A House for the Holidays

by Miller Minus

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Braeburn, King Sombra, Troubleshoes
Length: 6872

Troubleshoes Clyde don't ask for much from Hearth's Warming. All's he needs is a nice warm house to spend it in.

Troubleshoes Clyde don't ask for much from Hearth's Warming. He don't need no gifts, no festive meal, not even a group of friends to share stories with. No, he's always been happier all by his lonesome anyways.

All he's ever wanted for Hearth's Warming is a nice warm house to spend it in. And this year is the first year he might not have a house at all.

Lucky for him, he's got a whole year to build himself a brand new one.

This was written for Vivid Syntax as a part of the Jinglemas 2019 story exchange.

Cover Art by SourSpot

Published 2019-12-23 18:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-12-23 18:10:01 UTC

A House for the Holidays

Spring

Troubleshoes Clyde made his way into town, while behind him, his straw hut burned right on down to the ground. He knew the proper thing to do was to wait outside while it burned, to shield himself from all the burning debris, to weep and blubber about all the lost possessions, to gawp up at the smoldering bunches of straw as the sky took them away, but he didn’t really see the need. There wasn’t any time to be sad when you had work to do. That’s what Mama Clyde always said.

It was nothing but a starter house, anyways. Something easy to get Clyde started on this whole house-building business. The next one would be stronger. And he had many more months ‘til the holidays to worry about building the next one.

So he plodded on through grass, in between the two wagon-wheel divots he’d left when he’d brought all that straw and scaffolding up the hill three days prior. This time he towed nothing but the hat on his head. Smoke tickled the back of his throat and watered his eyes, but he didn’t cough nor cry. With every step, he had to admit, it got less bad.

The sound of crackling straw faded behind him and gave way to the sound of chirping birds, waking up that morning like nothing was even wrong. But then, nothing was wrong. Not for them.

“Clyde!”

Clyde looked up. Only one pony in all of Appleloosa called him by his preferred name, and that was Braeburn. Sure enough, the little golden stallion was sprinting up the hill on three hooves—the fourth busy holding his hat on straight—with a look of fear all over his face.

“Morning, Braeburn,” Clyde said with a nod. “Nice day out, I reckon.”

Clyde stopped, politely, but Braeburn kept running at full tilt. He leapt over Clyde’s head, snatched his hat off and stomped it into the ground. Clyde made to complain, but then he saw the embers under Braeburn’s hoof. They burned, then they smoldered, then finally they disappeared, leaving behind a hole right in the back of his hat.

Braeburn panted up a storm. “Clyde.” He swallowed. “You alright?”

Clyde nodded. “Yessir. All thanks to you.”

“What… happened, partner?”

“My hut’s burning down, is all.”

All the way up the hill, something in the hut gave way, and it collapsed in on itself, making a big ruckus.

Braeburn swallowed. “But… why’s it burning down?” he inquired.

Clyde opened his mouth, then he shut it up quick. To be honest, he hadn’t given any thought to the ‘why’. Even before he put up the first wall of straw he’d already assumed it would be fire that ended up taking it all down again. That’d be the unluckiest way for it to all play out, after all.

“Can’t say I know for sure,” was Clyde’s response.

“…Got any ideas?”

“I reckon I might.”

Braeburn nodded, then paused, then frowned. “Shoot, Clyde.”

Clyde sat on his rump and crossed his forelegs. “Coulda been a phoenix,” he said. “Mistook the straw crown at the top of the hut for its nest. Roosted there and, I dunno, sneezed, I suppose.”

Braeburn winced at that, probably thinking of a phoenix’s habitat and migration patterns, and how they were nowhere near Appleloosa. “Got any other ideas?” he said.

Clyde looked upwards, as if the answer might be written in the clouds.

“Maybe the same story, but with a dragon, ‘stead of a phoenix?”

Braeburn pushed the point of his hoof between his eyes. “Clyde, what are we gonna do with you?”

“It’s just a house. No need to fuss.”

“How is your house burning down not worth fussin’?”

“I made sure to build it far away from any trees or tall grass, so it won’t spread. And the hill is higher than Appleloosa, so all the smoke should miss it. As far as I can see it, we’re in the clear.”

Braeburn shook his head in disbelief. “You talk like you saw this comin’, Clyde.”

“More often than not, bad luck ain’t nothing more than bad preparation. That’s what Mama Clyde always said.”

Braeburn let his head drop at the mention of Mama Clyde, and Clyde felt sorry for bringing her up.

“I’m sorry about your house,” Braeburn muttered.

“Like I said—it ain’t nothing more than a pile of straw, to me.”

