//------------------------------//
// Laid Up 
// Story: The Pursuit of Penance 
// by Paracompact 
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After George’s fortunate (if underwhelming) diagnosis, I was at odds with myself what to do with Tempest, in the short term. George had prescribed bed rest—24 hours at a minimum—and a recuperative, high-protein diet.

“Tell me, Tempest, as you’ve already fallen victim to my ignorance once regarding the pony diet: Where does your kind get its protein from, if not field mice and wild shrews and the ilk?”

“You’re not to blame, Gelfand; I should have realized sooner that my nutritional needs were not being met. At any rate, ponies get most of their protein through grain crops. So, think hay, nuts, seeds, legumes, and the like.”

She explained to me that these carb-and-protein rich food sources grew plentifully and cheaply in Equestria, and were a staple of practically every meal for a pony. As far as I was aware, however, such plants generally did not thrive in Griffonstone, but were highly sought after as winter storage crops owing to their long shelf life. Our family only tended to indulge in them as a garnish for holiday meals.

For some reason, I withheld this explanation of scarcity to Tempest. Every way I could think to word it gave me pause, as though it would misrepresent what I really meant. Instead, I simply told her that it was all right, and I would bring her some helpings of oats and walnuts up from the storeroom throughout the day. She thanked me, and promised to be back on her hooves by tomorrow morning.

Although her strength gradually returned to her throughout the afternoon, I was still concerned for her well-being. Seemingly every time I came in with her meals, she was lying tense and breathing heavy, slick with sweat. When I would wake her, she would come to with a startle, and take a moment to come back to reality. After the third such incident, I prodded:

“Another nightmare?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You sure seem to be a fitful sleeper. I never remember my dreams.”

“I never did either, until more recently.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but didn’t feel comfortable inquiring further.

Tempest’s presence in the house was a rare novelty in our lives. In fact the very first place I spotted little Gamila after Tempest’s medical emergency was in Tempest’s bedroom, curious to listen to whatever this non-griffon had to say about her homeland. She must have deliberately snuck behind my back to do so, fearing that I would’ve forbidden her had I noticed. Indeed I intended to keep the promise I made to Gwendolyn, but strangely enough, she seemed now to accept (on sufferance) the unicorn’s presence in exchange for what obvious joy it brought our daughter.

“How do ponies hold on to things without claws?” I’d overhead Gamila asking. “Don’t you spill your food and stuff?”

“Funny you should ask that. Unicorns—those with working horns, at least—have magic to help them get along. But for the rest who have to depend on only their hooves to, say, play a banjo or roast marshmallows, well, the answer might surprise you...”

And surprising it was, I did have to say. All the more fascinating was it to Gamila, who quickly and eagerly explored the limits of the deep knowledge Tempest had on all the biological and cultural diversity of the world civilizations. Prior to that day, I had scarcely considered all the worldliness that must have gone claw-in-claw with her imperialistic former profession.

Despite these short-term difficulties, I was finally starting to consider what the long-term situation with Tempest might've looked like, beyond merely that of master-servant. And for the first time, I found myself instinctually balking at the possibility that this was all just a big scheme of hers.

But, what ever did George mean, when he said there was a difference between a liar and a schemer?


~~


I was a light sleeper, and always had been. It was a rare occasion that I ever got more than an hour’s chunk of sleep in before some bump in the night or creak of the house woke me, as if on schedule. Thinking on it, it was probably why I never remembered my dreams.

That night, I was on the couch again, and my first such awakening was to a familiar sound of claws on wood in the hallway upstairs. Made sense, as this was about Gwendolyn’s usual bedtime. However, the clawsteps did not continue down the length of the hallway to our bedroom, as I’d expected, but instead stopped short. Stopped short, just outside of the guestroom where Tempest rested.

Apprehension grew in me, waking me fully. This could be a conflict, I thought; I'd best prepare for damage control. I lifted my head and strained to hear what choice words my wife might've been hurling at our guest. Murmurs only, nothing I could distinguish. Two voices, in stable tones. As the seconds passed and I could still not make out their dialogue, I realized this was actually a good sign: Were they having a calm, mature conversation?

Minutes passed, the adrenaline wore off, and slumber was about to reclaim me. My mind was blissfully crossing the threshold back into unconsciousness…

Then I heard it: A muted but guttural screech, followed by a Skrrt! characteristic of a claw swiping through flesh.

Wide awake again. Seconds passed in silence, maybe half a minute. Long enough for me to consider whether I’d hallucinated the exchange or mistaken it for the house’s creaking. Finally, I heard the clawsteps down the hallway again, this time proceeding directly to Gwendolyn’s room. Moments later, I heard hoofsteps—strangely graceful and tender—descending stairs.

I alighted from the couch, and rushed to meet Tempest at the landing. I did so, catching her in the process of opening the front door. She cast an acknowledging glance back at me before retreating outside without a word. The foyer’s candlelight was dim, but the expression on Tempest’s face was unmistakable and unforgettable: A portrait of abject resignation, framed by the glint of fresh blood.