Committing suicide is remarkably cathartic.
Of course, that's not quite how the act looks from the outside. As far as his landlord is concerned, Linchpin is just moving out. But in reality, he's heading into the unknown, with his best friend at his side. Exploring a future. And if he's leaving Canterlot...
His friend had a legitimate point. He can't be sure of how long Linchpin will be away.
(This was a lie.)
Perhaps it'll be for a lifetime.
(Almost the truth.)
And if he's going to be away from the capital for what's likely to be at least -- actually, his friend hasn't really said anything about a minimum time frame either, but one thing seems fairly clear: when it comes to paying rent on an apartment he isn't using, it's going to be way too long. Especially since it doesn't seem all that likely that he'll be working during the trip. He's going with his friend so he won't have to do normal work for a while, or at least what the mark insists is it. And even if he does manage to earn something --
-- he's not completely sure how that's going to work and when he jokingly asked his friend about becoming a paid temporary assistant to a professional traveler, he got a laugh which was only slightly out of proportion to the jest --
-- in theory, he has the option to mail a prepaid voucher to his Canterlot bank and let them deposit it to his account. But he's more likely to need those funds on the spot.
His friend advised him to keep that account open. Withdraw what he thought he might need to start a new life -- but leave some bits behind. Let the original seed remain planted in old soil.
(Linchpin, who's never done this before, thinks it's advice meant to help out if he does ever return to the capital. The big stallion simply knows that landlords accept somepony moving out -- but when that same pony completely closes out everything without providing any hint of a new destination, then a good bank manager may have a few concerns. A marked one is going to ask questions, and anypony who truly cares for their customers just might pass their queries on to law enforcement.)
(The big stallion has gone through a number of friends.)
He's asked about how much money he should bring for a trip into adventure. There were a few jokes about keeping it under the number which would have meant that this was all being done just to provide a long-way-around chance at robbery. (They'd both laughed.) And then his friend had put some visible thought into it.
"As much as you think you might need. But it's not gonna be good for a lot. Not where we're going." (Which was just about the most his friend had said about where they were going.) And then there had been a shrug. "Most of what money does is just keep score."
Which strikes Linchpin as being oddly philosophical. And it also brings up a few questions about what kind of place felt money wasn't very important. All of those are watered down by drinks, and eventually wind up being diluted out of importance.
Even so -- leaving the bank account open... it means there's going to be one root which wasn't entirely severed. Or a single speaking tube hosting echoes of ancient syllables. (He's tried doing a little work with speaking tubes.)
He isn't initially sure whether that's a good idea, and perhaps that's because he's having so much fun in just outright wrecking the rest.
The joy of destruction.
Because he's not exactly going to have a giant stable sale in the middle of winter, now is he? It'll take too long to sell most of his possessions, and he's been told that he won't really need the money. So some of his things get head-pushed to the curb, attached to well-drafted signs which read FREE TO GOOD HOME and his landlord accepts that because some new rentals are furnished. But with a few of the others, where nopony of sanity would possibly have any use for them...
Drafting tables are expensive. They're also of rather limited interest, and it's unlikely that anypony who needs one is going to wander by the right curb. Which doesn't really matter because even if that happened, all they're going to find is a pile of debris. Get enough glue together, maybe a few spells, and you might have a drafting table again. It should be fine as long as nopony tries to draft anything on it.
(He remembers the night when he broke the thing. What his mark did. From that perspective, disposing of the table was just taking that factor out of the equation. Coming that much closer to having it never happen again.)
Even with earth pony strength, pushing a hardwood bed along is annoying. Especially when...
...he'd thought there would be a mare one day, somepony who would stay with him for a lifetime, and it just made sense to get something that big...
...it had been assembled in the apartment. Disassembly would take too long. Kicking it into pieces means he can divide the weight into as many trips as he likes. Which still leaves him stuck trying to move the mattress as a single unit, but few solutions are truly perfect.
Paper, bound in bulk, possesses a surprising amount of weight. The sketchbooks are anchors. But he has a fireplace, and that kind of virtual metal turns out to have a rather low melting point. Architecture magazines burn just as readily, and he refuses to let himself see shapes in the flames.
