Not All Who Wander Are Lost

by RazedRainbow

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Scootaloo held her hooves to her face, letting the water trickle down her forehead and onto her burning nose. At some point in the past hour, it had sprung another leak—though the crimson flow was now more of a dribble around darkened clots. She listened to the water drip into the worn bucket, the sound echoing around the outhouse as if it were a cave. In spite of the smell—which was, admittedly, dulled by that ever-present copper scent filling her nose—there was something calming about the small shack around back of Sal's inn. Maybe it was the sound of the water, or the sense of isolation, or the simple fact that Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle couldn't pester her here.

Yeah, probably that last one.

Still, her friends were never far from her thoughts. She dried her face off on an oak leaf as she repeated the same question she had been asking herself for the past half-hour. How did they know I'd be here? Sure, she had told them... well, pretty much everything, but she hadn’t told them where she would be staying. She didn’t even know where she was staying; she’d literally floated up on its shore.

She had already asked Apple Bloom how they had known where she would be but hadn’t received a straight answer. Mostly, she just yelled 'What they hay were you thinkin'?' over and over and over again. Sweetie Belle hadn’t been much help either, wavering between hugs and happiness, and slaps and scolding.

Slapped me right in the schnoz, too. Scootaloo tenderly rubbed her nose, wincing at the memory. That could explain the bleeding. She groaned, tossed the leaf on the floor, and headed back to the tavern. No amount of solace could mask the outhouse’s rancid stench.

The tavern had closed up not long after Sal had shown Scootaloo to her room. Even from outside, she could hear the drunken protests as Sal had to literally kick pony after intoxicated pony out onto the street. Scootaloo tried her best to ignore the slurred calls of a unicorn who had stumbled around the corner and into a pile of trash bags. Veering around a patch of shattered glass, she opened the inn’s side entrance, kicking a bag of flour she had been using to prop the door open. The door slammed shut.

She snuck through a barren kitchen—though it was more of a pantry than a kitchen—and into the equally empty main room of the inn. The lanterns had been extinguished, but a few lit candles had been placed on the bar—probably for late-night-bathroom-breakers like herself. While the little light made walking straight into a pillar impossible, it didn’t make walking to her room any easier. Half-empty bottles, peanut shells, and broken pool cues littered the floor. Every lowering of her hoof tightened her chest. To her, it wasn’t a question of if she was going to step on something painful and/or gross, but a question of when. Her hoof landed in something sticky and she halted. She shuddered and, without looking at the gunk, wiped it off on a tablecloth—a surprising feature for such a bare-bones joint.

When was the last time they cleaned this place? None of the answers floating through her head calmed her stomach.

Aside from a mouse scurrying behind a planter that held a withered shrub when she crested the steps, the rest of the walk back to her room proved uneventful. The second-story halls were long, narrow, and dull. Scootaloo wished for pictures lining the walls—flowers, waterfalls, or portraits with moving eyes; she wasn’t going to be picky—or trophies of some sort or even some loud drunk, stumbling down the corridor and making a ruckus. That would at least distract her mind from her room, her two friends within it, and the inevitable barrage of questions, pleas and other forms of verbal assault.

As she neared her room, bits of a hushed conversation reached her ear. Though a garbled mess, the up-front tone in Apple Bloom’s voice, combined with defensive and weary tone of Sweetie Belle’s, told Scootaloo that the two were locked in yet another debate. She tried to sneak up to the door so she could hear the conversation better, but her hoof fell on a squeaky board. Apple Bloom turned, her face fully visible in the crack between the door and doorframe and glowered. Rolling her eyes, Scootaloo sighed and entered.

“Hiya, Scootaloo,” Sweetie Belle said, none of her usual pep lost despite the hour of night. “Feeling any better?”

“Yeah,” Scootaloo responded. “Nose is still a bit sore, but I think I’ll survive. No thanks to you.” She half-smiled as she trotted over to a small couch against the back wall and collapsed upon it. “Kidding, by the way. You’re cool.” The room had one single-bed, which Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle had already claimed—a tight fit, but they managed. Scootaloo had to resort to yet another rat-chewed resting place. Still, it felt safer than the previous night’s shelter. She turned over, facing away from her friends, counting sheep, desperately trying to fall asleep.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

“So, you gonna talk to us or just keep on ignorin’ us?” Apple Bloom’s accented voice was like cat claws on a chalkboard.

“I’m not ignoring you,” Scootaloo said, curling her forelegs a little tighter around her gut. The bedroom was very nippy, much like Apple Bloom’s attitude.

“Then why aren’t ya tal—”

“Because I’m tired, okay? I literally took a tree branch to the face, so cut me some slack.” Scootaloo sighed, burying her face in the couch arm. “Look, I’ll talk in the morning. Tell you anything you want. But, please, for the love of Celestia, let me go to sleep.”

“Fine.”

She could feel Apple Bloom’s glare boring into her back. The heavy weight of anger did not make for a good blanket.

Scootaloo’s eyes shot open. A blanket! That’s what I need. She still had one in her saddlebags but considering the number of bugs that had no doubt burrowed into it by now, not to mention the ungodly stench, she chose against using it a second straight night. She rolled over, risking eye contact with Apple Bloom.

“Hey! Any of you got an extra blanket? I’m freezing.” Scootaloo made sure her voice shook slightly. As if on cue, a breeze blew through the room, causing Sweetie Belle to shiver and wrap herself up tighter in the covers. Apple Bloom remained still, though a wince deceived her.

“Yeah,” Apple Bloom answered through chattering teeth, nodding over her withers. “There's a spare in the closet.”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow. “We’ve got a closet? No bathroom, but we’ve got a closet.”

Apple Bloom shrugged underneath her blanket. “Yeah.”

Scootaloo stared at the door for a few moments, unsure exactly why, before standing and crossing to it. The door was already cracked. She nudged it open. It was a small closet—no wider than a book and not much taller. Scootaloo noticed that two saddlebags lay on the floor. Guess they weren’t expecting to find me so soon. How did they find me anyway?

The blanket rested on the top shelf. Scootaloo pulled it down, sending several years’ worth of dust into the air in the form of a thick cloud. It poured into the room, inciting coughing fits from each of the fillies. Scootaloo attempted to gag out an apology as she walked back to the couch, head lowered and eyes watering. All that came out were more hacking coughs.

Flopping back down on the couch, Scootaloo curled into a ball, wrapping the blanket snug around her. The chill still stung, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. It would fade with time. For a second, she felt like she was floating through the skies, but it quickly ceased as the fingers of slumber curled around her and squeezed tight.

* * *

Ashen snow covered the graveyard of splintered trunks. Scootaloo tripped over the burnt-black bones as she made her way towards wherever.

“Where am I going?” she asked aloud. The words echoed through the trees. “Where am I going?” Scootaloo didn’t know if she had called again, or if it was simply the same call reverberating in her mind. She wasn’t even sure where she was, but that didn’t faze her for some reason. Neither did the stricken world around her. She simply kept moving, tripping over burnt-black limbs and ghost-white rocks and bone after bone after bone.

And all the while it was peaceful. It left a bad taste in her mouth and a chasm in her gut, yet she didn’t feel bad.

She inhaled deeply. Her lungs felt no fuller.

A shadow crept into her peripheral vision. She tried her best to ignore it. If she ignored it, it wouldn’t attack. Creatures in her dreams thrived off attention. They would only pounce if she looked in their direction—would only sink their fangs into her if her eyes shone with pure terror when they made contact. No, she wasn’t going to look. That was an invitation.

“Hmm... I’m dreaming,” she announced to open air. The revelation failed to spark anything. Not even desire to wake. This world was horrific, yes, but at least that was all it was. It was predictable. Here, she didn’t have to worry about somebody lifting her spirits only to stab her in the back. Here, the desolation was static. It was almost nice.

