A measly blizzard is all that stands between me and my goal.
While the storm itself is very real, as the anticipatory goosebumps breaking out across my body will attest to, my ambitions are slightly harder to define. Slightly more ethereal, if I can be Twilight Sparkle for a moment. Every moment I lay idle, the further my body temperature drops until it's as good as demanding that I take action.
I hate storms.
No, that isn't entirely true. Actually, the complete opposite is the case: I freaking love storms; I love making them, and I love breaking them.
Even better is when I can safely view them from behind a solid chunk of glass; Celestia willing, with a mug of hot chocolate or a pitcher of Sweet Apple Acres' finest vintage firmly ensconced in my hooves (is it wrong of me to hope that Winona gets ill again so that Fluttershy has an excuse to demand another bottle of it?). Maybe a Daring Do novel, a fluffy pillow, and Tank's soothing company to complete the evening.
But this maelstrom is something completely else: an unnatural storm created by the Everfree Forest, and I am afraid to commit myself to it.
No pony's making me do this; this is a test that I set for myself, and there will be no punishment for failing, or if I choose to quit. Except that I'll be angry with myself, and my own self-recrimination is worse than any sanction anypony else could possibly mete out.
The best fliers are the ones who can deal with anything thrown at them, whether it's an out-of-control Dizzitron, or a little bit of pegasi-induced hail. The best Wonderbolts eat these situations for breakfast. I wouldn't be much of a Wonderbolt, even a reserve Wonderbolt, if I baulked at a little inclement weather, would I?
I'm the pony who makes the weather happen, after all.
Still, this is no ordinary storm, and I would be an idiot if I ignored the knot of tension wrapping around my stomach with a grip that's almost as icy as the frigidness forming a bitter sheath around me. Despite that, sweat is collecting on my brow, and I know that there's no turning back now. For an additional layer of difficulty, the muted blue of the sky is beginning to give way to an inky blackness as Celestia lowers the sun to allow Luna's moon to take dominance of the heavens.
If you were to ask any pegasus to describe their ideal flying conditions, chances are it would be the exact opposite of this: this horrible, relentless torrent that rails against me as I try to push through wave after wave of cascading squall. If I was a more imaginative pony, I would think of the storm as an alive thing; alternately trying to bat me back with claws made of thick jets of rainwater, or freezing me in place with a glacial breath from its exurgent lungs.
Tartarus, for all I know, it is alive and it is trying to eat me.
Lightning crackles, lighting up the sky with a beautiful waxen phosphorescence; my eyes shift slightly, and even I can't help but be awed by the multitudinous forked branches as they interweave and mingle into a brilliant whole. My entire world is made of a glowing, interconnected web of whitish-blue for a moment.
I push my fears aside. Twilight would patiently explain to me, using pie-charts and diagrams, that the electrical discharge travels at the speed of light, and a measly old pegasus only just about hits the sound barrier with a tailwind, but she's forgetting the most important thing:
I move at the speed of DASH!
The gloomy, cloud-filled skies are soon riddled with devastating bolts of silver, each one capable of enormous destruction if mishandled, and I dodge every last sizzling flash as if they are nothing more than so many strands of coloured gossamer fired from Pinkie Pie's party cannon.
My prismatic mane is slick with moisture, matted to my face, and I shake my head from side to side in order to clear the long, multicoloured strands from my field of view; the constant deluge has me dripping, and my body suddenly feels twice as heavy as it should. There's not much I can do about this, unfortunately.
Far more quickly than I expected, my wings begin to ache; they're sensitive at the best of times – they have to be, as one of their many jobs is to provide sensory feedback – and I've never been more aware of how fragile they really are than at this moment, but I ignore the pain and extend the feathery appendages to their maximum length.
This is not foolhardiness on my part; I'm trying to decrease the amount of surface area the wind has to attack me while I glide, and I switch to shorter but more powerful beats in order to maintain my altitude. The pain begins to fade somewhat, but the extra effort I'm having to put into flapping is weakening my muscles.
To add to my problems, I neglected my goggles; no matter how much dirty water I blink away, my vision doesn't quite improve. Fortunately, a pegasus has many other senses to call on – a quirk of evolution or part of our innate flight magic, you'd have to ask Twilight Sparkle about that – otherwise I'd be nothing more than a cyan-coloured smudge on the landscape of Ponyville. There are legends of blind pegasi who could operate just as effectively as their sighted brethren; while I've never met any, I like to think that the stories are true.
Maybe my entire life has been one of trying to recreate the stories of old.
