It was an hour past closing time for the Gilded Stein. A cold wind howled outside, causing the solid oak walls to creak on occasion. Exhausted from a day of combatting the chill, the fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, and the cold was beginning to overtake the common room. The lone stallion behind the bar scarcely noticed; He was accustomed to it.
Malt Witty had been a bartender since before he’d gotten his Cutie Mark, and that was just as well. In between washing glasses and mugs from the day’s business, the sepia unicorn glanced back at his flank to the pillow sitting beneath a shining sun. Not much of a special talent, was the typical thought he had on the matter. Most ponies had special talents that helped them in their lives, be it through their profession or personal life.
He snorted, setting down the glass he’d just dried… or rather had been drying for the last several minutes. Now, there wasn’t a thing wrong with bartending in Ponyville. His father had done it, and his grandmother before that. ...Point of fact they still did, although grandma only worked one night a week. Dad… well this was still dad’s place. If Malt had his way, it would stay such; he had no real interest in taking over the family business. Or in anything.
No, that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t that he had no interest in anything. And as a colt he’d had pretty simple dreams. He wanted to be the hero, and he wanted to fall in love. Of course the first one was a foal’s fantasy, but heroes often came from quiet little towns and modest beginnings. Most of the Element Bearers had lived in Ponyville for years before becoming heroes, though of course Malt was well past such ideas by then. Although… the night they’d become heroes was a memorable one for him…
Malt… we should see other ponies… If anything, Nightmare Moon’s appearance had cemented his ex-fiance’s feelings on the matter. She wanted more out of her life than a bartender working in his father’s tavern. Malt couldn’t blame her. They’d wished each other well, and she’d just known he’d meet the perfect mare for him one day, because he was a good stallion and there weren’t enough of those.
He remembered feeling, and burying, a touch of resentment at that notion. Where did she get to say he’d find love after rejecting him? They’d been together over two years (two years, three moons, fourteen days, as he’d figured up later during a slow time after happy hour) and she’d left. Who was she to say some other mare would stick around? The two before her hadn’t, either, and had both left him sooner. He just… wasn’t enough. It seemed to be the running theme.
Seven years later… well to be fair Malt saw other ponies every day. They didn’t see him, but he saw them. It had been his third break up, and he’d understandably been a bit reluctant to try again. Each time you get knocked down, getting up hurts a bit more. The brave will say things like ‘that’s how you know you’re alive’ but… to Malt if you had to measure your life by how much pain you felt, something had gone terribly wrong. After a couple years of convincing himself that he was fine alone, and it was better than trying and failing again, he’d started to believe it.
Oh, there were bad days, sure. Everypony had those, right? For him, they were the days when the loneliness, usually bearable, became stifling. The years ahead seemed to stretch on an on, walking alone along a path no one even took note of. It was cold… it was always cold, and no one could help him no matter what happened. And why should they? He was a failure; he didn’t deserve help. He didn’t deserve companionship or affection. He was a unicorn with no talent for magic, slinging cider in a friendly tavern where he didn’t have any. He was practically middle age; nothing would get better from here. There was only…
Oh.
He looked down at the last few dishes he’d been washing, or more specifically the last. It was a knife they used for slicing fruit and such for drinks. It was quite sharp…
He stared at it as it floated in his magic. Nopony would even notice… that long, quiet path could end right now. Oh, he’d heard all the reasons not to. It’s selfish. It’s the coward’s way out. It’s giving up. Was it? The ones who were selfish were the ones who would want him to keep living, keep quietly hurting, so they wouldn’t have to feel bad. Because they were selfish; if they were selfless, how did they not notice?
And if he went through with it… well, everypony dies, right? Eventually, any family he had would lose him anyway, right? How was it any different if it ended a bit sooner? And he had no friends, so if anything he’d been selfless there already. Nopony needed to help him with this burden. Selfish would be asking perfectly happy ponies to fix his miserable life! He’d brought it on himself! Every stupid decision, every poor choice, every missed chance, every single day. His. Own. Fault.
