//------------------------------// // Chapter the Seventh // Story: Redemption // by PourMeADrink //------------------------------// *A/N: This is technically the second half of chapter 6. Posting it as chapter 7, however, makes it look like I update more frequently than I actually do, which makes me feel better.* “That’s just stupid.  Why would anyone agree to eat that?” “Wha…?”  Turning her head slowly, Celestia peers across the couch at her sister with glazed eyes.  Luna had agreed to turn down the volume on the television, if with a great deal of muttering, but her head still throb’s sullenly, great, wide fingers seeming to press and knead her skull in time to her heartbeat.  Gradually, as the raucous voice of the game show host seeps back into her consciousness, she realizes that she’s spent the last hour or so in a daze, and has no idea what’s been happening on the screen. “On the T.V.” Luna answers with a hint of disgust, “That girl…” trailing off, she takes a good look at her sister, an expression of genuine concern replacing the distaste on her muzzle.  “Tia, are you alright?” Blinking owlishly, Celestia haltingly bobs her head.  “Mmfine.  Just tired, sis.”  Tired doesn’t begin to describe it.  She thought she used to know what tired was, after she got up this morning, or when she would stay up too late reading, or if she was awoken in the middle of the night and had trouble getting back to sleep.  This isn’t tired.  This is whatever comes after tired, maybe even whatever came after that.   What would come after tired?  Dog-tired?  Bone-weary?  Her thoughts float languorously, directionless and unconnected, like small boats adrift in a fog.  She feels wrung out, weak and watery, like someone replaced her body with a balloon filled with warm liquid. Concern changing into worry, Luna studies her older sister for a moment, evidently not liking what she sees by the way her brow draws down.  “Do you want anything?  Like some water or something?” Shaking her head, Celestia leans against the back of the couch, laying her neck along the cool white leather and dipping her chin a little.  She’d thought that curling up on the sofa to watch T.V. with Luna would take her mind off of things, and it had, for a bit.  For a little while she’d even felt better, but slowly the weariness had…not returned exactly, because it had never gone away, but grown, washing over her steadily until her joints felt like rusted hinges and her skin felt tight and uncomfortable.  She’s feeling worse than she did morning.  Worse than any morning so far, and warm on the verge of being hot.  Muddily she wonders what the thermostat’s been set at. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?  Is it another headache, did Dad leave any aspirin out?”  Leaning over, Luna tries to gauge the look on her sister’s face, the worry on her own growing larger.  “Sis?” Tia drops her head down with a drawn out groan, her chin coming to rest on the couch cushions.  That unseen warmth is blooming over her shoulder again, this time without any warning what-so-ever.  It seems so much warmer than before, like strong noon sunshine in July.   Her worry beginning to change to fear, Luna nudges her sister, receiving another soft groan in answer.  Jumping off of the couch, she leans over and nudges her again.  “Tia?”  Getting no response, she begins shaking her, pushing into her side with her snout.  “Tia?  Tia!” Swinging her head over carefully, Tia opens one glassy eye, rolling it slowly to look at Luna.  “…s’hot..really hah…wha?…”  She trails off into a low mutter as she gazes around the room uncomprehendingly.  Wasn’t she just in her bedroom?  How did she get downstairs?  She feels like she’s in an oven.  Why is it so hot, isn’t it winter?  The flesh beneath her coat is burning, radiating waves of heat that seem to drift up, slowing baking her muddled thoughts and changing the steady throb in her head into a pincer grip, needle sharp points beginning to dig into her temples. Unnerved by the vague, confused answer, by the unfocused dull eyed look, Luna freezes, fear flooding her mind, locking her limbs in place and transforming her into a wide eyed statue.  The fear kicks off an adrenal response, causing her vision to sharpen and her breathing to speed up, sides beginning to heave as her lungs start displacing large amounts of air.  Something is really wrong with her sister, and it dawns on her in cold waves of panic that their father isn’t around. What should she do?   Celestia groans again from the couch, her head sinking farther into the cushions as her eyes squeeze closed.   Dad’s not here and there’s something seriously wrong with Tia.   What is she supposed to do?  The spell lasts a moment before she breaks free, her mind snapping back and as her thoughts begin to race in alarmed circles.  Her head darts around, panic-narrowed eyes jumping from her sister to the kitchen to the doorway of their father’s study.  Swinging back they alight on the stairs, and her eyes widen.  “I’ll…I’ll see if there’s anything in the medicine cabinet!  Maybe Dad left something for you!”  She waits hopefully for an answer from her weakly breathing older sister, some conformation that that’s the right course of action.   When Tia continues to lay limply along the couch with her eyes screwed tightly shut, she jerks into motion.  “Don’t…don’t go anywhere, OK?  I’ll be right back.  I’ll be…”  Spinning around, she stumbles as she tries to sprint around the edge of the couch, catching her hoof on the corner and almost spilling onto the floor, before righting herself and racing towards the upstairs bathroom where the medicines are kept, the retreating, rapid-fire pounding of her hooves echoing back from the walls, racing her up the stairs. Celestia stirs weakly, her eyes opening slowly.  