Illuminating conversation
Ficklewick's eyebrows made the treacherous ascent up his wrinkly forehead, got tired, stopped to take a brief rest, continued up a little farther, succumbed to fatigue once more, crept up just a bit more, and then took a tumble down his grizzled face to rest just over his eyes. He stood at the bottom of the narrow stairs and his shallow breathing could be heard whistling through his fuzzy nostrils.
For reasons unknown, Lamp was absolutely frozen with terror.
"Where did our guest go?" he asked of nopony in particular. "The little dirty waif and the even dirtier colt…"
"She cleans up well, she does," Miss Combes replied. "Did ye have a nice nap?"
"I was meditating—"
"Is that what yer calling it now?"
"Confound it, I was meditating, not napping!" After his brief outburst—followed by an eyeroll aimed right at his housekeeper—Ficklewick made his way over to the deaf-mute colt. He drew near, lowered his head, and then looked the frail colt right in the eye. "Having a nice bit of meditation, colt?"
Miss Combes sniggered; meanwhile, Lamp was at a total loss for how to respond or react.
Lifting his head up high, Ficklewick glanced around, sniffed once, twice, and then turned his full attention on Lamp. He came to her, moving with startling grace and smoothness for his age. Up close, he was a bit taller than Lamp realised, and she had no choice but to crane her neck to look up at him whilst he stared down at her. He smelt of thunder and liniment, but there was also the subtle fragrance of old dandelion tea.
"When I took leave of you," he began, "you were but a young absconder that attempted to raid my storage cellar. Now you appear to have grown into a young mare. What has Miss Combes done to you?"
Tongue tied in unfathomable, unconquerable ways, Lamp failed to respond.
"I suppose that is incorrect, in a sense. An absconder is one who escapes… which you failed to do. You came back for your friend. Which, I suppose, is the reason why we are here and this conversation is happening. Also, I seem to recall that you tried to—"
"I'm sorry," Lamp blurted out. Then, realising she'd interrupted, she silenced herself before more harm could be done.
"My interest in you is because of your impassioned defense of your friend," he said in a voice of cool temperament. "You showed loyalty… and perhaps a bit of magic. Tell me, my dear… do you understand the importance of loyalty?"
Once again, she found herself tongue tied.
"Princess Luna was once the Bearer of Loyalty. Once." His bushy eyebrows drooping, he seemed profoundly saddened by what he had said. "You… you showed remarkable loyalty, returning for your friend. Do not be ashamed, young one. Take heart, young miss. Young miss? Ah, yes, you missed. Are you hungry? Because I am."
"That young miss made the soup, more or less," Miss Combes said.
"You trusted her with a sharp cleaver, Miss Combes?" he asked with deadpan seriousness.
"I did."
"Remarkable. Remarkable. No heads were lost. No limbs taken. Not an ear missing."
"She showed a little skill, so there was something of a lesson. After she cut the potatoes, she also sliced a few carrots, some celery, and some leeks."
"Oh, remarkable." He inhaled, backed away from Lamp, and nodded his head. "Remarkable."
"If ye'll 'ave a seat, I'll serve up supper," Miss Combes said.
"I… am Ficklewick. But you already knew that. I am Princess Celestia's advisor on inter-tribal relations, second-chair of the Prosperity League, and among my many accomplishments, some consider me to be the first and foremost expert of the unicorn science known as thinkism." He cleared his throat, his eyebrows pushed closer together—but did not quite meet—and he offered up a gentle shake of his head. "But I myself find this claim rather dubious. Every day I discover more of what I do not know and there is much I fail to comprehend."
"Ficklewick is one of the three ponies in Canterlot who studies thinkism, and the other two are slack-jawed simpletons that 'ave more boogers than brains,'' Miss Combes said as she cut the cheese into four even quarters. "Don't let 'is false modesty fool ye, Lamp."
"Being one of the few ponies that studies this new science does not make me an expert… it just makes me… available?" Once more, he cleared his throat. "It is not the same thing."
"Ye studied with Clover the Clever—"
"I am not half as clever as Clover."
A wedge of soft, gooey, somewhat bluish cheese on a pottery plate was set down in front of Lamp and she could not believe her good fortune. This was not table scraps, or a bit of cheese rind that nopony wished to chew on for hours so it could be swallowed. She watched as it oozed a bit of runny goo and deformed into something not entirely a cheese wedge. It was stinky, but in a good way, and her mouth watered in anticipation of what was sure to be a delectable treat.
"My job, in its most simple form, is to figure out how to make ponies be nice to one another." He started to say more, but Miss Combes plunked a plate with a wedge of cheese down in front of him. Once again, his eyebrows made the perilous ascent up his wrinkled forehead, and just as before, they became worn-out about halfway up. "Miss Combes, I think this one has gone bad, because—"
"It's gone good, Ficklewick."
"But the smell is rather offensive and—"
"Criticise my cheese and there'll be words."
His fuzzy ears angled forwards for a brief moment, then retreated and splayed out sideways. The corners of his mouth twitched briefly as his housekeeper placed a plate of cheese in front of the deaf-mute colt, and then, when she wasn't looking and was preparing her own plate, he shot a secretive half-smile in Lamp's general direction.
The kind act made Lamp feel welcome, and a little less tense.
Beneath his breath, Ficklewick said to Lamp, "Blessed are the cheesemakers, whose success is measured in stench."
Miss Combes chortled a bit, put forth a great effort to recover herself, and failed. Her sides rose and fell, and as they did so, Ficklewick seemed to take great satisfaction in the fact that she could not recuperate. Was this friendship? It had to be. But what a strange friendship it was, to the point where Lamp could not make sense of it. Still, she was grateful for it, and beyond that, she wanted desperately to be a part of it.
