//------------------------------// // 9 - Up to the Scars // Story: Scars in the Sky // by Toriandthehorse //------------------------------// I just want this to be over. The next two weeks pass slowly. Or, quickly. I stay in my bedroom, coming out only when I have to. I like it, in my room. I can keep the curtains fastened tight, and the lamp turned to off. I can push the clouds around so there’s a little dent in my bed, a small spot where it isn’t so feathery soft. I can keep my door shut, latched with a chain. And I do. I don’t have to see Soarin’s eyes as they sweep over me, taking everything in, missing nothing. And I don’t have to hear anything outside of my own breathing, steady, reminding me I’m still alive. I don’t have to keep up in the outside world – I just have to keep up in my own. The sun is rising slowly, today. What little can come through my heavy curtains casts small patterns of shadows on the ceiling. I’d trace them, but looking up hurts. Instead, I hug my knees close to my chest, face the door, and breathe. It’s then that I hear a loud thump ring through the air. Immediately, my whole body flinches, then turns in on itself. I huddle down, wrapping my forehooves around my backhooves. Coward, coward, coward. Coward, coward, coward. I strain my ears to the door, trying to hear over my thumping heart. A door, in the direction of Soarin’s room, squeaks open. Slow hoofbeats walk past my door and trot down the stairs. I want to yell out that he shouldn’t open the door, should keep himself safe, should check that everything’s alright before continuing, but my voice doesn’t work. Stay down! Stay silent! The front door opens with a click. I tense even more, ready, but… nothing happens. Only a quiet murmuring. “It’s too early.” I hear Soarin mutter. Early? Who is he talking to? Is he planning something against me? Does he want to go? Is Pinkie back? Please, don’t let him leave… I-I need him. “Unlike you, I’ve got a schedule to keep. ‘Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable.*’” Oh… I know that voice. What is Spitfire doing here? “That’s unfair.” Soarin’s voice is strained. He’s holding something back, something bad. “Relax. Is she up?” She. Me? She wants to see me? I don’t relax. She might want me to fly again, or get up and out, or even just take a walk. She doesn’t get to force me anymore. I know now I can fight better. If I’m ready. Ready at all times, ready at all times, ready at all times. “I-I don’t know. She… barely comes out now.” Soarin drops to a lower tone, but I can hear. I can hear every word. “Is she okay?” The Spitfire I know wouldn’t talk like that, in such a low tone. The Spitfire I know isn’t capable of a gentle voice, she isn’t capable of caring. I hear Soarin exhale, sharply. He’s not going to answer. He’s too good a pony to lie, and he’s too good a pony to keep something from Spitfire. Hoofsteps start up again. Two sets this time, one faster and lighter than the other. I’m glad we didn’t get new carpets, before I left. I’m glad I can hear where they are. Now, they’re on the stairs, down the hall, in front of my door. It’s latched. They won’t get in unless I let them. “Dash? You awake?” Soarin’s soft voice drifts through the door. “What is it?” My tone is harsh. It’s the tone I used for war. The tone that warned off, and enticed a kill. I may have shown Soarin my weak side, but I won’t show it to Spitfire. She has too many connections. She has too many reasons to mock my scars, and flaunt them for everypony to see. “Spitfire’s here.” He answers, a bit louder this time. I want to tell if he’s hurt, but I can’t. He’s too good at hiding. “I know.” I bite. I hope she hears it. I hope she feels a sting. I hope she sees the new me. “Can you open the door?” I have to hand it to him. Soarin doesn’t even seem to flinch at such a tone. Instead of answering, I roll to my stomach, and slowly uncurl my legs. I’m stiff, and it hurts. Don’t show them weakness, don’t show them weakness, don’t show them weakness. Can’t show them weakness. Can’t let the Captain down. I step onto the floor, and take a quick look back. My wings are tight to me, feathers somewhat straight. The worst scar is covered. Good. I walk to the door, not relaxing as I unhook the chain and step back to open it. “Hey… Dash.” Spitfire starts out strong, but even she has to hesitate. Even she has to pause, staring at my tail, my wings, my shoulder, my hip, now visible in the semi-light. My tail, whose once-vibrant rainbow had faded to mere hints of gray. My wings, who used to be groomed and relaxed, but were now clamped and tight. My shoulder, which still bled, never healing. My hip, where a long, ugly scar traced up and down, side to side, down and up. “Spitfire.” I keep my eyes up, jaw hard. Looking down is a weakness. And