Chapter 3.5:
The Chair
An air of unfulfillment sticks with you the entire journey home. The heavy bags are nothing you can’t handle, you did lug around heavy steel armor for a good number of years, but the sheer thought of being face to face with… him and not putting him in his place just rubs you the wrong way. Though you try consoling yourself with the thought that he fears you, it’s just not the same.
Cloudburst returns home a few minutes after you do. She inquires how you got her stuff home already and you respond with “Just did.” She gives you a subtle scowl and walks to her new room, where you put all her things. For a few minutes, you simply stare at the wall in your chair.
Honestly, it’s a surprise this chair doesn’t have a permanent butt groove. Nearly every moment, both waking and not, since you got home has been in this chair. Thinking, watching the fire, listening to the birds, watching the weather, all of these activities have kept you well occupied. It’s one of the few things you have left from your childhood.
It’s your father’s chair.
You always wondered why he would just sit and stare at the wall or look out the window. Why he would only move if supper was ready, or you wanted to play. Why he always seemed content about it. But you know now. The answer is clear as day.
He’s been thinking. Thinking about his experiences as a guard. Thinking about his place in life. Thinking about what he has, and how not to lose it. Thinking about your mother. Thinking about your uncle. Thinking about you.
And now you’re doing exactly the same thing.
He always seemed so deep in thought, your father. Always seemed like he could fall dead and not feel a thing. He wasn’t stoic by any means, in fact, he was quite easy going. But hours on end of him sitting in this chair always perplexed you. Once, you had bet Cloudburst you could sit with him during one of those long stays on the chair. If you did, she would have to play war with you whenever you wanted, and if you didn’t, you would have to read one of her stories.
Thus she got her Cutie Mark. You couldn’t do it.
You were amazed at how long that old stallion could sit and think. You sometimes wonder if he even knew you were there at all. You did, however, gain a new respect for him. Sitting with him for a couple hours got you thinking yourself. What would you be when you grew up? When is the sequel to that one movie coming out? Did that one filly like you back?
Back in reality, you cringe when you think of her.
Her name is… was Frostbite.
“Your queen brought you a present.”
“Guh… Wha…? What?! Frostbite?!”
“No! Not him, please!”
“Ah, so you ARE acquainted. Good. This’ll be all the more enjoyable.”
“I’ll have your head, you monster!!”
“Ha hah ha hah! I’d like to see you try, whelp!”
“…Frostbite…”
“Now, my little pony. Take this and do what I told you. Down his left cheek.”
“…I… I’m so sorry…”
“…Frostbite… Frostbite, what did she tell you to do?”
“P…Please… Forgive me… I love you…”
“Frostbite?!”
One would expect you to have an attack over this. These thoughts. These damned memories. But something about being in this chair, your father’s chair, YOUR chair… It keeps you calm enough. You don’t claw at your body or anything around you. You don’t hack up a lung at breathing’s expense. You don’t throw things. You don’t scream.
All you can find the strength to do is cry.