Silver Eyes and Rainy Skies

by Roadie

8. 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 has discovered the consequences of an overworked horn... as I discovered when I found him in the bathroom just after dawn, curled up in the shower and crying, silently, under the hot water. I had planned to travel with him around the town today, if the weather held out, but his hornache was severe enough that he offered no objection to spending the morning together on a few layers of blankets with makeshift horn wraps and, after I made a very quick trip outside and back, hot chocolate.

He was, in keeping with what he's shown before, remarkably cooperative despite the pain. He certainly shows more composure than I ever did for such at that age. That's not to say there was no difference in his attitude. He handles the pain well, but it's still enough to break whatever that resistance is that keeps him from showing what he's feeling. I could see the shame in his face from being fussed over, though of course I didn't let that stop me. He also seemed... not weaker, but perhaps more acknowledging of being weak, as though the hornache had penetrated that certain sense of personal invulnerability he's shown so far.

There was something embarrassing, myself, about acting so much like a mother. My sister's foals are perfectly charming gentlecolts, whenever I have the chance to visit Cloudsdale, but there's always a certain awkwardness there. I suppose it's funny, in a bleak way—that the pony who spends all her time helping others get past their anxieties can't manage one of her own. We are lonely porcuipines when we're together, my sister and I, and if the young ones don't pick up on that I'll buy a hat and then eat it.

I am no spinster, I think, but I've spent so long a step and a half away from other ponies, removed enough to understand them in the way that you can't when you're too close, that it's my every reflex now. I can't as much as date without analyzing every flaw in the stallion across the table. When I was younger, and more foalish, and I couldn't see the way I do now, love came so easy. Meet a handsome stallion; let that blind rush of hormones carry you through; break it off, heart aching, when he's what you can't be. After Shorelight

After Shorelight

After

I will need to continue later. The colt wants my attention.

By noon the colt was feeling better. He still trembled on his hooves, and he let me balance him with one of my wings, but he was well enough to walk and not just lie on the floor. The colt doesn't have the best grip with his hooves to begin with, and he was then fumbling so badly that I needed to help him with eating lunch. He tried his magic, too, but the bright green of it kept wobbling up and down shades that left him cringing in pain. I envy unicorns the horn, sometimes—but not times like that.

In the afternoon my things came, fortunately without that yellow-maned mare being involved with the delivery. There was this particularly muscled white pegasus that caught my eye; he did half the work himself, and he was remarkably pleasant about it for a pony who looks like he lifts weights in his sleep. The colt stayed out of the way but for a few strategic suggestions as to placement. I sacrificed my bed to the room I've given over to him, for the time being—I can make do with a spare cloud.

With furniture in place and bags and crates stacked up and down the rooms, we went outside for the afternoon and evening. From the classifieds I found a craftspony who could repair the window and passed the contact information for the landowner on to her. And then—oh, I could almost feel my wings shaking when we finally found a proper Neighponese restaurant. The colt seemed as pleased about it as I was, and his magic and hooves had stabilized enough to—mostly—manage on his own.

We talked about his humans. There's something clever and frightening about them—the idea of a species driven to greater progress by near-constant minor and major wars. There are some points that stretch belief—managing a trip to the moon on a giant firecracker, without any magic at all?—but the... legendarium, I think would be the best word, on the whole has a distinct and almost obsessive integrity to it. I think writing it down might do him good, though he seemed surprised at the thought. It's real to him, of course, but I think he only just really started to understand then that it's not real for anypony else.

The conversation, and the talk of death and war that came with it, left me in a sort of cathartically dour mood. I spend so much time level-headed that I savor that kind of wicked feeling when I get the chance. The colt understood; he spent the walk back to the house regaling me with stories of nasty human wars and "heroes" who gained the title through manipulation instead of really earning it.

