Chapter 1 - Wingchester (Skye)
Chapter 1 - Wingchester
Victory and defeat.
The natural conclusions of any fair competition. The bread and butter, or perhaps the oats and alfalfa, of life experience. Ponies can learn valuable lessons from victory. The unrivaled adrenaline rush of emerging as the champion of a hard-fought race is nothing short of breathtaking.
But defeat teaches valuable lessons as well. Defeat teaches a pony to respect their efforts, even when they do not pay off in the end. Defeat teaches proud ponies that humility has its proper place on the shelf next to arrogance. And most importantly, defeat teaches a pony that there are two sides to every story.
My name is Skye Swiftmane, and I am besieged by victory.
I’m not much of a storyteller; in fact, you’d have better luck talking with my traveling companion, Mortimer. He’s the real storyteller, not me. Oh, I should probably warn you not to call him that. Mosey hates that name. Still don’t know why; maybe one of these days he’ll tell me his story, but until then, just stay on his good side and go with Mosey.
But I digress. If you’re so staunchly resolute in your desire to hear my story, I’ll oblige, just this once.
Where should a pony begin? Were I in a sarcastic tenor, I might lead with tales of my parents in a hospital room, my mother screaming for another epidural, my father blushing alternatively with embarrassment and squeamishness, and frantic nurses galloping about looking for cotton balls.
But I was not born in a hospital. Nor do I ever wish to see one again. Ever.
Perhaps this story more appropriately begins with my grandparents. Trust me, if you’re looking for a tall tale, Grandfather Harmattan’s stories could drive a pony to water and make it drink. I remember him fondly; he’d regale us with accounts of the expeditions he undertook before he met Grandmother Aleiju, all of which he swore were the honest truth, though even as a foal I always knew the one about how he single-hoofedly defeated a lumbering horde of mummified ponies was a load of ponyapples.
Sigh…and drink he certainly did, the old fool. Even to the very end, as he sat there in his study, gazing endlessly over decades’ worth of discolored notebooks and dog-eared maps, after he’d turned away countless doctors’ recommendations with little more than snorts of derision, the decanter of cloudberry cider would always be close at hoof. Grandmother would lecture him at length as she always had; he’d try to sweet-talk his way onto a different subject as he always had. Every day the same, ever since they met in Skyrobi all those years ago. It was almost pedantically stereotypical; the uptight, blustery explorer falling head over hooves in love with the beautiful, exotic maiden. A tale retold countless times by countless ponies.
Pedantic or not, that was their tale. They returned to Wingchester, hoof in hoof, almost seventy years ago, and neither of them ever again left. They had one another, and that was all they ever needed. All anypony ever needed.
Perhaps I should explain Wingchester’s somewhat unique layout. Unlike a true pegasus city like Cloudsdale or Skyrobi, Wingchester was founded long ago by earth ponies, on a high promontory overlooking the Western ocean. The fertile soil and rainy climate was ideal for agriculture, and to this day, the farms just to the east of the city produce some of Equestria’s finest cauliflower and kale.
When pegasi first came to Wingchester, they quickly realized its other natural resource, the dense fog layer that sits unfailingly just offshore. As they did not want to squander any of the farmland acreage on houses and other buildings, the pegasi chose to construct a new neighborhood of the city out past the cliffs. By using a combination of cloud and stone, and connecting their neighborhood to the mainland by a great number of rope bridges, their addition to the city was useable by earth ponies and unicorns, thus ensuring that the community would remain whole.
But I’m rambling. You wanted to hear my story, not the exhaustive history of the city of Wingchester. Whatever keeps your airship aloft, as’t were.
Well then. Welcome to Equestria.
Generic foalhood upbringing aside, this story properly begins not all that long ago, at the starting line of the three hundred seventy-sixth running of the Percheron Derby. The semiannual derby at Percheron Downs is one of Wingchester’s longstanding traditions. Held for nearly two hundred years, its longevity is surpassed only by the races at Canterlot Castle. Ponies from all across Equestria and even beyond our borders flock to the city to test their mettle in the largest open competition in the area, and this spring’s event was no exception.
“Skye, are you just going to hover there all day long? The race starts in fifteen minutes, and I’ll be damned if you flake out on me again! Now get your flank in gear and join me at the starting line!”
