The Train
Pawing the wooden platform beneath him, Brighteyes glanced at his pocket watch. The eleven o’ clock train from Manehattan was running late, and it wasn’t disapproval he felt, but concern. He closed the watch, examining the silver lid and its rope and climbing axe engraving for stains or scratches before he slid it back under his coat.
Though Canterlot Station was bustling as always, it didn’t manage to distract Brighteyes from last week’s events. The inebriated joy and levity of the dinner-breakfast had dwindled soon after, leaving him in a hangover of worry and uncertainty, and it once again both disturbed and impressed him that life just went on.
In similar fashion, Patch’s latest telegram had featured a concerning lack of emotion, it had only revealed time and date of their arrival and the request to rent a cab. No information about the situation or their health status, nothing.
They had come home bruised before, but he feared the day one returned missing a limb or an eye. He was licensed to replace the latter and had done it before, but that had been strangers, not somepony close.
Shaking off the thought, he chided himself. His emotions had no matter in the regard.
He hadn’t had much time with his comrades either. Guilt-ridden, he had offered Tea a vacation in Ponyville, an idea the two others had supported. The successful persuasion had doubled Tiffin’s workload, and Oleander had departed for Cloudsdale to attend the exhibition the morning after their meeting.
At last, a whistle shrilled in the distance, and not much later, the corresponding train pulled into the station, flooding the rails with steam and making the ponies on the platform step back in respect of the pink marvel of technology. Brighteyes heaved a sigh of relief, his muzzle steaming like the locomotive’s chimney.
The carriage doors snapped open, releasing a herd of well-dressed ponies that rushed straight for the city, while more casual passengers took time to study their surroundings. Only when the crowd had dissolved, two lone figures stepped out of the rearmost carriage. They were clothed in black, asymmetrical cloaks, and the taller wore a large cavalier hat that obscured his face.
The smaller looked up, and her warm gray eyes met Brighteyes’. Despite the longing in her gaze, she didn’t leave her companion’s side, walking a step behind him to watch his every motion. With good reason, as he moved in a slow three-legged hobble, his swishing cloak revealing a foreleg plastered in white.
Heart pounding faster, Brighteyes trotted towards them with undignified hurry and came to a halt at a yard’s distance. As the two closed in, he could hear Peafowl ending what probably had been a long monologue.
“-maybe, but I tell you, the faster we get most of these clunky coal guzzlers substituted, the better.”
As soon as Peafowl had closed his mouth and stood still, Scramble Patch darted forward and flung her forelegs around Brighteyes’ neck for a long-awaited embrace, burying her muzzle in his mane. “Sorry for not writing more! There was so much going on!”
“No worries, dear.” Clutching her with one leg, he took in her scent of sage and rosemary, her fuzzy pelt, her gentle yet strong touch, all those little things that made him mad about her. He brought his muzzle behind her left ear and caressed the spot with his lips, causing Patch to melt in his grasp.
Only when Peafowl cleared his throat, the couple started to dissolve their embrace. Patch trotted off to retrieve their luggage, her white and brown face tinted red, while Brighteyes approached the pegasus. Memories of past arguments surfaced, trivial spats by the series, putting a lump in his throat. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but-”
Peafowl cut him off by pulling him close with his wing. “It’s good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too.”
The early afternoon sun shone through the large window roof of the parlor, bringing light and warmth to the ponies who listened while they digested their extensive lunch. Not taking his eyes off Peafowl, Tea prepared an infusion of red fruits and roses, and his sister hang on the blue pegasus’ every word, nibbling a cookie as if in trance.
Brighteyes shared a big seat cushion with his wife, enjoying the sensation of her body heat as she snuggled up on him. She had been both surprised and pleased upon spotting the ornate Help Wanted sign in his store window and was now being very affectionate, making it difficult for him to concentrate on Peafowl’s monologue.
“-I thought I had lost them, but they cornered me at Central Station.” Head held high, Peafowl paused for effect, surveying his audience from atop the chaise-lounge. Even maneless, with a broken leg, a bruised wing and his face, neck and ears wrapped in gauze, the stallion retained an air of pride and poise that Brighteyes couldn’t help but envy. “My arsenal was fairly depleted at this point. I had no choice but to detonate my flying helmet and run.”