The evening after that was—awkward. I behaved in a manner that I am not at all proud of, though in retrospect I'm only mostly sure that I would have acted differently without that conversation with the colt to prime me. As a more private sort of pony than most, I take a certain comfort in delineating my space. The colt, perhaps, is an exception, but not quite of his own choice, and he's taken some care not to disrupt the tenuous trust that exists between us. He is calm, thoughtful, and more than a little puzzling in an interesting sort of way.

The pink mare I have written of before, on the other hoof, has done nothing to earn my trust or be more than a background nuisance. And

she

was

there

in my house

and she'd somehow crammed some dozens of townsponies into it, along with banners, streamers, balloons...

They shouted "surprise", I think.

The colt must have seen it in my face—the way that in a moment I would have launched into a tirade acerbic enough to send earth ponies flying out through the windows—because he looked at me, looked at the ponies inside, and then slammed the door shut.

"Just give me a minute," is what he said, and when the door was opened from the inside, he bounced inside and closed it again. I stuck my head in a fountain on the street to keep from screeching. There were noises from inside. I trusted the colt, or, rather, I trusted him to behave properly more than myself at the time. I could hear him shout "forever!", faintly, and then the red blur that the evening had become began to fade as he dragged me away from the fountain before I could quite begin drowning myself.

I kept my head towards the grass while they all shuffled out. "I'm sorry," one of them said. The colt told me later that her name was Twilight Sparkle. The name strikes a chord, though I don't know why. "I'm sorry," was what she said, and then: "Pinkie made it sound like it was all right, but I guess she... exaggerated. Your... son? is the first pony I've seen who's been able to talk her down so quickly."

"I'm not her son," the colt said, and, "I'm just a crazy hitchhiker who snuck in one day." Celestia help me, he had such a serious tone about it that I very nearly laughed my wings off. Twilight let out this nervous little laugh and apologized again. There was this other mare with a white coat that made me think of Canterlot unicorns. "You really must let us make this up to you," she said, and the colt shoved an errant sweet roll into my mouth when I opened it.

"You can take her to the spa sometime," he said. By the time I'd gotten a breath around the pastry I had, apparently, been firmly volunteered for a spa session in a few days. Where the colt got the idea for it I'll never know—but it did get those ponies out my mane before they could "help" more. That left the cleaning up. I will spare you the details, dear imaginary reader, save for the colt being far more helpful than any pony of his age has any right to be.

I must decamp once more. The colt's decided to help with the unpacking—I think he takes some pleasure with putting everything away in its proper place—and, by the sound of it, he's managed to get himself stuck under one of the boxes.

Comments

[Siras-chi]

I may have said this before, but I will say it again. This is one of the most interesting HiE fics that I have ever read

[serebryakov]

This... hitchhiker ... is so delightfully sane compared to the bulk of HiE I can only thank you for this story.

[Ellington]

Oh, you did NOT just call the Saturn V a firecracker, Miss Charm!

[Parametric Ponymorphism]

There's something clever and frightening about them—the idea of a species driven to greater progress by near-constant minor and major wars.

I was hoping this fic would avoid that trope. Whyyy? Wars accelerate some kinds of technological progress but calling them a primary driver of progress is just wrong. And warfare has been declining for some time.

[picklejuice]

2984744

Equestria has a military, a guard, and Rainbow dash is paranoid about spies.

Agreed, Equestria is well acquainted with wars.

Although one could possibly argue that the constant attack of epic magic monsters and dragons could be a substitute for war, and ponies are confused why ponies would attack each OTHER rather than circle the wagons to defend against the Nightmare Moons, Chrsali, Tireks, Smoozes, Sombras, Katarinas, Lavans, and Jewel Wizards of the world.

War is not foreign to equestria. Pony-on-pony war, though... I don't know...

[Tuong Lu Kim]

The colt's decided to help with the unpacking—I think he takes some pleasure with putting everything away in its proper place—and, by the sound of it, he's managed to get himself stuck under one of the boxes.

Snake? SNAKE?! SNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKEEEE!!!!!