Duskfeather. Ever the competitor, ever the busybody. And my longest and most loyal friend.
“Skye! Are there cabbages in your ears or something? Quit bucking around and come along!”
Her auburn mane shone brilliantly in the pale spring sunlight, a stunning contrast to her deep cerulean coat. On the rare clear days like this one, when Celestia’s rays rained down triumphantly upon her majestic figure, Duskfeather was simply breathtaking to behold.
“Skye, am I going to have to tan that blank rump of yours myself? If you don’t get over here right now, I’ll personally see to it that your cutie mark is a hoofprint. My hoofprint!”
I chuckled to myself. There’s a part of me that would love to see that happen. I’ve known Duskfeather for almost all of my nineteen years of life, and she’s never once failed to be almost brutally beautiful.
But I was beginning to wear her patience thin. Excellent. All the more reason for playful trash-talk.
“Oh, come off it Dusky; all these years you’ve been staring at that rump and you’ve never once been able to catch up to it. What makes today any different?” I knew that would get her goat.
“This is it, Skye! Today’s the day when I’ll finally get to say I’ve bested you in a race! And today’s the day you’ll have to stare in awe as my flank disappears into the distance, you scoundrel! I’ve been training night and day--”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve seen you pacing yourself down by the spires at Kelpswirl Cove. Where you really shouldn’t be training; the crosswinds through there are dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Ponyapples! I’m aiming to win this thing, and I need all the training I can get!”
I chuckled. “Well, at least you’ve got one thing right.” She glared at me in feigned offense; her gorgeous rosy eyes shining vividly.
“Oh ha ha. I’m sure the prodigious Skye Swiftmane, as usual, hasn’t done any training at all, am I right?” She noticed my blush and scowled playfully. “Because unlike the flighted gentry,” she said mockingly, “some of us have to work for our talents. And I want this. I want this more than anything! And I’m willing to do anything it takes, even if it kills me!”
I winced at that. Duskfeather was fiercely competitive, even to the point where she could be self-destructive. I first noticed it back when we were yearlings, at Miss Canary’s school talent show. She’d spent weeks trying to perfect her aerial maneuvers; even at that young age she was already a stellar flyer, more athletic than nearly anypony else at the school.
Nearly anypony else.
Duskfeather didn’t even need to hear the words. As soon as she saw Miss Canary floating the red second-place ribbon toward her, she darted from the classroom and took off into the countryside. It took the search party two days to find her, huddled under a bridge almost halfway to Trottingham, rain-soaked and bruised. Three plucked and bloodied flight feathers at her hooves.
I bit my lip apprehensively. “Whatever you say, Dusky. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“I don’t want to do fine, Skye. I want to win. And nopony, not even you, will stand in my way this time.”
She fluttered off ahead of me towards the pavilion marking the starting line. A radiant standard fluttered gently from its centerpole, a carnelian pegasus in mid-flight emblazoned on a shimmering golden background. “BEYOND COMPARE” in brashly emerald letters. The traditional emblem of the city of Wingchester.
I followed, taking stock of the hubbub around me. Parents trying to corral their children into the bleacher seats adorning the halfway point and finish line. Late-arriving competitors furiously scrawling last-minute signatures. Captain Thunderflash of the Cloudchasers fidgeting in his flight suit as he made his way up to the judges’ perch. A low clamor of restless nickering and whinnying filling the cool air.
The Percheron Derby consists of two distinct halves. The first part of the competition is a lengthy jaunt through the gently rolling hills of the Wingchester countryside, the final leg of which runs along the tall ocean cliffs. The halfway point, or for unicorns and earth ponies, the finish line, is where most of the spectators gather.
The second part of the competition is a straight line air race, beginning immediately after the hoofrace. Designed to measure endurance rather than mere speed, the route extends well out to sea, rounding Serpent Crag very near the horizon, and back again to the pavilion. What can I say, pegasi are gluttons for punishment. Not to mention our unfortunate predilection for one-uphorseship.
I scanned for Duskfeather at the starting line. Although no pegasus had ever won (or even placed in) the hoofrace portion of the competition, I could see her jockeying for position as close to the ribbon as possible.
