Thicker Than Water

Spring was late again.

An outbreak of feather-flu had put almost the entire Canterlot City Weather Division out of commission for two full weeks, and the snow had lingered so unseasonably long that it had begun to melt on its own. Even now in late April, the beleaguered weather teams were shoveling off the last of the rooftops and scrambling through the clouds to put together the first true spring shower of the year.

Yet none of that mattered, Inger mused, smiling as the wind fluttered through his outstretched feathers. The intoxicating spring scent in the air made up for its lateness; that unique seasonal aroma of fresh greenery laced with the promise of rain and new growth.

Far below him, Canterlot had begun to explode in verdant bloom. At this height, the city looked nearly organic; like a tangled weave of ivy spreading from the great wall up the side of the mountain where it was crowned by the vast castle above, glittering gold in the afternoon sunlight. Inger still spent some nights up there, at the Firewing barracks just outside the castle grounds, but only when there was an emergency. There had been less and less of those in the years since the war.

The city streets below were still pockmarked by signs of damage, if you knew where to look. A broken tower here, an empty plot between houses there… but the old scars had long healed over, even from Inger’s aerial vantage point. Tracks of green streaked the city, trees regrown and buildings rebuilt. The Clement Blueblood Memorial Park was bursting with color inside the surrounding perimeter of brown-roofed buildings. All the blossoming trees made winter seem a distant memory already.

Inger inhaled deeply between wingbeats, with a satisfied smile. “Lovely day, huh, Wheatie?”

His flying companion, a brown-speckled pegasus, dipped his wings as they turned. “Very.” Wheatie grinned. “Though I’m looking forward to tonight even more.”

“Playing cards with Lieutenant Whiskwind's group again?”

Wheatie shook his head, grin widening. “A date.”

“Ah.” Inger’s eyes twinkled. “Well, you’ve earned it, for a change. That was some good work over the field today, Sergeant.”

Wheatie winced, massaging the back of his neck. “You know, you could ease up a bit. Just because the weather’s taken a turn for the better doesn’t mean you need to overdo it. I’m going to be sore for days after all those displacement rolls.”

Inger chuckled, gliding for a few meters to let his wings rest. “You baby. Windstreak used to make us do forty sets of those a day.”

“Not in a row. I thought poor Cherrylen was going to puke.”

The two juked left, gliding past a stray cloud as they began their descent toward the streets. Inger felt a sudden gust of wind tug at his feathers, and adjusted his posture to cut through it with the unconscious ease of a lifelong precision flyer. He cast a dubious eyebrow at Wheatie. “If anything, I’ve been taking it too easy on you all. Old Bergeron could have eaten this lot for breakfast.”

Wheatie laughed. “True enough. He put the fear of the Sisters in us during boot.” The sergeant’s smile turned melancholic. “I miss him.”

“So do I.”

“It was never the same after Whitewall,” said Wheatie, pensively looking down at the flowering city as it drew closer. “I miss all the old faces. Don’t get me wrong, I like the newbies, but…”

“They’re not so new these days,” said Inger, as the two circled down to land. They touched down onto the cobblestones with the faint clop of bare hooves on stone. Inger pushed a hoof against his chin, cracking his neck. “Oof. We’re just getting old.”

“Hmph! Speak for yourself.” Wheatie fluffed his feathers and broke out into a parade canter. “Come on, Captain, keep up. Or do you need me to help you cross the street?”

Inger grinned, matching Wheatie’s pace. They’d been working hard all day over the flying pitch, but a little more exercise wouldn’t hurt. The soreness in his muscles was a good ache. It meant he was still pushing his limits, still at his physical peak. Most days, he felt like he could fight another dragon if he had to.

Most days. He stretched his wings with a tiny wince. “So, who’s the girl?”

Wheatie coughed, caught off-guard. “I… didn’t realize you took an interest, Captain.”

“Why wouldn’t I? Windstreak and I have been waiting for you to get hitched for years.”

It wasn’t easy to make the sergeant blush. Inger felt a silly little surge of victory at Wheatie’s reddened cheeks. “I, uh, don’t think that’s in the cards. She’s nice, but…”

“But…?” Inger’s grin widened.

Wheatie rolled his eyes, still blushing. “Look, just because you got married to the first girl who caught your eye doesn’t mean we all want to. Some of us prefer to play the field.”

“Some of us don’t have to,” Inger countered.

“Touché,” said Wheatie, shrugging with a faint smile.

Inger took another lungful of that invigorating air as they passed a florist’s shop flanked by kaleidoscopes of gorgeous bouquets. “Cranberry and I have been together for six years now. I’d say we got it right the first time.” He elbowed Wheatie. “Come on. You’ve thought about settling down, haven’t you?”

Wheatie adjusted the silver circlet around his right foreleg. “Once or twice…”

“I suppose family’s been on my mind a lot, these days. The boys keep surprising me. Strawberry’s almost old enough to take the Firewing entrance exams, can you believe it?” Inger shook his head. “Time moves so quickly when you’ve got kids.”

“It’s not the kids, it’s the rank,” said Wheatie with a sly grin. His hoof jabbed Inger’s shoulder where the captain’s bars would sit when in uniform. “All senior officers are perpetually doomed to feel old. You’ve got a whole flock of children to manage at the barracks. That’s why Windstreak was always so maternal.”

