Celestia XVII: Stormy Skies

by brokenimage321

Rating: everyone
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Soarin, Spitfire, Princess Celestia, Alternate Universe, Drama
Length: 8251

Soarin' gets a visit from his sister. Things don't go very well. They don't call her Spitfire for nothing, after all.

Soarin', still recovering from his injuries, is struggling to figure out what to do with himself. After all, what are you supposed to do when you can no longer follow your Cutie Mark?

In the middle of his moping, Soarin' gets an unexpected visit from his sister. Things... don't go well.

They don't call her "Spitfire" for nothing, after all.

Contains spoilers for The Broken Princess. Read that first!
Thanks to Krack-Fic Kai and Matt for prereading.
Art by Coramino on DeviantArt

Published 2020-06-21 13:50:00 UTC
Last updated 2020-06-21 13:50:00 UTC

Stormy Skies

“Okay, Soarin’,” Dr. Chill said, “stretch out that wing for me, nice and slow.”

I obliged, stretching my right wing--my only wing--out wide. I grimaced. The muscles in my chest creaked and groaned.

“That’s it, Soarin’,” he said soothingly. “Nice and slow. Now, show me how much you can raise it without hurting.”

I lifted the wing, feeling the wing muscles in my chest and shoulders move flex and twist. I winced as little sparks of pain ran up and down my breastbone.

“Good, good,” he said. “Just a little more—”

I lifted my wing a little more--and then, it happened.

I gasped. Lightning shot down my wing and through my chest. I clenched my teeth, then dropped my wing limply by my side.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dr. Chill said gently, patting my other shoulder as my breaths came short, hot, and ragged. He looked up at the chart on the wall behind me and nodded. “Fifty degrees!” he said, impressed. “That’s great!”

I shook my head, scattering little droplets of sweat. “Not… what it used to be,” I gasped.

“No,” he agreed, “no, it’s not.”

The two of us were standing in Canterlot General’s Physical Therapy suite. The room itself was painted a soft white, though it was hard to tell with all the anatomical posters and shelves of disembodied plastic limbs that lined the walls. I’d been coming here for six weeks now, ever since my injury healed enough for me to walk around on my own. Dr. Chill--a tall, broad earth stallion, with a pair of glasses perched reassuringly on his nose--had been working with me the entire time. Our visits had settled into their own sort of comfortable routine: check how my muscles are doing, work some basic stretching exercises, and measure my range of motion. That last one always ended the same way: with the lightning-flash of pain that meant I’d gone too far.

“But that’s what happens in a really bad wing injury like this,” Dr. Chill said, interrupting my reverie. “It gets worse before it gets better.” He nodded to one of the posters on the wall, and I turned to look. It was one I’d become disturbingly familiar with: a diagram of the muscles in a pegasus’s chest and shoulders.

“There’s lots of muscles that go into flying,” he said gently. “And lots of them are big muscles, like your pectoralis major.” He tapped my chest for emphasis. “With the complete loss of wing function, those muscles are naturally going to atrophy away.”

“Which means I’ll need to get my uniform re-tailored,” I quipped.

Dr. Chill snorted, then shook his head in amusement. “The problem is,” he continued, “you have two pectoralis majors, one on the right and one on the left, and they’re used to working together. But now that you only have one wing, only one of the muscles is getting any sort of use.”

“Only one?” I asked. “Doc, I don’t know if you noticed, but…” My grin faltered. “...but I’m not flying anymore,” I finished, the words still bitter on my tongue.

Dr. Chill shook his head. “No, you’re not,” he confirmed. “But you’re still probably using your good wing for balance, or to pick up or carry things. Little stuff like that adds up, especially with an injury like this. The muscles are still decaying, no way around that, but they’re not going as quickly as the ones on the left. That’s what’s causing all the tenderness,” he said (never pain, always tenderness) as he gestured at the chart again for emphasis. “Your two muscles want to work together, but since they can’t like they used to, there’s going to be some… difficulty.”

I nodded slowly. “And… how long is that going to last?” I asked.

Dr. Chill grimaced. “To be honest?” he said. “Probably for the rest of your life. But it’ll lessen over time, as the muscles fade away. And regular physical therapy will definitely help.”

I nodded again. I’d suspected as much--but still, to hear him say it out loud…

A tiny flash of anger sparked into being in my gut. I tried to ignore it, and forced a smile instead.

“So tell me, Doc,” I said. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to play piano again?”

Dr. Chill laughed--a warm, genuine laugh, despite the fact he’d probably heard that joke a dozen times that day.

“You can tickle the ivories all you want,” he said. “I can even give you a doctor’s note if you need it.”

He smiled at me--but it was a strained sort of smile, one that was leaving something unsaid. The spark grew. .

“But, since you’ve brought up getting back to normal,” he added, a little too casually, “there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” I asked, noncommittally. The heat in my belly was growing too hot to ignore.

Dr. Chill nodded reassuringly as he turned and stepped over to a nearby cabinet. “It’s been two months since your injury,” he said, opening a drawer and fishing around inside, “and standard medical leave for injuries like yours is three months.” I heard the words--I knew he meant well--but something in his tone grated on my nerves. He walked back to me, holding a green pamphlet in his teeth, which he passed to me. “It’s time to start thinking about the future,” he said.