I gave a cursory glance to the spectators’ bleachers, the faces of a thousand anxiously cheering ponies smiling back at me. Grandmother Aleiju was resting comfortably in one of the luxurious suites at the top, graciously answering predictable questions from gawk-eyed ponies. Are there lots of winged zebras? What about zebras with horns? What’s Skyrobi like? Have you ever seen a woolly gigantelope? Can zebras read minds? I shook my head in annoyance, admiring her unfathomable patience. I’ve long since grown tired of answering those sorts of questions, but even in this day and age, and even with my own stripes barely visible against my carmine coat, I’ll still run into the occasional provincial flankhole with an irrational fear of zebras.
“Mares and gentlestallions!” Captain Thunderflash’s voice boomed over the crowd, unaided by unicorn magic. “The City of Wingchester welcomes one and all to the three-hundred-seventy-sixth running of the Percheron Derby! Spectators, please find your seats as quickly as possible. Racers, to the starting line!” A thunderous roar of hoofstomping rang out from the bleachers as we trotted (or flew) into starting position.
I shouted forward into the crowd. “You ready for this, Dusky?” I didn’t think she could hear me over the din of hooves.
“I’ve been ready for this my whole life.” She raised a forehoof to the sky, striking a triumphant pose. A haltingly beautiful pose. “It’s time for me to finally be victorious!” She gave a little squeal of excitement. I always loved her little squeals. The irresistible combination of cute and downright provocative.
Captain Thunderflash called out once more. “Racers, take your marks! The event is about to begin!” The crowd rose to their hooves in nervous anticipation. “Are you ready! Get set…”
“…GO!”
Three hundred hooves pounded the earth at once. Two thousand more struck together in raucous applause. Twelve tons of horse surged forward in a thunderous melee. Having not been able to nudge forward to the starting ribbon in time, I was behind by seven lengths right from the get-go.
That would not last long.
As we rounded the first wide turn beyond the kale fields, the frontrunners began to separate themselves from the crowd. Duskfeather was in third position well ahead of me, two shockingly green earth ponies beyond her. Twins, best I could figure. They were running side by side in an effort not to let anypony pass. How adorable.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch them on hoof; as fast as I am in the air, I’m only slightly above average on the ground. Flight is not allowed during the first portion of the race; after all, the earth ponies and unicorns need their time to shine as well. Typically earth ponies are champions in the hoofrace, but it isn’t terribly uncommon for a particularly talented unicorn to win the day. But unless you’re a pegasus, or perhaps a gryphon, you have no idea how difficult it is to resist the innate urge to fly. I could see it taking a toll on Duskfeather up ahead in the distance, the electric green earth pony twins and a pale blue unicorn the only three still leading her.
Rounding the final turn, the vast expanse of the ocean came into view. The last straightaway along the cliffs. A bitingly cold crosswind cut viciously from right to left across our path. I slowed my stride slightly, settling into a quick canter. There was no reason to waste energy now when the air race still lay ahead. I did a quick count of the ponies ahead of me. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…only six pegasi, including Duskfeather.
Outstanding.
I sauntered across the halfway line at three-quarter pace, the madding throng of spectators surging with glee all around me.
“And the winner of the hoofrace is…Periwinkle, followed closely by Cedar and Birch!” Captain Thunderflash’s voice was almost drowned out by the excitement of the crowd. “And leading the herd of pegasi into the aerial competition is Wingchester’s own Duskfeather!” The crowd rose to a fever pitch at the possibility of a local champion. I caught sight of the earth pony twins in my periphery, clearly upset that their tactic had failed them in the end.
And suddenly the ground beneath me gave way, the roiling ocean far below my hooves. I let myself freefall for a few moments, the rush of salty air billowing up at me, enveloping me, embracing me…
I spread my wings and turned to face the headwind. Serpent Crag was just below the horizon.
The race had just begun.
Puffins and guillemots squawked loudly from their nests as I rounded Serpent Crag. A rookery of elephant seals on the beach far below raised their trunks and trumpeted a response. I paid them little notice. We’d actually made better time that I would have thought, though the icy headwind had not relented and the sea was churning angrily. But now we were headed for shore, and the wind that had already bested two competitors was now working for us rather than against us.
And only Duskfeather stood between me and the finish line.