In spite of what you may have heard from some of my contemporaries at flight school, I wasn't asleep the entire time; I was taught that you couldn't always trust your vision, especially with the umbra cast over the land with the disappearance of the sun, and you had to learn to use every ability in your arsenal to its fullest if you wanted to be the best. If you wanted to be a Wonderbolt.
It takes years of patient, painstaking training to unlock your body's full potential, and while I may be ignorant of a lot of subjects, this is what I know.
My exceptional hearing informs me that I'm beginning to hew a bit too close to the tops of the trees near Sweet Apple Acres, as the leaves are rustling ferociously in the howling wind and I can practically feel the greenery swishing, tickling, against my underside; my sense of smell confirms the location by helpfully informing me of the sugary-sweet scent of nearby apples, and my belly is only too happy to confirm this by rumbling loudly; I flick my tongue out to catch a slight taste of cinnamon, and even though it's diluted by the flurry surrounding me, it does at least tell me that an apple pie has been baked in the last hour.
Yeah, information like that can save your life.
As awesome as I am, I know in my heart that I'm not yet good enough for the Wonderbolts; all I am is a bundle of raw, untempered potential that needs seasoning. I'm aware of my flaws, though I'll deny having any if somepony else makes a point of mentioning them to me. I need to learn to reign in my excesses, to strive for greater self-control, but my fear is that by cutting out my aggressive streak I'll also be losing a part of what makes me who I am. No doubt there's a balance to be struck, but I'm not quite there yet.
Something, a new sound, cuts through the constant stirring of the foliage; it seems to be coming from the plains just beyond the orchard, and I execute a swift pivot in order to retrace my flight-plan. I can't quite make it out, being as it's so soft and gentle, but it provokes something within me. The plaintive, muffled sonance brings me down low as I search out its mysteries.
I'm almost hugging the ground now; I dodge the vegetation easily, even though I'm not really paying much attention to it. All my senses are trained downwards, trying to locate the source of the sound that had so affected me. It didn't take too long to spot the problem. I saw my friend.
She was propped-up against a tree.
She was crying.
Sadness. Distress. Powerful enough to be heard through a raging storm if you knew how to listen for it.
The first thing that pops into my head is how much she hates storms. I want to ask her why she's out here in this weather, but I'm still too far away; in fact, I hastily realise that she hasn't even noticed my approach yet. There are only a couple of things that could prompt her to take leave of her cottage in this downpour and I go with the most obvious. “Fluttershy,” I call over the gale, wincing slightly at just how much my voice is cracking with the stress, “who is it?”
At first, I think she hasn't heard me, but her head shifts slightly until her flowing pink mane is covering her face. It doesn't take me too long to figure out that this is her attempt at a response. I follow the slope of her head until I'm staring at her mud-covered hooves; nestled before her is the small, broken form of a white rabbit. “Oh, Celestia,” is all I can say, realising. “I'm so sorry,” I add, approaching her cautiously.
Fluttershy's chest is heaving, a combination of pitiful sobs and strained respiration; she's stiff as a board, too, and I have trouble dislodging her from where she's rooted herself against the sturdy oak.
I want to tell her that sheltering under a tree is just about the worst possible thing you can do when lightning is involved, but she knows that just as well as I do.
Now that I'm closer, I reach out to try and embrace her, to offer her some warmth, but she neither resists nor encourages my efforts. Her mind is still in lock-down mode from grief, and she barely even registers my existence.
I need to get her home. First, though, I hollow out a small hole in the ground near the base of the tree with my forelegs.
*
Despite having to half-carry/half-drag Fluttershy back to her cottage – I dryly note that she weighs a bit more than her slender frame would suggest – we make pretty good time, though both of us are drenched down to our hollow bones by the time we cross the threshold. I lead her to the couch and she sits/lies, her forelegs folding under her body, still lost in a catatonic state. Her normally radiant blue eyes are vacant and unfocused, and I feel a gnawing sense of anxiety beginning to build within me. “It wasn't your fault,” I try to tell her, but I'm not sure she's even capable of listening just now. Nonetheless, I persist. “Angel got spooked by the storm. You did the best you could.”
The living room is dark and I light some candles to provide us with a bit of illumination; it's eerily quiet, and I conclude that the rest of her menagerie have gone into hiding in their various burrows and bolt-holes to wait out the storm. A million different scents hit me at once; from the overpowering earthy aroma of Fluttershy herself, to the heady mix of odours that you would expect from dozens of different species living in close proximity to each other for extended periods: mud, grime, sweat, food, rubbing alcohol and pheromones.
