December 15th, 2035
Luna crouches low, her nostrils flaring with each heaving breath she takes. Each inhalation brings with it the fetid smell of rotting garbage and wet decay from the dumpster she’s currently hunched behind, overlaying the prevalent stale smell of smoke and damp char. Teal eyes wide, she peeks around the corner of the dark green and filth-grey steel container, her vision dancing down the dim alleyway, darting between the slowly rising streamers of steam and across the wetly reflective paving.
The sounds of distant destruction, of toppling masonry and crashing metal and terrified screams, rebound from the dingy brick and concrete buildings that line the alley, arriving at her ears as distorted, overlapping echoes. The low, scudding clouds overhead suddenly reflect a flare of diffuse orange light, off to her right, and after a moment the faraway, crumping boom of an explosion briefly washes out the ambient sounds of terror and death.
She’s got to keep going, she can’t get stuck here, can’t get bogged down… but they were so close behind her just a block ago. Where did they go? Did she finally lose them? She breaks her vigil, taking a moment to glance at the jagged gash that runs down the inside of her right foreleg. The bleeding has almost stopped, and the little drops of blood that stipple her dark fur have already dried.
She makes herself wait another three agonizing minutes, taking shallow, quick breaths, eyes darting and ears alert. She finally decides she’s safe for the moment. With a sigh she sags tiredly against the unpleasant side of the dumpster, her rump squelching as she sits on something disgusting. Her breathing is beginning to slow, her burning lungs finally allowed to glut themselves on precious, astringent oxygen. Luna assesses her situation, and begins planning out her next move.
She checks the small leather satchel affixed to the middle of her back, shifting her wings aside to make sure it’s still secured in place and sealed closed. That was the most important part; that was the thing that really mattered. Seeing that it’s still in place and tied closed, she glances down again, taking a second look at her leg. The gash is ugly, but seems to be superficial. The blood has finally clotted completely, and aside from some soreness in that limb she thinks she’ll be alright. Her hooves are a mess, chipped and pitted from her endless run across the city, but there aren’t any tender spots or cracks.
She shifts her wings, readjusting them and shooting an irritable look at the overcast sky. If she could only have flown... Her wings begin to unfurl in an unconscious gesture, but she shakes her head woefully, bringing them back against her body with an effort. It’s a foolish thought, and she knows it. The sky is theirs, now, and flying even at roof height is a death sentence. The Air Force had already tried, and everyone had witnessed the horrifyingly high cost of that particular lesson.
The remembrance brings with it an involuntary shudder, and she gives herself a little shake to dispel that dark memory. Her next step is to figure out where she is, and which way she has to go to get to the garage. Dad and Tia will be waiting for her, and they need to see what’s in the leather pouch. It could change everything.
She resumes watching the alley mouth for any movement, while her mind tries to recall the crazy, zigzagging path she took as she fled from the police precinct. From the distance comes the rapid staccato of heavy gun fire, the dull, heavy thudding of what must be a large caliber weapon rising above the general din of a city being consumed. It abruptly cuts off, causing her ear to twitch unconsciously.
Retracing her madcap flight in her mind, she’s certain she headed generally south, along the wharf until the way was blocked. She distinctly remembers turning up and crossing Adama Avenue, the once lush park where it intersected Roslin Parkway a blazing inferno, the surrounding streets choked with the smoldering husks of dead military vehicles, passenger cars and the nauseating stench of charred meat and scorched metal. After that she’d cut through a construction yard, dodging between skeletal girders, abandoned equipment and half assembled sections of drywall. She’d had a close call there, one of many since this nightmare night began, but had managed to duck through a partially completed drainage culvert, over another road, and around the corner into this alley.
Glancing at her surroundings, she can just make out a soot streaked sign bolted to the back of one of the buildings by the alley entrance; Asian Express. That just so happened to be one of her favorite places for takeout. There were two in the city, the other along the northern highway, heading out of town. Since she’d gone south, that would make this Market Street, which would mean that the garage was only six or seven blocks east of here, and two blocks north along Lakeshore Drive.
She was almost there.
With a resolute breath, she regains her hooves, taking a moment to stretch each leg individually, trying to loosen up her aching muscles. She’s going to need to move quickly. She glances at the slice of sky visible between the grimy buildings that hem in either side of the narrow lane, and then steps out from behind the dumpster. Distantly, from further south, she can hear an erratic, high pitched whump whump whumping sound, and she glances back in that direction. It sounds sort of like a helicopter. She frowns at the noise, before dismissing it from her mind. They must still be trying to evacuate people from the south side of town, God bless them.
She moves slowly towards the mouth of the alley, sticking to the edges and trying to use the languorously rising streamers of steam to obscure her movements. As she reaches the entrance she hears a clatter of falling brick, and immediately hugs the wall to her left. Creeping forward, she peeks around the corner. Mercurial firelight silhouettes the parts of the city visible up the street from her, dancing and flaring in an almost whimsical fashion. She watches the darkened roadway, ears swiveling, trying to catch any hint of sound or movement.
