Silver Eyes and Rainy Skies

by Roadie

13. From the private journals of Dr. H. D. Charm; written spring 1377.

From the private journals of Dr. H. D. Charm; written spring 1377.

The colt's not a bad cook, even if he has to sit on a chair to see everything properly. I don't think he'll be working in fine dining anytime soon, but he worked up this thick stew with an earthy vibrance and a spicy kick to it that nearly bowled me over. His draw to protein—meat, really—holds through, to judge by his complaints about the lack of shrimp or crayfish to use for cooking stock.

I had thought before that he might be the foal of poor parents, or country traditionalists, but the pieces don't go together. The only ponies I know of with such a taste for meat are griffic freeholders, fishers, and upper-class twits types with too much money and not enough sense. He doesn't fit the part of any of them, not in attitude or accent—he's too contemplative for a freeholder, too intellectual for a bog-strainer family, and too approaching of actual usefulness to be some noble's son.

He sings while he cooks, too. I don't know if the songs are an invention of his like the humans are, but they've got too much of the sheen of old habit for me to think so. (Note to self: find song with "rebel, rebel" in the chorus.) He normally picks and chooses so much of what he says and lets show in his face that the contrast is striking. It's not that he's repressed. There's something, I'm coming to think, almost meditative about it, beyond his years.

He's been having trouble sleeping. His home, he says, is in a city of hundreds of thousands, and with a room to himself he notices nothing with the windows open but the midnight silence of Ponyville. "I spent the last decade living around people all the time," is what he said. Hot chocolate helps, but he's begun to make a habit of waking in the night, wandering for a time, and finally falling asleep in that same nook against the stairs.

He's not the only one having trouble sleeping. Canterlot may not have that population, but it certainly has more ponies than Ponyville, and the three-dimensional maze of the city's busier districts is always full of noise and bustle. Ponyville's silence is deafening by comparison, even in the middle of the day. The rain helps—it's a fierce, shimmery rain when it comes off the Everfree Forest, enough to trick my ears into hearing the things behind it that aren't there at all, and enough for the colt too.

The dreams haven't stopped, when I do sleep, and I feel like I'm sleeping as much out of my bed as he is. Last night I was riding on the back of a huge metal bird that hummed like a steam engine as it caught thermal lifts. There was an ape of contemplative mood there with me, riding the bird, or perhaps piloting it. We were circling over a city carved out of seamless glass and steel. There was a rainbow—I don't remember what it looked like, but I know that it was beautiful, as is the way of dreams.

Work continues to be strange. Stranger. I had thought at first that a colt who thought himself a monkey would be the worst of it, and then, I had thought that a mare who thought herself a dog would be the worst of it, and now, with some realization, I am coming to understand that I will never find the worst of it. The worst, the very absolute worst, of Canterlot was the mare who was convinced she was actually Celestia in disguise—and Morning Star was always so sweetly apologetic about it I could never hold it against her. Ponyville has, in my humble estimation, been infected by some madness that must roll off the Everfree Forest in broad waves. Even the mayor has neuroses on her neuroses.

It's frightening interesting exciting, I hope that's the right word because they refuse to come to me. Morning was right. I love Canterlot, but the novelty of it's escaped me for a long time. I look at the sun in the morning, and I watch the Princess raising it from her balcony. Every morning there is a miracle, and the sun rises; every evening, there is a miracle, and the sun sets; every day, a day comes and goes, and my life sneaks by without me even noticing it's passed. Here, at least, I'm doing something worthwhile instead of reassuring too-rich ninnies about things they could handle themselves if they took five minutes to look at their own motivations. Thank you for the advice, Morning.

I dread this spa visit. Will something light on fire, I wonder? Perhaps I will be attacked by animate cucumber slices, or that mare with the wicked lack of coordination will decide to make a tornado in the sauna room.

Comments

[TheGreatSako]

What song was he singing? I can't think of any that goes "rebel, rebel".

[Roadie]

2693192

[Sorrowfulwinds]

This is quite an interesting story but it feels like its not going anywhere
I dont know maybe the lack of Human person thoughts from other HiE's is bothering me or something oh well

[Davidp1522]

2693500 I can't thank you enough, that was going to drive me nuts.

[Gildomar]

Was that a disguised Celestia trolling the shrink?