It's fun to break things. To shatter, rend, kick, and destroy. Because he's been told that there's worse things to be than a really big kid. So if he's going to kick out a tantrum, why not give it purpose?
The joy of self-destruction. The catharsis of suicide. Because as he eventually learns, long after it's too long to turn back and well after he stops actually caring... the breakdown of identity is part of the goal. And here he is, doing it to himself, out of what he believes to be his own free will. Rejoicing in childish glee as something else shatters, because he's told himself that it means he's starting over.
What else can he break? Because he's not bringing much. He still doesn't know where they're going. It's a surprise.
(He trusts his friend that much.)
And for explorers... well, in so many of the best books for youth, they found out where they were going when they got there. A stallion looking forward to acting like a kid again is perfectly willing to accept that.
But as for what to bring? He was advised to keep it down to a pair of well-packed saddlebags. And there was also something about not taking very much for cold weather.
What does he picture, when he wonders about their destination? Part of Linchpin has been repeatedly coming up with a day spa, one the size of a town. He tries to keep it from being the part which would have questions about the design challenges. But with the climate advisory, in winter... well, he knows that portions of the desert will soon host new settled zones. (This had to be negotiated with the buffalo, and the Ten Tribes made sure they received somewhat more than they were giving away.) It's certainly hot out there, although he's heard that it can get surprisingly cold at night.
(Not much point to carrying heavy blankets. But letting his teeth rend them into strips makes very little sense, because somepony always needs to be warm. Head-toss those onto the charity pile.)
First settlers in? That feels remotely possible. Linchpin knows one of his old classmates was planning to take on a few of those challenges. Solving the riddle of how to create a structure which can survive the heat. Wood forever drying out...
An old classmate. An old friend.
...how good a friend can that pony be if all he does is send a letter once in a while? A real friend would be physically there for him. Just like the big stallion is now.
(He trusts his friend.)
(There's a certain question as to whether he still trusts anypony else.)
A real friend helps you move. The big earth pony certainly fulfills that part of the definition -- part-time. He's been in and out of the apartment. Currently, with Linchpin considering exactly how to best murder a dining room family-sized table which has never truly hosted more than two, always for the short-term, and there almost has to be some way where that would be the table's fault --
-- right now, the stallion is absent. This has happened a number of times. He's said that arrangements have to be made for the journey, and Linchpin gladly opens the door so his friend can go and arrange them.
It's a pity that he won't be here for the table.
Linchpin is good at packing. (Why wouldn't he be? It's about the proper distribution of weight.) But this sort of gleeful malice towards the inanimate, killing everything which connects him to that old life... it's a lot more fun when it's being done by two.
Suicide can be a team sport. Who knew? And it's fun. Because once there was a stallion called Linchpin, who couldn't succeed at love or companionship or the true building of a future. He's standing on the verge of adventure. And anything which reminds him of those failures can just go and die.
...which can't include the mirror. He wishes it did, but -- it's not that he'd have to be so careful about shattering glass, especially if he doesn't want it taking revenge on his frogs with every ill-planted hoofstep. It came with the apartment. It's not his.
He can look at his face in the silvered glass. That doesn't bother him, especially when every feature seems to shine with a colt's excitement. But there are times when he gets a glimpse of his mark, and...
...it's like passing by a window in the dead of night, on a lonely street within a strange town. Alone, without even Moon to light the way. And you've been on your own for hours, you're trying to find your way home but you can't remember where that is, any other presence isn't going to so much reassure you as startle --
-- and when you glance at the inadvertent reflection, you see the face of another.
Somepony you don't like.
An entity who just might hate you.
And the first instinct is to run.
While they were mutually -- 'packing' is still the funny way to put it -- his friend had said something new about marks.
There's a voice which can rise from within, when you're acting within the heart of your talent. Everypony agrees on that, because just about every pony has been through it. Something which, until that night at the drafting table, had always been softer than a whisper.
So whose voice is it?