“Detonate?” Tiffin asked, crumbs dropping from her lips. “As in explode? Go boom?”
“I was not going to let them study my masterpiece in case- Egal. It’s an implosion, setting free a wave of smoke. And since I prefer not needing a hearing aid afterwards, it is constructed to not ‘go boom’. Distraction, not destruction,” Peafowl explained, his soft voice calm.
Tiffin rubbed her chin in thought. “You said you broke your leg when falling, but you’ve been near the ground all the time, and what about-”
“Sorry. My memory’s fragmented from a certain point, and the medication blurs it even more.” Peafowl waved his left wing in dismissal. “Enough of that. How has life been here?”
With an expression of utmost innocence, Tiffin cocked her head. “Not sure, but I think we’ve joined a gang. We even had an emblem.”
Before speaking up, Brighteyes glanced to his wife and Peafowl, and instead of concern, he saw curiosity in their eyes. “A pretty pegasus guard smuggled us into Canterlot Castle, and long story short, the place is now full of pigeon poop.”
It took the three others a second to put two and two together. Tea just rolled his eyes as he tried to hide a smile. Peafowl shook in silence, eager to not move his battered face, while Patch skipped laughter and went right to giggling and snorting. She hadn’t spoken much since he had picked them up from the train station, and it was relieving to see her omitted. It softened the tension that lay in the air, one that Brighteyes had difficulty understanding.
“So it is true. Le poussin en gris has wrapped Canterlot around his primaries.” Nodding, Peafowl took a sip from his cup. After denying any sort of appetite because of the morphine, Patch and Tiffin had convinced him to drink something that was more heavy cream than coffee so the already lean stallion wouldn’t vanish entirely.
Scramble Patch shifted, minding the countless nicks that covered her right side, and spoke up at last. “Fowly, did you leave the contracts in your saddlebag?” She nudged Brighteyes with her muzzle. “He’s made an amazing deal with Powder Pyxis.”
Perplexed by both the sudden change of topic and the information presented, Brighteyes lifted his hoof to adjust the glasses he wasn’t wearing. “She was rather low on your list.”
Not once taking his gaze off of Patch, Peafowl narrowed his eyes before closing them. “My informants told me that unlike others, Miss Pyxis treats her employees well.” He opened his eyes again and glanced around the room with a smile. “But what’s more important, welcome beyond the surface, everypony. Should you wish to venture deeper, I’ll assist you to the best of my abilities.”
“Assist?” Tea asked.
Peafowl’s smile became one of mischief. “Why heavy armor when a vest or robe protects you just as well? Mister Teapot’s plants make for the most fascinating fibres, under my able hooves that is. I can intertwine your materiel with your very being, and weave in death for those who take what’s not theirs.”
Shifting again, Scramble Patch frowned. “Fowly, please stop saying ‘death’ for it.”
The pegasus huffed. “One, heavy skin irritation just does not have the same ring to it, and two, it is a possibility.”
On the other side of the room, Tea Treat didn’t look concerned. No, to Brighteyes’ surprise, his fellow unicorn looked intrigued, fascinated even.
“What to do for you, Mister Treat?” Peafowl tilted his head and squinted his left eye as his mind drifted off to a place where only fabric and formulas existed. “A capelet, not too long, navy maybe or bordeaux with a pale gold hem, matching shoes-”
“Shoes?”
“Yes, Mister Greenhorn. In urban surroundings, broken glass is a dreadful enemy.” Peafowl unfurled his good wing and gestured to Patch’s marred side. “Glass.” He brushed over his bandaged nose with his primaries. “A unicorn attacking me with glass shards. I think he was trying to hit an artery or cut my throat. Somehow, he evaded my precognition long enough, I dodged late and… Well. He received a knife to a very private place in return.”
Brighteyes shifted his hind legs in horror, and he noticed Tea doing the same.
His eyes widening, Peafowl made a raspy sound that resembled a gasp. “That was shortly before Princess Luna arrived. I was playing lookout on a roof. He managed to hit me with a flame spell, a weak one, but my mane caught fire. To my shame, I panicked and fell instead of gliding down. From then on, everything’s a void with snippets of sounds and images.” The stallion sniffed and folded his wing again.
