The sky was thrown open like a window, wild and wide and dripping with possibility. Also, less romantically, with rain; a fine but persistent drizzle that damped the fur and made clothes cling to the skin if you stayed out too long in it.
The crew grumbled and grimaced at the weather, but a few spitting clouds were not enough to discourage their captain. The deck of the Washout hummed with power beneath her hooves, and she smiled a smile as wide as the sky itself.
The ship was a beauty, worth more than Lightning Dust’s yearly income ten times over. The planks were waxed smooth as a mare’s cheek, the hull midnight-black shot through with neon-green lightning bolts. The balloon that held it aloft sported the same design. Other captains might prefer a neutral sky-blue or grey, something to blend in with the open sky — let them keep their drab vessels. The Washout announced Lightning Dust’s presence to the world, shouted it into the abyss. Anywhere her ship went, ponies would know instantly who captained it, and tremble.
The wind stirred Lightning Dust’s mane, and she sniffed, nostrils flaring wide. Something was out there. Just on the edges of her perception. A change in the air. She could feel it.
There! In the distance. Stormclouds. Lightning Dust’s smile widened, and she span and galloped for the helm.
“Rolling Thunder! You’re relieved of wheel duty!”
The gangly pegasus mare smirked, having seen the same thing her captain had, and willingly surrendered the wheel. Lightning seized it and felt her ship spring to attention at her touch — as ready and willing as the day she was built.
Five long years ago, Lightning Dust had broken the bottle of champagne over the beautiful black bow of her girl. Fifteen years since she had boarded her first lightning-ship as a foal. Thirteen years after she stopped being a cabin-filly and began to climb the ranks. Three humiliating years after Captain Spitfire had ejected her from the Wonderbolt. Three years and one month since —
—Well. She didn’t like to think about the Incident. Even now. Suffice to say that rainbows gave her the shudders, and the Washout did not dock in the ports frequented by the Wonderbolt.
The balloon hissed above her, as though the Washout knew what she was thinking, and Lightning Dust pulled her mind sharply back to the task at hoof. This was no time for reminiscing.
“Skipper! Get the crew moving! Dial the power up to max!”
Short Fuse, as squat and red as Rolling Thunder was svelte and sleek, pulled a face in response and slapped an unfortunate cabin colt square about the head. “You heard the captain! Move!”
Moving as one great beast, the Washout and her crew burst into activity. The balloon quivered as Rolling Thunder shoved the intake dial up to ten, and the fans whirred to life. Short Fuse’s bawled commands spurred the crew on, and the engine crackled with captive energy. Sparks flew and stray lightning bolts danced behind the Washout as she hurtled toward the oncoming storm.
~
“See there, my little Lightning? A storm.”
Her mother’s voice was low in the filly’s ear, and she stared up wide-eyed at the storm-clouds burgeoning overhead.
“You know what you do when you see a lightning bolt, Lightning?”
“Mmhmm!” An enthusiastic nod. “Yeah! You make a wish!”
She felt rather than saw her mother’s gentle smile. “You make a wish.” Her breath was warm and it tickled the filly’s cheek. “What are you going to wish for, Lightning?”
Lightning Dust waited with bated breath, hooves curled over the windowsill, eyes fixed on the storm beyond. Then she saw it — that beautiful, crystalline flash, lighting the world yellow and picking out the black wasplike shapes of the ships already circling to gather the lightning’s energy.
“I wish that I can be a skyship captain when I grow up!” The words tumbled out in one breathless rush, completed just before the thunder’s rumble answered the lightning.
Her mother pressed a kiss onto the top of her spiky mane. “Maybe you will be, little one. Maybe you will.”
~
Thunder crashed on every side, and Lightning Dust snapped her rain-goggles more securely into place. Water flowed down the glass panes like two tiny waterfalls, and she shook her head impatiently to clear them.
The clouds swarmed like stampeding buffalo, swelling larger and larger on every side, buffeting the Washout from every angle, the wind strong enough to fight even her state-of-the-art lightning engine.
Lightning Dust stared up at the clouds beyond the balloon’s edge, breath tight in her throat. The clouds were swelling, swelling — any second now.