Are you talking to yourself? Nothing wrong with that, as long as it doesn't get out of control. A short self-conference can help just about anypony sort things out. You just have to acknowledge that ultimately, you're the only one speaking and if half the conversation starts to arrive with a different speech pattern and accent, you're probably in trouble.
But if it's truly a separate voice...
Why is it there?
What does it want?
His friend had made a joke of sorts. Something which, to so many, would come across as the purest of blasphemy -- but Linchpin understands. He feels like he's known the stallion for years. And the deepest thoughts can start as jokes, because that's how you get ponies thinking about them. Searching for the ultimate punchline.
"Maybe they're not really part of us." With a shrug, "Could be that ponies are how marks survive."
A disease looking for a vector.
A parasite with a host.
Blasphemy currently feels as if it has a point.
Whose voice was it? Linchpin doesn't know. He just plans on ignoring it for a while.
There's a certain amount of rather annoying paperwork attached to a death. And when it comes to a suicide which currently exists as something spiritual, Linchpin has to deal with all of it himself.
He's tried to tell the post office that he can file a forwarding address after he learns where he's actually going. Nopony seems to be listening.
Withdrawing money from the bank requires the usual number of signatures -- plus one. Excitement grounds itself in his grinning face and makes the mouthwriting somewhat illegible.
The landlord will want to inspect the apartment just before Linchpin leaves. A trotthrough, and then they'll have to both sign off on the results -- with Linchpin paying for damages. It's another reason to limit all of the devastation to his own former possessions, although he'll probably have to make sure that burning magazines didn't somehow manage to stain the interior of the chimney.
All of the items which are destined for the charity must be listed on the proper form. And he has to sign off on that, schedule a pickup...
He hasn't worked in some time, and anything he did was always on a for-hire basis. There doesn't seem to be much point in contacting his former clients to tell them he won't be available. There's always another pony. Another mark.
But he's almost done. It's down to those pieces which are meant for the saddlebags, scattered debris which must be cleaned up before the landlord arrives, and --
-- why is that bookshelf still full?
He looks at it. And for the first time in three days, truly registers the contents.
It's the journals. The ones he subscribed to when he was first dating Abjura, in the hopes of understanding her a little bit more. The Thaumaturgy Review makes up a prominent part of the shelf. It's fairly comprehensive -- for anything which happened at least four decades ago, because it takes at least that long before the managers will consider treating anything as a theory. Proof requires a significant multiplier, and Abjura claimed the submission process tripled that. And the post-editing articles are so dry as to evaporate any moisture on contact, along with all but the most dedicated interest.
The Review is good for exactly that: let's review the discoveries of the past century. Slowly. The rest of the journals tend to remember that they're not meant to cast sleep spells, and allow some degree of style accordingly.
He... got into the habit of reading them. He subscribed...
...more paperwork, because he has to stop the subscriptions. Really, what use does an earth pony have for multiple dissertations on unicorn magic? He should have kicked this part of his life away years ago --
-- he's still looking at the journals.
He hasn't bitten down on a single cover. (The majority are safe to contact by mouth, although one issue usually sees the index fight back.)
He...
...he can't kick them to the curb. It's the same problem as giving them to charity: essentially, you're nosing over free chemistry sets to unknown recipients. The good versions, because they include all of the stuff which aids in truly colorful explosions. If they reach fillies and colts, the ones who are just starting to get control over their field while still possessing no means of screening wild ideas... who knows what they might mix?
...can't burn them, either. Anything meant to survive in a researcher's lab for more than an hour is going to be fire-resistant. Some of the editions might set off their own alarms.
He can... rent a storage unit. A small one. Keep them there for a while. It won't take long to find a facility which is willing to mail locker contents to a new address. It's just keeping everypony safe from the articles. And since he's leaving the bank account open anyway... automatic rental payments. That won't be hard to set up.
It isn't. Two hours, including the time to get the journals into a cart and make the transfer. And then he's back in what will soon be the residence of another, clearing out the last pieces of his life.
