Thicker Than Water

The light of the flickering campfire casts shadows across the fresh snow. Beside him, Cranberry shivers and pulls her thick cloak tighter around her shoulders. Inger rubs his hooves and presses them toward the fire. Even with a pegasus’s natural resistance to the elements, the heat is welcome in a land as cold as this one. Their other two companions look equally grateful for the flames. All four ponies’ breath rises visibly in the air, freezing as they exhale.

“Well,” says Eberhardt, in his thick Sleipnordic accent. “Is late. We must sleep soon. Crossing frozen lake again tomorrow.”

Around them, the empty tundra is hidden from view by a circle of pale trees. They rustle gently in the frigid wind. Above, however, the open sky is filled with Sleipnord’s glorious aurora. Colors slowly whirl and waver, vast sheets of light that drift silently between the earth and the stars. It’s the most magnificent sight in all the north.

As Eberhardt stands, Rye puffs out a misty breath. “Let’s hope the crossing goes better on the way back than it did the first time.”

Beside Inger, Cranberry laughs. “I’ll try not to let anything bite me.”

“No monsters, anyway,” Inger murmurs, so quietly that only she can hear him. She swats him with a hoof, but can’t mask her grin.

Rye appears to have missed the exchange, rubbing his eyes. “Night, Eberhardt.” The nordpony bows his head to the Equestrians before vanishing into one of the two tents. With a yawn, Rye lifts the cast-iron pot that held dinner out of the flames, dumping out the remaining water into the snow. A cloud of hissing steam rises.

“How’s the hammer, Rye?” asks Cranberry, scooting closer to Inger. She leans into him with a sigh of relief at the added warmth.

Rye shrugs, scooping some snow into the pot to cool it. “It’s fine…” He glances down at the hammer hanging from his side. “I still can’t feel any magic from it. But it’s got to be the right one, or that spirit wouldn’t have protected it so fiercely.”

Inger slides a hoof under the hem of Cranberry’s thick cloak, brushing against her cutie mark. Biting her tongue, she gives him a light nudge with her snout. “Patience, silly,” she whispers. Raising her voice, she asks Rye with veiled innocence, “You think you’ll be up late?”

“No. Eberhardt’s right; tomorrow’s going to be a long day. We’ll have to climb that cliff again…” Rye stuffs the cooking implements back into his pack, hauling it over his back and standing. With a pause, he glances between the two of them. Inger can feel Cranberry tense slightly, but Rye’s face is perfectly neutral. “Good night,” he mutters, nodding before heading into the tent after Eberhardt.

“Finally,” breathes Inger, burying his face in the crook of Cranberry’s neck, kissing her.

Rolling back into the snow with him, she giggles. “Goodness, Inger. It’s only been a day.”

“Can you blame me?” He grins, running a hoof along the curve of her leg. “Something about you makes me impatient.”

“Where’s that Firewing discipline?” They trade kisses. The warmth of her lips is the perfect antidote to Sleipnord’s bitter chill.

This—kissing her, being with her—is still new, still thrilling, more exciting than flying, more nerve-wracking than battle. It’s only been five days since he first kissed her, beneath the stern stone of Mount Jormundr. And it’s only been three days since they first pushed their bedrolls together to share a blanket, and tenuously begin exploring this new relationship. His heart pounds with the still-fresh terror and delight of newfound intimacy.

Who could have thought that this mare, who once punched him in the nose by way of introduction, could become the one he loved most in the world?

“Mmnh,” she whispers, “not out here.”

“Why not? I can’t think of a more beautiful place…” Inger turns his eyes up to the infinite sea of shifting color in the sky. Cranberry’s gaze follows, and both pause for a moment, breath stolen by the magnificent aurora.

“It is beautiful,” she admits, before shivering. “But I’m not a pegasus. My blood doesn’t protect me from the cold like you and Rye.” Giving her frostbitten ears a pointed flick, she raises an eyebrow.

“I think we could find a way to stay warm…” says Inger, grinning stupidly. “But point taken. The tent it is. After all, wouldn’t want my tongue to get frozen to something embarrassing.”

Cranberry rolls her eyes. “I swear. You give a stallion one kiss and he turns into a hound.”

Inger lifts her over his back, as she yelps in delighted surprise. “Are you planning to stop at a kiss…?”

“Go on, to the tent!” she laughs.

