy day. ^_^