He doesn't need to take much. He doesn't want to. It's a fresh start. Why should he have to haul so much of Linchpin along?
There was another joke.
His friend told him that he didn't even have to bring his name...
And now it's the day of departure.
He clears the inspection, noses over a voucher for a hundred bits: this is meant to cover one last round of cleaning. Some of the splinters went into the small corners, and it's going to take some very dedicated sweeping or a squinting unicorn to get them out again.
He meets his friend at the front of the building. Two oversized colts wriggle with excitement at the sight of each other. The contents of the larger's half-full saddlebags jostle within the fabric.
"Look at you!" the big stallion exclaims. "Just like the first day of school, ain't it?"
"After I found out I'd be learning everything," Linchpin smiles. "Before the teacher told me I was going to be graded on it..."
His friend laughs: a deep, hearty sound. And then he looks at the smaller earth pony, gaze roaming from tail to neck...
"Oh, for..." It's an exasperated sort of affection. "Still winter out here, and this one went and underdressed. Can't count on drinks to keep you warm on this trip. Here." His head tilts back towards the right saddlebag. "Put this on."
"Put what --"
The lid is flipped. A very rough form of delving ensues, which includes a touch of bucking the bags forward because a neck shouldn't be trying to bend back that way for long.
A scarf emerges. Soft purple. The fabric looks rich, but... stiff. It doesn't flow properly.
"Shet he root tis on pu," his friend says, which requires some translation from Got Something In My Mouth. And then it's carefully wrapped around Linchpin's neck.
It is stiff. There's some sort of wire at the edges, helping it hold the shape. But once it's wrapped, it stays that way.
"There," the big stallion declares with satisfaction, stepping back. "Keep you from catching your death." There's a little grin at the end of the words, as if he's taking note of a private joke.
Linchpin casually shrugs. "Thanks, Mom..." But he's grateful. It's stiff, and the wire is going to irritate his neck if it's left there too long -- but there's still some level of warmth present.
It's a gift. He can put up with the wire. Besides, new life, new outfit-of-sorts. Why not?
They trot.
The first destination turns out to be the Grand Gymkhana, because of course they're catching a train. (His friend is carrying the tickets.) And normally, Linchpin would love simply being in the building. He used to adore the lines of it. The construction, because it's been built from so many different parts. The materials for the Gymkhana were brought in from all over Equestria. This is the hub of the rail network, and so it's been made to represent a continent. Trottingham's white cliffs, Canterlot marble, Detrot steel and Drayton sandstone because somepony managed to remember that Drayton exists. It's all there and so much more, in a place which is designed to let ponies move -- while also giving them freedom to pause and reflect.
There's so many sculptures in the Gymkhana. Relief artworks. And when you're in the central rotunda, beneath the night sky dome with its captured stars and the full Barding Of The Ancients...
Ponies tend to stop and stare in the Gymkhana. A few of them nearly miss their trains, and a larger number get jolted back into movement because a commuter who was in something of a hurry didn't notice somepony had stopped.
But the two stallions pass through at speed, because the train is what's important.
They get on. The departure takes place on time, and the train begins to work its way down the switchbacks, descending the mountain. They're heading east, and Linchpin keeps wriggling on his bench. He doesn't know where they're going, there are so many ways in which he hasn't truly asked and he still wants to ask if they're there yet.
But when they reach the base of the mountain, with the rails pointing east -- when they're far out enough to have a view of more than rock, and his friend is ordering refreshments from the aisle cart -- that's when he looks back.
Back and up. A single moment at the last in which he seeks out familiar walls and buildings and a skyline which is now partially his.
Looking back one final time, to prove it doesn't matter. That he no longer cares about leaving it behind. And he doesn't.
It'll be better.
He has no true way of knowing that. But he has hope, and it serves. Hope and faith in his friend, who seems to have so many of the answers. Because the mark was described to him as forcing his life into a narrow canal and somehow, he's back in the ocean. He's sailing.
He wants to open a window. Let winter wind ripple his mane.
He's -- free.
It's joyous.
Maybe he'll even find love.
