Emberwolf

by Lucky Dreams

Mug

Deep down, Scootaloo knew that the sound of her aunts’ voices should have sent sunshine-relief blazing through her body. Yet it didn’t, because already, all her hope had burned up.

“Aunt Holiday!” she cried, “Aunt Lofty!” Scootaloo flicked her ears and wings and tail. She peeked under the bed and beneath the desk and then searched through the closets. They were auntyless.

She strained to hear their voices over the inferno. The fire was the music of dragons: all of downstairs must have been ablaze. Picking out a pair of whispers amongst the roars seemed an impossible task.

There was a SMASH, a BASH, and a BOOM, and Scootaloo jumped. The Emberwolf had made its way upstairs and was crashing down the landing.

“Guys!” she hissed. “Where are you?”

Then, thank Celestia, thank everything, she heard them again, her dear Aunt Holiday and beloved Aunt Lofty. Though she still couldn’t see them, it sounded as though they were somewhere near the bedside desk. “Hide, darling one,” they said. “Hurry!”

Scootaloo didn’t question them but bounded into the nearest closet, right into a heap of Aunt Holiday’s hiking gear. She shut the door and held her breath. Was it useless, she wondered, hiding when the Emberwolf already had her cornered? She pictured how Rainbow Dash would handle things. No doubt, Rainbow would confront the beast head on, and with a stamp of her hooves, tell it that she wasn’t afraid, and that it wasn’t welcome inside of the cottage.

But Scootaloo wasn’t Rainbow Dash. Instead, she cowered under a fluffy green coat, then shrank amongst piles of boots, trousers and cardigans. She heard the thump of charcoal paws pound into the bedroom. She bit a hoof and screamed in her mind. It was a soul scream, a spirit screech.

The closet became an oven; the heat came in waves. Scootaloo worried she would black out from it.

But then, in softer tones than she had expected, the Emberwolf said, “Please don’t make this difficult, Scootaloo.”

In her roasting terror, Scootaloo didn’t respond. Her tongue was paper. The gloom turned from red to yellow as, outside of the closet, the bone-scalding heat of the Emberwolf’s body set the bedroom alight.

The Emberwolf sighed. “Trust me when I say I am not a creature of nightmares. I am someone who has seen the misery scrawled upon the walls of your heart – for my own heart bears the same bruises. Please, Scootaloo.” It paused for a moment. “Will you at least talk with me? If you don’t like what I have to say, I promise to leave you alone.”

Scootaloo furrowed her brow. The words made no sense to her. What kind of monster demanded to sit down and talk about feelings? Monsters wanted to feast on foals! They lived to devour helpless fillies in the dead of the night!

With a gentle, flaming paw, the Emberwolf opened the closet and bowed its head. It made no move to singe so much as the smallest hair on Scootaloo’s mane.

Scootaloo squinted her eyes and took in the room. The floor was fire-painted, and the ceiling was black with smoke. The edges of the doorframe were charred from where the beast had squeezed its way through.

All the while, the Emberwolf stared down at her with its infernal eyes, its mighty head larger than Scootaloo herself. However, it wasn’t the eyes that caught her gaze, nor its fangs or claws: there, by its paws, was a mug of hot cocoa.

It was steaming.

Scootaloo stared at the mug, then peered wide-eyed at the Emberwolf itself. When the beast spoke again, it was in soothing tones suited for Hearth’s Warming.

“I am not a monster, Scootaloo. I am merely one who believes that everyone deserves a chance, and that all beings, great and small, deserve a friend. I kept your cocoa warm for you. Drink up.”