Scirocco

by MATP

Rating: everyone
Tags: Lightning Dust, Fiddlesticks, Drama, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance
Length: 2725

Fiddlesticks had resigned herself to a simple life in Appleoosa. Then the storm arrived

Fiddlesticks had resigned herself to a simple life in Appleoosa. Then the storm arrived, and somepony came with it.

Proofreader: the one and only TheAncientPolitzanian

Written as an entry for the (Un)Happy New Yuri Contest in the category unrequited Yuri

Pet the koi

Published 2025-01-29 19:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2025-01-29 19:10:01 UTC

Drifting away

It was raining when I first saw her.

I remember because it never rains in Appleoosa.

At that time, it had rained so little that the ground had started to crack. The air was hot, dry, and heavy; the kind of heat that weighs and slows down.

But then she arrived, and with her, the storm.

That day, I was on my way to Canyon Cup, the local saloon, to play like every evening. I had some kind of deal with the owner—he wanted some music and I needed the money. In a town of farmers and ranchers, there isn’t much room for a violinist, so I didn’t have much choice.

Sometimes I wonder why I moved here in the first place.

But I already know why. The idea of a new town, built by the people for the people? At the time, it seemed like a great idea. So I dropped everything and came here.

Then we built the town; I had my house, and the fairy tale was over.

I wasn’t a pioneer anymore, leaving everything behind to discover a new frontier far from the capital. I was a musician in a town of farmers and ranchers. I play, but they don't really listen. They hear my music, but they don’t understand it.

I miss playing for someone who listens.

That day, however, as I was walking, I noticed something strange.

Earth ponies are, by nature, farmers, workers. They always look down, studying the ground and avoiding the sun.

Not that day, though. That day, I noticed, all my fellow townsfolk were looking up. They were looking at the sky. So I looked up too.

Clouds.

A lot of clouds.

They were so thick you couldn't tell if it was one big cloud or infinite small ones. So black you couldn't see the sky behind them.

But that wasn’t what surprised me the most; it was what was in front of this swarm of clouds.

A mare. A pegasus.

Her coat was blue, the same color as the sea, always moving, coming and going, or at least, that’s what I remember, it has been so long since I’ve seen it. Her mane was yellow. Not the sickly yellow of straw, but the bright yellow of the sun that rises every day and then disappears.

And like the sun that sets every evening, as she came flying over the entrance to the city, she descended.

I wasn't an expert on flying; I knew nothing about it. Still, or perhaps because of this, I stood in awe of her swift, fluid movements. Such grace had no place in a town like Appleoosa. She moved with the lightness that only music can have; it was surreal, like a dream. She seemed like wind made flesh, a gift from the sky.

When she descended and vanished behind some houses, I galloped after her as if chasing a kite.

Upon reaching her landing spot, I had to elbow my way through a group of ponies, surely drawn to this novelty. It’s not common to see a pegasus around here, or anything that isn’t an earth pony for that matter.

Despite my origins, I’ve never been very strong. Maybe it's the lack of constant manual labor, but what I lacked in strength, I made up for with determination and enthusiasm. So, I pushed through, and in the end, I saw her more clearly, and, as I looked at her, something wet fell on my face, then it dripped on my head and all around me.

The clouds had rolled in, and the storm along with them.

But since money is money, and a contract is a contract, even with the rain, the show must go on. So, less than an hour later, I found myself playing at Canyon Cup. The customers were fewer than usual, not that there were many to begin with—people tend to go to bed with the sunset here—but the heavy rain didn’t help business. Regardless, there’s always someone so desperate that they will venture out in this weather for a drink.

The clientele just needed some background noise. So, I allowed myself to get distracted, thinking about what everyone was discussing.

The Pegasus.

Lightning Dust was her name; she introduced herself shortly after landing. Everyone just called her The Pegasus, though. After all, there weren’t any others.

She said she was a stuntmare and an elite flyer. Then, she asked where to find a hotel and headed into town.

She certainly looked the part. She was muscular. She was defined, but not imposing. Her physique came from daily exercise, not from going to the gym. She doesn’t impress at first glance, but that shows dedication and consistency. What struck me most, however, were the wings. Despite the journey, the feathers were almost perfect—granted, some were ruffled, but still in place—and she could move and maneuver them with the same grace a virtuoso uses to slide the bow across a violin. It was hypnotizing.

