The Broken House

Captain Shining Armor tapped his desk with a stack of papers, scrutinizing the pony on the other side of the desk carefully. On his desk, a clock ticked rhythmically. The echoes of distant voices and hooves on floorboards echoed through the walls and the wind blew through the branches of the trees planted outside the office window. Shining Armor, never taking his eyes off his target, reached up and adjusted the breastplate of his barding, eyes narrowed.

Midnight Lancer lowered his head meekly as the guard captain towered over him. His own, blue-and-white armor chafed against his neck and shoulders as he worked to make himself smaller in front of his boss. His helmet was off, sitting next to him, his electric blue mane frizzy from helmet head. His black fur was matted down from sweat. The Captain was waiting for him to make the first move, wanting him to come forward first rather than the other way around.

Eventually, he worked up the courage to finally ask, "Am, uh, I in trouble, sir...?"

Shining Armor took a deep breath, before answering with an anticlimactic, "No."

"Okay..." Lancer responded, eyes shifting between Shining's glare and the floorboards beneath him.

"Officially, you've been showing up to work on time, you haven't had any outstanding complaints or reports about your behaviour, and your performance reports are all... nominal," Shining Armor intoned, reading out the papers in front of him.

"I'm sorry..." Lancer apologized.

Shining Armor's eyebrows hardened, "You've even been taking extra shifts, Lance-Corporal. According to your timetables, there is not a single other pony in Her Majesty's Royal Guard that has taken on as many hours as you have."

Lancer winced, remaining silent. The fact that his superior was only mentioning good things about him was generally not a good thing in and of itself. He silently dreaded the inevitable 'however' that would eventually become of this conversation.

Shining Armor took his eyes off the report, laying down his burning gaze on the wilting soldier. Taking several pages from the stack with his magic, he laid them all out face-up facing Lancer, "Can you tell me what might be the common theme in all of these, soldier?"

Lancer swallowed, hard, before shuffling his stool up nearer to the desk and craning his neck to look at the papers. It was a printed copy of all of his timetables. All of them were marked with overtime.

Shining Armor didn't wait for Lancer's reply, however, and continued as soon as he had the chance to look at the reports, "I can understand a dedicated soldier taking a lot of overtime. Hunting for a promotion, wanting the extra cash, an excess of free time..." he pursed his lips, "But this has been a pattern for the last two years. You're not doing all this out of an excess of patriotism or a hunt for a promotion are you, Lancer?"

Lancer's ears perked at the mention of his name, but as his mind processed the information his head quickly dipped again.

Shining Armor didn't let up, though, and took another page out of the stack, "I got one more report to show you," he turned it to face him again and once again didn't wait for the other stallion's analysis, "Your direct superior has recommended to you psychiatric leave about eight times. What does this paper tell me you've done with these recommendations?"

Lancer didn't need to look at the paper, avoiding eye contact with the Captain, "Sir... I respectfully would like to point out that I did not think Lieutenant Glider's advice was pertinent, considering it was not affecting my performance-"

Shining Armor's hoof came down onto the desk, making Lancer jump and his sentence cut off, "Damn your performance, colt!" he shouted, "Your superior told you in no uncertain terms to go and see a psychiatrist, and you did not. It's only not insubordination through a technicality of policy!"

Lancer wanted nothing but to retreat inside the cold steel of his armor like a turtle into his shell as Shining Armor picked up the paper and waved it at him.

"This is a report your Lieutenant had to file to ensure she didn't get shit for you having a mental breakdown later on! Damnit, son, when your officer has to file paperwork to prevent you from splashing back on their career, it's not some small deal!" Shining Armor huffed.

Lancer was instinctively wiggling a forehoof underneath his breastplate, trying to hide an entire hoof inside his loose armor.

"It's a miracle you've kept your head on your shoulders for the past two years," Shining scolded, picking up a pen in his magic and tapping it rapidly against his desk, "What happens when you do lose it? Can you answer that for me, Lancer?"

The awkward silence following his question lead Lancer to finally believe he was actually being asked a question. Trying to wet his dry mouth, Lancer still refused to meet his eyes, "I uh... I wouldn't bring my... personal issues... to the grounds, sir..."

Shining Armor's face was hard and straight before, but at his response it settled into a deep frown as his eyebrows lowered, "Don't lie to me, Lancer. As soon as you take off your armor, you're just taking your freakouts and breakdowns home."

Lancer wilted again.

"What I'm asking is: what happens when you can't keep your feelings in a box in your apartment, soldier? What happens when that comes to the field? What happens if you freak out when someone is trying to discipline you, or freak out at a civilian, or even break down silently in a corner away from your comrades? Despite this report," Shining Armor moved his pen over, tapping the butt of it against the top of the page, "That looks bad for the Lieutenant. That looks bad for me. It will bring down the morale of your company..."

