Brasta's Birthday Bottle

by mr lovecolt

Brasta's Birthday Bottle

Brasta’s Birthday Bottle
By
M.E. Lovecolt

Part One: The Sale

The sound of hooves trotting along tiles filled the room. Everywhere, ponies – mainly unicorns, of course – trotted back and forth between the impressionist paintings that lined the walls of the Equestrian Gallery of Fine Art, every now and then humming to themselves, as though they understood the meanings behind the peculiar swishes of color the made up the images of Wonderbolt races, rising castles, and gardens that the paintings represented in their own way.

In front of one painting in particular stood three unicorn stallions: one was a light grey unicorn with a black mane and tail with a streak of blonde, another was a dark blue unicorn with glasses who sported a dark blue mane and tail with a black streak, and the third was a pale blue unicorn with a silvery blue mane and tail who was wearing a cassock. The three stared at a painting of a garden. Where roses would normally be, there were bright splashes of red. Green leaves leapt away from the roses like beams of green light. A series of multicolored streaks of paint burst out from two central points, yet all three knew this was meant to be a butterfly. The grey unicorn looked back and forth nervously as other patrons trotted up to the painting, looked it over for a moment, and then continued on. The dark blue unicorn levitated his glasses in front of his face and squinted. The cassocked unicorn smiled at the painting and sighed.

“Oh, Dreamy Ink,” the unicorn priest said, “I saw it when you were nearing completion, but I never imagined it would look like this.”

“Thank you, Brasta,” Dreamy replied, “But I knew you would know where I was coming from.”

Dreamy Ink turned to the dark blue unicorn, who was still adjusting his glasses in an attempt to focus on the painting.

“Lovecolt, what do you think?”

“I just can’t see it.” Lovecolt replied as he readjusted his glasses, “Why is there that weird splotch on the flower?”

“That splotch,” Brasta replied, “Is a butterfly. The butterfly has many symbolic meanings. One of them being Christos Ponykrator; his physical form being close to the caterpillar, his time spent in the tomb similar to a cocoon, and finally, his own ascension into the heavens.”

Lovecolt and Dreamy Ink turned to Brasta, who had by this time had closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh.

“I wonder what it must have looked like,” he continued, “to have been there to witness the Resurrection.”

Lovecolt’s ear twitched at the sound of a glass clinking onto a tray. He turned and saw a pegasus as she carried a tray of wine glasses on an opened wing. A dark blue aura surrounded three of the glasses, and they levitated off of the tray and carried over to the three of them. A light blue aura surrounded one of the glasses, and a grey aura surrounded the third. Together, they touched their glasses together and took a sip.

“To friends.” Lovecolt said.

“To inspiration.” Brasta added.

“To Brasta’s birthday.” Dreamy Ink added with a smirk.

The three stallions continued to look on at the scene. A white unicorn trotted up to the different painting while levitating a small clipboard. At each painting, she looked down at her clipboard and nodded. Sometimes, she would place a small sticker down in the corner of one of the paintings. Brasta looked over to Dreamy Ink, whose eyes widened as she arrived closer to his own painting. The white unicorn trotted up to his painting, looked it up and down, but paused for a moment when she saw the butterfly at the bottom of the painting. A small, orange sticker floated up from her clipboard and was attached to the grooved, wooden frame. The moment she left, the three stallions made their way back over to his painting. On the sticker was one word – SOLD.

The other two stallions watched on as Dreamy Ink’s lips began to quiver and the turn up into a smile. His messy mane was tossed to the side with how quickly he turned to the two.

“Congratulations.” Brasta said as he took another sip of wine.

“I… I did it.” Dreamy Ink said. “I sold my first painting.”

“Well then, it looks like we have two things we’re going to be celebrating this evening.” Lovecolt replied.

Brasta turned away for a moment, as though one of the other paintings had caught his interest.

“Oh come now,” Lovecolt continued, “Don’t tell me you don’t want us to take you out for your own birthday? Where’s the fun in that?”

