It was unusually warm for a wintery midnight, but that simply meant rain instead of snow, freezing moments after it pattered to the ground to encase the world in ice. By morning, the streets and walks would be as treacherous as skating rinks, would see the trees armoured all in glass and sagging under the tremendous weight. The air would be wet and chilly, cutting through clothes and fur to leech away the heat and leave everyone shivering and scurrying quick as they could to find warmth.
Here though, in a quiet room upon a quiet street within the press of Canterlot, there was comfort. The icy rain could only mutter softly against the window, its chill barred by glass and warded off by the gentle heat of the small magical stove in the corner, wrapped in a pale yellow nimbus that gave off only the faintest light. The room was as any would expect a six-year-old filly's to be; half prim and proper neatness driven by the needs of a dutiful parent, and half devastated mess, though unusual in that the mess was not a chaos of discarded toys and dolls but rather of books in all shapes and covers. Some had the simple cartoony shapes and friendly, bold-faced print of books fit for foals, while others were solemn-looking tomes heavy with knowledge, their faces marked with but a title and the author's name.
There were shelves here for them, of course; half-sized ones made to a foal's height and half-empty with their burden scattered as it was. They were mismatched and old, though no less sturdy for their age, proudly bearing what they were given with only the barest creak. They were faces familiar as any friend, practically family in their comforting presence; always there, always strong, always with a story to tell whenever asked.
Here, upon the scuffed wooden floor, the barest sliver of light shifting with the movement of a blanket upon the bed. No mere cover of blue and pink this midnight: it was a tent, propped up cunningly by clever use of a metre stick. The glow within shifted faintly through the down filling, a ghostly shape, vague, dancing macabre across the flower-dotted surface, yet it was nothing like so sinister within.
A filly all in lavender, sitting up upon the soft mattress within the warm closeness of her makeshift shelter, holding aloft a tattered and bedraggled shape in grey with her small hooves, making it move and dance as she hummed a tuneless tune; a young mind alive with happy fantasy. It was not simply her mother's old ragdoll, stitched and repaired half a hundred times, stuffed and restuffed, button eyes lost and found and lost again; it was Smartypants, the heroine of a thousand adventures. She had leapt chasms, delved the depths of dragon caves, fought with and reigned victorious over any number of frightful things that prowled the shadowy places of a dreaming filly's mind. There was no challenge she would not face, no secret she could not plumb, no mystery she could not unearth...
But most of all, there was no heart she could not warm.
Twilight hugged her doll tightly, liking the familiar feel of her coat, threadbare and patched as it was. Smartypants' stuffing might have grown a bit lumpy from so many crushing hugs, but it just made her all the better for it. The filly nuzzled the doll's stringy mane as she rocked back and forth, just enjoying the comfort and company for a moment before settling down again with a yawn. Smartypants took up residence on Twilight's lap, turned about so she could read the book that was open before them, a large one supported by a feather pillow, its pages scrawled with tiny, neat writing, spaced here and there with fantastic pictures of a wizard pony all in robes and topped with a pointed hat.
The tent was lit by a small lamp; a glass bowl cased in a frame of old bronze wire, its light yellow and faintly green, flickering with the movement of the fireflies gently captured and trapped within. It would be much better when the filly could figure out how to make light with her horn, but until that day, she made do with what she had. It wasn't such a hardship anyway; the faint buzzing of tiny wings and the tap of the insects against the glass had its own comfort, drowning out the incessant tapping fingers of icy rain playing upon the window beyond her fortress of cloth and down.
It was Smartypants' favourite kind of story, and Twilight was a close fan of it as well; adventures of an old wizard unicorn called Star Swirl the Bearded, or more truthfully, stories of the ponies he met. Most of those ponies ended up taking on the name of Smartypants, of course, and sometimes Star Swirl would become forgetful of his own name, taking to calling himself Twilight Sparkle instead. Even more mysterious was how he transformed from a tall, pale stallion all in blue robes to a little lavender filly far wiser and mightier than her stature would have one expect.
Those were when the stories got really good.
This one was a familiar tale, read a dozen times by now, of Twilight finding Smartypants as a pony in the thrall of a dozen bandits. There was much talking, as Twilight was wont to do, but it would end with the prisoner Smartypants being freed on a bet Twilight had cunningly rigged in her favour. Of course the trickery would be discovered, sending the two fleeing across hills and woods to evade the embarrassed fury of the cheated bandits. By the nature of such things, Smartypants would turn out not to be a simple serf and servant, but a princess lost to time and memory caused by a spell cast by an evil uncle jealous of her mother's throne.
They would escape those bandits, would ford a flooding river and save a family trapped upon it, would quell a raging ogre with a pot of soup, and even stop a dragon from terrorizing a village when Smartypants discovers how its mayor had stolen the dragon's eggs to sell. They would travel the breadth of the land together, and while sometimes they fought they always forgave, and in time they would return to Smartypants' home. It would take all of Twilight's wits and Smartypants' bravery to confront and overcome her terrible uncle, but their victory was assured for there was nothing that could stand before the unbreakable bond of friendship forged between the two through their adventures together.
The minutes wore on quickly into hours as Twilight told Smartypants in a murmur the written recollections of their companionship in a fantasy life long ago, but a filly can only stay awake for so long, even with good company and burdened with excitement. By the end of the fifth chapter, when the moon trolls were demanding Twilight hand over Smartypants to into a pie, she was stumbling over words and struggling to keep her eyes open.
The fireflies had flickered out one by one in the silence of the tent, now sitting quietly at the bottom of their glass prison, the occasional flicker and flair marking them as perfectly healthy, though eager to be freed after a night's hard work. Twilight was sprawled atop the sheets, cheek pressed against the open pages of her book, snoring gently. She was huddled up with her small hooves beneath her, dark mane a messy halo about her head that could not hide the smile that curled her lips. Tucked tightly under one arm, nestled against the filly's neck was the familiar, comforting grey shape of her closest friend...
And somewhere far away, off beyond the stars yet so very near, another grey shape, same but different, stood atop a small hill of gently flowing grass. She wore a coat of armour, at her side a spear tipped with glittering silver, and upon her head a plumed helmet all in shining bronze. She watched over the land with eyes mismatched; blue and red, her mane a tumble of dark, thick strands bound tightly in a long red ribbon. Often she stayed here, simply watching, othertimes she would wage war against the nightmares that would threaten to invade the tranquility, battering them away with spear and shield, for this was her home and the home of her closest friend.
One day, that friend would no longer need her, would be strong enough to ward away those nightmares and bad thoughts on her own, but that day was not yet here. Until it came, there would be no challenge she would not face, no secret she would not plumb, no mystery she would not unearth...
And no heart she would not warm.
Author's Note
Inspired by and written to:
