Grandmother Oak made for a cosy home and Paradox Sunflower truly made the space her own. Sitting on a squat wooden stool, Sundance allowed his eyes to wander, to go on a journey, so that they might take in every incredible detail hidden in plain sight. This was an organic space in the truest sense of the word, with few straight lines. Soft curves abounded, and somehow the many books settled into spaces all their own. Colour crayon drawings were stuck to the walls and a magic lesson remained upon a slate chalkboard. It was all perfectly organised clutter, a lived in look that did not seem the least bit messy. How this was accomplished was unknown to Sundance, but he suspected that some sort of strange magic he did not understand was involved.
It was a wizard's house, through and through.
A kettle boiled and bubbled while sitting on a skeletal copper rack. No flames danced beneath it, because it was heated with magic. At the moment, Paradox neglected the kettle because she was intently focused on Sundance, who sat on a stool, holding out hope for a pleasant cup of tea to start his morning. She was taking readings of him with strange tools, weird devices that beeped, booped, and blipped.
"How is your vision, Sundance?"
"My vision?"
"Your living cells are emitting Sol-specific ultraviolet radiation and thaumaton particles."
"My eyes are fine."
"But… how though?" Paradox pulled away, her face thoughtful, and her ears pricked tall upon her head, the points jutting just above her bed-headed mane. "Your eyes should be overwhelmed with light. This doesn't make sense. The crystal ponies have a similar glow, and their eyes are also shielded. But crystal ponies have terrestrial thaumatons…" Her words trailed off and her sentence, however brilliant it might have been, went unfinished.
None of this made sense to Sundance, who really just wanted a cup of tea.
"Your eyelashes are glowing. Eyes closed or open, you really should be seeing that. It should be like somepony shining a bright light in your eyes. I mean, I almost get blinded by my own horn on a regular basis and at night I get woken up when I see bright light burning through my eyelids."
"That happens to unicorns?" asked Sundance.
"It sure does," was her quick reply.
"Your horn glows at night when you're sleeping?"
"Nocturnal luminescence emissions. When dreaming, our horns sometimes ignite. It's a bit like how your eyelids flutter when you're dreaming. Our horns are an organ with a direct connection to our brain."
"In school, I learned that pegasus ponies have an uninterrupted nerve channel that leads directly to our brains and it bypasses our spinal cords, though there is a secondary spinal connection. I've, uh, never much thought about it."
"Fascinating." Eyes narrowed, Paradox turned her attention to Sundance's wings.
"I suppose it is. Paradox…"
"Yes?"
"May I please get a cup of tea?"
"Sure… in just a moment. Allow me to finish my examination of your wings. The calamus of your feathers appears to have liquid sunlight instead of blood. The rachis has a pronounced glow and generates a measurable amount of heat. How peculiar that—"
"My what whats?"
"Basic anatomy, Sundance… do you need instruction in basic anatomy?"
"Maybe? We, uh, seemed to have skipped that in school. I could think better if I had a cup of tea—"
"In a moment, Sundance. Be patient."
The door clapped shut and a thirsty, tea-starved Sundance could not believe his rotten luck. He thought about saying something, even shouting perhaps, but he just didn't have it in him. After all, Paradox was trying to study, no doubt. She'd plucked an eyelash, taken a few hairs, shaved off a sliver of hoof, yanked out a feather—which made his wing throb incessantly—and then she shoved him out the door without so much as a thank you or a cup of tea.
Left with no other option, Sundance harrumphed at the door.
When that didn't make him feel better, he harrumphed again, and then once more for a third time. With his feathers ruffled, he cast his sullen gaze about, longing for a cup of tea and a spot of breakfast, because he'd had neither this morning. Paradox, the particle pony, had ambushed him the moment that he stepped outside the gatehouse. It was hard, difficult even, to be grumpy when one glowed like the sun, but somehow, Sundance managed to do just that.
The need to harrumph for a fourth time was surely the influence of hooliganism.
"Ready to get started?"
Briefly, Sundance bit his lip. These were the last words he wanted to hear. Squashing down his growing sense of irritation, he turned to Megara and said, "I haven't had breakfast. Or my morning tea."
"Do you think would-be barony invaders are going to let you have breakfast?"
Sundance considered; no, the answer had to be no, but he had no desire to say it aloud.
"Today, we're going to focus on throwing. Get ready."
What came out of his mouth surprised him: "No. I think not."
One eyebrow arched, Megara leaned in closer and clapped him on the withers. Hard. "Good, good. Showing a little backbone. That makes me happy. It's hard to tell me no. Come on, Sundance. Let's go have breakfast. And get some tea in you. I actually want you clear-headed for what comes next. Training on an empty stomach comes later.
More than a little relieved, he nodded. "Breakfast it is, then. Lead the way."
All of his attention was on Turmeric, who sat surrounded by a mob of littles, and Sundance chewed with violent vigour. There was breakfast to destroy, but there were also ponies to watch. Something had changed at some point when he wasn't paying attention, because Turmeric and Hollyhock seemed friendly with one another. Which of course, was quite a surprise. Things were happening, good things.
Beside him, Megara elbowed him with her foreleg and said, "This is what you're fighting for. Remember, Sundance, soldiers fight because they are ordered to do so. Warriors fight because they have a cause." She gestured with a broad motion of her paw at everything around her. "All of this is worth fighting for, ain't it?"
After swallowing, he responded to her saying, "It is."
"Today, we're going to focus on throwing. Not dropping. We're gonna develop your aim, Sundance. You're gonna stand on two legs and chuck stuff. It's gonna be hard, Sundance, because it's gonna throw off your balance. And that, that will affect your aim. When and if we ever get all of this sorted out, we'll work on your thrown aim while flying. If you work hard, and don't quit, you'll have something to show for all your hard work. Gonna be hard though. I don't think you'll even make it to lunchtime before it feels like your foreleg is gonna fall off. But, you'll keep going though, because combat is about pushing through pain. Be prepared to ache. Your whole body is gonna tremble. It'll get real hard to keep your balance on two legs. When it starts to feel impossible, that's when your real training begins."
"Who trained you?" he asked.
"Well, aside from my parents," she responded, "lots of creatures, actually. Anybody that had a lesson to offer, I was there. Traveled a bit. I'm not done learning. If the chance comes along to hone my skills, I'm taking it."
"Aside from your parents, who trained you?"
"Well, for about half a year, during the dead of winter, I trained up north with Blackbird." The manticoress' voice dropped low and her words became flinty. "There's horrors up there up north. Awful things that roam the frozen wastes during the coldest parts of the year. The Crystal Heart keeps them away from the Crystal Empire, for the most part… but the strongest terrors get too close for comfort. Little ponies get spooked."
"So you learned by doing stuff. By going into danger." He thought of the ogre and the awful sequence of events that happened that day.
"Blackbird is a hippogriff. She's as big as I am." Resting both of her broad paws upon the table, Megara smiled, revealing multiple rows of sharp, serrated teeth. "She's kind. Gentle. Nurturing. My father taught me how to fight. But Blackbird, she made me think about why I fight. That might have been my most important lesson. There is a very real danger of losing yourself to the violence. Having a reason, a cause… that can save you."
"Seems like having a cause is what separates us from the dumb animals," Sundance said before he crammed a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth.
"That's a pretty good observation, I think. Civilisation is a pretty good cause."
"Civilisation has tea," he remarked around a mouthful of oatmeal. "That's pretty important."
It was not even midday when Sundance sensed his impending collapse. Every muscle quivered, trembled with fatigue. There was nothing in his body that wasn't tense. His back was on fire; at least he was certain that had to be the case because of the white-hot heat that boiled his spinal fluid. Other parts of him were uncomfortably hot as well, such as his gaskins, his shoulders, and his withers. Ponies were never meant to stand on two legs, and doing so while throwing caused his body no end of suffering.
Most of his throws missed and of those that hit the log, very few had enough force to stick, so they would bounce off. Perhaps an hour or so ago, he'd realised that hitting his mark wasn't the point, no. The point, if there was even a point to this torture, was that he keep throwing. His front legs were leaden, his wings threatened to fall off after all this effort to help him keep his balance in this unfamiliar posture, and he had stitches in his sides so terrible that he was certain that he'd barf up his breakfast any second now.
And he'd felt like this for hours.
Squinting, his eyes stinging from salty sweat, he attempted to focus on the multitude of logs in his vision. Oh, there was only one log, but at the moment he saw at least four or five. Maybe six, though seven was a possibility with the way the logs popped in and out of existence. A cramp threatened his grip; ponies did not have hands and fetlocks were not great manipulators. Quite honestly, he started to loathe his opposable fetlock. Evolution gave him this? What a load of rot. Why, evolution could go and have a good and proper fronk-off if this was the best it could come up with.
With at least a dozen logs dancing in his vision, his resentment for Megara grew.
"Looking a bit rough, Sundance," the grinning manticoress said with a playful wave of her broad paw. "If you think this is bad, just wait until we do this with you in your armor."
The words robbed him of the proverbial wind beneath his wings. A catastrophic wobble overtook his legs, his foreleg spasmed and this caused him to drop his war dart. His wings tried to flap to assist his balance, but his muscles seized and he was overcome by stabbing side cramps that felt as though they might shatter his ribs. A wholly new pain manifested; something cruel and wicked ignited in his groin as the muscles on the insides of his legs shrank down two sizes too small. His balance failed him, he pitched over backwards, and took a tumble.
Hornet was not allowed to save him.