“Ha. You know something strange? Just the other day, I realized—I’m the same age she was when she retired.” Inger turned a corner, Wheatie following close behind. “Although I’m sure she’d still be ordering us around today if not for the injuries.”

Wheatie’s trot quickened slightly as he pulled up beside his captain. “Not thinking of joining her in blissful boredom, are you?”

“No, no,” Inger reassured him. “It’s just funny how these things sneak up on you.” When Wheatie’s nervous squint remained, Inger chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on quitting anytime soon.”

“Good. I don’t want your job,” said Wheatie, relaxing again. “I prefer flying.”

“I fly!”

“Sure,” chuffed Wheatie. “You fly that desk real well.”

Inger rolled his eyes. “Someone has to organize Celestia’s protection detail.”

“Oh, no argument here. I’m just glad it’s you, not me.”

Rolling his shoulder, Inger grimaced. “Now you mention it, it has been a long time since I got out in the field… Maybe I should lead some of the cadets on a patrol out west.”

“Forget a patrol,” said Wheatie, flicking an ear. “You need a vacation, Dragonslayer.”

“Ach.” Inger grimaced. “You only call me that when you’re angling for something.”

“Guilty as charged,” Wheatie chuckled. “But it’s for your benefit, this time. When was the last time you took leave?”

“Er… Rye and Tyria’s wedding, come to think of it.”

“The wed—goddess, that was nearly two years ago, Inger!” Wheatie looked genuinely aghast. “That settles it. You’re taking a vacation. A month of it, at least.”

“A month? Wheatie, I can’t be gone that long—”

Wheatie frowned, eyebrows furrowing in mock disapproval. “And why not? Celestia can’t say no to Equestria’s biggest hero asking for a break.”

“I know she can’t,” said Inger unhappily. “That’s why I’ve always been reluctant to ask.”

“Captain.” Wheatie looked evenly at him. “Section one-sixty-six.”

Inger rolled his eyes, but he had the blasted Firewings combat manual memorized. Avoid exhaustion and overwork by taking rest days between periods of extreme exertion. A longer rest period of at least one week and not exceeding thirty days, is required at least once a year to keep the mind focused and the wings strong.

He shrugged. “Yes, yes, but there’s always so much to do—”

“I can handle training the fresh recruits and your administrative duties for a month, Inger. I’ve been at this almost as long as you have, you know.” Wheatie winked. “Almost.”

“But what if something happens? We only had four days of advance warning when the griffons took Southlund and kicked off the war…”

Wheatie waved this away. “They’re not marching to war again anytime soon, and our Nordpony neighbors are still on good terms. Everyone else is far enough away that we’ll hear them coming if they want to make trouble.” He nudged Inger with a hoof. “Go on. Take a vacation. You need one worse than anypony I’ve ever met.”

“Well…” Inger’s jaw worked for a moment. “I have been trying to find time to take Strawberry out to Lake Alazure to teach him some more advanced weatherforging…” His lip curled, and he narrowed his eyes accusingly. “You’re just trying to get out of more displacement rolls, aren’t you?”

Wheatie snorted. “Yep. You got me.” The joke came with an expectant look.

With a sigh of defeat, Inger waved a hoof. “All right, all right… I’ll think about it.” He rolled a leg to work out a bit of soreness. Ahead, he saw the signpost that signaled the point on their daily trip home from the castle where the two pegasi would part ways. “In any case, I’d better get home before the sun goes down. See you tomorrow, Wheatie.”

“Goodnight, Captain. Say hello to the professor for me.” Wheatie departed with a wave.

* * *

The rest of Inger’s walk was calm and peaceful. The weather hadn’t warmed enough for the streets to reach a true bustle, but there were plenty of other ponies enjoying the spring air. He nodded to the ones he knew as he passed, and endured the gawks of those he didn’t with a patient smile. Inger had long given up hope that he could fade into a crowd in this city—there weren’t many cherry-red pegasi with gold rings for cutie marks around.

The famous Dragonslayer of Canterlot had always been uneasy about the fame that came with being the first to take down a dragon alone in nearly a thousand years. For one thing, he’d have had no chance if Celestia herself hadn’t done most of the work beforehoof; for another, his brothers- and sisters-in-arms had sacrificed far more than him to kill the other dragon involved in the war. But Equestria needed heroes after suffering so much loss and misery, and so Inger played the part for his country’s sake.

The sunset had just begun to darken into night when he reached the front door of his family’s cozy two-story cottage. Raising a hoof, he knocked twice before resting it on the knob. Before he could turn it, the door swept inward to reveal a pink mare with a curly blond mane, glancing away from him over her shoulder.

Words tumbled out of her mouth with customary breathlessness. “Good evening! I’m so sorry, the house is still a mess, I wasn’t expecting you for another—” She turned to face him and blinked in surprise. “Oh! Inger. Hi, honey.”

He darted forward and stole a kiss, receiving a giggle in return. “Hey. Were you expecting someone else?”

“Yes, we’re entertaining tonight,” she said, stepping aside as he entered and shutting the door behind him. “I got cornered by some noble stallion today at the university after my lecture. His name’s Count Vallen, from Silverglen in the Rose Valley down south.”

Inger followed her into the kitchen. “Never heard of him.”

