//------------------------------//
// 8 - The Death Rattle March 
// Story: Cammie 
// by Jarvy Jared 
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Years after the fact, Chamomile could divide her life into two uncomfortably clean halves.  The first was everything before Astral’s death. The second was everything during.











They celebrated Juniper’s first birthday in the living room of the tea shop. Several unicorns had been invited, including Penny Point and a younger, beardless Alphabittle, who boomed with laughter and entertained some of the fillies and colts with his games and antics. Special fairy lights that he’d sold Chamomile at a discount hung from the fake wall of lichen and lit up the area like fireflies. 
That had been the only decoration Chamomile had planned—her mind had been too scattered for her to consider adding anything else. Luckily, a certain spry, purple, blue-maned filly, who spoke with a bubbly voice that was a stark contrast to nearly everypony else, had taken it upon herself to craft a string of graphics to be hung all over the living room. She’d taken paper and cut out letters, then glued glitter—nopony knew where she’d gotten it—onto them, and these she’d positioned on the wall facing the doorway, so that those who entered could read, “Happy Birthday!” in big, bold, and brash lettering. Using Alphabittle’s impressive height, she'd set up box lanterns up in the room’s high corners. By the time she was done, the humble living room had been utterly transformed so as to be virtually unrecognizable, but the effect was momentous: Juniper, starting to speak with that usual lisp seen frequently in foals, babbled over the bold lettering, and crawled his way after the laughing unicorn filly as though she was his personal muse. The other unicorns were equally impressed, or as impressed as a magic-less race could be. 
“Do you happen to know whose kid she is?” Chamomile asked Penny Point while this was happening.
Penny shook her head. “No. I thought she was Alphabittle’s, but he said she wasn’t.”
“Who’d she come with, then?”
“Well, apparently, that was also Alphabittle.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
She went to ask him about that. With a guffaw and a twinkle in his eye, he explained: “Her mother dropped her off at my place for the day, actually. She’s a painter, wouldn’t you know, but painters need their time alone to paint, and this filly here wasn’t about to let that happen. Since I was coming to your party, I figured it would be okay if she tagged along—wouldn’t want to leave her alone or unsupervised, you know?”
He gave her a knowing look, and Chamomile realized he was speaking to her as a fellow parent would. For some reason this made her smile even as it also reminded her of Astral’s condition. 
Chamomile continued to help set up the arrangements, putting out plates and utensils, all while Juniper exhausted himself running after the rambunctious filly who seemed to have infinite energy. When she was done, she looked up and found Astral standing against one of the walls, a cup in his hoof. He was watching his son with a pleased smile on his face, but the shadows cast by the outlines of the box lanterns fell upon his face like ominous markings of prophecy. She doubted anypony but her would have noticed the bags under his eyes, nearly disguised by his green coat, a coat which—she did not want to believe—seemed to have diminished in richness and hue. 
He noticed her staring, and made a hesitant gesture with his head. She walked over and joined him at the wall. They watched the busy scene unfold. 
“Has anyone asked you yet?” she murmured into his ear.
He picked up on her meaning immediately, and shook his head. “No, they’ve been busy saying congratulations. Which is kind of funny, don’t you think?” He laughed a little. Chamomile tried to ignore the paranoid sense she had, which told her that the laughter sounded a bit fragile. “I mean, you and I didn’t really do anything to get Juniper to age one. He sort of did that on his own.”
“We did prevent him from chewing off the end of that tea cup.” Said tea cup was currently on the highest shelf in the shop, with the handle bearing the trace markings of a foal mid-teething. 
“It’s still a bit odd, don’t you think? It’s his birthday, yet we’re also being celebrated. Funny.”
“Being a parent usually is.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” 
She was grateful that nopony had asked about his condition yet, or had noticed. She looked across the room and saw Penny watching them. Aside from herself and Astral, she was the only other unicorn there who was aware of it, and she’d sworn not to tell a soul without their permission. 
Good friend, Penny. And friends were needed now more than ever.
Just then, that unicorn filly paraded past them, only to suddenly stop and whirl around. She looked up at Astral with large, luminous eyes. “You…” she said. 
Something about her gaze made Chamomile uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the brief glimpse of pity, the kind grown-ups had for many indifferent situations. Perhaps it was also the fact that Astral seemed to sense something that could not be seen, for he stiffened up, and his smile became forced. “Me?” he said, a bit dumbly.
