Brighteyes felt just awful.
His mane clung to his neck, heavy with sweat, and everything from the tip of his horn to his hind hooves ached, even muscles and organs he had not known he had. He took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his fetlock. It was not that the work was difficult, quite the contrary and he enjoyed it, but the duration was gnawing on his concentration.
The final hours of darkness were passing in a rapid fashion, and he had drunken more coffee during this night than in his entire life before. It made him tremulous, and his telekinesis had obtained an unhealthy jitter to it. Right now, he was waiting for a new batch of messages to be finished, which he then was going to sort by location, importance and length to pass to the ponies writing the tiny notes that were going to be attached to carrier pigeons.
Many of the longer commands required to be written in normal size and then shrunken down with magic, only the most important ones though, since there was still much work left and the unicorns’ magic was a precious good that was not to be wasted on the more trivial notes. Others might need special paper and enchantments to protect them and the birds against the forces of nature. He was the runner, or rather strutter – this still was Canterlot - of the group that dealt with Baltimare, and in its current disassembled state it was not guaranteed that weather schedules were kept. The risk of wild thunderstorms was quite high.
Beside him, Tea Treat was weaving several spells of aversion, protection and enhancement into one that they would be needing soon while he sipped a cup of Celestial Glory tea. It had been quite surprising to find out that the quiet pony with the tea glass cutie mark had been educated at one of the best schools of magic that the Grittish Isles had to offer. Remembering Tea’s light orbs from earlier though, it seemed plausible. He had picked up on the intricacies of carrier pigeon enchanting in a trice.
Brighteyes, while not as magical as his neighbor and only taught in the magic of his craft and status, had long years of practice on the subject, and prided himself that every pigeon he had ever sent had reached its destination in tip top shape. Most of the times, this destination were his wife and his friend when they were roaming the wilderness of Equestria.
Attempting to ease the aches in his body, he rose to his shaky hooves, stretched and began pacing up and down a small adjacent hallway to prepare his muscles for another round of fast strutting. The castle was even larger than it looked from the outside, and he had only been in a tiny part of it.
He saw Tiffin prance by with trays of coffee and light tidbits balanced on her head and back in practiced perfection, doing what she did best – keeping the hard working ponies of Canterlot awake and well-fed. Within a few hours, the mare had taken over a kitchenette and whipped up batches of snacks that she promised would boost the mental facilities. With a professional smile and an impish gleam in her eyes she passed out cups of coffee to individuals that in everyday life would be offended into a boycott by even being reminded of the menu option of the black bean juice.
As he paced, he couldn’t keep his mind of the state of Manehattan. He had tried so hard to avoid any distraction, any thought of it. He had assigned the Treat Siblings and himself to a city they had no relation to so pesky feelings wouldn’t get in the way of effectivity. But there still were rumors about what was going on in detail. Some ponies just could not keep their mouths shut and focus on their work.
They said that Princess Luna prepared for leaving Canterlot for Manehattan soon. How they knew, he had no idea. But something terrible must have happened if the Night Lady herself wanted to get involved. Manehattan had no light, no heating and no social structure at the moment. There probably had been fights. Riots. Panic. And the two of the ponies closest to him were caught up in it.
It was not that they weren’t talented. He had seen Peafowl run – he was fast. And the pegasus had had to run often during their foal days, mostly from those that he had offended by being an obnoxious wisecracker.
Scramble Patch was in no way inferior. She had climbed most of the summits that Equestria offered and lived to tell the tale. When they were teenagers, a tour around the cliffs of the Canterhorn had been her morning walk. And what was Manehattan other than a collection of mountains made of brick and glass with ginormous streets that cut through them like ravines? He just hoped her senses weren’t thrown off by the material differences.
And she was not very gentle towards those who hurt the innocent. During the changeling attack of Canterlot, one of the invaders had made the mistake of stalking two little fillies. After a warning blow, Scramble Patch had ended the insect with one solid swing of her climbing axe and brought the little ones to safety.
Brighteyes had never told her, as she had been devastated about the quietus afterwards, but it had been one of the most arousing things he had ever witnessed. Even now, it sent the funniest feelings through his tired body, and he was glad that he wore a long frock coat. Full body blushes were quite the embarrassing affair when one had a white pelt.
Maybe he was never going to be able to tell her now. The thought of not seeing her again inflicted cold terror upon his mind. He would hire all of Canterlot, no, all of Equestria for his store if she just came home in one piece. Here he was, in safety, having fun sorting papers. She was probably hurt or worse, and there was nothing papers could do about it.
“Hey there, are you alright?” The voice behind him was warm and kind, and had just the faintest hint of a Broncs accent to it.
Brighteyes turned around, and his light blue eyes met the grey ones of future Prince Gosling. The tall pegasus stood before him in the perfect posture of a soldier, majestic, but not aloof. If he was tired, he was not showing it.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I was stretching my legs while waiting for new material. I’ll be back to my post right away,” Brighteyes said as he snapped into a stiff pose and forced himself into a steady breathing. He had to look terrible right now, sweaty, disheveled and with a bright red face. He did not want the future prince to think of him as weak, or worse, lazy.
To his relief, future Prince Gosling nodded after a short while. “If there’s anything, just ask.” The storm grey pegasus turned to walk away and added, “You’re all doing great. The sun’s rising soon, just a little longer.”
“Yes, sir.” Brighteyes relaxed a little as he watched the other stallion depart for what had to be the way to the battlements. He found that he felt a little better. What was it about pretty pegasi that was both irritating and comforting? Peafowl and future Prince Gosling both. For a moment, he wondered what might happen if the two stallions met, but did not come to a conclusion.
