Proximity

by paperhearts

L—

(i)

Smolder had only cried once before in her life; the memory of letting her first hoard—a collection of basalt rocks that had been flecked like the night sky—being taken by another dragon still made her toes curl from embarrassment. But as her brother had advised her, after he had finished pummelling her for the stones and again for her moment of weakness, if someone steals something from you, you just hit them hard and steal it back.

And that had proved to be a simple solution to a simple problem.

Smolder knew though, the moment that they had forced her to abandon her flight, that these tears would not be solved so quickly and effectively. As she skulked in a tree like a fearful whelp, it felt as though her whole body was being ripped in two—the pony side and the dragon side—and the fragile stitches that had bound them together were unravelling under the strain. Her heart ached exactly like she knew it would, even though a dragon's really shouldn't. She could barely draw breath, her regrets and frustrations spat into the cooling air in ragged bursts. Her eyes burned, the dull pain alien and unnerving.

She had blown it. She had blown it big time. Not with Ocellus, maybe, but with herself. She couldn't say it, she couldn't even admit it, own it, despite how much she had tried. At the end of everything, she was still a dragon, still a hard, tough, uncompromising force of nature. But Ocellus had slowly made her feel something, had made her feel as though she could be something a little different, as though she didn't have to be hard and tough and uncompromising, but caring and honest and vulnerable.

And as she sat in the tree, watching the breeze harass the branches, the scent of pine taking the opportunity to escape, Smolder realised how much she wanted to be different. How much she wanted that caring and honest and vulnerable skin to be as comfortable and as natural as her own.

She straightened, ripping the nearby branches free and throwing pine cones at passing birds and squirrels, but such spiteful defences were easily scaled by the rising, frothing emotions within her. She could suddenly feel the sensation of Ocellus leaning against her, their bodies fitting together in ways that shouldn't really have worked; she could hear the wild staccato of her girlfriend's giggles, the intakes of breath whenever she discovered something new and wonderful.

And it had been she who had made Ocellus laugh, she who had discovered those things with her. Those memories, those feelings, it had been those which had bound her competing pieces together, and which, now exposed, were instead becoming the thinnest of blades. They slipped beneath her scales, jabbing and slicing in time with every heartbeat, every ragged breath.

For a few moments her blood raged against such traitorous things. She pulled back her hand and struck the trunk of the tree again and again, her claws turning it into a mass of scar tissue and oozing wounds. She continued to strike it long after her hand had become numb.

And then her fire went out.

Smolder pawed at her eyes, leaning her horns against the forgiving strength of the tree. Her lips tried to rediscover the shape of the word she had wanted to say, but it remained a stranger to them. Every time it crept close, jagged icicles formed in the pit of her stomach, and panic surged between her scales.

She was scared. By Cinderfoot's hoard, she was so scared.

Tears escaped her eyes, huddling into beads across her scales and turning the evening sunlight into something savage. Sensing an opening, Smolder's darkest fears moved to consume her.

Maybe she had changed. Maybe the terrible reality wasn't that she couldn't change, but that she would never be able to change enough.

(ii)

Ocellus had lost track of the number of times in her life that she had cried. It wasn't an act she was particularly ashamed of—sad or scary things happened, and you cried. It was simple cause and effect. Sometimes she was ashamed of the things that made her cry though. Things that no doubt seemed quite trivial to her friends, things like not having the energy to climb out of bed to face the day, or feeling so anxious about presenting her poetry to the rest of the class that she would throw up. It was still a source of shame for Ocellus just how easily she could fall apart, and how easily falling apart made her cry until her chest burned and her throat felt full of glass.

Ocellus knew though, the moment she had tried to explain to the others at the camp what had happened, that she was not going to let this become one of those moments. With barely an explanation chittered to Headmare Twilight and her friends, Ocellus pulled herself apart and into the familiar frame of a dragon, and soared above the forest in pursuit of her girlfriend.

It felt like her head had been turned into one of the battlefields that so fascinated her during history class. A part of her, desperate, unyielding and unwilling to become a single entity again now that she had tasted a union more potent than the distant echoes of her life as part of the old Changeling hive. Opposing it, the part of her that was tempered by and anchored to the world of ponies and friendship, the part of her that knew that Smolder was hurting and confused.

Because she was in love. For the first time, Smolder was in love—with her.

Ocellus scanned the treeline beneath her, a giddy flush spreading across her face. Smolder loved her. Smolder loved her. She allowed the memory of that delicious sensation to soak into her being, suddenly afraid that she would otherwise forget or reimagine it into something less genuine.

Smolder loved her. Smolder loved her. Smolder loved her.

For a moment she could feel the sensation of Smolder leaning against her, their bodies fitting together in ways that shouldn't really have worked; she could the hesitant rasp of her voice as they took turns reading the pages of novels during sunny afternoons, and she could see the flames in her eyes whenever they were separated by a chessboard.

And for the first time, Ocellus felt her own flames grow in earnest, consuming both her body and mind. She felt the determination within her that Smolder had helped to nurse into existence, and silently demanded it to grow further still.

She loved Smolder. She loved Smolder with all of her heart, and even if her girlfriend could never reciprocate those words, Ocellus wanted to be able tell her that.

A tremor passed through her body as she swooped lower, the tips of the trees tickling her feet.

