From a Filly on a Hill

I remember that little filly, breaths coming ragged and shallow as she crested the hilltop, the promise of rest within hoof's reach. Short breaths flow from her mouth in short pants of fog. There is no sound on that hill save for the dull thudding of her heart in her ears, the dull pulsations of blood through her throbbing skull and the pained gasping for a calming air that remains elusive. The blood has long since ceased to flow from her still-present wounds, congealed and thickened into the beginnings of scabs soon to crust and chip and break and bleed anew by the hooves of insults old and new.

She sniffles quietly on that lonely hill as she collapses to the cool, soft, wet spring grasses, sweat leaching from her dirtied coat into the pristine dew as she willed the exhaustion to leave with it by some ill-understood form of osmosis.

She rubs at her bruised and battered snout with the back of a hoof, flecks of dried blood embedding themselves in her gray-purple fur.

Adrenaline has carried her this far but no further. Outrunning her thoughts had turned out to be a foal's game.

She can't outrun the thoughts, the fears nor the anger. As if they are catching up to her, the winds begin to blow.

Her ragged breaths and pulsing veins are joined by the swaying branches, rustling leaves and coursing grasses as the hill comes to life, enveloping the filly with its gentle whispers.

She closes her eyes, rolling over onto her back and splaying her hooves, leaving her underside exposed to the sky as she loses herself in the comforts of gentle, meaningless words of the brush.

Her pulse slows and her breathing returns to the background.

The breeze dies and nature falls silent once more.

The cold returns and she finds herself staring through her eyelids, visions of swaying branches replaced by a pair of angry, golden eyes.

Her eyes snap open and she stares up, suddenly unable to see past her horn and the blonde strands of mane stuck to it, stuck fast with sweat and dew. Eyes burning, she shifts her focus to the sky, framed by newborn foliage and coursing winds high and untouchable.

She cocks her head to the side, blinking the sweat and tears from her eyes as she watches a stray cloud pass by, pressed along by the unfelt winds. She twists her head again, trying to rid her eyes of her limp mane, but finds herself watching the arc of her horn as it slices through the clouds. She watches as, with a flick of her head, the blunt tip cuts a swath through the overcast sky, looping through it, cutting from it a lump of cloud.

She can see it, feel it with her hooves: a lofty cloud house replete with ornate columns and high walls carved by virtue of her horn and hoof. She can see a moat of infinitely flowing rainbow surrounding it, the fresh smells of baking wafting down from the chimney as an imposing metal door stands out front, thick and unyielding.

It floats on high above the town of Ponyville, far from the yells and cries and whispers and mutters.

It has no windows.

It has no mirrors.

She reopens her eyes to find the skies unmoved by her imagination.

Slowly, she rolls back onto her belly, wrinkling her nose as a sneeze threatens before yielding, finding the bloodied tissues wadded up her nostrils a most formidable opponent, content to leak quietly down the back of her throat, leaving a vile taste in her mouth.

Muffling a cough, she glares down from the hill, her hill.

She peers down from the high throne of the lonely hill.

Down below she can see the late afternoon bustle of the town continuing, seeming to go on in spite of her, in spite of her absence.

She isn't quite sure what she had been expecting when she had fled from those angry, golden eyes.

She'd done wrong, that much was certain.

She knew it.

She accepted it.

But still, she felt righteous…indignant…furious...

She hadn’t started the fight.

It hadn’t been her fault.

The grass chaffs at her belly, her body seeming to slowly sink into the soft soil all at different rates, leaving her unbalanced and uncomforted.

Under normal circumstances, this was her domain: a lonely, quiet hill overlooking Ponyville. A place apart, all for a foal. She's certain that Celestia wouldn't mind the intrusion of her kingdom...not a foal intruding on so small and insignificant a hill.

Surely the Princess of the Sun has her own lonely hill somewhere in Equestia.

No, she wouldn't mind it at all. She would surely understand the wants of a little filly; she had been one long ago after all.

Staring down at the town, the little filly noticed how small Ponyville seemed from her hill. Grass scraping at her underside, she lifted a hoof tentatively over the distant town hall, pressing it down on the roof. She could feel the timbers bend beneath her almighty hoof, the struts and columns groaning as they struggled to hold back her wrath.

