Houseparent Jazz Styles wore a look of sincere concern on his face and his warm eyes never left Sundance. Pale in colour, Jazz wasn't exactly green, nor was he white, but a shade that existed somewhere in between. He wore slightly oversized square glasses with fashionable brown-grey-orange tortoiseshell frames and grey-tinted lenses. Like so many of the others, Jazz resembled something that approached perfection. His cutie mark was a saxophone with a stream of music notes.
"Feeling alright, friendo?"
At first, Sundance swallowed, and then he thought about his current state-of-being. Was he alright? It was difficult to even remember going to the bathroom. The brand; he saw the brand and then he hurriedly excused himself before his livid reaction could erupt to ruin the day. No, he wasn't alright. Not at all. He was pretty far from alright, and he worried that he might never be alright ever again. Something about the brand, which he saw as a heretical perversion of a cutie mark, offended his very soul. A symbol of ownership, it was a replacement of destiny and so much more that he couldn't put into words, even if he wanted.
"Where are the kids?"
Jazz smiled, but it was a false-smile full of worry and his eyes brimmed with concern. "They were whisked away for a quick therapy session. The final session. One last bit of therapy before discharge. They'll still be joining you for lunch, don't you worry. If you don't mind me saying, you had quite a reaction. I saw you. The empaths saw you. We all did. I'd like to say that we're not scared of you, but we are scared for you."
As these words sank deep into Sundance's brain, he blinked. "I think I had a pegasus moment. Maybe my first real pegasus moment. I mean, I've been angry before… I have. My hackles go up and something"—he paused for a short breath to consider his next words—"comes over me. And I gotta be honest, when that happens, it scares me a little because I'm not like that. But this… this was totally different. Whatever this was, this was something else entirely. It was like a force of nature welling up inside me."
"Silent Thunder suffers from primal pegasus rage."
"There's a name for this?" asked Sundance.
"Many names for that condition, and no set defined term," Jazz replied.
"So I'm not crazy?" Sundance found himself both relieved and disturbed at the same time.
"Crazy? No. Near as I can tell, you're a pegasus. I don't mean that in a tribalist way of course."
In silence, Sundance nodded at the now-worried unicorn.
"Each tribe has its quirks," Jazz said in a soft voice. "We're all ponies, and that's something that we have in common. But…" With a fearful expression, he inhaled, as if to prepare himself. "All those stereotypes have a root of truth to them. Pegasus ponies really are brutes. There's no shame in it… savagery was their way of life. The skies are hostile. Your tribe survived because you evolved to deal with every threat, everything that hindered your survival. You bested every challenge, and did so without the luxury of powerful magic. Survival by sheer brute force. That's something to take pride in. Those that survived kept the traits that kept them alive."
"But it felt so unlike me. Like I was somepony else."
"I think for a second, you were somepony else. No offense, friendo, but for a moment there, you looked downright medieval."
"None taken," Sundance replied. "I suppose that's a good thing, seeing as how I'm a baron and all. Maybe I should look downright medieval… when the situation demands it, of course. Wouldn't want to scare the ponies around me."
"Friendo, I would not want to be in the same room if you met the fool that branded that filly. Not even on the same continent, I think. My mama, she raised me to believe in a few basic principles. You don't take Princess Celestia's name in vain, you don't spit in the wind, and you don't tug on no pegasus pony's feathers unless you want trouble. You had your feathers rustled, I tell you."
"I suppose I did. Thanks, by the way. I think I feel better. Do you think I scared the kids?"
"No way… those four, they're some cool little customers. They'll be fine. Ask them for yourself. Seriously. Don't be afraid. Pluck is a lot of things, but he's no coward. He'll tell you straight. And if Gerard was really bent out of shape, he would have blown chunks."
For Sundance, that rang true; at least, true enough to satisfy.
"Do you need anything, friendo?"
"A cup of tea," Sundance replied right away. "I gotta drive away this onset of hooliganism before something awful happens."
