Poetry Night Realizations
I woke up exactly ninety minutes after I fell asleep just as confused about the hug as I had been before my nap. It made no sense to me why she'd hug me like that when she barely knew me. But it was five-thirty in the evening and it was time to head over to the little teashop she showed me. I was glad I remembered the location of it.
I took the exact thirty steps from my bed to the stairs and down to the common at a casual, comfortable walk. But when I got to the common, I was just a bit more careful. I slowly crept through the large open space, making sure I wouldn't accidentally ram into another table or something. When I finally got through, I sighed in relief that I had managed to remember the clear path through the room.
The streets were a lot more calm in the evening sun. I could hear merchants at the market a few blocks away calling out their closing specials. I cantered off to my destination, feeling far fewer hoofsteps than I had that morning. I turned where I smelled the bakery that Fluttershy had mentioned was Sugarcube Corner. Down the road I went, counting my steps as I went, remembering that the teashop would be on my right.
I heard her call my name as I approached the hole-in-the-wall teashop, though I could have easily not heard her should a talking pony have been just a few feet closer to me. I turned sharply towards her, smiling broadly and perking up a bit at her voice.
We stepped into The Teapot at three minutes and forty-one seconds before six. There were significantly more ponies inside this time, as I heard at least a dozen more voices than I had that morning. We sat down at a table roughly in the center of the shop, Fluttershy having ordered some tea before I arrived.
"Ladies and gentlecolts, my fellow poets," a low, somewhat gruff male voice greeted, "welcome. This week, we seem to have a guest. Tell me, young miss. Are you a poet as well?"
I remained silent until Fluttershy nudged me beneath the table. I responded, "Well, I do write poetry, but I am no true poet."
"Ah, so you are a poet," he self-assured. "Have you anything to share this evening?"
"No, sadly," I answered percussively.
"Well that's a shame, then. Now, who shall go first?"
The ponies in the shop pounded their hooves against the ground loudly, the shockwaves rippling through the ground to me like drops of rain in a puddle. Somepony off to my left was selected, and the one that had been asking me questions jumped from what I guessed to be a stage. The selected pony proceeded to jump up onto said stage and read off his poem.
The night proceeded with some excellent poetry of all kinds of styles, rhythms, rhyme schemes, and meters. Subject matter was entirely random, varying from war to nature to love to depression. Nothing appeared to be off limits, and no one censored their work, as they would in a Canterlot café. It was a refreshing change of pace for me, and I very much enjoyed every poem and the styles in which they were told.
"I summon Fluttershy to the stage," the most recent pony stated, stepping down.
She took a deep breath before standing up and stepping up onto the stage.
"Um... Hey everypony," she started, her nerves getting to her a little bit. I closed my eyes, taking one pair of eyes off her, hoping for it to help her in some way. "You all know who I am, so I'll just skip my introduction... I actually just wrote this an hour ago. I had been planning on something else... but I think this one is more appropriate for tonight. I wrote this one about my new friend, who happens to be our guest here tonight. So... Um... Without further ado... Colorblind..."
"Colorblind..." she started softly, almost whispering. "She's colorblind. Coffee black and egg white. But she doesn't rely on sight. No, she lives by feel. To her that's real. Tangible. But even so, she sees far more than I do. She can see the hidden hurt in your voice and help you when you're down. She can see the way your hooves hit the ground and precisely how the sound bounces off the walls, and can tell you exactly what the walls are made of, even though they could be painted some obscure color you've never seen before in all your life. I couldn't tell the difference if I tried to tear it down with a pickaxe.
So even though she can't see like you or me, don't you doubt that she can see."
The crowd erupted into their thunderous applause of hoofstomps, louder for her poem than anypony else's. I felt my own hooves join into the crowd, praising her skillfully crafted words. I couldn't comprehend why she'd write about me. I was nothing special. I was just a blind mare with a slight temper and an antisocial tendency. Why she described me with such praise was beyond me.
After picking another poet from the crowd, she returned to our table with a soft murmured 'thank you', sitting down quietly. "That was..." I gasped, searching for the proper word to describe my thoughts on her poem. I felt her turn away, most likely blushing a little bit. I took another sip of the subtle-flavored evening tea she'd ordered for us. "That was incredibly beautiful..."
I heard her murmur something under her breath that even I couldn't catch. I wanted to ask her what she'd said, but I had a feeling it would be best to not ask. I simply took another sip of tea and listened in on the remaining poetry.
The clock struck eight soon enough, which apparently signaled the end of the poetry for the night. The poets around us stood up and offered each other farewells and other pleasantries before heading off in their own directions. But we sat there for a few more minutes, finishing our tea in silence. It felt a bit strange to sit with her after hearing her poem that she wrote about me. It was like a butterfly had somehow gotten trapped in my ribcage and was flitting about trying to escape. I felt my cheeks warm up a little, a weak smile tugging at my lips. I'd never experienced such feelings, and I was curious as to what they meant.
We both finished our tea at the same time, placing our cups back on the tray they came on within a second of each other. We stood up and departed together.
As we walked together in the cool night air, I felt that warm fluttery feeling in my chest again. I walked a little closer, maybe an inch, to her than I did that morning. I found myself smiling just from the feel of her gentle hoofsteps through the ground. Things I hadn't paid much attention to when I first met her suddenly sprang to my mind. The sound of her voice, almost whispery, and how it made me feel warm and... happy. I almost forgot about my blindness when I listened to her voice.