“Your luminescence,” she whispered. Tears suddenly sprang into her eyes. She surged forth and hugged his leg, causing him to nearly drop his cup. “It’s so dark…”
It was then that Chamomile knew that this filly knew their secret. But who could have told her? She looked at Astral, who appeared astounded. She looked at Penny, but she was busy talking to another unicorn. 
“Izzy Moonbow!” Alphabittle’s strong voice preceded his approach. Izzy let go of Astral and looked at the other stallion, surprised as much as they were to see his stern, down-drawn face. “You know better than to hug ponies randomly. Don’t you remember our conversation about personal space?”
She looked embarrassed, even a little flustered, and answered with a wordless nod. Alphabittle sighed. “I understand that you’re excited, but please, do try to remember that we are guests here, and guests must conduct themselves accordingly. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Alphabittle.”
“None of that, now. You know I’m just Alphabittle around here.”
“Yes, Alphabittle.”
He nodded. “Good. Now, why don’t you go help those colts over there”—he pointed to a group of them looking at one of the box lanterns that had fallen—“fix that up, okay?”
“O-okay!” Izzy made a mock salute—or was it really a mock? Chamomile had the feeling that the filly never did things half-earnestly—then left them to join the colts. 
On Alphabittle’s back, there was a little cry, and then Juniper stuck his head out. He looked forlornly at Izzy’s retreating backside. Alphabittle chuckled. “Heh. I think little Junie here’s got a bit of a crush already.”
“Oh, please,” Chamomile managed to say. Alphabittle reached around and deposited Juniper into her outstretched hooves. “I don’t want to think about my son dating for a good long while.” Then she added, “Thank you, by the way.”
“No problem. I thought you looked a little uncomfortable.”
“Right…”
Astral hadn’t said a word. He was looking towards Izzy, and his face painted an unclear expression. Chamomile quietly nudged him, and he started. “Right. Yes. Thank you, Alphabittle.”
Alphabittle cocked his head. “She didn’t scare you or anything, did she?”
“Scare me?” Astral managed a laugh that, thankfully, did not sound wholly ingenuine. “No, no. I’m just… surprised how affectionate she was, that’s all. I can tell she means well, though.”
Alphabittle nodded. “Izzy does. But still, it is a bit frustrating when she doesn’t seem aware of… a few social mores, let’s say.”
He left them alone after that to go join her—or perhaps just to keep an eye on her, in case she wandered off and hugged another random pony. When he was gone, and with Juniper secured to her, Chamomile leaned into Astral to ask if he was okay.
“I’m fine.” But he was terse about it.
Then it was time to bring out the cake. They sat Juniper down at the end of the table, and his eyes seemed ready to fall out of their sockets when he saw the cake. A single, massive, refined candle stuck out of the middle in the shape of 1. When it was lit, Juniper was completely enraptured. 
It was supposed to be a happy time, then. And when they all began to sing happy birthday, and when Juniper had blown out his candle—all by himself, quite impressively—and when they had sliced up the cake and shared it among all who gathered, Chamomile could have believed that it was.
But Astral was frowning all throughout, his face muddled, his mind racing backwards and forward through half-formed thought after half-formed thought. And Chamomile was suddenly bitter towards that Izzy filly. If only she hadn’t come. If only she hadn’t told him that his luminescence, whatever that was, was dark. 
But then… How did she know? 











Chamomile was awakened by a feeling of wetness on her cheeks. A swirling vision of the recreation parlor appeared before her, along with an equally swirling manifestation of some dark, dismal shape. It looked to be a stallion, a familiar one. She reached forward—
—only to pitch off of the seat. A cry brought her to her full senses, though not nearly soon enough to prevent her from hitting the ground. Thank whatever goddess was responsible for trains that the floor was covered in a soft carpet.
Groaning, Chamomile raised her head. There was a coolness on her face left not by air but by water, and when she reached up to touch her cheeks, her hoof came back wet. Tears. She’d been crying. But why—
I was dreaming.
Astral.
She might have cursed herself for being so predictable. Most dreams faded at the moment of consciousness, and her nights were often nebulous with their images and meanings. But every dream of Astral was as distinct as life, such that she could never forget a single one. How many times had she woken up, crying, since his death? She could not recall it happening recently. So why now? Why was she dreaming of him again?