“It’s coming!” she bawled. “Get the nets wider!”
Short Fuse took up the cry, and the crew scrambled to obey. The nets, a thousand shimmering threads of entwined brass and gold, unfurled to either side of the ship like translucent wings.
Thunder roared again, and then Lightning saw it. Her namesake, flaring white behind that thunderhead. She dragged the wheel down to starboard and the Washout shrieked as she turned to follow.
The ship plunged headfirst into the cloudbank, and as it reared up to confront her Lightning had to control her urge to flinch. More than one lightning hunter had fallen victim to their instincts to resist cloud, and had been knocked clean off their ships by cloud that their magic made solid only for them.
Then the cloud and the storm were all around her, and there was no more time for thought. Lightning flashed on every side. Forty thousand kilowings a second, unimaginable magical potential in every strike, not to mention enough juice to power a ship like hers for a week. Lightning was the lifeblood of the Empire, fuelling the contraptions thought up by the Archmage Twilight. And lightning hunters were the grease that moved the cogs of the world.
It was at moments like this when Lightning truly felt alive.
Thunder boomed and a white-hot fork splintered the sky, shooting down towards the Washout. Lightning saw it coming and heaved her ship to port, just in time to ensure the lightning hit square in the middle of her net. Electricity crackled and sparked along the woven squares of the net back toward the ship and into the waiting canisters. Short Fuse bellowed a command, lost in the roar of the wind, and Lightning saw the crew slamming the canisters shut and throwing new ones into the bays.
The rain was turning to hail, peppering Lightning’s skin with a thousand tiny stings, and the wheel groaned beneath her hooves like the Washout was fighting her.
“Come on, girl,” she muttered. “Stay with me.”
Another flare of light, and though Lightning turned to see if it would strike close by, no bolt reached the Washout. She craned her neck upward, searching for what had stopped it, and in the next flash she saw it. Just below the bulge of her balloon, an unmistakable silhouette; an ovoid with a gentle curve hanging beneath.
Another airship.
“Rolling Thunder!” she cried, gesturing wildly over to starboard.
Her first mate looked up and waved a hoof in recognition. “Set course — straight up!”
This was when a strong crew came into their own. Without her even needing to say it, Rolling Thunder had appraised the situation and understood immediately what needed to be done. If they didn’t want the other ship to poach all the bolts, up there was where they had to be.
The balloon’s fans took the strain, and slowly, tortuously, they climbed upward through the clouds, Lightning fighting the winds every step of the way.
And that was when she first heard the music.
At first, Lightning thought it must be some trick of the wind. But no wind could be so…so deliberate. A high keening, rising and falling with a rhythm all its own, cutting through the roars of the storm as though they weren’t there.
But who could be playing music in the heart of a storm?
The lightning forgotten for a moment, Lightning Dust twisted her ears back and forth, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.
There! It was the ship. Somepony on that ship was playing.
The melody crescendoed with the storm, and finally Lightning was close enough to see. The deck of the ship bustled with activity, crew sprinting in every direction, a captain at the helm, one hoof clamped to his tricorner hat — and there, on the prow of the ship, a single pony alone at the centre of the whirlwind. The eye of the storm.
It was a mare, pale-furred with a long midnight-blue mane whipping behind her. She held a violin close against her face, her hooves moving feverishly over the strings.
Lightning’s lips parted, and her hooves fell slack against the wheel as the music caught her in its web.
The mare was poised on the prow of the ship, the violin raised to her chin, her eyes shut tight as she swayed with the rhythm of those rising, falling notes. Like comets they fell, sparkling with light down through the raindrops onto Lightning Dust's upturned face. Her blue forelock was slicked flat to her skull, and rivulets of water flowed like tears across her creamy fur.
Lightning Dust stood frozen, helpless to do anything but listen. Those notes climbed higher and higher, like a ship trying to break through the cloudbank to the stars above, and as she played, the mare’s face twisted in some silent anguish.
Slowly, slowly, she leant forward, entirely caught up in her playing, and Lightning’s breath caught in her throat — surely she was not going to jump? The winds were too wild for free-flying, especially away from the safety of the ship!