“Lovecolt...” Dreamy Ink said.

“I mean look, I know you don’t get out much, but still, it’s your birthday for Celestia’s sake.”

“Lovecolt…” Dreamy Ink repeated himself.

“Just because you’re a priest doesn’t mean you have to be a hermit, too.”

Lovecolt!” Dreamy Ink shouted.

“What?”

“It’s all right, Dreamy.” Brasta replied. “Lovecolt, I know you insist that I have to go out and party to celebrate my birthday, but I’ve always liked it like this. I like to use this day for reflection.”

“But doesn’t it get lonely at all?”

“Not in the slightest. I take it as a time to reflect upon the things that I’ve done the previous year, and what I plan to do for the next.”

Lovecolt reached up and ran a hoof through his mane. He turned to Dreamy Ink, who simply stood there and watched the conversation unfold. Lovecolt looked down at his glass and finished the rest of his wine in one gulp.

“I guess you’re right.” He said as he turned to Dreamy Ink. “So, you and me, then? I’ll buy.”

“As long as you don’t get me one of those froufrou drinks with the umbrella and all of the other glittery crap hanging off of it.”

Lovecolt scoffed as the three stallions made their way to the door.

“I would think that as an artiste, you would appreciate the designs they put on the straws.”

“The last time I let you buy me a drink, you got me a Flaming An-.”

“Oh, Mister Ink!” A voice called out from behind them.

The three stallions turned around to see the same unicorn that had been placing stickers on the paintings. She levitated her clipboard and pulled out a check.

“Your commission.” She said. “I do hope that we can see more of your work soon.”

“You can count on it.” Dreamy ink replied.

The door closed behind them, and the three stallions found themselves in the Chicagoat afternoon air. Dreamy Ink and Brasta remained still for a moment, but it was Lovecolt leaping in the air in front of them that caught their attention.

“So much… to party about… things that make me… want to scream and shout.”

Lovecolt stopped in midair and stared at the two stallions who were looking at him with a mix of concern and dread. Lovecolt sighed and lowered himself to the ground.

“I know, I know,” he said, “Brasta wants to spend time alone for his birthday.”

Brasta smiled. He reached out to place a hoof onto Lovecolt’s shoulder, but the dark stallion pulled away.

“I will do something to show you how special you are, though.”

Lovecolt grinned, and like a mad hatter, bolted away from the street. Dreamy Ink turned to Brasta, who merely shrugged.

“Eh, you may as well go and see what mischief he has planned.” Brasta said.

“As long as it isn’t a repeat of last year?” Dreamy Ink asked.

Brasta rubbed his hoof against his temples.

“Please… anything but that.”

“Will do.”

Brasta chuckled to himself as he watched his two friends run down the street. He looked up to the sky and saw that sunset was drawing close. Time for vespers soon, I guess, he thought as he trotted down the street to his church. This would be a good evening for him; a time to find peace.

Part 2: The Spell

Dreamy Ink breathed heavily as he ascended the third flight of stairs to Lovecolt’s apartment. He clamped his hoof against the railing as he pulled his body up the final step of the third landing.

“I… swear to Celestia… that I will… beat Lovecolt…” Dreamy Ink gasped.

Dreamy Ink reached up to his mane to make sure that it wasn’t too out of place. He took a few deep breaths before knocking on Lovecolt’s door. As soon as he knocked, however, the door opened. As soon as he opened the door, the smell of sage permeated his nostrils.

“Sweet Celestia, Lovecolt,” Dreamy Ink said as he held a hoof up to his nose, “do you really need to use so much of that stuff?”

Dreamy Ink looked around the main room of Lovecolt’s apartment. It was bare, mostly, with the exception of a small altar with three cauldrons on it, as well as a small table that contained a series of different incense sticks and the aforementioned banded group of sage leaves.

“You know, my ancestors told me that only unholy demons would be repelled by the smell of sage.”