I never expected to see something like this here in Appleoosa. There was a question that kept buzzing in my mind, though: why did she come here?

Appleoosa is an island in a sea of sand. It's not on any trade routes and isn't marked on many maps since it's relatively new. There's nothing for miles. Appleoosa isn’t a town you just visit. Anyone who ends up here does so for a reason, or fate.

As if on cue, the door opened, and in came the deafening sound of rain hitting the ground, cold wind blowing against the warm air inside, and from the darkness of the storm, a figure emerged.

A pegasus.

Lightning Dust was soaked, strands of her mane clinging to her neck, the feathers of her wings disheveled from the rain and wind.

But, as though unaware, or perhaps indifferent to her messy appearance, she strode in with the pride of a general returning from victory, with slow and measured steps, head held high, perhaps a little too high. It was an endearing vision.

As she entered the saloon, she closed the door, but the silence didn’t return. Perhaps it was because I had just remembered the storm raging outside, or perhaps because when I saw her enter, I stopped playing; but even with the door shut, I could still hear the constant tapping of the rain against the ground outside.

She approached the bar and said something to the bartender, probably placing her order, then made her way to a table in one of the corners.

Once seated, she seemed to relax, slumping into her chair in a way that betrayed her exhaustion. Seeing her like this, she didn’t seem so different from the other customers, except for her eyes.

Her eyes weren’t cast downward.

Her gaze darted from side to side, moving quickly, as though she were studying the place or looking for something. They were the eyes of a curious child, eyes in contrast to the confidence she had shown when she entered. When her gaze fell on me and saw that I was watching, she turned away quickly.

Since the evening was almost over, I gave a nod to the bartender and began packing away my violin. It wasn’t unusual for me to finish my shift a little early on slow nights like this.

A few minutes later, I was at the bar, grabbing my free drink, a wheat beer like every day. The bartender had already set it out for me, next to another glass containing a liquid so clear it could be mistaken for water, if not for the unmistakable smell of alcohol.

I asked him what it was, and he told me it was a cocktail popular in Las Pegasus. It was something strong that hit hard and fast, and he said it was for the pegasus in the corner. He then cut a slice of lime and placed it on the rim of the glass before reaching for the tray. I stopped him and put my beer on the tray along with the cocktail and headed toward the table.

When she saw me approach with the tray, Lightning Dust straightened up. She probably mistook me for a waitress, judging by the surprised look on her face when I sat down across from her.

Before she could recover from the shock, I handed her her drink. I told her that she had caused quite a stir when she arrived, and I wanted to meet her. I told her my name and asked for hers, though I already knew it. It’s a formality; a name means familiarity, and familiarity must be given to you.

She looked around again, unsure of what to do, and after a few seconds, she answered.

Then it was her turn to speak, and she asked why I wanted to meet her. I told her that she seemed like an interesting pony, and in Appleoosa, there aren’t many interesting things.

The evening went on, and over the course of it, I learned a lot about the pegasus. She was from Cloudsdale, and the wind had carried her here. She was a couple of years younger than me, but she’d already seen half the world. She ran away from Cloudsdale after some kind of accident, though she didn’t want to go into details.

I also shared a little about my past. My studies, my origins, then my journey to Appleoosa, but from there on, there wasn’t much more to tell. When I mentioned I was an Apple, she winced, as if in pain, and for the first time, lowered her gaze. It was quick, her pride refusing to give in, and just as quickly, her eyes lifted again.

I thought it must be nice to travel, to see the world like she had. I wanted to hear about her travels; I wanted her to tell me about the world. I asked her to tell me more, and she obliged.

She told me about all the cities she had visited. One was so big it felt like a labyrinth; another was always lit up, even at night; and another was trapped in a forest where the trees’ branches kept her from flying. She went on, talking about Canterlot and Dodge Junction with the same enthusiasm, the same sadness.

Every journey is an experience, she told me; every city leaves me with something.

At some point, though, she ran out of cities to talk about, and when I asked her to continue, she invented more.