“Me either.” Cranberry adjusted her reading glasses, blowing out a sigh. “Apparently he’s in town on business. He said it was right up my alley; wanted to discuss it after hours. And of course, we haven’t cleaned the house in weeks…”

“Months, actually,” said Inger dryly. His wife was normally as lax as her husband and the colts about keeping their home prim and proper, but whenever formal company loomed she transformed into a tidying tyrant. “Did this Vallen character say what he wanted? I thought you were still too busy right now teaching classes to take on anything new.”

Cranberry’s normal bouncy good cheer went suddenly flat. “He said it was about Locke.”

Inger rubbed his chin. He knew the name. Pad Locke was Cranberry’s closest colleague in Canterlot University’s classics department. “Oh. Has he still not returned from that dig in the Elktic Commonwealth? I thought he was due back months ago.”

“He was.” Cranberry’s mouth thinned with concern. “He warned us that he wouldn’t be communicating much until the dig was well underway, but nearly a year without a word? He’s almost as bad as Rye about keeping in touch on trips, but that’s extreme even for him.”

“As bad as Rye?” said Inger, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe he got married on Elketh, and the postcard’s still on its way,”

Cranberry’s serious expression vanished as she glared up at the ceiling with an exaggerated groan. “Oh, ye gods. Hi, everyone. Sorry I haven’t written, got kidnapped by pirates. By the way, you’re invited to my wedding to a mare you’ve never met… I don’t think Windstreak’s forgiven him yet.”

“I think Windstreak has…” said Inger with a grin. He glanced around the kitchen. The mess on the counters looked worse now than it had last night, after their oldest son had tried his hoof at cooking the family dinner. Inger frowned. “Is there a reason Strawberry’s not helping you?”

“He’s off cloud-diving with his friends.” Cranberry rolled her eyes again. “I told him he could stay out late. At least he won’t be running around underhoof while I’m speaking with the Count.”

“I’ll have a talk with him later.” Annoyed, Inger prodded a dried soup-encrusted pot with a hoof. “In the meantime, I can take these out to the pump and start washing.”

“Thanks, honey, but I need you to take Apricot to the bakery tonight.” She flung a rag over her shoulder. “He’s got magic lessons with Papa.”

“Oh—tonight?” Inger hesitated. “I thought those were on Wednesdays.”

“Normally. But I was too busy to take him this week, and you had guard duty at that castle soirée, so we rescheduled.” She lifted a bucket of well-water onto the counter and began scrubbing the pot. “Besides, you ought to go with him more often. He wants to show you what he’s been learning.”

Inger scraped a hoof guiltily on the floor. “I’ve… I’ve been meaning to. I just get home so late this time of year, with all the new Firewings starting basic training…”

Cranberry set the rag down and prodded him in the chest with a stern look. “You made time to teach Strawberry how to fly.” She softened. “Apricot deserves the same attention.”

He wilted a little. “I know. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t love spending time with their youngest. But Strawberry was a pegasus, and Inger knew everything there was to know about flying. Apricot, a unicorn, was fascinated by magic, and Inger knew as little about the arcane arts as he did about farming.

“Papa’s been teaching him how to levitate things,” said Cranberry, amused. “Thankfully, I caught him before he started practicing with the eggs I bought last weekend.”

Despite himself, Inger chuckled. “All right, I’ll get him out of your mane.”

“Thank you.” She leaned close and kissed him. Lowering her voice, she murmured, “I’ll show you how much I appreciate it later.”

Inger kissed her back, grinning. “Looking forward to it.” Playing the field? Wheatie doesn’t know what he’s missing.

“Now, go on,” she said, making a scoot gesture with her hoof. “You two are already running late. Oh! And if Tyria’s back early and you run into her there, tell her I’m still on for tea this Tuesday.”

He gave her a parting kiss on the cheek and trotted into the living room. Stopping at the base of the steps to the second floor, he looked up and cupped his hooves to his mouth. “Hurry up, Apricot! Time to go to the bakery.”

“Coming, Dad!” The sound of hooves pounding on the floor echoed from above. A short, pink colt skidded into view at the top of the steps, his face lit with excitement under his curly mop of ruddy pink hair. “You’re taking me tonight?”

“Mhm,” said Inger, smiling. “We can still get there in time for dinner if we hurry.”

“Let’s go, then!” His son’s voice warred between excitement and impatience. Apricot raced down the stairs, beating his father to the door. His horn glowed a rich, rosy pink, and the knob twisted. The door swung open.

Apricot shot him a look of badly-hidden eagerness. “Very good,” Inger said, nodding in approval as he hid a small chuckle. He was rewarded by his son’s proud smile.

After a hurried exchange of farewells with Cranberry, the two headed outside into the street. A few meters down the road, Inger tilted his head back toward the house. “You’re getting better at that. The door, I mean.”

Apricot beamed. “Thanks. I’ve been working on it.” His grin turned sheepish. “Mrs. Strudel said the bell on her door was driving her crazy from all the practice.”

Inger snickered as the two turned down the street in the direction of the Strudel bakery. “Windstreak’s not fooling anyone. She’s wanted another colt in the house for ages.”

“Do you think Uncle Rye and Aunt Tyria will be there tonight?”

“I doubt it,” said Inger, shaking his head. “They’re not due back from Lleru for another day or two.”

“Aw.” Apricot was practically bouncing on his hooves. “I want to show Tyria the trick with the colored sparks. She promised to watch it when she got back.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen that one yet,” said Inger, curious.