Fluttershy has seen a lot of death; it goes with the territory, and while it affects her, it's never been quite this bad. I disappear into the kitchen, trying to remember where she keeps the tea, while my thoughts turn to Angel Bunny. He was more than just another critter to her, more than just a pet; they'd been together since that fateful day she'd fallen from Cloudsdale, and I found it incredible that the cantankerous old rabbit had held on as long as he'd had. He was one stubborn little hellion.
When I return a few minutes later, two steaming mugs in hoof, I see that she's still trembling, but it's not from the cold. I place the tea on the table and nudge one invitingly toward her, acutely aware of the fact that I'm entirely the wrong pony for this job. All I can do is offer a drink and an ear, but what she needs is empathy, sensitivity, and all that mushy stuff I'm not capable of giving her.
Maybe that's what ultimately kept us apart. Why we mutually-agreed that getting together would not be good for us.
I leave the room again, this time to fetch a towel; when I reappear, I'm alarmed that Fluttershy hasn't budged an inch, and in fact, I can barely even see her chest rise. I'm genuinely beginning to feel a cold sense of dread in my heart: that she isn't going to move ever again. The chill and the damp are bad enough, but it's the shock of what she's been through in the last few hours that worries me, and I'm wondering whether I ought to call a doctor, or at least Twilight. She always seems to know what to do, thanks to those infernal books of hers.
After clumsily drying Fluttershy off – I can't help noticing how ridiculous her mane looks when it's all frizzy, but the weather-beaten look does kind of suit her – I grope around her small bookshelf to see if there's something on how to deal with traumatised animals.
Well, ponies are animals, too. Right?
“Thank you,” a shaky, timid voice says. I turn to see Fluttershy take the mug of tea in her hooves, forming her muzzle into a pout as she blows on the hot liquid to cool it before taking a sip. “I'm really glad that you're here.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that she's finally snapped-out of her malaise. I abandon my search and sit cross-legged on the floor in front of her. Something about the shape of her lips nags at me, and I discern that it's because they're crinkled into the perfect shape for somepony to plant a kiss on them. “Don't mention it,” I reply, cursing my lecherous thoughts as a tremor of guilt surges through me. I can't help it. It's her.
We talk late into the night; most of the conversation revolves around Angel Bunny, of course, and there are numerous moments where I catch myself zoning-out. It turns out that there is a physical limit to how much one pony can take in about a tetchy rabbit before becoming sick of hearing about them. I happen to glance out of the window and observe that the storm is beginning to abate; somehow, I've managed to keep from saying anything stupid thus far, and Fluttershy has been too wrapped up in her remembrances to pay any attention to how intently I've been staring at her all night long. Or maybe she has noticed and is just too polite to mention it.
I need to get out of here, I realise, and soon. The thought of leaving her alone when she's most vulnerable feels like a dereliction of duty, both as her best friend and as the Element of Loyalty, but at the moment I'm finding that it's impossible to reconcile my desire to protect her with my more prurient interests. My mind is pushing me to a place I dare not go; at least, not now. It wouldn't be right.
It's my upbringing: I'm an animal, a beast of emotion, a creature ruled by its instincts far more than its rationality. It's what makes me great at what I do, but it also brings a lot of hurt with it, too. I learned long ago never to spurn any opportunities that present themselves, as you never know when you'll have the chance again.
The thought of someone taking advantage of Fluttershy turns my stomach; that it could be me shreds my soul in two as my competing natures war with themselves, neither side able to trump the other. I can break a storm, but I cannot break my own worst nature.
Fluttershy seems to sense the battle being fought within me and she says what is, perhaps, the worst possible thing to me at this moment in time. “You don't have to go.” She looks away, letting her mane fall over one side of her face. “Not if you don't want to, that is.”
I swallow, and the gulp seems incredibly loud in the semi-darkness, wondering if she's giving me permission to pursue her. No, she's not like that; she's still confused by grief, and she just wants a pal who'll be there for her. I'm running on auto-pilot, closing the distance to her, all the while making sure my gaze never wavers from hers. Something, some kind of energy – I don't know how else to describe it – passes between us. There's a slight shift in the atmosphere, as if everything has suddenly been coated with a thick layer of treacle and I feel like I'm having to dredge my unwieldy carcass toward Fluttershy from a great distance.
My demure friend doesn't get any closer, but she isn't backing away from my advance either; tentatively, I reach out with my forelegs and all of a sudden Fluttershy forces her body against my own. Her flailing mane tickles my nose as she buries her head in my shoulder, and an outpouring of emotion leaves my coat soaked for the second time that night. The sob lasts for a minute or two before she gets herself back under some semblance of control; she looks at me, or tries to, and I have to brush her hair out of her face in order to see her properly. Her eyes are wide and sad, slick with apprehension and tears; she's that small, awkward filly I first met back in flight school again.