There was a warmth here that made the crackling fire seem weak and cold.
"It has been so long," Ficklewick said, mostly beneath his breath. "So, so long." Even though he smiled—as much as his wrinkled, sagging face would allow—his eyes were sorrowful when he looked at Lamp.
"What're ye going on about, Fickle?" asked Miss Combes as she armed herself with an enormous metal ladle.
"How soon ponies forget," was his somewhat cryptic response.
"Forget what?" asked Lamp.
"I suppose it is a sign of things getting better," he said as his housekeeper submerged the ladle into the crockery full of soup. "Or maybe our collective memories are getting worse. Either way…" His sentence went unfinished as he shook his head from side to side. Eyes sorrowful, but still bright, he stared Lamp right in the eye until she began to squirm a bit.
"There used to be tribes within tribes," he began as if he were a teacher getting ready to recite a lesson. "With the Unicorn Tribe, there were variations. Distinct versions. But in particular, what is relevant with this conversation, were two specific types. Unicorns such as myself and Miss Combes, we're just common unicorns. A standard type. But you, Lamp"—his sides heaved as he inhaled—"you are a chromatic unicorn. And it has been a while since I have seen your type."
Ladling soup into crockery bowls, Miss Combes seemed sad, and had nothing to say.
"Princess Platinum was a chromatic unicorn, which she believed gave her the right to rule. After all, there was no pony quite so resplendent as her, quite so beautiful. She appeared to be a creature made of living metal, like some types of dragons. Her platinum pelt shone like a second sun and her mane was like wires made of precious much-coveted metals. She ruled, because beauty was her birthright. Not another creature could match her splendour, until Princess Celestia came along. But… the chromatic unicorns believed strongly in their right to rule. They were few, uncommon… a tribe that grew more precious with each generation as their numbers dwindled."
Brows furrowed, Ficklewick pressed his front hooves together whilst he leaned over the table just a bit. "This is not a story about one pony secure in their superiourity, no. Princess Platinum had a change of heart and with help from her new friends, her fellow Founders, she knew that greatness was measured by one's deeds. And so it came to pass that Princess Platinum gathered up her fellow chromatic unicorns… powerful unicorns they were. Beings of immense power…" His sentence dried up on his tongue and he seemed incredibly inconsolable now.
But he was not silent for long.
"Princess Platinum gathered up the strongest unicorns she could… of all types… and she gathered up powerful pegasus ponies and earth ponies… she formed a mighty army, the likes of which had not been seen on this continent. This was an army created for but one single purpose: to rescue another tribe of ponies, the Crystal Ponies of the Crystal Empire. They went north, passing through the treacherous wilderness, having to fight for every step taken. They would not be deterred as they made their northward journey, trampling any foe foolish enough to delay them along the way. Princess Platinum was determined to be great, to live in service of another.
"I am unsure of what happened when she reached the Crystal Empire. From what little that there is known, there was a battle. King Sombra's stygian darkness pitted against Princess Platinum's resplendent light—but nopony knows the outcome because the Crystal Empire just disappeared. And everypony there vanished with it. So it came to pass that the chromatic unicorns faded into obscurity. Seeing you reawakens so many memories, Lamp."
"Ficklewick remembers when things were better," Miss Combes said as she continued to serve their meal. "There was a time when it felt as though… when it felt as though…" The ladle fell into the soup crockery with a splash and a plop, and then the housekeeper just stood there, her eyes misty and distant.
Fearing she might upset her kindly benefactors, Lamp still dared to ask: "So why are things so bad? If things were getting better, what made them worse?"
"Well, the loss of Princess Platinum was quite a blow," replied Ficklewick. "One by one, we lost the Founders, and their message about hearthfire and friendship—"
"Phahgh! 'Earthfire! A fanciful old mare's tale!"
"Hearthfire is very real, I assure you, Miss Combes—"
"It showed up once and ain't never returned since." The housekeeper was practically spitting. "That's our trouble, we let ourselves believe in myth. We make up stories and lie to ourselves. Now that the 'earthfire is gone, so is all our reason for unity with it. And that's the trouble with fanciful stories!"
"Miss Combes…" Ficklewick's voice was stern now, resolute, and his eyes gleamed with fierce determination. "The story of our Founding is not a myth. Hearthfire… the magic of friendship… the magic of unity, I believe it to be real. While I do my best to only believe in what I can see and measure, some things remain outside of our understanding."
"Ficklewick… what if the Circle was right? I know this is a sore spot for ye, but let us entertain the notion. What if the Founders just made up a story to bring everypony together? Would that be so bad?"
"Well, yes," he replied without hesitation. "Because then our unity would be built upon a foundation of lies, rather than a foundation of friendship."
Sighing, Miss Combes shook her head and just stood there.
"You know, Miss Combes… one day, ponies will forget the Waking Nightmare—"
"Ye crank! How could anypony forget that? We lived through it! The dream realm came spilling out into the world of the wake! Nightmares walked amongst us!"
"They will forget that Princess Celestia even had a sister—"
"Impossible! We all know this to be true!"
"Princess Luna will be forgotten. The Waking Nightmare will pass into myth, if it is even remembered at all. The Mare in the Moon will become a story told to scare foals into behaving at bedtime—if the story is even remembered at all. What we know to be true will fade into myth, and then maybe into obscurity. Just like hearthfire, Miss Combes."
The housekeeper savagely bit down upon her bottom lip, but did not respond.
"Ponies are already fighting over what actually happened." His words soft, almost a whisper, Ficklewick continued with a distant forlorn expression. "Because so much of it was actually a dream for so many, there is much debate about the very nature of the Waking Nightmare. And if it was even real. Like hearthfire, it cannot be measured, or tested, or studied. It happened once, and then it was gone. What knowledge there is about it is contained in the living. And once those living pass… so too, will that knowledge. As for the Circle, they cannot even agree as to what it was… just like hearthfire."