She got up and looked around. Gaea and Clip weren’t anywhere. When she faced her seat, she saw a little note tucked under the blanket.
Chamomile: we went to get breakfast. Didn’t want to wake you. Come join us if you can! 
It was signed by Gaea. Chamomile stared at the note for a long while, then, inexplicably, picked it up in her magic. She looked around for her bag and, after finding it, deposited the note in there before she had a chance to think it over.
She wondered how long she’d been asleep, how long she’d been crying. Perhaps not long enough for them to see—and if it was true that they hadn’t seen her in that state, then she would be grateful. She was in no mood to answer the question, “How are you?”
Still, she knew she had to get herself ready for the day. A glance at the clock revealed that morning was already dwindling. 
But Astral…
She sighed. The train creaked and groaned around a slight curve, as though trying and failing to emulate that sigh. After she freshened up in a bathroom, Chamomile walked through the cars until she came to the diner. Immediately she spied Gaea and Clip seated at a table, next to one of the vertical windows that opened up an impressive view of a bright, sunny morning. The sun shone through and fell upon Gaea, highlighting her profile. Chamomile paused for a moment, before forcing herself to continue forward.
Gaea saw her and waved. “Hey, you’re up,” she said, smiling. Based on her tone, it appeared that Chamomile’s efforts in the bathroom paid off—any trace of her tears or tiredness were gone.
“We saved you a seat,” Clip said. He used his magic to pull out a chair.
Chamomile sat down. “Thank you. What are we having?”
“Basic breakfast. Toast and butter, blueberry jam.”
“Blueberry jam?”
“It’s pretty good,” Gaea said. “I used to know a pony who made this sort of stuff, and she’d probably say the same thing.” She happily took the knife from the bowl and spread the jam over her toast.
A waiter came by to refill their drinks, then to ask what Chamomile wanted. “Coffee, with cream and sugar,” she said. She caught afterwards the somewhat shocked expressions on both her companions’ faces. “What?”
“I half-expected tea,” Clip said.
“Tea? In the morning?”
“It’s not so unheard of, is it?”
“No,” Chamomile admitted. But now she was beginning to see the humor in the moment, and she managed a small smile despite herself. “You know, even though it’s my name, it’s not just tea that I drink, you guys.”
“Of course, of course,” Gaea said. She was smiling, too. There was something in her voice. Chamomile couldn’t quite describe it, but it caused her to put her food down and watch her. Eating her toast, Gaea looked out the window, unbothered by the sun. In fact, she seemed to revel in it, as it traveled in a beam over her face and into the frills of her mane, which seemed to achieve a particular glow. When she smiled, her crows’ feet were distinct, suggesting that she was accustomed to smiling quite often. 
Chamomile blinked. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Then she realized: she hadn’t had a chance to see Gaea up close in the daytime. 
Gaea noticed her looking, and before Chamomile could look away, she said, “Something on your mind?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said quickly.
Gaea stared at her. Chamomile rubbed the table cloth and fought an urge to cough. She couldn’t look away. Clip was too busy chowing down on his toast to notice. 
The waiter returned with the coffee, giving Chamomile an excuse to turn away. She poured herself a cup, dropped in the cream and sugar, and stirred the concoction. When that was done, she set the cup down. “Actually, there is one thing…” She cleared her throat and attempted to continue casually. “It’s just that, I can’t help but notice you seem awfully… cheerful this morning.”
Gaea blinked. “Really?”
Clip looked up at that. “Now that you mention it… Yes, you do seem quite cheery today.”
 “Especially given yesterday’s… well, you know.” 
“Oh, yes.” Gaea was quick to nod, but she kept smiling, unabashed. “I guess, knowing that, it would be a bit odd to see me like this. But truthfully, I just feel a lot better, for whatever reason. I guess talking about it helped.” She paused, then, in a somewhat lower voice, said, “You two are the first ponies I’ve told.”
“You haven’t told anypony else?”
She shook her head. “Not even that florist knew the full extent of it—she just thought we were a father and daughter down on our luck.”
She gave them both a meaningful look, then returned to gazing out the window. Clip, satisfied, went back to his meal, but Chamomile kept on looking. Was it her imagination, or had the look Gaea had given her held some greater significance? And if so, what was that significance? 
Or maybe I’m just seeing things. She thought back to the Badlands, to seeing Astral. This reminded her of her dream, and her mood darkened. Seeking to hide it, she lifted her cup of coffee and resumed drinking. 