She’s just about to step out from her makeshift shelter when a number of bricks tumble loudly down the side of a building across the street and farther up. Her breath catches, and she pulls back, quickly angling her head until just part of a single blue-green orb and part of her horn is visible. More bricks tumble down, followed by clouds of dust and pulverized mortar, and from the top of what looks like a diner two long, hairy, jointed legs reach over, pressing themselves firmly against the diner’s brick facade. A moment later the huge bulk heaves itself into view, and the shape of the giant, bus sized spider shifts as it clings to the side of the building.
Smaller insects begin to pour around its legs and down the wall, ranging in size from large dogs to small cars, fanning out as they reach the street, cautiously questing along the gutters and over the hoods of parked vehicles with a skritching of chitin against metal.
Eyes widening, Luna backs up, glancing behind her. The alley dead ends about twenty yards from where she is now, and there are no windows looking out onto it. Trying to move as quickly yet quietly as she can, she makes her way back towards the dumpster, using her magic to try door knobs as she goes. All are locked however, and there’s no way she can get the thick security doors open without alerting the swarm to her presence. Once they know she’s there, it’s all over. From the street the sound of a trashcan being knocked over reaches her, close, and she glances up at the sky, coming to a decision.
She can still hear that helicopter flying around out there, and from the noise of it, it seems like it’s closer than before. That must mean that it’s safe to fly for the moment, at least in this part of town. She doesn’t need to go far, preferably just a few blocks east. That will allow her to elude this swarm, and put her closer to Dad and Tia.
Glancing back at the alley mouth one more time, she stretches her wings out, giving them a few flaps to loosen up the tense muscles. Eyeing the distance she has to sprint before she runs out of alley, she fights down a queasy feeling. It’s just a short flight, really more of a hop than anything. Hell, that chopper sounds like it’s actually heading right for her, so it must be alright. From behind her comes a loud, rapid clicking sound, almost a chittering, and she knows that they’ve found her. With a deep, gulping breath she begins galloping towards the end of the alleyway, wings beating for all their worth. The scrabbling of armored legs against the wet pavement behind her tries to intrude on her thoughts, but she shuts the sound out. She is focus. She is speed. She will be flight.
She lunges forward, and slowly her wings begin to pull her upward. As she clears a few feet, relief bursts over her in a cool wave, making her giddy. She’s going to make it. The helicopter is right above her now, and she turns her gaze upwards as she starts to clear the tops of the buildings. Maybe she’ll give the pilot a jaunty little salute as she passes by. Then her eyes fix on the source of the thudding, buzzing-droning sound, and as they finally find it in the dimness of the night, her heart freezes in fear.
It’s not a helicopter racing towards her, it’s them. Fifteen feet long, not counting the wicked looking stinger, they look like black Japanese hornets, their wings a nearly invisible blur as they arrow straight for her. There must be thirty of them, racing in from all directions. There’s no way she can evade them, no way to escape. Her wings lock up on her, fear freezing them stiffly outwards, and she begins to spiral back into the alleyway, the swarm that had been chasing her spread along the walls, rooftops and the alley itself, antennas twitching and serrated arms reaching, waiting to welcome her back.
* * *
Luna awakens with a snort, slowly blinking her eyes in confusion as the dream begins to break up and fade away. She’s really hot on one side for some reason, and after a long, long moment she blearily realizes that she had fallen asleep leaning against her father. Eyes rolling tiredly, her blurry, grainy gaze travels slowly across the room, coming to a confused stop at their T.V., where the credits for Them! 3: The Spider Queen are just beginning to roll. She squints at the stylized letters blankly as they scroll up from the bottom of the screen, chased by dramatic music, waiting for her mind to make sense of it. What happened to the Christmas movie they were watching earlier?
A loud snort close to her right startles her, and she sits up fully, looking over with weary bemusement at the slumbering forms of her father and older sister. Dad is still upright, head leaning back against the top of the couch at what should be an uncomfortable angle, mouth open and aimed at the ceiling. He snorts again as she watches, the sound trailing off into a sonorous rumble, his lower jaw working just a bit. Sprawled on the other side of him is the larger alabaster mound of Celestia. She lays in an odd, partly sprawled-partly tucked state, backed up against her father’s other side, three legs folded primly underneath her, the fourth and one wing dangling over the edge of the couch and brushing the floor, head draped over the armrest.
With tired amusement, Luna dismounts the couch, trying not to disturb its other two occupants overly much. She takes a moment to stretch each hind leg, shake out her wings, and then rotates her neck until it gives up a satisfying crack. With a sleepy, contented smile, she turns and trots into the kitchen. Navigating by memory and the scant light filtering in through the open slats of the blinds, she pours herself a glass of water, wandering over to the kitchen window lazily as she sips at it.
Outside the window is a muffled world of white silence. They were experiencing a lull at the moment, the heavy, gray clouds which had seemed intent on trying to squash them earlier in the day now mostly invisible against the blackness of the night sky. This was their third or fourth big winter storm in the last couple of months, a nice change from the year before, and it had dropped snow in varying quantities for most of the day.
Her eyes roam idly across the transformed landscape of what was normally the side yard, trying to pick out familiar features and landmarks that had been transformed by the weather into amorphous mounds and soft shapes. Her gaze travels aimlessly upwards, and in the odd black and white gloom she can just see something unusual about the elm trees. After a few moments and another sip of her water, she realizes with a muted sort of surprise that the branches themselves are actually drooping a bit, sagging under their freight of snow and ice.