...he was expecting a decidedly longer ride.
Two settled zones to the east. That's where they get off. And his friend disembarks with a smile and a whistling song emerging from pursed lips. Linchpin follows, mostly in confusion.
"Foaledo?" he asks -- once they're clear of the station. Why here?
"Just for a little while," his friend quickly reassures him, glancing back from the lead. "We're meeting somepony." The smile widens. "Two, actually. They're coming with us."
The brief flash of jealousy almost sears him from within. This was supposed to be his journey, with his friend...
"Sorry," the big stallion adds, and the smile is decidedly sheepish: an expression which stands prepared to agree with anything said, because that's easier than a fight. Or, for that matter, thought. "About the surprise, I mean. But I always had to meet up here. And once I knew you were coming with... I was arranging this for the last few days. It's part of why I kept ducking out."
Checking for couriers, probably. "All right." Although he's not entirely sure about that, but... he's going to keep trusting.
"You'll like them," his friend offers reassurance -- and then the grin widens. "But you can't love both of them. Just one, tops."
It makes him snicker as he continues to follow, through narrow snow-dusted streets and buildings which are so very much smaller. "And why not? No miniherd marriages allowed in this town?" A thought he'd never truly entertained, because one mare would have been enough.
(If he'd just found one who would stay with him.)
(If he'd only been different enough to stay with.)
"I called dibs."
They don't stay in Foaledo, not for longer than it takes to officially cross it on hoof. The last street is left behind, the final homestead fades out some time after that, and then they're moving towards what has to be the settled zone's fringe. If they cross that border...
"I think I hear your knees knocking. All four. You've got a nice rhythm going."
"I'm a settled zone colt," Linchpin points out. "We're almost clear. And I didn't exactly pack a Hoovmat suit."
"Never been in the wild?"
"I got a ticket for the Everfree Experience once," Linchpin admits.
"That's the zeppelin ride, ain't it? How did it go?"
"I looked down at the wild zone for about three hours. It mostly looked like a bunch of trees. Two of them might have been growling." With the air of lingering irritation, "Then I got a drink, and it turned out access to the toilet trench came with a Slight Additional Charge. If we're going past the control point --"
"-- not here," his friend reassures him. "We're just meeting up. That'll be in the fringe. So calm your knees. And your tail, because it's still winter and you're not going to set any bug-whacking records. We'll be fine."
Linchpin doesn't glance back. He already knows the last house is well out of sight. And as for any road going back... there's no reason to take it.
Trust.
They trot on for a while longer. Climb a small hill, forcing their hooves to crunch through fresh snow. (He's starting to feel very grateful for the scarf, especially since the metal doesn't seem to be getting cold. However, it would have been nice if he'd been told to bring boots. His friend is wearing a jacket, and Linchpin doesn't even have that much.) Start to descend on the other side.
And there are two mares waiting in the valley.
He truly spots the pegasus first, and that's because pony vision is naturally drawn towards movement: her wings flare, put a flap at the apex of the high jump, and then she's flying towards them with joy in her eyes. It only takes a few seconds before she lands in front of his friend.
She's very tall, especially for a pegasus. Almost a match for the big stallion, although with a much lighter build -- for what he can see of it. The jacket covers a great deal of her torso, and goes back far enough to conceal the majority of the mark. It doesn't prevent him from seeing peach fur, a two-toned blonde mane and tail, attractive features, and a ready smile.
"About time!" the mare falsely complains, and does so through half a laugh. "Three minutes late, you! As if I wouldn't leave you behind!"
"He's got shorter legs, okay?" his friend jokes. "You've gotta remember that once in a while. That nearly everypony else has shorter legs. And some of us, me included, can't fly."
She merrily shrugs. Looks at Linchpin.
"So he's the special one?" she asks.
"Very," his friend confirms. "And yours?"
She glances back towards the other mare. The unicorn in the valley shivers, and a flicker of field wraps the scarf that much more tightly.
"She needs this," the pegasus quietly says. "So let's get started."
The big stallion simply nods. Linchpin just looks from one to the other, waiting...