For the rest of the meal, they were mostly silent. A few words were exchanged, but the breakfast was largely content to enjoy the morning’s silence. Gradually Chamomile’s dark mood left her, leaving her ready to face the day—but she couldn’t tell if that was because of the coffee or the company.
After they’d stacked their plates to assist the waiter, they all rose. “Thank you,” Gaea said.
Not quite having heard her, because her mind was still elsewhere, Chamomile said, “Sorry?”
“For hearing me out, yesterday,” Gaea explained. Although she was still cheery, she had lowered her gaze in an almost shy manner, her long mane covering one side of her face. She held the tail of it in a hoof and was stroking it. “I know it was a lot to unload on you.”
“It’s no problem,” Clip said.
“None at all,” Chamomile agreed. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
Gaea nodded, then, sharply, raised her head. “Friends…?”
Chamomile blinked, and then her mouth formed into a little “o.” The word had slipped right out without any thinking as to its meaning. And obviously, its meaning was clear, if the somewhat dazed and stupefied looks on Gaea and Clip’s faces were of any indication. 
“Hmm,” Clip said. “Friends. Yes, I think that is about right.” He was grinning a little, a coltish grin—but this, strangely, did not bother Chamomile.
She looked at Gaea, whose smile had returned, shining brilliantly behind her long mane. “Friends,” she said—but was there a note of disappointment in her voice? And why was she looking at Chamomile as though trying to convey something through her eyes alone?
Chamomile resisted the urge to shake her head. She smiled in kind, but only quickly, and looked away immediately after making it.
They finished gathering their belongings. Afterwards, Gaea said, “We should probably check up on Polar. He might be awake.”
“Awake, and in a lot of pain,” Clip said, “but, all right, let’s.”
They began to make their way to the medbay car, Clip and Gaea in front, Chamomile behind, falling back into her thoughts.











The next time Astral collapsed, Chamomile was lucky enough to be there. She’d heard the thud from upstairs, where she’d been feeding Juniper, and had come down with him cradled in a blanket and a bottle in her hooves. She was unlucky enough to not catch Astral in time before his head struck the counter and he passed out. 
Her shrieking alerted her neighbors, who managed to overcome their usual lethargy to burst open the door to the shop. During that time, Astral hadn’t stirred. A wound had opened up on the side of his head. It was not very deep, but the blood was profuse, and Chamomile tried to seal it with a clean cloth as best she could. The makeshift tourniquet absorbed some of the blood before turning completely red, and the rest of it began to leak down the side of his head just as the neighbors arrived.
“What happened?” one of them asked.
“What do you think?” she nearly shrieked. 
They loaded him up and transported him as quickly as they could to the doctor’s. She was advised to come with, and she certainly wanted to, but there was the matter of her son. She’d made sure he didn’t see his stricken father, but had no doubt he had heard her cry out. She could not leave him alone—nor Astral.
In the end, she arranged a makeshift baby-hammock from towels and hung it around her neck. She placed Juniper into it. He did not cry once, as though aware that his mother had enough things to worry about. 
In the waiting room, there was only the geriatric for company. While they were friendly enough towards both her and Juniper—with one mare even asking if she wouldn’t mind her holding him for a bit—the sight of them scared her. How could she and Astral be in the same vicinity as the old? They were young—they had a child—they could not be facing the same treatment as ponies more than twice their age.  
She tried to think if there were any signs of this collapse, but nothing came to mind. It just happened. A freak accident, she wanted to say, yet, knowing Astral’s condition, she did not really think so. She didn’t want to think about it at all. But she had to. The wellness posters and information pamphlets which polluted the waiting room insisted that it never be too far from her mind. She was torn between wanting to stay—wanting to hear from the doctor any news about Astral—and wanting to run, and for feeling this latter emotion, she succumbed to her guilt and cried into the towel that carried her son.
She had no idea how long she’d waited—long enough for her crying to cease—when a nurse approached her and said that the doctor wanted to see her. She was led past rooms full of the elderly in various states of care, arranged in such a way as to remind her of life’s eternal passing. Her steps fell like distant staccatos of some terrible symphony. She was aware that the nurse was saying something about Astral’s condition, but only a few words clung to Chamomile’s memory: “was unconscious for a time,” “just woke up,” “may be uncertain,” “critical,”—words that even together did not seem to suggest any real meaning.