She had changed—they both had. Ocellus just hoped that they hadn't changed too much.

Author's Note:

I'm busy doing literary festival stuff this weekend, but particularly during tomorrow. So this chapter is the Sunday update coming one day early.

This one went a little better than the last, in creation if not in quality, so I'm taking that as a win.

One more to go!

Comments

[Parker]

I l--- this chapter. 🧡

[RainbowDoubleDash]

Excellent. I am just adoring the competing draconic and changeling mindsets, the way way the two are reacting to their feelings and trying to parse them. I really, really hope things work out for our fragile wyrm and determined bug.

[semillon]

THIS IS BEAUTIFUL

you tap into something close to the sublime in ocellus's passage—though instead of an overwhelming force striking the fear of god into you, it's an overwhelming force opening you up to that exhilirating feeling of being in love, and it's something so familiar but strange and exciting and scary and——

this is some of the best work i've seen of you yet, at least in terms of evoking feeling; i adore it

[paperhearts]

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Thank you all very much, genuinely and fervently. I was incredibly apprehensive approaching this chapter after the last one, but it seemed to flow more naturally when I began to write it and it seems that I achieved the things I set out to do. I'm so flattered and delighted by your words, and appreciative of your continued reading and commenting. You've all really made my day, so thank you!

I have hedged my bets with the final chapter, plotting out a version with a happy ending and one with a sad ending. You know, just to keep you all tense.

[Kkat]

Damn, this is one amazing chapter! Just... wow.

Smolder had only cried once before in her life; the memory of letting her first hoard—a collection of basalt rocks that had been flecked like the night sky—being taken by another dragon still made her toes curl from embarrassment.

Right out of the gate, that hit me. I could really feel for Smolder. That sounds like a really cool little hoard. (Not so thrilled with the idea of her brother beating her, admittedly.) But damn, that was strong opening. You not only show what Smolder would cry over -- the loss of something precious -- but you show how she armored herself after. It is very telling that she never cried since... until now.

As she skulked in a tree like a fearful whelp, it felt as though her whole body was being ripped in two—the pony side and the dragon side—and the fragile stitches that had bound them together were unravelling under the strain.

The words "fearful whelp" have a real impact since we know that metaphor is coming from Smolder's feelings about herself. The follow-up is a particularly insightful description of the breakdown she is feeling from her internal conflict.

She could suddenly feel the sensation of Ocellus leaning against her, their bodies fitting together in ways that shouldn't really have worked...

For a moment she could feel the sensation of Smolder leaning against her, their bodies fitting together in ways that shouldn't really have worked...

I like how both Smolder and Ocellus had parallel feelings here. And how each was part of a triptych of fond memories, the other two being unique to their girlfriend.

(The writer in me ponders: would be more or less impactful with the shared element listed last rather than first? Either way, this was very nice.)

Smolder realised how much she wanted to be different. How much she wanted that caring and honest and vulnerable skin to be as comfortable and as natural as her own.

Damn I love this.

And then her fire went out.

This metaphor has so much more weight when applied to Smolder.

She was scared. By Cinderfoot's hoard, she was so scared.

Wow. This is a really powerful line, making Smolder so vulnerable like this.

Tears escaped her eyes, huddling into beads across her scales and turning the evening sunlight into something savage.

I love descriptions like this.

Sensing an opening, Smolder's darkest fears moved to consume her.

And again, that is really a very sharp, frightening choice of wording.

...how easily falling apart made her cry until her chest burned and her throat felt full of glass.

Ouch. Also, a very good description. I can empathize with how she is feeling.

She allowed the memory of that delicious sensation to soak into her being, suddenly afraid that she would otherwise forget or reimagine it into something less genuine.

I liked seeing that fear. It was one very understandable, and this is a moment she doesn't ever want to forget or question.

Smolder loved her. Smolder loved her. Smolder loved her.

My favorite line of the chapter.

[paperhearts]

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Ah, geez—praise like that is such an encouragement. Thank you very much, and I'm so glad you enjoyed it. As I said to someone else last year when it was first posted, after the previous chapter I was pretty anxious about even sitting down to write this one. It flowed a lot more easily though, and everything seemed to click without too much need for editing and restructuring. I'm not sure this story is something I would have revisited if this chapter had been as difficult to be honest; it probably would have just turned into a mad dash to the finish line.

That sounds like a really cool little hoard.

Fun fact: It was my very first hoard too.

Not so thrilled with the idea of her brother beating her, admittedly.

Ha, yeah, siblings be harsh. Particularly dragon siblings. I mean, it felt cold to write that for sure, but I just wanted to exaggerate a little more of their behaviour from the show. I could imagine them being pretty tough and dominant on each other, even when they're doing something ostensibly nice.

I'm really delighted to read that you liked the language and structure in this chapter. I think in hindsight it was one my favourites to write (so far, anyway). Writing about feelings and love is something I particularly enjoy doing. In fact, it wasn't until this story that I realised how much I wanted to write romance in real life too.

The writer in me ponders: would be more or less impactful with the shared element listed last rather than first?

Huh, interesting thought. I'm not even sure that came to me when I was writing it to be honest. As an exercise I might throw it in a GDoc and see what the end result looks like.

My favorite line of the chapter.

Ah, young, giddy, uncertain love. The best kind of love.