“Not that one.” Braeburn gestured towards the bank of trees that was the start of the forest. “Your old one.”

“I don’t see how you were responsible for the sinkhole that took it down, but I accept your apology.”

Braeburn’s head dropped quickly, but Clyde heard him laugh. And when he lifted it back up he was smiling. He placed a hoof on Clyde’s shoulder. “Go for wood next time, partner,” he said. “It’s a lot less flammable than straw, ‘specially if ya get it treated.”

“Thank you kindly, Braeburn. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And you can ask some of us for help too, y’know. There ain’t a pony in Appleloosa who couldn’t whip up a log cabin in a week’s time. Why, with a team of us workin’ together, we’d have ya up and runnin’ in less than a day.”

Clyde thought about that. There wasn’t a pony in Appleloosa who couldn’t build a fine house, except maybe for him. And that was just the thing.

“I’m sure you’re right, Braeburn,” Clyde said. “But I reckon I’ll enjoy living in a house more if I build it with my own two hooves.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Rodeo’s at 3 today?”

“3 pm sharp, you got it!” Braeburn suddenly looked worried. “Ah, shoot. I’m supposed to run to AJ’s to grab some spare supplies. Would you believe I managed to lose all our white paint before the season’s first rodeo?”

“Can’t say I do believe that, no.”

Braeburn laughed. “Well, believe it. Will you be alright if I run off on ya?”

Clyde answered by way of a nod.

“Great. See you at 3!”

Clyde stepped back so Braeburn could rear up on his hind legs, kick his forelegs out, and take off through the field. Blades of grass flew into the air behind him as he went on his merry way. That Braeburn. Forever a stallion forging his own path.

Clyde turned towards town again, but lingered in the direction of the burning straw hut on the hill.

“Wood,” he said to himself. “Treated wood. I’ll get started on that today.”

But first thing was first. Breakfast. Clyde made for town square. He clip-clopped past the concerned frowns of the Appleloosans, staring at the smoldering straw hut from whence he’d come, and since he knew some of them would be looking with sympathy, and some would not, and since he didn’t care none for discerning the thoughts of others, he kept his head down. He ordered a hay sandwich at Crispin’s with a side of earl grey tea and planted himself down in the strongest-looking metal chair. He took a bite of his sandwich, found it salty, took a sip of his tea, found it weak. He pulled out his flask and solved one of the two problems before him. And one-outta-two weren’t nothing to scoff at.

The other ponies in the square enjoyed their morning, read the paper, chatted with each other. All of them had somepony else for company. All except Clyde.

Actually, that wasn’t altogether correct. There was one other pony sitting by their lonesome. All Clyde could tell of them was that they had purple fur, on account of the purple snout and hooves sticking out of his long brown cloak and hood. Wasn’t it hot in all that? wondered Clyde. But he reckoned the body temperature of other ponies wasn’t really his business.

The pony snacked on a sandwich and scoured over some ancient-looking books on his table. The wind played with the corners of the pages, and Clyde couldn’t help but chuckle as the cloaked pony planted his hooves and his elbows all over them to keep from losing his page.

If those were my books, Clyde thought, the wind would pick ‘em all up and carry them right on up to my burning hut. But rotten luck is my lot in life, and mine alone.

The voices in the square changed. From excited, friendly murmurs, they turned to the concerned murmurs of ponies realizing something was wrong.

A strange shadow passed over town square. Some ponies looked up, as did Clyde. A layer of smoke floated between Appleloosa and the sun, turning Appleloosa’s bright blue sky into a much dirtier, much smokier blue.

Many ponies, including the one in the cloak, gathered their things and left, probably to find somewhere more sunny.

Clyde hung his head and placed a hoof on his hat. He’d never felt more ashamed.

Summer

Appleloosa sure was hot, come July. It could make anypony sweat, could tussle the pretty mares’ manes something awful, could fry up a hen’s egg using only the sidewalk and the sun. Summer made Clyde feel like shaving himself of all his fur and mane just to help cool off, and he dreaded every long walk he made into town from his house on the hill. All those sympathetic, cloudy eyes, all those berths that ponies put between themselves and him, just in case his bad luck might rub off on them if they got too close. All those parents making their kids stop laughing at him, even though they were just doing it on account of them recognizing him from the rodeo. Those laughs were all he looked forward to, some days, when he walked into town.

But there wasn’t any time to be sad, for Troubleshoes Clyde had work to do. That’s what Mama Clyde said.