The shadow still lingered in the corner of her eye. She wondered what would happen if she stared it down—dared it to move first. She had only looked at it two times before, and both of those times had been an accident. And both of those times, the creature had lunged at her, had bitten her with the ferocity of a ravenous hound, but it had let up. It had never finished the job.

An old saying came to mind. “If you die in your dreams, you die in real life.” She wondered how true that statement was.

She turned her head and stared directly at the... thing.

It hung from a tree, its smoky tentacle wrapped around the lone branch. At the tentacle’s base were those eyes. Those yellow, spine-chilling eyes wide and emotionless. Two perfectly symmetrical orbs. The rest of its body—if it could be called a body—stretched out like normal: hundreds of finger-like tentacles jutting out for miles; slender torso, fading into wisps near the bottom. Yes, for the most part it was just like it always was.

For the most part.

At first, she thought it was just an optical illusion, but even after blinking a hundred times, they remained. Two, smaller yellow eyes, right where the creature’s stomach would be.

Scootaloo gasped. “No,” she whispered. “No.”

And then the sound poured forth. The sound of crying.

Scootaloo turned away.

And came face-to-face with a ferocious beast.

A roar pierced the air, drowning out her cries.

* * *

Scootaloo awoke to monsters, seizing her in a tight grip and holding her down, staring at her. She thrashed and wailed and swung her forelegs aimlessly, fighting back against the weight holding her down.

“Scootaloo! It’s all right! You’re fine. You’re fine.”

Each yell of protest tightened the grip, and she realized she was slowly suffocating. Against all odds, she calmed her breathing and held back the swings of her legs. Her vision cleared with each rapid beat of her heart as her ears popped and ached, a sudden and familiar flare of pain shooting up her nose. Had she managed to hit it again? Grunting between pants, she stopped moving and simply lay there. If the beasts wanted to get her, she’d be a free buffet. Her eyes ricocheted around the room. It was still the dead of night; she couldn’t have been asleep much more than an hour. Two hours, tops. Asleep. “Oh,” she sighed.

Whoever was holding her didn’t slacken their grip; they squeezed tighter. “It’s okay. It was just a dream.” Scootaloo recognized the voice as belonging to Sweetie Belle, the voice cracks giving her away. When she squinted, Scootaloo could make out her curly purple locks reflecting the moonlight.

This sight calmed Scootaloo, and her breathing slowed until it was but small, shaky gasps.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Sweetie Belle whispered, leaning in closer. Her breath tickled Scootaloo’s ear. Something about her tone made Scootaloo actually believe those words. Across the room, the mattress squeaked.

“She all right?” Apple Bloom called out. Her voice was low and weak; Scootaloo wasn’t even completely sure she had spoken until Sweetie Belle replied.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just having a bad dream.”

“Oh… she good now?”

Sweetie Belle sighed. Her grip tightened, pulling Scootaloo’s head deeper into her chest. After a long pause, she replied. “Yeah.”

“That’s good.” With that, Apple Bloom rolled over, covers rustling and springs creaking. Before long, loud snores filled the air. Sweetie Belle giggled. Scootaloo smiled a little herself.

“You okay?” Sweetie Belle asked after what must have been half an hour.

“Ye—” Scootaloo’s throat burned. The nightmare still weighed heavy, and she found her gaze darting around the room. She swallowed. “Yeah...”

“Think you can go back to sleep?”

“I... I’m not sure.”

“You want me to stay here?”

Scootaloo exhaled, long and deep. She didn’t want to keep Sweetie Belle up, but at the same time there was a feeling of safety in her grip. Comfort. After a long moment of silence, she replied: “Yeah.” She rolled over on her back, giving herself space to breathe.

She closed her eyes and began to count heartbeats. She reached four hundred sixteen before she lost track. The creaks and smells of the room still drifted assaulted her mind. Sleep, she figured, was too far away. It must have been close to dawn, anyway. While she had never been an earlier riser, she could learn.

Rising from the couch proved to be much more difficult than she originally thought. Sweetie Belle had fallen asleep with her forelegs still locked around Scootaloo’s withers, her foreleg lolled back over the armrest, mouth agape, a thin line of drool, barely visible in the dark, trailing down her chin. Though her consciousness had fled quickly and completely, her grip on Scootaloo hadn’t lessened at all, and even now the pegasus was finding it hard to breathe. She needed air. She needed to get out of that room.

With the speed of a sloth, she moved out of the embrace. Inch by inch, she lifted Sweetie Belle’s forelegs off of her withers, sliding downward with what grace she could muster in her weary state. A part of her begged to stay—bury the back of her head into Sweetie’s chest and embrace the warmth—but the embrace was only more weight on her chest, more snags for her gut to catch on. Sweetie stirred a little as Scootaloo’s head wriggled its way out of her grip. Scootaloo didn’t dare breathe until she was sure that she hadn’t woken. Maybe she had, and she’d pull Scootaloo close once more. She might even embrace it this time.

A snort and a sigh, and Sweetie drifted back off into slumber, mouth hanging agape once more. With a heavy heart, Scootaloo used her hind legs to pull her upper body over the couch’s other armrest, landing on the creaking floorboards as quietly as possible. Apple Bloom—or at least the covers that hid her—stirred, then fell still. Taking a deep breath, Scootaloo tiphoofed across the room and out the door, nudging it closed. No voices or gasps rang out as the door clicked shut; just more muffled snores.

She had made it out without being noticed. A solid victory. Yet, as she stood in front of the door, staring deeply into the grains of wood, listening to her friends, her legs trembled as much as ever.

* * *

The world, both inside and outside the inn, was suffocatingly bleak. A chill hung in the air, unwarmed by the lightless hearth in the corner. The ruckus of the previous night no longer reverberated through the room, and the debris that cluttered the floor mere hours ago had been swept up. Now all that was left were bare floors, bare tables, and an ever-growing silence. Scootaloo took a seat at one of the tables, glancing between the window and the bar top.

It was an overcast morning. Fog still filled the streets and the windows were coated in a layer of condensation so thin that Scootaloo could wipe it away with her hoof if she chose to. Her forelegs screamed in protest the moment she considered doing so. Maybe at another time, in another place, she’d draw a smiley face in the glass to pass the time, but here and now? The only two things she wanted was to keep moving and sleep. The latter, beckoning as it was, rested far away; the former made her lips tremble.

It’ll be dangerous for them. You’d be doing them good just to leave now. Though the thought ran clear through her mind, she found herself as paralyzed as ever, moving a hoof back and forth across the bar top. She’d wait until they rose. Maybe she’d go with them back home, maybe she’d run off once more. But they’d follow. They always followed.

Sighing, she opened her saddlebags. The blanket that had taken up a good chunk of its space had been left forgotten on the floor in the corner of room seventeen, free to stink up the already fetid inn as much as it pleased. That gave her room for more supplies. Glancing around the inn, she found no pony and plenty of goods. Behind the bar she could see multiple fruits and vegetables; the cabinets might have held bread; and then there was the kitchen, a trove of potential treasures locked away in the dusty pantries. Her ears flicked back and forth. Not a cough or shuffle to be heard. All she had to do was stand up, stuff her saddlebags, and march on toward Vanhoover. Someway, somehow.

But she wouldn’t. Running was her go-to move in most cases, but in this case, it wasn’t the coward’s way out. Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle would find her down here. Groaning, Scootaloo rubbed her temples. She was thinking in circles. There had to be something she could do. Something that made sense.