He lay gasping, unable to catch his breath. No matter how he sucked and wheezed, his lungs would not fill and the stars in his eyes mocked his futile efforts. The ground had never felt quite so hard as it did right now, and the blades of grass mercilessly stabbed him in all of his delicate, tender places. There was a gurgle in his belly, his stomach flopped and slapped against his other innards, but no matter how he heaved he could not throw up because there was no air in his lungs.
"Honestly, I'm a little disappointed. He didn't even make it til noon. Seems as though I overestimated his stamina."
"That's enough, Meg."
"I'll decide when the peppery sting of humiliation is enough, Hornet."
"Kicking him while he's down is—"
"Hornet, an enemy would finish him off. He has to be hardened a bit. You know this to be true."
"Maybe I do, but I don't have to like it."
Legs flailing, Sundance writhed on the grass. At long last, air filled his lungs, and felt like slashing knives. Breathing was pain, but he needed air so badly. Tongue lolling, all six of his limbs flopping and thrashing, he sucked in some much-needed oxygen and then endured the drastic consequences. Fat beads of sweat oozed from his pores; not the sweat of extended exertion, but the perspiration of pain.
Just as he'd caught his breath, his body was wracked by dry heaves.
As he lay there, surely dying, Sundance thought of Reckless, the pegasus that stole the sun. This made him think of his grandmother, her stories before bed, and all of her wisdom. In his wrecked state, he was vulnerable, emotional, and the urge to weep overcame him. What little effort he could muster went into a vain attempt to hold back his tears, but the flood overwhelmed him. Without thought, his body curled into a fetal position, the grass smeared his sides green, and his sudden sobs sent stabs of electric agony through his raw nerves.
"Meg, if you say one word right now, I will end you."
"I wasn't going to say a word. Not now. This wasn't the outcome I wanted. I can't do anything with him if he's like this."
"What do we do, Meg?"
"Pick him up, Ladybug. I already had a plan in mind for his recovery."
Sundance was dumped—gently—into a wooden tub filled with water that had a weird medicinal stink. Still weeping, he thought of his grandmother. She was gone. Gone. Never again would he hear her voice. There would be no more bedtime stories. If only he'd fallen in love and settled down sooner, his offspring might have known their great-grandmother, if only for a short time. A thousand thoughts stampeded through his head and the thunder of hooves resonated through his mental fog.
"He wants… he wants his grandmother, I think. His thoughts are a mess."
"Everypony wants somepony when they break." The manticoress sniffed, her whiskers quivered, and she sat down beside Sundance's tub. "You know, Ladybug, you could—"
"No, that feels wrong."
"I'm just saying—"
"That's a betrayal of trust. No." Then, a moment later: "You're testing me. You can almost hide it, but your mind isn't as protected as you'd like to think."
Sundance sank down into the water, his ears submerged, and then gravity eased its tyrannical grasp as buoyancy came to his rescue. The tub wasn't quite large enough and all of his limbs came to rest at odd angles. His discomfort didn't last long though, as Hornet was already at work trying to rearrange everything for a somewhat better fit. Tears squeezed free from the corners of his eyes, ran down the sides of his head, and vanished into the bathwater.
"Hey, don't let that bathwater get in his eyes. Corduroy said it would sting."
"Whoopsie-doodle!"
Just before Sundance's head submerged too far into the water, Hornet saved him from further discomfort. The bath was neither warm nor cold, but comfortable. Liquid comfort seeped into his achy muscles, tired tendons, and he could not help but wonder what a tea bag might feel like sinking into a cup of tea. He rather liked the notion, and his pain-addled mind took comfort in the thought as his tail began to saturate.
Drifting—more in a metaphorical sense rather than physical—Sundance thought of Celestia's Day, the Sun's Day as it was known, and trips to the department store cafeteria with his grandmother. Gleaming chrome, sparkling glass, and black and white checkerboard tile. Cosy booths. For him, the highlight was always the cheesecake. Cherry cheesecake, most of the time. It was a taste that he associated with happiness—with his grandmother—though he did not realise it until just now. The cheesecake, cheery cherry cheesecake, vivid red and creamy white, was a bright spot in his foalhood that made the crushing poverty all around him bearable.
Though, as a foal, he had no concept of abstract poverty, or biological poverty, concepts he understood now as an adult, burdened with the responsibilities he had. The department store offered an affordable afternoon of luxury in the cafeteria. Well, affordable to most, though not all. All of the finer things in life in tiny, affordable portions. Just a few scarce bites of the high life, don't gobble it down in a hurry because when it is gone, it's gone. That's all there is and there ain't no more, as his grandmother might say. Or would say if she were still around.
Why, he could almost hear her voice, and that hurt more than any of his physical pain.
"What's happening to him, Meg? His mind has gone strange."