She is made gigantic, looking down on the town, finding it insignificant…powerless before her might.

She has the power.

She is in control.

The harsh calls and whispers are the barest flecks of dirt beneath her hooves. Those familiar, callous eyes unable to look up, so used to looking down that their necks have locked, twisted in place.

They can look no further than the tips of their hooves as she lowers her hooves down upon their heads.

A sudden twinge of pain brings her back to the hill and back down to size.

She shifts herself, flicking away the rock that had pressed so rudely into the still-fresh bruises on her forelegs. She glares daggers at the impertinent stone a moment before turning her gaze back to Ponyville.

The business day is wrapping up as the sun begins to set. The market has already been closed for the day and the few ponies left wandering the street must dip their heads in deference to the chilling breeze. They walk slowly, hoping for a quick return to the warmth of home.

The filly shivers a moment, the cold wind a sharp contrast to the lukewarm damp of the grass and dark earth. She squirms, nestling into the soil and lowering her head to rest against the earth, muzzle dipped to shield herself from the chill.

The smell of dewy grass and soggy earth invades her nostrils, the cozy scents overwhelming her senses as the cold of the wind fades from her, replaced by the warmth of memory.

A warm hearth.

Blankets wrapped tight about her.

She can feel them for a moment before the chill returns, pricking at her exposed hide as if in revenge for her transitory ignorance of it.

She curls about herself, wrapping everything that is her up in the shell of her body, braced against the cold as she squeezes her wet eyes shut.

Outside, the world turns cold and quiet as Celestia's sun dips behind the mount of Canterlot, Luna's moon remaining in hiding behind the clouds.

Distant yells and cries are soon enough subsumed by the growling winds as they tear over her hill.

She is alrady far away.

Far away and held in strange hooves.

One pair of strange hooves and then another... and another and another, a pair becoming several then a few then a dozen then innumerable to a little filly.

She had cried quietly, obediently in the dark as faint voices fussed and fretted.

There was no malice in these voice.

There was naught but affection.

A gentle, uncertain affection, yet it was affection all the same.

They blur together in a gallery of not her…of not you.

Then, one in particular, an unfamiliar touch that gave way to the familiar. A few whispered words and the soft thunk of a door reintroducing you.

She cried, out of instinct at first, understanding still beyond the grasp of her too young hooves.

But she remembers the warmth, the gray fur encircling her before the hearth. She feels the feathers trailing ever so gently across her muzzle, tickling her nose they sweep away the tears. The little filly sneezes, then giggles and finally smiles.

She stares up into the warm, golden eyes as the familiar wings cover her, familiar hooves holding her, protecting her.

The filly opens her eyes and finds the hill gone.

The trees are gone.

The grass is gone.

The cold is gone.

She looks up at you, teary eyes meeting teary eyes.

No words are spoken. You nuzzle her, wrapping yourself tighter about her, threatening silently to never let her go.

I remember this filly as she snuggled closer to you, words of unspoken forgiveness passing between you.

I remember and then, glancing forwards from that moment, I wonder...how many times have I looked away? Looked down? Looked to the right? The left? Looked anywhere but at you as my cheeks burned with embarrassment? With shame?

How many times have I avoided your eyes when you looked at me… expecting something that it seemed I wouldn’t, couldn’t give you then? Something I had to reserve for private moments…away from their eyes?

How many times did you smile anyways? How many times did you smile happily? How many times did you forgive me for these constant sins?

And how many times did I forgive myself? Absolve myself by rationalizing my avoidance? This gap between us two? This wall of unlove? Of almost loathing? Of certain embarrassment?

Too many times.

Too many times I have looked away. A hundred moments with you and ninety-nine times I lied. Ninety-nine time I didn’t say what I knew deep down...out of fear, out of cowardice...

Those ninety-nine times led to this stupid little apology, couched in anecdote, born of avoidance, to the most important mare...most important pony that I’ll ever know.

Those ninety-nine times I was sorry, but this one time I don’t have to be…

Momma...I love you.

~From your filly on the hill~

[Author's Note: THIS SPACE FOR RENT]