She opened her mouth to call a warning, but it was too late. The creamy yellow stranger tipped forward from the prow. She curved through the air like an eagle in flight, and Lightning Dust watched wide-eyed. The final note of the song trailed behind the mare, and her instrument and bow floated free of her outstretched hooves.
Only then did Lightning Dust realise that the mare, the beautiful mare who played like a soul possessed — she was an earth pony.
She had no wings.
~
“Octavia! Wait up!”
The grey filly’s tail bounced along ahead of her, her laughter drifting back like dandelion seeds on the breeze. In the distance, the storm gave a warning rumble, and the blue-maned filly glanced back over her shoulder, eyes wide. They had to make it home before the storm! There wasn’t much worse for fiddles and cellos than a dousing, and she had no desire to see her precious birthday gift swollen with rainwater.
“Hurry up, slowpoke!” Octavia’s challenge echoed, and the blue-maned filly gritted her teeth and pumped her legs harder.
The violin bouncing along on her back nearly took a tumble, and she hastily corrected her course to compensate.
Thunder growled again, and the filly turned her head just in time to see the next flash of lightning. Her heart swelled with excitement, and she breathed the wish out in a voice as quiet as a whisper; her special secret, something not even Octavia could know.
“I wish I could play as beautifully as she can.”
Her sister’s rapidly receding form sped on again, unencumbered by the massive shape of the cello on her back, and the blue-maned filly redoubled her efforts to catch up.
~
Lightning Dust didn’t pause to think. Not even for a moment. As that tiny, defenceless form tumbled end over end toward the ocean leagues below, Lightning gathered all her strength and launched herself.
Behind her, the Washout shrieked in protest as the wheel span out of control, and shouts of alarm rose from the crew.
Lightning Dust did not look back. Wings pumping fast as a hummingbird, she exploded out from underneath the sheltering balloon and made for the falling mare. The wind hit her like a punch to the face, rolling her over and over and wrenching her wings back on themselves in new and agonising configurations with every attempted flap. Lightning gritted her teeth and battled her way onwards.
But she wasn’t going fast enough. Already the mare was almost into the shuddering grey clouds. If she were a pegasus that would be a boon — she might stop there — but an earth pony would plummet straight through.
Grinding her teeth together so hard that they hurt, Lighting clipped her wings in close to her sides and leant into an eye-watering dive. Her signature yellow contrail sparked out behind her.
The wind screamed, and Lightning goaded it on, forcing the air to part before and shunt her on from the rear, manipulating it with tiny movements of her feathers.
The air felt like it would rip the skin from her face. The hail hit her from every side like bullets — surely that must be drawing blood. No matter. The mare was finally closer — closer — close enough to see her face, those long lashes brushing the cheek — and then with one sudden rush, Lightning reached out and snatched the mare away from the storm. The bow was caught between them, long and stiff and painful, but Lightning paid it no mind. She had her prize.
She flared her wings and the sudden halt with more than double her usual weight was almost enough to shatter her fragile bones. She struggled against the wind, but she was still falling, the Washout still dwindling above her.
With a grunt of pain, she pumped her wings, again and again, trying to haul them both back to safety.
A crash of lightning to their left made Lightning hiss and suck in her breath. She might be resistant, but her unconscious passenger was not.
The Washout was still only a distant speck far above, and the mare’s warm weight was like a stone dragging her down. Lightning’s wings began to falter, and the next buffet of wind nearly knocked her from the sky entirely.
Had she accomplished nothing but dooming them both to a watery grave?
Her wings trembled and her hooves slipped on the mare’s wet fur. An ignominious end for the Washout’s captain. Still, at least she would die a hero. Princesses, let that get back to the Wonderbolt. Let Spitfire stick that in her pipe and smoke it.
And then, finally, just as she was on the verge of giving up, a warm flank bumped against hers. She flinched away and stared over, and Short Fuse was there, taking part of the mare’s weight on himself. And suddenly it was easier, and they began to climb again.
~
The hill above the farm was a beautiful place. It always had been. As foals they had played together on that hill. First silly games, and later, their instruments. Their songs had risen skyward together, entwining and uniting as one.