"Oh, right," his friend quickly says. "Ain't like I told him about you." The grin widens. "In fact, I was pretty much making an effort not to bring you up. At all. Just in case it scared him off --"
"WELL!" declares a half-shout of mock offense, as wings flare and forehooves stomp into the snow. "And am I somepony who isn't worth mentioning? It's not like I hid you from her! Although maybe if I had, it would have taken half the time --"
"He just got out of a bad relationship," the big stallion hastens. "Ponies like that don't need to hear when somepony's happy."
She stops. Nods.
Linchpin takes a chill breath. The cold air burns all the way down.
"Let me guess," he offers. "Your spouse?"
"Yeah," starts off the quasi-apology. "Pretty much had to go for her, right? It's not like there's many mares I can nuzzle without neck strain. Or getting wind backblast from the pegasi." The voice of experience pauses, then adds "Jumpers are awkward, and a self-levitator just makes my snout tingle. Anyway --" and he focuses on the pegasus again "-- bad relationship. I had a reason. And you know what the cure is for one bad link."
The mare nods. "One good community. Are you ready?"
"Just about," he tells her. "Hey, partner?" Linchpin's ears shift forward. "Why don't you go say hello to hers while we prep? Helps on a trip if all of the friends can be friends."
...and as a special bonus, it gets him away from the happy couple...
Not that he resents his friend's joy in reunion. But it's just like avoiding Canterlot's couples nightlife after a breakup. He'd rather not see any nuzzling right now.
So he descends the hill, as low tones quietly talk behind his tail.
The shivering unicorn mare just barely qualifies for the second half of her description. She's an adult -- but that status hasn't applied for very long. A pink body with some rounding to the lines, and the puff of her mane almost covers the whole of the horn. Worried cerise eyes regard him all the way down.
She's rather pretty, actually. But... too young.
"Linchpin," he gently introduces himself, stopping two body lengths away to do so. The mare just looks that skittish. "Linchpin Keystone."
Silence glistens on the surface of untouched snow.
"...Sugar Belle," she finally says, and shivers a little more. It's a rather sweet voice, if an oddly-modulated one. Something about the sounds suggest the mare is trying to exert direct control over every syllable and not quite making it.
"Did she tell you I was coming?" Just to clear that up. The mare looks so nervous...
"She... said her husband was bringing a friend," the unicorn tells him. "And that I didn't have to worry about the mares being outnumbered. And... she'd look after me. She's..." Her head briefly tilts, to the left and back. Looking at the elaborate pastry on her hip. "...been looking after me. Ever since I left the bakery..."
The modulated tones are still nervous. The eyes, which have now refocused on him, are bright with hope.
"I'm a baker," she unnecessarily tells him. "...was. I was a baker. Now I'm..."
He waits. Listens.
"It's... something for fillies, isn't it?" she quietly asks. "If I can make something sweet, then they'll have to remember me. Or savory. I can do a lot with savory. And then I got a mark for baking, and..."
She looks at his hips.
"...maybe you don't understand," the unicorn decides. "She's the only one who --"
"Try me," he softly suggests. And waits again.
The unicorn looks him over again. Takes a slow breath.
"It's art," she tells him. "To me, that's what baking is. Art. Day after day, creating a gallery. The best of me. And nopony really looks at it. They don't care. It's something they can get on their way to work, and none of them really remember anything beyond the last bite. The icing is just another flavor, the colors have their teeth go straight through... even the ones who come back can't always tell me what they had yesterday. I made art every day, and... it was art for me. For them, it was five seconds and..." Her head dips. "...and a burp. Some of them don't clear the door before burping. A filly had a dream, and then she found out..."
Mane and tail seem to sag. The cerise eyes close.
"...that the adults didn't care. That she was just something in the background. A bakery stop on the way to work, where their hooves do more thinking by going inside than the brain. And that was going to be it. Forever. Nothing I did was really appreciated. It's not an art to anypony else, or even a talent. Nothing lasts --"
"-- it doesn't help to have it last," he tells her, and feels the heat of sincerity suffuse his fur.