He turned to face Lamp, his bushy, grizzled eyebrows down low over his fervent eyes. "This… this is why things are so bad, Lamp. There are many factors, but what I feel is the primary source… what I believe to be the root cause for our troubles… the fall of Princess Luna. Would you like for me to explain? Would you like for this lesson to continue? If you wish to be my guest, I shall spare you… but if you wish to be my student, there is a cost.
"What say you, Lamp?"
A bowl of soup was slid over the wooden table and came to rest before the filly. She looked at it, thoughtful, and then, ever so slowly, she raised her head. Whatever wisdom that might be found in the depths of her soup would remain there. This was no simple decision, no simple yes or no. Whatever she said next would not just affect her life—but the life of her companion as well. This was destiny, whatever that might mean, and she'd met it halfway. Now, with but a simple answer, she would either become Lamp, a pony that shone brightly, or a lamp, a pony that was little more than furniture.
"If you tell me, I'll listen. I don't wanna be a lamp."
"Good. Good. Remarkable. I am pleased to hear you say that. Remarkable."
"This is remarkably complicated in the telling. Good thing we have plenty of time. Where do I begin? What do I explain? That's the real trick with these lessons, getting started. I suppose we should begin with a question. Tell me, Lamp… do you understand what the Waking Nightmare is? Was? Has anypony sat you down and explained to you what happened?"
Eyes low, Lamp squirmed on her cushion. Adults talked about the Waking Nightmare, but none of them really spoke about what it was. It was something that happened, something she was a part of, but nopony went into detail about what took place. The few times she had asked about it, ponies got quiet for a time, and then spoke of other things—anything but the Waking Nightmare. What was said was that it was for the best if everypony just forgot about it.
Before Lamp could respond however…
"Crivens! Nae! Nae! It's 'ot! Blow! Blow! Blow!"
Miss Combes had her face down almost nose to nose with the deaf-mute colt—who, from the looks of things, had almost plunged his muzzle right into the bowl of hot soup. She got his attention by gently tugging upon his ear, which Lamp saw when she looked over. What she saw next surprised her a great deal; creeping realisation, a slow-but-steady understanding of what just took place. The housekeeper was huffing and puffing into the colt's soup and his eyes lit up with gratitude.
Extending his scrawny neck, the colt nuzzled Miss Combes' muzzle.
The housekeeper's ears twitched in such a way that her knitted cap slipped right off and fell down to the table—but thankfully not into the bowl of soup. Her sides heaved as she huffed one final time, and then she just stood there. Little by little, her mane tumbled down around her face. As for the colt, he kept his muzzle close to hers and just sort of smiled with his eyes half-closed.
"Yer such a sweet little guyo," Miss Combes muttered. "So trusting. How are ye so trusting? Somepony clearly 'urt ye… but ye dinnae seem at all skittish. Ye can't 'ear a word I'm saying to ye, but I think you like it that I'm talking to ye. Mind yer soup, colt. It's 'ot."
"My housekeeper seems a little—"
"One more word ye gasgape and I'll give yer neck a right-good wringing." She sat down near the colt, scooted closer, and then armed herself with a spoon. "I'm still a mare, Ficklewick. Ne'er forget that. Foaling may 'old no appeal, it doesn't mean I 'ate them or don't want them around, ye ken. Though… most of them are coddled brats and I can't stand them."
"I like seeing this side of you, Miss Combes."
Somewhat mollified—perhaps even a bit embarrassed—she replied, "Well, thank ye."
"Now… where was I? The prosperity problem? No… no, that does not seem right. Oh, right. Right. The Waking Nightmare. We shall get to the prosperity problem. Now where do I begin?"
The old stallion lifted his spoon, gazed at his own reflection in the curved surface, and then seemed to recoil from what he saw. Meanwhile, Lamp inhaled the curls of savoury steam rising from her bowl, and she rather enjoyed her stomach's visceral, savage response. Across the table, Miss Combes fed the deaf-mute colt with a spoon—which clearly confused him. It was obvious that he'd never eaten from a spoon before—much less had somepony try to feed him—and he cast a confused, cross-eyed stare on the loaded spoon held before his fuzzy lip.
Rather than bite, he blew on the spoon.
For Lamp, this was new, novel, she could not remember a time like this in her life. Was this what family was like? There was a warmth here that did not come from the fire, or the soup for that matter. Canterlot's cold chill had no power within these walls. The awareness of it made her eyes sting tremendously, but she somehow held herself together. Quite by accident, she had led herself and her companion here—but this was the right place to be. Fate? Destiny? Serendipitous happenstance? Something greater? The room blurred as the pain in her eyeballs became a searing heat.
"Miss Combes, I must protest—"
"What'd I do?" she demanded whilst the colt blew on the spoon held before him.
"I do believe there is too much onion or garlic in the soup. It's eye-watering—"
"Stuff a neep in yer soup spout, ye crank! Don't tease!"
Somehow, even though it felt as though her heart and face were breaking, Lamp smiled.
"I was attempting to protect the young mare's dignity. 'Tis better to blame the soup." Then, to Lamp he said, "Dear, do you need a moment?"
"I'm fine," she somehow managed to say, though she did not recognise the sound of her own voice, which was rather like a rusty hinge of a door left to swing in the wind.
"The Waking Nightmare," Ficklewick began as he crumbled up his wedge of cheese and plopped the pieces into his soup. "Wait… before we discuss the Waking Nightmare, do you know of collective channeling, young miss?"