“Really?” Apricot’s eyes lit up even further. “You want to?”

“Sure—”

“Or I could show you featherfall. Mr. Strudel had me start working on that one three weeks ago. I, uh… don’t really have it down yet, though. Last time I tried it I broke a plate…” Apricot rubbed his neck. “Uh, I could try icemaking! That one’s amazing. You can actually see the water freezing. Or how about polylevi… uh, pol… er, lifting a bunch of things at the same time? I tried that the other day and I got three or four spoons going at once. Or—”

Inger smiled, holding in a laugh as his son kept talking. Apricot spoke so fast the words practically tripped over each other coming out. Definitely his mother’s son, he thought.

“Oh,” the colt said, jerking upright, “I know a good one.” His hooves stopped, and he looked up at Inger with sudden caution. “Do… do you want to see me make fire?”

Taken aback, Inger blinked. “Mr. Strudel’s teaching you how to set things on fire?”

“N-no, not… I mean, we haven’t gotten there, yet, but…” Apricot also shared his mother’s nervous tic of nibbling the tip of his hoof. He glanced down at a nearby puddle in the road, his eyes darting across his reflection. “Well, sometimes when I’m over there, Mr. Strudel lights the ovens, and I can feel what he’s doing… And, uh, I think I can do it too.” He swallowed. “Actually, I… I have done it. Once.”

“Not indoors, I hope,” said Inger, feeling a twinge of worry. “You figured the spell out just from watching him?”

“Not watching, exactly.” Apricot’s mouth scrunched up as he searched for the words. “I sort of… heard it?” He shrugged. “It’s hard to explain—”

“To a non-unicorn, right,” said Inger with a reassuring smile that belied the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He understood the difficulty. After all, could I truly share how flying or weatherforging feel with a pony who can’t do either? As hopeless as the concept of color to someone born blind. Apricot Strudel understands him better than his own father…

“All right,” Inger said, with sudden resolve. “Why don’t you show me a flame, then?” He cleared his throat as Apricot’s legs tip-tapped with excitement. “A very little one.”

“Yeah, sure!” Apricot took a deep breath, then closed his eyes. His horn glowed a vibrant rose, and sparks swirled around his head. Inger had always found his son’s magical aura beautiful, but he’d learned not to embarrass him by saying so.

A small light flickered at the tip of Apricot’s horn. Inger watched, transfixed, as a small tongue of rose-colored flame leaped into the air. It vanished so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d even seen it, but Apricot’s teeth gritted in concentration and another flicker followed.

There was a sudden electric tingle in the air, like the feeling right before a kicked cloud emitted a snap of lightning. Inger had barely begun to raise a hoof in concern when the largest flame yet burst from Apricot’s horn, so bright that Inger instinctively winced.

“Ah!” Apricot scrabbled backwards, one of his mane’s rosy locks aflame. “Put it out! Put it—”

Not wasting a moment, Inger swiftly scooped a hoof down into the puddle, flinging water up at his son’s forehead and dousing the colt in muddy water. The flame drowned instantly, leaving merely a sodden young unicorn. The two stood frozen for a moment, staring at each other.

Inger cracked first, releasing a halting “Ha!” of relief, and then both of them broke into laughter.

“S-sorry,” said Apricot, giggling nervously, as he wrung out his dripping mane. He gulped. “I guess I need more practice with that.”

Inger ruffled his son’s curls with a hoof, his heart still pounding. “Agreed. I think maybe you’d better wait for Mr. Strudel to teach you that before trying it again.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “And, er, let’s not tell your mother about that particular trick just yet.”

Apricot nodded glumly. Wordlessly, he turned and resumed the course down the street. Inger followed, with an internal sigh.

He was trying to impress you, not make a fool of himself. Apricot was still at that awkward age between foalhood and full adolescence, a walking knot of nerves and anxiety. It had been difficult for his older brother, too, but at least Inger had been able to show Strawberry the basics.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Upon a turn down a deserted back road shortcut to the bakery, Inger made a stab at lifting Apricot’s spirits. “I’m impressed that you managed that without any training, you know.”

His son’s head just fell further. “Managed what, setting myself on fire?”

Inger converted a snort into a cough. “Hey, everyone makes mistakes at first. It took me months to figure out how to make clouds rain when I was your age. I kept getting hail.”

“Not everyone,” said Apricot, kicking a pebble. “Strawberry gets everything right.”

“Not the first time. He practices a lot.” It had practically been Inger’s second job for a year or so. Ten hours spent drilling the Firewings before coming home to spend another five with his son, getting down the basics of breathing and good wing posture… and I love it, he admitted to himself.

“I know, I just…” Apricot sighed heavily. “He’s just so good at being a pegasus, and I’m so bad at being—me.” He gave Inger’s wings a longing look. “I wish I was like you.”

Inger swallowed. Had he slipped? Were his own anxieties spilling out enough to affect his son? Or, even worse, was this Apricot’s own worry? He frowned and stopped, giving Apricot an even stare as he followed suit. “Do you really mean that?”

“I… guess not,” said the colt, still not meeting his eye. “Maybe. Sometimes.”

Standing beside him on the dusty cobblestones, Inger placed a hoof around his son’s shoulders and pulled him against his side. “Apricot, wings aren’t better than horns. They’re just different. The world would be dull as dirt if we were all the same.”