Clyde knocked on the screen door of the candleshop and peeked inside. Through the screen he saw Pearl, dressed in her bonnet and blouse, leaning over the front counter, wrapped up in a crossword. When he knocked, she heard him and smiled.

“That sounds like Trouble,” she teased. “Come on in. Don’t be shy.”

Clyde shuffled into the store—careful with the door, so as to not break the wood, or rip the screen, or cause some chain reaction that destroyed the whole shop. One could never be too careful.

“Morning, Pearl,” said Clyde to the young mare.

“Morning, Trouble.”

Clyde lamented the fact that Pearl called him Trouble. It wasn’t her fault, though. Clyde just wished he was better at raising a fuss.

Pearl clicked her tongue and scrawled something into her crossword. Clyde hoped what she’d written was correct.

“Not often a pony as unlucky as you shops for candles,” Pearl said.

Clyde felt a chuckle coming on, but it wasn’t strong enough to manifest. He hoisted the box he’d been carrying onto the counter with a thud. Inside were twenty short-and-fat candles, all of them scented like apple cider. With a hearty sniff, Pearl peered down at them.

She adjusted her half-moon glasses. “You didn’t buy these,” she recalled.

“No, ma’am, you’re right. They were a housewarming gift from Braeburn. And I’m mighty happy for the gesture, but I reckon they’ll only cause trouble, for me.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but you can’t return ‘em if it wasn’t you that purchased ‘em.”

Clyde nodded. “I’m well aware. I’m meaning to restock your inventory, free of charge.”

This seemed to make Pearl sad, for some reason. But she pulled the box closer and nodded. “I understand, Trouble. Say, did you mention a housewarming? Does that mean you finished your cabin up on the hill?”

With a puff of his chest, Clyde answered, “Sure did, Pearl. Three weeks ago. That’s why Braeburn bought me these candles, see. He thought it’d be funny. I can’t say it wasn’t.”

“Well, that’s nice. And how is your new home workin’ out for you?”

Clyde’s chest receded again. He looked away. “Not too well, I’m afraid.”

Pearl crossed her hooves over the table. She frowned like she was sucking something sour out of her teeth.

That probably meant Clyde should continue, so he did. “The walls are startin’ to get soggy,” he explained, “and the roof didn’t drain yesterday’s rain so well. If it ain’t fire, it’s moisture. Reckon I got ants, too.”

“I’m sorry, Clyde. Ants love a wood house, as does moisture. Can you fix it?”

Clyde hung his head. He hadn’t given that question much thought. Probably because he knew the answer already. His bones were too tired to consider the prospect of tearing the thing down, but if he was being honest, there was nothing else for it.

The door chime jingled again. Pearl looked, but Clyde figured it was none of his business who’d come shopping for candles on this bright summer day. That was, until the pony spoke.

“Troubleshoes,” he said, in a snide kind of voice. The pony from town square, with the cloak, that bright spring day, whom Clyde had never personally met. From under his hood, all Clyde could see of him was his purple-nosed sneer.

“Broken any mirrors today?” the pony in the cloak asked him.

“No, sir,” said Clyde. “I keep mirrors well away from my person. No point stumbling into ‘em, making my fortunes worse.”

“I meant just by looking at them.”

Pearl butted in. “Leave ‘im alone, Jasper,” she said.

The pony, whose name was Jasper, if Pearl was to be believed, and Clyde figured she was, threw back his hood. He had a white mane whose colour—or lack thereof—seemed to bleed on right down his nose in a bunch of little spots. His eyes were shiny and gold.

“What’s in the box,” said Jasper, only he didn’t inflect it like a question, so Clyde wondered if he’d misspoken. Surely he didn’t mean to sound so impolite.

“Clyde was just donating some old candles,” answered Pearl.

Jasper’s ears perked. “Have you… donated them yet?”

Clyde opened his mouth, then shut it. He reckoned he wasn’t sure at what point a one-way transaction was complete. “I couldn’t say,” he said, and he looked at Pearl, but before she could clarify matters, Jasper snatched the box off the table and looked inside.

“Sounds like a no. Thanks, Trouble!” Jasper said, and with a dramatic flash of his cloak, he swiveled, flung open the door and trotted outside.

Clyde caught the door so it wouldn’t slam.

“We got a real winner in him,” Pearl said. “Can’t wait ‘til he moves on.”

From the other side of the screen door, the fleeing Jasper threw his hood back on and cut sideways, carrying himself and his new box of candles out of view.

“Just who is that fellow?” Clyde pondered.

“He moved here a few months back. Gets on everypony’s nerves, lemme tell you. But he ain’t no country folk. He’ll move on when he’s had enough of us. Hey, Clyde?”