Planting her rump on the slightly chilled kitchen tiles, Luna gazes through the window absently, musing in that comfortably tired, not quite asleep-not quite awake way, idly drinking from the glass that floats serenely within a bluish glow beside her. She loves this time of year, especially when they actually get a wet winter. She loves this feeling, this comfortable, warm, bleary sort of half wakefulness. Just awake enough for the mind to idle, without being awake enough for it to begin revving along. A dark, quiet moment within, all shapes just hinted at by the scattered, reflected light. A preternaturally silent, muffled winter world outside the window, all edges and lines replaced with fuzzy suggestions.
No worries for tomorrow, no impending tasks that need to be done, nothing outside of this still, comfortable slice of time; the cool, clean taste of her water, the near silence of the house, the gentle yet pleasant whoosh of warmth against her left flank as the floor vents kick on with a low rush of air. The way the Christmas lights from the living room reflect in through the kitchen doorway, picking out mellow, multi hued highlights off anything reflective, holding the warmth of the holidays, and the promise of a Christmas only a couple of weeks away.
The comforting knowledge that everyone she cares about is warm and safe, inside with her where they belong.
Tipping back the last of her water, she closes her eyes and swallows, burping quietly when she’s done. With an embarrassed giggle and a tired smile, she places the glass quietly in the sink, and then ambles back to the couch, grabbing a large throw from its rumpled place on the floor as she does. Settling it over her father and sister, she lifts up a corner of it with her magic and gingerly reclaims here spot, shifting against her father until she’s comfortable and mostly covered. Right here and right now, this is warmer and more inviting than her own bed.
* * *
Ryan’s hands tremble as he tries to hold them steady, his eyes narrow and focused. Holding a flap down with one thumb, he reaches over blindly with his free hand, groping for a moment before his fingers brush the strip of tape hanging from the edge of his dresser. Snagging it, he slowly brings it back, careful not to get the sticky strip stuck to itself. Gently, cautiously, he lays it along the seam beneath his thumb, squinting as he tries to keep it aligned. The tape crinkles in the middle, and as he attempts to pull it straight again, the paper beneath it rips.
“Shit.” Ryan says, and wishes for a cigarette.
Eyeing the tear critically, he finishes applying the tape, sighing dejectedly as he studies the results. The mishap is obvious, the bright, accusing white of the underside of the paper standing out clearly against the green and red reindeer that cover the rest of this end of the gift. Maybe he can cover it up with a bow?
Grunting sourly, he flips the rectangular box around, taking a moment to hang more strips of tape before he begins again. Planning the best route of attack, he notices his hand brushing lightly against his shirt pocket, and places it resolutely back at his side, watching it for a moment as if he doesn’t quite trust that it’ll stay there. It’s been 18 months since his last cigarette, and his body still sometimes forgets that they don’t do that type of thing anymore.
The girls, as expected, were beyond pleased with how he had stuck with it, and he knows that quitting is the right thing, the correct thing, for himself and for them. It was damned difficult though. Even now, a year and a half later, he’s still amazed at all the little habits and rituals he’d never even realized had been centered on that one, solitary activity.
Need to concentrate? Have a smoke. Starting to get upset? A cigarette will help with that. Relaxing in the evening? Cigarettes love to relax! Need help digesting that big meal? Grab your lighter. The cravings were mostly gone, although occasionally one would come out of nowhere and wallop him, leaving him slightly irritated and on edge for a few hours afterwards. The hardest part, though, was changing or breaking the habits he’d tied into it. When you’ve performed one specific action in conjunction with a lot of other actions for a large portion of your life, it becomes a reflex. And the body, when not closely monitored by the mind, is just one big, mindless reflex machine. It made for some very uncomfortable, awkward or downright confusing moments.
Dispelling his mental wanderings with a shake of his head, he reaches out and begins folding the wrapping paper into some sort of shape that he hopes will neatly cover the other end of the present. “Why don’t you just let us do it Dad?” He mutters in a high pitched parody of Tia’s voice. “It’s so much easier with magic Dad.” He shifts to a higher register for Luna. “You can always just use gift bags Dad.” Insufferable children. Their presents were already under the tree, had been for a week. Each one wrapped neatly and cleanly, and all taken care of in less than an hour.
He hates wrapping gifts.
He’s never been any good at this stuff, something his late wife had teased him about mercilessly. The girls had always thought it cute and funny and endearing, had thought of it as one of Dad’s lovable quirks…and then they’d gotten magic and gotten better at it than him. Now every birthday and Christmas they’d offer to help him, or to do it for him, and Ryan would be damned and dead before his kids had to wrap their own gifts. He supposed gift bags would be easier, but at this point his pride was caught up in it, and he’d decided that gift bags were stupid and magic was cheating.
Folding and creasing, taping and muttering curses, Ryan slogs doggedly through his task, eventually accumulating a neat pile of less-than-neatly wrapped shapes on the floor next to his feet. Casting a critical gaze at the presents, he finally sighs in resignation, gathers them carefully and makes his way downstairs.