The pain in her head is enormous, much worse than it’s ever been, the pounding, needle like hurt and the intense heat washing out any remaining vestige of coherent thought.  Her throat is painfully dry, and her tongue feels gritty, like her mouth has been coated in a fine layer of sand.  It’s so hot, wasn’t Luna going to get her a glass of water?  Where did she go?  Struggling, she flops over, half falling off of the couch before she can catch herself ungracefully with trembling legs.   Looking around through eyes narrowed in pain, she tries to make sense of her surroundings.  Why isn’t she in her room?  And where’s Dad?  The light from the over head fan burns down on her, causing sweat to form beneath where her wings lay folded along her back, springing out across her brow in large beads.  But it can’t be the ceiling light that’s cooking her in her skin.  The light is behind her, peeking out from behind multihued clouds that shift in prismatic colors, pulsing with a searing, radiant heat.  Why isn’t Dad here?  Panting, her gaze travels sluggishly along the far wall, coming to rest on the window. It’s raining outside, fat drops that splatter dramatically across the pane.  She’s so thirsty, she’s never been so thirsty before.   Or so hot, not even when she came down with the flu and had a fever.  Dad took care of her then, giving her medicine and tea with just the right amount of honey.  Maybe he’ll bring her some more tea?  He always get’s the honey right.  Not hot though, she’s sweating as it is.  She needs to cool off, she needs some water.  Her throat feels lined with rough stone, and the heat is causing her to pant, making the feeling worse.   Her eyes roll back and forth haphazardly, coming to rest on the kitchen doorway, but she can’t remember what she’s looking for.  Something about honey?  They swing back again settle on the window, following the lines left by the rain drops as they run down the glass in long streaks.  The surge and rush of the wind begins to fill her ears, and she can see the limbs of the trees outside, dancing back and forth to its rhythm.  The rain looks so inviting, so cool, the pattering of the drops against the pane a gentle sound that seems almost to be calling out to her. Staggering, she hobbles across the living room, her legs feeling weak and unfamiliar, coming up short when she reaches the front door.  She struggles with the knob, her teeth sliding across the polished brass plating before finally gaining purchase.  With a muffled grunt of effort, she manages to turn it enough for the latch to disengage, allowing it to swing open on a gust of wind before weakly nosing open the screen door, and crossing the porch. The rain, driven by the wind and made cold by the low temperature, hits her full on, stinging her eyes and making her close them.  She begins to shiver instantly, the involuntary motion flinging little droplets of water off of her coat and away into the storm.  The wet and the chill feel wonderful, soothing like a balm.  With a shaky laugh, she makes her way out into the downpour. Glancing down at the speedometer, Ryan once again sees that he’s pushed it past eighty.  Eyes flicking back to the road, he grunts in annoyance.  Not at the fact that he’s driving in a manner that he knows to be reckless, but because the conditions outside prevent him from going any faster.  The rain has picked up again, returning to the type wind driven downpour that was uncommon, but not unknown, in the mostly arid north-western Nevada desert. He knows what he’s doing is stupid, racing through the rain, but that doesn’t matter anymore.  He’s spent the last twenty minutes trying to ignore his feelings, to rationalize them and laugh them away as nerves, but he can no longer deny what he feels.  Rational or not, stupid or not, something is wrong back home.  He doesn’t know how he knows this, and at this point he doesn’t care.  He just knows, and right now that’s enough. A green and white shape passes by the passenger side of the truck in a water streaked blur.  The sign for Fletcher Pass.  His turn off is only a couple of miles past it.  Slowing to a slightly faster than reasonable speed, he flicks the turn signal by reflex, to caught in his urgency to get home to give it any conscious thought.  He brakes roughly, the back end beginning to fishtail as he cuts hard to the right, taking the wide transition from asphalt to dirt road with a jolt that locks his seatbelt and squeezes a startled grunt from him.  Weaving back and forth he manages to regain a linear course, and he speeds up the thirty or so feet of unpaved track towards a long metal gate that bisects the road, designating the beginning of his property. Skidding to a halt in a spray of mud and small rocks, he leaps from the idling truck and throws the barrier wide, the groan of weathered hinges muffled by the wind and the rain.  The feeling of wrongness and urgency is greater, seeming to grow in strength the closer he gets to his destination.  As he slams the driver’s side door and grinds into gear, it is all consuming. He speeds through the fence line, passing over the cattle guard with a shudder of wheels, not noticing or caring that the gate is still open. He’s forced to slow further as he travels up the road, which almost immediately begins to incline gently.  It’s roughly half a mile from the gate to the house, the mostly straight lane lined on either side by oak and cotton wood at irregular intervals, most of the space between them filled with clumps of sage and rabbit brush that give off a sweet, woody fragrance in the damp.  The road is well maintained, but narrow in places, and with the rain pelting the windshield Ryan has to lean over the steering wheel to make sure he doesn’t hit a rock or a branch dislodged by the storm. Almost there.  He’s almost there, and then he’ll see that everything is alright, and he’ll feel really stupid when he has to explain to the girls why he came tearing into the front drive like a maniac.  