He did not know much about the future prince, only what he had read in the papers. Private Gosling was what, fifteen years old? More than ten years younger than Brighteyes, and he was already commanding an army of scribes in a major crisis. He was not letting his feelings get the better of him.
And her. She was out there. She was putting her life on the line for others. She did not sit around sulking and feeling sorry for herself. She took action for those who could not. Find the lost and aid the helpless. Her sweet voice rang in his ears. His wife, the bravest, most caring and most wonderful pony he had met in his whole life.
His ears folded down in shame for a brief second. This was not him, this was not him at all. Sulking and quitting was never an option. Scramble Patch would not have cast him a second glance if so. Well, alright, she would have. She was friendly to everypony. But a second glance would have been all for sure.
Taking a deep breath, he brushed back his mane and returned to the hall they were working in to check on his own pigeons. Some of them did not take transportation or the enchantments very well, and the thought that an underperforming bird could be the last nail in Equestria’s coffin was just too absurd to be allowed to happen.
The sun already stood in its zenith when a royal chariot traversed the city of Canterlot. Its three passengers looked like they had partaken in excessive festivities, they were tense, they were disheveled, and they longed for nothing more than for their bedchambers.
The first, a white unicorn, was determined to keep his eyes open for his group. He sat there, stiff as a board and unmoving, processing the happenings of the last day and night with no outside emotion.
The second, a lime green unicorn, looked like he wanted to crawl into a deep dark hole and never come out again. He had repurposed his shawl to a hood to shield his bloodshot eyes from the bright midday sun. But despite all exhaustion and him struggling to keep an upright posture, a small smile could be spotted on his muzzle.
The third, a caramel earth pony, watched them with concern, but knew both of them were too stubborn to do anything but, so she decided to enjoy the ride and the warmth of the sun on her pelt. The view on the royal guards who were pulling the vehicle was quite nice from back there, too.
“Mister Treat?”
“Sir?”
“I was asking myself-“
“Why I’m a waiter, not a wizard?” the second one asked, his voice strained and quiet. A moment later, he coughed and added, “Excuse my interruption, sir.”
“It’s alright. And, err, yes.” The first one rubbed his left foreleg with his right hoof. “It wasn’t meant critical, I’m just curios.”
The second one sighed. “My teachers told me to be as versatile as possible. Swim in a few ponds, do not dive deep into one headfirst. I did, it sounded logical.”
The first one nodded. It did sound logical.
“But Equestria is a little different from the Isles. Most employers want specialized unicorns or a graduate from Princess Celestia’s school, at least from what I encountered. I did not find my niche, so to speak. So when my sister finished her education in Las Pegasus, I decided to follow my mark instead. But that was selfish.”
The first one nodded again. “The future prince is onto something, isn’t he? A civil service in addition to the guard?”
“Yes, sir. I would not fit in the guard, I think.”
“Me neither.” The first one smiled, not without sorrow.
“You’re both pansies, but I love you, comrades,” the third one chimed and laughed.
The first one chuckled, a weak, exhausted sound. “Call me Brighteyes, you two.”
“Sure.”
“I would like that, si- I mean, Brighteyes.”
While he searched his coat’s pockets for the key to his front door, Brighteyes watched the Treat Siblings retreat into the privacy of their tea room. Tiffin was still giggling, she probably had drunken too much coffee as well, and to his surprise, it filled him with deep worry. Was that brotherly concern? He didn’t have any siblings, he could not tell.
Comrades, Tiffin had said. Maybe that was it. Was this how the guards felt for their brothers and sisters in arms? He found that if so, he rather liked the concept of comradery. With his optician colleagues, he only competed. Everypony, even he himself, kept secrets to surpass the others, despite their shared duty.
Turning the located key in the lock, he entered his shop and closed the door behind him. Remaining in the middle of the sales area, he relaxed from his stiff posture and leaned against his counter as fatigue threatened to take over.
It was quiet in the house. And it bothered him. He liked it when it was quiet, but this was unnatural, oppressive even. He found that he missed the little sounds that the other residing ponies made more than he liked to admit. The rhythmic tapping of Patch’s hooves on the parquet upstairs or her sometimes slate singing. Peafowl’s frantic pacing in the attic when he was in one of his manias.
A numb, pressuring sensation creeped up his throat to his jawbone, and for a moment, he wanted nothing more than to be with the siblings in the tea room across the street.
He shook it all off. He just needed rest, and so did Tea and Tiffin. Brighteyes moved to the back rooms of his store with slow steps. He did not trust himself to climb the narrow staircase to the apartment in his addled state, so he crawled into the big cushioned armchair in which his customers took place in during a fitting. Curling up against the soft back, he sighed, closed his eyes and tried to think of nothing.
To no success, as he immediately discovered. Images of destruction and violence flashed through his mind. A Manehattan in ruins. Ponies were screaming and panicking. Death was everywhere. And a small bloodied pinto mare was sobbing over the broken body of a pegasus stallion, only to fall limp herself moments later.
His head jerked up in fright and he opened his eyes again. Shivering, he took a few deep breaths, but the pressure in his throat and jaw remained. He now recognized the sensation and clenched his teeth. He did not cry. He hadn’t cried in years.
What if all that could have been was lost forever? They had wanted a family, foals both adopted and biological, they had agreed on that even before their betrothal, but there had always been some hindrance. First he had wanted to establish his store, a steady income, not just rely on his family’s money.
Then she had become a ranger, travelling the wilds of Equestria, and joined forces with an old friend of theirs. Missions, campaigns and assignments had followed hoof. And he had kept... making excuses. That’s all his worries had been. Laughable, pathetic excuses.
He felt tears fill his eyes as he curled up once again.