Now only one song rose, plaintive and alone, and moss crept slowly over the stone that bore the name Octavia.
It was on one of those solitary mornings that they came for her. Airships often passed over the farm; it was a key shipping route to Canterlot and Manehattan beyond. But they never stopped there.
Not until this morning.
The filly hardly noticed them until they were almost at ground level. She did not stop her playing — it would guide the visitors toward the farmhouse, where perhaps they would buy some apples or some carrots and give her parents the bits they so sorely needed.
Perhaps, if they liked her playing, they would even give her a few coins. Folks in town sometimes did, when she played there. And while one student place at the Canterlot Academy of Music and Fine Arts was cheaper than two, it still cost a pretty penny. She had promised Octavia she would get there in her stead. And she would keep her promise. No matter how many years it took her to save up.
The music claimed her, as it so often did, and it wasn’t until a rough voice interrupted her that she looked up.
“‘Ey, kid.”
She blinked up at the two pegasus stallions suddenly looming over her. “Oh. Hello.”
“Captain likes your music, ‘e does,” said the one to her left.
“Thank you!” The filly smiled brightly, and waited for the obligatory coins to be proffered.
A hoof reached out, but instead of showering her with shiny gold bits, it clamped down on her shoulder.
“Reckon you’ll be coming with us.” The stallion said it without inflection, as though it was a simple fact.
Fear washed over the filly for the first time.
“You can’t,” she said, ears flattening. “My parents will—”
“—Never guess which unmarked ship it was that took you,” he sneered. “Now come on, little girl. Let’s get you moving.”
“N-no,” the filly said, looking over her shoulder at her sister’s grave. “No.”
But they were already moving, and helpless, she was dragged along between them.
~
The mare's blue eyes fluttered open. "Wha...?"
"I — uh — you fell, Miss," Lighting Dust stuttered, suddenly losing all grasp of her coherency at the sight of those glittering eyes.
Understanding dawned on the stranger's face. "You caught me?"
Lightning Dust's chest swelled with no little pride. "I did."
Disgust twisted the face of the mare and she planted a hoof on Lightning Dust's chest to shove her away. "You shouldn't have bothered."
"I — what?"
"I was ready," she hissed.
"Ready for what?"
"For — for—" the mare fished for the words. "For escape."
Lightning Dust shot an incredulous glance at the ship above. "You were a prisoner?"
The mare didn't reply, but her lowered eyes were all the answer Lightning Dust needed. She knew what it was to be imprisoned, fenced in by the demands of those around her.
Shouts from above. The other ship, coming back around.
The spell was broken. Lowering the strange mare to the deck, Lightning Dust hurled commands at her shellshocked crew. "Don't just stand there, you morons! Move! Get us out of here!”
~
Lightning paused by the door to the stranger’s cabin; as it often did, it stood ajar. She sat in the centre of the floor, regarding the broken halves of her bow with an expression as blank as the moon.
After a moment’s hesitation, Lightning broke the silence. “You play so beautifully,” she said softly. “Better than anyone I’ve ever heard.”
The mare said nothing.
“I could get you another one, you know,” Lightning offered after a pause, feeling ridiculously vulnerable as she did. “For you to take with you when you go home.”
Only silence answered, and Lightning turned to retreat when that husky voice finally spoke.
“I knew a mare who was a better player than me.”
It was not a reply to her offer of a new violin, but it was something, and Lightning pounced on it at once. “I find that hard to believe. You were amazing.”
That performance in the storm had been more than amazing. It had been chilling. Haunting. The song of a mare ready to take her last leap. But that thought did not seem wise to voice.
“You know that old foal’s tale?” Fiddlesticks asked, still not looking up from her shattered bow. “Make a wish on the lightning.”
“Yes! I used to do that all the time.” Lightning had no clue where this fragmented conversation was going, but she was just glad to be along for the ride.
“I only did it once.”
“What did you wish for?”
“I wished that I could play as beautifully as she could. I promised I'd give anything for it. Anything.”
Lightning attempted a laugh. “It must have worked!”
Fiddlesticks shook her head. “The storm spirits listened, I suppose. I said I’d give anything, so…they took her, and I...now I can play like you heard.”
