Brimstone sat in his small room, alone. He wasn’t sure how he felt about being moved here, out and away from his mother’s quarters. He was growing up. He understood that. But he was hurt, and he missed her.
He felt a brief pang of guilt. This must be what his mother was also feeling, and had been feeling for quite some time. Over a year ago he had stopped sleeping in his mother’s bed with her, insisting that he was a big colt, and he wanted his own bed. He had seen tears that day.
He certainly had it now. His own room too.
He felt ashamed.
So much had changed so quickly.
He had friends now. Foals near his own age. Sure, there had been the lunar pegasi foals, most of them didn’t really want anything to do with Brimstone. They were militaristic and rough. Play was combat. Brimstone didn’t fit in with them. But had occasionally been allowed to watch. It wasn’t safe for him to be around regular foals. At least, it hadn’t been. He had control now. At least he hoped he did. No accidents for a very long time.
Some foals worried about the dark. Some worried about wetting the bed. Others worried about the many silly things that foals worried about.
Brimstone worried about killing other ponies, something that had drastically altered his mental state.
He thought about Hoodwink and Minerva. Their noses crinkled, and it was clear they had issues with the smell, but they had accepted him. They were his friends. His first real true friends, his own age, ponies he could try and relate to, even though relating to other ponies was hard, due to Brimstone’s unique mindset. They were sweet delicate fillies, kind, gentle, wonderful fillies and Brimstone felt happy to know them.
And then there was Ivy.
Brimstone felt a hot flush start in his stomach, and then it bloomed, rising up through his chest, his neck, and finally it boiled behind his face.
Ivy.
Brimstone didn’t know what to make of Ivy. The way she drooled. Her terrible teeth. Claws. Her tail. She was always sniffing him. Leaning in close, rubbing up against him, looking at him.
The heat rising from his cheeks was unbearable. He felt sweaty and kind of nauseous.
Ivy, who thought he smelled delicious. Ivy, who actually liked how he smelled. Ivy, who ignored his protests and snatched him into extra squeezy Ivy hugs that stole his breath away. She hugged everypony like that.
There was something about Ivy.
Brimstone didn’t know what it was, but it didn’t bode well. He felt confused and embarrassed about the whole thing really, and tried to dismiss it as Ivy being the first pony his own age to warmly embrace him with no reservations or a crinkled nose.
Brimstone sat and fumed. He had learned one thing from the lunar pegasi, and that was how to brood. Sure, he couldn’t get to high places, but he had picked up on their silent reflective state of meditation. It was something most ponies didn’t understand, Brimstone reflected. Ponies were highly social creatures and if there were two ponies in a room together, they were probably talking, chattering away loquaciously, as ponies were prone to do.
Not the lunar pegasi. They’d find a ledge and brood together, sitting in total silence, occasionally looking at one another, nopony saying a word. Nightfisher had brooded with him on several occasions, trying to teach him to pay attention to what the silence had to say to him. Hailstone had also brooded with him, at his mother’s request, and he had learned how to focus his mind during a state of discomfort, such as shivering violently while sitting next to the frigid mare that constantly radiated cold. Focusing the mind was important. He had to do it constantly. Or else the magic might slip out. Brooding had been what had saved him, he realised, sitting there in his cramped room. He owed the lunar pegasi some gratitude.
Hailstone and Brimstone had something in common. Hailstone had found friends, and that gave Brimstone hope. She was his special friend, due to their understanding of one another.
Brimstone wondered what his future held. For the first time in his life, he felt actual hope about his future. His depression was lifting. Ponies had to be part of a herd, or else they would get separation sickness, something Brimstone had struggled with for a long time. He wasn’t completely isolated, but he had felt isolated. And it pained him. His mother, Luna, knew what separation sickness felt like. She had endured it for a very, very long time. She had been endlessly patient with him when his mood plummeted and he felt lost and alone. She had nurtured him along. She had kept him going, dragging him along if need be, when he was stubborn and didn’t want to help himself. She was still struggling with it herself, the source of her mercurial moods and sudden shifts in personality. But she had loved him, somehow, inspite of all her pain, and he knew it.
And then he had refused to share her bed with her. He had probably sent her spiraling back into some sort of feelings of loneliness and isolation. He cringed, feeling terrible, wanting to crawl into his closet and die. He looked at the closet door and thought about the darkness swallowing him. He deserved no less.
Perhaps his aching backside was well deserved, he thought. The dull throbbing ache felt like a second heartbeat down there, just below his tail. Punishment due for his terrible and selfish mistake.
Suddenly, he didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to brood.
Hoodwink was in the tub.
Minerva was in her room with the door shut, probably sulking after being paddled by those perverse books. Fillies, Brimstone thought.
And Ivy was probably doing Ivy things. Hanging from a tree like a possum and thinking Ivy thoughts, things that only Ivy could think about, constructing new bits of Ivy logic.
Brimstone carefully pulled out a sheet of paper and took a pencil into his mouth. He stared at the paper, and, after several moments of careful consideration, began to write his mother a sincere letter of apology, asking her if he had hurt her feelings, and hoping that he could gain her forgiveness. He already knew that she would forgive him, but he wanted to express the idea that he wanted to earn her forgiveness. He wanted her to be proud of him, to say that he was a good and honourable colt.
It was something he needed.
It wasn’t long until he had a brief four page letter scratched out. He scowled, worried that the letter was too brief, possibly informal, maybe even cold and distant. That would never do, writing an insincere letter trying to apologise… No, this would never do. Brimstone felt a twinge of panic, imagining his mother reading a letter that was only four pages, only briefly mentioning what he had done wrong, the reasons why he had done it, and the feelings it had caused him. and the crushing regret that he was now feeling. Only four pages, written both front and back in his tiny but surprisingly detailed script.
Neurosis gripped him. Brimstone understood neurosis. It was his constant companion.
He quickly scrawled out a ten page postscript, both front and back, apologising for his inconsiderate and brief attempt at a letter, expressing his worry that she would be displeased, trying to reassure his mother that he wasn’t trying to hold her at leg’s length for moving him into his own room, that he still loved her dearly, he bore her no ill will, and his hopes that she wasn’t holding on to any lingering negative feelings over the issue.
After scratching everything out, Brimstone worried that he hadn’t been clear enough. Perhaps a re-read was in order, or maybe just throwing out the entire letter altogether and starting over.
Brimstone cursed his cowardice and carefully began to fold the letter, pressing down upon it with his hoof, getting perfectly folded creases. A sloppy letter would never do. Everything had to be just so. He folded each page carefully, and then carefully stacked everything together in order. He hoped that he didn’t slobber on anything too much, leaving a mess.
This is a bad idea, he thought. The letter was not his best effort, and only the best would do. Brimstone expected nothing less than perfection from himself.
He ignored himself.
He rose, backside still smarting, and prepared to leave his room. He would place the letter under his mother’s door and hope for the best.
After delivering the letter, perhaps he’d go knock on Minerva’s door and bother her. Hiding one’s self up in a room and obsessing over things was never a good idea.