The Poison of Passion

Your aching eyes open; the ceiling of the zebra’s humble hut.

The pleasant scent of a boiling stew makes your nostrils twitch. You turn in the hammock, stretching out your wings and limbs instinctively, to find Zecora stirring her trademark cauldron. Alive and well.

“Oh, you’ve woken up, my friend,” she greets you, as if everything’s fine and dandy with the world, “I’ve just finished stewing a vegetable blend.”

Your weary legs leave the hammock and touch the soft floor. As much as you’ve rested, you can’t help but feel drained. Not sure whether it’s physically or emotionally yet.

“Are you alright? You look a mess.” the zebra says as soon as she’s close enough to pass you a finely-carved wooden bowl of soup, “There’s something wrong, I’d hazard a guess.”

“No, no I’m fine,” you insist, accepting the hot broth and taking a few sips. A good soup overall, substantial, flavourful and invigorating. “I just had a rough night. I think it was just a nightmare or something.”

“What’s this, you had a bad dream? What about, if I may be so keen?”

You close your eyes, trying to remember the horrible, vivid dream you just had. It was definitely about… about… huh.

“I don’t remember. Guess it can‘t have been that important. Sorry.”

Zecora watches the chopped vegetables swirl around in her stew, “Hmm, it’s a shame you can’t recall, sometimes a dream can say it all. A concept we zebras are taught, is that dreams can unlock buried thoughts. But that’s in the past now, I agree; are you still willing to come with me?”

“Of course!” you perk yourself up with a grin, “How far are we going to get this… silver tulip you need?”

“We’ll need to search where the lightning struck, and it should be growing on that spot, with any luck.” the zebra tightens the straps on her saddle-basket, readying herself for the journey, “We’re heading a little southeast for the flower, it shouldn’t take longer than half an hour.”

That’s not so far. A mile, maybe more, navigating the forest at a steady pace, compensating for any foliage and branches that might slow you down.

“Since the Everfree’s unpredictable, we’ll travel light and steady,” Zecora says once you’d finished your meals, “Prepare yourself, and we’ll leave when you’re ready.”

“In that case,” you give her a gentlecoltly gesture towards the door, “Shall we?”

Upon leaving the warm safety of her hut, you both set forth to find this allegedly magical silver flower. Zecora leads the way, since she knows the forest far more than you do.

And that’s when you both walk. And walk. And walk.

You’d try to make conversation with Zecora, if only to take your mind of whatever keeps moving in the corner of your eye, but she hushes you, reminding you that making a noise would disturb the wildlife. And that some wildlife doesn’t like being disturbed much.

So it’s back to silent walking. Funny, since you’re sure that it’s a bright, sunny morning just above the overarching trees. You’ve never understood how it can still be night in a place like this. And why do you have the feeling you’re being watched?

Occasionally, Zecora would freeze on the spot. She’d just stop in mid-trot, as if she were about to tread on a landmine. Your common sense tells you to stop when she does. A moment later, Zecora would inspect the forest right ahead of her; the tree layout, the rocks, the bushes. And then she’d walk around them, with the request that you’d exercise caution too.

You didn’t notice anything wrong with that patch of trees. They looked ominous, sure, but in the Everfree Forest, that’s not exactly something that stands out. How did she know there’d be danger?

Okay, you know you saw something move just now. You only caught that back end of it; a scaly tail, but far too small to be a dragon.

“Zecora,” you whisper, trying to keep calm, “something’s following us.”

“I know. For the past ten minutes it’s followed.” she whispers back, “Just don’t look straight at it, else you’ll be met with sorrow.”

“I found it,” your hushed tone tries to hide your fear and excitement, “It’s in that bush, maybe I can scare it off.”

“That’s not true; it’ll just scare y- wait!”

Too late; you’re so sick of that burning feeling of being watched. The desire to just scare the thing away, to just be over and done with the tension is overwhelming. As such, you’d already driven your rear hoof at full force into the creature’s hiding place.

A high-pitched squawk of surprise and shock emits from the bush, a pair of leathery wings thrash out in a fluster, and the creature finally shows itself as a whole for the first time. A pair of claws dig into the dirt below. Its midsection is entirely made from a snake’s scales, like chain-mail. And the creature’s head…

“Zecora, this is the creepiest chicken I’ve ever seen! Zecora?”

You cast a look towards your friend, whose striped forelegs are raised to cover her tightly shut eyes.

“That isn’t a chicken, you fool! Look away! Else your flesh will turn into stone of grey!”

“Turn into what?”

A flash of red from the creature catches your attention. Two flashes, from each of its eyes. For a moment, you’re frozen on the spot, transfixed by the monster’s menacing gaze. Then you discover why.

“My hooves! What’s happening to my hooves!?”

You cannot move anything beneath the knees of your forelegs. You can’t even look away from the glowing beads of red to see why. The cold feeling rises higher and higher, until it overtakes your forelegs in their entirety.

“It’s petrifying you, avert your eyes!” you hear your friend call, “If you don’t, you’ll meet your demise!”

You can’t avert your eyes. You can’t even blink, despite the dry, burning desire to. The cold feeling has reached your chest and beyond, freezing your ribcage and wings. With a final breath as it reaches your neck, you scream.

“HELP ME! HEEELP!”

The sound of rapidly beating hooves grows louder and louder behind you. Out of nowhere, at the last moment, a familiar double-grey striped hoof hits the creature’s face with a satisfying crack. The squeal of pain echoes all around the forest as the monster fall back, clutching its beak with its wings.

Before the monster makes its escape between the many trees, you notice a large fracture in its beak. Even long after its retreat, you can still hear its agonized cries.

Your body heat comes flooding back, and whatever frosty grip that had you bound seems to fall away. Taking a deep, thankful breath, you look down and notice the remains of your stone prison littering the ground.

You look up to your friend. Zecora’s breathing heavily from the adrenaline rush of running up and kicking a monster in the face, trying to recuperate from what just happened. Your pulse is racing as well, but that does little to numb the feeling of embarrassment weighing you down right now.

Your stupid antics nearly turned you into a statue forever. Stupidity. The one thing a wise mare like Zecora would hate. It would have been an awkward silence, had the forest’s ambience not acted as filler.

“Can you do me a favour, my pegasus friend?” she grumbles with a furrowed brow once she has her breath back, “Never provoke a cockatrice again.”

“I’m sorry, Zecora,” you whisper with a shamefully lowered head, “I’m really sorry. I just… I was getting nervous. I just wanting that thing to go away, and I just wanted to scare it off, make our lives easier.”

You expected her to berate you for you dumb actions that nearly cost you an eternity in stone. Instead, she drops her stern demeanour and places a hoof on your shoulder.

“I know you’re just trying to help me out,” she says softly, “but I don’t want you to feel nervous or in doubt. If you want us to head back to my home-”

“No, it‘s alright,” you shake your head, “We can’t be far now. Let’s just get that silver flower and head straight back.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, “Will you endure?”

“Of course I will,” you show your best ‘look how tough I am’ face. You hope she fell for it. “We can’t be more than five minutes away now.”

Zecora just smiles, with a faint glimmer in her eye. That pretty face alone give you all the encouragement you need.

And so you both keep walking. Hopefully that - cockatrice, she called it? - will be the last incident you’ll have to face today.