~
The trading ship wheeled away, decks piled high with treasures and garbage mixed together indiscriminately. Lightning Dust alighted on the Washout’s deck, the bag clutched between her jaws. She trotted towards Fiddlesticks’ cabin, trying to quash the nervous roiling of her stomach.
When she peered into the sackcloth bag, a small smile graced the corners of Fiddlestick’s mouth. “Really?”
“Really.” Lightning Dust fought to keep from beaming. She had never gotten a reaction like this from the stoic mare.
“It’s been twenty years since I last had a new violin.”
Fiddlesticks turned over the instrument with slow, wondering hooves, and at the sight of that buttercream fur against the scratched-up surface of the wood, Lightning was suddenly seized with fear. Fiddlesticks’ old instrument had been a work of art — the shattered bow was beautiful, deep red wood polished to a high sheen. What was this old thing in comparison?
“Well, it’s not new,” she said hastily. “It’s pretty old, but it was all they had.”
Another smile, bigger this time. “It’s new to me."
Relief rushed through her. “You like it then?”
For the first time, the other mare looked up and met her eyes. Her irises were so blue — like the sky on a summer morning. Not a cloud in sight.
“I do.” She lifted it to her chin and struck a pose. “Thank you, Lightning.”
She gave the strings an experimental twang, and then they both clamped their hooves over their ears at the resulting shriek.
“Sorry!” Lightning Dust tried to cover her burning shame with a laugh. “It’s — it’s not a very good one, I guess.”
Fiddlesticks’ laugh was real. “No, it’s perfect! It just needs a bit of tuning.”
She turned her attention back to the task and her eyes once more took on that faraway look that showed she was no longer truly present with Lightning.
Lightning Dust hung back to watch for a few minutes, fighting the surprising sense of loss she felt now that those cerulean eyes were no longer looking into hers. Fiddlesticks did not look up again, and Lightning eventually turned to leave her in peace. She had already taken the first few steps when the other mare’s final words drifted out from the open door, so quiet she almost missed them entirely.
“It just needs a little fixing.”
~
The ship glided through the twilight sky, shades of purple and red mixing together in perfect harmony. Fiddlesticks’ music floated up from the deck like birdsong. A dreamy smile played across Lightning’s face as she listened.
“I’ll miss this,” she said, feeling exceptionally daring.
Fiddlesticks shot a glance at her. “Miss what?”
“Your music. I sort of wish ship’s musician was a permanent post.”
Fiddlesticks smiled, but it was a small smile, and Lightning Dust wished she had not spoken at all. Ship’s musician. Like Fiddlesticks was a music box to be wound up and played at will. Like the captain of that nameless ship had treated her.
What a stupid thing to say.
“It’s alright,” the other mare said softly, as though she could read the thoughts in her head. “Would you like to hear another?”
Mutely, Lightning nodded. She didn’t dare say anything more.
The music rose again to fill the silence, and Lightning slowly relaxed again. It was easy, being with Fiddlesticks. Even when she messed things up and put her hoof in her mouth. Even when Fiddlesticks was in one of her quiet moods. They could just…be.
There was a distant rumble. Lightning looked east just in time to see the flash of the first bolt. Just in time to make a wish.
I wish this moment could last forever.
The song ended, and Fiddlesticks flopped down onto the cushion beside Lightning. “You know there’s a storm over there?” she asked, pointing with her bow.
“I know,” said Lightning.
“Shouldn’t we be rushing off to catch it?”
Lightning turned to her and smiled, expression full of contentment. “Not this one.”
~
“Well, here we are,” Lightning Dust said, watching the pillars and cornices of the city grow larger with each passing second. “Cloudsdale. The port’s huge. There’s ships going to every corner of the empire. Anywhere you want to go.”
Fiddlesticks was silent, hooves caressing the pitted wood of her new-old violin.
“I can get you some ointment,” Lightning suggested, trying to fill the silence. “For cloud-walking to get you to the port. But after that you can go anywhere you want.”
