//------------------------------// // Alone in the pent-house // Story: House of the Rising Sunflower // by kudzuhaiku //------------------------------// A small swarm of changelings worked in perfect unison to combine their magic so that immensely heavy objects might be moved. Sundance watched them, thoughtful, contemplative about the events of the morning. A whole new family. Carnation Nosegay was beside herself, and already pestering the new arrivals with the hopes that she might study them. He couldn't blame Miss Nosegay for her enthusiasm; this was her life's work after all. Given time, she would study the barony's magical bloodlines as they emerged. But that was work that took tremendous spans of time. Whole lifetimes.  The balloon would be fixed, repurposed, and would fly again. This time, it would be sewn up better. Zipzap Clover was a pony of many talents; an electrician of some considerable skill, a carpenter, a pipefitter, a steam-tech, a plumber—but the one thing he was not was a sewer. It was a miracle that the balloon lasted as long as it did. Now, it was just one of the many projects waiting to be finished, busywork for another time. While a balloon wasn't as useful as an airship, it would still be made to serve a purpose.  Here at Sunfire Barony, nothing was ever truly useless.  "Ponies have dreams, Sundance… and they will pursue them with reckless abandon."  The emotionless rasp of Flicker's voice caused Sundance's ears to rise.  "Hennessy collects doilies. He knows doily makers and patterns and all the minutiae involved with doilies. His passion for this hobby mystifies me." The solemn unicorn paused for a short time, cleared his throat, coughed, cleared his throat again, and then he drew in a deep breath. "He will go through extraordinary circumstances to gain doilies precious to him. What I am trying to say is, you will find that ponies and other creatures will do insane things to come here. Just like refugees that come to Equestria. Like it or not, you've become a magnet. A sort of magnetic north, so to speak, and fate will draw many to you. Not all of them will make it, I suspect. Refugees die by the boatload, in a manner of speaking."  "What can I do to make it better?" asked Sundance.  "I have no idea," Flicker replied. "I live surrounded by death. I'm the last pony you should ask. For me, it's all just acceptable losses."    The afternoon brought with it dangerous heat commingled with a sulphurous musk. It wasn't even mid-summer yet, and it was far too warm for Sundance's preferences. Many of the earth ponies didn't seem too bothered by it, but he and his fellow pegasus ponies were hot, sweaty messes. Thankfully, there were cool places where one could find refuge, though the dining hall was not one of them. It was as hot as an oven in there, which made the wood smell somehow more woody. It tickled the nose and teased the nostrils, which made Sundance want to sneeze.  A long, broad glistening ribbon of drool dribbled from the corner of Remus' mouth, and beside him, Romulus fared no better. The great shaggy beast was clearly miserable and Sundance could think of no way to help him. At least it cooled off rapidly come evening, but that was hours away. The many steam vents spewed clouds of superheated vapour, which left the air more than a little moist. Even in the dining hall, there was no refuge from the mugginess of the sulphur-kissed air.  Sundance had found out that some of these vents could reach three, or even four-hundred degrees, but this rapidly cooled above ground. Some of the bubbling mudpots exceeded five hundred degrees and getting too close to them in this weather might cause heat stroke in a pony, or anything with a shaggy hide.  "I feel like I'm livin' in a fart-bubble," Sulky said as she rolled over onto her other side.  "Go for a swim," Sundance suggested.  "My wings sunburn in the sun," the filly said in return. "All 'cause I'm missing so many feathers. I can't be out in the sun for long."  "That… that is really unfortunate. I'm sorry." Unsure of what else to say, Sundance lapsed into silence.  "You're kind to say that," the pegasus filly replied. "It's nice to be around sympathetic ponies."  With these words fresh in his mind, it was easy to feel better.    The gatehouse was surprisingly cool, given the current outside temperature, which soared near the triple-digits. Overhead, the skylight's thick metal shutter was closed, and had been since morning. This left the vast open space quite dark, but also offered blessed relief from the blistering, unrelenting sun. What little light that did come in trickled through the narrow windows, and these golden rays highlighted glittering motes of drifting dust. It was a spectacular and perfect target for Sundance's unfocused stare.  