I looked down at the pamphlet. On the front was a photograph of a unicorn with a broken-off horn, an earth pony with a stiff, artificial forelimb, and a pegasus with a set of wheels strapped to his back legs. All three were smiling in a way that looked almost pained. Above them, in saccharine-sweet lettering, were the words “LIVING AFTER LOSS: MOVING ON WITH WHAT YOU’RE MISSING.”

I gritted my teeth. Not now, not now, I pleaded with the fire inside me, but it leapt higher still.

“I know it seems like the end of the world,” Dr. Chill continued, his soothing voice suddenly grating on my nerves, “but lots of pegasi continue to live long and happy lives after losing a wing. Heck,” he added, smiling, “I had a patient come in last week who had both—”

And then, I didn’t care anymore.

“Did they fly for a living?” I interrupted, crumpling the pamphlet in my hooves.

Dr. Chill blinked.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Did they fly for a living?” I repeated. “No, scratch that--was flying their life?” I leaned forward, not really caring about the anger boiling inside me. “Was anyone else’s first job out of school a stint in the Sky Corps?” I snarled. “Anyone else make their name in the Wonderbolts? Anyone else have no marketable skills aside from flying because they never dreamed they’d ever have to do anything else?” I cocked my head sarcastically. “So tell me, Doctor Chill--have you had any patients who have been doing their best to avoid the question of what to do next, because their reputation, their career--Tartarus, even their cutie mark--depended on them having both their wings?”

Dr. Chill hesitated.

“Well?” I snapped.

Dr. Chill took off his glasses and polished them absently on his shirt. “Not… exactly…” he admitted. “But I have worked with a couple weather ponies who have needed to… shall we say, find alternate work.”

“And what did you have them do?” I asked.

Dr. Chill opened his mouth, then looked away. “Well… there’s been a few ideas…”

And suddenly, someone knocked.

Both of us jumped, then turned and looked at the door. One of the nurses stood there, her head already poked into the room, a sheepish look on her face.

“Actually, Achilles,” she said, “I think we have someone here to talk to him about that.”

Dr. Chill practically sprinted over to her. “H. R. Buzzword’s here already?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, not Buzzie,” she said nervously. “It’s, ah… someone from his last job.”

Dr. Chill blinked. “We don’t allow non-medical professionals back here, though…”

She gulped. “She says she’s family.”

It took a few seconds for me to get what she was saying. When I did, I groaned internally.

“In that case,” Dr. Chill said, “I suppose that’s alright. A little unusual, of course, but I don’t object.” He shot a nervous glance over his shoulder at me. “As long as it’s okay with you…?”

I sighed heavily. It wasn’t like I could really say no. Not to Her, at least.

“That’s fine,” I mumbled.

Without another word, Dr. Chill and the nurse slipped out the door. They left me standing there, all by myself, in the middle of the physical therapy suite, for what seemed like a long, long time. Finally, the door clicked open, and in walked the last pony I wanted to see.

She stood shorter than me. She always had, in fact, which had been one of several points of friction for our entire childhoods. She wore her formal dress blues like she was made for them, complete with a pointed flight cap perched on top of her fiery mane. To my knowledge, she hadn’t been inside a hospital since she’d been carried wet and screaming from the nursery, but she still swaggered through the crowded lab like she owned the place. And yet, she was wearing her reflective, silver sunglasses; when I watched her to see what she was thinking, all I saw was my own face staring back at me. On her lapel hung her two most treasured possessions: a shining golden Wonderbolts insignia, and a pair of golden bars marking her as Captain.

Reflexively, I saluted, despite the painful twinge in my chest and shoulder. She returned the salute, but her face remained impassive behind those sunglasses of hers.

“At ease,” she said, the slightest clip of anxiety in her voice.

I lowered the salute. “Permission to speak freely, Captain,” I said.

She nodded. “Permission granted.”

I gave her a humorless smirk.

“I have to wonder why they let you in here,” I said. “Are you here as my boss—or as my sister?”

And, for the first time I could remember, Spitfire looked properly ashamed.

* * *

Yeah, Spirfire Skies--that Spitfire Skies--is my older sister. You’re not the first to have that reaction. Trust me.

The two of us grew up hearing stories about all the Wonderbolts shows from our dad, probably the biggest fan of the ‘Bolts this side of the dragonlands. We’d had Wonderbolts posters on our walls, Wonderbolts sheets on our beds, and ate Wonderbolts-brand frozen meals off Wonderbolts plates with Wonderbolts silverware. With that sort of upbringing, it would have been weird if we didn’t try to get into the ‘Bolts ourselves. But we took different paths to get there. Very different.

Spitfire had known what she wanted to do ever since she got her cutie mark at age six--shockingly young, even for a filly as driven as she. She wanted to be a Wonderbolt. And not only that, she wanted to be Captain of the Wonderbolts. Ever since she could fly, she spent every free second she had in the air, building her stamina, honing her technique, and practicing every stunt she’d ever heard of until she could do it in her sleep. The second she turned eighteen, she applied for the EUP Guard--still technically the parent organization of the ‘Bolts--and climbed every ladder she could find until she scored a spot. She’d made few friends and many enemies on her frantic scramble to the top, but what did that matter to her? She had finally achieved her dream. And, frankly, she deserved it.

