//------------------------------//
// Chapter 10 
// Story: Spring Broke 
// by kudzuhaiku 
//------------------------------//

“Esme, you’re killing me,” Copperquick said to his daughter, sighing out the words. “It’s almost midnight and you’re not showing any signs of being sleepy. I have schoolwork I need to do and I didn’t get anything done today. Why can’t you be sleepy?” Reaching out with his hoof, he poked her right in the pudge and got an indignant glare in response.

“Nyuh!” she whined as she waved her front legs about and her face became stormy.

The bedroom door opened and when Copperquick turned his head, he saw Buttermilk, still damp from her time in the shower. Her mane was down, spilling all around her face, her neck, and her withers. She had left her glasses on the small table by the bedside and she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, which made his heart race just a little. The pegasus mare was clean now, free of sugar and cinnamon dust, and she clucked her tongue as she approached the bed.

“Somepony isn’t sleepy,” she said when she stood beside the bed.

Buttermilk then lept up onto the bed, turned around in a circle three times, laid down on her stomach, and began to preen her wings. Copperquick stared, his eyes narrow, curious, and one eyebrow raised. Esmeralda lost her balance and fell over, landing on her back with her four little legs up in the air. She whined to express her displeasure at this turn of events, and then very much like an overturned tortoise, she flailed about to try and get turned over, which proved impossible to do on the soft surface of the bed.

“Why, Miss Oddbody, this is new.” When Buttermilk did not reply, Copperquick continued, “You’ve always sought out privacy or sent me out of the room before. I’ve never fully understood why, either, but I suppose it has to be a pegasus pony quirk. So, what’s changed?”

Perhaps because it was rude to talk with a mouthful of feathers, Buttermilk had nothing to say in return, but she did endure a ferocious, fiery blush as Copperquick continued to stare. It took him several seconds before he realised that she was struggling, and it occurred to him that she was trying to include him in the more intimate moments of her life. Now, blushing himself, he turned his attention to Esmeralda, who still struggled to turn over.

With his hoof, he pushed against his daughter’s ribs until she was righted, and she rose into a standing position, her little knees flexing as she tried to keep her balance on the soft mattress. She almost tripped on the blanket, whined, and then toddled closer to her father. Esmeralda didn’t sit down so much as she allowed her bottom to hit the bed, and then she braced herself with her front legs as she was now sitting in the slope where her father’s body had made a depression.

“I worry, Esme,” Copperquick said as his daughter lost her balance and tumbled into his foreleg. “You should be talking more. You should have more to say. Your mother messed you up and sometimes, sometimes I worry that I might be doing the same. With the eviction and everything that’s happened, you just haven’t had a good, stable foalhood so far. It scares me, Esme, that I might be doing you further harm.”

In response, the little filly began blowing slobbery, flatulent raspberries.

“I do my best, but sometimes, I wonder if it’s enough,” Copperquick continued, and then he remembered that Buttermilk was on the bed with him. His cheeks darkened, going from their usual cheery copper hue to a dark, dark bronze. Somehow, he had lost track of that little detail. Ears drooping, he pushed his snoot against Esmeralda’s cheek and chuffed.

The filly squealed and tried to wiggle away, but to no avail. Turning her head, she wiped her wet muzzle against her father’s face, let out a muffled coo that turned into a gurgle, and then went still, content enough with her situation that there was no need for her to struggle. Copperquick lifted his head, shook it a bit but failed to be rid of the glistening slobber, and then looked down at Esmeralda with something of an amused expression, a wry, dry, amused expression that somehow made him appear both older and wiser.

Unable to resist, Copperquick gave Buttermilk a sidelong glance and caught sight of her mid-preen. She was tugging a long feather through her lips, which were darkened and slick with moisture. Her mane—which had surprising length—framed her downturned face, obscuring most of it behind wavy, clingy, damp strands. The overall effect was near-instant arousal, but much to his own shock and confusion, it wasn’t physical arousal, not yet.

This was new territory for him and he returned his gaze to his daughter before the sight of Buttermilk could gorgonise him. His wing fetish was still a presence in the back of his mind, and it made a very polite inquiry for him to have another look at the preening pegasus on the bed beside him. Esmeralda too, seemed fascinated by what she saw and watched while blowing spit bubbles.

“Things are so complicated, Esme,” Copperquick said to the little filly pressed against his foreleg. “The doctor said I’m supposed to spend an hour a day talking to you to try and socialise you and develop a rapport. One hour of focused talking… an hour seems so short until you spend it trying to think of what to say. And then I have all those hours of school, and homework, and everything else that takes up my day, and it seems that the only time I get any real sleep is when you are sleeping, and you hardly ever sleep for very long. There are only so many hours in a day and no matter how I try to arrange them, there are never enough of them to accomplish everything that needs to be done.”

Blinking, Esmeralda looked up at her father and sounding quite solemn, she said, “Plish.” Then, she yawned, wiggled her legs a bit, yawned for a second time, and then she closed her eyes.