Absentmindedly, she pulled Daring Do out of the bags and set it on the table. For a moment, she sneered down at its cover. Going straight for the book. Was this the first symptom of ‘eggheadedness?’ Stars, she hoped not. The cool fibers of her demanded she toss it back in her bag. But there might be answers, she countered. For the moment, she was in control. She flipped the book open and tossed her Wonderbolts bookmark aside.

– – –

The quill tickled Daring’s nose as she tapped her chin. She eyed the book sitting alone on her desk before scribbling a note: ‘This is going to sound weird, but I’m going to send you a page. Tell me if it’s hard to see. ` The note, as well as an already-removed page from the red-jacketed tome, fell into the ashes simultaneously, a green streak of flame shooting up from the bowl. Daring only needed to wait a good ten seconds before the flames sparked up once more, a torn sheet of parchment floating down into her waiting wings.

‘I see a bunch of symbols, Dr. Do,’’ thee paper read. ‘Is that what I’m supposed to see? Definitely can’t make out any words.’

Daring smirked, running through responses in her head, ranging from long-winded to poetic to simple. The final option seemed the most appropriate. ‘Yeah. I was just curious.’ Setting that note ablaze as well, she leaned back in her folding chair, crossing her forelegs, rolling her eyes at the smoke drifting up from the tray. As she had expected, Pallah had just used the dragonfire ‘glare’ as an excuse to meet up with her. Figured. She made a mental note to not tell him when she was moving back to her father’s manor. That’d spare her a few days peace.

A shame he was actually good at his trade.

Frowning, Daring stared at the tray on the desk. Everything else was packed up. Come morning, she would be out of her university office, probably for good. Sleep beckoned her, yet she kept her eyes wide. The time difference between her and Cay had been messing with her sleep schedule, but… she’d take it. Those conversations were worth it.

And this was one she did not want to end. Daring sighed and scribbled out ‘Cay, you still there?’ As the embers faded, Daring found herself counting the seconds, holding her breath. Her wings trembled. At last, the flames shot forth.

‘I’m here, Dr. Do! I’m here! Just ran to the kitchen to grab something to eat.’

‘What are you eating?’ A few days ago, Daring would have slapped herself for asking such a simple question in such dire times. Especially, with the liquid dragonfire in the vial barely able to cover the bottom. Each letter was wasted bits, precious, yet now she leaned forward, forelegs crossed on the table, chin resting snuggly in the crook of the limbs. The crickets droned.

Fire flashed. ‘Just some noodles. Keeps me focused.’

The quill hesitated. Should she ask the question or not? Her gut said yes. ‘Shrimp or no?’ There were so many questions flowing through Daring’s mind about Cay’s ‘diet.’ When she had first mentioned that she was eating meat, Daring nearly vomited and moved on to the next candidate. But she had kept writing. Daring was thankful for that every moment.

As the plate remained dark, Daring pondered if she’d crossed a line. Then the spark came. ‘Not tonight. Makes me drowsy. So, I’ve been looking over some of those other pages you sent over…’ In the days since they had started communicating, the book rarely came up. When it did, Cay was the first to awaken the subject. While her expertise didn’t provide results as quickly as Pallah’s, at least she was a good talk. A good pony. Another flash of green and a scroll fell into Daring’s wings. Opening it, she found a series of photographs, sketches, and a scrawled note.

‘I’ve been looking through the sites around Flankorage, Dr. Do. Going off some of those things you said, I figure whatever you’re looking for is somewhere up north. Lots of griffon dig sites. I don’t see similar writing or architecture but… maybe you’ll see something I can’t.’

The pictures, as Daring expected, looked like a whole bunch of nothing. Interesting vases, similar enough symbols, but nothing concrete. Of course, they were nothing concrete; as much time as she’d put into finding the blasted Phoenix Pool, she still had no idea just what the thing was. She had a few images and symbols, and that was that. She buried her face in her forelegs. How she wished she hadn’t drunk all the whisky so quickly.

Dad, please. I could use another visit. A sign. Something!

The flames burst. A strip of paper fell on her nose. Blowing it off and letting in settle in her hooves, she found her wings hesitant. Was it him? Had her prayer been answered? She unfolded the paper, and…

‘Are those pictures good, Dr. Do? I can send some more if you need em.’

Daring sighed but smiled with a scoff. Of course, it wasn’t a sign from him. He was dead. He was gone. Sitting around beating her head about something she had such little knowledge of would only give her concussions. She kicked a box underneath the desk. It had already cost her enough. She twirled the quill in her feathers.

‘How about you send over a picture of yourself. I like putting faces to ponies I like.’

The next note came the moment the flames faded. ‘Oh no no no. Trust me, Dr. Do, I’m not a mare worth a face.’

‘No need to be shy amongst friends, Professor Cay.’

‘Sorry, Dr. Do, I meant no disrespect. I just prefer working behind the scenes, you know?’

Daring groaned. Humble: no better word described the young—or at least Daring assumed she was young, given her way of writing—researcher. While not a bad trait to carry, especially in this line of research, Daring found a part of her admitting that she wished she had Pallah’s instincts. Head on down to Canterlot, show her face, get to work. Research worked better in proximity, after all—

A crash rang out from the kitchen. An all too familiar clatter of pots, pans, and spilling water, all harmonized by a rush of four-letter words stormed the room. Scootaloo jumped, forelegs shooting outward and knocking the book off the bar with a clatter of its own. She hit the floor, legs tensed and teeth bared. She’d be ready for the beast this time.

Seconds ticked by like eternities, but there were no wails of torment or roars of Tartarus, just a steady stream of muttered curses. Her ears flicked. The voice was raspy and aged. A series of coughs rang out, followed by more clattering pans. It was only Sal. Scootaloo slackened, though she kept her eyes locked on the kitchen door.

The donkey entered the room tail first, dragging a large stew pot with his teeth. He caught her eye as the pot caught on the edge of the doorframe, the sight of the filly seeming to mute another string of curses. “Well, look who’s up,” he said, coughing and leaning on the pot. “Trouble sleepin’?”

Scootaloo climbed back onto the stool and shrugged, leaning on the counter. “Guess you could say that.” She shivered. Not enough to shake her chair, but enough for Sal to notice.

“Sorry ‘bout the heat. Or lack of it,” he muttered as he gave the cold hearth a kick, sending a cloud of ashes skyward. After a few seconds of stirring he dropped the spoon, looked up, and continued. “Damn chimney got knocked over in a storm last month. If I try to light a fire… phwomp!” He raised his forelegs in the air. “Whole place fills with smoke.” He paused, then added: “More smoke than usual. Only time I lit that thing since then—I think it was a week or two ago—the place filled up like a dragon’s den.” Laughing, Sal took the pot handle in his teeth and managed to push it up on the bar top.

A hint of light reflected off the pot, causing Scootaloo to flinch. Dawn was breaking, but with the cloud cover as thick as it was the sun’s rays didn’t make much difference—the glare vanished as soon as it had appeared. Sighing, Scootaloo looked out the window. It was still absolutely dreary, seemingly always a second away from pouring rain. Scootaloo both welcomed and abhorred it. It was a fitting atmosphere, but the worst kind of fitting. The kind that weighed down on her head, pushing her chin against the bar top as her wings slumped.

“What the maker?”

Ears perking, she shifted her gaze away from the window. Sal was nowhere to be seen, save for a tail flicking over the counter. He groaned as he pulled Daring Do up from the floor and tossed it on the counter. The book had fallen open on the floor, and Scootaloo’s bookmark was nowhere to be seen. Before she could speak up, the aged donkey pushed the book closed.

“Hey!” Scootaloo slammed a hoof down on the table. “You lost my page!”