Grey light filters in through the living room window, the heavy, sedentary clouds outlining and highlighting the Christmas tree, which easily outshines the tepid, wash water light of the day. Kneeling down carefully, Ryan begins to arrange the girl’s gifts, fitting them in between the nicer, more professional looking packages. He squints against the brightness of the flashing Christmas lights as he leans in close, searching behind the trees base for open space, the randomly strobing illumination temporarily blinding him as he gropes with his eyes closed. The girls must have cranked up the brightness again.
It was their third year with the digital tree the girls had convinced him to buy, and he still couldn’t get used to it. The ‘needles’ consisted of thousands of tiny, flexible, transparent two inch long rectangular screens that could be configured in just about any way you could want. Set to tree mode, each one was vibrantly green and textured, like actual needles.
You could configure it to use a preset algorithm to simulate any sort of animated, colorful light pattern you could think of, you could change the settings to use clumps of the tiny screens to display ornaments in sort of almost believable 3D, you could wrap it in digital garland by swiping your phone at it, or use the built in voice commands if your phone wasn’t handy, and you could even set it to stream pictures, music and live video from the internet.
The girls absolutely loved it, in the way that the young tend to instantly embrace and love the new. Ryan guesses it is pretty amazing, but in all honesty he’d prefer to have a traditional tree, one that they cut down themselves, one where you could feel it and smell it and know it’s a tree. But this is the tree they had wanted, and this is the tree they had. He finishes placing the last of his gifts, standing upright with a sigh and trying not to notice how they stand out, tucked in with Celestia and Luna’s presents.
He watches their fancy tree idly for a few moments, eyes following lines of vivid color as they flash a complicated, spiraling pattern from the base up to the top. His parents would be amazed if they were still around, and would probably love it. His grandparents, hailing from a much different time, wouldn’t know what to make of it, and would likely think it garish and…just, too much. Scratching absently, he supposes he falls somewhere in between them. True, the tree is pretty amazing, both in what it can do and how clearly, and cleanly, it can do it. On the other hand, he’ll never lose his preference for the scent of pine, and the sticky, tacky patches of sap that inevitably end up spotting the floor beneath it.
Well it could be worse, he reasons. At least it actually tries to look like a tree. The girls could have wanted one of those minimalist, ‘ultra-modernist’ abominations that were all basic shapes, flat colors and implied meaning. Why anyone would want a hollowed out glass cone with colored balls suspended inside of it he’ll never understand.
Placing his hands against the small of his back and stretching, he heads to the kitchen, already mentally running through the checklist for dinner tonight and Christmas day. As his feet hit the linoleum he glances at the stove, reading the time displayed by the digital clock on it. It’s closing on nine o’clock, and he angles for the coffee maker, emptying out yesterday’s grounds and snagging the carafe. The girls should be up any minute. Filling the glass pot at the sink, his thoughts touch on what to make for breakfast, and his eyes brighten.
He still has half of an excellent ribeye in a Tupperware container in the fridge, leftover from two or three nights ago. With some eggs, hash browns, and some of that cut up fruit in the bottom crisper, it’d make a very good breakfast.
The girls would look askance at him, of course, but they would only grumble about it a little bit. They had, over the last two or three years, begrudgingly relaxed their stance on what Ryan had jokingly termed their ‘anti-meat fanaticism’. They still bristled at that terminology, but not nearly as much since he’d started saying fanaticism instead of fascism. He’d thought it was funny.
They still didn’t like it much, but they understood that meat wasn’t going to kill him, so long as he indulged in moderation.
Grinning and humming to himself, he gives the power button on the coffee maker a jaunty little flick, turning to the refrigerator. This was going to be a good morning.
* * *
Celestia awoke suddenly, her eyes popping open as she inhaled sharply through her nose. Blinking confusedly for a moment, her eyes slip back closed as her mind catches up with her body, and she breathes in, slowly and deeply, as she stretches her hind legs out beneath the covers.
She’d been dreaming, rather deeply, and for a hazy moment hadn’t been able to reconcile where she was with where she had been. The dream was blurry, already fragmenting and fading away, like early morning clouds evaporating beneath strong sunshine. The little bit she could pick out of her sleep fogged mind were bare impressions; green, growing things, an incredibly old yet familiar place, and…a presence. Kind, caring…almost motherly?
The impressions were…familiar, almost like she’d had the dream before, but try as she might, her sleep addled mind cannot give her anything better than a vague sense of déjà vu. Sitting up, she gives her head a shake, dismissing it from her mind. A dream is a dream, after all. Unless it’s a sign of impending magical ability, but this was probably O.K.
Jaws cracking in a yawn, she rolls out of bed, the heavenly scent of coffee and eggs drifting up to her from downstairs. Stretching again, more slowly this time, she fixes her bedding, smoothing the sheets and comforter back down with a quick burst of golden light from her horn, taking just a moment to arrange and fluff the pillows.