Lamp did not; she feared saying so however, because it would certainly make her appear uneducated, or worse, ignorant. Nervous, she mimicked Ficklewick and started to crumble pieces of her cheese into her soup. From what little she knew about him, she knew that he valued honesty. After working up her courage, and swallowing her pride, she had her answer.
"I know nothing."
"Ah, honesty over pride. Remarkable. Remarkable indeed." The sage old senior equine nodded his approval. "Collective channeling is how unicorns would move the sun and moon, or cast complex spells. It is a great strength… and a terrible weakness. One that Nightmare Moon would exploit. The ability for our minds to link together to form a single stream of focused magic. The Waking Nightmare is the primary reason why the Magus' Circle wishes to outlaw collective channeling. Oh my… this is rapidly becoming remarkably complicated. There is just so much that has to be understood before one can truly comprehend the Waking Nightmare."
"There's a lot to understand just to be a unicorn," Miss Combes said as she slipped the spoon into the colt's mouth. When she pulled it out, soup dribbled down his chin and she frowned while she made every effort to scrape it clean with the spoon. "I just scrubbed yer face. At least make an effort to be clean, wee guyo."
The deaf-mute colt blinked once, licked his lips, smeared the mess everywhere, and then waited patiently for another spoonful. Ficklewick watched all of this, evidently distracted by the whole affair, and after being completely absorbed by it for a considerable length of time, he returned his attention to Lamp. Lifting his spoon, he opened up his mouth, and then said absolutely nothing, nothing at all.
"The Waking Nightmare, ye scatterbrained old goat."
"Oh… right. I was about to explain collective channeling. I think. Was I?"
When the last bit of cheese fell into her soup, Lamp armed herself with a spoon—which she had never used before. Never once. Determined to not make a fool of herself, she waited, and she watched. When the others ate, she would observe them, and then do whatever it was that they did. It seemed simple enough. This meal wasn't scraps, and it wasn't stolen, so she was going to enjoy it.
Brows furrowed, ears down, his face sagging as if pulled down by some great weight, Ficklewick appeared much older. After a sigh and a prolonged inhalation, he began: "Princess Luna could go into the minds of others as they lay dreaming. The realm of dreams is abstract and mysterious, but that is a topic for another time. What is important for our discussion is that she had access to the minds of so many, and with these minds, she created the Waking Nightmare.
"Princess Luna became Nightmare Moon by harnessing the magic of so many… at least this is believed to be the case. Nopony knows for certain, and Princess Luna is no longer around so that she might be made to explain herself. But she harnessed the minds of a great many unicorns so that she could overpower her sister and be rid of the sun. These dreaming minds, vulnerable, were open to all manner of exploitation.
"The weakest, those with little magic, became generators for the creeping darkness. Nightmare Moon used them to subsume the light. Those who had a little strength, they projected the dreamscape into the waking world, so that the two realms began to overlap with one another. This caused a sort of delirium, even in those still awake, and the weak-minded fell prey to illusion. The nightmare became a reality, in a manner of speaking.
"As for the strongest unicorns however, they became… well, gates, for lack of a better description. Conduits. They allowed the nightmarish monsters of the dream realm to escape into our world. Nightmare Moon's shrieking host. Once free, they began to kill… to devour. Inadvertently, unicorns did great harm, though it wasn't their fault. The other ponies… the earth ponies and the pegasus ponies, they had no choice but to defend themselves.
"And so they did. Left with no other choice, they began to kill slumbering unicorns in an effort to break Nightmare Moon's horrific spell. It was an awful thing to have happened, but necessary, I suppose. What choice did they have?" He shook his head, closed his eyes, sighed, then opened his eyes so that he might look at Lamp.
"Of course, there were also unicorns such as yourself. Princess Celestia's Little Lights. Though the ways and means are not fully understood, somehow the light that you and your kind cast banished the darkness and broke the spell. The Waking Nightmare had no power in the islands of illumination created by you and your kind. I do believe that Miss Combes has made you somewhat aware of your nature, Lamp."
It was too much to take in and Lamp was left flummoxed.
"There is much distrust now. The other ponies just sort of expect more nightmares to leap out of sleeping unicorns. And naturally, understandably, sleeping unicorns worry a great deal about not waking up. Nopony wants to talk about it, and rather wishes the whole thing could just be forgotten. If hearthfire was the blessing of our age, the Waking Nightmare is… well, whatever is the opposite of a blessing. But this is only part of our troubles, and I've dedicated my life to understanding all of it."
For the first time in her life, Lamp understood just how valuable her light was to her caretakers. Not just to keep the darkness away, as she had grown up believing—but perhaps to protect others around them. They were powerful enough to be dangerous, she figured. They had just enough magical oomph to be problematic. Was she a means of peace of mind for them? Maybe they weren't the most awful of sorts as she believed. If they were to become a wellspring of nightmares, would her light keep others safe? For the first time, she saw what she believed might be both sides of the issue, and an entirely new horizon opened up before her.
Lamp—a foal that had been shown little empathy in her short life—now had a keen awareness of it for others. Such as her companion. For Miss Combes, who doted upon the colt, spoon feeding him and wiping his chin. The awareness of this new thing, this newfound state of being, it was overwhelming—but it was also empowering. Something stirred within the edges of her consciousness, and she understood that this was a part of her nature. To illuminate. To shine light on all things, both physical and metaphorical. Light and enlightenment. A means to banish darkness of all types.
Her young body responded to this sudden influx of power and understanding in the only manner which it could: she hiccuped rather violently. Covering her mouth with her hoof, she sat there and just allowed everything to sink in. This morning, she was a filly that had escaped through the window and now… now she wanted to make windows to let the light in. The spoon held aloft in her magical aura trembled, but did not fall.