When they came to his room, she saw that he was awake. She nearly wept from relief. He was speaking quietly to a doctor, but she could tell something was off. His speech was slow and he took a long time to put a word after another, like he was having difficulty remembering how to speak. 
The doctor saw her, then gestured to her. “Do you recognize her?”
Astral looked at her with squinted eyes. Her heart seemed to have stopped beating. 
“No, I don’t think so…”
Everything in Chamomile went cold. Her vision blurred, and the doctor, nurses, and Astral all became smudges of color. She was aware of herself running out of the room, pursued by the nurse who escorted her. 
They later said that the fall had resulted in momentary memory lapse, and that it would be a few days before it returned. This was said as an attempt at comfort—it was not that he truly did not recognize her, but that he was simply confused. 
She spent those days camping out in the waiting room, attended to regularly by the staff. She witnessed the old come in and never come out, an observation that she tried not to focus on. She hardly saw the doctor assigned to Astral’s case except for the rare instances when he came out when she had gone into the lunchroom for food, and even then, he did not talk to her. It was always one of the nurses or another physician. 
“He’ll be fine,” they would say. “Give it time. He’s a strong pony.”
Buzz words. Hollow ones. Spoken only because it was their duty. Chamomile tried not to get mad at them, especially since they had been so kind as to supply her with food that Juniper could eat, changing his diaper when needed, and other such services, but it was impossible not to be vexed. 
Eventually, though—long after Chamomile had stopped being able to count the hours, long after her mane had become fully disheveled and she was sure she smelled as bad as she felt—she was called back into Astral’s room. It took more than a few words of encouragement for her to get out of her seat and approach the room.
Astral was sitting up, and he gave Chamomile a familiar dopey grin. “I see you,” he said simply. 
This time, she did weep. Her tears splashed onto Juniper, but with a grace only a god could have, he did not cry. He simply reached up with a gentle hoof and touched her cheek. 
The effects were obvious afterwards. A difficulty remembering things, even the most mundane of tasks, defined the days where Chamomile would find Astral had failed to water the plants, or finish cleaning a table, or even what the date was. He had difficulty remembering orders, and when he wrote them down, he did so much slower, as though he was struggling to take the words in his head and put them down. 
“It hurts to focus,” he privately told her. “It’s like I have to seriously sit and think myself into a state where I can actually work.”
“The doctor said it would be like that,” she tried to reassure him. “You just need to practice, that’s all, until it’s natural again.”
Though he never expressed it, she knew he didn’t believe either her or the doctor. And secretly maybe she didn’t, either. Like the nurses who told her that everything would be fine, she spoke hollow words only because they seemed the best words she could say—which meant, then, that they were not words worth saying. 
Soon, it became necessary to seek treatment beyond the exercises that theoretically would strengthen his memory. She talked to the doctors, but the only treatment was time and patience—treatment that she found sorely lacking. So she turned to private means. Chamomile poured over the few books Bridlewood had to offer in its humble library, but found little written about how to restore his cognitive function. She took as many notes as she could, or as little as she could, and brought them back to the doctors—look at this, she would say, don’t you think this would work. But each and every time, they fixed her with the unmovable gazes of physicians convinced of the futility of the task. “Time and patience,” they’d reiterate. “You must have both for his sake.”
This frustrated her. She had both, but that was clearly not enough. She may have vowed to be there for him, in sickness and in health, but that did not constrain her to watching from the sidelines while her beloved went into the dark alone and frightened. 
After one more of these ventures in vain, she returned, despondent and spiteful, to the teashop. She stopped in the doorway. “What the…”
Juniper was crawling around, naked. His discarded diaper hung on the cot—a new one had not been replaced. That should have been Astral’s job while she was gone.
“Come here, you.” She picked Juniper up and placed him on the cot, then went to work affixing a new diaper herself. “Where’s your dad, Juniper?” she asked him. “Where’d he go? This isn’t like him at all…”
But then again, what even is, at this point?	
When she was done, she was afraid to leave him alone, so she placed him in that makeshift neck-basket she’d constructed and carried him with her while she explored the shop, calling out for Astral. But he was in none of the rooms on either of the floors. Had he gone out? But why would he? 
It was only by chance that she saw a fleeting smack of dark-green outside the backyard window. She came out, calling to him, “What were you thinking?”