Clyde turned around.

“Have you given masonry a try?”

“You mean… as a profession?”

“No, Clyde.” Pearl laughed. “What are we gonna do with you?”

Clyde wondered why everypony kept saying that.

“I meant bricks. Ain’t no ants that can chew through bricks. Better against moisture, too. Only thing is…” She tapped her chin. “It’s mighty tough to haul around. So it may be a lot for one pony.”

Clyde felt something inside him, something he recognized. The same stirring he got in the springtime, when Braeburn had mentioned using wood for his new house. Sure, that hadn’t worked out as well as he would have liked. But without the wood cabin, Clyde might never have stumbled upon bricks.

“I reckon I’m a good hauler,” he said. “Bricks. Sure thing. Thank you kindly, Pearl. I may just give that a shot.”

Pearl winked and waved as Clyde left the candleshop. Outside, the sun burned, and ponies bustled and chattered. The long walk to the hill had begun, but Clyde held his head up high. He was excited to build something out of bricks. He was excited for a good sweat.

Fall

The Appleloosa Public Library was always so tough to navigate. Maybe not for everypony, but for Clyde it sure was. The sections all blended together—Arts & Crafts, Hobby Projects, Self-Help Books—and that was before he got to all the shelves themselves. Why did all the titles have to be written in different colors, fonts and sizes? Why were authors sometimes at the top of the spine, and other times at the bottom? And why did the thicknesses have to change so doggone much?

Clyde let his eyes drift out the window. One story below, Appleloosans weaved to and fro throughout the town square, in a mess of hoofsteps and a little dust. They were wrapped up in scarves and hats. The forest, far away, was blooming all the colors of fall, and made Clyde yearn for a good hike. Being on the second floor gave Clyde a bad feeling. His strongest hoof was liable to find the weakest spot on the floor, and go right through it. But something Mama Clyde used to say kept him from sighing.

You got work to do.

He was in the non-fiction wing of the APL, in some section or another, checking the books that had Construction at the beginning of the title. He didn’t know how he’d find the books that had Construction at some other spot in the title, but he decided he could worry about that later.

Construction: A Guide on Straw. Nope.

Construction: Lumber and Wood. Tried that.

Construction: Masonry and you! That wasn’t such a great combination, as it turned out.

Clyde sighed and almost put his forehead against the shelf. But he held it back. That was a disaster waiting to happen. He wasn’t the most attentive pony, but he could spot a line of dominoes from a mile away.

He could also spot an empty place in this here line of books, between Construction: Masonry and Cymbals for Foals. Was there a book missing?

“Help you find somethin’, Troubleshoes?”

Clyde peered over his shoulder. He couldn’t rightly turn around, on account of the aisle only being as wide he was. “Howdy there, Mr. Bellflower,” he said to the old moustached pony in the cowpony hat. “Just a minute.”

Clyde walked out of the aisle, did a three-point turn, and came back in facing the right way. He was sure he would knock something over, but this time he was lucky. He’d have to remember to mark his calendar.

“I couldn’t help but notice this here shelf seems to be missing a book,” he explained.

With a furrowed brow, Mr. Bellflower stared up at the shelf. He got his clipboard out, muttering to himself as he flipped the pages over.

“Good catch, Troubleshoes. The Crystal Contract by Diamond Diamond Obsidian.” He snorted at the author’s name, which Clyde found impolite, but he didn’t mention it.

The Crystal Contract. That sounded to Clyde like something to do with contractors. He didn’t like the idea of hiring somepony else to build a house for him, but maybe they’d let him pay them for a little lesson. He was starting to get desperate. The holidays were nearly here.

“Any idea where I might find it?” Clyde asked.

Mr. Bellflower looked down again, and said, “Oh. Well, you’ll never get that.”

“Something the matter?”

“It’s with Jasper. He checked six books out when he first moved into town, and he’s failed to return any of ‘em.” Mr. Bellflower pulled off his hat and held it to his chest. “Some ponies have no respect for libraries, I tell you.”

Clyde frowned. “Have you talked to him? Could be he just forgot.”

“I’ve been to see him, sure. But he told me he’d give the books back when he’s good and done with them.” Mr. Bellflower shrugged. “All’s he has to do is come in and check them out for longer, but…”

Clyde’s frown deepened. Now that just wasn’t appropriate. Jasper could disrespect him all he wanted, but he had no right disrespecting a public service.

“S’cuse me, Mr. Bellflower. If you don’t mind, I’d like to pay Jasper a visit on your behalf.”