They’ll laugh and he’ll feel silly and everything will be OK.  Except he doesn’t feel silly.  He feel’s worried, and afraid.  Oh God, please let everything be OK.  The angle of the road increases, and he knows he’s close.  Through the gray washed light filtered by the overhead clouds he can see the hill just up ahead, more of a broad, gentle bump really, just high enough to block sight of the house that sits back a ways on its leveled top.  Please let everything be alright.  Please. So intent is he on cresting that hill that he almost doesn’t notice the dim blur of white that comes stumbling out of a particularly dense stand of sage off to his left.  He drives on for a few seconds before the information collected by his sight registers with his brain, and his eyes widen and lock onto the side view mirror.  With a startled curse he mashes the break peddle, slewing a little as he slides to a stop.   It’s Tia. Not bothering to shift the transmission into neutral, he throws open the door, letting the engine die roughly, exiting the vehicle and turning to stare dumbly at his daughter twenty-five feet away.  She’s caught up in the sagebrush and seems to be struggling weakly to get out of it, one wing half outstretched to her side.  She’s drenched, broken twigs and little bits of bush standing out against the brilliant white of her coat.  Her eyes are only half open, rolling wildly around in a way that clenches at his chest and drops the bottom out of his stomach.  “Tia?”  He blinks rain out of his eyes numbly, trying to process what’s in front of him, and then lurches into motion, sprinting towards the swaying form of his oldest girl. “Tia!”   She looks up slowly, mumbling something indistinct.  The feeling of wrongness pulses inside him like a second heartbeat, driving his pistoning legs and propelling him like a bullet.  Thinking is beyond him, reason and logic have been left behind. The outside world fades from his consciousness, the hiss of the rain and the rattle of the wind, even the warning twinge of hot pain from his bad leg, dim to a background chatter.  Natural white noise.  All of his being is focused on the thud of his sneakers as he races as best he can across the distance between them, the rise and fall of his knees, on reaching Celestia, who’s peering at him with a muddled gaze, a confused smile beginning to form on her muzzle. He’s about ten feet from her when his foot sticks in a particularly slick patch of mud and shoots out from underneath him, pitching into a flopping headfirst slide.  Pain explodes from his bad knee as it slams into the soaked earth, and a second later from his temple as his head connects with a medium sized stone that’s been exposed by the water runoff.  Momentum finally expended, he fetches up in a tangle about six feet from Celestia, who stares down uncomprehendingly at her father from her place in the bushes. Groaning, Ryan begins to stir weakly, the blow to his head and the monstrous pain from both it and his knee rendering him momentarily senseless.  He’s just managed to open his eyes when a soft metallic bang echo’s from up the road, followed by a strange schlicking sound, like two pieces of wet canvas being pulled apart.  Blinking the water and mud from his eyes, he tries to raise his head, his mouth forming rictus snarl at the starburst of pain the motion causes, black spots swimming across his vision.  Where’s Tia?   He’s got to find her.  Flopping over onto his back, he tries to sit up, the pain in his head making him groan and close his eyes tight.  The weird sound is getting closer, faster, and off to his left he hears the rustle of bushes and the strident, panicked voice of his daughter.   “Daddy!” Celestia didn’t know how long she’d been outside.  It seemed like forever since she had woken up in her bed, tangled in her blankets.  How had she gotten out here?  Water ran down her sides and dripped from her face in cold streamers, and she shivered.  She was so cold, but how could that be?  Wasn’t she hot just a moment ago? Swaying with the ebb and flow of the wind’s caress, she’d wandered at first, following the road in some vaguely reasoned hope of meeting her father as he returned.  Why she wanted to meet him on the road and not at the house didn’t seem important anymore, and gazing intently at the way the branches cavort in the wind she soon forgot all about it.  Deep in delirium, she stumbled here and there, her path describing a shaky and aimless trail that meandered from road to tree to bush and back again, only moving down slope because it was the path of least resistance.  She could faintly hear the voice of her sister calling from further up the hill at one point.  Giving a wry chuckle, she shook her head at the antics of her younger sibling.  Luna should know better than to be out in this weather. The rain had picked up, the cold drops coming hard, battering her coat and stinging her eyes.  She wondered if it might turn to snow, and her eyes came to rest on a large clump of sage off to one side.  She would need to take shelter against the snow, and the bushes looked soft and inviting, like a pile of warm blankets.  Daddy always said they might catch a cold if they were out in the snow for too long, and she didn’t want that.  He would be upset with her, and she was already going to be in trouble for ruining her comforter.   Her comforter had been a monster, of course, until it had turned back into a blanket, and the bushes looked like a good place to hide from monsters.  The unseen light blazing down on her would keep her warm if she could get out of the wet.  With tremulous steps she approached the bushes, pausing for a moment as the fog of her mind thinned a little.  Squinting in confusion, she glanced around, shivering as the wind gusted between the trees and over her damp form.  This was wrong, this was really wrong.  