She told me about fantastic cities, cities that were low but made entirely of gold, others where the houses were so tall you had to weave between towers if you wanted to fly, or one that was completely white, surrounded by high walls, stretching far beyond the horizon.

She kept talking, and I could see them. Through her words, I visited every single city. From the small village of Ponyville to the enormous Manehattan. Even the cities that don’t exist—I visited them all in her story, and everything she didn’t tell me, everything I didn’t see, I could imagine.

That night, Lightning Dust gifted me the world.

But it wasn’t enough. I wanted to see those cities for myself. I wanted to get lost in the streets of a place I didn’t know. I wanted to live inside the postcards she had shown me and leave behind this brown, barren place.

Escaping isn’t easy, especially without direction, without anything or anyone to hold on to. But maybe that night, I found someone who could take me away.

At some point, though, the fantasy ended. And the bar closed. So we found ourselves quickly under the storm.

As soon as I opened the door, the cold brought me back to reality, making me shiver. Earth ponies aren’t built for this.

Then I felt something wrap around my barrel, and I turned to discover Lightning Dust trying to shield me from the rain with her wing. It was a useless gesture; we both knew it. The wing barely covered a third of my body, and it was no great protection against the strength of the storm. But neither of us cared, and I leaned into her as though she could really protect me.

She was shivering too, but tried to hide it. She wouldn’t leave me alone in the storm, she told me, and she escorted me home.

Three days.

Three days passed after that evening. For three days, the storm raged, and for three days, Lightning Dust didn’t sleep in the hotel.

Then that unfortunate, fateful day arrived.

We were lying in bed when she told me. It was evening, no different from all the others we had spent together. The storm outside was calming down; the rain was still falling, but not as hard as before.

The next day, she said, she would leave.

She said she couldn’t stay too long in one place, that she always ended up hurting someone. She said the Scirocco was passing, and that it was her time to go.

I knew this day would come. She had told me herself; she was here passing through, and she would be leaving again. But I was alone before she arrived, and I couldn't accept being alone again.

Why? I asked her. Why do you have to leave?

She called it penance, this journey. Penance for something she still refused to tell me.

It’s the fate of those who can’t put down roots, she said, to be carried away by the wind.

I didn’t understand at first. Couldn’t she put roots here with me?

Couldn’t she plant roots in this barren, dry, lifeless land?

And then I understood. Nothing can grow in the desert. And while I, like a branch buried in mud during a storm that gets stuck when the earth dries, was trapped here, she wasn’t.

And despite it all, I asked her, I begged her not to leave, to stay with me. “I love you,” I told her, crying, trying to convince her. And I found myself believing those words. If you can’t stay, I told her, then take me with you.

At first, she didn’t say anything. The only sound was the tapping of the rain on the window. Then she lowered her gaze and let that wall of pride she had been holding up fall.

And she apologized. She apologized for not being able to love me, and in her voice, I heard the kind of hatred one can only feel for oneself. She apologized as if not loving me was a fault, as if she wanted to but couldn’t.

The next day, she would leave alone.

I pulled her into my forelegs. I found myself comforting her, resting a hoof on her mane and stroking it. Would we see each other again? Would she return? I asked her, and she said that maybe one day, when the blame and the guilt had passed, and she would love herself enough to be able to love, she would come back. But not before then.

The night passed like that, the two of us holding each other in bed, each of us trying to comfort the other. I cried. Lightning Dust tried not to.

The next morning, I woke up in bed alone. For the first moments after opening my eyes, I felt a serenity I had never encountered before in Appleoosa. Then I felt the dampness on my cheeks; I turned over in bed, saw the other half empty, and returned to reality.

Lightning Dust was gone, like a beautiful dream forgotten in the morning. And perhaps, that’s all it was. How can you call something that arrives and soon after disappears without leaving anything behind except a feeling, if not a dream?

A glance out the window confirmed that the sun had just risen. Its light entered through the window, reaching me all the way to the bed.

There was nothing to block its path. The storm had passed.

The only thing left to confirm that it had even been there was the dampness of the muddy ground. But the earth would wither and crack again, the air would become dry again, and the storm would be forgotten, as if it had never passed through here.