"This is not an insurmountable problem, so take heart. This can be overcome. I have a plan. I know how to fix this. Friendship is the answer… but for that to happen, a few things must change first. If friendship is a flower, then fertile fields are needed. These fields have been sown with salt, but I am confident that things can be set right. Before she passed, Clover showed me the way. She told me what must be done… and surely there is no pony more clever than Clover. She went into one of her fugue states and spoke prophecy."
"Oh, 'ere we go—"
"Miss Combes, please, hold your tongue on this matter." Then, to Lamp, he said, "Clover spoke of many things. I understand none of them, because, as I have stated, I am not as clever as Clover. She predicted that the Windigos would come, that the sea would freeze over to form a bridge, and that the three tribes would become as one. Her prognostications are… well, rather cryptic and I suppose you could say that they are open to interpretation. Some of them are downright baffling, while others seem somewhat straightforward, at least upon first inspection."
"Yer the best friend that Clover could've 'oped for, I s'pose. Her work was just too great to finish in one lifetime… and the same can be said for ye, Ficklewick. Ye'll never see the end result. Just 'ow do ye live with it? Would drive me barmy. I mean, I'm trying to make my life as long as possible just so I can get my work done and see it to completion."
"We must trust in friendship, Miss Combes," was Ficklewick's patient response.
It occurred to Lamp that a spoon was just a tiny bowl on a stick.
"Clover stated that when the twitterlight hour comes 'round at last, two sisters torn asunder will become as one." After fishing a lump of potato out of his soup, Ficklewick sat squinting down at it. "Mind you, this was before Nightmare Moon and the Waking Nightmare." Peering out from beneath his overhanging brows, he carefully nibbled on the spoonborne spud with his lips peeled back from his broad teeth.
"But… how could Clover possibly know this?" asked Miss Combes, who wore a sour expression of intense doubt.
"Clover died, Miss Combes. Consumed by the ice. The Ice of Apathy, the very opposite of the Fires of Friendship. It stopped her heart. She was dead, make no mistake about that. Hearthfire revived her. Gave her life. She was touched by it and it changed her. Profoundly. I suspect that it is also the source of her visions. Though she already had the gift of foresight, of prognostication, what she endured transmuted it in ways I cannot comprehend. Clover was a vessel. Perhaps a messenger. Death changes a pony, for better or worse. There's no coming back… not without consequences. The price for Clover's restoration was her fugue states and her cryptic utterances."
"Nopony took them seriously… 'cept for ye."
"What sort of friend would I be if I did not believe her?"
"Some ponies go sick in the mind, Ficklewick. Do ye believe them?"
In response, Ficklewick said nothing, but slurped his soup. Lamp made her first attempt and somehow managed to get the spoon and most of its contents into her mouth, with only a little that trickled down her chin. As for the soup itself, Lamp didn't know what to think of it—there was too much to taste all at once and her senses were overloaded. It warmed her belly, soothed her throat, and made her feel rather sleepy.
"While my question has merit, I'm glad that ye did believe her, Ficklewick. Yer the only pony I know that is actually doing something—anything to make things better. Everypony else is arguing 'bout this and that. The Circle… one day the Circle will make talking about the problem a crime, ye mark my words." She sighed, her ears fell backwards into her mane, and she shook her head in some vague resigned way. "Even if it be a fool's errand, I'm glad yer the fool. I might question, but I am behind ye on this journey, no matter where it takes us."
Saying nothing, the old stallion nodded in his housekeeper's direction.
"I was still young and stupid when ye took me in," Miss Combes continued. "Thought I 'ad life figured out. Thought I 'ad ye figured out. I was scared, let me tell ye. I'd 'eard all kinds of stories on how lords dealt with the 'elp. You've been nothing but good to me. Ye've shown me extraordinary kindness at a time when there's been little kindness to spare. And I s'pose I'm saying this 'cause Lamp needs to 'ear it. I've known ye long enough to know that ye'll not let her slip away." The housekeeper turned to Lamp, and added, "Tell'im what ye told me, Lamp. About yer magic. Tell'im what 'appened. If 'e believed Clover, then trust that 'e'll believe ye."
"Magic?"
Suddenly, the full weight of Ficklewick's intense scrutiny pinned Lamp in place.
"Did something happen?" he asked, and he was no longer an absent-minded old dotard. The dramatic shift showed that he was commanding and in full control of himself. "Tell me. Do not be shy or scared. I will not doubt you, young one. You have too much to lose if you lie to me."
It was true and Lamp knew it, not that she had any intentions of lying.
"When I saved him—"
"Saved him? Saved him from what?"
Unsure of what to say, or where to even begin her tale, Lamp decided that she would just plow ahead. After all, more details could be given in time. Miss Combes could pull out everything that happened so Ficklewick could study it. With this in mind, she chose the direct, straightforward approach when she started over.
"When I saved him, something happened. It was cold. I was cold. The cold was different. He was cold and it was like all the heat was getting sucked out of my body. Nopony helped us. Nopony helped him. Nopony did anything to save him. And there was this cold on the inside… inside my body." She sucked in a deep breath. "Then I got mad. I got mad and it got hot. And my horn lit up and my light spell happened and it was hot. My light was hot. Then I had a buncha thoughts about alotta things like what light means and the cold went away."
"I see," said Ficklewick, who now seemed pensive.
"I decided that I couldn't go home. I had to grow up and do right. Somehow I knew everything I had to do but I had no idea how to do it. It felt very unfair but I knew what needed to be done and so I came here to the First Quarter for a bit of a burgle."
"Light and heat." Head tilted off to the right, Ficklewick seemed lost in thought.
"She and I discussed this," Miss Combes said to Ficklewick. "I knew that ye'd want to know."
Intrigued, Lamp slurped up a spoonful of soup and only made a minor mess of things.