Shining Armor sighed, shifting back in his seat. Unintentionally, he had been coming closer and closer to loom over Lancer more and more. With a frown, he narrowed his eyes, "And believe it or not, Lancer, that's bad for you."

Lancer was on the verge of tears, but took a shuddering breath as he ran a hoof through his mane and tried to keep his veneer of an elite soldier intact, "M-My apologies, Captain. I will... take Lieutenant Glider's recommendation..."

"No, Lancer," Shining Armor shook his head, "I can't trust you with work here. Hell, I'm not even sure I can trust you to actually go to a psychiatrist and get anything productive done. If you haven't done it for the last two years, I don't think even a stern talking-to from your commander will change your mind."

Lancer looked up to Shining with a look of horror, but was placated as Shining held up a hoof.

"I'm not firing you. That might get me fired. Instead, I am going to strongly recommend a six-month vacation for you," Shining tapped his pen one more time, causing it to click and the ballpoint on the end to extend. Turning it around, he took a new page and began to write on it, "And every month, I want a letter from your psychiatrist. Doesn't need to be good or bad news, just needs to be news," finishing the paper with his signature, he turned it around towards Lancer, "And for the record, I want to mention that this is not an order. This is simply just a strong recommendation from your commanding officer."

Shining Armor fixed Lancer with a stare, "A commanding officer that is only second Princess Celestia, might I add. Again, not an order, nor a threat. Simply just a reminder."

Lancer looked at the paper, swallowing to try and loosen his throat, which had constricted itself from the adrenaline. It was as if Shining was wrapping a hoof around his throat, not with his physical limb or with his magic, but just with his mind. He nodded nervously.

"Take this paper to the Lieutenant, and your last day before your vacation will be on Friday," Shining Armor said flatly, pushing the page forward again, "It's paid, you won't be on the streets and starving."

Taking the paper, Lancer finally worked up the courage to speak again, "Th-That's not fair. You're paying me for... doing nothing?"

Shining Armor completely ignored the question, taking his pen and letting it fall and rattle down into a cup, "If you're gonna be bored, feel free to pick up an odd job and build up some savings," his face suddenly hardened again, and he once again fixed him with a Look, "Part time. Part time at most, you hear me? If you come back, and I learn you've been slaving away at a full time job just to put off your problems then I am going to COOK you."

Lancer winced, before looking down at the leave form again. The urge to ask what happened if he refused came to him, but he had to admit that he did not have anywhere near the nerve to stand up to Shining Armor, even if he knew he was within his rights to.

Lowering his head, Lancer sighed, "I am sorry that my... behaviour has put the cohesion and morale of my company in jeopardy."

"Celestia on a bike," Shining grunted, "You sound like you're a commissioned in front of a court martial. I know a fair few of your comrades who would die for a six month paid vacation."

"Sorry..." Lancer repeated.

Shining's face fell in annoyance, "Stop apologizing. It's annoying."

"Sorr-"

Shining's hoof slammed the desk again, "Stop!"

Lancer simply whimpered.

He opened a drawer, reaching inside and bringing out a hard, glass bottle, "Before I dismiss you, I want only one more assurance from you, Lance-Corporal," pouring two glasses from the liquid inside, he gave him a look of proposition. Lancer, while not a big drinker, took the cup mostly to appease the irate unicorn. Taking his glass and leaning back, Shining continued, "Tell me what you're gonna do with your time off, Lancer."

"Uh.. I dunno," Lancer mumbled.

"Think of something," Shining suggested, slowly releasing the seriousness in his voice, "You got any hobbies?"

"Uhm, cooking?"

Shining raised an eyebrow, "And?"

"And, uh..." Lancer looked down into his shot, "...Camping?"

"Have you done either of those in the last two years?" Shining asked.

"No..." Lancer admitted.

"Well you won't find many forests in Canterlot," Shining said, taking a sip of his glass before glancing out the window towards the city outside, "And this time of year the slopes are completely crowded with tourists. So, unless you're one to find camping out in the urban jungle fun..."

"I suppose I'll have plenty of time to go somewhere... Rainbow Falls maybe..." Lancer suggested.

"Whitetail Woods is great this time of year," Shining proposed, "Last year, me and my date booked a little bed and breakfast in a town down the tracks called Ponyville. We went to see the Running of the Leaves, but throughout the year you can go camping there. Beautiful countryside, and not crowded at all, not like Rainbow Falls. Place is just chocked with tourists all year round..."

