//------------------------------//
// Four 
// Story: Maelstrom 
// by QQwrites 
//------------------------------//

Director Fairweather, head of the Equestrian Weather Service, was, by all credible accounts, a curmudgeon. He was old, he was tired, and he was too important, busy, and handsome (a lie) to deal with you, your problems, or your ideas.

Shouting matches with Fairweather were legendary. It’s said that only one pony ever stood up to him: Maelstrom, always in her quiet, steady tone. The stories say he would rile at her for hours, yelling so loud the walls shook.

The more time I spent in the EWS office, the more stories I heard. Desks being overturned, typewriters thrown through windows—and ponies fired on the spot. When he was in his office—which was almost never—the staff would tip-toe past it, for fear of waking a dragon.

Despite the stories, “legendary” remained too literal an adjective. In the time since our first introductory meeting, I never heard him raise his voice.

Not once.

It’s curious how a person’s reputation can precede them. You may learn about someone who never existed, yet there they go walking down the hall. I often wonder who the worst kind of person is: one who is rotten or one who spoils others.

When Director Fairweather died (it was opined that a heartless pony could not die of a heart attack), it was with some confusion that I saw the same ponies who called him a tyrant cry tearfully at his funeral. I couldn’t say, looking at the various mourners from my position next to Maelstrom, whether or not their feelings were anything but real.

The casket was maple with gold rods. Draped in the blue and white of the EWS flag, Fairweather had been marched in a light shower (by his final request) to the freshly dug grave. The air smelled of rain and dirt; altogether pleasing, despite the somber occasion.

As Fairweather was eased into the ground, the bagpiper played, the priest prayed, a widow and her grown children cried. I stole a look at Maelstrom and, for a moment, could not be sure if the raindrops on her cheeks were tears.


Maelstrom and I stepped into Director Fairweather’s office. It was large, wood paneled, with tall windows looking out over the river. Down in the campus courtyard, employees were milling about, enjoying the sun after the earlier showers.

I had followed Acting Director Maelstrom (the government loves its titles, in particular, the intermediate ones) by her request. She was touring the room, looking at the various pictures, citations, and awards which decorated the walls. She moved in a slow, methodical way, like the curator of an ancient museum.

While the room had the typical office accoutrements, it was spacious enough to offer a conference table and a long, comfortable couch. The couch was old, in a style of careful, luxurious craftsmanship, with dark wood and cushions upholstered in a deep velvet blue.

I was thinking of leaving: Maelstrom hadn’t spoken in an hour. This wasn’t in of itself unusual, but there was an odd feeling in the air, as if this slow meandering of hers was a pilgrimage. Perhaps this was her personal holy land: a place she had long sought and in finding, found herself a queen.

“Do you enjoy working here, Quill?” she asked, sliding a forehoof across the desk. Her eyes tracked the path of her hoof and rose to meet me, leaning pensively in the door frame.

“Of course, ma’am.” It was true. Despite the long hours, it was quiet and steady. I never found Maelstrom unreasonable, though her aloofness sometimes irritated me. I wanted to break that bureaucratic exterior to find something else inside, but I didn’t know how to do it. Would I even like what I found?

“Director Fairweather’s passing means we’ll have a lot more work to do, even if we were already responsible for much of his duties.”

I nodded in agreement. Fairweather had the title, but Maelstrom had been calling the shots since I joined. It was the unspoken agreement of Fairweather’s “working retirement”.

There was a long pause, as if she was considering how to proceed. I was convinced that Maelstrom prepared conversations in advance and, as a result of an already crammed schedule, spoke little to avoid the tedium of scripting more than was necessary. “I would understand if you wanted to remain in your current (or lower) position,” she spoke at last.

This was unexpected. After all these moons, she was giving me an out; one that didn’t involve the long, bitter trek to another town, another office, another life. But, what would that life look like? I saw vestiges of smiling, happy ponies who asked how I was doing, who chatted about hoofball, and eagerly passed around birthday cards for signing. I quietly shuddered.

“Take the evening to consider,” she continued, breaking me from my imagination. She made for the door, I stepped to the side quickly. She stopped at the doorway and turned to face me again. She was close—closer than I was used to. She looked at me with that same, even expression.

At least, she tried to hold that familiar countenance.

This close, in her eyes, I could see the fear of change and the longing for familiarity. Or maybe I was seeing a reflection of what I was feeling: fear for what loosing Fairweather would mean, longing to stay with somepony I’d become familiar with.

Nobody likes change, no matter how earnestly they say it in the hallowed Interview Room. “I see change as an exciting opportunity to grow,” translates to, “I fear change will displace me, so I ravenously learn everything I can to remain relevant.” Even long sought-after promotion comes with a price: your time, your energy, your hopes, your fears, and (in some cases like today) their death.

“Do you want me to stay?” I managed in a tone quiet enough to make a church mouse ask me to speak up.

“I am required by policy, Mister Quill, to provide you with options, even when they would be contrary to my preference.”

There was a slight curl to her lips, a wrinkle in her eyes—it might have been a smile.