Sighing, Copperquick spilled over onto his side and pulled his daughter closer. Her eyes opened, but only for a moment, perhaps checking to see if she would be abandoned. When she was pulled close and snuggled however, she was content to close her eyes once more and went still. He wickered, a robust, protective sound, and much to his surprise, Buttermilk answered with a muted whinny through a mouthful of feather.

Sprawled out, Copperquick rested his head on the pillow, delighting in the cool sensation against his cheek. Esmeralda was a warm ball of fuzz pressed against the base of his neck and the contrast of sensations, the cool of the pillow and the warmth of the tiny body held tight to him, his brain revelled in the sensate experience. The room was cool, but not chilly, a promise of ideal sleeping conditions.

Copperquick closed his eyes, intending to only rest them for but a moment…





When Copperquick opened up his eyes once more, a stinky green tendril was probing the depths of his nose. His eyelids flew open like a pony throwing open the shutters on a window so that they might greet the dawn. But this wasn’t the dawn, no, the room was still dark and this was something else entirely. Approximately one eighth of a second after gaining some semblance of awareness—a condition most unwanted—Copperquick realised that he could taste it.

“Foosh,” a faint voice said in the darkness and Copperquick quivered from fear.

There were moments—challenges—in being a father, difficult moments of forbearance, perseverance, dedication, devotion, and duty… and then there was doody. It was time to face the dragon—it was time to be awesome—who was he kidding? It was time to die. Buttermilk was sound asleep in the bed beside him, or perhaps she had already succumbed to the stench and had since crossed over into the verdant fields of forever green that was the promised afterlife of the good and virtuous.

He went to grab his daughter—to pick her up by the scruff of her neck, but failed. To do that, he had to get too close to the source, it meant placing his nose near the sundered gates of Tartarus and breathing in the sulphurous musk wafting about. Shuddering, tears welled up in the corners of his eyes and Copperquick gagged almost to the point of coughing.

“Somepony made a fooshy-whooshy out their tushy-whooshy.” He choked out these words, whispering them in the darkness that was devoid of hope. Every muscle in his body told him to run, and even his mind agreed; Buttermilk would wake up soon enough and this was a problem that would fix itself.

At this moment, at this time, he was Sinister Dark, preparing to make the ultimate in sacrifices. Gripped by a strange calm, Copperquick steadied himself, knowing what must be done. Embracing the moment, he said, “Quite an experience to live in fear, isn’t it? That’s what it is to be a father.”

With his teeth, he picked his daughter up by the scruff of her neck and then slipped out from beneath the blankets. Like a newborn, he emerged from the warm, snug bed, and wobbled a bit until his legs were steady. It was cold in the room, not cool, not chilly, but cold, and gnawed away at the residual heat still trapped in his pelt from being in a warm bed.

Esmeralda, who dangled from her father’s teeth, squeaked in protest of the sudden cold, then kicked and wiggled when she was rained upon. Tears—big ones—rolled down her father’s face and struck her, leaving behind dark, damp spots that were invisible in the inky blackness of the lightless room.

There truly was no light: Canterlot had light at all hours of the day and night, streetlights, signs, brilliant illumination bled in through every crack and crevice in the blinds, shades, curtains, and drapes. But this place? It was dark. Nothing shone through the window. Copperquick began to worry about his daughter, who did not like the dark, and he could hear her worried snuffles.

A night light was needed.

Copperquick began feeling his way through the darkness, hoping beyond hope that he would not stumble, trip, slip, or fall. He couldn’t remember where the light switch was, and the one lamp that was by the bed was on Buttermilk’s side. Esmeralda was starting to wake up more and with her growing awareness she began protesting the current state of things.

The stench? Unbearable. Darkness? Impenetrable. Somehow, Copperquick persisted, and found his way to the bedroom door. Beyond was the hall, and down the hall on the left was the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, he would find the light switch—while somehow still holding his daughter—he would peel off the diaper that may or may not have already leaked, and then he would pull his daughter into the shower with him.

That would fix things, or so he hoped.





There was a light on in the kitchen, but not the bright overhead light. A soft, gentle light was turned on above the sink, which left the room just about perfect for eyes just waking up. The stove ticked and pinged with heat, but was no longer turned on. A pleasantly warm bottle sat on the counter and a pot full of something wonderful sat atop the stove. It smelled of chocolate, of cinnamon, and other scents, but he did not know what it was.

Esmeralda, smelling of soap, was dropped upon her blanket on the floor. She took a moment to balance on her haunches, then burbled out her demand to be fed, right now, this instant, and she made it clear that there would be trouble if her demands were not met. The little filly was cranky, and it was no wonder really, she had gone for hours without a bottle and had awoken in quite a mess.

“Florp!” she florped and then she began to wave her forelegs around in annoyance.

There was something about the filly that reminded Copperquick of her mother, Cielo del Este. She was manipulative, she was demanding, fussy, and wanted to have her way. Unlike her mother, Esmeralda was affectionate, appreciative, and was generally likeable. There was only just a little diva there, just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to be monstrous, or so Copperquick hoped.

