Smolder

by Jin Shu

1. Spark

Author's Note:

The short version: this is an old project finally dug out of mothball drawer to be an experiment in rapid prototyping and release. The intent is to finish the whole thing in one to two weeks' time at the absolute maximum and force me to be efficient in both my writing and my editing. It also gives me an excuse to work on something other than Equestrian Horizon so burnout is less of an issue. Hopefully.

“I have to admit, I like what you've done with the place!”

Fletcher sighed and shook his head. Colonel Ironwing had an unusual knack for causing exasperation. While he had somehow managed to move past the stage that a school colt would pile upon his professors, Fletcher never quite got over the need to facehoof.

“I haven't changed a damn thing since you were last here, old sire.”

Fletcher poured himself another drink as he spoke. Ice kept magically cold. Caballo's gin. A splash of tonic water for taste.

He'd never understand Ironwing's methods, but he supposed it was best not to question them. Aristotle Ironwing may well have been the polar opposite of Fletcher. His salt and pepper mane and ample wrinkles reflected his age, a great deal older than Fletcher himself. Most would consider him over the hill, but Fletcher knew better than that. The colonel was nearly a full head taller than Fletcher with a frame built like a draft horse and a wingspan to rival that of the Princesses themselves.

Not that Fletcher was a slouch himself. The former Army captain stuck to a strict physical fitness regimen and an athlete's diet, a welcome change from Army PT and meals ready to eat while on field training exercises. Still, Ironwing was not one to be trifled with.

“Well, it certainly feels different.”

“I experimented with some new recipes. There might be a hint of floral scent still in the curtains from when I tried stir-frying that last batch of Unyasan Orchids. Don't do that, by the way.”

“I'll try to remember that for next time, at least for long enough to tell my son. Sometimes he tries things out in the kitchen, but…” Ironwing paused for a moment to take a drink from his glass. “... well, let's just say there's a reason his cutie mark isn’t cooking-related.”

Fletcher barely cracked a smile. Fletcher had never met the younger Ironwing, but he already felt sorry for all the bad jokes his old sire must have put him through. “I'm sure he means well. It's a great gesture to have somepony cook for you, regardless of how poor the outcome actually is.”

“I suppose I must be the master of great gestures, then! I remember always being the one to cook while my wife and I were dating. By the end of it, I probably could have been a culinary instructor!”

“Not that you'd want to be. I don't know enough Fancy swear words to describe the chefs I've met in Canterlot.”

“Better switch to Stallian then! I hear they have a great selection of swear words.”

“Swear words yes, but cuisine not so much. I never could get used to borscht. Can’t win them all I suppose.”

The captain and the colonel shared a good laugh, clinking their drink glasses together before taking sips of their liquors of choice. Turning to look out the window at the night sky, Fletcher swished the drink around for a tick before gulping it down. The bitterness of the quinine remained behind, but Fletcher didn’t flinch. A bitter taste was far better than a bitter life.

“So why are you really here, Colonel?”

Fletcher figured he’d cut to the chase. Ironwing could be pedantic at times, but he never showed up without a plan and four contingencies. That he would drop by Fletcher’s apartment uninvited speaking of drinks and old times was ten different kinds of suspicious.

“You know why I’m here, Fletcher.”

No, not really. Fletcher had many guesses ranging from the inane to the catastrophic. With Ironwing, they were all equally likely.

“I can guess, but you really don’t want me to guess. Changeling infiltrator attempting to kill me? Preparation to serve me court martial papers for something I did before my desk jockey days? Invitation to your son’s wedding?”

“Not bad guesses to be honest.”

“Evasive as usual. If you’re not going to tell me, old sire, you can finish your drink and get out of my house.”

Ironwing shook his head and chuckled. “Fletcher, I’m just here to see how you were doing; making sure you were all right.”

It took a moment for the true meaning to sink in. Fletcher’s bemused smirk immediately twisted into a hellish glower. Of all the things to be in all the times that were, it had to be this and it had to be now. The glass levitating next to his head in the glow of magic exploded, the glittering fragments clattering to the hardwood floor as Fletcher’s magical aura released its grasp.

“Ironwing,” he said darkly, “We said we’d never speak of it again.”

“I said I’d bury it if you did, which it is now quite obvious that you did not.” The mirthful countenance vanished, replaced now by a stern, stony visage more fitting of a monument than his old commanding officer. “How have you really been doing, Fletcher?”

BANG.

The crack of Fletcher’s hoof slamming into the display table by the window echoed through the living room. Glass clearly crackled and tinked when he brought his hoof away. The victim of his ire was an old photograph, now lying face down with splintered frame and broken display glass smashed into the table. But in the mess of splinters and shards, something metallic glistened. Realizing his mistake, Fletcher shuffled a hoof over the mess, trying to hide the glint behind the dull ruin of the old photo frame.

But it was too late. Ironwing’s eyes fell upon the incriminating bit of evidence and he rose from his seat to address Fletcher face to face. The colonel's speech was flat and emotionless.