“But you and Strawberry can do so many amazing things that—that I can’t ever—” Apricot wiped his eye with a sudden frustrated sniff, clearly angry at himself for the tears. “I just wish I could be up there with you.”

“Oh, Junior…” Inger hugged him again. “All right, so you can’t fly. But you can do things that Strawberry and I couldn’t even dream of. That fire? That’s something I’ll never be able to do. And you figured it out all by yourself! You’ll be an incredible mage someday.”

“I don’t know.” Apricot didn’t sound any cheerier. “I’m pretty sure you need a cutie mark for that.”

Inger glanced down at his son’s empty pink flank. “That’ll come in time.”

“Strawberry had his by now,” said Apricot, scratching a hoof on the cobblestones. “And you got yours even sooner!”

“And your mother didn’t get hers until she was nearly five.” Inger ruffled his mane. “It’ll happen when it happens. No point worrying about it.”

“But what if I’m not good at anything?”

“Well then,” said Inger dryly, “you’d be perfect for the council of lords.” Apricot gave him a puzzled look. Inger shook his head, smiling. “Listen, Junior, the more you worry about it the longer the wait will seem. Focus on what you enjoy. You like learning new magic, right?”

“More than anything,” said Apricot wistfully. His horn glowed pink, and a large pebble rose shakily to eye level. He squinted, jaw trembling for a moment, before the aura vanished and the rock fell. Apricot exhaled in defeat. “I’m just not any good at it!”

Inger frowned, watching his son’s ears droop. A military pep-talk wasn’t the answer here, and he didn’t have his friend Rye’s gift with words. Maybe another unicorn can boost his morale a little, he thought, looking down the street at the faint trail of smoke rising from the direction of the bakery. Apricot Strudel was the kindest stallion Inger knew. If anyone could cheer up a disgruntled colt, it would be him.

“We’d better get moving,” he said, resuming his. “Or Mr. Strudel might decide we’re not coming and start dinner without us.”

A flash of alarm broke through Apricot’s gloom. He trotted after, slightly jittery with worry. “I wanted to help him cook again tonight,” he said, shifting from hoof to hoof.

“We might get there in time if we run.” Inger grinned, pausing and drawing a line across the dusty cobblestones. “How about we make it a race?”

At last, a smile returned to his son’s face. “Okay, you’re on. Start on three?”

Inger nodded, crouching slightly. The two both faced down the street, braced to break into a sprint. Apricot swept his mane out of his eyes. “Ready, Dad? One… two…”

The colt took off in a sudden blur of pink. “Three!” he yelled over his shoulder as he turned the corner.

With a dismayed grunt, Inger raced after him, hooves pounding on the cobblestones. “Not very sporting of you,” he called ahead. Apricot just laughed, galloping down the road.

Inger shook his head, smiling. His legs were still sore from training, but he quickly began to close the gap. While Strawberry was old enough now to give his father a genuine run for his money—on the ground, at least—Apricot still hadn’t hit his growth spurt. Even at a full sprint, his legs were simply too short to match Inger’s practiced gallop. The older stallion kept things interesting for him, pulling ahead, but letting the colt overtake him once or twice.

The streets flashed by, as the two dodged the odd passerby, and Inger reveled in the fresh air as it rushed against his face. “Pace yourself,” he reminded a gasping Apricot, who had fallen a few steps behind. “Remember those breathing cadences I taught you.”

“I—” Apricot panted, “—remember!”

Up ahead, Inger spied the bakery at last. It was a plain, unassuming little building, right next to the post office. A thin taper of smoke rose from its brick chimney, carrying the smell of bread on the air. “Almost there!” He moved ever-so-slightly faster, drawing ahead. “I’m going to wi-in,” he sang, and he meant to. Closely enough that Apricot wouldn’t feel bad about it, but enough to serve as well-deserved payback for that head start.

Apricot’s voice was strained but gleeful. “No—you’re—not!”

Inger saw a flash of rose light, and his brows furrowed. What was—

His hoof hit a vine and he tripped. Inger lost his balance, tumbling forward and plowing into the cobblestones. Lifting his head with a wince, he saw Apricot reach the bakery door and triumphantly slap it with his hoof. The colt turned toward him and sat heavily, his chest heaving, but wearing a wide smile. “Beat you!”

As he stood and massaged his shoulder, Inger cast a wary eye down at the vine that had sent him sprawling. It was an ordinary plant, poking up between the cobblestones, nothing special… except he could see the deep indent in the dirt where it had lain before he tripped on it. Something—someone—had pulled it out of the ground like a snare.

The kid’s got more talent than he realizes. Inger smiled to himself. Trotting up to the door to join Apricot, he made a good-natured hmpf of disapproval. “You cheated.”

“I won,” Apricot corrected, tilting his head up. His smile was more cheeky than smug.

The corners of Inger’s mouth twitched. “And who taught you to be so cutthroat?”

“Strawberry,” said Apricot, matter-of-factly. “He kept beating me because he used his wings.”

Inger shook his head, grinning. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or someone would strangle you.”

“I’m not cute—” Apricot began to protest, but he was interrupted by the jingle of the bell over the bakery’s door. It cracked open, and a blue pegasus with a graying mane of orange and red peered out.

“Aha,” she said, eyes twinkling with delight at the sight of them, “I thought I heard voices.” She opened the door, and waved hello to Apricot, who returned the gesture with enthusiasm. “Good to see you, Inger. You haven’t been by in a while.”