Sal snorted. “Trust me, darlin’, ya ain’t missing much’a nothing.” His hoof hovered over the cover, close but each time it drifted closer, he pulled it back as though the tome was sending off electric sparks. “Surprised they still let this ol’ junk lay around. The series really—”

“—’went downhill after this?’” Scootaloo repeated, rolling her eyes as she pulled the book back over to her. Sal jerked back, his eyes widening for a split second. A flicker of fear. It was enough to send Scootaloo’s wings fluttering, but she swallowed it away. Just tricks of the light. Just a jumpy old donkey who needed to mind his own business. “Yeah, my dad said that already.”

“Then your father’s a smart stallion.” Sal moved reached under the counter, eyes never leaving the filly and book before her, and pulled out a large sack. He dumped its contents into the bowl before moving—grunting with each step—over to the fruits. As he cut into a banana, he cleared his throat and spoke again. “Half a brain. Still let a filly like you read a book like that.”

Fire raging up her throat, Scootaloo slammed her forehooves on the counter. “Hey! Don’t talk about Dad like that! He’s definitely a million billion times smarter than you!” She jumped down from the stool, stomping around the bar and scanning the sticky floor for her bookmark. The bar had seemed like a good place to get away from it all, but no, there appeared to be no means of avoiding jerks today.

The edge of the bookmark peeked out from beneath the counter. A hoof stopped her as she reached for it. Sal stared at her, stone-faced and hunched over. “Meant nothing by it, darlin’.” His voice was more weathered than earlier, the fire and smoke having faded away, leaving only an ashen grunt. “But you got a look in your eye. Book like this ain’t good for ya.”

Scootaloo jerked away. “Meaning?”

Sal turned back to the counter, scooped up the fruits, and tossed them in the pot. “Meanin’ ya have plenty of time to think this over.” He took a spoon in his teeth and began to stir the batch of oats and fruit. Somehow his voice remained clear when he spoke again. “Go back home with those friends of yours, darlin’. It’s better—”

The book nearly crashed to the floor once again as Scootaloo threw her forelegs skyward. “Woah! Woah!” she shouted. Then, in a much softer voice continued, “Dude, I don’t know either of those—”

The spoon clattered on the counter. “Don’t give me that manure,’” Sal said with a wave of his hoof. “That yella one with the bow was goin’ on and on ‘bout a pegasus with an orange coat, purple mane, and bad attitude. And darlin’, you fit all those to a tee. And then some.”

“Bad attitude? You’re the one who called my dad a frickin…” Scootaloo cut off her mutters and chewed on her lip, staring at her hooves. Darn. He had her there. Without another word of protest, she scooped up the bookmark and clambered up onto the stool. Rotating her neck in an attempt to crack away the curses flowing through her, she opened the book. Several of the pages had bent in its tumble; others now bore stains of dust, grime, and discolored splotches she didn’t even want to think about. Twilight was going to kill her. She stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she searched for the right page.

‘Daring Do took a glass of champagne…’ No, not far enough.

‘Cay’s eyes widened as the arrows—’ Woah, no, too far. Way too far. She shook her head and straightened out what bent pages she could find, running her hoof along their creases. It wasn’t enough. Ears flicking, she glanced around the bar top. A bag of flour rested nearby—just about the size of the book itself. Perfect. Without asking permission, she scooped up the bag, checked for any openings, slammed the book closed, and placed the bag atop it. She expected to hear a groan from Sal, or look up to find him glaring at her, or even just watch her book fly off the counter as he tossed it away. Instead, she caught the sound of chuckles. Low and faint—more coughs than anything—but the upward twitches of his stubbled lips said enough.

He shook his head, eyes shut tight, brow folded. As he laughed, the sound wavered, and his brows curled upwards. The air was free of smoke, yet Scootaloo’s lungs twisted into themselves once more. She glanced over her withers, expecting the shadowy corners to spring to life. They did feel off, but as the starting dragged from seconds to minutes, the darkened cabinets failed to take on any equine form. They were there, though. They were always there.

Something hit her hooves. She whipped her head around, eyes darting to a blurry circle in her hooves. It was warm. Swallowing and calming her flapping wings, her vision focused. A cup rested between her front hooves, jet black, steam dancing through the air. It held no smell, not even after she wiped her nose and gave it a few extra sniffs. She raised an eyebrow. “The hay’s this gunk?”

Sal smiled, gaps standing out at the corner of his mouth. “That ‘gunk’, miss, is an old recipe my grandma taught me when I was just a little tyke. Passed on for… who knows how many generations. It ain’t much, just a bunch of leaves and berries from the forest. Well, and a few other things.”

Scootaloo lowered the cup from her lips, throat burning. “Other things?” The urge to empty the cup upon the counter flowed to her hooves. Sal reached out and straightened the cup before a drop could spill.

“Just little bits of rock. Trust me, they do ‘lot more good than harm, darlin’.” Sal leaned forward on the counter, eyes still set on the book. “It’ll heat ya up. Like a cup of coffee or tea, but without the brewing or risk of burning your tongue off.” He paused and took a sip. “Go ahead, try some.”

With an uneasy smile she lifted the mug. Its lip was cold and rough despite the steam. Its contents weren’t much better. The liquid didn’t seem to have a flavor, and it ran down her tongue like a cascade of melting ice. The only word Scootaloo could think of to describe it was: ‘wet.’ Her face contorted as she swallowed the drink. She couldn’t feel any of the rocks bouncing down her throat, so at least that was good. All in all, it didn’t seem to do much of anything. Her mouth felt a little wetter, but that was that. She waited and waited and waited some more. Creeping up from the depths, there was... something. Her hooves felt a bit lighter, her coat felt a bit softer, her body felt warmer, and her mind felt calmer.

“Not bad stuff, huh?” Sal smiled, staring out the window as she held the cup aloft and let out a breath. Not bad at all. Not amazing, yet she found herself taking another sip. Then another. Her hooves, wings, mind: they all felt more alive somehow. She sniffed the cup, stuck an eye up to its opening as though squinting would reveal its secrets. There really was something magical about it. “Yeah. Not bad,” she said, clearing her throat.

Silence permeated the tavern as Scootaloo sipped on. Sal seemed to have retreated into the shadows themselves, leaning back against the counter, staring at her. Or through her—that’s certainly what it felt like. In the gray morning light, he almost looked like a different creature entirely. “So, you actually think you’re gonna do it, huh, darlin’?” The glasses rattled ever so slightly—deafening in the empty bar. “Think you’re gonna bring back the dead?”

The stool toppled backwards as Scootaloo shot into the air, wings fluttering, the cup spilling over onto the counter. She landed on spread hooves, eyes wide and locked onto Sal’s calm and aged ones. The sound of liquid dripping off the counter and onto the floor were hammer blows along her spine. She cleared her throat, chuckled, ran a hoof through her mane. Cool, Scootaloo. Play it cool. “Dude, I don’t know where you got that crazy idea from, but—”

Sal cut her off with a wave of his hoof. The dripping ceased, and the only sound left was the thundering of Scootaloo’s own heart. “I wasn’t born yesterday, darlin’.” He smiled and chuckled, but the laugh carried no mirth. It was more of a flat cough. “You wouldn’t be the first one. You won’t be the last.” He lifted his cup in his hoof, settling it near his mouth but not taking a drink. The smoke seemed to be drawn to him. “Rainbow Dash. That’s her name, ya?”

Scootaloo’s hooves trembled. The air in the tavern had somehow grown colder. She took a step back. “Yeah,” she stuttered. “That's her. That’s her name."

