//------------------------------//
// Fire 
// Story: Emberwolf 
// by Lucky Dreams 
//------------------------------//

There was a filly named Scootaloo, who, for five nights a week, lived on the tail end of Ponyville. It was a place where houses became fields, where roads gave way to trees, and where the call of adventure sang upon the blue moon breeze. The cottage stood in a lonely meadow, and she loved it. It was built from half brick and half shambles, and it wore a sweater of ivy. Inside, the cottage was a jumble of warmth, peeling wallpaper, and rugs thrown carelessly over old floorboards. Best of all, Scootaloo was allowed to draw on the walls. She had permission to stick up photos of her friends wherever she pleased, so that, even on those evenings when Aunt Holiday and her wife were both working, she was never truly alone.

A few days before Hearth's Warming, after her aunts had gone to bed, Scootaloo lay on her belly on the living room floor, reading a Daring Do book in front of the fireplace. The night was still. The curtains were shut, and the room was silent save for the crackle of flames. A mug of hot cocoa rested by her side. 

Despite the comfort, Scootaloo’s tail twitched. Her eyes glanced over the same few sentences. She looked at the sofa and then gazed into the fire. She let out a sigh.

And then a voice spoke to her. 

“You there,” it said. Scootaloo jumped. The voice was refined – a gentlemare’s voice – and it had come from the flames. 

“Wh-who’s there?” Scootaloo said.

“Someone who’s been watching you,” the fire answered. “Someone who’s on your side. You look lonely. Do you need a friend?”

Scootaloo frowned at the fireplace. Despite lying right beside the grate, suddenly, she felt chilly.

Fixing her attention on the fire, she said, “You didn’t just say that. You can’t have, ’cause fires don’t talk.”

Scootaloo spied no smouldering mouth amongst the tongues of flames, no possible way the fire could speak. Yet she heard its voice regardless. 

“Hmm. I must say, filly, I’ve never let that get in a way of good conversation,” it said. “Are you sure you haven’t mistaken me for some other fire, perhaps?”

Scootaloo realised she was gaping. Not taking her eyes from the flames, she stood up, and in a firm voice said, “I’m not listening. I’m – I’m going to my room. Don’t talk to me.”

The fire sighed. Sun-yellow woodchips dulled to a deep red. “Alas! Goodnight, filly. I shan’t follow you upstairs, if that’s a concern. But we’ll speak later, and we have a long discussion about friendship. I promise.”

Scootaloo pretended she hadn’t heard that.

Abandoning her cocoa, she picked up her book and strode from the living room and, quickly, quickly, she rushed up the stairs, and, hurry, hurry, she galloped along the landing and past her aunt’s room. She tripped on her hooves; the book clattered to the floor, but she left it where it fell. She shoved open her bedroom door, slammed it behind her and dived under the bedsheets. 

Her heart hammer-thumped in the darkness. 

“That didn’t happen,” she told herself. “That did not just happen. If it had talked, you wouldn’t have run away. You’re way awesomer than that.”

All the same, Scootaloo shivered under the covers. A long while passed before she fell asleep.