Inside the tent they’ve been sharing since leaving the mountain, the two tumble into the warm blankets. Kisses rain down as hooves rove across each other, turning her mane into a mess of curls and frazzling his feathers.

“I think we’re getting better at this,” she says, her chest already heaving. As Inger trails more kisses down her stomach, she gulps. “D-do you think you could do that thing with your t—oh!”

Inger’s head dips between her legs. Cranberry claps a hoof across her mouth to silence a yelp of pleasure. “Mmmmm!” she manages, squeezing the sides of his head.

He loves the way she wriggles beneath his assault. Kisses turn to licks as he intensifies the pressure of his mouth on her warm, wet skin. Cranberry is panting, twisting her head to and fro as his tongue presses into her. “Ssso,” she breathes, “good…” A low moan escapes her lips.

Lifting his head for a moment, Inger lets his hoof take over. His eyes sparkle with delight at the pleasure he’s causing her. “I can’t stop thinking about you all day. Every time I try to focus on the mission, all I see is you.”

“I love you,” she whispers, stroking a hoof against his chest. “Mmf!” Her eyes close as he tweaks his hoof against her most sensitive spot.

Lunging down, he kisses the nape of her neck. “Sisters, Cranberry. I love you, too.” His head is cloudy, hot and thick, as their warm breath mixes.

“Nnh,” she moans, muffling herself with a hoof. “I want… I want more.”

“Gods, so do I,” he admits, using his hoof to pull one of her legs aside. “All I could think of while we were eating dinner.”

“Inger!” She sounds more amused than appalled. “And here I thought you were a gentlecolt.”

“Is this not gentle enough?” he asks, his head sinking back down.

It’s too much. She gasps, crying out before slapping both hooves to her snout. Inger snorts, unable to hide a laugh. “Go ahead. Let it out.” He feels a thrum of excitement. “I like hearing you.”

“I can’t,” she whispers. “Rye might not be asleep yet.”

Inger shrugs. “Does it matter? This isn’t any of his business.”

“No, but… I don’t think he knows we’re, um, doing this. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Oh.” Inger returns to his ministrations, but a twinge of unease penetrates the amorous fog in his head. He’d wondered how their companion would react when he realized the two had struck up this new romance. So far, Rye hadn’t said anything about it, not even after he’d seen them kissing by the fire two nights ago.

“Why would he be hurt?” he asks.

Cranberry wilts. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m being foolish. But after that mess I made with the book and the hammer, I just think it’s better if we keep this quiet for now.” She looks away for a moment. “I don’t want to hide this, Inger—Sisters, you make me so happy.” She beams back at him for an instant. “It’s just… He never liked it when I stole one of Inky’s romance novels to read out loud. I think he’s sensitive about it.” Her face falls. “I hate to say it, but maybe even bitter. You know, because he’s…”

A pegacorn. Inger understands instantly. Swallowing, he nods.

“Oh, I’ve spoiled the mood,” she says, sighing, but Inger kisses her again.

“You could never spoil anything,” he exhales. Her legs press against his sides as he adjusts his position on the bedroll. Damp warmth presses between them. He feels a twitch of eager excitement as Cranberry’s eyes glitter.

“Mmnh. Okay,” she whispers. “Just be quiet.”

“Shhh,” he whispers conspiratorially, as their lips meet once more.

“Don’t be rough,” she pleads, squeezing her forelegs behind his back.

“Soft as pegasus down,” he promises, before sliding into ecstasy. She cries out this time, unable to contain it, clinging to him. “I love you,” he whispers again, as the leaves whisper on the wind.

* * *

A bang from outside shattered his slumber. Inger sat blearily, rubbing his eyes. “Wha…?”

There was another bang. Who’s causing a racket at this hour? he thought, still half asleep. Outside the tent, he heard Virgil grunt. “Watch the barrels, boys and girls.” Kaduat’s voice muttered an acid rejoinder in Dromedarian. Bright morning sunlight filtered into the tent. The entrance flap fluttered in a sudden gust of wind.

I guess the question ought to be who’s still in bed at this hour, Inger thought, blinking. A glance to his side revealed that Cranberry and Apricot had both already left the tent. He’d overslept, it seemed, despite feeling like he’d just closed his eyes minutes ago. Yawning, he resigned himself to another day of sleep-deprived stumbling through the woods, but his wings perked up at the smell of cooked eggs on the air. Maybe he could at least still snag some breakfast.