The cup of tea was ridiculously oversized. A symbol of the excess found in the west. It wasn't even a mug, but more of a soup bowl. Sundance held it between his hooves and inhaled the fragrant, soothing vapour that rose in whirling curls to entice his nose. Tea wasn't just drank, no. Sometimes, tea was experienced, like now. A teapot sat on the table before Sundance, along with a pitcher of cream and a matching sugarbowl. With every deep breath he took, he filled his lungs with perfumed goodness, which eased his troubled mind.
Jazz, who stood near the door, remarked, "You look better."
To which Sundance replied, "I feel better. Thank you."
Eyes half-closed, or perhaps half-open, depending on if one was a pessimist or optimist, Sundance allowed the scent of tea to work its magic. He was in some sort of employee break room, which opened up into the central cafeteria. Lunch would be served here, so he and his wards could have a quiet meal together in private. As the tempestuous fury subsided, and reason returned, Sundance could not help but think the most awful thoughts. If he could bury a splitting maul into an owlbear's skull, he shuddered to think of what he might do to a pony that branded other ponies. And he could do it, too. He could do it, he knew it, and it scared him to discover what he was capable of when sunk into the depths of his anger. A part of him was downright bothered by this, because it was no 'what-if' scenario. He'd attacked the owlbear without hesitation, without thought, something that he would have never believed himself capable of.
What else might he be capable of?
"Unless there is anything else you need, I'll be off to tend to others."
"I'm good. Thank you. Seriously. You've been a big help, Jazz."
"I'm glad I could be of service. The best life is one spent in service of others… but you already know this. Be well, Sundance. There's a call button on the wall, right next to the lightswitch if you need anything. Don't let life turn you medieval, friendo."
As Jazz Styles slipped out the door, Sundance turned to look at the lightswitch and the call button. Right up above them was a small rectangular sign reminding all employees to wear a smile. Beside it was a sign with a list of ways to be sincere and heartfelt. Next to that was a bulletin board covered in paper. Down in the corner of the board was a yellow sheet of paper with words written in bright red ink, a reminder that there was an employee support group available. It occurred to Sundance that this was a good place. This wasn't some nightmare orphanage like the ones they made horror movies about, nor was it some alicorn-forsaken hospital—which was also the subject of scary cinema.
With a cup of tea held between his hooves, Sundance thought of his now-departed grandmother. He allowed the thoughts to come, he welcomed them and allowed them to wash over him like a rush of cool wind. She had warned him, told him stories, and he had always believed that he was too much like his father to ever act like that. If only she could see him as he was—if only she could see how much he'd grown. What might his mother say?
The first slurp of tea was a bit too hot, but he swallowed some anyway.
He was a medieval pegasus; he lived in a castle. Sort of. He lived in a gatehouse, which was rather castlelike and had a tower. Sort of. The bell tower served mostly as a place for owls to gather and gossip about the goings on of the barony. On a display rack at home, he had a suit of armor made from the bones of a dead owlbear. That was pretty medieval. Why, he had a chariot—sort of—and he'd hauled a wizard through the skies so that she could rain down fiery destruction. That… that was downright medieval. Old school. The days of yore, or maybe even yesteryore—however long ago it was when pegasus ponies and unicorns together were the terrors of the skies.
And then there was his nurse.
Oh, she was a good nurse.
A great nurse.
Maybe the best nurse.
But he had vivid memories of how she mauled spiders.
Not only was he a medieval pegasus, but he had himself a medieval nurse.
He was almost certain that Corduroy could unscrew something's head and pour their humours out.
If that wasn't medieval, then nothing was.
The fact that she didn't was proof that she was a good dog.
Perhaps the best dog.
Dogs made the best friends, of this Sundance was certain.
One by one, they filed in; Gerard led the way and had Flax upon his back. Pluck followed, and Silent Thunder brought up the rear. There was a lingering awkwardness that Sundance fretted over, because he'd left the room in a bit of a hurry so that he might escape into the bathroom before he lost himself completely. What if he scared them? Or worse? Yet, they more or less seemed fine—though they did just come out of what was their discharge therapy session. So maybe if something was wrong, it was already worked out. The not-knowing led to a lot of tension, and Sundance could already feel his stomach muscles grow taut.