I spread my pinions further, allowing the full ferocity of the gale to carry me skyward. I could still see the Winchester standard waving nobly atop the pavilion. There lay my goal. I pulled my wings back in and lowered my head, spiraling into a steep dive. I was closing in on Dusky faster than I thought I would. Certainly faster than she thought I would. This was going to be fun.
“What the?” She exclaimed as I tousled her forelock with my hoof. I grinned stupidly as she glared up at me, seething. “Aww, buck no, Skye! I will NOT lose this time!”
I couldn’t resist the urge for more trash talk. “You sure about that, Dusky?” She tried to pull ahead, but I matched her beat for beat, stroke for stroke. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s what you said last time, and the time before that, and at the Young Flyers competition three years ago…I could go on, you know.”
“That was then; this is now. I’ve learned a thing or two about flying since the last time we raced, and I don’t think you have the balls to try this technique!”
Red flag. What could Dusky possibly be talking about? The flight from where we were to the finish line was perfectly straight; we were already level with the top of the cliffs where the earth pony neighborhood was perched.
Then I saw her dive.
“Umm…Duskfeather, what are you doing? The race is, you know, that way?” But she was too far below to hear me over the sound of the ocean. She leveled out just above the breakers and…picked up speed? Of course! The wind is strongest right above the water, and when it reaches the cliff face, it has no choice but to blow straight up and out.
Clever, Dusky. Very clever.
But stupid! The base of the sea cliffs is lined with jagged granite spires, and the cliffs themselves are at least forty or fifty times the height of a pony. She could be dashed to pieces, broken and bloodied or worse if she made just one wrong move!
I accelerated after her, sacrificing altitude for raw speed. Pulling up just above the ocean surface, I realized in a panic just how clever and stupid she was. I had never felt wind this strong before in my life. It buffeted my frame like a rag doll, cruelly laughing off the adjustments I was making with my feathers. There was no choice but to get into a gliding position and hope for the best. I lowered my head as far as I could, my outstretched wings reaching well above my withers, my hooves tucked close under my barrel.
Beyond compare. Those were the words. Our words. Belonging not just to Wingchester, but to all its inhabitants. To every Swiftmane that had ever lived in its ethereal foggy reaches.
To me.
I blew by Duskfeather in a streak of vermilion. “Stripey blankflank son of a whore!” I heard the curse escape her muzzle just as I overtook her, something I knew she’d regret later and apologize profusely for. As she always had.
But this was no longer about mere athletics. This was about ensuring that I still had a friend to call my own after the spirit of competition drove her to the brink of insanity. As it always had.
A sharp jab to my right hindquarter. “No! Not…this time…Skye…” She was straining hard at this speed, her face drenched with sea spray. No. Not sea spray. Tears.
“Duskfeather, you need to pull up NOW and stop this madness. You’re going to get yourself hurt if you pull this stunt!”
She sobbed through a muzzle trembling from both velocity and emotion. “You…you just want me to lose! You want the trophy for yourself! Another victory for Skye bucking Swiftmane!”
“Dusky, this is crazy! You think I care about this competition now? I care about you! I care about making sure my friend doesn’t go and kill herself over some stupid race!”
Her crimson eyes turned violent. Murderous. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you trying to tell me you don’t care about the race? That you’re LETTING me win?”
She let out an anguished roar so terrifying I couldn’t believe it was actually coming from a pony. She darted ahead and bucked me, hard, in my right shoulder. The force of the impact frightened me and almost knocked me into the ocean. The force of her anger frightened me even more.
The ferocity in her eyes nearly petrified me right then and there.
It was at that moment that I realized the true nature of competition. The true nature of victory and defeat. The toll that this malicious spirit took on everypony who was caught up in its tangled web of pride and false confidence. If racing meant that I would lose my longest and dearest friend to the idylls of madness, then there was no question. No decision to be made.
This would be my last race.
Time to focus. My shoulder was smarting from her kick, but my wings were unhurt. I flapped hard, accelerating even more as I hurtled towards the cliffs. Sixty…fifty…forty lengths. A serrated column protruded from the sea just ahead of me. Quick turn to the left. Thirty lengths. The scent of red tide saturated the air around me. Twenty lengths. I caught sight of Duskfeather once again just ahead, flying recklessly and narrowly missing a sea stack. Ten lengths.