Exiting her room and heading towards the hallway bathroom, she glances towards Luna’s door, still shut tight. They had both stayed up later than usual last night, partially helping Dad finish up the traditional Christmas Treats -cookies and fudge and the like- but mostly getting caught up on one of their favorite shows, Circle of Fire, a fascinating story about the modern day town of Grantsburg, and how it and its residents cope after they are transported back to the 15th century. Dad had sat in off and on for a few of the episodes, but he’d come in during the second season and hadn't gotten into it, declining whenever they had offered to start over from the beginning. It was really more her and Luna’s show, anyway.
Pushing into the bathroom, she glances in the mirror, sighing in annoyance at the large, pink rat's nest mane that frames her sleepy features. Turning on the sink and letting the water run, she peers closer, picking out the light smudges beneath her eyes, and the slight droop of her ears. Missing out on her regular seven or eight hours always seems to show immediately. Not so her -slightly- younger sister, who could burn the proverbial midnight oil for days and still wake up looking fresh every morning. Sighing again, she levitates her toothbrush out of its holder, then her hair brush out of the drawer.
Ten minutes later, teeth cleaned, breath fresh, mane and tail brushed and close to normal looking, she feels much better. She’s just splashing cool water on her face when an indigo figure darkens the bathroom doorway.
“Morning Tia.” Comes a sleepy voice.
Drying her face, Celestia glances over as she shuts off the faucet. Sure enough, there her younger sister stands, looking bleary eyed but otherwise well rested. No dark circles her, nor any droop to ear or wing. Even her mane and tail look barely mussed. It just wasn’t fair.
“Morning sister.”
Squeezing out of the bathroom as Luna squeezes in and assumes her spot before the sink, she leans lazily against the door frame, watching idly as her sister begins her own morning routine. “I think breakfast is just about ready downstairs.”
“Ih cah schell he cohee.” Luna replies, toothbrush obscuring her words. Rinsing and spitting, she dampens a hand towel, patting around her eyes and down her muzzle lightly. Grabbing her own hairbrush up in her magic, she begins taking lazy, almost disinterested swipes at her mane. “I hope he made hash browns this morning.” She says distractedly, not noticing her sister’s sour expression as the brush moves almost effortlessly through the midnight blue hair, only snagging very occasionally against a tangle. “Do you want to try to finish Circle after we eat?”
Pointedly looking away from her sister, Celestia yawns loudly before replying. “Can’t, the bathroom designs for the new place are supposed to be available off the company website today, and Dad wants me to make sure they didn’t skip anything this time.”
“Mmm-hmm…Oh O.K.” Luna runs the brush through her mane one last time, before twisting a bit and starting on her tail. “What about after that?”
“After that should be good, unless Jerry’s decided to start working again between when we went to bed and when we woke up this morning.” Luna snorts derisively, to which Celestia replies with a small what-are-you-going-to-do shrug of her shoulders. The construction project started by their father was not very far along, and had been plagued by slowdowns and delays almost from the start. Recently, it had been outright stopped, thanks to a contractual dispute between the construction firm and its parent company.
Stretching her neck until it pops, Celestia looks back to her sister. “You know if we want to watch anymore we’re going to have to do it before dinner.”
Luna nods absently. “Yeah, I know. It’ll be old movies for the rest of the night.” Studying her tail, swishing it back and forth a few times, she gives a little self-satisfied nod.
“I don’t mind Christmas Story…” Celestia trails off.
“You only like it because it’s Dad’s favorite.” Luna chides, smirking sidelong as she cleans up the sink.
Arching an eyebrow, Celestia shoots her sibling a level look. “Remind me again, why do you like Miracle on 34th Street so much?”
Luna sputters for a moment, before adopting a lecturing tone. “It has a lot of good things going for it. For instance, the technical directing is very good for a movie that old, and the lighting and sound were ahead…”
“You like it because it was Mom’s favorite.” Celestia pitches her voice in imitation of her sister, punctuating it with a snort.
Luna fires a half-hearted glare at her sister, before turning back to her tail. “That’s not the only reason.” She says quietly.
Amongst the Williams family there existed a vast divide, a seemingly uncrossable chasm between those who loved one beloved Christmas classic, and those who cherished the other. Between the two sides, there was no compromise, no retreat, and no mercy.
Giving her tail one last appreciative glance, Luna replaces her brush, giving herself a little shake. Turning, she starts to exit the bathroom, and Celestia backs up to give her room. The two turn together and head down for breakfast.
* * *
“Good morning Daddy.” Luna says brightly, following her older sister into the kitchen. Breathing in deeply, she smiles, angling towards the table, and the far more important mug of steaming goodness that has been set at her place.
“Morning sweetie.” Ryan replies over his shoulder, eyes on the microwave. “Morning Tia Marie.”
“Morning Dad.” Celestia replies, stopping to give his side a quick nuzzle before she joins Luna at the kitchen table. Settling down, she takes a slow, leisurely sip of her coffee, eyes closed in satisfaction.
Luna takes a sip of her own, swallowing thoughtfully before she lifts the creamer from the table and doctors her cup up a little bit more. She felt like sweet this morning. Eyeing the spread before her, she smiles at the plate of hash browns. Shooting a grin at her sister, she begins loading her plate happily.