Flax was lifted up, put on top of the table, patted on the head by the griffon, and then the three boys sat down. Sundance saw the brand and his pulse effectively doubled at the sight of it. For a second or three, he could see nothing but the brand, a hairless mark of scar tissue on Flax's right hip. Sweat rolled down his neck and his scars itched to the point where he wanted to roll over onto his back to scratch them. Gerard was so big compared to little Flax; for whatever reason, Sundance's mind seized upon this. The griffon could completely encircle his talons around her tiny, lithe body.
There was cruelty in the world, that much was evident, but also kindness.
"I'm sorry," Sundance said because he felt an apology was in order.
"For what?" Pluck, who responded, focused his surviving eye on Sundance.
"For scaring you, if I did. I don't know what came over me. In fact, I barely even remember it happening. It's all a blur."
"You got mad," Pluck said matter-of-factly. "And that makes me feel better. I wasn't scared at all."
"It made you feel better?" Unable to hide his incredulity, Sundance stared agape at the young earth pony.
"The houseparents see it, and they have very clinical reactions. There's all this restraint. They hold back and most of them have this fake response and a few words about how senseless and unfortunate it is. And I hate it. In fact, I've spent hours in therapy talking about just how much I hate it and how much it makes me want to kick something. I'm pretty sure that you wanted to kick something. I felt justified."
"I see." Unsure of what else to say, Sundance gave careful thought to the colt's words.
"Just don't be sorry for how you feel, please?" asked Pluck.
"I was so worried that I'd scared you," Sundance said to all of them. "Sometimes, when grown-ups get mad, it can be scary. I remember how scary it was when my mom got mad."
"We're not like other kids," Gerard said to Sundance. "If you want to scare us, you'll have to do better than that. But Pluck is right. It was nice to see a heartfelt reaction that wasn't so clinical."
"I got tired of Flax's brand being something to work through rather than be something to experience," Pluck said in a thoughtful manner. "And that's the problem. That's our problem. Everything here is clinical. Artificial. I mean, don't get me wrong. This place is great. But Gerard is right. We need to get out of here. Real life awaits."
"So you're on board," Sundance said to Pluck.
"Only because it's good for Flax…" Then, in a much lower voice he added, "And because you got angry about what was done to her."
"Want some tea, Flax?" asked Gerard.
"Yes." Her head bobbed as she looked up at the griffon with her eyes alight from worshipful adoration. "Pwease. More sugar."
Sundance, who held his own teacup, watched as the griffon busied himself. The tea was poured into a shallow saucer, a few sugar cubes were plopped into the middle, and then there was a tiny splash of cream. This was then pushed in front of Flax, who warily gave it a watchful stare. Gerard snapped his talons, and then pointed with his index talon-finger. Silent Thunder lept into action and immediately began blowing on the hot tea, which rippled in the saucer.
For everything awful in the world, there was good too, and Sundance took comfort in that. These kids had little, but they had each other. The same was true for the residents of his barony. Back home, there was a tight-knit closeness that went beyond family. A faint sigh that was more of a groan escaped Sundance while he thought about how that might change as they grew. Beyond the box canyon castle, there would be new settlements. Homesteaders would build their own little settlements. Eventually, there would be too many residents for him to have a solid relationship with all of them. His lands would become a microcosm of Equestria, and he himself would become more like Princess Celestia.
But he would make the most of what he had while he had it.
"More sugar?" the tiny filly asked of her griffon protector.
"No," Gerard replied, "you'll rot your teeth."
In return, the filly snorted in contempt and banged her front hooves against the table.
"What's it like, raising her?" asked Sundance.
Gerard's movements were quick, sudden, and smooth. Almost mechanical, but not jerky. There was precision in his every movement, like the fine motion of a well-made watch as a hand ticked off the seconds. His head tilted one way, then another way, and he blinked his scarlet-gold eyes. It was almost unsettling, because Gerard's movements were not at all equine; they were avian and rather predatory. He blinked again, flexed his talons, and then looked down at the donkey filly that stared up at him with her lower lip jutting out.