Sal nodded. Scootaloo caught sight of movement in the corner of her eye. Turning, she found only the same shadows of cabinets and coats as she had before. She blinked. Had there been coats there before? The donkey cleared his throat, reeling in her attention. “Seen that name many times. Hero of Equestria: bringer of the sun, performer of the Sonic Rainboom—in a daring rescue of a fellow hero, nonetheless.” The cabinet creaked beneath his elbow as he leaned against it, bottles shaking as he let out a breath—possibly a chuckle. One of the newspapers on the counter fluttered in an unfelt breeze. “As you can tell, I’m a bit of a news junkie, and her name is quite prominent.” His ears fell flat. “Lately, especially. Leaders in ruins, harmony lost, a friend of the people lost. A tragedy in every sense of the word. I’m sorry, darlin’.”

As her heart cracked and lungs twisted, Scootaloo rose a hoof and tried to hide the trembles behind a wave. “It’s alright. Barely knew her.”

Sal leaned forward, at last coming into the light. Yellow. His eyes now shone yellow. Scootaloo hadn’t paid them much mind, but… hadn’t they been brown? Probably just the lighting. “You’re a terrible liar, kid. Not the worst I’ve met, and not the worst asset to carry on this path, but a truth nonetheless.” Something pressed against Scootaloo’s forelegs. Sal gave them a pat. “I am sorry. Ain’t lyin’ there.’” He tapped the counter. “Also, ain’t lyin’ when I say you gotta think this through.”

Scootaloo leaned back, still shaking. “You said that already.”

“‘Cause it bears repeating.” He tapped the book cover. “This ‘Phoenix Pool’—” A rushing gasp of a cough cut him off. Raising a hoof to his mouth, he touched his lips, pulled his hoof back, and sighed. His chest rumbled with muted coughs as he spoke again. “Kid, that kinda magic ain’t somethin’ you want any part of.”

Scootaloo’s ears perked up. “Wait. You... you know about the Phoenix Pool?” she asked, a tremor of both excitement and hesitation creeping into her voice. She rose to her hooves, righted the stool, and scurried up.

Sal kept his head bowed for a long time. “Don’t call it by that name. That’s an Equestrian thing. Out where I was born they called it Lak, for example. Names is names, though. Reason why creatures even know it, why they crave it, is its promise. Danger, consequences. When you’re that brokenhearted, you’ll take anything.” He sighed and tapped his hoof on the table in a steady beat. “Ponies of all walks of life tryin’ to fix the unfixable. Shadows, how much blood has graced this cover?”

The air grew thick, seeming to sway around Scootaloo as she leaned against the countertop, hooves digging in to keep balance. “So, you know it” she asked. Waited. Sal frowned and nodded. Her throat clenched. “Is it... well, you know...”

“If it’s real?” Sal said, his voice a low rumble. He furrowed his brow and looked to the ceiling. “Can’t say. Heard about it enough, though. Questions, pleas, threats. Everybody spins tales about it, everybody seems to want to go chasin’ it, but the truth is I can’t say, kid’. From Canterlot to The Fang itself. Everybody’s got stories. Open this door, spill this blood, smash this log, toss in this rock, and so on and so forth. Story after story. Maybe there’s some truth. Maybe stories are all there is.”

Scootaloo frowned. “Alright…” The conversation had looped, and her eyelids had grown heavy. Sleep beckoned, yet every moment the weight seemed to press her eyes shut, a shadow twitched, pushing the weight away. Her gaze rested on the corners, the windows, more often than Sal.

“Of course, you can never be too sure.” Sal continued, “Everyone said the Nightmare Moon thing was just a story. An old mare’s tale drawn out of fantasy and lies. I believed it was just a story, too. I’ve seen some crazy stuff in my days—bad, good, and everything in between—but I think it’s only logical for us to doubt. Dark spirits behind the moon? Sounds like a bunch of hogwash, y’know?”

He sat back, his eyes locked on the door. “One night there was this stallion that stumbled into the inn, mane frazzled, coat matted, eyes wider than dinner plates. He was goin’ on and on about how ‘The Nightmare has risen!’ Now, I—most of the bar—just thought this old fool was... well, an old this stuff that sounded crazy. ‘The sun’s dead,’ he’d said. ‘The day has passed. Night reigns. T fool. Good for target practice and jeers. Go to any city and you’ve heard these kinds of apocalyptic ramblings more often than you’ve heard the wind. The end’s been nigh for generations, yet here we sit. Just a load of manure. Headlines had tossed the rumor around. Poor sod’d probably stumbled across one of ‘em conspiracy headlines and been driven mad. I kicked the coot out, told him to go home, cool off, and leave them fool stories to the back of his mind. Forget about what ain’t—can’t be—true.” Sal sighed and moved one of the newspapers on the countertop, gaze in a distant location—time—as he stared at the wrinkled parchment. “Damn hypocrite, I am.”

Scootaloo cocked an eyebrow. Sal continued on before she could speak up.

“‘Course when the mornin’ came... it wasn’t mornin’. See that clock over there?” Sal pointed over to the bar. Above a pyramid of vodka bottles was a large clock, both hands hovering over the 'VI.' The clock seemed like it should be in a mansion in Canterlot, not a tavern in a small village unworthy of a mark on a map. “A merchant friend gave me that many moons ago. Good friend. Good merchant. A bit stingy with his pricing, but his goods were always worth it. Anyway, he gave that to me after I’d escorted his wagon to a zebra village far to the south. Three month-long trip each way. That... that was quite a story. Not important right now.

“Fact is, there’s magic in that clock. Keeps it exactly on Canterlot Time. Always. And, on that day, the day that batty crone said the sun wasn’t gonna rise, the day Nightmare Moon was s’posed to drown the world in eternal night. Well, it was noon, and it was darker than the underside of a lump of coal. The old fool had been right all along. ‘Course, he was only ‘bout half right. The sun rose ‘bout four in the afternoon, but still. Right is right. The sun had, at least for a few hours, died. Then the newspaper reports started pourin’ in.” Sal lifted his hoof and dragged it through the open air, as if writing out the headlines. “‘The Nightmare Cometh!’ ‘Nightmare Moon Rises!’ You live and you learn, and kid you’ll be amazed what’s not impossible.” His hoof found the cover of Daring Do once again. Minutes passed with the ticking of the clock. The sun weaved in and out of the clouds, bathing the tavern in blinding light and suffocating dark. Wrinkles seemed to form and fade with his uneasy breaths. “Even this.”

For a few minutes, Scootaloo sat in silence, pondering what had been said. She wanted to speak up, but the words caught in her throat. When words failed, she resorted to frowning.

“But possibility is just a part of these schemes, ain’t it? Bringing’ back the dead: how often you hear of that workin’ out well?” Sal said. “Even in a filly’s fairytale books, it never ends on a happy note. Always a cost, always consequences that turn everything on its head.” Coughing, he reached over and scooped up Scootaloo’s mug. He wiped it with a rag, eyes locked on the filly. “Is it worth it, kid?”

Scootaloo nodded. “It is. It will be.”

Sal sighed and placed the steaming mug back onto the table. Dark liquid lapped against its lip. “You sure? You know this how?”

Scootaloo frowned. “Because Rainbow Dash is worth it.”

“And why is Rainbow Dash worth it?” Before Scootaloo could answer a hoof from behind stopped her, pressed against her withers. She jumped, gaze shooting to her side. Sal’s hoof rested there, comforting yet cold. She frowned, moved her wings. Yeah, she could feel it, yet… there was something else. A weight floating beneath the surface. “I gotta go outside and heat up breakfast. Ya drink up and think this through. Is she worth it?”

Pushing his hoof away, she growled, “What the hay kind of question is that?”

Sal’s gaze remained steady as he scooped the pot onto his back. “Is she worth it?” With nary a grunt or misstep, he cantered out of the tavern. Chills shot up and down Scootaloo’s spine. The mug shook in her hooves, yet not a drop fell onto the countertop. Closing her eyes, the liquid met her lips, and swept her away.