She opens her eyes. Tilts her head slightly to the left, and waits.
"I've designed buildings," he tells her. "In Canterlot."
"It's more than I've done," she immediately counters, and a little flare of anger makes the right hoof stomp. "It's more than I'll ever do --"
"-- and nopony cares about the creation process," Linchpin softly cuts in. "They see a building. They go to work there, or live in it. But they don't look at the lines. Nopony thinks about the supports, or the materials. They can't see every decision I made, all the struggles and challenges which went into keeping them sheltered and safe. They don't see art. Or talent. As far as they're concerned... there was a construction site for a while, and then there was a building. They'll go into another one tomorrow."
She visibly thinks about that. The puffed-out tail sways.
"Do you get any credit?"
"There's a little plaque somewhere with my name on it. Usually near the boiler room." No matter what he did, it was usually near the boiler room. "Nopony reads it."
Slowly, the unicorn nods.
"I had a sign over the bakery," she says. "With my name on it. I don't think one pony in twenty could tell you what my name is."
"Sugar Belle," he instantly tells her, and she giggles.
(He has some doubts. Too young for him, but -- pretty. Many ponies would have remembered her for that alone. There's something else wrong in her life...)
His next words surprise him. "Maybe the important thing is just to do what you love."
"Maybe," she replies. "But I don't love baking. Not any more. And... that's still my mark. Forever." With a soft sigh, "Do you love designing buildings?"
A cold gust blows in from the border of the fringe. Both shiver.
"...not today," he tells her. "Maybe -- not for a long time."
"So what do you love now?"
That answer is immediate. "Doing something new with my friend."
(The big stallion has had so many friends.)
It makes her giggle. "Yeah. Me too. Did yours tell you where we're going? Because she said it was a surprise."
"Not yet," he admits. "I'm starting to wonder if we're leaving the nation --"
Two sets of hooves are crunching through the snow behind him. Descending the hill. He stops, turns to watch the couple approach.
"All set," his friend lets them know. "Let's get out of here." And Linchpin is a half-second away from asking about the where of it when the big stallion adds "The next part's gonna be a little weird."
Sugar shivers a little more. "The... wild zone? I've never --"
"No," the pegasus carefully reassures her. "We're not going any further into the snow. I promise."
"You," the big stallion tells Linchpin, "come next to me. Huddle up. And touch."
"Touch," Linchpin repeats. He has faith in his friend. The echo still feels odd.
"Get in contact somewhere, even if it's a back hoof," his friend clarifies. "It'll help."
An earth pony who has something beyond a hobby-level study in unicorn magic has a thought. Then he looks at the fur on his friend's smooth forehead, and immediately rejects it.
"Okay..." Maybe it's a trotting-in-rhythm exercise. Team building.
...maybe he's been recruited for some sort of really weird corporate retreat --
"The same," the pegasus tells the unicorn. "Touch me."
The couple is standing very close together. There's no room for two ponies to stand between them: what's left is just enough to nuzzle across. So the travelers wind up on the outer flanks. Linchpin touches a back hoof with one of his own. But the unicorn reaches her companion first, and...
...there's something about the way Sugar is standing. It's not subtle contact. The unicorn is huddling against the pegasus, like a foal seeking protection in her parent's shadow. Or... somepony trying to draw strength from their only friend in the world.
The big stallion looks down at Linchpin.
"Not gonna lie," he tells the smaller earth pony. "This next part? Is gonna suck. But you'll only have to do it once."
And before Linchpin can say anything, mare and stallion turn their heads. Lock eyes. Then their jaws move towards each other's saddlebags, extract thin golden rods.
The jewels flash --
-- and winter vanishes.
There are two trails of broken snow in the fringe, and four sets of hoofprints. The weather schedule, set for a refresher coating in Foaledo alone, will wipe out all evidence of their presence before dawn.
The ponies are gone.
It will be years before Linchpin comes back to the nation of his birth. And upon his return...
He comes home, in time. And on the most technical level, it could be said that once he does, he stays for the rest of his life.