He sat at his table, alone, slunched over his precious paperwork, and not doing anything. Why, he wasn't even looking at said paperwork; he was too busy watching the swirling motes of dust that danced along the length of the narrow lances of sunlight. Be it fatigue or boredom, his expression was vacant, his breathing was shallow, and he was in this moment quite content. It was quiet, it was cool, and he finally had some time to himself to collect his own thoughts. To sort out all he'd experienced in just the past few days. His worldview had radically changed at some point, perhaps in Applewood Hills, or maybe Jersey City.  Taking full inventory of himself, Sundance could not recall the last time that he'd relieved himself. There were no skin mags here, no visual aids, unless one counted the crudely drawn pictures sometimes found on the box canyon's walls. Not only had he not looked after his own needs—some self-servicing was certainly needed—he hadn't had time for such a thing. At some point, he'd become a bit pent up—and then somehow hadn't noticed. Now, instead of sneaking off to relieve himself, he could only focus on his current state of loneliness. Here he was, surrounded by ponies, most of them friends, creatures most dear to him—and still somehow the loneliness was unbearable.  When he sighed, the dust motes around him did a crazy dance.  Head tilted, he glanced down his nose at the paperwork in front of him. Work was a distraction. Also a luxury. If he kept himself busy, he wouldn't need to think of himself. These days were good because he hadn't thought of himself. In his service to others, he'd let his own needs slip. But now, alone, he saw the lapse for what it was. Reaching up, he rubbed his scarred neck, and then thought about what it meant to be a parent. Specifically, he thought of those moments that parents surely had to have, when the foals were quiet, nothing was going on, and they finally had a moment all to themselves. What did they do to take care of themselves?  Only, he was no parent—even if he felt like one sometimes.  His eyes focused on the printed words, but failed to read them. The dull language of bureaucracy offered no comfort, no distraction from his thoughts. As busy as he was, as crazy as everything had been, he could not help but wonder: how would he ever find love if he had no time for himself? In the past, this was something he panicked over. But now however, his reaction bothered him, because he had trouble determining what he felt. If he sank all of himself into his work, these brief moments of uncertainty wouldn't matter. He would be too busy to be consumed by them, to be bothered by them. If he found himself upset, or depressed, or overwhelmed, surely life or the barony would offer up a distraction if he were patient.  Yet, finding a mate was expected of him.  The complications caused by life were sometimes cruel.  When life slowed down enough for loneliness to catch up, it was time to go fast again.  But Sundance was not a fast pony.  He was a busy pony—but not currently at the moment.  The faint crinkle of paper shook Sundance out of his funk. Ears pricked, he lifted his head and sat up straight. A soft rustle, like that of a newspaper mid-fold. At the moment, he could hear it, but not see it. Every paper on his table was still, unmoving, and undisturbed. Turmeric's wrath would remain stayed, for now. When he turned in the direction of the sound, that was when he saw it in the stairwell; a paper bird. Only one pony sent paper birds that flew to their intended recipient.  A powerful sense of relief flooded through his innards as it approached and his spine unkinked. It flew in a somewhat confused manner, until it cleared the stairwell, and flew in an unerringly straight line right for Sundance. How it even got in was unknown, but it was folly to question magic. How did a paper bird even fly here from Canterlot? This was Twilight Sparkle's mother, Twilight Velvet, so Sundance expected that anything was possible. Flying paper birds were certainly so.  The bird, a magical construct, did exactly as it was intended to do; which is to say, it flew right into Sundance's nose, shuddered once, and then died. It fluttered down to the table, lifeless, unmoving, it's purpose wholly and completely fulfilled. Sundance stared at it for a time, thought of himself, and then wondered if he would die before or after his own purpose was achieved. Surely, he would die with his great work unfinished. But what great things he would see and accomplish along the way.  Maybe if he needed a helper, all he had to do was ask for help.  But before he did that, somepony needed his help, and so he reached for the lifeless paper bird…