What is the perfect gift I can give my mom, Bori?
The question can't leave Feather's quivering muzzle, as well as the idea of organ and magic theft upstairs.
Time to shoot his shot to the Gift Giver, the spirit of All Gifts in the Present, presently smack-dab in her domain, the Grove. She's a doe, a female deer, so his muzzle locks up, his tongue-tied lest the secret operation unravels. He sets his words straight, gets his crazy companion to aim her heart-eyes and her lethal magic on poor him. Gifts and glittering red-green lights snake like vines across the stairs to the second floor, betraying no looming shadow from that back- and horn-stabbing unicorn.
Love, friendship, other sappy answers stride forth. The Elements would've said friendship (the best gifts are free of charge; he's willing to pay to get out of here). That's still a hard ask. He hasn't been home from Our Town for months or years, foalnapped by Starlight then strapped to anti-cutie mark propaganda—
"So, is that a gift request I hear?" asks the semi-divine deer.
He's not yet caught in the headlights. Keep the jig up, juggling and judging every word. How to tell her the sense of urgency without that witch Goldcap's knowing—"Uh, yes!" She ascended the stairs, led All Gifts in the Past, Aurora, to the slaughter with surplus in tow in the form of Alice, All Gifts in the Future. Steal their gift-seer powers, and she'll be halfway to alicornhood.
Two birds in one stone, Feather holds the third. Curse Goldcap and her silver tongue.
"Well, dear," nearly sings Bori, "what kind of gift brings you here?"
His seasonal frozen lake and Mom's sometimes silent apartment share the loneliness. The equal sign-shaped conclave snug in the mountains have radiated the warmth a million-strong city can't (that part-time party, part-time prison of dear Mother). Lively with her silver-going-golden girls, an army of them can't hold a candle to his Dad, wherever he'd gone.
The thin ice captures his attention again, fragility mixed with the terror of going down under. Oh, a union of opposites! Skating across the surface, graceful in moves, in twists and turns like the written words and letters painstakingly drafted, all for him to reply with the same old platitudes. Our Town called: another Hearth's Warming party on the way, with Double Diamond doubling down to etch art on the wintry slopes, where Feather can settle for the lovely croon of not-so-secret admirers—
"Feather Bangs?"
He is re-introduced to a unicorn whose mane appeared struck by his good looks and a thunderstorm. Her witch-hat cutie mark should've re-rang his alarm bells. Two seasons ago, three new dating partners camping out in the woods showed themselves as eager would-be dates; they swept away their chances when arguments evolved into hoof-icuffs and violent dustballs because he looked "too good." They were magicians, expert wizards, so they said. Supposedly, allegedly.
One was red, another was blue, leaving the golden and only one here with a name stuck on his tongue. Good thing he's been itching to write, teeth-gripping his trusty pencil. Still, she has to be answered. Superior, eviller stallions can turn mares into putty with the right words; his arsenal of pick-up lines fall flat like a deflated ball. "Oh, yeah, that's me."
Her eyes scan him, see through him like glass, about to break like thin ice. First impressions of her fighting kind (not the lover one) never go away. "I can't help but notice you seem a little troubled."
Already a nosy mare, too. Trapped in her line of sight, stallion-esque embarrassment rearing its ugly head to block him from just galloping away. He must address the simple question.
"Some Hearth's Warming blues, hmm, hunky colt? Besides, why are you out here in the freezing cold with nothing but a scarf?"
Paper and pencil are a way out, if a romantic one, segueing into his beautifully written lines were it not for how blank the pages are. "Penning some poetry by the pond!"
Her head leans in to discover the empty truth. "Nah, why are you really here? Looking sad, all on your lonesome. Close to Hearth's Warming, too. A gift on your mind, handsome?"
The heart flutters, crushed against the image of so-called friends scarring each other for his undivided time. Feather bravely ran from the scene to pen more sonnets on trees.
When the perfect gift for Mom is mentioned (he lets it spill, poor him—tongue as loose as a goose), a legend and a map she produces. "If you're feeling stuck, I know just the place! Some rumors here and there, a secret library… if it's all real, and I know they're all real, we'll have the Gift Givers ready to help you with the best gift for your mother!"
In it for the long haul.
Feather Bangs marched straight to the snowy door. Magic fizzles, crackles at the back of his head (that tension of do-or-die from behind).
To Mom, the perfect gift of his body on a unicorn-fried platter. Bury this stupid hunk of a son, should've just ran away and said love and friendship.
"I've been watching you, watched out for you ever since I set my eyes upon you." Her words dripped, twisted and turned like a knife, condemnation for being so blind. "All I ever thought about is how we would just be there together... forever! It's a long time, isn't it? You and me, alicorn princess and alicorn prince, but before that, we've got to capture time. What better than to start with the deer who're glued to it?"
How she's turned coat, turned the cutie mark on her coat into a warning sign.
But the gift, these miraculous deer—
Baseless rumors. Just say it's baseless rumors, he lambasts himself.
"Follow my plan or else."
Her muzzle contorts, distorts into a kindly, warm, candle-esque smile for the deer who should've seen the wicked coming.