___

Flower petals bobbed in the wakes. A few clung to Scootaloo’s hoof, but she quickly brushed them away. They had little weight and could be snapped in half by a gust of wind, but at that moment they were the coarsest thing.

The pond had become her haven. Larger ponds lay around Ponyville, most of them deeper, many of them bluer, but this one was the only one that was hers. Nopony—nothing—could take it away from her. During the day, it was like a little slice of paradise. During the night, it was cold and empty. The perfect setting for another sleepless night.

She had been going to the pond for a while now—twelve straight nights, to be exact. So long as the walls threatened to crush her and the covers gripped her throat, she’d remain spending her nights among the bullfrogs and fireflies. She’d wake up, go to school, go home, and lock herself in her room. Once Mom stopped yelling and Dad started caring, she would sneak out of the house and into the heart of the Everfree. Most of her friends still feared the Everfree. That was good. More for her. What kind of pony was scared of a bunch of plants, anyway?

It was a nice place. A quiet place. No thundering, slurred diatribes aimed at ghosts. No painted-on smiles. No sympathetic pats on the shoulder from ponies she had never even seen before. It was just her and her thoughts, and tonight she had plenty of company.

Cold droplets splashed across her face as she slapped the surface once more. She’d tried to occupy her mind with anything—the syncopation of a cricket’s chirp, the number of birds still awake and active at this hour, the number of petals in the pond—but the screams always crept along in the background. Now, she was counting how many ripples a single slap of her hoof would produce. The number varied, falling between one and one hundred. Blurring together. In the moonlight, they almost formed the outline of a house. She sighed and slammed her hoof into the water, washing it all away.

Something in her said that she should just go back home, make sure everything was okay, but she ignored it. She couldn’t go back. She wouldn’t. Not yet. Maybe never.

The stars were out in full tonight, twinkling and shining and taunting.

She groaned and rested her chin on her sopping forelegs. There wasn’t much else to do—there was never anything to do—but she kept coming back. She could ask herself why she went a dozen times over, but never received an answer. It was automatic. Natural. She had her theories. There was a serenity to it, a calmness. Or maybe her hooves carried her here because it reminded her of a better time.

Or maybe it was because of who it reminded her of.

Snapping branches roused her, and she jumped to her hooves, searching for a place to hide. That could be dad. She jumped into some nearby bushes and crouched down, her shaking body rustling the leaves and giving away her position. If he finds me out here, I am soooo screwed.

The steps grew closer. Scootaloo held her breath, occasionally peeking out through a gap in the twigs. A silhouette became apparent, walking down the path in a slow but steady gait. Scootaloo noticed a pair of wings flair out and she relaxed. It wasn’t her father. However, that solace was short lived, ending with a whimper when Scootaloo noticed the pegasus’ figure. It had all the trademark curves of a mare.

Mom? Every fiber of her being fought against her wings. A flap brushing against a branch would give her away. That could end in a hug or end in death. Neither seemed good at the moment. She bit her lip and held her breath.

The figure stepped forward out of the tree line. Her body glowed in the moonlight, the beams reflecting off her mane and brightening the area to the point where Scootaloo had to shield her eyes from its multi-colored glow. As her vision cleared, the heavy weight lifted off Scootaloo’s chest ever so slightly as her throat still threatened to close.

Before her stood Rainbow Dash, as awesome as ever. Even in the middle of night—when her normally colorful mane should have been dull as a rock—she was the archetype of dashing coolness, awesomeness, and radicalness. Rainbow trotted over to the side of the pond, dipped her hooves in, and splashed some water on her face. Even from a distance Scootaloo could hear her panting, grunting. Heavy and rough. Dash must have just finished a late-night training run; she practiced all the time nowadays. Not that she needs to practice.

After splashing her face a couple of more times, sputtering between heavy breaths, Rainbow lowered herself to the ground. She lay in the moonlight, glancing at the water, then the sky, then the trees in a seemingly systematic pattern. Water, sky, trees. Water, sky, trees. Scootaloo felt the boredom coursing through her veins. Her legs grew heavy and she felt herself losing balance. Desperate to keep from falling, Scootaloo started to flutter her wings.

Instead of keeping her from falling forward, her wings propelled her forward. She crashed through the bushes, landing face-down on the chilly earth. Never before had she desired to be invisible more than at that moment, lying on her face, her wings still fluttering fecklessly against nothing. Almost as soon as she landed did the sound of raspy cackles enter her ears. Scootaloo’s wings seized up and she immediately curled up into the smallest form she could muster. A wave of heat rushed across her face.

Suddenly, she felt a hoof reach under her chest and lift her up. Even in the dark she could see Rainbow’s vibrant eyes. Energetic and beautiful.

“You alright, squirt?” she asked, some repressed chuckles sneaking out with the words. “That was a wicked landing.”

Scootaloo kept her eyes on the ground. “Yeah... yeah, I’m good.”

The chuckles stopped as Rainbow tilted her head, eyes narrowed. “What are you doing out here anyway? It’s, like, two in the morning.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Scootaloo muttered, shrugging her shoulders. It only made the weight press down on her back harder.

“Uh huh.” Dash looked into the woods behind Scootaloo, narrowing her eyes. Scootaloo turned around, trying to catch a glimpse of what Rainbow saw. She saw the faintest glimpse of a distant light, and soon she realized what it was. She had forgotten to turn the lights out when she had snuck out. Mom was probably beating down at that very moment.

Rainbow sighed. A hoof pressed against Scootaloo’s withers, inciting a flinch from the filly. “Can’t sleep, huh?”

Scootaloo shivered. The screams still echoed in the back of her mind. “Nope.”

A sigh. “You’re not alone in that boat, Scoots.”

“You?” Scootaloo scoffed. “Rainbow Dash—Equestria’s greatest napper—can’t sleep?”

“Heh, when you put it that way, it does sound pretty crazy...” Dash trailed off, moving over to a nearby stump. She sat down and patted the space beside her, inviting Scootaloo to join her. Scootaloo obliged.

“Anyway, what’s up?” she asked.

Scootaloo sighed. She could tell where this was going. It would start with her telling Rainbow that she was feeling down. Then, Rainbow—even though she knew exactly why Scootaloo was feeling that way—would ask what was wrong. The conversation would drift, skirting around the answer, before Scootaloo would finally break and admit to the truth that they all knew: it was her mother. It was always her damn mother. And then all the consoling and sympathy would spew forth once more. She hated that. To make matters worse, she thought that if there was anypony who would avoid such things, it was Rainbow Dash. But it looked as though even the brash and radical weren’t immune to pathetic attempts at therapy.

Instead, Scootaloo just shrugged. Maybe that would push the conversation away from where it was ultimately heading.

“Ah,” Dash said under her breath, looking off into the distance. Scootaloo averted her gaze. Her brain pounded against her eyelids. Maybe home would be better. Suddenly, something warm draped over her back. She looked up and saw Rainbow Dash’s wing, stretched out and wrapped around her. In the light of the moon and the lake, she almost looked like Mom. Invisible tendrils wrapped themselves around Scootaloo’s heart, squeezing tight, trying to push the sobs up from her gut, but she held fast. She couldn’t cry. Not in front of Rainbow Dash.

“I know it sounds crazy coming from me, but I love places like this,” Dash said. “They’re calming. Normally, I hate all this quiet and calm crap, but... heh. What can I say? It’s pretty cool.”