"It sounds as if she had some sort of re-affirmation of her talent… and possibly an alteration as well." Nostrils flaring wide with every breath, Ficklewick appeared somewhat strained by the heavy cogitation he engaged in. "Friendship is a magic all its own and it… it changes things. The fires of friendship function like a forge. It remakes a creature anew. Or it awakens what is already there. I am not entirely sure. I shall need to examine the memory if I am to make sense of it. That is, if you will permit me, my dear. I would be indebted to you. Such a thing would be of utmost importance to my research. This might very well be the closest thing to proof that I have found."
Lamp made another attempt upon her soup's life and this time, she got more of it into her mouth than on her chin. The soup, being soup, steamed in protest but could do nothing, for such was the way of soup. When she stabbed it with her spoon, piercing the congealed soup skin, she could not help but notice just how gooey it had become because of the cheese.
"Light and heat together. I can only think of one other pony that can do that."
"Princess Celestia," Miss Combes said as she got another spoonful of hot soup into the deaf-mute colt.
"If Nightmare Moon had won," Lamp said around a mouthful of soft potato, "and the world was forever-dark, I would've needed a way to keep warm. It might've been there all along and just woke up today."
"Remarkable," Ficklewick remarked in a deadpan manner most unremarkable.
"We need to study the other Little Lights. Feels like I'm repeating meself."
"Miss Combes, that would most certainly get the attention of the Circle. Which we do not want."
Annoyed, the acerbic housekeeper frowned so hard that the colt recoiled. Immediately, her face softened, and she began cooing to console Lamp's startled companion. He was quick to recover though, mostly because Miss Combes had the spoon. Across the table, Lamp watched the pair and even as her heart warmed, she worried about the Circle. Just this morning the Circle was a fabled place, a pleasant daydream—but was now something dangerous and worrisome.
"So how do we make things better?" asked Lamp. "How do we fix this? How do I help?"
"A filly in need of aid herself eager to help others." Long neck somewhat bent, Ficklewick plopped his spoon into his bowl of soup and then just sat there studying Lamp. For a moment, it appeared as though he might say something, but before the words could escape he began to chew his bottom lip. Then, after a bit of chewing, he asked, "So you really wish to help?"
"For a light to shine," she replied, "it must be seen."
"Oh my. Remarkable. So if a light shines and nopony is there to see it, is it darkness?"
"I dunno," Lamp replied. "This got stuck in my noggin earlier, along with a buncha other stuffs."
"Meditation upon your talent and magic in general will reveal much," said Ficklewick. "The problems we face now are not just Nightmare Moon's aftermath. Though, it is quite easy to blame our misfortunes upon her and the tragedy that she caused. If only it were so simple." He paused long enough to offer up a sad shake of his head. "No… the real trouble, the source problem lies with us. Our natures. What we think and what we do. Our behaviours. For this problem, there is but one solution: friendship."
Lamp waited patiently for him to explain and she watched with pricked ears as he had himself a spoonful of still-steaming soup. She too had a careful bite and as she chewed up a mouthful of soft root vegetables, she attempted to make sense of what he'd said. Her life up to this point was not one of meaningful conversation and this experience—the whole of it—let her know what she was missing.
"Desperation is a disease," Ficklewick began. "Nightmare Night left behind a plague of desperation. There are many symptoms of desperation, such as poverty and disparity. An overabundance of need but a critical shortage of provision. These conditions breed apathy, which I suppose are the very conditions that brought about the Windigo Winter. When faced with these conditions, ponies behave in a manner most predictable.
"Life becomes every pony for themselves. Compassion withers. Ponies steadfastly stick with what they know—and what they know looks an awful lot like themselves. What I mean by that is that tribalism flourishes in this environment, these circumstances. If ponies deign to help others at all, they will likely only help those most like themselves. This goes beyond tribe and applies to social stratification as well. The wealthy remain blissfully unaware of the impoverished, though almsgiving has become something of a fad as of late."
He paused, glanced around, his brows deeply furrowed, and then said, "There's no bread."
"I didn't bake any today," Miss Combes replied.
"What am I supposed to dunk into my soup?"
"Well, 'ow's 'bout yer head?"
"You there!" Ficklewick's head swiveled about in a vaguely disturbing way so that he could peer out from beneath his eyebrows at Lamp. "Can you bake bread?"
"I could learn," she offered. "I think I'd like that."
"I'll keep that in mind." With his response, he cast a scathing bit of side-eye in his housekeeper's direction. "Bread exists so that it might be dunked into soup and soup exists to have bread dunked into it. This is the natural order of things and we upset this order at our own peril."
"I was busy with guests," Miss Combes said as she returned some side-eye. "This colt needed a bath."
"It occurs to me that bathing and soup are remarkably similar with the difference being how long you allow something to simmer in hot water and—"
"Are ye suggesting I almost turned yon colt into soup, ye crank?"
"I am suggesting that you could. Just prolong the bath time and season with soap."
"Fickle, 'ave ye taken leave of yer senses?"
"If you sit in a hot bath for too long you come out looking rather stewed—"
"You were trying to explain something important to Lamp! Focus, ye daft dotard!"
"I was?" He blinked. "Oh, right. I was. Where was I? Right. In the middle of explaining my theory about how bathing and soup are related—"
"Ficklewick!"
"What?"
"Yer a right mess, ye crackpot."
"Should bread be dunked into bathwater?" asked Lamp.
"Dinnae encourage 'im, Lamp! Oh, woe is me, this'll end badly if it ends at all!"
"That's an excellent question. One for rumination. Such a smart filly, asking the right questions." Now, more than ever, Ficklewick seemed distracted and he studied Lamp with a critical eye. "Like relates to like. You and I can relate to one another through my budding theory about the interconnected relation between bathwater and soup. Other ponies have trouble connecting to one another because they have so little in common. That's our problem as ponies. I work to fix that. Thinkism offers a solution."