Astral spun around. He had a frightened look on his face. “What… Where am I?”
She stopped short just as she heard this. “What do you mean, where are you? You’re in our backyard.”
“Our… backyard?” 
He circled in place. “Are you sure? It doesn’t look like it.”
“Astral.” She couldn’t hide her worry. “You left Juniper inside alone.”
“I did?” He looked at her again, fright transforming into panic. “No, no, that… I’d never do that. You know I never would.”
“But you did. And now you’re out here, and you don’t even realize it…”
He started to protest, but stopped short. He looked down at his hooves. He was trembling. “I…”
She wanted to comfort him, but truthfully she was also scared. Why, though? This was her husband. She had no reason to be scared of him. But he had left Juniper behind, by accident, yes—but still—
“Let’s… let’s just go inside, then,” she suggested after a moment. Her throat felt dry. 
“Yes, we… we should, yes,” he muttered. 
He went ahead of her, stiffly, his eyes glued to the teashop like he was afraid if he looked away, it would vanish from sight. She watched him, to make sure the same could not be said of him. 











She hadn’t realized that she’d slipped once again into memory until Clip’s voice shook her out of her reverie. “Huh? Wha?” She looked around, and realized that they’d arrived in the waiting room of the medbay without her noticing.
“I said we need to wait here,” Clip said.
“We do? Why? I thought we were going to visit Polar.”
“We are, but for the moment they’re allowing only one pony to visit,” he replied. He looked at her, then pointed to the door. “Gaea went in, so we’re waiting here.”
Chamomile nodded, feeling awkward and a little frightened. Zoning out while walking seemed an invitation for disaster, and she hoped that she hadn’t missed anything too important.
“You okay?” Clip asked her. “You look a little out of it.”
“Sorry. I was just… I was just thinking.”
She realized the flimsiness of the excuse the moment it left her lips, and, alarmed, she glanced at Clip. But he didn’t appear to have noticed. Instead, he nodded, then took one of the seats next to the door. 
Chamomile waited a few moments, then trotted over to the seat next to his. But she felt like her senses were heightened, that everything was operating at sudden and intense sensitivity. The seat felt too soft, the wood of its arms too hard. Awkward and fumbling, she squirmed in her seat, tried not to, failed, then tried again. Eventually she managed to settle long enough to release a sigh.
Clip looked over at her. “So are you going to tell me or…”
She realized she was caught. She searched for something to say. “I’m just… I guess I’m just worried about Polar, that’s all. He took quite the hit,” she added, a bit needlessly.
Yet this seemed to suffice as an explanation. Clip nodded somberly. “Yeah. I don’t blame you for worrying. That was a pretty nasty crash.” He paused, then seemed a little uncertain of his next words. “I’m not the best when it comes to this stuff, but… don’t let it get to you. I’m sure he’ll be fine. I mean, Gaea’s in there, checking up on him, so she’ll probably tell you the same.” He paused, then shook his head, cheeks reddening. “Sorry. I’m not that good at that sort of thing.”
“No, no, it’s… it’s okay. You’re right, he probably will be fine.”
She was grateful for the silence that fell between them, because it gave her something to focus on—something else than Astral. She looked around Clip back at the door, wondering how long ago Gaea had slipped in.
Gaea…
That thought suddenly brought to mind their interaction this morning. The looks Gaea had given her over breakfast. How meaningful they seemed, even if that meaning was lost on Chamomile. 
Something about that nagged her. Something she was sure was important, something which she knew she ought to know—and yet it failed to render in her mind, like some blindness had struck her in that area. She tried not to let her consternation show, choosing to busy herself with one of the medical magazines—but reading these served only to bring her to another kind of thinking, one that returned to Astral. 
She would have sighed had Clip not been there. Sighed, or perhaps grunted angrily to herself. 	

Why couldn’t she escape him? For that matter, why was she feeling haunted by Gaea? For all she knew, these were just looks and nothing more. And yet…
She tried to recall their previous interactions to see if an explanation lay there, but nothing came up. Inexplicably, her mind was drawn to an hour earlier, in the breakfast parlor, when the sun cast down onto Gaea’s face in stunning fashion… Why that image, she couldn’t say. But thinking it made her feel something. She couldn’t explain what.
The door opened, Chamomile nearly jumped, and Gaea stepped out. The first thing she said was, “He’s awake.”