As he cast aside his blanket, he realized with a fierce blush that the dream had gotten him more excited than he’d first realized. It wouldn’t do to go outside like this. Stalling for time, he set about rolling up the sleeping pallets and tying them off. While he worked, he couldn’t help a smile creeping onto his face.

Those first few weeks in Sleipnord together with Cranberry had been something special. Their first kiss under the falling snow beneath the mountain had lit a fire in his chest, a fire that hadn’t faded as the days and nights passed on their way back south. Despite all the danger they’d been in, this one thing—young love, exciting and new—had seemed simple and pure. The way her eyes lit up, the whispered I love yous, and knowing they were for him set his heart aflutter even now, remembering.

Sighing happily, he finished tying up the third bedroll, and hoisted all three over his shoulder by their cords. He’d settled down enough to go out in public, so he stepped through the open flap.

The camp was swarming with mercenaries, busy tearing down the other tents. Inger dropped the bedrolls beside the Sugars’ tent and swiftly set to breaking it down himself. The practice he’d gleaned from dozens of military tours all over Equestria’s provinces made short work of it. In less than two minutes, the tent, poles, and stakes had all been neatly rolled and packed. He carted the lot toward the supply wagon with the others and stuffed them inside.

Dusting his hooves off, he surveyed the rest of the campsite. The mercenaries were clearly almost ready to get moving, but he still had a few minutes to snag some food. Belly grumbling, he made his way past the others toward the remains of the campfire. The only one sitting down was Cranberry, an untouched bowl of breakfast beside her, scribbling furiously in her journal. Inger, with an impish smile, snuck up behind her and put his hooves over her eyes. “Guess who?”

Cranberry jumped, slamming her journal shut. “Inger! Good morning.”

"Morning,” he said, sitting beside her. “Gonna finish that?”

“Go ahead,” she said. She pushed the bowl toward him. and resumed her scribbling.

Inger scarfed down the eggs, along with the shredded potatoes he discovered beneath them. Beatriz had apparently gone all-out this morning; shame he’d slept through it. “What’re you writ’n?” he asked, with a full mouth.

Face paling, she fidgeted with the journal. “Just—the journey so far. Since we’ve entered the forest, I’ve been taking notes on everything I see.” Quickly, she muttered, “And remembered.”

“Funny,” Inger grinned, setting the half-empty bowl down. “I was just remembering something nice, myself…” With an eyebrow coyly lifted, he leaned closer, kissing her neck. He expected her to roll her eyes and push him off, snicker, or even kiss him back; anything but the way she stiffened and abruptly leaped to her hooves. Inger sat back, blinking. “Sorry. Something wrong?”

“No—I—” Behind them, one of the camels slipped and fell against one of the carts. Glass rattled inside, and Cranberry cringed.

“Cranberry…” he kept his voice low, but he wasn’t going to let even the presence of the mercenaries put this off any longer. “What’s going on? You’ve been acting strange for days now. Is this about our—our fight?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, pursing her lips. “It’s nothing, Inger. I just… didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Then why do you jump whenever I touch you?” He gave a frustrated sigh. “If you’re mad at me, I’d rather you were just mad at me. Hiding it isn’t like you.”

“I’m not mad,” she said, her eyes flicking nervously left and right. “Just tired. Haven’t been sleeping well.” Her eyes focused back on him for a moment, and softened. “I love you,” she whispered.

It did little to alleviate his concerns, but the words warmed him anyway. “I love you, too,” he said gently, reaching out an inviting hoof.

For a moment, she seemed about to take it, to sit down with him and finally tell him about what had her so spooked, but a sharp whistle rang through the camp. Castor trotted by, wings fluffed and back straight. “Let’s go, let’s go! We’ve wasted enough daylight.”

The carts creaked into motion as the caravan set out back onto the path. Cranberry clutched her journal to her chest with a foreleg, turning away. “You’d better get that bowl back to Beatriz. I’ll see you later.”

Inger let his hoof drop, mutely nodding. His wife disappeared between the supply carts, leaving him beside the ashen firepit. Frowning, he dumped out the remaining food. He’d lost his appetite.