Dreamy Ink looked over to Lovecolt, whose eyes had taken a slight glint to them, and whose mouth had curved to a small smirk. The grey unicorn rolled his eyes and continued into the apartment. He turned his attention back to the table with the three small cauldrons next to Lovecolt, as well as a collection of sticks.

“Oh yeah, the stick things.” Dreamy Ink said.

“Ogham.” Lovecolt corrected. “I want to be sure that what I have in mind for Brasta doesn’t fail.”

“Like last year?”

“Right… like last year.” Lovecolt replied.

“I actually thought you had to be a parishioner to have a priest deliver corporal punishment.”

“Don’t remind me.” Lovecolt replied.

Dreamy Ink watched as Lovecolt used his magic to levitate four of the sticks – Ogham, he mentally corrected himself – towards the cauldrons. Lovecolt began to mumble to himself as the four Ogham branches surrounded the cauldrons.

“Uh, so what are you doing exactly?”

“Well, I got to thinking when we were at the art gallery.”

“That’s always the beginning of a bad sentence with you.”

Lovecolt snorted as he trotted to the corner of the room and pulled off a small, white cloak from a coat hook. He used his magic to step into it, and then turned to another corner of the room which held numerous jeweled charms. Lovecolt studied them for a moment, and then pulled out three: a deer, a salmon, and a lamb.

“And what are these for?” Dreamy Ink asked.

“Druid magic doesn’t work the same way that our regular magic does, Dreamy. It uses symbols such as these to draw out subconscious feelings all around us.”

Dreamy Ink watched as Lovecolt turned to the cauldrons and sighed, noting how similar he and Brasta were when they were about to discuss their beliefs.

“Everything around us is spirit, Dreamy. And everything around us is connected to us. We all know the meanings of these things, deep down on a subconscious level. For instance, I chose the lamb as a symbol for Brasta because it is a symbol of his faith, but it is also a symbol of peace itself, which Brasta strives for. The salmon represents inspiration, because-.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Dreamy Ink interrupted.

“As I was saying, the salmon as an image of inspiration dates back to the myth of the Salmon of Knowledge, back during the time of the Tuatha De Danann.”

Lovecolt cleared his throat.

And they had a well below the sea where the nine hazels of wisdom were growing; that is, the hazels of inspiration and of the knowledge of poetry. And their leaves and their blossoms would break out in the same hour, and would fall on the well in a shower that raised a purple wave. And then the five salmon that were waiting there would eat the nuts, and their color would come out in the red spots of their skin, and any person that would eat one of those salmon would know all wisdom and all poetry.

“Dude, how do you memorize so much of that?”

“How does Brasta memorize his scripture?”

Lovecolt laughed to himself and placed the three charms in front of the cauldrons.

“And the deer?” Dreamy Ink asked. “Why are you the deer?”

Dreamy Ink watched as the smile faltered from Lovecolt’s face, but then it reappeared.

“The deer represents, well, vulnerability. If the potion goes well, then Brasta will know how thankful I am.”

Lovecolt stood in front of the table holding the three cauldrons and murmured a small initiation spell to cleanse the area. He then lifted the four Ogham sticks.

Beth, Suille, Duir, Ura

Brighid, lead the lamb

To lands of divinity

Cerridwen, may you carry

The salmon upstream

Epona, carry the broken deer

Through Birch and the Willow

The Oak and Heather. May he know

That we are always here.

All Hail.

Dreamy Ink stood back as he watched Lovecolt levitate numerous bottles from a shelf and over the cauldrons, pouring small amounts of the different liquids into each other them. Finally, as he finished his spell, he watched as Lovecolt lifted the two cauldrons with their charms in front of them and poured their contents into the middle cauldron. Lovecolt took a few deep breaths as he set the two cauldrons back down. After tapping the rim of the cauldron with each Ogham branch one more time, he sighed and turned to Dreamy Ink.

“Could you be a dear and grab me one of the cleaned out empty bottles I keep under the sink?”

Dreamy Ink complied and returned a moment later with an azure bottle. Lovecolt squealed.