Me, on the other hoof…

I was two years younger than her, but I had all the natural talent in the family. She practiced for months to take first prize in the Best Young Flyer competition--but the next year, I took third almost without trying. She nearly twisted her neck trying to learn a complicated triple loop, only to find I had been doing something similar for fun on my way home from school. In short: she clawed her way up every mountain she could find, only to discover me already waiting for her at the top.

Or, that’s the way it was, up until I graduated high school. I didn’t really know what I wanted to do next, so I did what any directionless pegasus my age did: I signed up for the Sky Corps. Still military, but a different branch. See, the EUP was a mixed-tribe outfit, and tended to plan around how to use each pony to the best of their strengths. The Sky Corps, however, admitted exclusively pegasi, and focused on speed and maneuverability above all. Pretty cushy gig, truth be told--and I would have been more than happy to stay there for the rest of my career.

But destiny had other ideas.

After about a year, my sergeant sent a note to the Wonderbolts recruiter, letting him know about the apparent prodigy he had in his ranks. The recruiter stopped by and saw what I could do, and was impressed enough to invite me to audition to join the ‘Bolts.

Or, that’s what I thought his note said.

I glided over to the ‘Bolt’s compound, still composing the routine I wanted to use to impress them the most, only to find that my name was already on one of the lockers. Based solely on the word of my Sergeant and the glowing report from the recruiter, they gave me a spot outright. No audition, no time in the reserves, nothing like that. Come to the head of the class, do not pass Go, yadda yadda. Guess that’s what I get for being an exemplary Airpony.

By this point, you shouldn’t be surprised to hear that Spitfire was pissed. She had fought and bled to be a Wonderbolt, but they gave me a spot before I even knew what was going on. She wasn’t Captain yet, and wouldn’t be for a while, but she still raised quite the stink with her superiors. When they said that their decision was final, she very nearly quit right there--but finally, she chose to recuse herself from the proceedings. I became a Wonderbolt alright. But only after my sister had done everything in her power to keep me from getting it. Sure made Hearth’s Warming that year awkward, let me tell you.

And that’s about where things stand. I’m advancing--slowly--through the Wonderbolts ranks, due in no small part, I’m sure, to my sister’s desire to avoid even the slightest allegations of nepotism. And the officers don’t generally mingle with the rank and file, so the fact that my sister happens to be Captain has never really come up--especially since she’s done little except give me the cold shoulder ever since I joined.

Weirdly enough, though, I’m happy to be where I am. Being a Wonderbolt is fun, and, though the pay sucks, it’s nice not to have to worry about room and board. Plus, I never would have met Cece if it weren’t for the ‘Bolts, so there’s that. Sure, not having to answer to Spitfire’s ego would be nice, but overall, it’s not bad.

Or, it wasn’t, at least until two months ago. When I tangled with Discord. When I earned my injury.

After all, what use does the most elite flying outfit in all of Equestria have for a one-winged pony?

* * *

Spitfire took a swig from her coffee mug, then made a sour face.

“This coffee sucks,” she said.

“All hospital coffee sucks,” I said. “I think it’s the law.”

We were sitting across from each other in the hospital cafeteria. Most of the other patrons were quiet couples who stared glumly down at their plates, or parents trying to quiet crying foals with offers of treats, or harried nurses stealing a few bites of a sandwich in between shifts. Charming atmosphere, really. Great place for a family reunion.

Spitfire had hung her jacket on the back of her chair, and set her sunglasses beside her, next to her folded-up cap. She sat across from me in her starched, collared shirt--and yet, even though she was two feet away, her gaze had drifted across everything in the room except for me.

“So,” I said awkwardly, “How’s everyone at the base?”

“Fine, fine,” she said, still looking down at her own coffee. After a split second, her eyes widened. “Actually—” she said, turning around and digging in her jacket. Eventually, she fished out a cream-colored envelope, with my name written on the front. I frowned and tore it open, and found a get-well card tucked inside. Everyone from the team had signed it--even Surprise, who took credit for the red “X” drawn over one wing of the cartoon pegasus on the front.

I’d gotten lots of get-well cards before. This wasn’t even the first from the team. But still, as I read the signatures, I found myself sniffling before I was done.

Damn, I missed those guys. Eight weeks away from the base, sleeping in a bed that didn’t squeak whenever I rolled over, getting up whenever I wanted, eating whenever I pleased, that was all well and good--but the place was still home. Being away this long, it felt like part of me was missing. And that part had nothing to do with the stump on my left shoulder.

I looked up to see Spitfire looking at me--but as soon as I saw her, she looked away. After a moment, she sighed.

“They miss you,” she said simply.

Her voice was quiet, and yet, it riled something inside me. They miss me? I almost asked her. Do you?

No way in Equestria I was going to actually ask her, though. That’s one of the things you learn in the military: don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answer to.

I took another sip from my mug, trying to swallow my anger along with the coffee.

We stayed quiet for another moment. This time, it was my turn to break the silence.

“Any news?” I asked. At the sound of my voice, Spitfire jerked her head up. “From the ‘Bolts, I mean?”

