Author's Note
Content Warnings (spoilers for story): implied/referenced body mutilation, implied/referenced drugging, non-consensual (non-sexual) touching, gaslighting
Character Tags (spoilers for story): Mulia Mild, Princess Flurry Heart, Princess Cadence
No Use Crying Over
There’s crying coming from down the hall; I’d felt the sound bounce along my spine long before my ears fully registered it. When this all began, I didn’t comprehend what a ‘mother’s intuition’ entailed, despite what the words written within my dog-eared parenting books said. But oh, how I understand now—these past few weeks have been quite the learning experience. And now, sometimes, I even swear I can tell what my little pudding-pop wants before she even makes a peep. Such a darling babe, that one.
It’s too dark in the living room to see the time on the wall clock, but I’d wager it’s about four in the morning. I used to wake up this early every day, back when I ran the sweet shop in Prance. Even now, this is usually when I get up—some old habits die hard. Carefully, as to not snag its ragged ends, I slip my thin blanket off my form and climb off of the couch. Hard to find cloth this far north, and it gets so cold some nights that I worry about my little cream puff’s comfort. But we’ll manage, somehow.
We always do.
The hallway is almost as dim as the living room, the wavering flame of the wall-lamp providing only a fraction of light to see by. But that’s okay, for I’d be able to find her room even if I was blinded. She’s quite loud when she’s fussy, after all. Dare I say, she could shatter stone with her cries! Silly girl…
The door to her room swings open rather silently, all things considered. This hut was long abandoned when we moved in, and the sales-yak seemed surprised that anyone was interested in it at all, much less a single mother and her child. A rude fellow, he was, had said something about me looking too old to be at a foal-bearing age. Hah! Yaks have always lacked tact, just like ponies and all the rest of their kind. My little angel cake doesn’t need to be around creatures who would taint her mind like that, be they yaks, ponies, or anything between. I’m all she’ll ever need.
Oh dear, she’s thrashing around in her crib, the heavy quilt tangled between her little legs. That won’t do at all, now, will it? Freeing her limbs and casting the quilt aside takes only a matter of moments, and already, she seems to calm. Luckily, the bandages around her midsection are still snow-white despite this latest fit; a relief, for that means the worst of the healing is behind her, now. Gently, I reach a hoof over to smooth her ink-dark bangs away from her forehead.
I feel the corners of my mouth dip. The gauze around her crown is clean as well, surprisingly, but her roots… they’re showing that ghastly color again. Purple, like the color of fresh bruises. Such a violent and unpleasant sight, much like those growths she had suffered from previously. Oh, but that doesn't matter now, all I have to do is add more hair dye to my shopping list. An easy fix.
"My little gumdrop, whatever is the matter?" I coo, caressing the side of her tear-stained face with my hoof. Lovely, she's been putting on weight as well—her cheekbones don't stick out nearly as much as they did last week.
Her watery eyes blink a couple of times as she focuses on my voice. They're blue, of course, just like her Mama's. A few seconds pass before she reaches her shaking forelegs forward, a high-pitched, needy noise escaping from her throat. Ah, I see.
"You're hungry, aren't you, my little bonbon?" She babbles an indecipherable string of sounds at that, and a smile easily returns to my lips. That's a yes, naturally. "You'll just have to wait a little bit for Mama to get you your milk, okay? I'll be right back, dearest."
The floorboards creak as I return to the hallway, and then to the living room. The biggest downside to this place is the lack of a true kitchen. A pity, for I do miss making sweets. Perhaps, sometime in the future, when my little muffin is well enough to travel, we can move somewhere else, where I can bake her all the desserts she desires, and teach her the craft as well. That's my greatest wish—to have my little filly happy and by my side, always.
But first, the milk.
I shovel what little bread and wilted greens I have onto a plate with one hoof while I take a clean baby-bottle into the other. I really do need to go shopping, but the nearest settlements are either Yakyakistan or the Crystal Empire, and I don't care to interact with yaks again so soon. The Crystal Empire, however, is out of the question. Too dangerous. Our home is safe from those who would separate us, at least, so here we will stay.
But, for all the inconveniences this hut offers as a home, it does come with a very important perk. With plate and bottle in hoof, I nudge aside the shaggy rug upon the floor, before unlocking the hatch beneath and entering the cellar below. A shameful secret, this is, but a necessary one.
My little peppermint patty needs to eat somehow, right?
It’s not a large cellar by any stretch of the imagination—five by seven feet at most—but I like to think of it as… homey, I suppose. More pleasant that way. Cobwebs droop in the corners of the space, the light of the ever-burning oil-lamp catching on the translucent, dusty strands. Aside from the lamp, there’s only a cot to furnish this little room.
And, of course, there’s the mare who lays upon that cot.
Her lidded eyes lazily follow me as I place the plate on the floor, but she doesn’t stir otherwise, much less make any sort of move. Her water bowl is still rather full, so I don’t need to refill it for the moment. That’s for the best, really, since fussing with chemical sedatives has never been a very enjoyable endeavor. I’d much rather use something like lemon balm or borage—aromatic, natural ingredients, like the ones I used to use for the baking contests in Equestria—but I can’t argue with the effectiveness of a good barbiturate. Better safe than sorry, I say.
Unlike my little gingersnap, her bandages are soaked through a ruddy red. That makes sense, considering the wretched mare wouldn’t sit still during the operation—I’m a confectioner, for goodness sakes, not a surgeon! The least she could’ve done was make it as painless as possible, for the both of us. Yes, it would’ve been less painful for her, at least, if I left her horn and wings be, but I couldn’t risk her endangering my little moon-pie, now could I? Regardless, I’ll have to change her bandages soon, but for now… Uncapping the bottle, I settle down on the cold, concrete floor at the side of the cot.
And, after smoothing her long, tangled mess of a mane aside, I begin to milk.
I’m looking forward to when my little sweet-tart is old enough to where I don’t have to do this anymore, to where I don’t have to keep this intruder around in our home. But foals need milk, and unfortunately, that’s the one thing I cannot provide to her. But I always find a way. After all, that phrase those ponies are so fond of—as stubborn as a mule—is accurate in that regard.
But ah, the bottle’s full now, so my job here is done. Screwing the top back on, I rise to my hooves. The mare’s violet eyes trail the movement, and her pink throat flexes once, twice, three times. She’s probably thirsty, but her water is right there where it always is, so no need to concern myself with silly things like that. I’m halfway up the staircase when a voice, crackly, drifts into clarity.
“Tell me… she’s alright… please… is Flurry… safe…?”
My eyes—blue, of course, like my little honey-bun’s—meet the mare’s from across the room. Although her head is still lowered against the cot, her eyes have cleared, regaining some focus in this instant. I pause for only a moment before speaking:
“The only ones who live here are me and my little sugar plum. I haven’t the slightest idea who you’re talking about. It’s time to rest now, my dear.”
And with that, I climb the rest of the stairs, before latching the trap-door shut once more.
Oh, it’s nice to think about how things could’ve been different, I muse, as I tread quietly down to my little lollipop’s room. I would’ve loved to have carried my own foal, to be there on the day of her birth, to have held her close while our hearts beat together as one. Some dreams aren’t meant to be a reality, though—I know this well, more than most.
But idle hooves are Cerberus’ work, and I didn’t get to where I am now by crying over spilled milk. And all my efforts have been worth it for this moment, to see my little butterscotch contentedly suckling on her bottle, to hear her softly gurgling once she’s done. It’s been a difficult journey to get here, to ensure no one could rip her away from me, her Mama Mulia.
But it was worth it. Motherhood always is.