“Oh, that’s just the one I was thinking.” Lovecolt said as he poured the contents of the cauldron into the bottle.

“So, is he supposed to drink the stuff?” Dreamy Ink asked as he tried to lean in to sniff the potion.

“Of course not.” Lovecolt replied. “Our essences are in it. All he needs to do is open it.”

“And what’s supposed to happen?”

Lovecolt reached up and booped Dreamy Ink’s muzzle.

“That,” Lovecolt replied, “is a surprise that only Brasta will know. Come now, Brasta should be finishing with his vespers soon. He’ll want to be in his garden after that. We want to deliver it before he gets there.

Lovecolt levitated the white robe off of his body and placed it back on the coat hook. Dreamy Ink shook his head and trotted to the door.

Part 3: The Soul

Dhi evhón don ayíon Baderon imón, Gírie Iisoú Hristé, o Theós, eléison ge sóson imás. Amín.

Brasta muttered the final words of the vespers to himself as he trotted out to his garden. He inhaled deeply and the smell of Acacia Blossoms and Carnations filled his nostrils. He pressed his weight on each hoof and felt the grass as it gave way beneath his weight. In the distance, the orange colored sun as it began to touch the horizon greeted him. Though he enjoyed chanting with his parish, he always enjoyed the time afterwards, when the more devoted parishioners left the church, giving him the opportunity to enjoy his little garden. He trotted by a row of red and white roses that he had designed so that their colors mixed with one another. The row of roses bent to make a small alcove, in which was a small statue of Christos Ponykrator himself. Brasta was just at the right height so that the statue’s gaze looked straight into his own. The eyes of the statue looked out knowingly at him. Brasta formed a half smile and then turned away.

In the corner of the garden was a small bench that Brasta found himself sitting at, sometimes for hours at a time, staring out at the flowers that surrounded him. He trotted over to the familiar seat and finally took the time to rest his hooves. He looked up to the sky, whose colors had now become a stream of multiple colors.

“I wonder what those two are planning?” Brasta thought.

Brasta felt something in his horn. There was another unicorn nearby. Brasta’s horn was highly attuned to recognize the use of auras whenever it occurred near him. He looked around but couldn’t see anything.

I swear, if Lovecolt is about to try something like last year, he’ll really know what corporal punishment is, Brasta thought to himself.

Brasta looked around one more time and was surprised to see that a small azure bottle had appeared next to him on the bench. He quirked an eyebrow as he lifted the bottle and noticed a small note attached to it.

“To the lamb who carried the salmon and healed the deer?” Brasta asked himself.

Brasta lifted the bottle to his ear, as though he expected some creature were trapped inside. Knowing Lovecolt, he wouldn’t be surprised if a little creature popped out. He shook his head, made a quick sign of the cross, sighed, and then opened the bottle.

For a moment, nothing happened. Confused, Brasta set the bottle back down on the bench. The moment he did, streaks of color began to erupt from the top of the bottle. Brasta chuckled to himself.

Oh, my little druid, he thought, what have you done this time?

The streaks of color landed on the trees above him and the flowers around him. Brasta watched as the streaks of color became paint, and the paint covered everything around him. He looked up and saw that the streaks of color also remained in the sky to mimic the colors of the sky. The delicate rose petals he had crossed became wild streaks of red and white. The leaves became splotches of green. Brasta looked around in confusion at what was happening, but there was something about the scene itself that, even thought was still his garden, looked familiar in a wholly different way. As the final streaks of color left the bottle, Brasta looked down and saw the grass, too, had turned into tiny streaks of color. They even changed color as the wind blew past, turning them a brilliant shade of white for a split second before returning to their original color.

And then something else caught his eye. Brasta left the bench and trotted over to the roses, where a multicolored display sat on one of the painted roses. He watched as the burst of color began to flap back and forth.

It’s a butterfly, Brasta thought, coming to another realization, he put me in Dreamy’s painting.