Lancer frowned, Shining's words fading into mutters after the mention of Ponyville. Eventually, Shining stopped his spiel, looking Lancer up and down.

"Lancer?" he asked, snapping the other stallion out of his reverie, "Get out of the apartment and out of the city. That's all I ask, okay?" when Lancer simply wilted again, not meeting his gaze, Shining Armor sighed and shuffled forward in his seat, "Lancer. If I really wanted to fire you, I would. I got enough friends in enough places to make up some stupid charge to get you dismissed. But.. you're my soldier, Lancer. I treat everyone in this corps like a son. I want you to heal. Firing you would get rid of my problem, just not yours."

"Get out of the apartment and out of the city..."

The engine screamed as it made its final approach down the tracks from the foothills of the Canterhorn Mountain. The steam whistle on top blasted twice as the pistons inside the locomotive slowed and the drive trains locked up, bringing the wheels to a halt as they squealed. The squealing only let up a few yards away from the platform, the brakes releasing to allow the Southern Line Express to slowly freewheel its way to the station.

Calling it a station was generous, however. As Lancer peered out the window of his passenger booth, all he saw outside was a wooden platform, a ticket-taking booth, and a corridor leading straight out to the streets of the town beyond. The only other feature by the tracks was a telegraph station and a coal depot much farther down the rail. Above it all, the Mare in the Moon had slowly risen over the horizon, the last vestiges of the sunset wreathing the world below it.

"All off for Ponyville!" the conductor shouted, walking down the center hall of the passenger car.

With a sigh, Midnight Lancer stood from his seat. He had a large rucksack, filled with his guard barding, and a smaller suitcase filled with his sundry items. As soon as the conductor passed by the door of his booth, he got out, silently walking past the sleepy passengers in the other booths. The warm, summer air greeted him as he made his way down the stairs, along with a tiny trickle of other passengers, down to the platform below.

He checked a paper slip he kept with his wallet. 102 Acorn Grove.

Most of the public areas in the town were closed for the night. Only the passing lights of the street lanterns, the glowing orange windows, and the light of the moon provided any guidance to his steps. The sleepy little town was almost completely abandoned at night, but even if there were things open or ponies to say hello to, Lancer wouldn't have engaged with them.

It was a long trek from the station. As much as Lancer wanted to simply fly there, he had too much luggage to make flying any more effective than walking. So, onwards he trudged, for about a full hour. Behind him, the sleepy rural town grew smaller, and all around him the endless fields and orchards of farmlands encompassed his sight. A wheat field rustled in the night breeze, an apple orchard stretched its dark shadows out from the moon, and the occasional racoon scampered across the road in front of him.

Acorn Grove was an off-road of a back-road. Although, even calling it a road was generous. The dirt path, interlaced with hardy weeds and the occasional bushy wildflower, stretched between several grassy knolls, dotted with the occasional hardy oak. He saw a house in the distance, but its lights were on, and its lawn was cut. The number on the mailbox read "101". He pushed on.

His aching legs from the road march, carrying over twice his usual kit, made him regret taking his commander's unsubtle orders and leaving his apartment in the city. Sure, it had been cramped and gross, but he had made it comfortable for himself. Everything had been within walking distance. None of... this had been worth it, had it? Coming to Po Dunk, Nowhere, to a hollow home...

To painful memories.

A house reared its ugly steeples over the next hill, only around a ten minute walk from the previous one. A part of its roof was sagging. Its cream white paint, with pink features, was faded and grey. The fence that guarded its yard was barely visible through the wild grass that had grown evenly both inside and out of it. Its windows were dark and misty, and a weather vane on top was rusted in place. Where the paint had completely rotted away on the outside, bricks had popped from the wall. The only maintained part of the property (likely because it was the property of the town, rather than the individual) was an electrical cable that followed the road down, and buried itself underground near the home.

The house itself had two stories. It was a simple affair in term of architecture, its foundation being rectangular, with a narrow front face and long walls along its sides. Special care and attention had been given to its roof, however, which was faceted with windows peeking through its shingles. The front-facing part of the second floor jutted out, being held up by a patio underneath it.

Lancer's walk slowed to a crawl as he looked up at the house, hooves dragging through the dirt as he passed the, somehow still standing, mailbox. It was overfilled with flyers and junk mail, some of the papers rotting in the moist grass beneath it. The front gate was completely jammed, being choked by weeds and grass that had overgrown the cobblestone path beyond it, making it hard to enter.

With a grunt, Lancer hefted his duffel and suitcase over the low, wooden gate. Then, with a flap of his wings, he jumped the fence, landing in the field of grass beyond. The blades tickled his nostrils and muzzle, and he silently hoped it wasn't the season for ticks in Ponyville as he picked up his luggage and trudged through the jungle of grass to her front door.