Finally perking up a bit from her morning cup, Celestia returns her sisters smile, beginning to ladle fruit off to one side of her plate. Glancing over, she furrows her brow. “What are you heating up Dad?” She notices his back tense furtively for a moment, and just manages to hold in yet another resigned sigh. This seems to be a morning for them.
With a series of beeps, the microwave cuts out, and he removes his plate, walking over and taking his place at the end of the table. Just as she figured, half of a steak sits on his plate, steaming fragrantly. She shares a knowing glance with her younger sister, before turning a long suffering look back on her father.
Ryan meets her gaze, quirking an eyebrow in something that is not quite a challenge, and then begins deliberately loading eggs onto his plate. She watches for a moment, before turning back to her own meal. Luna shoots her a sympathetic half smile, before digging into her ketchup covered hash browns.
With a fortifying sip of her coffee, Celestia takes a bite of her eggs, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. Swallowing, she glances at her father. “I still don’t think you should eat that much red meat Dad.” She watches bemusedly as her father thoroughly chews the bite of steak he’d just taken, pausing to wash it down with a hefty swallow from his own mug of coffee. His face began to take on that vexingly familiar look of stubbornness that she and her sister knew so well.
“We’ve been over this Tia Marie. Once or twice a week isn’t going to hurt me.” He grins suddenly, his eyes shining with a little glint of mischievousness. “Hell, I’ve seen you eat grass,” he begins, grinning broadly as Celestia sputters, trying desperately not to spit out her mouthful of coffee. “And if you can eat grass, right out of the dirt, then I can eat a little steak now and again.”
His grin somehow grows even wider as Celestia chokes down her coffee, shooting him a look of wounded, indignant outrage. He glances at his other daughter, who has her head buried behind a fore hoof, her sides shaking as she tries to hold in her laughter.
“I was, like, 8!” She fires back at him, swiping coffee from the side of her muzzle. She furrows her brow, giving him what, in his father’s time, had been known as ‘the ole stink eye’. “And I was curious!”
Unable to contain herself any longer, Luna lets loose, leaning back and bellowing laughter at the ceiling, her eyes screwed tightly closed. Her father chuckles, an insufferable grin wreathing his features.
Celestia leers sidelong at Luna, a sinister smile quirking the corners of her mouth. “I don’t know what you’re laughing at, sister, you did it too.”
Luna’s cheeks grow hot, her mirth subsiding into hiccupping chuckles. “I thought…thought it smelt good…” she mutters, face abashed.
The three tuck in, and Ryan enjoys his steak, pointedly ignoring the pointed looks his girls point his way. As he savors his final bite, he leans back with a long and contented sigh.
Sipping her coffee and watching him, Celestia gives a reproving, if not entirely serious, little shake of her head. By now she and her sister both know that their father is not going to change his ways, and as often as not anymore, these little exchanges were more about giving him a hard time than actually trying to change his eating habits. Ryan shrugs at her, grinning cheekily. “Don’t blame me, dear heart. It’s just the way that I’m made.”
She snorts into her coffee cup, draining the last of the ambrosial liquid before floating it over to the counter. She shares a look with Luna. “Just the way you’re made dad,” She deadpans “You have no control over it at all.”
Standing with a stretch, Ryan begins clearing the table. “Yep, if you want to hold somebody accountable, you blame God or Darwin, and leave me out of it.”
Luna stands slowly, gathering up her plate and utensils. “Really?”
“Yep.” Ryan says again, turning on the sink faucet. “I didn’t come up with the design.” Waiting for the water to get hot enough, he grabs the coffee pot and offers it wordlessly to them. After a brief moment they both nod their heads yes, and he splits up the remaining coffee between their three mugs. “If I had come up with the design, I’d be taller, that’s for sure.”
Luna snorts, shaking her head. “You’re already tall enough dad.”
Picking up a plate, he begins scrubbing it in the steamy, sudsy water. “I’d be broader through the shoulders, too.” He gives Luna a little grin, waggling his eyebrows up and down. “Women like that sort of thing, you know.” She snorts a chuckle, depositing the last of the breakfast dishes on the counter next to the sink.
Taking up a red and white striped dish cloth in her amber magic, Celestia begins drying the dishes as her father hands them to her. Luna bustles around behind them, wiping down counters and straightening up. Celestia ply’s her dish towel quietly, her mind turning. Dad’s comment, funny as it was meant to be, sticks with her, nagging at her mind for some reason. It had been a joke, just something silly meant to make her and her sister smile, but it bothered her in an odd way, and like a piece of food stuck between her teeth, she couldn’t stop picking at it.
She can’t recall ever hearing her father talk about women, other than Momma Callie, Grandma Williams, or other family members. Nor can she remember him ever discussing relationships outside of that fairly narrow scope. Thinking on it, she can’t ever recollect him mentioning so much as a pretty cashier from one of his many trips to town to run errands, no cute waitresses, nothing. She mulls it over, wondering why, and wondering why it had never occurred to her before now.
Slowly, it dawns on her that the oddness of his comment stems from the fact that she has never really connected women and relationships with her father, outside of his marriage to the mother figure she’d adopted but never known directly. In her mind, relationships were dynamic interactions, something other people had. Something, if she was being honest, she had secretly daydreamed about. Dad however, was a different topic in her mind. He occupied a different space, and the one was completely removed from the other. People on TV, and in books and magazine articles got into and out of relationships, they were dynamic until they found the right person. Dad had been married to Mom, and that was the static position he and mom maintained.