The day’s hike proved grueling. Though the forest terrain was mostly the same rolling slopes they’d passed through to reach the Elderwood, the supply carts turned what might have been a pleasant walk in the woods into an exhausting march. Gnarled tree roots and patches of mud caused constant delays, and an unlucky rock nearly popped one of the wheels from its axle. A simple ditch, merely a meter deep and double that across, cost the expedition nearly two hours to navigate around, thanks to the dense aspens surrounding it on either side. At one point, all three pegasi had to manually lift Zaeneas’s small-yet-heavy cart into the air (with a little help from Pollux and his eager apprentice) to clear a ledge too high for its smaller wheels to surmount.

By noon, everyone was noticeably flagging. Inger was no stranger to difficult treks; he’d had more than his share in the Firewings. But it had been two days now since he’d gotten a good night’s sleep, thanks to those strange, vivid dreams. He was rubbing his eyes before long, wondering if Beatriz had any strong teas stowed away in their supplies.

When Castor called the halt for lunch, Inger stepped away from the main group. Once he’d put a few trees between himself and the noise of the mercenaries’ conversations, he slumped against the nearest tree. Just a quick rest before we eat, he thought, his eyes fluttering closed. The clunking and shifting of wooden barrels as the camels retrieved rations faded as he slid down the aspen’s trunk. Just resting for a moment…

* * *

Through the white trees, he can hear the sounds of the tavern. Clattering mugs and laughter spur him on through the underbrush. Even the whispering leaves aren’t loud enough to drown out the distinct plinking of a hammer dulcimer and lute, nor the voices of the revelers.

Finally breaking through the treeline, Inger pulls himself out of the pitch-like blackness and steps into the street. Excitement thrums in his chest. After all, this day’s been coming for months. He can scarcely believe he finally worked up the nerve—less still that it went so well. Perhaps Cranberry would think him silly for worrying, but it had taken more courage than facing that vast dragon in the skies above Canterlot.

Ahead, the tavern’s windows glow in the night. The Salt Lick has been doing a lot of business in the last two months, as one of the few pubs in the city to escape the griffons’ arson in the siege. It was Rye who introduced him to the place, meeting him there for drinks when they could catch time between their frantic schedules.

Inger pushes through the door, blinking in the warm candlelight as his eyes adjust. The musicians’ music grows louder, filling the pub with lively song. Before he can get his bearings, he hears a friendly cry of “Eyyy, there’s our conquering hero!” from the bar. With a laugh, he waves to his brothers and sisters.

They’re all here, every surviving Firewing. His stomach lurches for a moment at that thought. Just six months ago, there were over three hundred pegasi in golden armor living at the castle. Now, the survivors can fit in a single pub.

The mare who hailed his arrival, Misty Sprinkle—the sergeant who’d run his basic weatherforging training all those years ago, he remembers with a smile—waves him over. “All hail the Dragonslayer,” she says, lifting her ale as he takes a seat beside her.

All the others toast him with a shout. It’s a good thing Inger’s coat is cherry-red; it makes it hard for others to tell when he blushes. He still isn’t used to the whole “Dragonslayer” thing. It seems to be more than a sobriquet—ponies use it like a title, like a surname, as if it’s all he is now. An honor, but an isolating one. If he ever marries, his spouse will keep her name, rather than take “Dragonslayer” as her own.

Not merely academic anymore, he thinks, grinning down the bar. At the far end, slightly shaded from the overhead candelabra, the Firewings’ former captain sits perched on a stool. Windstreak’s wings are still bound with linen bandages, but she’s finally smiling again, something he hasn’t seen since the siege. She lifts her own mug of ale, winking at him.

Does she already know about his surprise? That would mean Cranberry stopped by the bakery this afternoon. He was looking forward to telling Windstreak himself, but he supposes Cranberry had the better right.

“Well, well,” says another pegasus, snorting. It’s the youngest member of the ‘Wings, Wheatie. He was barely a fresh recruit when Inger left for Sleipnord. Now, he’s seen more battle than even Inger himself. “The Dragonslayer deigns to arrive. You’re only an hour and twenty minutes late, you know.”

“I was, uh, held up,” says Inger, waving down the bartender. “Hey, Bottlecap. I’ll get a pint of mead, if you please.”

“Put it on my tab!” says Wheatie.

Bottlecap nods, beaming. “I’ll be a minute. We keep the good stuff downstairs.” He vanishes through a door behind the bar.

“Generous of you,” says Inger, raising an eyebrow at Wheatie.

“I figured I’d get a head start on buttering up our new captain,” says the young pegasus with a wink.

