III
I pass Haystack as we reach his block. Between the cobbled streets and inclined lanes, my back can take so much walking before the shocks start. At least Haystack’s house is in a plateau district. That is something.
The stairs and the wheels add up to even more pain, but quick and dirty equals faster rest. I dig out the hidden key and throw the door open before Haystack can even request to help. The couch is all there is.
Boulder Jr waits on the windowsill, still as stone. He’s too good for me. I make sure to tell him as much with a pat after the straps are undone and my body is in an embrace of felt and spring. This had to be what clouds felt like. Lucky pegasi.
Haystack chuckles but says nothing. I turn just in time to see his tail disappear into the bathroom. He can read me like a book. A blink and he emerges, bottle in teeth. “Tw’, righ’?” he manages.
“Mhmm.” They tell me one, but two keeps the barbs out better. I swallow before he can fetch a glass of water. He sighs. Maybe another chuckle is hidden somewhere beneath those wrinkled cheeks, but a frown takes over.
“Some day, huh.” He walks over to the kitchen and starts a kettle of tea. The leftovers of that Zebraican blend Rainbow brought by earlier, probably. She did not even stop to say ‘goodbye.’ She had her own issues to deal with, sure, but a wave would have been nice.
“I’ve been so beside myself all day that folks are probably getting worried," he says between sips. "Or at least getting a headache from all that Appleloosan swing.” He scoffs and fetches another cup from the cabinet. “Want some?”
“No. Thanks.” The pills are doing their job. Zebrican tea is always black. Caffeine would only bring the pain back. Sleep sounds nice, too.
“I reckon I need to make a report before turning in.” He groans.
“Need to take care of that too.” I point a wobbling hoof towards the swaying table. If I could never leave this couch again, that would be great.
He rubs a hoof against his forehead. “That too.” A gulp and the tea is gone. He then grabs the bag and carefully shuffles off to the basement. Somewhere among those old mine shafts, the bomb would be passed off and disarmed by its maker, its packaging destined to be tossed into some bin or corner to be forgotten. A shame. It really is a nice bag. Purple and gold, briolette pattern. Amethyst. Reminds me of something Rarity would have stitched.
The name stabilizes the world and I sit up on the couch. Not because of Rarity—nothing against her. No, her name meant more to Pinkie than me.
Pinkie.
I try not to think about her too much, but after the parade she had charged right over the walls and refused to leave. Not at the cafe, not for a step on the walk back, and not here. I close my eyes. All I can see is pink and green and purple. Lightning snakes up my spine. It is summer and I am shivering. I wrap the throw as tight as I can.
It was not the first time she had jumped the barricades post-mission. Often times she did, success or failure, and often times I could wipe it away, be it with a fight or a flight. Today had not been a success. Not a failure either. Love had won out. Peace. And still she had bored in.
I stare at Boulder Jr, then out the window behind him. No answers, more questions. The moon is full. The streets are lit. Through the reflections of our spartan den, I can see the a pony or two still strolling and/or stumbling their way home after a long night. There is no smoke, no screams in the distance, no crystal soldiers on the prowl.
It almost looks like Canterlot should.
I swallow. The pills always fill my throat. Sleep beckons, but my eyes remain locked on the window as they do every night. Tonight they are not the eyes of a bodyguard, however. No, I am far from these streets.
I am among the mountains and quarries. I am staring at a looming stone, the shadows of a farmhouse painted on it by the setting sun. Carts rattle beside me. I hear voices all around me. Peppy. Angry. Somepony laughs, somepony yells, somepony whimpers. Olden-time sayings move through the air on the backs of dust and sweat and fresh-baked stone scones.
I am home.
I sigh to no one. Sleep is winning. As the sands pull my head and eyelids down, I can tell it will not be sound.