“Florp!” she florped again, and this time with a good deal more insistence. As if reinforcing her point, the little filly’s stomach gurgled and she let out a long nasal whine to let her father know that she was starving. “Florp!” Esmeralda’s mouth hung open and she pointed at her gaping maw with her hoof, demanding that her father do something.

Picking up the bottle in his teeth by the nipple, he had a bit of warm goat’s milk squirt into his mouth and Copperquick smiled. It certainly tasted better than foal formula, anyhow, which Copperquick imagined tasted a bit like plaster, not that he had ever eaten plaster, but there was something about the smell and texture. Esmeralda was bouncing now, reaching up with her forelegs and making frantic whimpers.

When he returned to where he had left her, he dropped the bottle down to the blanket. She looked up at him, annoyed, and her lip curled back in a sneer. Forced to retrieve her own breakfast, she fumbled a bit with the bottle before she managed to lift it up in her forelegs. It took even more of a struggle to get the bottle uprighted, and then she attacked the nipple, biting down upon it with all of the ferocious savagery the little filly could muster.

Copperquick winced and felt immense pity for mares who went a more natural route.

Being an earth pony kind of stunk, and it was important to learn how to handle stuff from an early age. Letting Esmeralda get her own bottle was teaching her valuable life skills, though Copperquick did feel just a tiny bit guilty from the glare that his daughter gave him. He sat down beside her and oh, how she glowered at him, letting him know that she was not pleased with the state of things or the delivery of her breakfast.

There wasn’t so much as a hint or suggestion of pink, golden light in the windows and it was still very much dark outside. The clock over the sink said it was ten minutes past five, which meant that Esmeralda had slept through most of the night. Copperquick counted it as most. He couldn’t remember when he had fallen asleep exactly, but it had been somewhere around midnight. Yawning, he thought back to the glorious days when he had slept. Those days would return, he hoped.

“You had a rough morning, didn’t you Esme?” He looked down at the filly looking up at him and felt bad for her. “You woke up in the dark, and you don’t like that. You made a big stinky and that emptied you out. You slept a bit longer than you usually do and I bet you were really, really hungry. I have to think about these things and why you might be so upset because it keeps me from losing my patience with you. All of this is made worse because you can’t communicate everything that is wrong… all you can do is cry and hope for the best. Your mother certainly didn’t do what was necessary when you cried… and so it falls on me to try and make up for that.”

Esmeralda’s sulky expression softened a bit and she leaned up against her father while she suckled on her bottle. She closed her eyes, relaxed a little, and then made tiny squeaks with each and every slurp. When the back door was opened, so did her eyes, and Butter Fudge tromped into the kitchen.

The big mare stared at Copperquick and something that was almost a wistful smile could be seen tugging at the corners of her mouth. Hay was in her mane and she had brought the sweet fragrance of a hayloft into the kitchen with her. Esmeralda closed her eyes again and was content to continue suckling on her bottle.

“I missed this,” Butter Fudge said to Copperquick in a husky, muted voice. “It breaks up the routine a bit… I wanted to have more foals, I did… but I had a plan and I stuck to it. Too many immigrants come to this country and then have far too many foals. Stirs up resentment, and I suppose I understand why. Most of them stay poor and end up in tenements and such. I made a plan to avoid that. I had me some high hopes that Buttermilk would give me the big sprawling family that I wanted, and I worked day in and day out to try and give her the means where she could do that. Of course, she had other plans, and that’s fine, but I still have my daydreams.”

Copperquick didn’t know what to say, but being as polite and considerate as he was, he gave Butter Fudge his full attention while Esmeralda slurped down her bottle.

“It’s going to be a rough day, Copper, when you come to the realisation that your daughter might have different plans than you do. You can do one of two things when this happens… you can act like you know what is best for her and you can try to make her do what you want… or you can be objective, sit down, and try to get a broad sense of what it is that she wants, and you can do all you can to try and prepare her for that. Now, one of these is right, and one of these is wrong, and with you being a smart pony and all, I’ll leave it to you to determine which is which.”

The big mare strode through her kitchen, went to the stove, lifted the lid off of the pot, and then began to stir it with a large wooden spoon that she held in her fetlock. As she stood, stirring, she said, “I did a little preparing for both, I suppose. I never quite let go of my dream. I built this house as big as it is for a large family. I’ve squirreled away a fair bit of fortune for quite a number of rainy days. I own shares in quite a number of local businesses and while it isn’t as much as I would like for it to be, it is still better than what most first generation immigrants manage to scrape together.”

Satisfied with her stirring, she turned around to face Copperquick and there was something about her eyes, something hopeful, something happy, something joyous. Her tail swished from side to side while her immense barrel puffed out, perhaps from pride, or maybe she just couldn’t contain her emotion. This mare was larger than life itself and her good mood was infectious.

“There’s malted wheat porridge on the stove. Buttermilk adores the stuff, just like her father, and when she smells it, she’ll wake up. Maybe. She was pretty buzzed last night. Anyhow, help yourself and eat as much as you want. I made quite a bit. I have to go back out and finish up my chores.”

“Thank you,” Copperquick replied.

“Don’t mention it,” the big mare said as she strode for the back door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”