She shrugged. “Mostly the same,” she said. “Biggest thing on the calendar are tryouts—”

Her eyes widened, and she shot a guilty glance up at my wing-stump. I tried not to scowl at her. But I didn’t try very hard. They had to find someone to replace me, of course. But at least she could have the good grace not to flaunt it.

She quickly looked back down. “Yeah,” she said lamely. “Nothing big happening.”

I looked back down at my coffee again, then pushed it away. I’d swallowed my anger, alright--but it had joined forces with the tight, sour feeling in my stomach.

“Why are you here? Really?” I asked.

“Huh?” Spitfire said, looking up at me stupidly.

“Why are you here?” I repeated. “We haven’t exactly been buddies since at least grade school, and we both know that you couldn’t wait to boot me off the ‘Bolts.” I gestured angrily. “By the gates of Tartarus, you barely stuck around for five minutes when you and Mom and Dad came to see me in the hospital.” I stood up, pushing my chair back and knocking over what remained of my coffee. “So what are you doing here?” I snarled. “Because I’m pretty sure it’s not to deliver a get-well card.”

The Spitfire I knew would have already been on her hooves. She would have pressed her snout right into mine, flames in her eyes, and screaming back at me twice as fiercely. She would have matched fury with fire, and it was even odds whether I would still be standing after. That was how she’d been for our entire childhoods.

But the Spitfire in front of me stayed seated. She looked away and mumbled something.

“Huh?” I demanded.

She looked up at me, and, for the first time in--well, years, probably--I looked deep into her eyes. No sunglasses, no sidelong glances, just the two of us, pony to pony.

And, as I looked at her, the fires inside me died. In those eyes, I saw pain, and sadness, and regret, and mourning. But most of all, I saw fear. But she wasn’t afraid of me--whatever had her scared, it was something bigger, something deeper, than her little brother throwing a tantrum.

“Huh,” was all I could manage. I sat back down, hard.

Spitfire swallowed, then glanced around. I noticed, for the first time, that most of the other ponies in the cafeteria were watching us with wide, frightened eyes. One or two of the little foals looked away and started whispering to each other in urgent undertones, and one of the nurses stepped out of the room with purpose in her stride. Probably going to find security.

Spitfire grabbed her sunglasses and slipped them hurriedly back on. “Let’s do this somewhere else,” she said. “Someplace with fewer eavesdroppers.”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I replied.

That was, to the best of my memory, the first thing we’d agreed on in years.

* * *

“It’s not much,” I said, as I fished for my key, “but it’s home.”

Spitfire raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

The two of us had walked back to my apartment. Well, “Apartment.” It felt pretentious calling it a suite.

It was one of the greatest joys of my life to watch Spitfire’s eyes grow wider and wider as we made our way downtown, past six increasingly-fancy hotels, and straight up to the gates of the Canterlot Palace. The guards hadn’t even blinked as I walked inside, through a door marked “Private,” and into the Residence Tower.

Of course, my rooms were on the bottom floor, and thus, didn’t have the beautiful views that the Palace was known for. No big deal though. This way, I didn’t have to climb many stairs.

The room was one of the very few upsides of my particular situation. After all, sustaining a career-ending injury while saving the life of your Princess has to be worth something, especially when that Princess happens to be your…

(Girlfriend? Fiancee? What exactly were we? I still hadn’t quite figured out what we were, even a month after we’d started courting… and, from talking to Celestia, I didn’t think she was sure either...)

...anyways. When your Significant Other is a Princess who has several dozen spare rooms at her disposal and happens to literally owe you her life, a couch to sleep on while you get back on your hooves is the least you can ask. Though I’d gotten considerably more than just a couch out of the deal...

I opened the door to my apartment, then stood aside to give Spitfire an unobstructed view of my new digs. She was enough of a military mare to not let out a gasp, but I still thought I heard a sharp hiss as she sucked in a breath.

The walls were painted a flawless white, and the carpet sparkled in the sun. The tall, narrow windows stood open, letting the scents of summer, and fresh-cut grass, and the rose garden below waft through the room. The bedstead was sleek and modern, as was the vase with its single lily that stood on the nightstand, but the nightstand itself, as well as the desk against the far wall, were, as far as I could tell, three-hundred-year-old antiques. And the painting that hung on the wall was either the most juvenile attempt at putting paint to canvas I’d ever seen, or an original late-period Paintcasso.

(I went back and forth on that one, honestly. I didn’t exactly pay much attention during my art history lesson in school)

The room was beautiful. Even the nicest place I’d ever stayed. Ever even seen. And yet… something about it felt sterile. Dried-up. The décor was worth more than every bit I’d ever earned, but it still felt like everything had been picked out by a committee. Some days, it almost seemed like I was living in a hotel room again--the sort of place where you were afraid of leaning back in the chair too far, lest you leave a permanent mark in a place you’re just passing through.

“Mi casa es su casa,” I muttered, gesturing inside.

Spitfire stepped cautiously across the threshold, her eyes wide and staring. She walked to the desk, inspected it for a moment, then reached out and gently stroked the chair.

“Go ahead and sit down,” I said. “It won’t bite.”