We stopped in front of the library, our comfortable silence just waiting to be broken. I did the honors, "Thank you for a wonderful evening, Fluttershy."
"Oh, um, it was nothing," she whispered back. I felt her hoof paw at the ground nervously.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" I asked hopefully.
"Oh yes. I'd like that."
The silence returned like a boomerang, curling up between us like a cat for a very long nap. I scuffed at the ground anxiously myself, feeling my heartbeat quicken as though preparing to run from an unseen danger. She hugged me again, just as quick as before, but just a little tighter. In that second I relished the softness of her fur. Afterwards, she murmured a soft 'Good night.' and trotted off to her own home. It was only when I stepped back into the library for the night that I realized I didn't want her to let go.
"So how was your date?" the familiar voice of Spike jested.
"It wasn't a date," I retorted quickly. I felt a slight chill in my chest. "It was just tea with a friend."
"Rrrrriiiiiiigggghht... Sure thing, Twilight," his voice dripped with sarcasm. I rolled my eyes at him and trotted through the common, carefully weaving through the solid objects I knew were there. I climbed the stairs, counting each of the twenty two steps to my room in the loft. In eight more steps, I reached my bed and plopped back down on it.
My thoughts swarmed in my head like angry wasps. Every single neuron focused on thoughts of Fluttershy and the strong feelings she seemed to be evoking within me. I thought about her whispery soft voice and how I caught myself smiling whenever I heard it. I meditated on the two hugs she had given me, and how on the last one I didn't want her to let go. I felt something stronger than friendship at work.
--
I was back in the teashop, listening to her poem again, blushing profusely this time. I sensed we were alone. No one was around, not even the barista.
"That was incredibly beautiful," I heard myself say.
"That's because I wrote it about you," she replied boldly, touching my cheek with something unbelievably soft.
-
All was silent as I trotted along aimlessly. There was no sound of my hooves on the ground, so I figured I was in some sort of blank dreamscape. I turned at random, not caring where I was or where I was going. But then I heard her voice, faintly quiet as though far away. I took a moment to pinpoint its source, and immediately changed course. It teased me with its alluring softness, changing its location every time I thought I was close. I must have walked miles by the time I actually reached it.
"Write it out, Twilight," she breathed in my ear.
-
I was back in my chambers at Canterlot Palace, wearing my hard-prescription glasses but everything was still blurry and I was still colorblind. I had a rather large print book in front of me which was half in standard text, and half in Bridle. The more I tried to read the standard text, the more confused and frustrated I became. I ran my hoof along the not-quite-familiar dots that Bridle was, trying my best to remember which arrangement was which letter. But I was still failing to read the book. I screamed loudly into a nearby pillow, tears welling up in my slowly decaying eyes. Reading, the one thing I couldn't live without, was slowly becoming impossible to manage. And I hated it.
There was a knock at my door, followed by the sound of it opening. I heard my mentor softly call my name, but I didn't answer. I didn't want her to come in and see me breaking down like this. But she stepped in anyway.
"My dearest Twilight," she began solemnly, "what is the matter?"
"I can't read," I choked out, a few tears dropping from my cheeks. "My glasses aren't strong enough, and I still can't get the hang of Bridle..."
She did not respond immediately. No, she carefully digested my words and pain, trying to craft her response to be perfect. But there were no words to come. She did not say anything to comfort me because she knew that words could not help me, nor make me feel better about anything. Instead, she enveloped me in a tight, comforting, motherly hug, squeezing the tears from me. I openly wept in her arms, letting my pain and frustration leak out.
She softly spoke, "I once met a blind stallion. Glasses could not help him, nor the strongest of my magics. But he was wise beyond my years. He was able to immediately know how I was feeling at that time. He could see my very emotions. He came to my court to say one thing. Do you know what he said?"
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'I know not the gravity of the pain you must feel every morning.' At first I was confused, but then he turned to leave, so I asked him, 'How did you know?' What he told me next was one of the greatest wisdoms I've heard in millenniums."
"What did he say next?"
"He said, 'Sometimes, it takes blindness to help you see.' One day, Twilight, I believe you may see beyond what even I can."
--
I woke with a start, drawing a sharp intake of ice-cold air. My mane was drenched in a cold sweat, and the blankets I had been under were now in a damp, crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. I flicked my ears in every direction, hearing nothing but my heavy breathing and the painful pounding of my heart. There was nothing out of the ordinary from what I could tell, other than my bizarre dream. I immediately focused on a book that I had hidden under my bed, levitating it carefully to me. As soon as the worn-leather cover hit my lap, I levitated the quill from the desk I had found while everyone was out at the celebration, but didn't bother with the ink. I didn't write like normal ponies anymore.
I poked the paper with my quill, making a permanent indent in it that I'd forever be able feel. To those who watched me write, they'd think I was just stabbing the paper in frustration, but to those who actually knew Bridle, they'd know the instant they heard me take my quill to the page. I wrote in my language of touch, a single dot here, a pack of three in a vertical line there. It all made sense to me after twelve-going-on-thirteen years of using it. That was real now. Light was but a concept, but this... Touch, taste, smell, sound... Those were real.
When I finally finished, I shut the book without rereading my work. I already knew what I wrote, but kept wondering why I wrote it. The answer was as plain as day after my dream.
I want to be more than friends.