From her seat, Windstreak snorts. “Don’t give him an inch, Inger. If you don’t watch him he’ll sneak off all day to sleep in that tree by the practice field.”

“Can’t,” mourns Wheatie, sipping his ale. “Dragon burned the tree down.” He sighs. “I’ll never nap quite so well again…”

Though he snickers, Inger steals a glance over at Windstreak, his wings anxiously fluttering. He still doesn’t feel ready for this. It ought to be Sprinkle, or Fitz, or hell, even Wheatie taking command of the unit. All of them have more combat experience than himself—killing a dragon didn’t magically make him a great leader. Better yet, Windstreak could stay on.

He knows that it’s impossible. Her wings were broken in that final battle with Shrikefeather. She’ll be lucky to ever fly again, let alone fight with the Firewings. But her stepping down feels like more than the end of an era. It feels like losing a parent.

Windstreak gives him a brief nod, with that confident smile of hers. You can do this, it says. Princess Celestia seems to agree—though part of him is still convinced that the only reason she chose him was because slaying Merys had turned him into a folk hero.

“You’re looking a little green,” says Sprinkle, nudging him. “Go on, get some mead in you.”

Bottlecap has returned, setting down a pint on the bar in front of him. Inger takes it with both hooves, gulping down the sweet, golden drink. It’s delicious; so good that he takes a second sip before setting it back down. “You weren’t kidding, Bottlecap. That’s fantastic.” He wipes his lips. “Shame we can’t take some with us to Southlund.”

Though General Shrikefeather is dead, and the main force of his army broken like a wave against Canterlot’s walls, Equestria’s southern provinces are still swarming with thousands of invaders. A general named Lionsclaw has declared himself Warlord of the Southern Reaches, making enemies of both Equestria and his own homeland. Next week—so soon! Inger thinks, with regret—the Firewings are shipping off to help Duke Dalamant and Baron Aubren take the fight back south, to end the war for good. Tonight is their last free night before the preparations begin.

“For the heroes that saved Canterlot?” Bottlecap winks as he cleans a glass. “I’m sure I can misplace a barrel from our stores.”

The Firewings cheer, and all of them toast the proprietor. Inger smiles outwardly, but winces inside. A whole barrel of fine aged mead like that is worth hundreds, if not thousands of bits. It was an idle compliment, not a request. He’s not yet used to the weight his words now carry.

Behind him, beneath the music, he hears the door creak open. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes widen in surprise. An olive-robed figure of diminutive stature is leaving the building. Though the pony’s hood is pulled up, Inger would recognize him anywhere—and besides, there aren’t many ponies that short who are old enough to visit a tavern at this hour. “Rye! Is that you?”

His friend turns, wincing, as though he’s been caught trying to escape. He smiles weakly. “Inger!”

“Come on, join us!” Inger waves him over. The other Firewings, now well into what must be their second or third round, all give the pegacorn a toast. Sprinkle vacates the seat beside Inger, gesturing magnanimously. As Rye slides onto the stool—he has to hop a little—Inger claps him on the back. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Rye lifts a foreleg, parting his robes and revealing a bottle of brandy held in the crook of his leg. Setting it on the bar, he leans forward—a little unsteadily. “I, uh,” he mutters, “didn’t realize the Firewings would be here tonight.”

“I could say the same to you. What are the chances?” Inger laughs. “This is good, though. Means I don’t have to hunt you down, later.” He clears his throat. “Hey, everyone,” he calls, lifting his mug of mead. “I’ve got an announcement.”

His brothers and sisters peer at him with curiosity. Inger feels a feathery flutter in his chest again. It’s been there, off and on, all day long, since last night when he’d taken Cranberry to their little spot off the mountainside trail, where they’d changed their lives forever. “We’ll all be fighting in Whitetail and Southlund for the next few months, but when we return, we’ll have more to celebrate than the end of the war.”

Inger swallows, his breast swelling with excitement. “I, uh—I’m getting married!”

A shocked moment of silence travels down the bar, before the Firewings burst into cheers, drumming on the bar and shouting congratulations. Wheatie claps him on the back. “Ha! So she finally asked you, eh?”

“I asked her, actually,” says Inger, grinning sheepishly.

“Really?” Fitz, sitting to Wheatie’s right, leans in. “And here I always thought you’d be a traditionalist stick-in-the-mud, Inger. You must have it bad.”

Inger grins. “I’ve come to appreciate the unconventional.” He turns and winks at Rye.