We kiss. More correctly, I kiss her. It's nothing more than a gentle brush of my lips against hers; my mind casts back to the events of the Changeling invasion of Canterlot, and how, when I'd rescued her from a gang of attackers, her muzzle had been perfectly positioned for me to kiss her as I helped her back to her hooves. It had taken a supreme effort of will not to act on my more base impulses that day, too. She stiffens in my arms, and I feel a black mass of panic flow through me; her expressionless face tells me nothing, and I have no idea if she's simply startled by my actions, or if she's revolted by them.
“I'm sorry,” is all I can say, and it sounded so lame and hollow in that moment that, had I not just possibly lost my best friend, I might've laughed.
Fluttershy disentangles herself from my clutches, and all I can do is stare dumbly after her as she disappears into the darkness at the back of the cottage. I hear her hooves thunk on the hard wood of the staircase, and I can just about make out her form as she ascends. My wings quiver desperately, urging me to make my own escape; I'm just about to do so when Fluttershy pauses, halfway up, and primly asks, “Aren't you coming?”
*
When we reach her bedroom – it is the only area of the cottage that Fluttershy keeps free of occupation by her critters; it's the one place she can be alone, it's her sanctuary – her earlier resolve seems to disappear and she sinks mousily on to the bed, afraid to meet my probing gaze. I sit next to her, affectionately massaging a hoof along the gentle arch of her spine. There's a lot of rigidity in her muscles and my touch, contrary to what I was hoping, only makes her stiffen further. “It's okay,” I tell her. “You've been through a lot.” I'm a little disappointed by this turn of events, but I'm doing my best not to show it; the last thing she needs right now is to think that I'm angry with her for chickening-out on me, when really, I'm just frustrated with myself for thinking that allowing anything to happen under these circumstances in any way constituted a good thing. Truth be told, I'm a little disgusted at myself that I didn't put a stop to this sooner.
My self-loathing dies before it can fully take hold when Fluttershy surprises me by spreading herself across the bed; she isn't deliberately trying to hide anything from me, but her rosy tresses fall over her body, obscuring it from view. The manner in which her still-damp mane is clinging to her shape instils in me the notion of her as a present that I'm meant to unwrap. You can probably guess that I was the type of foal who wanted to tear the gift paper off as soon as possible to get to the prize contained within, but this time, I have a certain responsibility toward my friend and I'm acutely aware of the need to take things slowly.
“This is your first time, isn't it?” I'm not trying to embarrass her or make her feel inadequate; rather, I want her to feel comfortable with me. I want to be as understanding as I possibly can. If you expect your first time to be awful, it probably will be, especially if it's happening with somepony you barely know.
Her body flushes red and she nods, looking away from my earnest scrutiny. She probably thinks that I'm analysing her, searching out her defects, when all I'm doing is drinking her loveliness in like it's that first crisp bite of cider. Fluttershy's legs twitch slightly, and I suspect that she's considering hiding herself away from me, either with the covers or her own limbs, but I smile reassuringly at her and press my hoof softly against her cheek.
I take my time unveiling her form, treating it as a reward in itself; I've always found her attractive, and many's the time when my roving eyes have wandered over her graceful physique, and it's driving me crazy that I can't speed through this like I can and do with so many other things in my life. I try to quell the raging whirlwind that torments my mind; instead, I try to focus on the here-and-now, try to remind myself that Fluttershy's well-being is more important than my fervour.
As gently as I can, I position myself on top of her; her eyes widen slightly at the contact, and another blush tints her cheeks. I allow myself to enjoy her warmth, I inhale her potent scent, and a knowing smirk creases my muzzle when I sense the slight flutter of her wings as they brush involuntarily against my sides. I have my own under rigid control, but poor Fluttershy doesn't have a lot of know-how when it comes to this sort of stimulation.
For the next few moments, I do nothing; I want Fluttershy to get used to my weight, to my presence, and I allow her all the time she needs to come to terms with what is happening. This is so far outside her normal range of experiences that I'm amazed her mind hasn't shut down out of sheer confusion. A look crosses her face as I lean into her, one that is almost questioning, but I'm simply repositioning the solid bulk of my chest to avoid pressing down on her ribcage quite so much. The heat from her body is almost unbearable, and I have no idea what's stopping me from just taking what I want.
“What do I do?” she asks so quietly that even I have trouble hearing it. Her eyes meet mine and I catch sight of the play of emotions at work underneath the surface: there's trepidation, of course, but there's also … expectation. In defiance of her issues and fears, she does want this newfound intimacy between us.