"Everypony breaks in their own way. When Sumac hits his breaking point, he babbles about apples and living in a wagon. What's important is that we know what we're working with. It's not quite what I expected, but he pushed himself right up to the end. That's admirable. He never gave up."
Brilliant colours danced on the insides of Sundance's eyelids and all sensation became distant. Sound became distorted, muffled, an effect made more so by his submersion in water. He drifted to a place where memories became more real and reality less so. His grandmother had taken him out for lunch after he'd landed his job as a medical courier. There was talk, adult talk, grownup talk. What one did for work wasn't important, no. All that mattered was that one had a job. That made you an adult. You did your part, you contributed, and Equestria was made better. That was all that mattered. If you were happy doing it, then you were blessed. But if you were unhappy with it, well then, you dealt with it and prioritised what was important in life.
These seemed like such harsh, drastic concepts back then.
At the start, courier work was a dream job. He was a pegasus paid to fly. But the dream turned into a harsh, unpleasant nightmare of reality. The job had to be done in all kinds of weather, in all manner of horrid conditions, from sweltering heat waves to bone-chilling blizzards. And all of this had to be done under a heavy load. It didn't take long before he was well and truly messed up. Sore. Tired. Discouraged. Exhausted. But his grandmother, she saw him through the troubled skies. She kept him going. During those moments when he was certain that quitting was the only option he had left, she kept him going. It wasn't long until he hardened, until he had endurance.
She wasn't here to get him through his rough patch right now.
That hurt; the pain was almost more than he could bear—yet what choice did he have?
He had to navigate these new skies alone.
No, not alone.
He had friends.
A relieved wheeze crept out from between the gaps in his teeth.
"The Milord has guests."
"What? No… he's in no condition for guests." The annoyance was thick in Megara's voice.
"But they're here!"
"Well, direct them elsewhere."
"But the Milord is laying in a tub in the open, where all may see him. And his goodies are on display for all to—"
"Well, quick! Go and distract them. Hornet, what do we do?"
"You're asking me?"
"Well, it is your sworn duty to protect him, so—"
"And I'm supposed to what, exactly? Scare his visitors away, Megara?"
There was the thud of hooves as somepony went running off.
"The least you could do is cover up his goodies and—"
"How, exactly?"
"I dunno… try sitting on them, perhaps? That'd give us a good excuse to turn away guests. The Milord is busy getting busy in the tub."
"It occurs to me that you must really want your face torn off, Meg."
"With a face like mine, I wouldn't miss it."
The giggling was strange and distorted in Sundance's submerged ears.
Unable to move, Sundance felt trapped in his heavy, achy, waterlogged body. There were guests, but try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to care much about them. A steady flow of tears still poured from his eyes and his barrel hitched with every involuntary sob. His fetlock curled as a dreadful ache caused his muscles to pull tight. The nerves in his back burned with a fierce, fiery heat like the fine filament wires found in incandescent light bulbs.
His father made light bulbs.
Every day, his father, Dapper Dancer pulled a lever that made a little metal piece that made a light bulb work. Endless drudgery. The same motion day after day, for hours at a time without quitting. His father's strength and endurance was spent sitting on a stool and pulling a lever. Every eight seconds, the lever was pulled. It was six seconds, but there was a union dispute and the workers won an additional two precious seconds so that they might catch their breath.
He thought of the day when he'd told this to Nuance and the colt had mentioned that such a job could and would be automated. Princess Celestia was panicked, Nuance had said. Looking back, Sundance saw that he'd stepped into the snare and that it had tightened around his leg, even then. But he was well and truly trapped now, a captive that sought no release. He'd traded one form of captivity—poverty—for another and now he lived his life in service to a cause that he could barely comprehend.
If his father could spend an entire shift pulling a lever, doing his job, doing what was expected of him, then surely his son could do the same. A squirming sense of shame came oozing forth from his bowels and Sundance could feel icy tendrils worming their way though his burning guts. It was intensely unpleasant, this shame, and made somehow worse because he was helpless to make it go away. Even if he wanted to keep going, to do what was expected of him, he couldn't. He was done for.
More tears trickled from the mysterious places beneath his eyelids.
His first real attempt to communicate came out as a low groan. As for his second, it was a hoarse croak that threatened to tear his tissue paper thin parched throat right open. Unable to speak, he thought about a refreshing drink; he thought about it with all of his might and he willed his thoughts towards Hornet. All of his emotions went with it, and his intense desire to communicate his pressing needs. She was a creature who understood thought, who read feelings, and so he clumsily broadcasted his urgent desires to her.
"OW! Ow! Hey… OW!"
And then, inside his head, in a voice most certainly not his own: Ow! Stop that! If you don't stop that, I'm going to have a stroke. You're going to have a stroke!
A scarlet bubble stained the fine hairs around Sundance's left nostril and a powerful drowsiness sucked at his consciousness like the drain in the bathtub.
"Megara, go get Corduroy! Hurry!"