Spitfire took off her cap and glasses, gently laid them on the desk, then turned the chair around and sat. Usually, when she sat, she lounged, with a surly, what are you going to do about it? glare--but her posture now was prim, proper, almost deferential.

Meanwhile, I flopped back on the bed, then lay, spread-eagled, on my back. I reached out for the foil-wrapped piece of chocolate that I knew would be waiting for me on the pillow, then held it up.

“Want it?” I asked. “It’s store-bought, nothing special, but still…”

Spitfire shook her head. I unwrapped it without looking, then shoved it in my mouth and chewed listlessly.

I heard Spitfire shift uneasily.

“Nice place,” she said.

I shrugged. “It’s definitely an upgrade from the barracks,” I said.

“The chocolate’s a nice touch, at least.”

“Mh-hm,” I said noncommittally.

I closed my eyes and listened. A gentle breeze blew in through the windows, rustling the curtains and bringing with it notes of birdsong. Far away, music was playing--perhaps Celestia on her trumpet again, or maybe one of the maids cleaning rooms with a portable record player on her cart. Somewhere, raised voices: a joyful greeting? An argument? Impossible to say.

But not a sound from Spitfire.

In the room, the silence grew heavy. It started to groan under its own weight, ready to burst like a dam. Whatever she wanted, she wasn’t saying--and I didn’t have anything to say to her that hadn’t already been said.

After several minutes--after the silence had grown so thick it was almost suffocating--I opened one eye. Spitfire was still sitting in her chair--no, sitting wasn’t the right word. She was perched, like she was afraid to put her whole weight on the thing. She held her sunglasses in her hooves and was idly flicking the earpieces open and closed.

“You never answered my question,” I said.

She jumped and fumbled her glasses, which clattered to the floor. “Huh?” she asked.

I opened my other eye and sat up. “You didn’t answer my question,” I repeated. “What’s so important that you came all the way out here, in your dress uniform, to tell me in person?” I frowned. “For that matter, what was so important that you had to barge into the hospital to talk to me about it?”

She looked down, then mumbled something incoherent.

“Huh?” I said, looking up.

“It shoulda been me,” she snapped. She whipped her gaze up at me, and I saw, for the first time, that her eyes were brimming with angry tears.

I sat up a little. “Spitfire,” I said, “what are you talking about?”

As she looked at me, her gaze hardened.

“It should have been me,” she spat. “I’m Captain of the Wonderbolts. I was the one who was supposed to protect the Princess. It was me who was supposed to tangle with that--that thing that attacked the Palace. And—” her voice broke, but she cleared her throat and began again “--and it should be me missing the win--”

“Nuh-uh,” I interrupted, as I fought to keep my anger down. “When Discord showed up, Princess Celestia ordered us to report to Shining Armor for duty. And he told us to help with the evacuation… I wouldn’t have spotted Celestia coming back to the Palace at all, if I wasn’t already disobeying orders to go look for her…”

She shook her head. “Uh-huh,” she insisted. “Wonderbolts are still part of the EUP Guard--it’s our job to protect the Princesses, first and foremost. And as Captain, I should have been leading the charge. First in, last out.” She punctuated her anger with a violent gesture. “If I had been doing my job,” she added, “maybe I coulda stopped him. Maybe I would be the one resting up here in the fancy digs...”

I blinked.

“You’re… jealous?” I asked. “Seriously?”

A little spark of anger flashed in her eyes, but, instead of speaking, she looked away.

“Because, if you want, I’ll trade you,” I growled, shrugging the shoulder with my wing-stump on it. “I’ll take one of your wings, if it’ll make you happy. Tartarus, I’ll take both—”

“That’s not it,” she snapped.

“Uh-huh. Sure,” I said, sitting up. “You’ve always been jealous of me. Every time I succeed at something, it just pisses you off. And you’re telling me that, suddenly, you’ve developed a conscience?”

She leapt from her chair, snarling.

“You know why it pisses me off?” she hissed. “Because you’re a lazy sack of shit, and you always have been.”

My eyes widened. I rolled off the bed onto my hooves, then took a shaking step towards her.

“You take it back,” I snarled.

“Prove me wrong,” she spat back. “Everything I’ve done in my life, I’ve done on my own. I’ve worked and sweated and bled and slaved for it. But look at you—all the talent in the world, and all you do is wait until something falls into your lap. Your medals? Your trophies? Your place in the ‘Bolts? Tartarus, this apartment? Look me in the eye and tell me you earned those.”

I gritted my teeth.

“Oh yeah?” I growled. “At least I know the names of the bodies I climbed over to get where I am. Unlike some ponies I can mention…” I snarled “...Miss Congeniality.”

Spitfire flared her wings, and, with an inarticulate bellow of rage, pounced.

She slammed into me, but I was ready. I caught her, and let her weight carry the both of us to the floor. We rolled until we crashed into something. Something delicate smashed to the floor, shattering into a million pieces. But we didn’t care.

This was no wrestle. No battle of wits. No fight. It was a brawl, plain and simple--the two of us biting and clawing and kicking at anything we could reach. This was twenty years of jealousy and rage, distilled with the heat of resentment and hatred, finally finding release.