“Evening, Captain,” he said, tilting his head respectfully. Even after all these years, he felt the urge to salute her, but he knew she’d give him one of those embarrassing maternal chuckles if he did.

Windstreak’s eyes creased with amusement. “I haven’t been your captain in years, Inger.”

“You’ll always be my captain,” he said, lightly sweeping a hoof across the ground.

Apricot, fidgeting on the doorstep, could wait no longer. “Can we come in?”

“Of course, of course.” Windstreak stepped back and opened the door wide to let them inside. “Honey,” she called into the bakery, “they’re here!”

As Inger stepped inside, the scent of yeast and sugar hit him like a brick. He paused a moment to acclimate, surveying the rows of delectable-looking pastries that lined the storefront. As the years passed, this place seemed to grow cozier and cozier. Beautiful floral displays, tended with great care by Windstreak, decorated the entire shop. The air was comfortably warm after the cool breeze outside, thanks to the residual heat from the ovens keeping the cold at bay. It was no surprise that Cranberry still enjoyed spending time here, after all these years.

“Hi, Mr. Strudel!” Apricot bounced on his hooves as a beige-colored unicorn strode out of the central kitchen area, wiping a hoof off with a magically-suspended towel.

Apricot Strudel was older and grayer than his junior counterpart, but the energy behind his smile was just as vibrant. The older unicorn’s eyes lit up. “Aha! You made it after all. I was starting to worry I put too many dumplings in the oven. And how’s my favorite pink colt doing?”

Apricot huffed. “I’m not pink,” he complained. “Pink’s girly. Aunt Tyria said I’m, uh… ser… cerise.”

The baker grinned, but nodded. “Well, I’m not foolish enough to argue with my daughter-in-law about color.” Chuckling, he turned back toward the kitchen. “How about you come put those cerise hooves of yours to work helping me feed the sourdough starter? It’ll be good levitation practice.” Head bobbing in affirmation, Apricot practically pranced after him.

“Come on, Inger,” said Windstreak warmly. She strode past him toward the kitchen and the dining room beyond it. “Feels like we haven’t caught up in ages. They’ll be at it for a while; we’ve got a few minutes before dinner’s ready.”

He followed her through the kitchen, sliding past the two unicorns as they measured flour and water portions on a hanging scale. His gaze lingered on his son’s glowing horn as he tipped a small bag of ground spelt flour into the waiting bowl, mouth screwed up in concentration. Just keep at it, Junior.

The dining room was much smaller than the storefront, but the table was large enough to seat more than the four sets of silverware and cups of water it was set with. Windstreak sat on the nearest cushion, brushing a long tress of fiery hair over her shoulder. Inger still wasn’t used to her wearing her mane so long; in the military she’d kept it trimmed to a still-generous shoulder-length.

He sank into the adjacent seating cushion with a groan. Windstreak snickered. “I know that look. Long day on the training pitch, huh?”

Inger nodded ruefully. “I’m going to be stiff tomorrow morning.”

“You’re not driving them too hard, are you?” Windstreak rested her head on a hoof. “It’s possible to overtrain, you know.”

“Wheatie certainly thinks so,” said Inger dryly, taking a sip from his water glass.

She snorted. “Wheatie hasn’t changed. I remember when he’d sneak naps during survival training, thinking Bergeron and I weren’t watching.” Fiddling with her glass, she gave it a meditative swirl. “Still, you can’t deny he’s one hell of a soldier. Saved my life, after all.”

“He’s a good instructor, too. He’s helped me whip over a hundred recruits into shape now. We’re almost halfway to recovering our numbers from the war.”

“Good,” said Windstreak. The pride in her voice made Inger sit up a little straighter. “I still speak to the princess, you know. She says you’re doing a wonderful job as captain.”

“That’s kind of her,” said Inger, awkwardly tapping a hoof on the table. He’d never been good at handling praise from Celestia; it always left him feeling a strange mixture of happy and embarrassed. “I’m happy to say the new Firewings are living up to your reputation. Thanks to our efforts, there haven’t been any major bandit raids or monster attacks in two solid years. No griffon trouble, either—I think we’ve finally cleaned the southlands out completely.”

Windstreak exhaled slowly. “I’m glad to hear it. To tell the truth, I was worried the war would be the end of our unit. Shrikefeather almost wiped us out after Whitewall. I wondered at times if I’d live to see the end of the Firewings…” she shook her head. “Well, it’s good to be wrong.”

“Thanks to you,” said Inger, with a respectful nod. “With all the crazy stunts you pulled during the war, you turned the Firewings back into legends. The best fliers from all over Equestria keep pouring in every year to join us.”

“I think you deserve more credit than I,” said Windstreak, touching a hoof to her cheek. Half of her face was a slightly darker blue than the rest. The old burn scars had never fully faded. “After all, you’re the one who took down a dragon. Without losing hundreds of troops and getting scalded half to death.”

“Captain…” Inger frowned. “Those lives bought Equestria’s freedom. You don’t have anything to regret.”

“I know,” she said, calm but meditative. “Inger, the hardest part of being a commander is learning you can’t save everyone. Sometimes, you have to choose who lives and dies, even though you love them both. Even when you make the right call…” she sighed. “You don’t forget them.”