What was she doing?  Why had she come out here?  She back peddled uncertainly, and the fog closed in again.  She could smell the wonderful fragrance of the sage.  She always loved how it smelled during and after a good rain.  It smelled like home.  Smiling a little crookedly, she walked back to the group of bushes and began trying to climb in. She made a good try of it, but the bushes had become recalcitrant, their soft inviting exterior changing stubbornly to sinewy, fibrous limbs and prickly spines, mocking her with their sweet smell.  The bushes didn’t want her to come in, and she would have kicked at them for their rudeness if she wasn’t tangled up in them.  They didn’t want her to come in, but they didn’t want her to go either, it seemed as she struggled to free her right leg.  “Which is it?”  She yelled weakly down at them in a cracked voice, thrashing about in frustration.  The light burned down on her, and she wondered how it could be cold and rainy and sunny and warm at the same time.   She’d been visiting the bushes for a while, and with a start she realizes that she still is.  Managing to turn, she begins carefully picking her way back out of the treacherous tangle, one wing stretched out thoughtlessly to help balance herself.  Dimly, she can hear a low rumble, and she freezes, ears swiveling wildly as she tries to home in on the sound.  That could be a monster, come from the unseen depths of her dreams.  Or it could be an outsider, come to snatch her and her sister away from their father.  It certainly isn’t the sagebrush.  That’s too busy hugging her legs to talk. Straining with renewed effort while trying to remain upright, she hears a branch snap with a loud crunch, and she stumbles forward, almost losing her footing before catching herself.  The rumbling sound is closer now, approaching fast.  She has to get out.  She can see the wash of headlights down the road, hidden by a gentle curve that carries the lane around a pair of tall cotton wood trees.  Pulling with all of her might, she’s rewarded with the sound of another branch giving way, freeing her rear hoof and causing her to stumble a few feet closer to the road. The chug and roar of an engine grows louder, and she knows it’s too late to get away and hide.  The lights sweep around the bend, and her eyes grow wide with relief as she takes in the familiar shape and white-over-brown paint of their pickup.  Dad!  Daddy’s home!  He was back, and she knew he would keep her safe.  The truck flashes by, heading up the hill, and she lurches forward again, trying to get free and get his attention.   The wind has died to a fitful and almost absent breeze, and the rain falls almost vertically, splashing up little drops of mud and rippling the small puddles that dot the lane.  One of those puddles suddenly throws back a diffuse and blurry reflection of rippling red light, and she looks up to see the truck sliding to a halt a ways up from her, the rumble from the engine dying away with a rough coughing sound.  Looking back down at her prickly captor, she resumes her labor, shifting her legs around weakly.  Dad was here, and he’d have some hot tea to help make her feel better.  She needs to get out of this stupid bush.  It’s bad manners to drink tea in a bush, everyone knew that. “Tia!” Looking up slowly, fearful he’d seen the ruined bedding in her room and was angry with her, Celestia quizzically beholds the running form of her father, racing down the slope of the hill towards her.  Squinting in confusion, she mutters something indistinct even to her own ears over the noise of the rain.  Why is he running?  Is he bringing her a present?  A sluggish smile begins to spread over her face.  What could he have gotten her? Then he isn’t running anymore, he’s sliding, splashing through a puddle and coming to a stop a few feet away.  What would he want to go and do something like that for?  He was going to get in trouble for getting all muddy.  She barely notices a soft metallic bang from farther up the hill, all of her attention is on her father, who is moving slowly and groaning.  What could he possibly be doing on the ground?  Did he lose something?  She absently folds her outstretched wing in against her back, her brow furrowing as her mind struggles to piece together the puzzle in front of her.   With a small strangled noise Ryan flips over, and she can see dark mud matting the hair by his temple.  Looking closer, she see’s that the mud isn’t brown, but red, for some reason.  Almost crimson, like blood.  Her rose-rimmed pupils contract to pin-pricks as her heart speeds up.  Not like blood, it is blood.  Daddy‘s hurt?  Giving her head an involuntary shake, she looks again.  Dad’s hurt!  The thought penetrates the fog enveloping her mind, and as it sinks in the concealing mists part like a drawn curtain, separating and lifting until she’s fully aware of herself and her surroundings for the first time in what feels like forever. An approaching sound draws her wide-eyed gaze from her prone father, up the road, and she sees the truck rolling backwards, moving fast and picking up speed, the headlamps bobbling up and down as it bumps over a small branch knocked loose by the wind.   It’s heading straight for the man lying in the road. Even with her renewed clarity it takes Celestia a few moments to fully comprehend what is happening.  Understanding begins to dawn, bringing with it little feather strokes of panic.  Dad is lying in the roadway.  The truck is rolling down the hill, is speeding down the hill, and her dad is lying in the road.   He doesn’t realize the truck is coming.   “Daddy!” With a surge she begins struggling against the sagebrush, desperately straining to get clear enough to reach him and pull him out of the vehicles path.  