I won’t show weakness. “Anypony for breakfast?” Soarin cuts in, forcing a nervously cheerful laugh. Is he afraid I’ll try to attack again? I don’t think I will. I have more respect for Spitfire than I do for somepony like Pinkie. They turn away, heading for the table. I consider balking, but it wouldn’t make Soarin happy. If he has to stay with me, I can do this. Because it would make Soarin happy. I walk after them, ignoring the pull of ripped-open and re-knit skin. I notice Spitfire falter, as she looks to the pictures on my walls. But she straightens, and says nothing. At the table, Spitfire takes the extra seat, I take mine, and Soarin gets busy at the stove. I can’t tell with what, and frankly… I don’t care. I don’t want to eat anyway. Just here to make Soarin happy. “So… how are you doing?” Spitfire’s clearly uncomfortable. I can tell she doesn’t know how to do this ‘thing.’ “I’m great.” I answer, sarcasm dripping through my tone. My wings hurt. I want to go back to my room, leave Spitfire and whatever she wants from me. “Dash, stop. I want the truth, and I want it now.” This time, she surprises me. Her voice is low, lower than I’ve ever heard it. She’s not backing down; her eyes are up, narrowed just enough, and her back is straight. Her wings are perfect, folded loosely at her sides. She has her yellow hooves clasped together on the table, leaning over them slightly. She’s testing me. She’s testing boundaries, testing who’s the leader here. She didn’t use my full name, which shows she’s purposely not acting as though I’m in trouble. But her tone is… hard. A tone that’s there for a reason. She scares me. Spitfire has a death grip on control, right now. She knows her wings are conditioned, polished, and sleek. She knows her tail is styled perfectly, and she knows she wears her scars well. I swallow, hard. My eyes dart to Soarin, but he has his back turned. He won’t get me out of this. I… can trust everypony here, right? Nopony will let anything leave the room. I can feel safe here. I’m okay. Right? “Dash… it’s okay.” Spitfire whispers, so, so gently. I barely even notice as she pushes her chair back, and steps closer to me. And wraps a yellow wing around my shoulders. I feel numb – I can’t feel the smooth feathers on my own. I can’t feel hurt anymore, I can’t feel free anymore. I can’t feel anything anymore. “Everything is okay.” There’s none of that harsh voice left. There’s only a tone so gentle it seems motherly. “Spitfire.” Why is my voice so hoarse? I need to be tough, cover my weaknesses! I don’t want to feel like this. I want to be weak, for once. I want to – need to – let the Captain down. “Dash.” She whispers back, tightening her wing. Why doesn’t it hurt? It should hurt, she’s right by the scar. “Hey, it’s okay.” Soarin’s next to me now, murmuring it over and over again, in a low, soothing tone. Feathers brush against my blue fur, settling in front of Spitfire’s. I’m between the two of them, enveloped in the smells of clouds, mint, and wind. Enveloped in the deep rumbles of comfort words. “I’m sorry,” I want to say it louder, but my throat is clogged with… tears. I can only manage a whisper, a heavy whisper. “I’m so sorry.” For what am I sorry for? Why am I apologizing? I don’t know, I just don’t know. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Spitfire murmurs, keeping such a soft, sweet tone. My shoulders start to shake, convulsing with pain, with tears, with memories, with the spirits of all those I killed. There was the stallion, who reminded me so of Soarin, then the mare, whom Twilight would have loved, then that other mare, that other stallion, and another stallion, and another mare, and one more stallion, and more, and more, and more. The tears are coming fast now. I want to stop them, but I can’t. I want to hold them in, but I can’t. I want to stay strong, stay strong, stay strong, stay strong… but I can’t. “It’s okay.” Soarin’s whispering. “It’s okay, Dash. Really, it’s okay…” He doesn’t know. Not even Spitfire knows. They can’t set me free again. “I’m sorry.” I cry, straining against the heaviness in my throat. I drop my head into my hooves; I can’t feel the tears stain my fur wet. “It’s okay.” Spitfire’s voice is just so kind. So kind, so low, so tender. Both of them are saying the same thing, whispering it again and again. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. Is it okay to show weakness, just this one time? Is it okay to let the Captain down, just this one time? It is okay to lower my eyes, relax my jaw, just this one time? Is it okay to let myself tremble, let myself cry, just this one time? “It’s okay, Dash. It’s okay.” Spitfire murmurs. Her wing is steady on mine; it holds the same touch her voice does. So I think. Maybe. Maybe it isn't. But maybe... maybe it is.