Chamomile permitted herself a sigh. “That’s good to hear.”
“It’s about the only good thing, though.” Gaea lowered herself into the seat next to Chamomile. The close proximity caused her face to light up, but it seemed that Gaea was too distracted to notice. “The doctor said he probably has a mild concussion from the crash. The hangover probably isn’t helping him, either. They want to keep monitoring him for a while. Won’t let him leave without the doctor giving permission.”
“Won’t let him leave…” Clip sat up. “So that means he won’t be able to work.”
Chamomile frowned. No doubt Polar would take the news poorly—he’d been the most gung-ho about the job from their very first interaction. 
Gaea’s nod was grave. “Poor thing,” she muttered. Her gaze was distant and distracted. 
“By ‘for a while,’ do they mean for the next few hours?” Chamomile asked, just to avoid thinking so much. “Or the next few days?”
But Gaea shook her head. “The doctor could only give an estimate. She’s not specialized in pegasi physiology, so she’s mostly guessing based on what she knows about earth ponies. Apparently, even though the tribes have been reunited for a while, not all information has been exchanged completely. They’re still working on getting a network of hospitals communicating between all three cities. Still, it’s nice to know something.” Gaea rose and stretched her neck. “Better than being in the dark, waiting for something to happen.” Then, almost to herself, she said, “But I do hope he gets better soon, if only for his sake…”
Tender.
The word came to Chamomile as a flash of insight, and she looked at Gaea with brand-new understanding. This was somepony tender. A total stranger had crashed his head and made a fool of himself, and yet, here she was, worried about him as though he was anything but. 
But isn’t that right? After all, she said Polar reminded her of her father.
Now Chamomile was in a position to contest Gaea’s reasoning. No, it wasn’t because some kind of striking similarity could be found between the two disparate ponies—if drink was the main shared symptom, then any of the ponies in that tavern could have qualified. Nor was it because, to Gaea, Polar somehow was her father in everything but name. It was because this was Gaea—someone with a tender heart, opening it to a very cruel and frightful world of chaos and mischief. It was all so astonishing to Chamomile, for reasons bereft of words—but she could feel her heart quicken, as though energized by this realization. And it seemed to her that Gaea shined a bit differently, sparkled a softer yet still vibrant hue…
“Chamomile?”
Chamomile gasped. She realized Gaea was looking at her, and her cheeks were a faint red. “You okay? You… you were staring at me.”
“I… I was?” Chamomile closed her mouth, mind racing for an explanation. She wanted to hide, but there was no means of escape.
Eventually she settled on breaking her gaze. “… Sorry,” she said, knowing it was awkward. “I’m just… thinking, I guess.”
“About what?” Gaea asked softly. She had leaned in a bit closer, and Chamomile could almost feel her breath on her face.
“Just… stuff.”
“Stuff. Really?”
“Uh huh.” Goddess strike her down, now, she was acting like a filly! 
She abruptly forced herself off the seat, and was vaguely aware that she began to speak rapidly. “Anyway, since there’s nothing left we can do for Polar, we should probably leave. Don’t want to clog up the waiting room.” 
Clip and Gaea looked at her, astounded. She knew she couldn’t hide her intense blushing, but was even more surprised to see that an even more fierce one flashed across Gaea’s face. Another urge to groan was resisted, but only through supreme effort. 
“I suppose you are right,” Clip said, standing. “Even if I suspect you may not be all right.”
“I’m fine. I’m just tired.” She tried not to snap at him, and, recognizing the inadequacy of the statement, amended it: “I had some funny dreams last night, that’s all. So that’s why I’m kind of all over the place. You understand, right?” she asked Gaea.
Gaea looked surprised to be addressed. Her blush receded back into her usual pink. “I… Sure, I guess I do.”
Clip quirked an eyebrow. He looked between the two of them, his ears swiveling like he was trying to listen to their heartbeats.
Then, he smiled. There was something mysterious in it. His eyes had an oddly knowing glint. “If you say so,” he murmured to Chamomile, before making his way to the door. 
After a moment, Gaea did as well. She didn’t look at Chamomile as she was leaving, much to Chamomile’s shock. But then she doubled back, and there was an odd spring in her step, and her voice, while low, reveled in excitement. “I had some funny dreams, too,” she whispered in her ear. Then, with a flash of a smile, edged by rosy cheeks, Gaea trotted away.