The truck rushes closer, its approach made almost sinister by the near silence in which it rolls, announced only by the low sound of the tires squishing through the mud. Her father turns his head slowly towards the sound of her voice, his eyes still a little hazy from the pain, picking her out after a moment and meeting her own.  Still fighting the bush, realization begins to creep in.  She knows, deep down, that she won’t get there in time.  She can’t, and as this certainty sinks in horror falls over her like a leaden cloth.  The panic surges through her body and everything begins to slow, sharpening her senses.  She’s acutely aware of her surroundings, almost preternaturally so.   She can make out the individual drops of rain falling in slow motion, like elongated teardrops of nearly transparent glass floating gently through clear jelly.  She can see them impacting against the mud, throwing up little spheres like jewels as they splash against the damp ground.  Her breathing slows, and as she draws a glacial breath she can make out each individual scent.  The clean smell of the rain, the sharp, earthy smell of the wet ground, the slightly humid scent of the storm, the tickling scent of her soaked coat and the scratchy scent of her father’s favorite canvas jacket.  The bitter, slightly metallic smell of the blood that’s beginning to drip down his jaw line. The breeze wafts softly against her, and she can feel the individual hairs of her coat shifting sluggishly beneath their weight of the water, can feel the slight tug at the feathers of her wings, which are puffed out against the cold in an attempt to trap her body heat.  It takes an eternity for her eyes to shift to the truck, and she can see the slow mold and shift of the mud as it’s deformed by the rear tires, can pick out the pieces of gravel embedded in the tread, like chunks of rock held between bunched knuckles.  The warmth is washing over her in waves, slow sweltering ripples that dance across her coat and heat her skin, and in her head a familiar tensing sensation begins, building and building, like a flexing muscle.  Like a coiling spring.  Her gaze sweeps infinitesimally back to her father, and she notes the almost imperceptible motion of his chest, the way his eyes gradually close and open in what she realizes is a blink.  She can hear the rush and fall of blood pumping in her ears, her heart a slow drum beat that seems to echo in the unnatural stillness.   She’s not going to make it in time. The tensing feeling builds, growing with the hot currents of incandescence that flow over her.  The fragrant scent of wet sage fills her nostrils as she looks down at her father.  There’s nothing she can do, the truck is already too close.  She feels so tired.  Has she ever felt this tired before?  Onward the pickup rolls, inching along its deadly course, drawing ever closer through the crystalline fall of the rain.  Hopelessness fills her, carving out a hollow in her middle like a river undercutting a bank. She’s helpless. The heat radiating down on her increases in time with the growing pressure in her head, and anger sparks in her mind, catching like a flame.  If it wasn’t for this stupid bush she could do something, grab Dad by his jacket and drag him away.  He’s only a few feet from her!  The pressure increases, filling her head and focusing her anger to a white-hot fire.  This shouldn’t be this hard!  He’s right there.   Images flicker through her mind, one replacing another in the blink of an eye.  Her father cooking breakfast in the morning, smiling down as she carries things carefully over to the table, trying not to drop anything as she helps.  Sitting beside him on the porch, the three of them watching the pyrotechnics show of a spring lightning storm, like he used to do with his dad when he was a boy.  The gentle warmth of summer sunshine as they hunt for arrow heads in the canyon, Dad explaining the way Native Americans used to do things when they lived in this area centuries ago.  Watching him remove a tray of the pine nuts they had spent all day collecting from the oven, her nose and coat still tacky with sap, grinning as he lets her test a few to see if their ready.  Listening to his shouted encouragement as she struggles to flap her way into the air for the first time, her wing muscles burning with unaccustomed exertion, secure in the knowledge that he’ll be there to take care of her should she fall.  Others, so many others, a cascade of memory that courses over her like a waterfall. The images flicker through her mind in the blink of an eye, but she sees each one as clearly as when it happened.  This can’t happen, she won’t let it!  Her anger overflows into fury, and she throws her head back, screaming her defiance into the storm.  The flexing, bunching feeling increases, until she wonders that she doesn’t burst something, and suddenly it’s not building anymore but flowing out of her.  The coiled spring finally releases, and brilliant amber light explodes above her eyes, causing them to slam closed for a split second.  When they spring open again, time has resumed its normal flow. The bush is suddenly gone from around her legs, flattened into the mud like it’s been stomped on by a giant, and she almost falls at its sudden absence.  Her gaze flies to her father, and she sees that the truck is almost upon him, bearing down with a frightening speed.  Unable to stop for thought she reacts instinctually, not knowing what she’s doing but just doing, reaching out in a manifestation of pure will, pure need, the shifting golden hued light just visible at the top of her vision blazing brighter.  His tan canvas jacket is enveloped in a glow, and he slides forcefully across the road towards her, digging a furrow in the mud and letting out a pained cry as his bad knee is jostled, coming to a stop an arm’s length away from her with mud piled against the left side of his body. The pickup rushes across his former position a split second later, passing by with the wet sound of tires rolling through mud and splashing through a puddle, traveling farther down the road and finally veering to one side, slamming into the trunk of a tree.   