His friend doesn’t return the smile, but he nods. “Congratulations, Inger,” he mumbles, taking a drink of brandy. As he sets the bottle back down on the bar, Inger hears it slosh hollowly—it must be nearly empty.

“Thanks,” says Inger, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re planning the wedding after I get back from the south. She’ll probably kill me for spoiling the surprise—I think she wanted to tell you herself.”

“She already did,” says Rye. “This morning.”

“Oh.” Inger watches him take another drink as a number of things begin slowly clicking into place.

“Anyway,” Rye stands, stumbling a little. “I should get home while I can still walk.”

The Firewings are still hooting and raising their mugs around him, but Inger’s world feels suddenly much smaller. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” says Rye, with a dry smile. “After all, if anyone gives me trouble on the way, I’ll just warn them I’m friends with the Dragonslayer.”

Before Inger can say anything else, a jostle from the side draws his attention. Wheatie lifts his ale. “Here’s to our new captain, and his blushing bride-to-be!”

A chorus of cheers affirms the toast. Inger reluctantly grins and clacks his pint against Wheatie’s. They all drink, and for a moment, the rich mead reminds him of the warmth of Cranberry’s lips, of the deep kiss they’d shared right after she said “yes”.

When the moment ends, Inger sets his drink back on the counter, looking around. Rye’s vanished. Out of the corner of his eye, he just barely catches the door swinging shut.

Briefly, he considers going after his friend. He’s just about to stand up when Sprinkle slides back over onto the adjacent stool. “So, you popped the question? Did you give her an earring?”

Inger grins. “Mhm. Got it from a jeweler on Farrier Street.”

The other Firewings all have their own questions, and soon Inger’s worries slip away. He lifts his mug and takes another draught of mead—

* * *

“Come on, wake up.”

The mead-soaked memory dissolved. Someone shook him again. Inger blinked, lifting his head with a quick shake. His father, wearing a wry smile, lifted a flask. “Lunch is nearly over. You ought to at least drink something.”

“Mm,” grunted Inger, taking it and sipping. Cool, fresh water. “Thanks. Must’ve dozed off.”

“You all right? You’ve been walking around like the undead all morning.”

“Tired,” Inger said, yawning.

“You should see Zaeneas about that,” said Tybalt, sitting beside him at the base of the aspen. “She’s got this, uh, what did she call it… tonic of ginkgo, I think. It’ll perk you right up.”

“You’ve used it?”

“How do you think I got this expedition together in just five weeks?” Tybalt laughed. “I was so busy running around hiring mercenaries and buying supplies that I went four straight days without sleep at one point. I was downing that brew like water.” He yawned, then muttered. “I might ask her for some more, myself.”

“Huh. All right, I’ll go see her.” Inger took another drink of water. “Thanks.”

“Ahh,” groaned Tybalt, leaning against the tree. “I’m getting too old to go traipsing about the countryside.”

“Good,” said Inger, slightly smiling. “That means I’ve got another decade before I am.”

“Hmph,” his father grumbled. “The impertinence of youth.” He stifled a yawn, flicking an ear. “Who’s Rye?”

Inger blinked, momentarily thrown. “Huh?”

“You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“Mm.” Inger swore internally. The last thing he wanted to do was dwell on that dream. “Rye Strudel. He’s—”

“Oh, yes, yes, Celestia’s pegacorn ambassador.” Tybalt nodded to himself. “I remember, now. Your wife mentioned him, before.”

“He’s a good friend. Probably the closest I have outside the Firewings.” Inger rubbed the flask with a hoof, ruminating. “I was just reliving old times.”

“You traveled to Sleipnord with him, right?”

“Yes. In fact, at first it was just the two of us. Cranberry followed along on her own.”

Tybalt smirked. “Like mother, like son.”

“Heh. She wasn’t pleased when I pointed that out.”

“They were close, I take it?” Tybalt craned up to watch the leaves fluttering in the breeze.

“Who, her and Rye? Yes. Childhood friends. Foster siblings, practically.” The flask was nearly empty. Inger took another sip. “Apricot Strudel took her and her sister in after their real parents perished in a freak blizzard.”

“A terrible storm,” said Tybalt, his head drooping. “I remember that year. We heard about the deaths even in the Rose Valley.” He sighed, and a quiet fell on them both for a time. With a slow shake of his head, Tybalt brightened again. “So, why did she follow the two of you to Sleipnord?”