I pulled up hard, the wind and foam crashing up behind me. Duskfeather had done the same, but she was perilously close to the cliff face. Too close. There was a sharp outcropping just above her that she hadn’t seen.
I grabbed her mane in my teeth and pulled hard. She howled in pain, lashing out with a forehoof, but I was quick enough to dodge the blow. I had done what needed done anyway; we cleared the outcropping, blowing past at breakneck speed. Just ten lengths to the top of the cliff. We were going to make it.
Her teeth clamped town on my tail. My left pastern made contact with the edge of the cliff face. I heard a sickening crunching sound followed by an upwelling of sharp pain in my leg. I somersaulted up and over the cliff. Duskfeather was flung from me by the force of the spin. Where she landed I don’t know. I landed hard on my shoulder on the slick muddy surface. Another nauseating crunching sound. I skidded forward a few lengths, my face buried in mud, finally coming to an abrupt halt.
The world went black.
I awoke to a dull, throbbing pain in my right shoulder. The achiness continued down its length and into my wing. My wing! I gasped and twisted furiously for a better angle, the pain in my shoulder seething menacingly. I felt the feathers individually, fearing the worst. Pinion, first primary, second primary…they were all there! Moving down the bone, the first four secondaries were all intact, followed by the diastataxic gap, the sixth feather, the seventh, the eigh--OH SON OF A DIAMOND DOG BITCH THAT HURTS! I collapsed again in a sweat. How long had I been unconscious? Had I been asleep all day? Two days? A week?
But what of Duskfeather? Where was she? Frantically I searched the room, which I now realized was one of the recuperation wards in Coronet Hospital. There was no mistaking the striking granite-and-cloud décor. A desk lamp, a wilted fern, a small rattan chair, a small collection of medical machines all switched off, a window angling out toward the rocky cliffs and the great ocean beyond. No sign of her anywhere.
A knot began to form behind my throatlatch. Where had she fallen? What if she had been flung back off the cliff? What if she hadn’t survived the fall?
I heard hoofsteps approaching in the hallway. “…charts will be coming back from Doctor Hoofstaedter’s office very soon. It looks like the stallion in room 14 will be alright in the long run.” Two nurses, presumably discussing my condition.
“What’s the extent of his injuries?”
“Severely sprained left posterior pastern, mildly sprained left posterior gaskin. Both as a result of his hoof striking the cliffside. Two missing flight feathers on his right wing, but nothing severe. He’ll be able to fly normally again in a couple days’ time.”
Another sigh, this time in relief. I would be able to fly again. The joy of hearing those words made me forget all about the pain in my shoulder and leg.
“But what of this blunt shoulder injury? That couldn’t have been caused by a mere fall.”
“Doctor Hoofstaedter says it could have been compounded by the stress of flying straight up at that speed, but I don’t buy it. Don’t tell anypony I said this, but I’ve been working here for thirty-six years, and that injury was hoof-inflicted or my name isn’t Peartree.”
They continued down the hallway, their attentions turned to other patients, their hoofbeats lost in the distance. There was no pony else in this wing of the hospital. I didn’t begrudge Duskfeather a thing; there was nothing she could do to break my trust. Shaken, yes, but not broken. Not broken.
“I’m not sure if congratulations or sympathies are in order.” I jumped at Grandmother Aleiju’s voice. She was sitting peacefully on the rattan chair, which I swear had been empty just a minute before. How did she do it? I swear, even at almost ninety years old, her ability to just appear out of nowhere was unrivaled by anypony in Wingchester.
“Eliyu, I’m so glad to see you!” I called her by the name I always had since I was a foal and couldn’t pronounce her exotic name. Heck, Grandfather Harmattan hadn’t been able to pronounce it correctly his entire life, and she still married him! “But what do you mean by ‘congratulations’? The whole day ended in disaster!”
“The day is not yet over, Skye. How can one speak of its ending? On the other hoof, the congratulations have already been earned. You might as well accept them now, especially if disaster is what you expect to find later, wouldn’t you agree?” I had to admit, I’ve always loved Grandmother’s aphorisms, though they were rarely as comforting as I knew she intended them to be. Sigh…I really should learn more about that part of my heritage; as much time as I’ve spent with her, I still know next to nothing about zebra culture. But it would have to wait; as for right now, there were more pressing questions to be asked.
