Romp

Twilight stumbled into her bedroom, her head hung low and eyes downcast. Casting her magic blindly at an overhead light, she brought the room to complete darkness, interrupted only by the flicker of lightning from outside.

No amount of words at this point could accurately convey the way she felt – a thought that, perhaps another day, would seem silly. But right now, all she could contemplate was what she had done to make Rainbow run off like that, and more pressingly, the exhaustion now tugging at every faculty of her mind.

Twilight groaned as she trudged her way to the four-poster bed. She needed rest. Even after making up for lost sleep with her mid-day nap, the strain of casting the same spell several times over the past twenty-four hours had finally left an impact; she could feel it through the throbbing pulse beneath her horn. At this point, any attempt at a rational evaluation of recent events would fall victim to her slowed cognition. And it wasn’t as if she could go hunting for Rainbow in the middle of a storm – not that she even wanted to see her.

Twilight paused at the edge of the bed, watching her tinted windows flash from a distant bolt. Admittedly, this was one of the worst storms the weather team had crafted in a while. Even as skilled as Rainbow was in flight, she wondered if the pegasus would be alright on her own. Of course, if she went looking for her and actually found her, most likely things would only get worse.

Well, if she can build a storm on her own, she should be fine… I hope.

Forgoing magic in place of a hoof, the alicorn tossed the thick covers of her bed to one side and slid beneath them, pulling them up past her chest. She sank into the opulent sheets, warm and soothing to her tired body. Almost immediately, her mind began to succumb to the effects of fatigue.

Still, she found the energy to cast one last spell. Closing the curtains around her bed with an indigo spark, she nuzzled against her pillow and sighed, allowing exhaustion to do its work.

__________

…Perfect.

Late afternoon. Sun’s positioned just beyond the trees. Cool, but not cold, and the breeze blows through the autumn leaves rather than my coat.

I look around with contentment.

It’s taken long enough, but it is finished. With time, rigor, and dedication, the bookshelves now wind through the forest as if they were part of the natural growth. Each shelf is modestly adorned with works of all types. Tomes. Novels. Journals.

It’s perfect. Perhaps not in the technical sense, but… it’s perfect to me.

I stroll forward between the winding oaken shelves, the colors of the many books’ aged spines complementing the fall tones beautifully. Most ponies would think I’d prefer to have these shelves stocked to capacity, but this would be an inaccurate, albeit understandable, assumption. Much as I love to gain new material, I’m far more comfortable surrounding myself with familiarity. These works here represent the culmination of knowledge that has proven most useful in my journeys. Beyond the woods, there is where I learn.

But I dare not tread too far – not anymore. For though I expected all endeavors to prove a source of functional pleasure, I’ve learned such is not always the case.

I glance to my left. A cerulean book with a multicolored spine, rather thin and flimsy, yet more alluring than all the rest, sits at an angle against a couple of older works. I lift a hoof to reach for it, but hesitate. It was this work that bore a lesson learned too late, a lesson that harkened desires of old. Not directly of course, but by proximal influence. Were it not for context, I may never have read past the prologue.

I drop my hoof and turn my head. I walk past the book. Past the knowledge.

A dull thud echoes through the woods and shelves surrounding me.

…No matter. I press forward.

I try to close my mind – a painful action to attempt – and let my eyes drift back to the winding path ahead.

The thud sounds once more. Louder. Shaking the ground.

I draw a breath. Already, I know my fate.

Memory can be a damnable sort of thing.

Screwing my eyes shut, I dig my hooves into the ground, if only to brace for the inevitable. The thud sounds again, accented with shattered wood. I hear the branches overhead sway with unnatural force. I hold my breath.

And in an instant, the air is squeezed out of my lungs as a fetlock steals me away from my home.

I’m rushed high over the canopy of trees, I’m sure, given the lateral forces just felt. Warm breath cascades over my face, through my mane, across my withers. I hate this feeling. I hate this sensation.

I hate most of all that it scares me.

“Do you truly fear this so much?” the melodious voice speaks above barely a whisper, curious as ever.

I don’t respond aloud. Not that that’s ever stopped the thing.

I feel my body pivot against the coat hairs of the mare holding me. I dare not open my eyes. It’s hard enough to keep from shaking as it is.

“Why would you fear something you enjoy yourself so much?”

Shoe on the other hoof. I think that’s a saying somewhere, right?

“Surely you do not continue to speculate on the matter.”

Of course not. Speculation never defeated this before. A tactic neither productive nor calming. Besides… I know something now I didn’t before.

The mare exhales, blowing back my mane. “Rationale. A piece of what you believe to be a puzzle.”

Well, isn’t that how most information works? Each bit of knowledge can, in one way or another, be correlated to the cumulative whole. Life is a puzzle. And I have a new piece.

“…It makes no sense,” the voice speaks with sudden disappointment.

For a moment, I’m tempted to gaze out. But I know better. I know what happens when I embrace this.

“And yet, you know we will get nowhere until you do.”

…There is a modicum of truth to that.

Her grasp relaxes around me. Breathing becomes easier. Already, the fear begins to fade.

But I know better. I know.

So why do I choose to open my eyes?

As the light of the world fades into focus, I see not the forest around me, but the city beneath me.

Buildings. Thousands of them. Metalwork and concrete alike, built over the span of centuries. Equestrian modernity at its finest, bustling with the life of millions of ponies.

All beneath me.

Suddenly, a pleasing and queasy sort of feeling haunts me. Already, I can hear screams of terror resounding through the air. And I have yet to move so much as an inch.

Calmly, I peer down at a drove of ponies running frantically through the streets away from my hooves. Their movement is slow, or so it seems to my relative size. They barely flee outside my reach within the span of a minute.

And in that minute, I find myself at once fascinated and terrified. If I move – if I shift my weight in any given direction – all that can follow is chaos. The asphalt beneath my hooves crumbles even as I stand still.

The feeling tempts me. The screams, they call for me.

But I know better.

This, what I crave, is truly the last thing I want to crave.

I close my eyes against the warmth building within them.

I swallow through the lump in my throat.

And I step forward.