The idea that there might be a connection between the space her father occupied, and the space other people like herself occupied, was as foreign to her mind as relating stereo repair to chicken farming.
He’d always been Dad; an eternal constant. But the more she thought on it, the more she can see that that line of thinking was simple and childlike. It categorized her father as some sort of immutable object. Her father was still a person, after all. Still an adult, just as she was herself now-a-days; a regular person with wants and needs.
Wiping off the last dish and setting it in the wooden strainer, she folds the towel up with a practiced deftness and drapes it over the edge of the sink to dry. Glancing around and finding that nothing else needs to be done, she makes her way out to the living room, where her father and younger sister are already seated on the couch, the last dregs of coffee sloshing in their respective mugs. Luna and Dad seem to be engrossed in some sort of talk about the labor dispute that’s put a halt on construction of the new house; Jerry Buckhouser had called the other day, but hadn’t been willing to comment on when his guys might resolve their grievances with the parent company that owned their firm.
She hops up on the other end of the couch, not really listening to their conversation as she flicks the television on. She finds her gaze wandering absently, picking along the framed photographs scattered smartly about the walls, her mind still working over her train of thought like a dog with a bone. Her eyes find the picture of Grandma and Grandpa Williams, grinning up from folding chairs at some unnamed campground. To the left and lower is a shot of her and her sister, during what she thinks is their 8th and 10th birthdays. There’s a cake in the foreground, and they’re both smiling, wings around each other’s shoulders, jaunty party hats askew like small, fat garish horns above their real horns.
Closer to hand, a series of photographs, all grouped together; her father standing with Grandpa Williams and another man, standing somewhere indoors; a shot of Momma Callie standing outside their house with Grandma Williams and two other women, laughing at the camera and holding beers; and finally, a shot of Dad and Momma Callie, arm in arm behind a BBQ.
Her ears flicking idly as her sister and father’s conversation drones in the background, her eyes settle on the photo, and she begins to study it.
They’re standing on some sort of patio or balcony, she can’t tell. It looks like concrete and stucco, and although she’s not certain she guesses it might be the first apartment they lived in after they got married. They’re leaning comfortably into each other, their body language relaxed. A strong wash of sunshine falls over them, highlighting their features, which stand out in stark contrast to the severe shadows the light casts. Both are smiling broadly. The old photos still sometimes catch her off guard; Dad looks so much younger, his skin smooth, his hair a solid, deep brown.
They looked so happy together, and…right, like two pieces that fit snugly to form a whole. She looks over, eyeing her father, watching as he and her sister hold an animated discussion on the pros and cons of the workers unions of today. He looks older, his face lined and careworn, his hair has a fair amount of salt mixed into it, but he’s still substantial for all of that, still vital. In her mind’s eye she tries to picture him out on a date, sitting at a table in a restaurant, holding an intimate conversation and being charming, like on T.V., and for the life of her she can’t do it. She’s simply never seen that side of him before.
A growing feeling of guilt begins to build, slowly, inside her. Dad has always been the rock in their existence, has always been their reliable constant, taking care of them and providing, and he’d always had to do it alone. Thinking back on it, she realizes that it must have been a hard, dirty and above all else lonely job, one that he still had to do, for all that they were self-reliant. She wonders, a little bitterly, how she could have missed such an obvious thought before. Was she just that selfish, that self-centered?
Slowly, that bitterness fades. She’s not selfish, or at least not so much that such a concept would never occur to her. It wasn’t that she only saw her father for what he could provide, instead of as an actual person. Instead, embarrassingly, she thinks it’s more likely a lack of experience with the wider world outside of their home, a product of their isolation.
Blinking, she comes back to herself with a start, realizing that her sister has dismounted the couch, heading for the back room, probably to continue working on the family scrap book they had started last month. Her father stretches, back cracking, before finishing the last of his coffee. Celestia looks over to him, hesitantly.
“…hey, dad?”
He yawns, giving himself a little shake before answering. “Hmm?”
She pauses, swallowing a little awkwardly while she mentally picks over what she wants to ask. After a brief moment, she decides that bluntness is the better part of valor, and meets his eyes. “How come you never remarried?”
Ryan blinks at her, brow beetling in confusion. “…what?”
She swallows again. “Why didn’t you ever remarry, after mom passed?”
He frowns at her, uncertainty warring with confusion on his face. “Uhh…I don’t know?” He ventures, answering her slowly. Her expression falters, and a strange sort of guilt falls over her face, causing his eyes to widen a bit in surprise.
She takes a deep breath, holding it for a heartbeat before releasing it. She stares down at the seam between the leather couch cushions, studying the stitching with a downcast expression. “Is it because of us? Luna and I?” She wants to meet his eyes, but…
Ryan gazes at her with a poleaxed look, completely taken off guard. Thankfully, after a very brief moment, the pieces click together in his mind, and realization drops over him. “Oh honey,” he leans over, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her against him. She leans into him, shuffling her wings a bit. “No sweetie, that’s not why.”