Coward. Yeah well… maybe so. But what was so brave about trying when you couldn’t succeed? That wasn’t brave; it was stupid. ‘You never know until you try’. Nonsense… casinos were built on that sort of foolish thinking. Life already had all his debts, every lost gamble he’d pursued. It wasn’t cowardly; a grown stallion could admit when he’d lost… knew when to fold ‘em. He looked at the knife, gleaming brightly in his aura.
No more hurt, no more weight on his shoulders, no more cold… it could all stop right then and there.... He looked at the edge of the blade, wondering as it blurred in his vision. The bad days could stop… all it took was a simple little step… one small thing… it would be so easy… He pulled the knife up to his foreleg. That artery… just above and behind the hoof. The blade nicked into his flesh, cutting easily. Blood dripped, but it was still little more than a paper cut. Deeper… the artery… just a little further. The blade was steady; his magic held without effort despite the blurring vision. Tears? That was alright. A final, little bit of pain, and then...
The door opened behind him in the common room, quickly accompanied by a burst of frigid air filling the building. Malt sighed shakily and put the knife back down in the cooling, soapy water. Couldn’t traumatize whoever was walking in at that hour, but... “We’re closed-” he began as he turned around to see the trespasser.
She had a guilty grimace on her face as she gently shook off her wings, tossing light flurries all around her. She was stunning… not that Malt really cared. Stunning mares had nothing to do with him. If anything they only made bad days worse. Wasn’t their fault, of course. It was his, completely his fault. Everything wrong was, and so… but the knife wasn’t an option now. Even though he wanted to… there was no way in front of this mare. Golden eyes regarded him with a touch of hope. A damp mane of silver and indigo framed her, spiking around her face despite the drips falling from it… onto his clean tavern floor. She looked down, and back up at him with a nervous grin. “Sorry…”
Malt took a breath and sighed out through his nose. He sat on his haunches to address her calmly. “Bad night to be out, but that doesn’t mean we’re open.”
Her ears drooped. “I know. I’m really sorry I just… it’s cold.”
“Yeah, it is that. But I thought pegasi were okay with cold?”
“Well… that depends on our weather magic, you know?” She turned a bit, showing her Cutie Mark. A thin slip of crescent moon with a line of clouds crossing it stood out from her blue-grey flank. “Not exactly a weatherpony Cutie Mark.”
“It could be. Maybe you’re in charge of producing mostly clear nights.”
She smiled. It was a pretty smile. “If that’s the case, I’m definitely fired for this blizzard.” That pretty smile faded just a bit. “I know you’re closed but… could I stay and warm up just a little while?”
...She didn’t have to be cold, he supposed. “I don’t guess I have it in me to kick you out. Malt Witty.”
“Evening Calm,” she replied, one wing twitching a greeting between a wave and a salute. “Thank you very much. I’ll buy a drink, if it’ll help.”
“We’re closed.”
“Right, right.”
“...Did you want a drink?”
She chuckled. “Anything warm?”
“Got a bit of mulled cider left in an enchanted pot. Should still be steaming.”
Her smile returned to beatific levels. “Sounds perfect. How much?”
After filling a mug and setting it in front of a barstool, he made a show of rolling his eyes. “We’re-”
“-Closed. Right, sorry. Thank you!” She trotted to the bar, sat herself, and took a slow sip. “That’s really good!”
“My father’s recipe. Makes sense since it’s his place, but I’ll pass along the compliment.” He made a show of picking up a glass and cleaning it, for something to be doing, before addressing her again. “What are you doing out in this weather anyway?”
“Heh. Well… I’m not from around here.”
With a nod, he affirmed, “Trottingham, if I’m hearing the accent correctly.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “That’s right! Though not in years, truth be told. I thought I’d lost most of it, living in Canterlot.”
“There’s a few tells.”
“Huh, nopony’s mentioned before. Anyway my older sister moved here, and I’m visiting.”
“Having trouble finding her place or something?”