Branches shudder and the trunk creaks loudly as the resounding crash of the impact echoes away down the hill.   Breathing hard, her sides bellowing as if she’s just run a race, the unseen light departs, winking out of existence as if it never was.  The intense, shimmering glow above her eyes vanishes in the same instant, and exhaustion plows into Celestia like a physical object.  Her rear legs give out, and she drops roughly into a sitting position, head drooping, front legs splayed and barely able to support her own trembling weight.   There is a rustle of canvas to her left, and she struggles to bring her head part way up.  Her father is sitting, one hand lightly touching his temple as he gazes down the road.  Head swiveling stiffly, he turns wide, astonished eyes back to her, opening and closing his mouth several times slowly, like a fish.  The sight surprises an unsteady laugh out of her.  She opens her mouth to speak, thinking to ask if he’s alright, and instead vomits noisily between her front hooves.  The world begins to turn grey around its edges and she sways back in forth, feeling herself beginning to pitch forward.  Her last thought before unconsciousness claims her is to hope that she doesn’t land in her own sick. The candle flames flicker errantly, casting the room in wan light and throwing elongated shadows that jump and dance along the walls.  The power had gone a few hours ago, flickering as erratically as the candles did now before finally dying, the silence that followed punctuated only by the gusting wind outside.  That damned substation down the highway had probably blown another transformer.  It always did when the weather turned nasty.   Shifting a little, Ryan winces as the motion sets off a sharp pain in his knee, and he holds it gingerly with one hand, absentmindedly running his fingers along the old surgical scars, feeling for any pins that may have popped out of place.  He’d always been a little paranoid about the hardware coming loose, even if the doctors long ago had told him the chances of that happening were on par with being struck by lightning.  Lightning did strike, though, and you never could be too certain.  About anything. “Do you want me to get you anything… for your leg, Dad?”  Luna asks awkwardly around a yawn, her jaws cracking.  Seated next to Ryan, she’d been fighting sleep for the last twenty minutes or so, the occasional bob and jerk of her head predicting the eventual outcome of that particular battle. “No sweetheart, I’m fine, thank you.”  Reaching over, he begins running his hand down her neck, stroking her mane soothingly.  She smiles gently at the touch, her large teal eyes blinking slowly.  He’d told her to go to bed a couple of hours ago, but she’d stubbornly refused, insisting on staying by her sister’s bedside.  He’s not entirely clear on the events that happened before he got back, Luna had been too distraught to fully relay what had happened, and he’d been too distraught to fully listen, but he’s sure now that she feels responsible for what happened.   Letting his knee go he leans carefully over and wraps his young daughter in a tight embrace.  Startled at first, she leans into him, hesitantly laying her head along his shoulder.  “It’s going to be OK baby.  Sister’s going to be just fine, I promise.”  He holds her close, and before much longer she’s trembling, crying softly into his shirt, her tears dampening the clean fabric.  Stroking her mane, he mummers comfortingly to her, rocking gently back and forth while she presses harder against his chest, releasing her fear and guilt into his shoulder. After a while he notices that her sides are no longer shuddering as she draws hitching breaths, but instead are rising and falling rhythmically, and he realizes that she’s fallen asleep.  Clumsily he lays her onto the floor, mindful not to wake her, before rising to fetch a blanket.  He doesn’t have to go far, fortunately, and limps across the room to the dresser and back, covering her with two quilts and folding a third to tuck carefully beneath her cheek.  Studying her for a moment, he nods and resumes his seat, reaching out to gauge how warm Celestia is with a hand. She’d been running a fever when he’d finally gotten her back into the house, alternating between hot sweats and cold chills.  He’d bundled her into bed, and since then both he and Luna hadn’t moved, save for the short time it took him to change out of his wet clothes and grab them both some water.  He’d contemplated using the water to wash down a few pain pills, but in the end he didn’t want to take the chance that Tia might wake in the night.  Hurting was one thing, being loopy from prescription medication quite another.  He could deal with the pain. Feeling along her ears- the best place he’d found so far to check their temperatures- he sighs in relief.  It seems her fever had broken finally.  Sitting back, he watches her silently, the gentle, regular movement of her breathing, the slight, slow flick of one ear, probably in delayed reaction to his touch.  She’s never looked more beautiful to him.  Never looked more fragile.   Leaning forward, he reaches hesitantly towards her horn, not for the first time, fingers opening and closing, faltering half way before he lets his arm drop back to his side.  Images of a brilliant golden light pass unbidden though his thoughts, and his mind skitters away from them.  He’s not ready to think about what happened outside.  Not yet.  It’s all too much right now, and right now he needs to be focused on seeing her through this.  When she wakes up, when she’s better, he can worry about it, but not now. Oh, God, please let her get better. Sighing again, he settles back, leaning against the wall and shifting, trying to find a slightly more comfortable position.  