We fought like tomcats for--I don’t know how long, actually. Long enough that I’m a little surprised none of the guards came rushing in to break us up. But it ended just as abruptly as it had begun.

I don’t blame her for what happened next. Both of us were career soldiers. We’d both been trained to hurt other creatures. Kill them, if need be. But I was an airpony, and she an EUP. I was trained to take down griffons and dragons on the wing. Spitfire, on the other hand, spent most of her training learning how to fight other ponies. Her training had drilled into her, among other things, a particular series of reflexes on how to handle a pegasus about to take flight. And, in our insane, mindless scramble for dominance, a couple of her neurons sparked together and flipped the switch on those reflexes. Perhaps she saw an opportunity and took it; perhaps it was simple instinct. In either case: she tried to immobilize me by lunging forward and biting down on my wing-joint.

Only problem: she lunged for the wrong wing. The left one. The one I didn’t have anymore. All I had left was a ragged wing-stump, torn by Discord’s fangs, stitched together by a field-medic, and barely healed. And yet, Spitfire’s instincts urged her to bite down onto something.

So she clamped down on my stump, with all the strength she had in her body.

Blinding, white-hot pain arced through my body. I let out a shrieking howl of agony, then let go of her and dropped to the floor. I lay, shaking, as a pool of warm liquid began to soak into the carpet below me. Tears? Blood? I couldn’t tell.

“Oh--oh Harmony, Soarin’, I’m so sorry--”

Two arms picked me up and hauled me to my hooves.

“That’s it--to the bed, now—”

I took one or two halting steps before something warm and soft pressed itself up underneath me. My breaths were still coming sharp and ragged.

“It’s okay, Soarin’... it’ll be okay…”

I sensed somepony moving about my room, but only just. Everything else was dimmed by the haze of pain. But soon, an icepack, a clean cloth, a glass of water, and a pair of extra-strength aspirin appeared for me, like magic. I swallowed the pills, and the ice settled itself on my bad wing. And, after several minutes, the blinding pain began to subside.

Slowly, the haze faded. And slowly, the room stopped trembling at the corners. And I found myself, with a fresh bandage and an icepack on my wing-stump. Spitfire was sitting on the bed beside me, one mug of coffee in her hooves, the other on the floor beside her.

I blinked groggily up at her. She must have heard me move, because she took a sip from her coffee.

“I popped one of your stitches,” she said miserably. She took another sip. “Nurse said it’ll be fine--it was almost entirely healed, anyways--but its gonna hurt like Tartarus for a few days.”

I glanced back at my stump. A bag of ice was pressing it down, but I could still see the fresh gauze it had been wrapped in. I turned back to look at Spitfire sitting beside me--but she quickly looked away.

“Thanks?” I said. “For the fix-up, I mean…”

Her only response was another little disappointed sigh.

I watched her for a minute, then reached down and picked up the coffee mug on the floor. I absent-mindedly took a sip--then raised an eyebrow. The coffee was almost black, but with one sugar to take the edge off. Just the way I liked it. I didn’t know she’d paid that close attention…

Spitfire shot me a sidelong glance, then looked away again.

“Listen,” she said, “I didn’t come just to talk.”

“I figured,” I said.

“I came to offer you a job with the ‘Bolts,” she continued.

I almost dropped my mug, then stared up at her in amazement.

“Uh… Spitfire?” I said. “You, uh… you know I can’t fly, right?”

“I know,” she said, still looking away. “But there’s something you can do. It’s an old position, one we haven’t had in a while. But it’ll fit. And it’s a promotion.’

I blinked. “A promotion? Spitfire—why?”

She hesitated. “Good PR,” she began. “It’s not a good look for us to can the hero that saved Equestria, injury notwithstanding.”

“But… that’s not the only reason,” I said carefully.

She shifted uneasily. “You’re a good flier, too,” she said. “Even if you do struggle with…” she swallowed “...application. It’d be a shame to waste that talent.”

“Spitty—”

At the sound of her old nickname, she glanced back at me, then looked away again. After a moment, she sighed.

“I should have been there,” she said, quietly, almost to herself. “I should have been the one to swoop in and save them…”

One of my ears flicked in irritation.

“Yeah, you said that,” I said, irritated. “Not-so-secret raging jealousy, remember?”

“It’s… more than that,” she said, even quieter. “I should have been there… because, then you wouldn’t have.”

I frowned. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” she said, turning to stare at me, “that I’m supposed to be there for you, as a Captain, and—”

Her voice suddenly caught, and it took her a couple of nervous swallows to get it back again.

“...and as a sister,” she finished.

I blinked.

“Huh?” was all I could manage.

She groaned. “See,” she said, “I knew you would say something like that, and…”

“No, no,” I interrupted. “I just… you don’t…”

“I’ve never really been much of a big sister for you?” she finished for me. “Yeah, I suppose I haven’t done great with the whole ‘Filial Obligation’ thing. And I do owe you something for that, if nothing else. But…”

“But what?” I asked.

She sighed heavily, then slowly turned to look at me. “Would you believe me,” she said, “if I told you I miss having you around?”

I stared at her for several seconds, waiting for her to laugh. She didn’t. Finally, I cleared my throat.