Mr. Bellflower smiled, at first. Then he got mighty serious. “Are you sure? That Jasper is a spooky character.”

Clyde answered by way of a nod.

“I reckon I am too,” he said. “When it suits me.”

***

Jasper’s hut was made out of straw. It was built on the edge of town, on a vacant lot with an unshorn lawn. Clyde walked up the broken-tile path and knocked on the door. He stood back with his chest puffed out and his lower lip screwed up in front of his upper lip.

Jasper opened the straw door, and he looked ready to say something short. Then he stammered, “Y-you!” and he closed the door to within an inch of shut. “You get out of here, Trouble. Now, before you burn my house down like you did yours.”

Even from the small crack in the door, Clyde could see the half-melted candles all over the floor and the shelves, the books splayed around everywhere, and some white paint on the dirt floor. The paint was in the shape of a circle, only it wasn’t like any circle Clyde had ever seen.

White paint… Now why did that sound familiar?

“Are you listening, Trouble?”

“I prefer to be called Clyde,” said Clyde, “if that’s alright with you.”

Jasper rolled his eyes. “Clyde, fine, whatever, just get out of here. I’m warning you.”

“Now I don’t mean to take up much of your time, Jasper. Mr. Bellflower tells me you have a book checked out that’s long overdue, and I’d like to have my turn with it.”

Jasper laughed, which wasn’t Clyde’s expectation, and neither was the grin that Jasper put on afterwards.

“Oh, piss off,” the purple pony spat. “You small-town folk are all the same, worrying over the minutest of minutia. Overdue library books. Perish the thought! Crystals, your life must be boring.”

Clyde pulled his head back. “You reckon that’s how you really feel?” he asked.

Jasper snorted. “Yes, Clyde. I reckon it is.”

“Then in that case, I’d like to withdraw one of my previous statements.”

The grin on Jasper’s face faltered, but returned. “Which statement?” he said.

“The part where I said I’d preferred to be called Clyde.”

“OK… What would you like to be called?”

Clyde walked into the doorway, forcing Jasper to open it. He brought his eyes right up to Jasper’s.

“I’d prefer it if you called me Trouble.”

Jasper gulped.

“Now, I don’t know what you know about me, Jasper, but I happen to be the friend of a friend of a pony who takes books and libraries mighty seriously. It’s no trouble to me to write her a letter sayin’ you’re abusing the Appleloosa Public Library. She’d be none too pleased, I reckon.”

Jasper’s grin came back even wider than ever. He threw his head back in a great big laugh. “That’s your threat, Clyde? Oh, I’m quaking. I didn’t know you were two degrees of separation from a librarian!”

“I sure am. And you may have heard of her. Goes by the name of Princess Twilight Sparkle?”

The color drained from Jasper’s fur. It was as though the white spots on his forehead had grown until he was entirely white as a sheet. His mouth hung open, then shut again, but it was shaking.

“Okay,” he said. He shook his head, and the color came back, bringing with it a nervous smile. “Clyde, buddy! There’s no need to be hasty! You can borrow one of my books, no problem.”

“I had a feeling you’d see things my way.”

“Oh, of course. So… Which did you want.” There was that lack of inflection again. The impoliteness never stopped with this one.

“All of them,” Clyde answered.

“But… you said—”

“I changed my mind. And I want my candles back, too.”

“But—!”

“And while you’re at it,” Clyde continued, “I’d like you to give me all that white paint you stole from Braeburn, so that I may return it for you. That OK by you, Jasper?”

Jasper rocked back and forth on his hooves. He threw his hood over his head and kicked the ground.

“…Give me a moment to get it all together.”

Winter

King Sombra awoke to the smell of cinnamon and apples, and he remembered that he was about to be obliterated by a wave of friendship magic.

“Guh—!”

He fell into a patch of icy grass and scrambled to his hooves. It took him two tries. Once there, he dove forward into a roll and sprinted behind a tree for cover. He clutched his chest and caught his breath.

Wait a minute. A tree? That couldn’t be right. He was in Canterlot Castle, amidst a duel for the ages. There were no trees here.

He knocked against the tree bark. He rubbed his eyes, and he tilted his head back. It was a pine tree, one of many, spearing upwards into the night. He thought the stars were falling, only to realize that he was seeing snowflakes.

A dull pain throbbed in his stomach, his heart ran with the rhythm of charging cavalry, and his lips were devastatingly chapped. A frigid breeze told him he was naked—less his boots, his crown, his armor, and his favorite red cape. He shuddered.

“Mr. Sombra? Uh… Sir?” came a baritone voice from the other side of the tree.