“Congratulations can wait, Eliyu. Do you know where Duskfeather is?”
Her expression soured slightly. “They originally brought her in through the emergency ward, but…” Her ears pricked up and focused toward the hallway. The sour expression grew into a confused scowl. “…I believe she’s just outside the door. She must have made a swift recovery.” My heart skipped two beats as she appeared in the doorway.
I could tell right away that something was wrong. Duskfeather was still drenched with salt spray from the race, her normally beautiful mane disheveled and hanging ragged around her neck, a bloodstained bandage wrapped around her right hindhoof, a glistening black splotch just underneath each wing.
Her rosy eyes unflinching, unwavering.
“Dusky! I’m so glad to see you! You’re alright!” I wanted to leap out of the hospital bed to hug her, but with my injuries, I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. My greeting fell to the floor like a stray feather. “Alright? All-bucking-right?! That’s what you think I am? Alright?” She reared up and bucked the granite wall of the room with both hindhooves. A fresh crimson stain appeared under her bandage, and she grimaced in pain.
I stared on in horror. No. Duskfeather was not alright.
She started to rear up again but held back, ostensibly trying to regain some sense of composure. Her labored breathing echoed cruelly through the room. Salt littered the cold stone floor as she shook her azure coat. Salt and blood.
“Duskfeather! What have you done to yourself, child!” Eliyu’s voice was trembling. I’d never once heard Grandmother’s voice tremble.
Duskfeather didn’t react. She walked slowly up to the bed, her eyes drilling into me. I’d loved those eyes once. Right now they looked like they’d sooner swallow me whole than blink. They would haunt me for the rest of my life.
“Dusky, I…what’s going on? What happened?” The rest of the words died in my throat.
“You want to know what happened?” She gestured about the room as if to a crowd. “He wants to know what happened!” Eliyu looked as terrified as I was. “Well, everypony, let’s give him the news!” She leaned in close. I could feel her breath on my muzzle. Her warmth. Her hatred.
She spoke in a cool, soulless monotone. “Another victory for Skye Swiftmane.”
Grandmother and I saw the scalpels embedded deep in her wings a second too late, the severed tendons bristling white, the bloodstained feathers dripping red. She darted for the open window and leaped for the horizon, the rush of salty air billowing up, enveloping, embracing…
I was paralyzed.
Grandmother was not. Faster than the beat of a parasprite’s wing, she leapt from the chair and flew from the window. I allowed myself to hope for just a moment, one brief, fleeting moment, that she’d be able to catch Dusky in time.
The unmistakable snap of a wing bone. The equally unmistakable sound of an aged zebra screaming in terror as her wings could no longer hold her aloft. The dull thud of flesh against stone.
I couldn’t hear a thing. Couldn’t see a thing. Couldn’t fathom what had just happened. My longest and dearest friend. My grandmother. What cruel and terrible place was this?
I didn’t even hear them approach. A small crowd of ponies started filling the room. Had they not seen what just happened? Why were they here? What were they doing? It was all so confusing, so sudden, so unfathomable.
“Skye Swiftmane!” Captain Thunderflash boomed from the open doorway. “On behalf of the Cloudchasers and the City of Wingchester, I am proud to present you with the Percheron Cup. Congratulations on your victory today!”
Oh no. Buck. No.
“But not just today. No, even with your less-than-graceful tumble across the finish line, you have set a new record for the fastest time in the history of the Percheron Derby!”
Cruel and terrible place indeed.
“And to top it off, let’s throw off that blanket and show everypony the good news!”
What was he talking about? The emotions swirling through my head were clouding my vision, obscuring the world around me. Why hadn’t I called out for help? What was I thinking!
One of the photographer ponies grabbed the blanket draped over me with his mouth and lifted it off gingerly, revealing my whole body to the room.
The flashes were blinding. Duskfeather’s menacing rosy eyes glared out from the white nothingness surrounding me. Devouring me. I wanted to run. Run far away from those eyes. From the friend I had once loved and would never be able to love again.
The last voice I heard was faint but unambiguous.
“Congratulations, Skye! You’ve finally earned your cutie mark! Today must be the greatest day of your life!”
I didn’t even look at it. For the second time today, the whole world turned to black. And then I shut my eyes.