Her feathers flicked against Scootaloo’s side, then tightened, pushing into her fur. “First time I came here was right before the Young Fliers Competition... shoot how many years ago was it, now? Two? Don’t tell me we’re at three!” Rainbow laughed, but only silence echoed. She snorted, flicking her mane out of her eyes. “Whatever. Anywho, I was doing some late-night flying, nervous about the competition and all that. Yeah, I get nervous. Don’t tell anypony.” Scootaloo pressed her head closer to Dash’s chest. Rainbow held her closer. “I actually crashed into this place. That tree right over there.” She pointed to an oak on the other side of the pond with a noticeable dent in its trunk. “Probably concussed me a little. Everything was a blur. Like lightning strikes in my skull, y’know?”

Scootaloo didn’t. She probably never would. There was a lengthy pause before Rainbow finally continued. “Anyway, it didn’t calm my nerves. I was still a wreck the next day, but still, I always make sure I come here when I’m nervous about something. Seems to at least make me feel better.” She shrugged. “If nothing else, it’s a tradition—a good luck charm—and, hey, it ain’t let me down yet.”

Silence became the night’s song once more. Scootaloo dug her hooves into the dirt. “What are you nervous about now?” she asked

Rainbow chuckled and ran a hoof along the back of her neck. “Oh, nothing you’d like to hear about, squirt.” Flakes drifted by Scootaloo, barely in the dark. What little moonlight graced them shone blue and purple and maybe a little pink before they vanished among the shadowed dirt. “Trust me. Some things are best kept close to one’s chest” Her hoof fell on Scootaloo’s shoulder. The dimness did nothing to cool her eyes’ vibrant rose. “And some things are better to let out.”

Scootaloo sighed again. She had been doing a lot of that lately. “I guess...” She didn’t know what compelled her to speak—she would have preferred silence—but she did. “I... I guess I’m feeling a bit... not good.” Her tongue went dry as her eyes brimmed.

The wing over her back tightened.

“I just,” Scootaloo continued, voice shaking, “I miss her, you know?” She could feel her throat closing around the words, but they poured forth. “I mean, it’s frickin’ stupid. She’s here. I can touch her, talk to her, but… it’s not really her.” The tears began to fall. She feebly wiped at them a few times, hoping Rainbow didn’t see them in the dark, before just letting them cascade down her quivering cheeks. “It’s stupid. Just… a stupid filly.” Her mother’s voice echoed that final crack. She burst into sobs.

Rainbow’s wing wrapped tighter and tighter until she was completely enswathed with blue feathers. They smelled like spring rain. Even as she wept and sniffled like the fool child she was, Scootaloo couldn’t help but feel like she could fall asleep in them.

The screams faded. The only sounds were the crickets, her rasping breath, and a gentle ‘shh’ being whispered in her ear.

She could sleep like this. And so she did.

***

Scootaloo awoke to blinding sunlight and a weight against her side. At some point, Rainbow Dash had fallen asleep. Gentle snoring filled the morning air, drowning out the songs of the waking birds.

Every fiber of her being told her not to move. She didn’t want to rouse Rainbow Dash. The moment was perfect. She sighed. For once it was a good sigh.

But nothing lasts forever.

Rainbow stirred, wings loosening and eyes fluttering open as she let out a heavy snort. “No, Pinkie. Not the sprinkles,” she mumbled, drawing a tiny giggle from Scootaloo.

This sudden movement caused Rainbow to shoot up into the air, knocking Scootaloo flat on her back. A few dozen meters into the air, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. From her position, Scootaloo got a perfect view of Dash’s sheepish grin as she lowered herself back to the ground. “Heh, heh. Sorry, squirt,” she said. “Thought you were... eh, it’s not important.”

Scootaloo rose back onto her hooves, shaking out the cricks in her joints. Her breath tasted of morning and her eyes were bloodshot, yet how long had it been since she’d slept this well? Months at least. “It’s cool.” She ran a hoof over her mane and looked in the direction of her house. The screams came back, but only faintly. Hopefully they’d stay that way. Her wings fluttered. “I guess I'd better get back.”

“Yeah, guess so.” Rainbow glanced at the sky. “I’ve got some clouds to clear, anyway. You need a lift?”

Scootaloo stretched out her legs. “Nah, I should be good.”

Rainbow’s wings flared to her side as she lowered herself into a crouch. “Cool. Sorry to dash off, but Mayor Mare’ll have my hide if I don’t get the farmlands cleared by noon.” With that, she rocketed off into the sky, sending Scootaloo spinning.

Digging her hooves into the ground, Scootaloo ground to a halt, nearly falling flat on her face. The world spun and swayed around her, but she managed to steady her tongue just long enough to yell out, “Hey, Rainbow Dash!” She raised a hoof and stumbled. “Wait!”

Dash lowered herself to the ground once more, hooves on her hips and a peeved look on her face. “My butt’s on the line here, Scoots. What is it?”

Scootaloo’s wings twitched at her sides. “I just wanted to say… thanks. I needed to...” She pawed at the ground. “Hard to say. You know, I needed to get that off my chest, and all... I’ve really had nobody... there for me to talk to...” Scootaloo trailed off. “Like… really talk to, I guess.” She hit one foreleg with the other and ground her teeth. Stop being so awkward!

Rainbow Dash smiled and waved a hoof in the air. “It was nothing, Scoots.” She leaned down and patted her on the withers with one forehoof, the other lifting Scootaloo’s chin so they were looking directly into each other’s eyes. “Look, if you ever need anypony, I’m here. Just find me. Flick your bedroom lantern on a couple times and I’ll be over before you can say ‘Rainbow Dash.’ Okay?”

Scootaloo grinned, barely able to hold her excitement. “Okay!” she squeaked. A smirk tugged at her lips. “Rainbow Dash.”

The speedster rolled her eyes as she hovered into the air again. “Don’t cry wolf, squirt” She rotated her neck, sending a series of pops ringing through the clearing. “All right. See you around, Scoots!” And with that, she was off.

Scootaloo stared, her mouth hanging open as Rainbow Dash soared off through the sky, looping and twisting until she disappeared behind the tree branches. She sighed for what felt like the millionth time in a few hours, but once again it was a happy sigh. The screams were gone. Only the distant sound of a Sonic Rainboom graced her ears. Humming a tune, she turned and trotted back to her house, an extra skip in her step.

* * *

The ringing of a bell and loud grunt pulled Scootaloo back into the present. “Little help here, kid?” The donkey had returned, now-steaming pot of porridge stuck against the lip of the door. She jumped down from the stool and hurried over wings abuzz. Skidding to a stop and tilting her head, she kicked a hoof against the floor.

“I can’t fly over it,” she groaned, kicking a little harder. “But if you bend down, maybe I could climb—”

“No time. Get the door.” The donkey’s voice rang surprisingly clear around the handle. Scootaloo obliged, pulling the door open. With a grunt, Sal hoisted the pot over the lip and dragged it over to the center of the dining area. He fell back in a seat while Scootaloo walked forward. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the screams had come back. A shadow stirred in the corner.

“So...” Sal’s voice roused Scootaloo from her thoughts. He took a deep breath. “Is she worth it?” He fell into a fit of coughs, raising a hoof when Scootaloo took a step towards him. Grunting, he raised a napkin to his mouth. When he lowered it, it was stained red. “Is Rainbow Dash worth it?”

“Yes.” Scootaloo trailed off with a look to the side. The shadows twisted and twitched. “She’s worth it.” The screams beat against her brain, causing her to wince. “Because she deserves better. She gave her all for everyone. Someone’s gotta pay that back.”

Stupid filly. The shadows inched forward.

Scootaloo bit down on the inside of her cheek and looked Sal dead in the eyes. “That a good enough answer for you?” she said with a scowl.

Sal simply nodded back. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, took a drag, and blew out a long, curvy trail of smoke. “Suppose. Nothing anybody’s gonna say gonna change ya mind anyhow. Am I right?” He coughed again.

“No,” Scootaloo said. She glanced to the stairs. The shadows gathered on each step. “I know my friends came here to take me back. I don’t know how they found me, but they did. And now they’re gonna take me back.”