"I hadn't thought of it as raising her," he replied with complete honesty. "The only point of reference I have is that Princess Twilight raised Spike the Dragon. Are they not siblings? Family? Princess Twilight has never said that she is Spike's mother, as far as I know. I consider myself Flax's brother, and she's my sister. But right now, at this moment, I do wonder how she sees me."
"Booger-bird," the filly said under her breath.
"Well, that's not going to get you more sugar," Gerard said to the tiny, pouty filly.
"But… sugar…" she pleaded with him, her lower lip now quivering.
"Thunder has been giving you lessons again, hasn't he?"
Eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, Flax seemed quite surprised by this statement, and she wagged her head from side to side, from left to right in an emphatic no. Implicated as he was, Silent Thunder seemed more than a little bothered by this development, and ceased to blow upon the saucer of tea to cool it off. Head low, Pluck snickered, while Gerard's piercing eyes remained focused on the filly before him.
"Let me guess… how dare I call you out on this?" asked Gerard.
Flax's head-wag turned into a nod—but then she caught on to the ruse and went still.
More than a little amused, Sundance slurped his tea, and took in a bit too much. He almost sputtered, and the roof of his mouth tried to tell him that it was about to be cooked. When he swallowed, the hot tea caused some serious discomfort all the way down, but he managed. When he had himself another slurp, he was a bit more careful. The griffon and the donkey filly continued their contest of wills. It occurred to Sundance that with Gerard, Hollyhock wasn't getting another sob story to fawn over and mother, but a helper. A capable, content helper—one that understood how the game was played.
The other little ones wouldn't know what hit them.
"More sugar?" Eyes wide, ears limp, the little filly put everything she had into her efforts.
"I'm starting to think that you don't like tea… but that you do like sugar," Gerard remarked while he smoothed out Flax's unruly tuft of mane.
"Sugar is sweet… me am too."
"Flax, the baby talk won't work on me," Gerard said to her.
Annoyed and more than a little aggravated, the little fawny, tawny filly spat out, "Drats!"
Pluck, his tone casual and smooth, said to Sundance, "This happens every day. Flax tries a little bit harder to get some sugar, and Gerard has to resist. Sometimes, Flax has temper tantrums—"
"Do not!"
"—but Gerard never loses his patience. Never-ever. I don't know how he does it."
Kicking her hind legs, Flax twisted and bounced her body away from Gerard and turned her freckled, speckled back towards him. Now pouting, her thin, tufted tail slapped against the table as she ramped up her efforts to let the griffon know that she was now ignoring him. Unphased by her actions, Gerard shrugged, waved at Silent Thunder to let the pegasus colt know that he could stop blowing, and then the griffon leveled his avian gaze upon Sundance.
Sensing opportunity, Sundance asked, "Do you need a hug?"
"You're a stranger," the filly replied through a pouty, puckered scowl.
"But I'm no danger."
"Hmmph." She shook her head with enough force that it caused her tuft of mane to spring up.
Like Tarantula Sombrero, Flax wasn't so different from a pony. Oh, her face had some differences, and she had long ears like a bunny, but those were minor dissimilarities. One thing that stood out was the fact that she was shaggier, with a denser, hairier hide than a pony. Yes, she was a little fuzzball and it was obvious that a lot of time was spent brushing her, otherwise, she'd be a matted mess. She was clean, well-kept, and pretty much perfect—but the sight of her brand still caused Sundance to tremble from the dull ache of his fury.
"I was hoping that we could be friends," Sundance said to the finicky, sugar-loving foal. "I have other friends too… little ones just like you. There's even a few infants back home. Well"—he considered his words, uncertain—"I'm not sure they're still infants. But they're young. Just a few months old. And very cute. I'm fond of them…" As his words trailed off into nothing, he realised that he was out of words to say.
But the intercom saved him from his sudden floundering.
"Lunch will be served in five minutes."