Her ears pinned back. “Well… no. We… had a bit of a falling out, you see. She doesn’t approve of my working in the Guard.” She grimaced as her voice took on a sing-song tone, “‘Too dangerous, thankless job, no time for a personal life’, and so forth. Things… got a bit heated and I stormed out rather than let either of us wake my nephew with our yelling. ...Didn’t realize how bad the storm had gotten.”
“Surprised she let you leave, given the circumstances.”
She flushed. “Yes well… bit difficult, an earth pony stopping a pegasus who wants to fly off, innit?”
“Depends if she’s any good with a lasso,” he muttered instead, having seen the Apple family mare tie up the local Wonderbolt on more than one occasion.
Evening snickered. “Sort of doubt it. Maybe had she grown up around here...” She looked around at the bar, trying to find something more to say. “So… your dad’s place?”
“Yeah. I work for him.”
She tilted her head, humming. “Hmm… you say that like you’d rather not.”
“It’s a living,” he replied tersely.
“...But not the living you want?”
His eyes narrowed for a moment, but then softened as he sighed. “I guess not. But it pays the bills. And it’s not like I had some dream I was pursuing, so this job’s as good as any. Better than a lot, really.”
She smiled and nodded. “True enough. I’ve worked a few bad ones while trying to get by, before meeting a Guard that made me realize where my place was.” Her smile became an encouraging grin as she finished off her cider with a flourish. “Maybe that’s how it is for you, too. You’re waiting for some sign to show you the way to your dream! You might think you’re a late bloomer, and maybe you are a little, but so what? Life doesn’t need some set schedule that says ‘you must succeed and find happiness and purpose before X age or you’re a failure!’.”
“Isn’t that what Cutie Marks do?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh there’s a laugh.” She turned in her stool a bit (easy enough given they spun) to once again gesture to her flank. “See this here?”
“...Sure?”
“Well, it’s a moon in phase, right? Looks a bit like a sword, what with that cloud there like a crosspiece, yeah?”
“I… suppose so?”
She nodded. “My talent is pattern recognition. Like the phases of the moon, the things that happen all around us follow certain patterns, and events flow from one to the next in a harmony. Sometimes it looks like chaos, but that’s just a harmony we haven’t worked out yet, right? ...Well, working that out is my talent.”
“Huh.”
“Well, how to put that to use was the question. Oh sure, I could predict my opponent in games and the like, and made a good sum of bits gambling for a few years out of school, but… not too fulfilling, you know? When your talent lets you win easier than most other ponies… suddenly it’s less about winning and more about what winning means, right?”
Malt blinked. “I guess so.”
“Right, so, but it’s also a sword. ...And it’s also a moon. Put it all together… and believe me it took me awhile, which I’m told is plenty ironic, and I’m joinin’ up to protect the newly freed Princess Luna… thanks to a little nudge from a stoic bloke that was after doing the same. And my talent… well it’s good for Guard work. And Guard work… is work where winning really means something. Something bigger than myself, more important than just putting bits in my purse, right?”
Malt smiled. “Yeah, I could see that,” he blinked, and chuckled. “Let me guess… using pattern recognition to win arguments with your sister sets her off.”
Evening laughed. “And you’d think I’d recognize that before letting it happen. Bit competitive, I suppose.”
“That’s probably also good for a Guard.”
“Can’t deny it. ...Well what about you? What’s your talent, and how can we help you use it to reach your dream?”
Malt snorted softly, but there was a smile on his face as he shut his eyes. “Well… my talent is dreaming. Daydreams… I can craft really intricate ones. You’d swear it was really happening… if you were in my head, of course. So… it’s less ‘reaching a dream’ for me, since dreams are already in my grasp. But I don’t have one that calls out to me… no ‘stoic bloke’ pointing me in the right direction, I guess.”
He sighed, and opened his eyes. He picked up the mulled cider he’d poured, and downed the full mug in one go. The empty bar was quiet, save for the creaking of the walls in the wind. He set the mug down next to the barstool that nopony had inhabited in hours. “My talent is pretty useless,” he said to the unhearing walls. “It just… gets me through the night.”
He shook his left foreleg, tossing drops of blood to the floor behind the bar. The knife lay behind him in the sink, forgotten for one more day.