Sides heaving, a long sigh of resignation wheezed out of Miss Combes.
"A happy pony is an open-minded pony," said Ficklewick, who ignored the fierce scowl aimed at him from his grouchy housekeeper. "A pony with a full belly and a safe place to sleep at night is a brave pony. A pony more likely to try new things. So if we want to become one tribe, we must eliminate what separates us, be rid of the sources of division, and ponies must be prosperous and happy. We must all become as equals, and therein lies the impossible problem. The insurmountable issue that I do not know how to overcome."
"And that is?" asked Lamp.
"Ponies do not want to be equals," Ficklewick replied. "Leaving tribe out of this, we shall focus on factors other than wings, a horn, or the lack thereof. The wealthy need the poor to feel wealthy. The poorer and more impoverished the lower classes are, the wealthy are better off by comparison. Making the destitute better off poses a real threat to the wealthy… and my efforts have been thwarted at every turn."
"I don't understand," said Lamp, who could not make sense of anything.
"If we help the poor, then somehow we take away from the rich. We take from them what makes them feel special, the very thing that gives them a sense of purpose in their lives and—"
"Take it anyway." Struggling to comprehend, Lamp dropped her spoon into her soup with a splash. "Take it all."
"So says the burglar."
"Miss Combes, if you please." He cleared his throat. "If we are to have unity, then all must be happy and none must feel slighted. This includes ponies who have everything as well as those who have nothing. We must come together somehow for a common cause."
"I've gots nothing but I still helped him," Lamp said whilst she pointed at her companion with her extended hoof.
"That makes you an extraordinary exception, my dear. Which is why you are here, in my home, supping upon the bathwater of potatoes. And I suppose that brings us to my intentions. I wish to study you and your interactions with your friend. There's a curious whiff of destiny to all of this. I would very much like to have some insight into its whims."
Lamp knew it was coming, but was still surprised by it. Her ears fell back and the weight of the entire world threatened to bend her neck. She'd escaped through a window earlier, and now, another window opened, another means of escape. The back of her mind quietly suggested that light enters through open windows, and she had to fight so she wouldn't be distracted by the brain tickle brought about by this realisation.
"You want me to stay?"
"You and your companion," was his response.
It was now difficult to draw breath, but somehow, Lamp managed.
"I will ask little of you. Just that you stay and allow me to study you. A bit of conversation at supper. I wish to know how your friendship changes you. Challenges you. If you allow me this opportunity, I will allow you to stay. Nothing else will be expected of you. However, should you choose to help Miss Combes keep house, you will be compensated with a bit of coin."
"If ye 'elp me ye'll be more than compensated,'' Miss Combes said to Lamp. "I'll teach ye magic. Ye'll get a proper education. Ficklewick needs more than a test subject, ye ken. The importance of his work cannae be put into words." She gestured at the liquid library, then to the deaf-mute colt, and then her foreleg came to rest upon the edge of the table. "There's too much work for any one pony."
All of the words she wanted to say backed up in her throat and nothing came out. She swallowed, but the metaphorical lump remained stuck. Up to this point in her life, she had functioned as a lamp in exchange for the bare minimum required for her continued existence. This was considerably more; this was work traded for a life. Not just her own life, but the life of her companion as well. He would be provided for; beyond that, he might even be loved, if Miss Combes' affections were any indication.
This was more than she could have ever hoped for. More than she had dreamed of. Growing up had always been a hazy concept. One day, she would be an adult, and she would be free. She had daydreams about what that meant, but no real understanding of how it would happen. A simple act of kindness and compassion had changed the outcome of her life—and the life of her companion as well.
"Friendship is a stone thrown into a pond. I believe that it is chaotic harmony. Destiny might very well mean predetermined rolls of the dice, a pre-established outcome. When we are born, the events of our life are arranged in such a way that leads us down a predestined series of events. But friendship… I believe that friendship allows for a fresh roll of the dice. Circumstances and events change because we are not alone. Had you come alone today, there might have been a very different outcome. If you had come at all. Without him, you might not have had reason to do so. Mind you, this is what I believe, and I have absolutely nothing to back up my assertions. What I have… are hunches, and nothing more."
Still in need of an answer—even though she knew what she would say—Lamp turned to look at the colt. He had no voice. No means to say yes or no. It was unfair to him, but that was just the way that life was. Somepony had to be his voice and speak for him. She had been in the right place at the right time. Had she not climbed out the window, he might very well be a splat smeared along the cart track. Perhaps Ficklewick was right; friendship changed the outcome of things. Maybe, just maybe, it had been the colt's fate to die this day. By changing the outcome of events—by allowing him to live—her own life had been changed profoundly.
Or maybe not.
Still, the thoughts persisted and her mind struggled to grasp them.
Saying yes would change everything in ways that she could not even conceive. Not just her life, but his life. There were quite a number of deaf-mutes around and none of them had good lives—though deaf-mute unicorns still had magic. The potion seller that sold curatives was deaf and dumb, a condition much bemoaned by the lady of the house. Whenever there was a cough, an earache, or a weepy, snotty eye in the household, the lady of the house had to go and barter with a pony that could neither hear nor speak.
Lamp had barely ever made decisions for herself; now she lived for two.
Answering wasn't as easy as she thought—though it seemed like such a simple thing to do. It lingered on her tongue, just a word or two and this dilemma would be solved. But getting to her tongue was the problem, because her response was stuck in her mind, like a crust of bread too stale, too dry, too tough to swallow.
"What if my caretakers come to claim me?" she asked. "What becomes of him?"
