Snapdragon

by wizard swears

impressions and light

What excess of thought has been devoted to dragons. Our earlier foray into their inner workings (regarding our friend spike) revealed their rather selective hoarding habits, as well as their larger application to spike's woes. The instinctual reflex to stockpile is rooted deep into the draconic mind. In their ancestral home the dragons waged a war in perpetuity for uncounted generations before they were unified. Each dragon devoted body and mind to his clan exclusive of all others. An excess of loyalty they had. And it was only great cataclysm that forced them to unify at all. Not even the flame drakes could withstand their homeland tearing itself apart. In a molten tide they were expelled from their home and in a molten tide the first draconian empire swept through the lowlands like a knife through parchment. No written history of precontact Equestria survives. Boiling across the continent, the expanding dominion enslaved or annihilated every other civilization in a matter of decades. The draconian golden age lasted 1000 years. The wonders of that age have not been surpassed. They have not been equaled. They are not, it is often found, even known.

For the fall of the dragons was yet more spectacular than their rise. The dragon-mount fell in minutes. Fell to earth, its artifice and mechanica helpless to stop it. Its great rings of mithril rang as they struck the ground. Rang out the baleful chorus of an empire in its throes. No dragons remain. No true dragons. They were all killed.

A sequence of events. One event leading to another in a logical fashion. Spike was good at those. For instance punching the window had lead quite logically to getting several very nasty cuts on his knuckles and hands. The elegant

“Fuck…”FUCK.” A long deep cut on the back of his hand was being stymied only by his other hand squeezing violently. Which came with pain of its own. Spike thought for a moment. “….fuuckkkk”

The door banged open. Spike flinched, squeezing his hand, flinched out of the pain this brought, turned towards the door to see who it was and flinched again for good measure. “Twitchy today arent you” scootaloo muttered as she took spikes hand (flinch) and began examining it. “Dumbass” Spike blushed. First aid kit retrieved from its place, (placed there by a forward thinking Applejack some time ago) scootaloo began patching up spikes hand.

Think of the scene if you will. Spike sitting on a small table facing the couch. The couch containing a focused scootaloo. Behind the couch framing the ripening sky and the unruly hair of one scootaloo, a broken window. Looking at all of this and feeling increasingly bad about himself young spike. Spike sighs… it is involuntary. Scootaloo glances upward, as if to check on her charge. This gives spike a view of Scootaloo's face in full. He notices the way the light shines through her hair, he notices that when she's focusing she bites her lower lip just a fraction, he does not notice that he has been staring for quite some time. Scootaloo having apparently repaired spike to her satisfaction leans back stretches and smiles. Spike notices a thin cut on scootaloos neck, blood still trickling. Spike notices that Scootaloo's bag was already inside the treehouse. Spike remembers the open window.

A sequence of events. One thing after another. Spike reaches forward with such unthinking fluidity that scootaloo does not have time, or perhaps the inclination to stop him. Spikes hand cups her neck gently. It is scootaloos turn to stare/blush. Spike looks intent. He often did she thought. The single minded focus now directed at her was… the blush intensified by a fraction.

Spike looks out the window. Sequence, a chain of events. Spike looks back to scootaloo. Scootaloos eyes widen as they meet Spikes. He was good at asking questions with silence. Twilight could inevitably talk her way out of any question given such nebulous form as language. Whereas a properly stern silence would force her to come up with her own.

Scootaloo looked away. Spike could see her body tense as he watched. Coiled like a spring he thought. Or a rope about to snap. The light is gone now. The sun deep enough behind the horizon to have quenched the last drops of sun. A fading haze on the horizon remains but will soon be gone. The treehouse is dark. To dark to discern expression. Scootaloo breathes raggedly, one arm held across her stomach, the other gripping the couch. Spike is still, his maintained vitality proven only by the exhalations of breath in a cold environment. “...not now.” The voice is small. “just… not now...”

Spike turns on the small lamp. His face is, placid, calm as if suddenly settled. He stands and the gaze he turns to the window is one of problems being solved. Scootaloo smiles, just a bit, it was funny how much spike and twilight could resemble each other. “Well I first things first, I owe you a window.”

As spike walks home he thinks little, remarkably little. His hand hurts, in a distant way. He flexes it, maybe subconsciously. He remembers how warm Scootaloo's hands were. He finds he remembers quite well. Reaching the top of the hill he looks back. The window now covered in cardboard lets slip a glimmering of the lamp within. The light reminds spike, in some small way, of gold.

The castle/library gives spike the distinct impression of looking guilty. Perhaps this was because it's purple haired proprietor stood at its door wearing a grin that could only be described as innocent. Which never boded well. Or perhaps it was the second broken window. Or maybe the ambulance. Spike couldn't quite decide.

Author's Note:

Would you look at that. Still not any good at editing.

Comments

[Bronixus]

Nice timing on the second chapter, and I hope it doesn't take anywhere near as long to create the next one