King Sombra peered around the tree like a child playing a hiding game. The first thing he saw was the magic circle in the grass. It was made from white paint, like the lines on a hoofball field. Five half-melted candles stood at every prong of the star. They reeked of apples.

Sighing, Sombra lowered his forehead to the tree. He had not dodged that blast of friendship magic after all, had he? Quite the opposite—it had destroyed him. Again. And now he’d been resurrected, again, and who knows how long it had been since he was last alive? Well, whoever revived him might have an idea. He puffed out his chest, raised his chin, and strutted around the corner.

“My disciple,” King Sombra announced. A guess. Most of the ponies who revived him liked to be called that. “You have done well to…”

He stopped.

The pony in front of him looked nothing like one of his disciples. This pony was large, brown, big, enormous, sturdy-looking—Sweet Crystals, this guy was gigantic. The only thing more comical than this stallion’s great size was the tiny hat sitting between his ears, resting so gently in his black mane that the slightest breeze ought to have knocked it over. It had a little hole in it.

“Oh, it weren’t nothing,” the gigantic pony said. “Just followin’ a recipe, simple as that.”

“Excuse me.” Sombra cleared his throat. “Hi. Sorry, I’m looking for the pony who resurrected me?”

“That’d be me. The name’s Clyde, and I live just near here. Pleasure to meet you.”

This pony, Clyde, if he was to be trusted, took a step backward and bowed, still not coming below Sombra’s height. Sombra subconsciously raised his head, trying his best to become the tallest one there. But alas.

“Resurrection is magic,” Sombra blurted. Then he shook his head. “I mean, obviously. And you don’t have a horn.”

“Well, sir. I reckon it takes one to know one.”

Sombra’s face drooped. He tried to cast a spell, but got brainfreeze. He felt around his head for his arcing, blood-red horn, and just found an empty forehead.

Maybe it was in the wrong place? Sombra felt elsewhere on his body. His back, his armpits, his rear end. But he found nothing.

“Mirror,” he said. “I need a mirror.”

“Oh, I don’t keep mirrors ‘round. They break too easy. You look fine, though, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so. A little skeletal, perhaps.”

“My horn,” growled Sombra. “Where did you put it?”

Clyde pouted and dropped his head. Somehow, his hat stayed on. “Oh, right. This here novel I got from Jasper said something about your horn.” Clyde pointed to an open book getting wet in the snowy grass. “I’d’ve included it in the spell if I had it. But I don’t have it.”

“Then how did you resurrect me?”

The pony looked down at the book again. “Like I said, it weren’t nothing more than a recipe. I admit I ain’t never seen a recipe with arts-and-crafts and chanting before, but I’m pretty good at following instructions if I do say so myself.”

Sombra blinked, repeatedly, in disbelief. “No, you—… I mean you can’t resurrect me unless you have my horn.”

“I reckon I just did.”

Sombra frowned. He could only reckon the same.

“It’s just like any recipe, Mr. Sombra, sir. If you ain’t got no blueberries, then you can’t make blueberry pancakes. But you can still make pancakes.”

This pony, this ridiculous creature, bent one foreleg and bowed. He required, no, he demanded a blank stare, so that’s what Sombra gave him.

“No matter,” Sombra said. He searched for the darkness inside him, and found it. He funneled his confusion and discomfort at this botched resurrection into pure dark power. A wave of energy pulsed from him and melted the snow between him and the stallion. He waited for this lost little bumpkin to shriek, to cower, to run away, but he just blinked.

Sombra cleared his throat. “You’ll find my magic is quite strong enough without my horn. Now, pony.”

“Clyde.”

“Er… Now, Clyde.” Sombra began to levitate. “Prepare to die.”

Clyde lowered his head and kicked at a nearby patch of grass. “Aw, shucks,” he said. “Ain’t that just my luck.”

Sombra descended back to the ground. The darkness faded away. “Excuse me?” he said.

“Well, I didn’t think it’d all play out this way, if I’m being honest.”

Sombra couldn’t help but chuckle. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll bite. How did you think this would play out?”

Clyde screwed up his face. He sat back suddenly, shaking the earth. He pawed at his chin, and hemmed and hawed. “I guess I hadn’t considered it too closely. I was hoping we could have some tea together, I suppose. My house is just an hour’s walk from here, and it’s in the forest, so nopony oughta see you. It’s a nice night for a walk, too.”

“Did you say tea?” Sombra chuckled again, his smile growing. “Tea? You resurrect me, supreme heir of the Crystal Empire, the most powerful pony in all of Equestria, and you ask me for tea? Will there be biscuits, too? Pfah.” Sombra stamped a hoof into the ground, demonstrating that he, too, could cause minor tremors. “You consider me commonfolk, Clyde. You underestimate the breadth of my power, and you have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Well, sir, I reckon you’re right.”

Sombra scoffed. Of course he was right.

But Clyde lowered his head and looked up, and if Sombra wasn’t mistaken, it almost looked like the beginning of a mischievous smile was growing on the stallion’s weathered face…

“But I also reckon that you have no idea what I put in my tea.”

***

King Sombra, supreme heir of the Crystal Empire, most powerful pony in all of Equestria, sat back into the couch and exhaled. The tea swirled in his cup and warmed his hooves, in much the same way it swirled in his chest and warmed his entire body.

“What did you say you put in here?” he asked. “Cinnamon?”

“Yes, sir. That and bourbon.”

Clyde was busy next to the fire, pouring his own mug of tea. After pouring Sombra’s cup, he’d spilled the rest of the scalding water onto the wood floor, then dropped his own mug and shattered it. So now he boiled another pot over the fireplace.

Sombra nodded. “Bourbon,” he repeated, and then a giggle escaped him. Memories of home flooded out of nowhere, like groundwater seeping out of the earth. The Crystal Empire, back when he had served it, and before he had ruled it, over a thousand years ago. The warmth inside the castle, not unlike the warmth from this splendid little cocktail.

“So,” he said, to wipe away the memories, “this Jasper fellow you mentioned. You think he’s one of mine?”

“Well, he seemed to be fixing to bring you back to life, based on the books he was withholding from the library. So I reckon so.”

“Pity. He sounds like an asshole.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” Clyde poured his mug again, wide-eyed and focused, and he succeeded this time. He picked up his flask and topped up his drink with bourbon. “Jasper’s a determined stallion, Mr. Sombra. Sometimes the prickly folks are just too determined to be polite, if you ask me. Ain’t their fault.”

Sombra took another sip of his drink, but it ended up as more of a swig. He exhaled and melted further into the couch. He peered out the window. The faded winter had turned blue in the moonlight. The snow fell slow, in big clumps of white, absent any wind. It reminded him of home, where the snow fell in no hurry to reach the ground, because it was falling all the time. The sound of a crackling fire sparked another hidden memory, too, something he hadn’t remembered in a long while. When he was young. Two glasses of wine, a fireplace, and the warmth of another body.

The couch cushion rose suddenly as Clyde sat into the other end. He hunched over his mug and took a coy little sip, smiling down at it.

“Somethin’ on your mind, Mr. Sombra?” he asked.

That ‘Mister’ honorific, Clyde had explained on the way to his home, after Sombra had complained about it, was worth a lot more than ‘King’ in this part of Equestria. So Sombra had let it stand.

“No, nothing. Nice place you have here,” Sombra lied. “I like the… bricks.”

“Oh, I dunno. It ain’t so hot on insulation.”

“You don’t think so?”

Clyde shook his head. “It’s fine right about now, with this here fire goin’. But the temperature’s liable to drop twenty more degrees or so in the new year. I reckon I may have to abandon it. Start fresh.” He shrugged. “My lot in life, I suppose.”

“So you keep saying.”

Sombra surveyed the house. It was, admittedly, a sad little establishment. Brand new, if Clyde was to be believed, and yet it already looked ancient. Just the one square room, with the one square bed, the one square fireplace, and the one square rug on the floor, missing half of its tassels.

Sombra was not the only one giving it the once-over. Clyde looked sadly around his exceedingly humble abode, the rings under his eyes seemingly growing deeper by the second, until he stopped at a spot right above him. Sombra looked up, where a pool of moisture had appeared in the wooden ceiling. A drop of water dangled precariously there.

“Why do you live out here?” Sombra asked.

“Oh.” Clyde raised his shoulders, then slumped them back down. “I was thinking of moving closer to town. Had this nice plot on a hill. But I reckon I’m better suited for the woodspony’s life after all.” He took another sip. “I can deal with a little loneliness.”

Sombra felt something he’d never felt before, in his chest. A jolt of dull electricity that didn’t go away. And he decided he would do anything to make it go away. “Right.” Sombra placed the teacup on the floor—there were no tables—and rose to his hooves. “Come with me. And grab your belongings.”

“Ah… Beggin’ your pardon?”

“Come with me. Outside.”

Sombra blew the front door off its hinges with a wave of magic.

“Now, hold on a minute!”