“Say one thing for the northlands, they’re full of history. And there’s nothing my wife loves more than history.” Inger watched a fuzzy caterpillar crawl across the nearest root. “Once she found out we were going to visit the nordponies, nothing could have stopped her from coming along.”

“She was there for her friend, too, surely.”

“Well, of course.” Inger felt a nudge of old guilt. “And she was right to worry. I wasn’t… I wasn’t a very kind pony, when Rye and I first met. It took him saving our lives for me to realize what an idiot I was being.”

“But you became friends?”

“Mhm. He changed my life.” Inger gazed fondly through the trees at the line of carts, where Cranberry and Beatriz were birdwatching. “If not for him, I’d have never met Cranberry. And I’d never have become the kind of pony she’d marry.”

“How, er…” Tybalt cleared his throat. “How’d he feel about that?”

Congratulations, Inger, Rye’s dream-voice echoed, devoid of warmth. Inger swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just that… even historians avoid Sleipnord in the winter. Not to mention the ongoing civil war at the time. For someone to walk in there willingly takes a lot more than academic curiosity. I just thought that, ah, well, maybe there was more than childhood friendship between them, at one point.”

The dragon stirred in Inger’s chest, icy cold. He stared at the flask as if it were that empty bottle of brandy. “He…”

“Sorry. No need to answer.” Tybalt shook his head. “Just thinking out loud.”

“They’ve always been close,” said Inger, carefully. “And he was… very happy for both of us.”

His father’s ear flicked again. “Then, he wasn’t jealous?”

“Rye—” Inger took a deep breath. “I think he tried his best not to be. So we did our best not to rub his nose in it. Especially while we were still in Sleipnord. He needed to focus on the thanes, and getting the Nordponies’ aid for the war.”

“And… seeing the two of you together would have been a distraction.”

Inger remembered, vividly, the closest he and Cranberry had come to getting caught together. It had been a week before the new year, and Rye had been busy dealing with the thanes. It was a purely political situation, leaving Inger with little to contribute, so he had spent the day exploring Hoofnjord’s market with Cranberry. It was the first real time they’d had together that wasn’t overshadowed by their journey or some mortal peril.

It had been a wonderful day, and promised to be a wonderful night, until Rye barged in with news of an assassination attempt. Though the couple were thankfully no further than kissing, he couldn’t have missed the significance of them pressed together int he bed like that. The look on his face…

Of course he was furious. Someone had just tried to kill him, Inger chided himself. You’re just imagining things because of that dream, he thought plaintively. We never wanted to hurt him. Either of us. Rye had never said anything about it after, and Inger had never asked.

A sharp whistle carried through the trees. Castor was signaling the end of lunch. “That’s a neat trick,” said Inger, changing the subject. “I’ll have to ask him how he does that so loudly.”

“Could come in handy training those recruits, eh?” Tybalt stood. “Time to go…” He nodded to Inger and trotted off.

Inger watched him go, feeling uneasy about the whole conversation. It felt like his father had been quietly probing for something, but hell if Inger could figure out what. Tybalt, Cranberry, everyone seemed unwilling to tell him what they were thinking, all of a sudden. He stretched, feeling somehow more drained than he had before his nap. Rubbing his eyes, he stood wearily to head back to rejoin the group.

As he stepped forward, his hoof caught on a root and he stumbled. Inger fell, crashing to the ground and landing on his shoulder. Instantly, pain lanced through him, radiating through his entire body. Above, the rustling of the leaves seemed like hissing laughter. Laying in the dirt, he felt the cool kiss of the breeze through his mane.

All at once, the dragon flared to life. Not cold, now, but burning hot. He was fed up with all of this, with these stupid dreams and the lack of sleep and most of all with the way Cranberry was avoiding him. Snarling, he pushed himself upright. Why did everyone have to speak to him in riddles? Why couldn’t anyone just talk, instead of masking their feelings with smiles and hollow reassurances?

The anger felt good. For the first time since that fight on the ship, Inger felt awake, aware, felt ready to move, ready to do something besides wait and hope and mope. Maybe he’d get lucky and one of the carts would get stuck again. He could use a workout. Or a fight.

Fuming, he marched off toward the caravan. Rubbing his eyes, he spied Zaeneas’s little wagon, and altered course, There was still time to pay her a visit before heading back onto the trail.

Who needs sleep, anyway?