Brasta turned back to the bench and watched as a series of multicolored orbs began to float out of the bottle. The orbs hovered all around him; some were as large as his head, while others were barely the size of his hoof. One orb, in particular, floated directly in front of him. Unsure of what to do, Brasta raised a hoof and touched the orb.

A single piano note floated through the air. Pachelbel’s Canon, Brasta thought.

The grass began to curve around Brasta’s hooves, and a moment later, they curved so that they caught the remaining shafts of sunlight, forming white words beneath him.

The Painter, the Poet, and the Priest.

Brasta imagined the words as they would have been spoken by Lovecolt, noting how his voice would always vacillate between tenor and almost feminine. He watched as the words themselves slithered through the grass like a snake. His curiosity got the better of him, and he followed the words until he reached the wall of the church, where even the bricks had been covered in paint. Where there was a usually a stained glass window of Saint Katherine, however, there was only a black void. Before his eyes, words were being etched into the brick wall.

How does this go? Ah. Once upon a time,

A painter who wanted to capture light,

And a poet who loved to tangle words,

Met an artist whose medium was souls.

He called himself a priest, but he was more –

So much more, though he would not admit it.

Brasta watched as the black void became filled with colored glass, but instead of returning to the icon of Saint Katherine, the image became a stained glass version of Dreamy Ink in front of a blank canvas. The glass moved and Brasta watched as this version of Dreamy Ink slashed a paintbrush against the canvas.

A true painter knows how to deal with it –

How to deal with the empty hours of time

Where realizing he has nothing more

To show for his work than the hours of light

Wasted. For these are the times when the soul’s

Encouragement become but wasted words.

Brasta continued to watch the scene as a glass replica of himself appeared on the window behind Dreamy Ink. He watched as his figure reached out to touch Dreamy Ink’s, and the blank canvas became filled with color. He remembered this. He remembered how Dreamy had felt when he couldn’t ‘capture the light’, as he put it.

And then he came, artist of souls, with words

That pushed the hopeless painter out of it.

He knew it was by revealing the soul’s

Light, as he had learned from so many times

For he told him to capture his own light –

Place it onto the canvas – nothing more.

The colors of the stained glass window melted away until a small salmon appeared in the middle of the window. It, too, melted away, leaving the emptiness once again. The words that had been etched onto the walls disappeared. Brasta’s lip quivered as he watched the scene unfold and then disappear.

A moment later, another image appeared on the stained glass window. It was of a small deer nursing an injured leg. Large, black streaks crossed over the window until it gave the appearance of a forest at night, with each area between the black branched a shade of dark blue, hiding the deer from view. A white circle hovered above the scene, covered by the branches.

Some ponies see the poet as no more

Than a pony who simply tangles words

The same way that branches cover the light

Of Luna’s Moon, leaving no more of it

To see. But that is how the poet’s soul

Sees it sometimes. There are so many times

The trunks of the trees began to curve away, revealing a glass image of Lovecolt where the deer used to be. He was covered in brambles, and Brasta watched as the glass figure struggled against the brambles for a moment, and then he stopped.

His own words tangle him. So many times,

Left alone because of something no more

Than a misread description of a soul –

Even the poet can misread a word.

And here, he punishes himself for it

It is here that he feels there is no light.

Brasta remembered this scene, as well. He had chased him through the woods one night after Lovecolt had caught his lover in bed with another. He remembered the cuts on his legs from where he had run carelessly through the woods. He remembered the words Lovecolt had said to him that night. The heart is nothing more than glass. You give it to somepony, and they throw it away, leaving it splintered and cracked. How many times can a heart be thrown away until it shatters completely?

Brasta watched as his image appeared on the stained glass window yet again. His horn charged, and bright beams of light surrounded Lovecolt and removed the brambles.

But yet, sometimes, the poet learns that light

Does not come down from the heavens. Sometimes,

It is another source that reveals it –

Banishes the darkness forevermore.

And he calls his light the light of the word

It is the light from the artist of souls.