Silence spread over the parlor, and Brighteyes felt Patch press against him. Even he recognized that this wasn’t a moment of comfort, and that one question was looming. Brighteyes knew that Tea wouldn’t ask it. He was somewhat surprised that Tiffin hadn’t done so already, but thorns needed to be pulled out before the wound festered, even if the process hurt.
“Did you know all this would happen?” Brighteyes asked, looking Peafowl in the eye.
“No,” Scramble Patch answered right away.
Peafowl took a deep breath and let it out before he spoke. “No. Make no mistake, I was dead certain that Mariner would throw his weight and money around, that mangy son of a rabid wolpertinger, but not in this capitalistic terrorism. I suppose I was wrong for curbing my loathing for the true tyrants of Equestria.”
“Fowly…”
“But why live in the past. If he doesn’t have some ace up his sleeve, he’s dead anyway.” Peafowl’s acrid expression softened as he leaned into his cushions. “Now, Miss Treat, what do you think about a faux leather jacket and a jumpsuit, teal and black perhaps?”
Breath held, Brighteyes sneaked into the dark parlor, a bundle of letters held in his telekinesis. Since there was no bathroom in the attic, Peafowl was sound asleep on the chaise-lounge, a side table with everything he might need nearby. Worried that the hum of magic might wake his friend, Brighteyes ended it by placing the mail beside the bottles of drink and medicine.
Just when he turned to leave, having kept promise to Oleander, he heard a whimper, and it took him a second to realize it had come from Peafowl. The pegasus squirmed in his sleep, his good wing fluttering against his side, and the sight made Brighteyes’ heart sink. It couldn’t be from pain, he had followed the medication plan to the smallest pill. If it was a bad dream, then only Princess Luna could help.
Reluctant to both leave and stay, Brighteyes stepped into the corridor and stopped before his bedroom door. Patch had already gone to bed, and a part of him hoped that he would find her sleeping. The tension hadn’t faded after his foolish question, it had only become heavier, sharper, and he almost regretted asking.
Pushing the door open, he strutted forward and took position beside the bed to face the agog Scramble Patch atop. “I won’t ask any more questions. I’m sorry that I ruined the afternoon, but I think it would have done more damage not to ask. I know you have enough to worry about, but I want to stay involved. I’ve had much time to think, and Tea is right, we’ve been selfish with resources, he with magic and I with money and name.”
“Don’t you want to talk about this in bed?”
Brighteyes gasped for air, breathless from his speech. “You’re not mad?”
Lips pursed, Scramble Patch swatted a pillow, sending it flying against Brighteyes’ pastern. “Bad husband, wanting to help others! Bad!” Leaning back again, she cocked her head. “Is that enough?”
“Ha ha,” Brighteyes deadpanned, picked up the pillow and hopped onto the bed. Once he had gotten comfortable, he took her hoof in his and planted kisses over her foreleg and her nose before resting his head on hers. “I thought I just wanted my shop and a family. I mean, I still want that. Let’s start a family. As soon as possible.”
“I’d like that,” Patch answered, rubbing her cheek against his throat.
“I only joined the march to the castle because I felt I owed it to Fancy Pants, and while I’m ashamed of that, I want to try to do what he does, even if it means parties and whatnot. I’m not a fighter, so I want to help in any way I can.”
Scramble Patch lifted her hoof and started brushing little swirls into his chest fur. “Oh, I don’t know, you were pretty heroic during the changeling invasion.”
“Are you kidding me? I was scared out of my skin.”
“But you stayed. I couldn’t have done it without you.” She smiled up at him, pride gleaming in her eyes.
Smiling back, Brighteyes kissed her forelock. “I think I’ll be of more use in an office of sorts.”
“If that civil service’s the guard in anything but name, the future prince will hear from me.”
Brighteyes’ answer was a nervous chuckle. Her looks of disapproval alone were like an ursa major – seldom, but deadly. It promised an interesting sight though, the compact mare lecturing a tall prince.
“We’ll start small with the networking. Maybe for whatever Peafowl’s planning next. If he’ll tell me about it.” Scramble Patch sighed, and her face contorted into a frown. “Did you see the scar on his back?”
“It looks old, but I didn’t know he had it,” Brighteyes answered, calling forth the mental image. Seeing the pegasus without clothing had become a rarity, and the long jagged cut from withers to loins seemed to be the reason why.
“Neither did I. I’m worried. He’s keeping things from me.”