“No,” I said, “No, I don’t think I would.” I hesitated. “Unless you enjoy having me be better than you at basically everything?”

She shot me an irritated look. I tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in my throat.

“I’m better and you know it,” she snapped. “I’m Captain, after all, and—” She stopped, mid-sentence, then shut her mouth and swallowed once or twice. When she began again, her voice was softer, gentler.

“Half the reason I am where I am,” she said slowly, “is because you’re right there behind me. I’ve spent so long trying to get ahead of you that I’ve almost forgotten how to run on my own. Without you around…” she shrugged. “Well. I’m already the best, aren’t I? No need to practice. No need to get better. It’s… suddenly okay to just sit back and relax.”

I blinked. “But… you’re Spitfire,” I said stupidly. “You’re the most ornery, bullheaded, stubborn Captain they’ve ever had. Nothing stops you--not storms, not dragons, not nothing. And you’re saying…?”

“I’m saying,” she repeated, a sad little smile on her face, “that it doesn’t mean much without my little bro standing right behind me, pushing me to do my best.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I was this close to telling her how wrong she was… and then, I remembered what it had been like after I’d joined the Sky Corps… when, for the first time, I thought I’d managed to get out from under her hoof…

I licked my lips.

“When I was in the Patrol…” I began slowly. “When I was just another Airpony… It was… well, it was boring.”

Spitfire snorted. “Running drills to take down a dragon in flight?” she said, a wry grin on her face. “That’s what you call boring?”

I shook my head, and she fell silent. “That sort of stuff was cool,” I admitted. “And all the basic stuff--marching, uniforms, all that--kept me busy. But…” I gestured vaguely.

“There wasn’t any spark to it,” she suggested.

“No reason to keep going,” I agreed. “I’d already arrived. Oh, sure, memorizing takedowns until I could do them in my sleep was hard work--but I’d already mastered more complex stunts for fun back home. Back when—” I swallowed uneasily. “Back when I had a sister to impress.”

We sat there for a while, in a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

“So,” Spitfire said, finally.

“So,” I repeated.

“We need to keep each other around, then.”

“We do.”

“You push me to keep one step ahead—”

“--And chasing after you gives me something to live for.”

She smirked. “Is that what it means to be codependent?”

I returned the smirk. “If so,” I said, “I hear Cece’s therapist is pretty good.”

She waved dismissively. “I don’t think we’re that bad off, yet.”

“Yeah,” I said with a smile.

Spitfire took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“So,” she said. “What do you say about that job? And, before you say it,” she added, glancing significantly at my missing wing, “we’ll figure things out. You already have the most important qualifications, anyways. Of course,” she added, “I’ll still be there for you to strive after. And you—” she hesitated, then swallowed, hard. When she spoke again, her voice was suddenly dry. “Well. You’ll be there to remind me what it means to be a true Wonderbolt.”

I looked away. “Aw, c’mon,” I said, my voice suddenly thick, “that’s not fair.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “But it’s true.”

I forced down a sniffle, then smiled.

“Deal,” I said. “As long as I get my own room.”

“Deal,” she said, holding out her hoof.

I sat up in bed, and the two of us shook our hooves. I smiled at her, then looked around the room and sighed.

“You know,” I said wistfully, “It’s gonna be good to get back to the Wonderbolts’ base… but I’m gonna miss these digs.”

“Why?” she asked with a smirk. “Because of the free room service? Or the bedsheets as smooth as a foal’s flank?” Her smirk grew wider. “Or because your marefriend’s just upstairs?”

“Hey,” I said defensively. “She’s not my marefriend.”

“ ‘Course she is,” she replied dismissively. “Nothing wrong with that.”

I stuck out my tongue. “You’re just jealous.”

“We both know I don’t swing that way,” she retorted.

I gestured around. “Not even if this was included in the deal?”

She snorted. “If this came with it, I’d swing whatever way she wanted.”

We laughed. Both of us. It wasn’t even all that funny, and yet, we laughed.

And, for just a moment, it felt like we were family.

* * *

Spitfire walked just ahead of me, her hooves dragging slightly against the linoleum. She pushed open the door to the darkened conference room and reached for the light switch

“Soarin’,” she moaned over her shoulder at me, “this had better be an important meeting… I’m so tired, I’m just about to—”

“SURPRISE!!”

Spitfire gave a singularly undignified shriek, and very nearly leapt into my arms. The lights snapped on in the conference room, revealing a dozen or so dressed-down Wonderbolts, a few friends and family wearing visitor badges, and an enormous sheet cake frosted with the words Happy 27th Birthday, Spitfire!

The assembled ponies broke into a rendition of “Happy Birthday,” earnestly if a little off-key. Spitfire turned and shot me a look that was equal parts misty- and stink-eyed, then started working her way around the perimeter, giving each pony a hug. I just smirked--even though it felt like my heart was about to burst in my chest.