She looks up at him, eyes a little wet, and he reaches over with his other hand, brushing a few stray hairs up off of her face. He smiles down at her. She opens her mouth, her question writ large across her features, but he preempts her.
“Shush. Listen...” Ryan says, falling paradoxically quiet. Taking a deep breath, he lets it out slowly as he organizes his thoughts. He studies his oldest daughter for a moment, taking in the graceful lines of her face, the soft sheen of her coat, the delicate spiral of horn lifting out from beneath the rose colored waves of her mane. She’s grown so fast, her and her sister both. It doesn’t’ seem fair.
“Did I ever tell you how your mother and I met?”
She nods, swiping at her eyes with a fore hoof. “You guys met at college, in Reno.”
“That’s right. And when I met her, I just knew, I mean knew, she was it for me.” He scratches at his beard stubble, ignoring the quiet rasp that means he needs to shave. “And when she…passed, I thought, ‘well, that’s it. There can’t be anyone else. She was my one and only.’ But I was wrong, there wasn’t just one, there were three, I just didn’t know it yet.”
She frowns up at him, brows lowering in confusion. “Three?”
He reaches over and boops her gently on the nose. “You and your sister and your mother make three.”
She giggles, pulling away from his hand and shaking her head. “That’s…really cheesy, dad.”
He chuckles, giving her a shrug. “Doesn’t make it any less true, dear heart.”
She bats at him playfully with a hoof, before her expression turns somber again. “But haven’t you been lonely?”
He shakes his head, giving her an honestly perplexed look. “How could I be lonely? I have you two.”
She pulls away, dismounting the couch before turning back to her father. Leaning in she kisses him on the cheek. “You’re a nice man, daddy.” He smiles at her, and she flashes a grin back. “You also need a shave.” She rolls her eyes at his long suffering sigh, and turns towards the stairway.
* * *
Christmas day dawned overcast and white, the frigid air motionless in the morning stillness. It also dawned with the traditional Williams family flair; hot coffee, hot chocolate, cookies, fudge, brownies, Nat King Cole and Louis Armstrong belting out the old Christmas tunes.
Presents were passed out, opened and exclaimed over. Despite his less than stellar wrapping abilities, Ryan had been listening to his girls intently over the course of the year, and had gotten them things they had forgotten they wanted, or needed. Likewise they had done a pretty good job for him as well.
After the presents came the dinner prep, which had actually been started by Ryan the night before. They cooked or finished cooking green bean casserole and mashed potatoes with gravy, hot rolls and buttered peas, fruit salad and regular salad and three different pies. The main dish was a vegetarian lasagna, crafted carefully by the girls from one of Callie’s recipes. Ryan missed his mother’s turkey, but he had to admit as they sat down to eat later, that the lasagna was damn near perfect. The girls had been fastidious as they followed the directions written in his wife’s neat hand on wrinkled paper, and it had come out better than any of them had expected.
The end of the evening found all three comfortably spread across the couch, a couple of blankets thrown over the lot of them. A Christmas Story played on the T.V., while Ryan and Celestia sipped their beers. Luna occasionally levitated a glass of wine up off the end table, from next to a large bowl of mostly unmolested popcorn. They had made it more out of habit than an actual want to eat something. Nobody wanted to eat after the shameless gorging that had been dinner.
As they watched Ralphie and his family and their issues with a questionable lamp – Miracle on 34th Street was queued up next – they all, without realizing it, are inwardly musing over the same thing, each in their own way.
Taking a sip of the perfectly chilled Riesling in her glass, Luna, in a languorous, comfortable way, muses on how it feels when they’re all together like this; Christmas night, bellies full, all snuggled up together on the couch. Her family, and by extension her world, feels secure and full of warm light.
Celestia, after eyeing the bowl of popcorn for a moment and deciding against it, reflects on how well she and her sister did with their father’s presents this year, and how good the lasagna turned out. It was their first year cooking the whole thing from start to finish, and they had definitely nailed it. That it was her mother’s recipe makes her feel sad, but happy at the same time, and she feels connected to the other parent she’s never known. Comforted, in knowing that some of her traditions will carry on through her and her sister.
Ryan is likewise musing on traditions, and a sense of accomplishment. The girls had loved their gifts, they had been able to work through Callie’s lasagna recipe without any problems, which pleased them more than they let on, and now here they were, the old movies playing on the television. Stretched out in that comfortably tired way you get from too much food and just enough alcohol, that way that you just know means that you’ll sleep great when you finally do give it up and go to bed. This right here, all together, all warm, all content, this is what Christmas is for Ryan, what it’s meant for the Williams family, and he feels good being able to share it with his girls, to pass the traditions down and see them take to them.
Outside the snow has begun again, attempting to re-muffle the world in layers of white. Inside they sit, lights turned low, comfortably situated with each other and warm, as an old favorite plays. The feeling of warmth and security and above all, of family. It was a good Christmas, a good day, and as the night deepens behind the heavy, low hanging clouds, a good night, full of light and love and a sense of place, of belonging.
That Christmas always stayed with Celestia and Luna, a comforting balm on cold, lonely nights, remembered always fondly, as the last Christmas their family was whole.