“I’ve never actually had to do that, myself.” Inger fiddled pensively with his hooves. “My entire tenure as captain has been during relative peacetime. Even the fighting against Warlord Lionsclaw was nothing compared to the battles you faced.” He swallowed, giving her a searching look. “I admit… sometimes, I wonder if I’ve really got what it takes to do that. To make the kinds of sacrifices you did. To look a friend in the eye, knowing you’re about to get them killed. I just… I’m not sure I’ve got it in me.”

Windstreak’s eyes flicked away from his, staring somewhere far away and dark. “I wish I could tell you that it doesn’t get easier.”

“Well…” Inger smiled. “That’s why Celestia keeps the ambassador around. If we’re lucky, he’ll put all of the Firewings out of a job.”

That got a laugh out of her, breaking the dour mood. “You know, I used to hope that Rye would become a soldier. Help Equestria and make ponies respect him.” She brightened again. “Now, some days I find myself wondering if he hasn’t done more to keep the country safe than you or me.”

There was an enthusiastic grunt from the kitchen entrance. “Not to mention protecting my pocketbook,” said Apricot Strudel, sweeping into the dining room with a plate full of steaming dumplings held in his magical grip. “That trade agreement he worked out with the Zyrans brought the cost of sugar down so much that our profits jumped nearly thirty percent last year. Kid’s making me proud.”

Windstreak grinned. “And he even found someone to keep him company. Tyria’s a saint; I don’t know how he doesn’t drive her mad.”

“It’s all that cooking I taught him,” said Apricot Strudel, chuckling. “That’s how I got you to stay around, after all.” He set the dumplings down on the table, taking a long sniff and smiling. “Ahh, perfect.” Inger had to agree; the smell of them already had him salivating. “Just a few more things and then we can eat.”

Inger’s son staggered into the room, eyes fixed on a wobbly bowl of vegetables hovering just above his glowing horn. “Where do I—” he began, his voice strained.

“Right here,” said the baker, gesturing to a space next to the dumplings.

The junior Apricot guided his burden down to rest on the table, giving a relieved puff of breath as his horn’s light winked out. “That’s a lot heavier than it looks.”

“Sounds like we need more practice,” the older Apricot said cheerfully. “Come on, you can help me get the salt and pepper shakers out.” The two vanished back into the kitchen.

Windstreak smiled after them. “Speaking of Rye and Tyria…” She glanced sideways at Inger. “Cranberry hasn’t heard anything, but you and Rye go out for drinks every now and then.” Tapping her hooves together, she looked uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Has he said anything to you about… erm, children?”

Inger blinked, jerking upright. “No. Are they—”

Windstreak slumped back into her cushions with a disappointed huff. “Not as far as I know.” She tsked. “You’d think a year and a half would be plenty of time, but who knows. Maybe they’re waiting until Rye’s career settles down a bit. I suppose sailing across the world every few months isn’t conducive to raising a family.”

With another exasperated shake of her head, she smiled at Inger. “At least Apricot and I get to play grandparents for yourlittle ones.”

“Cranberry and I appreciate it,” said Inger. “Truly. I don’t know how we’d have managed Junior’s first year without you two watching him all those nights.” Without that help, either Inger or Cranberry would surely have had to give up their careers to have a second child. If the Firewings were everything to him, then the university was everything to Cranberry. Not having to make that choice had been Windstreak and Apricot’s greatest gift.

“You’re welcome.” She twirled a strand of her mane wistfully. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve been taking in children my whole life.”

“Ah,” Inger smiled, “you mean Cranberry and her sister?”

She blinked calmly, meeting his eyes. “And you, in a way.”

“Wh—” Inger tilted his head. “Sorry?”

“When you applied to join the Firewings, standard procedure would have been to reject you,” said Windstreak, half-smiling. “Normally, the proctors don’t let foals who lie about their age even get to the flight section of the exam.”

His face heated with embarrassment. “Wait, they knew I lied?”

Windstreak gave him an are-you-serious look. “You think you’re the first one to try it?” She shook her head, still smiling. “But while I was reviewing the files on each recruit, I noticed you didn’t have any parents listed.”

“Oh. So that’s why you…?” His hooves slid off the table. Inger wasn’t sure how to feel about this. His mother’s early death was so long ago that he had only the barest warm memories of her. His father… well, whoever he was, he hadn’t cared enough about Inger for there to even be memories.

“Mhm.” Windstreak gave him a fond wink. “I had to make sure you could actually do the job, of course. But you did better than colts almost twice your age during the flight trials. With that kind of performance, well… if you had nowhere else to go, I thought I ought to give you a place to stay, and a way to do some good for the world in the meantime.”

Inger fluffed his wings awkwardly. “I never… I must have been useless those first few years.”

“You’ve trained how many recruits now?” she asked wryly. “I’m sure there have been a few worse than you were. I made sure you weren’t treated like a charity case; you got the same training as everyone else in the program. But… I admit, you were one of my favorites.” She took a sip of water. “That’s why I let you marry my foster daughter.”

He coughed. “Uh…”

Snickering, she set the glass down. “I’m kidding, Inger. We were all very happy for you two.”

Processing her words, he sat quietly for a few moments. Still dazed, he lifted his head to look her in the eyes and nod. “Thank you, Captain. For everything.”

Laying a hoof on his shoulder, she smiled kindly. “I think it’s high time you started calling me Windstreak.”