Sal nodded once again. “Yep. Those friends of yours won’t stop ‘til you’re all back in Ponyville...” He drifted off and blew out another ring of smoke. It was darker. Blacker. “‘Course, you’re marked.” He pointed a hoof at Scootaloo’s chest.

Scootaloo looked down. The goggles—Rainbow’s goggles—rested around her neck. At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A cloud passed over the window, dimming the light. If she squinted and tilted her head just right she could see it. A rainbow, hanging in the corner of the lens—like a reflection. A trick of the light? She swayed the goggles back and forth, but the rainbow remained firmly in its spot in the upper corner, even when she flipped them around to face her.

“You’re right, kid. She is worth it.” Sal blew another smoke ring. “If your friends think they’ll bring you back to that Ponyville, they’ll have to drag ya. Kickin’ and screamin.” He took one last drag before stomping the cigarette out on the floorboards. “My money’s on you. You’re a strong one.”

Scootaloo shrugged, eyes still set on the goggles. “I doubt that. Apple Bloom’s legs are definitely stronger than mine.”

“While that may be, I can tell you that you have got something she ain’t got, kid?”

Scootaloo leaned forward. A draft went through the room, sending a chill through her limbs. “What’s that?” she asked.

He leaned his chair onto its two back legs, propping his hind hooves up on the table while cradling his neck in his forehooves. “You know exactly what it is.”

She rolled her eyes. “C’mon, dude. You’ve been talking in circles all frickin day. Just give me this one.”

Sal tsked and shook his head. “No. It’s for you to figure out. That’s the only way it’ll mean anything.” He pointed to her chest. “Those’ll be the guide. The answers are up to you.

What a load of lazy philosophical manure, Scootaloo muttered inwardly.

A veil of silence fell over them once more. Somebody coughed upstairs, but no floorboards creaked and nobody stumbled down the steps. For a while, it felt like time had stopped. Maybe it had. Scootaloo looked out the window. The sun had cleared the clouds. Blue sky surrounded its yellow body. Her friends would awaken soon.

Soon, it would be too late.

She wiped her chin and made a beeline for the staircase. Right as her hoof touched the first step, she turned to Sal, a smile etched across her face. “Thank—” A shadow rushed her. She let out a squeak and covered her head with her hooves as a book and saddlebag crashed into the stairs behind her. She glowered at the donkey, who simply chuckled as he lit another cigarette. Glaring daggers at him, she stuffed the book into her saddlebags, her other forehoof still resting on the goggles. “Thanks,” she muttered.

The last thing Scootaloo saw before turning up the stairs was a cloud of smoke. A voice trailed out of it. Low and distant. She swore she heard a sigh. “Think nothin’ of it, darlin’.”

* * *

Voices seeped out of the door as Scootaloo trudged down the hall. She could clearly make out the drawl of Apple Bloom as she neared the door. That didn’t come as a surprise. Apple Bloom had been rising at dawn since she was just a foal. Scootaloo kicked the door open to find a wide-awake Apple Bloom sitting in bed, a book resting on her lap, and a still droopy-headed Sweetie Belle laying on the couch—chin still resting on the armrest.

“Mornin’, Scoots,” Apple Bloom said. “Ya alright? Where ya been?”

“Downstairs,” Scootaloo hastily replied, walking over to the couch. Sweetie Belle snorted and tried to turn to face her, but her head just lulled back with a groan as her hooves dug into her eyes.

“Breakfast set up?” Apple Bloom licked her lips. “I’m starving. I sure could go for some apple cobbler right ‘bout now. Ooh, tell me they had that down there.”

“Nope.” Scootaloo jerked the blanket off the couch, much to Sweetie’s squeaky chagrin, and stuffed it into her saddlebags. “Just talked with Sal for a bit.” With a grunt, Scootaloo clicked the bags shut, then ran a hoof over the goggles. She was worth it.

Apple Bloom cocked her head. “Talked? ‘Bout what?” She stopped as Scootaloo pushed the door open. A clatter of hooves chased along the floorboards after her. Apple Bloom threw a foreleg in front of her. She glared. “Where the hay are you goin’?!”

“Leaving.”

“Leavin’?” Apple Bloom let her foreleg drop as she laughed. “Train ain’t gonna be here for a few hours, Scoots. Have a seat, and we’ll talk a bit, then head downstairs to grab some breakfast. Bit silly headin’ home on an empty stomach, don’t you think”

“I’m not going home.” Scootaloo pushed past the farmer and marched down the stairs. Behind her, chaos erupted. Apple Bloom hadn’t given chase, but instead rushed back into the room and over to the couch. She shook Sweetie Belle several times before hustling over to the closet and throwing the door open.

Sweetie Belle squinted at Apple Bloom through half-lidded eyes. “What?” She yawned. “What time is—” A flying saddlebag to the chest cut her off. “Ow! What the hay, Apple Bloom?”

“Scoots runnin’ off again,” she muttered as she tightened the straps around her back.

Sweetie Belle’s eyes shot open, jaw swinging. “What? Again?”

“I’m ‘fraid so,” Apple Bloom said as she helped Sweetie get her saddlebags on as well.

They rushed out the door as Scootaloo turned to march down the steps. “Scootaloo! Wait!” Even with the thundering clatter of hooves filling the stairwell, she could make out Apple Bloom’s words. “Girl’s lost her mind.”

Scootaloo found an extra gear, slinging the door open and slamming it shut. Pale sunlight washed over her. A deep rumble—almost like a laugh—slithered through the tavern walls. She ran a hoof over the goggles. No, Apple Bloom. If anything, she’d regained it.

Author's Note:

Thanks again to Tayman for looking this over!

And apologies for the lengthy wait. The last semester at school was killer on writing, mostly due to bad time management on my part. I'm hoping this next semester, though just as busy, will be more productive with better time management practice.

Comments

[-newt-]

This story is just beautiful, and I love everything about it. Amazing chapter!

[Cynewulf]

I'll be damned

[Cold Spike]

I am sad to say that I have not had the time to dedicate to fully read this story and all the amazing work you put into it. But, as a fellow writer, I wanted to at least offer my support and I'm really glad you continued this.

[Silentwoodfire]

Impressive, and hopefully she makes good progress

[Alondro]

Stupid filly. She should have convinced at least one of them to come with her.

The POOL DEMANDS A SACRIFICE!!

Some guy in a billowing cloak who had a red skull for a face told me so.

I didn't think it made much sense, but then Disney molested me until I sobbed and accepted their asinine canon of it.

[RoboRed]

Interesting to look back at the earlier chapters from comments a longass time ago and play a game of "is this person still hanging around the site".

It's been too long since I last read any of this that I don't remember how much of the stuff I'm reading is new and how much is stuff I didn't catch onto at the time. Sal in particular is one thing. I vaguely remember him being on kinda the mysterious/knowing-more-than-you'd-think-he-knows side, but some of the stuff I see almost seems to give a supernatural air about him. I dunno.

Good to see you finally getting back to this.

[Teraunce]

I hope this continues updating.

[mugg91]

I hope life has been treating you well.
I'm surprised you updated the story. Was just looking here without huge expectations. lol
Might read through it all again at some point..

[Ice Star]

This has been a lovely reboot and I hope to see it, and your other stories finished in the future.

[RazedRainbow]

10789158
Thank you. I truly have enjoyed it!

I will use this comment at least to say that this reboot has not died. However job load and mental health have taken a toll on my already snail's pace writing speed.

[Ice Star]

10791117
Okay, yeah, I don't care how many years it has been your health and offline well-being come first.

[LH45]

french narrator:One year later

[Ice Star]

I still think about this story a lot.