Weariness drapes over him like a mantle, a bone deep tiredness that gnaws at his mind with little rodent teeth.  The gentle sounds of respiration drift up from his left, occasionally interrupted by a snore or a snort as Luna tosses a little.  The sound lulls him, but tired or no his eyes remain open, moving about as if embedded in Siamese pits of fine sand.  He cannot sleep.  He has his own burden of guilt to keep him company into the wee hours, a guilt he wonders if he can ever make right. He left them alone, after all. Shifting and sliding, he eventually gives it up as a bad job, resignedly stilling himself as he resumes his vigil, unconsciously rubbing at his right knee as he continues watching long into the night. Waking slowly, Ryan turns over and glances at the bedside clock, at first puzzled as to why the alarm hasn’t gone off.  Blinking at it for a moment, his mind begins to slowly engage, and he finally remembers that today is Sunday, before rolling onto his back and closing his eyes again.  He doesn’t have to be up for a little while yet, and he plans on enjoying the quiet stillness that remains.  Drawing a breath, he releases it in the contented, lazy way of one who finds he doesn’t have any in particular to be about.     Nose wrinkling, he takes another, deeper breath.  There’s a smell in the air, familiar, yet out of place, and it slowly dawns on him that it’s the scent of coffee.  Grumbling, he sits up, wiping at his eyes with one hand.  Why is he smelling coffee? Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he fetches a deep breath, rubbing at the back of his neck before finally getting to his feet.  Fumbling about for his robe, finally locating it, he throws it over his shoulders and makes his way to the door, tying it closed before walking out into the hall.  The smell of coffee is stronger, and he can faintly hear a clattering of hooves on stone tile.  That’d have to be the kitchen. Growing a little alarmed, he descends the stairs and crosses the living room, walking through the fan of light that spills across the hardwood from the kitchen doorway.  Reaching the threshold he stops, peering across the room in confusion.   Celestia stands to one side of the stove, her eyes drawn down as she concentrates on the bowl in front of her.  Several items float about her, enveloped in a pale amber glow as they dip and bob uncertainly.  The bowl is on the counter, itself and the whisk swirling diligently inside of it held in that selfsame glow.  The coffee maker is on, and looks to be overflowing from the top, dark fluid running down the burnished metal facing to pool in the scattering of black granules that lay strewn around its base.  The toaster pops with a click and a ding, and Celestia turns a startled gaze to it, the whisk stopping its rotation, and the bowl of what he can only assume are eggs tottering dangerously.   Watching his oldest girl in surprise, and more than a little wonderment, Ryan starts to step forward, before hesitating.  He’d thought he would have begun to grow accustomed to this sort of thing by now, but it still brings him up short whenever he sees it.   She’d slept for almost two solid days after that night a couple of weeks ago, finally coming awake in the late afternoon of the second.  She’d been ravenously hungry, and had bolted down everything he’d brought her, until he began to worry that she might make herself sick.  Once she’d finally ate her fill, she’d leaned back with a loud belch and an embarrassed expression, excusing herself with a shy giggle.   When he had finally cleared to breakfast plates away the dam had broke, and both he and Luna had practically leapt onto her bed, smothering her with their relief.  When they had finally calmed down Ryan had asked her what had happened.  She didn’t remember much of that rain soaked night, save for occasional flashes and the odd, disjointed memory of being first really hot, and then really cold, but she insisted that she felt better, growing adamant and a little frustrated when Ryan continued to question her.  Indeed she did seem to be returned to her normally cheerful, buoyant self, and the contrast with the preceding weeks was all too clear.   Slowly, hesitantly, she’s begun telling them about the strange feelings tied to her headaches, and the even stranger dreams.  The weird warmth she’d described hadn’t gone away completely, but it had changed, she’d told them, from a periodic occurrence, to something constant.  Always there, but pleasant, and weak.  She’d confusedly tried to explain it like hearing a quiet background noise, sort of like a hum.  It was always there, and if you looked for it, it was easy to find, but it didn’t really draw notice otherwise.  Whatever that meant. She’d gazed up at him with an abashed expression as he’d tried to digest that odd analogy, and had asked, in a halting way that wouldn’t let her meet his eyes, if he was mad that she hadn’t told him about any of this before.  Blinking and looking down at her, he’d leaned in and kissed her on the top of her head, cupping her cheek and lifting her eyes to his, telling her that the important thing was that she was alright.  She’d smiled sweetly, relief shining out in her gaze, and had asked for another sip of water.  That’s when it happened again. Still looking down at her, he had reached without looking, and his hand bumped the glass on the night stand, causing it to totter and slid off the edge.  Suppressing a curse, he’d tried to make a grab at it, but before his hand had moved more than a few inches the glass was suddenly floating, rising back up cushioned in a gentle, pale golden glow.  It wobbled uncertainly, spinning slowly around, before finally drifting to land with a muted clink by her alarm clock.  