Ficklewick and Miss Combes exchanged a glance, a silent exchange made with the eyes. While Ficklewick seemed thoughtful, Miss Combes was visibly angry, as if offended by the very notion. She leaned in closer to the colt, grimaced gratuitously, and jammed a spoonful of soup into his muzzle. At that moment, Miss Combes was at her grumpiest, and she was downright scary.
As Lamp shivered in fear, she heard Ficklewick say, "You would be gainfully employed. Your caretakers would have no claim. Gainful employment of any form breaks the juvenile bond system we have created for dealing with felonious wastrel waifs."
"I get into trouble," Lamp said as some embarrassment warmed her cheeks. "Arrested. More than once. More than a few times. I'm not wanted on the streets or in the market 'cause I'm good at what I do and I make the Watch chase me." While she did feel just a little shame, she felt far more pride at this moment. "I laugh at them when they stop to wheeze."
"Well, imagine that," Ficklewick said in a dry deadpan. "If I asked you to misappropriate something for me—"
"Fickle!"
"Yeah, prolly."
"Lamp!"
Both ponies turned to look at Miss Combes, but it was Ficklewick that said, "I was testing her." Then, he turned his deadpan eyebrows upon the filly. "Naughty girl."
She couldn't tell if he was serious—his expression and tone of voice made it impossible.
"I have in my employ a pony that is both a magician and a soldier in her own right. A burglar might also be useful—"
"Ficklewick!"
"I am thinking aloud, mare!" His nostrils flared, he inhaled, and then his eyebrows lifted just a little. "Stealing from the citizens of Canterlot shall not be tolerated. However"—he reached up and rubbed his chin with his hoof—"there are monster dens on the mountain. Vile creatures that steal and rob. I would feel bad sending Miss Combes alone… but with a burglar…"
"Ficklewick, what're ye getting at?"
"There is wealth to be had and it seems like a shame to leave it. Irresponsible, even. Think of it as an errand, like going out to pick up a peck of potatoes. But it might be a bit more harrowing than going beyond the wall to the market. It just so happens to be a dangerous business going out your door."
"Ficklew—"
"Just imagine the bonds of friendship forged by sharing in what is sure to be such a catastrophe."
"There it is!" Miss Combes crowed. "Ye've gone and revealed yerself."
"You do not get along with other ponies, Miss Combes. I spent more than a little time dropping the eaves whilst upstairs. But you seemed to form a bond with Lamp right away."
"Other ponies are a buncha suet-brains and I cannae stand to breathe the same air as them."
"I'd like to stay," Lamp said before the conversation drifted off to some faraway place from whence there was no return.
"Lamp's not coddled or entitled," Miss Combes said to Ficklewick, seemingly oblivious to Lamp's quiet interjection. "She's taken her lumps. Just like I did. She's no shirker and she doesn't shy away."
"Suet-brains… is that not… organ fat, Miss Combes?"
"Fickle, I was weaned 'round griffons."
"Right. Right." Then, without skipping a beat, he said to Lamp, "Lovely, dear. There is a room upstairs. A spare room. It is rather small, I fear, but it is warm and pleasant enough I suppose. Miss Combes uses it as a workshop and a sewing room. There is no bed, but I will procure one as soon as possible. In the meantime, you can sleep here, in the common room. There are cushions and the fire is—"
"No!" Miss Combes bonked her hoof against the table.
"Miss Combes seems to have an objection," Ficklewick remarked.
"I 'ave a 'uge bed." A dry swallow could be heard from Miss Combes. "When you bought that bed, Ficklewick, I was terrified by my own imagined implications." She quieted for a moment, her eyes turned somewhat glassy, and her scowl became a straight line—which was distinctly different than a smile, it should be noted. "The colt and Lamp can sleep with me. I dinnae mind."
Nodding, Ficklewick seemed pleased. "Well, that's settled then."
"Lamp, do ye burgle blankets?"
"I've never had blankets," she replied. "Or a bed."
"Crivens! Och! Feck!"
"Miss Combes! That vulgar vernacular! That profane provincialism! Cease your outburst!"
"The colt is deaf, Ficklewick, and Lamp 'as surely 'eard worse."
"But what of my ears?" he demanded.
"With all that earwax, 'tis a miracle you can 'ear at all," the housekeeper replied.
"Can you live with this madness?" asked Ficklewick. "Miss Combes and I… we are not like other ponies. But I suppose you figured that out for yourself when we invited you in for supper. I for one think it will be delightful to have you here, my dear."
"Thank you… for everything." She wanted to say more, but what? How could she possibly put it all into words? This kindness, this generous behaviour was unlike anything else she had experienced in her life and at a loss for words, a single tear somehow managed to escape the burning confines of her eyes.
As it meandered down her cheek, Ficklewick said, "Eat your soup, dear. Welcome home."
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I am certainly eager to find out what happens to Lamp and her as yet un-named companion.
I also have the urge to see if I can get some good, mature Stilton...
Kudz.
I must protest, I have Rheumatoid arthritis and have spent my morning filing brass as a bolster for a knife I am building. As such my hands are quite sore.
You have further exacerbated the pain by leaving me hanging by my fingertips from a cliff with the tease of a possible double posting.
I must politely demand you ease the pain you have worsened and post that epilogue post haste.
"Recuperate" is not the same word as "retaliate."
10689326
Retaliate is not the same word as recover.
10689331 Ah. So it was a deliberate redundancy. My mistake.
Yeah, let me stop a little here, take a deep breath and try to restart my hearth after this complete adorable scene presented. Damn awesome story making feelings everywhere!
Who doesn’t love some chicken bath water? Scootaloo probably, however the show never revealed if she had qualms with cannibalism. So you never know...
You do foals so well!Jitterbug is another of my favorites wonder what ever happened to her.