Ignoring the pleas of his host, Sombra stepped into the snow and swiveled around. “That everything?” he asked, gesturing to the hat on Clyde’s head. Clyde stepped through the snow and looked around, for who knows what.

“I-I suppose, but what are you—?”

Sombra raised a hoof and stabbed it into the earth. Nothing happened, then he twisted it.

Dark mist blossomed from his foreleg, to the sound of a great monster’s breath. The darkness rushed towards the brick house, wrapped around it like a net with no holes, and within moments vanished, leaving nothing but empty land.

“Wha—! What in tarnation?”

“One story or two, Clyde?” Sombra asked. His hoof was still rooted to the ground.

Realization appeared over Clyde’s face, but the shock didn’t disappear.

“You don’t mean—” he started.

“It is your holiday season, is it not?”

Clyde nodded. “Sure is. Hearth’s Warming Eve’s this very night.”

“Well. You’ve given me a gift. I might as well return the favor.”

“No, no, no, Mr. Sombra, I couldn’t accept—”

“Two stories it is.”

Sombra grimaced. He twisted his hoof back the other way, and the darkness exploded with glee.

Crystals burst out of the ground like shelves of ice shattering against each other in the sea. The black crystal spikes glowed an intermittent blue, and they rose, and rose, and rose, rising to meet the snowy sky as though it were being pulled there by the heavens themselves.

Distinguishable floors appeared and were reinforced by pure crystalline light. Walls formed and windows appeared from thin sheets of crystal. Stairs burst out of the ground in front of them, as well as a couple of railings, and a mighty crystal door appeared in a flash of light. It opened slightly, inviting them inside.

Sombra released his hoof from the ground and shook it out. The poor earth pony’s jaw was nearly at the floor. Sombra did him a favor and lifted it back up to closed.

Clyde gulped. “I’ll be, Mr. Sombra. This is…”

“Two stories. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Fully furnished. A kitchen with every appliance you could ever ask for. There’s a fireplace, too, though I made you a crystal kettle, so consider the fireplace as a pleasure-only fixture.”

“Now that there… is a mighty fine house,” Clyde answered. But his head dropped. Sombra noticed that happened a lot. “I hate to rain on your parade, though,” he continued. “But I’ll probably just find a way to ruin it. Just my lot in—”

“Look up there,” interrupted Sombra. He pointed at the spire atop the house. It glowed a darker blue than the rest of the crystals.

“Is that a… a lightning rod?” Clyde guessed.

“In a way. But no, that is a misfortune ward. It will protect you from bad luck.”

Clyde’s eyes widened.

A phoenix flew out of the trees overhead. It made straight for the top of the house. But the spire hummed, and a sudden blast of wind pushed the wild bird up and over. Only slightly perturbed, it continued flying on, over the trees and out of sight.

Sombra raised Clyde’s jaw back up again. But he couldn’t do anything for the water in the poor pony’s eyes.

“Wh… Well, now,” Clyde exhaled. He put his hoof over his hat and shook his head. “Ain’t that something.”

“Like it?”

Clyde’s eyes watered more. He rubbed his eyes and said, all choked up, “I may never leave home.”

Sombra felt a welling up in his eyes, and a warmth in his chest. He cleared his throat, and the feeling was crushed instantly.

Clyde wrapped him up in a hug.

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Sombra,” he whined. “Golly, I don’t even know what to say!”

“You have five seconds to release me,” Sombra wheezed. “Which is five more than I usually give.”

Clyde stepped back and nodded. Sombra dusted himself off.

“Happy Hearth’s Warming, Mr. Sombra. Aw, shoot.” He rubbed his eyes and sniffed. “Can I go see inside?”

“I encourage it.”

Clyde turned around, reared up on his hind legs, kicked his front hooves like mad, and took off through the front door.

Sombra grinned. Did this mean he was growing soft? Hardly. King Sombra had read that book in the grass, The Crystal Contract, before. Many, many times, in fact. And it mentioned, several times, that Sombra had the ability to conjure crystal architecture. An ability that Clyde wouldn’t shut up about during their entire walk through the forest to his home. No, this house was that bumpkin’s scheme all along, the scoundrel. And Sombra could appreciate a well-executed scheme.

Sombra stepped back, turned around. The shadowy forest rustled in the wind, calling Sombra’s name. He cut a rift into the space in front of him and disappeared into darkness. As much as he wanted more of the drink and the company, there was a usurper to overthrow.

Before the rift closed behind him, he heard a loud and final “Yeehaw!”

And King Sombra decided that, just maybe, this one time, he wouldn’t go after Twilight Sparkle and her friends right away.

It was Hearth’s Warming Eve, after all.