“What is he doing when he vanishes?”
Scramble Patch smiled a bitter smile. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Deciding that now was a good time, Brighteyes started to tell her about Oleander and his similar concerns. While she listened, Patch’s frown intensified, and she let out a low nicker when he was finished.
“That lunch’d better been just a platonic get-together.”
“You mean- They..? They’re..?” Patch had mentioned Peafowl having both fillyfriends and coltfriends before, and now that Brighteyes thought about it, Oleander seemed to fit the tall and muscular type his friend preferred. If so, he could have mentioned it. Canterlot wasn’t some backwater village.
“They had a few summer dalliances. They’re friends, they keep dancing around each other, but I fear Mister Hawkmoth finds mare, mead and music more important.”
“Flying through a storm seems quite dedicated to me.” Brighteyes shuddered, still at odds with the mere thought of uncontrolled weather. “Thinking I might never see you again set my priorities straight. Maybe it was similar for him.”
Scramble Patch sighed and pressed her nose against his neck. “I just don’t want Fowly to get hurt.” Running a hoof over her face, she pulled back and groaned. “Sweet niece and aunt, I’m mothering him again. No wonder he won’t talk.”
Feeling heroic, Brighteyes settled for a daring suggestion. “Maybe I could try speaking with him. Stallion to stallion.”
“That,” Scramble Patch blinked a few times, her eyes darting around, “could just work. You’re both not very good at talking about feelings. He won’t feel intimidated.”
Brighteyes kissed the corner of her mouth. “Oh, I’m the very worst…”
“No self-debasing humor,” she commanded, angling her head to lock lips with him.
“Sorry,” he murmured as he leaned forward to deepen the kiss.
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Read. Now waiting.
7998658
Good to still know you aboard.
This is like the most slice of life thing ever.
That's a good thing. Keep doing good thing.
7998786
Thanks!
I wasn't sure about adding Slice of Life to the tags, since it plays during and in the aftermath of a crisis. Not that Brighty was in any physical danger, then I'd tag it with Adventure, but more emotional, hence the Drama tag.
But on the other hand, this story is me working through the terrorist attack of Ansbach by writing something like it with ponies. I wasn't there, I was 60 kilometres away watching Star Trek: Beyond, but I normally work there at a chemist and know people that very well could have been at the concert where it happened.
Life went on, but I was kind of jumpy the week after. One time, a customer parked his trolley-bag-thing in front of the door without me seeing the process of parking, and my heart skipped a beat when came to the counters from the back and I thought "Sh*t, now one is trying to finish what the other started." I'm not proud of that moment.
In other words, I think I'll add the tag.
8045668 It's difficult for me to specify anything in particular about it. To be honest, I was really getting into this story, being a fan of the weedverse, until this particular chapter which just ruined my immersion, and made it difficult to enjoy the chapter after as things seemed to go slightly odd as well. This chapter was just so jarring to me.
I suppose it could be that you have difficulty making dialogue work, perhaps. Your character introspection is quite well done, but when your characters have to actually talk, it seems to sorta fall apart. Not sure how to fix that...
Then again, another possibility is that you don't properly introduce ideas or topics during conversation, meaning that things just get brought up without an introspective showing why, or smooth transitions. There's a difference between awkward conversation and random ideas, and this felt far more like the latter.
I suppose the biggest issue is how that scene starts, mainly; if he's there for Brighteye's friend, then why did he break into his neighbor's house?
I'm sorry to hear. 'The Stranger' was revised often, because I had difficulty finding the right angle. Maybe something essential got lost in translation, so to speak...
I'll reread the chapter and see if I can add something that might clarify things. Thank you for the pointers.
It was evening, and the shop Oleander was sending his letters to is closed. He doesn't know that Brighteyes lives there as well.
And it was Tiffin's personal opinion that the tearoom looked closed. For Oleander, it was light + door open = pony to ask for neighbouring shop owner. Gastronomy has different business hours than a regular shop. She ambushed him before he could announce himself, being dripping wet and all.
I see if I can work that in more clearly.
I declare this story "DEAD", and hurray that it is so, that the suspense of the wait shall be over!
8336580
I swear it is not.
I just have a lot going on and no time to refine the next chapter. Which I'm not quite happy with in its current state. But you're right, I should have made a blog post telling that. Which I'm going to to.