I’d been back at the base for about three months now, making six months since I lost my wing. Spitfire, as promised, had found me a job, one that had been allowed to lapse several years ago: that of Executive Officer. The EUP had no established protocol for what an XO was supposed to do, which meant it was up to us what my job description would be. We’d spent the month before I came back working it out, based on the current needs of the unit and on the contents of an old rulebook we found. We agreed that I wouldn’t have to lead any flying drills, as long as I took over her scheduling. And I could help choreograph some of the stunt routines for the rest of the ‘Bolts, as long as I also took care of the monthly supply orders. And it took me three or four days to notice that Spitfire had slipped something into the paperwork that I, myself, hadn’t the guts to hope for: a single line stating that, in absence of the Captain, the XO was to be the commanding officer.

She’d made me her second-in-command.

But the most important part of my duties--at least as far as today went--was scheduling. The XO was more than just a secretary, but I still had to take care of some clerical duties, including Spitfire’s appointments. That made it easy for me to, for example, keep her busy inspecting repairs to the landing strip on the opposite side of the Base, letting me smuggle a bunch of supplies into a certain conference room for the majority of the day. And my supply ordering duties made it easy to hide a few bags of streamers and party hats, not to mention a rather large cake. And finally, my authority as second-in-command allowed me to offer the new recruits a case of beer and a night off, so only Spitty’s best friends among us would be interested in attending any event we might theoretically be throwing. The end result had been a small, intimate, surprise birthday party for a mare that, in my official opinions as her quasi-secretary, had a bad habit of not taking enough time for herself.

As I watched her work her way around the room, I thought I saw a spring in her step, a tenderness in her embraces, that hadn’t been there for entirely too long.

As I glanced around the room at the party-goers, I frowned. I’d hoof-picked who to invite, which I meant I should have recognized everyone present. But there was one--no, two--ponies I’d never seen before. And yet, they both looked oddly familiar…

The stallion was the slate-gray of a raincloud, and the mare beside him the minty green of fresh leaves. He wore a collared shirt that did left little of his stocky, muscular physique to the imagination, while she had her mane cut short so it wouldn’t cover her ears or eyes. Both carried plates of treats from the snack table, but neither appeared to be very interested in them. Instead, they swept their gazes across all the ponies present, their pleasant half-smiles not matching the sharp, cold look in their eyes.

It took me a moment to realize who I was looking at--and, when it finally clicked, I blinked in surprise. They were two Royal Guards, dressed in plainclothes. They’d left their armor behind in an attempt to blend in, but I would be willing to bet my wing they knew half a dozen ways to incapacitate every pony present with one arm tied behind their backs.

...and, if Royal Guards were here… then that meant—

My heart leapt into my throat. I scanned the crowd again, more carefully this time. And finally I spotted her, in a back corner, doing her best to blend in: Princess Celestia XVII herself, the most beautiful mare I’d ever seen in my life. She had her mane back in a ponytail, and wore a baggy hoodie with some sort of band on the front, but even her attempts to dress down just made my heart beat all that much harder.

She took a drink from her cup, then spotted me and gave a little wave. She edged her way around the corner of the room, then slipped up beside me and pulled me in for a hug. She was at least a full head taller than me, but that just meant I could rest my head on her shoulder. She smelled wonderful, like fresh sunshine after rain.

“You made it,” I said.

“Yeah, I did,” she replied. “The Ambassador from Griffonstone is gonna be mad, but he’s just gonna have to be okay with an evening of chamber music with Rares and Auntie Luna.”

I smiled. “Was that really a good idea?”

She shrugged. “Probably not. But I’m Princess. I’m not gonna let some stuffy old featherduster make me miss out on a surprise party for my future sister-in-law.”

For just a second, my heart skipped a beat. I took a half-step backwards and looked up at her, and saw an expression of faint panic on her face.

“Sister-in-law?” I breathed.

She swallowed. “Maybe,” she admitted. “I don’t know.”

We stood there in sudden, awkward silence, in the middle of a crowd of cheering and stamping ponies. Every one of my heartbeats echoed loudly in my ears.

And suddenly, Celestia smiled. She leaned down and kissed me on the forehead.

“Let’s figure that out later,” she whispered in my ear. “For now, let’s celebrate.” In the corner of my eye, I thought I caught a small smile flit across her lips. “Do you think Spits and I know each other well enough for me to give her some birthday noogies?”

I snorted. “No way in Tartarus.”

“Ah, well,” she replied. “Maybe next year.”

And with that, she sauntered off towards Spitfire, her two guards subtly drifting after her. I watched Cece say hello and smiled at Spitfire’s brief expression of panic. But, before she could so much as blurt out a “Your Highness,” Cece pulled her in for a hug.

As I watched, Cece put Spitfire down, and the two of them started to talk. Celestia gestured excitedly, almost like she was talking to an old friend--and soon, Spitfire’s shock had given way to a watery smile. Soon, Mom wandered over and joined the conversation; as soon as she realized who Spitfire was talking to, she grabbed Dad by the elbow and dragged him into it as well.

The sight of my awkward galoot of a dad stammering his way through an introduction to his Princess almost made me smile--but, truth be told, I didn’t feel all that much like smiling. I still heard Cece’s words echoing in my ears.

Maybe, she had said. I don’t know.

And, the more I thought about it, the tighter the knot in my gut twisted.

But, at last, I shook my head, and my doubts drifted away. For now, at least. Like Cece herself had said, there’d be time to figure it out later. Plenty of time.

For now, I had a sister to celebrate.