Transfixed by the spectacle before him, he’d glanced quickly at the bed, his eyes widening as he took in the similar glow surrounding Celestia’s horn, which winked out after a moment.     The three shared a look in stunned silence, and then Tia had lowered her head, her face heating beneath her coat.  After that it was a bedlam of excited sister and concerned father.  She’d tried to explain it, unable to accurately convey what she was doing or how, and Luna had sat back after some time and several more demonstrations, reverently whispering that it was like magic.  Feeling completely out of his depth, Ryan couldn’t muster any argument against her description.  Magic was an impossibility, utterly ludicrous.  Then again, so were the two Alicorns sharing the room with him, one firing off a barrage of enthusiastic questions, the other eagerly trying to answer through a growing smile, both of them ignoring the suddenly very old feeling man, sitting stock still with a pole axed expression on his face. Magic. Just…sort of…magic.   That had all been about two weeks ago, and ever since Celestia had been trying out her ‘magic’ more and more often.  To say that Ryan was concerned and conflicted was to grievously understate his feelings.  On the one hand, Tia was excited.  Hell, they were both excited, with Luna already trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to perform her own magic.  It had also given Tia something she’d never had before, a real ability to do things on her own.  She could open doors, pour milk, comb her own hair, even work the remote control.  It was a wholly new experience for her, and she dove into it without the slightest hesitation, trying everything she could, from the mundane to the dangerous.   So on one hand, Ryan’s thrilled for his oldest daughter, amazed at her newfound ability and proud at her for wanting to be more independent.  On the other hand, he’s a father.  A parent.  And the larger part of being a parent is helping to guide your children through new and difficult things, drawing on your own experiences with those very same situations.  Except …he has no experience with something like this.  This wasn’t like trying to raise children who were physically different from everybody else.  This wasn’t even like teaching them to fly.  He can at least understand flying, understand the how and why that allowed it to work, even if he can’t do it naturally himself. He doesn’t understand this.  He can’t.  And while Celestia and Luna exclaim and find joy in this new thing, and he certainly shares those feelings with them, he also finds fear and anxiety.  It was wondrous to be sure, but his oldest, at least, has come to a point where he can no longer help her to find her way.  He has no fatherly wisdom to bestow, no prior experience to draw upon.  It eats at him to admit it, but he has no way to keep her safe in this.  No way to keep either of them safe.   Tia will have to find her own way through this new landscape, will have to navigate its unknowable traps and pitfalls, and that leaves him feeling old, and useless.  Worse than useless, it leaves him feeling helpless.  The only silver lining he can take away from the whole thing is that she will at least be able to help her sister when Luna reaches the same place.   If nothing happens beforehand. And who knows what abilities they’d be capable of, once they were familiar with how it all worked?  Who knows what they’d be able to do?  If it was magic, real and true magic, then its limits were unfathomable, its boundaries possibly limitless.  He’s afraid for his daughters, terrified at what unanticipated things could potentially happen.  Afraid at what changes this thing could bring. Coming back to himself with a start and a shake of his head, Ryan frowns at himself, recognizing his hesitation and feeling a little disgusted with himself because of it.  Things change, and when they do you have to deal with them as they are, come what may.  Frightening power or not, that’s still his daughter standing across the kitchen, frowning at two pieces of toast as she tries to butter them.  That’s still his Tia Marie, and if things may eventually change… well, they haven’t yet.   Berating himself silently, he clears his throat, the sudden sound causing Celestia to turn partially in surprise.   “Good morning Daddy!” She smiles beautifully, the toast and bowl and whisk and the butter dancing a little in the air, bobbing and jerking alarmingly as her attention focuses to him.  “I thought I’d make breakfast this morning!” Feeling an answering smile form on his face, he walks over and bends to brush her forehead with a kiss, ducking a little as the two pieces of toast glide past his head.  “Good morning honey.  I can see that.  Do you need some help?” Frowning over at the counter, she looks back at him, her delicate magenta eyes large and earnest above a small frown.  “I can’t get the eggs right.” Glancing at the sink, and then the trash, he can see the evidence of several prior attempts.  Holding back a sigh- she must have almost gone through a carton so far- he stands next to her at the counter, looking down at the bowl.  “Let’s have a look, hmm?”  He hardly hesitates as he grabs the faintly glowing whisk, giving it a few swirls.  “This looks pretty yellow, did you add any milk?” Looking askance at the bowl, she gives him an embarrassed look.  “…No.  I didn’t know you used milk...” Giving her a smile and rubbing behind her ear, he grins down at her.  “A lot of people will tell you adding milk is a mistake, but don’t you listen to them.  I’ve found it makes the eggs more fluffy when they’re cooked, and they tend to clump less.  See, the secret is in how you whisk them.  You want to do it like this…” Beaming up at her father, Celestia listens with rapt attention, watching his motions closely and nodding occasionally.  After all, Dad makes the best eggs in the world.