There was no answer, and Lightning slumped a little against the wheel. This, then, was how they would part. Once more separated by stony silence. A wall Lightning Dust had no power to breach. Fiddlesticks would leave, and Lightning would be alone again. Alone with her crew, and her ship — but her beautiful Washout somehow seemed less beautiful than once she did. How could it be beautiful, without the thin threads of Fiddlesticks’ music to weave the magic around them once more?
Like a tumour, Cloudsdale swelled and grew, and Lightning had never wanted to go anywhere less. Forget her full cargo holds, forget the payload of lightning sitting in the Washout’s belly. She wanted to go somewhere — anywhere — else, somewhere that did not have the airships that would carry Fiddlesticks home and part them forever.
She docked in a haze, letting Rolling Thunder deal with the technicalities and the customs officials while she simply steered her ship. Her hooves rested on the wheel but she hardly felt it. All her focus was on the silent mare beside her. The way that indigo mane fell across her eyes. The way her fur looked almost white in the morning sunshine. The way her hooves moved incessantly across the strings, playing a silent melody that Lightning strained to hear.
But finally, it was all done. The meddling customsponies were paid, the bribes offered and received. The cargo was ready on the cloud-wheeled docking carts. The crew were shifting from hoof to hoof, eager to be off on portside adventures of their own.
And still Fiddlesticks sat silent and still.
“Well,” Lightning Dust said at last, forcing the word between her teeth. “I guess this is it, then.”
“Yes,” Fiddlesticks said, finally. “I guess it is.”
Lightning Dust looked at her, but those blue eyes were lidded, fixed firmly on the deck. There was no mercy. “I…I…goodbye, then, Fiddlesticks.”
There was nothing left to be said.
It was over.
She stirred her aching limbs and plodded toward the gangplank. Head slumped, she passed her waiting crew, and if they were shocked by her silence, they didn’t show it. Short Fuse rattled off a string of orders — who would stay with the ship, who would come to the market with the captain, and who would be given the coveted shore leave.
Lightning didn’t look back, but she strained her ears for any sound, and breath that might form the word wait.
There was nothing.
The marketplace was bustling, overflowing with creatures of all nationalities and cultures. Pegasi, changelings, griffins — even unicorns and earth ponies, hooves slathered with cloud-walking ointment. Usually Lightning Dust adored the hubbub, the energy of it, but today she walked through it like a mare wading through treacle. She left a bemused Rolling Thunder to sell their wares alone and sent a cabin-colt skidding off back toward the ship with a jar of ointment for Fiddlesticks.
She watched his little shape recede until it was lost in the crowd. That was it. By the time she got back to the ship, Fiddlesticks would be gone.
When Rolling Thunder put a wing gently around her and started to usher her home, Lightning let herself be led. The Washout stood lonely at its dock, balloon almost sagging in the air. The neon on black paint looked, for the first time, tawdry. Lightning felt tears spring unbidden to her eyes, and her first mate tightened the wing over her shoulders in a comforting way.
But wait — what was that? On the gangplank, fur shockingly white against the midnight-black wood?
How — how could she still be here?
Though she knew there must be a more reasonable explanation, that Fiddlesticks must be about to leave, that she could not have chosen to stay, Lightning’s heart surged with sudden, wild hope. She stumbled away from Rolling Thunder, and then suddenly she was galloping.
Fiddlestick’s eyes met hers, and they were so painfully, wonderfully blue, and Lightning spread her wings and her hooves left the cloud.
Fiddlesticks galloped toward her, as far as the gangplank would allow, and though the rusty-red cabin-colt sprawled on the deck, Lightning could see that Fiddlesticks’ hooves bore no trace of ointment.
She skidded to a halt just short of the gangplank, and stood panting, staring up into Fiddlestick’s face, hunting for meaning there.
“I— I don’t understand.”
“I’ve thought about it,” Fiddlesticks said carefully. “And, if that position as ship’s musician is still open—”
She never finished her sentence. She was tackled to the ground by a full-bodied, desperately tight hug.
The Washout hauled anchor and pulled away from the dock. The captain stood on the foredeck, the ship’s musician at her side.
The sky was thrown open like a window, wild and wide and dripping with possibility. Lightning Dust stood astride behind the wheel of her ship, and violin music climbed into the aether in a high, wordless song of exultation.