The dark blue pieces of glass slowly changed to purple, then to red, then to bright blue of daylight. Brasta watched as the two stallions looked at each other for a moment, and then the scene melted away. Brasta could still hear the ending notes of the canon, and as they reached the end, white words were etched directly onto the glass.

You see, there are times the priest forgets it.

He is an artist of Light, of The Word –

The artist of souls is so much more.

As the final notes of the canon finished, Brasta watched as the orbs around him shimmered for a moment, and then burst like bubbles. The streaks of paint that covered the sky and the walls melted away until he was staring at the original stained glass image of Saint Katherine. The paint left the trees, the flowers, and even the grass. Brasta found himself sitting in the middle of the garden on his haunches as the last rays of sunlight disappeared from view, and Luna’s Moon rose into the air to take the place of Celestia’s Sun.

Epilogue

Dreamy Ink stared down into his drink and tried not to look over at Lovecolt’s smirk.

“I still can’t believe you talked me into getting another Flaming An-.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you like the taste.” Lovecolt interrupted.

The two stallions sat at a table outside of a small bar a block away from Brasta’s church. Lovecolt levitated his martini glass to his lips and took a sip.

“Do you think he’ll want to meet up with us?” Dreamy Ink asked. “I’d like to know what he saw.”

“To be honest, I’m curious myself.”

“What?” Dreamy Ink asked. “It was your potion.”

Lovecolt took another sip of his martini and sighed.

“Yes, and as I said, Druid magic works differently than regular magic. I just created a potion to let him see what we thought of him and to be guided by my deities. I’m sure he’ll enjoy it much better than last year.”

“Hmm…”

Lovecolt lowered his drink and peered over his glasses to the now smirking stallion.

“Yes?”

“Admit it. You enjoyed what he did to you last year.”

“Ass.” Lovecolt sighed. “But when you think about it, this is much better. He gets his time alone, and we got to let him know how we feel about him.”

A pegasus waiter moved to their table. Dreamy Ink shook his head, but Lovecolt threw more bits to the waiter and nodded empathically. The waiter rolled his eyes and reentered the bar to get their drinks.

“I feel the same way, actually.” Dreamy Ink continued. “He needs to know that even though he prefers to spend time alone that we consider him just as close a friend.”

“And that we do think that what he does is great. I hope the potions made him see that.”

“I’m sure it did.” Dreamy Ink replied. “I’m sure it did.”

The waiter returned with their drinks. He reached over to take the empty glasses, but Lovecolt stopped him when he tried to take the second one. The waiter huffed and then left again. Dreamy levitated his drink while Lovecolt levitated his own and the empty glass.

“To friends.” Lovecolt said.

“To inspiration.” Dreamy Ink added.

“To Brasta’s birthday.” Lovecolt added with a smirk.

The two clinked the three glasses together, and Lovecolt settled the empty one in front of an empty chair next to them. The two smiled, knowing that there was nothing more that needed to be said.

Comments

[ANONGLADJE]

Why do you write these stroys about gay ponys. Homosexuallity is against the law in Niggeria okay. You are breaking the law and you are going to be finned 37 thousand dollars then executed by having poop ranmmed odwn your throat until you die of choking to death okay. But you will love it because of you are a flaming homosex.

[Shadowflash]

3991570

Could you stop? Thanks.

[mr lovecolt]

3991570 actually, Brastas character is a celibate priest who struggles with his sexuality. It makes him that much more complex. Edger, from my first stories, is a gelding, which is a rather unique gender identity. There are many instances in my stories where the character do not act on their feelings. You just need to look into it. And actually, if you read my Butterscotch story really closely, you'll find a secret message in it. If you find it, then I promise I won't write any more gay characters.

[ANONGLADJE]

3991637 Who drawed you're avata r Iwant to commison them ok.

[Swashbucklist]

Soft piano music, poetic imagery, the simple pleasures of a garden, and not much conflict beyond figuring out how to show a friend he is appreciated...not my cup of tea, but I'd have to be brain-dead (or the fella with the username "undefined") to fail to realize when I'm reading something really beautiful.