“You kept it.”

Fletcher's ears drooped for a moment before he forced himself to stand up straight and compose himself. He looked the colonel dead in the eye. “Haven't found a buyer yet.”

The colonel closed his eyes and sighed. It was a bold-faced lie. Fletcher knew it and Ironwing knew it. Fletcher had never found a buyer. He’d never even attempted to look for one. And so the ring had remained in the photo frame with the photo that accompanied it.

“Do you remember what I told you before you got on that airship to Stalliongrad?”

“No, sir.”

“I said you can't let somepony from your past write your future for you.”

“I fail to see how this is relevant.”

“You know exactly why it's relevant, Fletcher. I know you and Caesura were close, but it's been five years. You have to come to terms with it.”

It was five years to the day, in fact. Five years since the engagement. Five years since they’re promised each other happily ever after. Four years since they’d married. Three years since he’d been deployed on mission after mission beyond the frontier with the Stallian Guard Rangers. Two years since he’d returned home to an empty house and a note telling him to move on. One year since he’d been transferred to a desk job in the interest of “recovery.”

“I swore an oath of loyalty when I first enlisted, colonel,” Fletcher said. “Through all my years of service, I never once wavered from that oath.”

Ironwing was nonplussed at the sudden change of subject, but it only barely registered on his face. Fletcher never expected it to faze him. Ironwing had dealt with spymasters and government spooks at the Aquellian consulate for years before Fletcher’s unit had been placed under his command. He knew exactly how to handle word games and back channel diplomacy.

“This is your personal development we're talking about, Fletcher, not your career.”

“I was getting to that,” Fletcher snapped. “Look. You don't just let things like this go, colonel.”

“Fletcher, I'm sorry. I truly am. I know what it's like to lose a spouse. It hurts you — all the way down to your very core. There's that feeling in your bones that won't go away. It eats at you, corrodes your soul.”

It would have been easier if it were a lie. The colonel, too, had lost his wife some time ago. Fletcher had even attended her funeral. But he wasn’t about to be played just because he’d borne witness to tragedy.

“You think I don’t know that?” Fletcher shot back.

“I have resources. I can reach out to them. We can help you, give you a fresh start.”

“A fresh start? Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not patronizing. I’m not just your old CO, I’m your friend. I want to help you even if you won’t help yourself.”

“Is that what Celestia said to you, too?”

Ironwing finally flinched, his stony disposition cracking at the mention of things better left buried. What could have passed for pity before now transmuted into rage. Still, the army officer caught his own lapse in control and corrected his course. This did little to bridle his fury, however.

Ironwing snorted in anger. “That was low.”

“Said the pot to the kettle!” Fletcher growled in retort. “Weren’t you the one who brought up Caesura?”

Ironwing remained firm, stern as a school headmaster to an ornery colt, the rolling thunder of his deep voice seeming to fill Fletcher’s head instead of his ears. “I brought up Caesura because I’ve seen how she’s still affecting you. You’re chasing ghosts, Fletcher.”

“You still have my sympathy for Nausicaa. Nopony deserved to go like that and nopony deserved to suffer like you did for it. But when Caesura walked out, I didn’t have the Princess offer her ‘help’ to me like she did for you.”

There was a beat of silence. Fletcher almost smirked, hoping he’d driven home the point. Behind, all he could hear the ice cubes in Ironwing’s glass clink together as he took another sip. He heard the colonel sigh and the clop of hooves on hardwood as he stood. Fletcher whirled around, thinking that Ironwing had finally gotten it through his head that it was time to leave.

“You’re right,” Ironwing finally said. The sternness in his voice had vanished. Instead, he just sounded exasperated, tired, even. “You didn’t. And that’s probably for the better. I’ve been privy to things that could destroy empires. I’ve made mistakes, mistakes I am still paying for even today. But that doesn’t mean I don’t genuinely want to make it better.”

Somehow, the concession didn’t make Fletcher feel any better. It was never that way with Ironwing. Even if he admitted he was wrong, he was still right. Fletcher hated it.

“This isn’t something you can help with, Ironwing.”

“You don’t have to fight this alone.” It felt like one last plea, one last attempt to coax the return of the prodigal son. “You were my protege, Fletcher. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I’m trying to help you every way I know how.”

Fletcher could only stare blankly back. “Finish your drink, old sire. It seems we have nothing more to say to each other.”

The colonel closed his eyes and sighed. He finally set his glass down upon the coaster on the coffee table, his drink unfinished. “I think my thirst has been thoroughly sated. Thank you for entertaining my visit, old friend.”

Ironwing turned and trotted to the door, stepping outside and closing it without so much as a glance backward. The living room fell silent. For a moment, Fletcher could only stand and stare blankly into the carved and decorated wood of the front door to the upscale apartment.

Finally, he sighed in resignation, turning his attention back to the window where Luna’s moon watched over the floating motes of faerie fire that were the lights of homes in the valley below.