My heart leaps to my throat when I belatedly realise the truth: she doesn't want to disappoint me. She wants to impress me. “D'you trust me?” I reply.
Fluttershy inclines her head, but if the crimson hue of her cheeks is anything to go by, she wants her mane to be concealing her face from my ogling again rather than plastered carelessly underneath her. Slowly, I push her hindlegs apart with my own until our pelvises meet; a gasp escape her lips, and I place an affectionate kiss on her nose. Hesitantly, she brings her lips to mine and I get the impression that some of her nervousness is beginning to lessen; as if to confirm my suspicions, she allows her back legs to open further until we are … joined.
I demand nothing more from her than she is willing to part with; my focus is on making this as memorable, as pleasant, for Fluttershy as I possibly can. When I think of it at all, my only regret regarding my first time is that I wish it had been with somepony who'd cared about me as more than just a piece of meat to be devoured; not that the encounter was entirely a negative one, but I can say with some certainty that it's a lot better when you're in the hooves of somepony who has your best interests at heart.
Our coupling starts off slow; her breathing is becoming a shade more laboured, turning to ragged pants as unfamiliar sensations surge through her body. Her creamy coat is soft and velvety against my rougher pelt, and my nostrils take in their fill of her lavender-suffused essence; it is an unusual fragrance for a pegasus, one borne from her long years of living on the ground and working with animals, and I can't help but find it curious and exciting.
We are no longer rational ponies in this moment; we are wild animals, and my need becomes more primal and urgent. My movements quicken, intensifying as my body appeals for more than than the tiny morsels I've been supplying it with; as my own mind turns inward, focused only on what it wants, I find I've become hardened to Fluttershy's escalating whimpers. By the time I become aware of her again, her entire body has gone rigid and a blood-curdling cry rends the stillness of the bedroom. I want to press my hooves to my ears, but the sound dissipates only seconds later.
She is soaked through with sweat; our fluids mingle while she struggles to regain her breath, and her body trembles weakly after the outpouring of such pent-up emotion. An instinctive desire to protect her overwhelms me; Fluttershy seems so frail, my overriding concern is to keep her safe. I pull the covers around us, keeping my legs entwined around her delicate form. Even with a post-coital glow suffusing her, she can't help but look … angelic. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Did you … was it all right?”
Fluttershy turns to look at me. There are tears in her eyes. This, I wasn't expecting. My hooves wipe away a trickle of wetness, but it's not long before a fresh flood has me realising the futility of my gesture. “Hey, sh, what's all that about?” I dearly hope it isn't something that I've done, that I've hurt her in some way.
“Am I … does this make me a bad pony?” she asks, chewing on her bottom lip softly.
“What? No. Why would you think that?”
“We're supposed to wait, are we not? For our Special Someponies?”
“Am I not special enough for you?” I reply, hoping to use a little levity to shine a light on the encroaching darkness. Fluttershy narrows her eyes at my mock-hurt expression and I quickly cotton-on to the fact that I need to take things a little bit more seriously. Special Someponies. It's a cute story when you're a foal – that there's one perfect being out there who is destined to be with you until the end of time – but that's before the realisation sets in that you're nothing more than a collection of barely-restrained impulses; wants and desires that need to be fulfilled, that crave satisfaction. That's probably a little more than my friend needs to hear right now. “Did you feel good?”
“... yes,” she admits a trifle reluctantly, looking away for a moment. There should be no guilt, no shame, attached to such an act, and it pains me that Fluttershy might actually hate herself for what she did. As if bringing such joy to somepony was something that you should feel guilty about.
“D'you have any regrets?”
“No.” Her voice is firmer. “I've wanted this, to be with you, for such a long time.”
“Then, that's all that matters,” I conclude, touching her nose with the tip of my hoof and making her giggle.
When she drifts off to sleep, her mind and body both totally exhausted by the events of the night, I'm left to ruminate on her words: I've desired Fluttershy for as long as I can remember, and to know that she's had similar feelings is heartening, but … what about tomorrow? Even with all of my razor-sharp senses, I can no more predict the future than Rarity can go an hour without primping her mane.
This closeness – and I don't just mean her warm, invigorating presence snuggled up against my side – this new-found intimacy of ours is not something I can easily give up; her feathery pinions are quavering once more, and I can only imagine the dream that has them in such a state. My ego would like to think that it involves me somehow, but for all I know, she's dreaming about manticores or orthroses.
Or a small, mischievous bunny.
Sleep comes fitfully at best that night; my mind is awash with thoughts of what could go wrong, but Fluttershy's reassuring presence in the bed reminds me that, sometimes, things can go right.