He reached into his pocket, taking out his keychain. There was a recent new addition to the chain, a bronze key that stood apart from the ones for his locker and his apartment. However, as he raised it to the keyhole of the front door and pushed it in, the door simply gave way in front of him. With a loud, painful creak it swung back on its hinges. Frowning, Lancer attempted to assess what was wrong with the latch. However, in the darkness, he saw nothing.

He couldn't remember where the lightswitch was, but he made his best guess as he reached inside and felt along the wall. Eventually, his hoof gripped a knob sticking out of the wall, feeling the switch planted in the middle of it. Flicking it on, his mind instinctively prepared for the blinding light to wash away his night vision completely. However, nothing came.

"Right. Duh. I turned off the electricity..." he scolded himself. Leaving his luggage, he took flight and hovered over the grass as he travelled around to the side of the house. A basement door was barely visible in the grass beneath him as he flew, but right next to it was an electric box. He opened it and squinted at the barely visible switches inside.

Too tired to really care about a possible electric hazard, he stuck his hoof inside and began to flip switches. The circuit breakers responded without complaint, but when he flew back around to the door and tried the lights again, there was still nothing.

"Dumbass. I haven't been paying the utilities either. Stupid..." with a groan, Lancer reached out to rummage through his duffel bag. Pulling out a box of matches, part of his standard kit, he struck one and journeyed into the house. He knew where she kept all of her candles. In a cabinet, just above the little decorative table.

Just beyond the door, several pieces of dusty, shaggy patio furniture had been unceremoniously heaped inside. He avoided them, stepping over boxes and around the island counter for the open-plan kitchen just to the right of the main door. His match began to burn out as he reached the other side of the room, and he blew it out and shook out his hoof as it burned slightly. Taking another match, the tiny flame illuminated his surroundings again as he found himself in front of the small, rounded table she would use to store a bunch of decorations.

He froze.

There she was. Right on the center of the table, a framed photograph. The dust that had settled on the pane was not enough to obscure what was right behind it. A smiling, light-grey furred pegasus mare in a graduate gown, standing next to a dark, equally as elated stallion. Swallowing hard, his reverie was broken as his match hissed and his hoof burned. With a whispered swear, he wrung out his hoof as the smouldering match plummeted to the floor.

Standing in darkness for a moment, Lancer stared into the place where he knew the photograph still looked back at him. Like a whispering devil, it made him think of a pony he'd much rather be, times he'd rather be in, and thoughts he'd rather be thinking. Reaching out blindly, he found the edge of the frame and pulled it down, a dull thud echoing through the room as the photograph faceplanted onto the table.

After another moment of silence, Lancer once again struck a match.

Above the table, a cabinet with glass doors, full of scented candles, sat waiting for him. He pulled the knob and took out one of the least used candles, placing his dying match to its wick. The flame inside burned anew, and the spent match was discarded. He took the rest of the candles from the cabinet, allowing the flame to spread from the original one to the wicks of all its companions. He placed the final one in an ornate lantern, one meant for cheesy romantic dinners rather than power outages, that rested in the back corner of the cabinet.

Taking the lantern in his teeth, and shrugging on his luggage once again, Lancer made his way up the stairs. He avoided the room on the right directly at the top, moving instead to the guest bedroom at the back, past the bathroom and hall closet. Dumping his luggage on the floor, he proceeded to spend a while transferring candles from the foyer to the room, lighting up the room enough for him to unpack.

Halfway through, though, he stopped. Taking a candle to the bathroom, he checked what he already knew. The pipes were empty. What was the point in unpacking his clothes by candlelight if there was no water to even shower off with. Hell, he didn't even have any soap, and he didn't trust what was left in the various bottles of conditioner, bodywash, and shampoo lying around the shower.

Even after their expiry date, they still smelled like her.

When he came back into the bedroom, he saw a moth dancing around the flickering flame of his candles. Idle, he stood and watched it for a moment as it danced back and forth by the light. Eventually, it touched the flame, burning itself and sending it scattering into the darkness. Ironically enough, Lancer related with the tiny creature. As he looked around, he wondered why he himself was dancing around the flame. All he was doing was hurting himself. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to leave. No matter how hot he knew the fire was going to be.

With a sigh, he leaned down and blew out his candles. Taking the lantern downstairs, he blew the final candle still on the decorative table, next to the face-down portrait. Not looking back, he climbed the stairs, then climbed into the bed. The sheets were still on it, and all he needed to do was shake out the dust on it.

After a short sneezing fit, he laid down, blowing out his lantern. Sleep did not come easy.