“I’ll… I’ll try, Cap—Windstreak,” he said, fumbling over the name. He grinned sheepishly as she laughed again.

There was a thud and a clattering sound from the kitchen. Inger winced, hoping Apricot hadn’t broken anything valuable this time.

“Careful in there, you two,” called Windstreak. “We’ve already gone through one set of dishes this month.”

“Heh,” said Inger. “He’s still got some work to do, but he’s made a lot of progress. He loves these lessons; they’re practically all he talks about the whole day before.”

“And Apricot was delighted to get the chance to teach someone magic.” Windstreak’s eyes suddenly flicked away. “He always wanted to do it with Rye, but…”

There was a scuffling sound, and his son’s head poked out from the kitchen entryway. The colt looked worried. “Dad?”

Inger met his eyes expectantly. “Did you two get the spices?”

Apricot ignored the question, turning his head hesitantly back toward the kitchen. “Dad, I think something’s wrong with Mr. Strudel. He—he fell down, and he’s not moving.”

An icy pit formed instantly in Inger’s stomach. He and Windstreak stood abruptly, rattling the silverware on the table. “Honey?” called Windstreak. “Are you all right? Apricot?”

There was no response.

After seconds of terrifying silence, Windstreak jolted into motion. She brushed past the colt into the kitchen with her wings half-raised in agitation. Inger heard her breath suck in. He turned to his son, who was running his hoof through his mane again. “Apricot, stay in here.”

“What’s happening?” Apricot’s eyes were wide. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know yet. Please, just stay here until I come back for you.”

Inger stepped past him without waiting for a response, entering the kitchen. His stomach fell as he saw Windstreak sitting on the tiled floor, cradling her husband’s head in her lap. “Apricot…?” she whispered.

First-aid had always been a weakness in his skill set, but Inger swiftly sat beside them and held up the stallion’s hoof. He felt the ankle for a pulse. Nothing.

You’ve never been good at finding it, he thought, feeling his own pulse quicken. Strudel’s chest wasn’t moving, but maybe Inger just couldn’t see the shallow breathing, considering how badly he was shaking.

He forced the panic deep down. Windstreak needed him to be strong, now. “I’ll get help,” he said, a little too quickly. “The doctor on Fairweather Street isn’t far.”

“Honey?” Windstreak sounded more lost than Inger had ever heard her. She stroked her husband’s forehead. “Apricot, can you hear me?” Her hoof trembled. “Wake up, honey…”

Inger turned toward the exit, his legs still shaking. If that doctor was home, he could get him back here in ten minutes, tops. The unicorn did good work; he’d managed to get Strawberry through that dangerous bout of whooping cough a few years ago. Surely he could…

Distracted, Inger bumped into the store counter on his way out. Clutching his shoulder with a hoof, he started toward the exit, when the bell above the door jingled. Looking up, he saw the door swing open, and in trotted the last pony in the world he wanted to see right now.

Rye Strudel’s eye-searing yellow robes flapped around his hooves as the outside breeze followed him in, carrying the scent of rain. He had a stack of woolen clothing piled on his back, tied neatly with twine. His wife Tyria came in behind him, adjusting her black eyepatch with a hoof. Both beamed in unison when they saw Inger.

“Surprise!” said Rye, hauling the clothes off his back and setting them on the floor. “We got back early.”

“Total success, by the way,” said Tyria, offering a hoof toward her husband. He clapped it agreeably, grinning.

“I’d say so. The llamas have agreed to release our ships, without even a fine for disorderly conduct. Crisis averted.” Rye winked at Inger. “I was worried. You know how badly behaved those navy types are.” He cast his wife a smirk.

Tyria snorted, elbowing him. “We’ve dealt with worse.”

Inger, throat dry, tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. Rye raised an eyebrow. “What, cat got your tongue?” He shrugged, grinning. “I wasn’t expecting to run into you tonight, Inger. We were going to hit your place tomorrow, but this is good—you can take your ponchos right now. They’re real alpaca wool, you know. Extremely cozy.” He swept a hoof over the stack of clothes. “Pick whichever colors you like! We got enough for your family along with Mom and Dad.”

He looked past Inger toward the kitchen entrance. “Speaking of, do I smell dumplings?”

Inger leaned forward, clenching his teeth. “Rye, your father’s—”

A low moan of sorrow echoed out from behind them. Inger’s heart seized up. Oh, gods, Windstreak…

“I—I have to get a doctor,” said Inger, moving for the door.

Rye’s eyebrows furrowed. “Mom? Dad?” He left the clothes on the floor, hesitantly walking past Inger.

Inger paused as he passed Tyria, locking eyes with her. “Please, my son’s here—make sure he stays here until I get back, okay?”

Tyria nodded, eye wide. “What’s going on?”

Suddenly, Rye’s voice rang through the house, cracked with terror. “Dad!”

Go! Inger flung open the door and charged out into the street. His wings unfurled, and he took flight in a flurry of feathers.

The weather teams had finally gotten their act together. It had begun to drizzle outside, drenching the city and turning the roads to mud. The smell of spring was doused by the crisp dampness of rainfall. Inger swiped water out of his face, wings beating the air as he strained for speed. His teeth ground together as he raced above the rain-dappled rooftops, mentally replaying the image of Windstreak rocking with her husband in her lap. The tracks streaming down his cheeks weren’t from the rain. One question ran through his mind over and over again:

What will I say to Cranberry?