Chapters Oh, but that gal infuriated her sometimes! She stamped a hoof, watching the laughing pegasus’ retreating form whisk skyward, sky-blue swallowed up in blue sky. Setting her hat on a low-hanging branch, and flicking the remnants of water balloon from her mane, she wondered where the troublemaker was off to next. Probably whipping up a mud-twister in the middle of town or something.
She had to chuckle a bit at that. Yeah, maybe they didn't always see eye-to-eye, maybe they loved to get on each others' nerves -- but it always ended in laughter. She grinned, and set about planning her revenge.
Masks were important in her line of work; she understood that. A different face for every customer, and a different dress or suit or fashionable boa walked out the door each day. But when the tinkling bell above the door rang for the last time each evening, she sometimes found herself without any faces left at all.
That was the wonderful thing about her spa-going companion, she decided, reclining slightly in the mud-bath next to her -- all her soft-spoken companion saw, all she ever wanted from her, was her. She only hoped her own presence was as comforting.
High-born and low-born, academic and provincial, head-in-the-clouds and hooves-on-the-ground; to most eyes in town, they were such polar opposites that the very thought of them interacting in any meaningful way was inconceivable. But for all the difference in their upbringing, they laughed at the same jokes, read the same books, saw the world through the equally sardonic eyes. They were aware of it, frank about it, laughed when somepony tried to make a point of it, and went about their business. It was just that simple.
As they fell together through that bright birthday morning, as he tried to tell her what he'd wanted to for years, as she put a hoof to his lips and softly smiled, something changed between them. Not what he was hoping, not what she was fearing, but something. He would still pine, and she would still smilingly let him; his scales would still blush bright as dragonsfire, and her elegantly-coiffed mane would still hide the occasional look of concern; but there was a comfortableness to it, thereafter. The tension, the desire to prove the already-known, fell away, and all that was left was the knowing.
With a soft smile, she watched from her cottage as a rainbow contrail rent the overcast sky in twain. After a month of rain and gloom, it was time to let the sun shine through again. Her wings fluttered a little at the sight, but she did not move.
Teeth bared in a fierce grin, she tore through the clouds over Ponyville, slowing only for a moment when she neared the edge of the forest, scanning for the familiar landmark. She found it quickly, grinned wider still, and waved.
The figure in the window waved back.
She fled, gasping for breath. She had provoked this, she knew. Daring a glance over her shoulder, she saw that she was, indeed, still pursued. This moment of weakness cost her, though, and she tumbled down the stairs, bouncing and squeaking with each impact before rolling into a mannequin.
The jolt knocked a heavy load of fabric from above, and suddenly she was trapped! She flailed, but soft, deliberate hoofsteps already heralded her doom.
She squeezed her eyes shut as the fabric was pulled aside . . .
. . . and an unseen hoof gently poked her nosie.
‘Boop,’ her pursuer said, daintily. ‘You’re it!’
Adventure! Manic, gleeful and fun --
It's a strange kind of kinship, binds children together,
Warm summer afternoons were spent on a picnic blanket in the orchard. She talked, and he listened. She joked, and he chuckled. She griped about her students, and he encouraged her. She laid her head on his shoulder, and together they watched the puffy clouds go by.
Was there any deeper meaning to it? Did they want to spend the rest of their lives together? Neither of them really knew, and neither of them really cared. It was nice enough to just sit there and while away the hours as the sun went down, without expectation.
It was love, pure and simple and earnest and cosy. The best kind of love, too, because it was the kind of love that didn’t stop them from being best of friends. They geeked out over the same serials, followed the same musicians, ate the same foods with the same incredible gusto. They laughed together, they wept together, they held each other in the dark uncertain nights. And when the morning came they could still smile, or laugh, or -- Celestia forbid -- giggle .
(One was mightily embarrassed of her giggle, the other thought it the most adorable thing she'd ever heard.)
It was not love, no matter the rumours Berry Punch was always spreading around the local watering hole. They lived together, they ate together, they played together, and on a wild night they might spoon together on the couch for drunken warmth, but what of it? Lyra and Bon-Bon were the real sickeningly cute couple in Ponyville. And besides, there were too many things they absolutely hated about the other to make it work -- the noise, the lack of noise; the hot-blooded frenzy, the maddening calm; the snark, the snark .
Seriously. They just lived together.
B-baka.
He brought the time machine, she brought the muffins, and together they sailed the heavens.
It was a chance arrangement -- an accident, more than anything -- but as they went on, she felt more and more. 'Star-crossed' crossed her mind, and love-sick crossed her eyes. But no matter her lopsided grins, her coy, awkward skirting, he just smiled and asked where to next. Nothing changed when the foal came -- not his, she could never -- and nothing changed when her love began to fade. He made it a home for them, and tried not to let them see the sadness in his eyes.
14.
He was a simple stallion of honest stock, and she was content with that. He would write no great sonnets, sing no great ballads, think no great thoughts -- and that was okay. It was the little things, the things he could do, that made her love him. His sweet smile, his dopey accent (how does a nice Canterlot boy like that pick up a Calneighfornia drawl?), his cooking, that ridiculous love of hoofball -- the things that made him real.
Let the neighsayers come. Let them call her sham, pretender, whore. She didn’t care. She had what she wanted.
A lifetime is a long time, and the little dragon knew (albeit dimly) that the twelve or so years he’d spent with her was nothing compared to the thousands that lay ahead. But in the rare moments that he let himself think about the future, he couldn’t for a single one picture a life without her in it. She had laughed when he told her so, remarked she should enjoy that while it lasted.
‘While it lasted.’
It ate at him. The future, the uncertainty, the thought of losing her comfort, her love.
He clung tighter.
By now her friends read like open books -- their joys and their sorrows, their strengths and their vices laid bare to varying degrees -- all save one. She knew there was more to the mare than she let on, but anytime she tried to dig deeper, to understand what she hid behind that manic demeanour, to tell her it was alright, that she was there to listen, her friend’s smile simply widened another impossible few inches, and her wackiness redoubled.
So she let it lie. The distance, small but distinct, remained, and she did her best not to let it hurt.
Once in an age comes a moment of truth
But here in this one of many like worlds
Whither they came, whate'er their desire,
Through anguish and joy, abstrusely divine,
Oh, and beware of unmarked spoilers in the comments if you want an unsullied reading experience.