Dreams and Dementations

by AShadowOfCygnus

Coming of Age

Author's Note:

I'm told we never stop.

A burning ochre sort of day,
Wind sets dead branches all a-sway:
Not so grey as the stories say,
But funery in its own way.

---

Of course it's never as simple as just being right—there are always hurt feelings, always some pain to a parting. That's only natural, isn't it?

He'd asked her to come with him, and many wistful sighs they’d shared, but when the chips came down—she wouldn’t. Couldn’t, she’d said: couldn't leave her mother, her little sisters—the same sisters she bitched about every spare moment in the stockroom, of course. What was it that trapped her there, and why couldn’t she see?

She'd begged him to stay, but he couldn’t. Wouldn’t, he’d shouted, as traffic flowed uncaringly around them. Wouldn't go home to his parents' disappointed looks again, trying to figure out what expectations he'd been expected to figure out that day. He had a life to live, and if she didn’t want to be part of it, well . . .

Anywhere but here, he thinks to himself as the conductor stamps his little book of tickets. Next stop Hoofwich, and from there, a chance to redefine—reimagine. The guitar bumps against his heel as he boards the train, finds a seat on the far side of the carriage, where he can watch the long sunset along the prairie.

Maybe he hears a shout from the platform; maybe he can hear her calling out through her tears. It’d only be natural.

And maybe even how it should be.

---

There's a soft bump as the balloon slips its moorings. She pumps the rickety bellows, pilot after the light, watching the flame swell before her sight. Routine now, save for the excitement—her first time alone, with Da's love an’ blessing. She waves to him in the field below, blue among the sunflowers. She can see him smile, see the reflected shine from his cheeks. It had to be hard, after Ma, but he'd relented, and here she was.

Soaring over the fields, over the town, she felt the familiar excitement building in a way it hadn’t . . . well, since the last time she’d been up here, really. A spread blue view above, a sprawling wild green below; buildings and mountains, fog and farm-furrows: a world all her own, and not a single ruttin’ Pegasus in her one-Unicorn town to try and take it away from her. Ha!

She trims the flame a little, levelling off just over the treeline—mighty tall trees in these mountains, but who’s countin’?—and does that little trick of Ma’s to taste the breeze, guiding the rudder with her free hoof. Find the right spot, and she could sit here up here all day, just watchin’ the twin horizons ebb and flow with the edge of the basket. She’d promised to take it up for just a quarter-hour this time, but what was he going to do, ground her?

She snickers a bit at the delightfully subversive little thought. Even as she knows she’s never going to take herself up on it—it would break his poor heart, and send him sick with worry—there’s a certain liberation in even imagined rebellion. Maybe twenty minutes.

And if he worried? Well, she’d gotten stuck over a tree and wanted to make sure she came down safely. She grins (evilly, she thinks), and flops onto the makeshift couch aft of the burner with her journal to wile away the afternoon.

Or just a minute more.

---

He feels his cheeks burning as the crowd pushes them closer together, wings oh-so-slowly on the rise. They’d been friends for who knows how long—the Pegasus and the Griffon; always a pair, they said. Always working on their flying, always the first on the school field when someone suggested a game. That seems to be the general tone of the crowd at the moment—an excitable subsonic rumble, with the occasional encouraging (?!) whoop thrown in.

It’s flattering, really, and it means a lot they care, but . . . he’d never really thought they . . . well, that they had a chance. Or that he did. Words. Hard. Especially now he was being stared down by literally everyone in their year.

A thousand little things raced through his mind. Would his parents freak? Griffons weren’t exactly known for their open-mindedness, and he was a frickin’ Pegasus, for pity’s sake—they’d been at war. The whole—animosity thing, and, like . . . he knew his parents would be fine, but . . .

Goddamn, was he pretty.

That little asymmetric coif of feathers, in that super-cute boy-band manestyle? Guh. And those eyes . . . Man, he looks just as confused as anyone, a little bead of sweat running down that perfect beak. He doesn’t know his best friend had set this all up, thinks it was another game.

At his expense? No—hells, no. He had to work up to it—say something before this got out of control, before the expectancy around them broke and someone said it for him. The words tumble out, half-formed, mostly remembered.

‘Hey, um—Baldr? I know this might seem like it’s comin’ outta nowhere, so I get if you want us to just stay friends and all . . .’ Oh, jeez, that look. How did he pull off the puppy-dog so friggin’ well? Had he ever seen a puppy? ‘Well, uh . . .’

Words were failing him. Jeez, dude! C’mon. You had this down last night. All the right words.

‘I don’t—I don’t want to jeopardise what we got, bro—I love you.’ Oh frick. ‘I just . . . I kinda want it to be more? Like—’

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence. Baldr’s on him like white on rice (who came up with that expression, anyway? Why was it the first one in his head?), holding him, his head turning, leaning in . . .

Their muzzles meet—fumble a little, around unfamiliar anatomy. Then lips met beak, and—

Holy fricking tongue?!?!

He absolutely melts in those arms, and it’s all he can do to stay on his hooves as he presses in close. They kiss, and it’s like he’s walking on air. Moreso than usual, even—like he could sail on moonbeams, or let himself be danced around stars. Only heightened when Baldr pulled back to look him in the eye and whisper that one little word he’d been waiting for and dreading.

The excitable whoops the crowd loosed on seeing the kiss erupt into a storm of cheers and well-wishes. Much good-natured catcalling and back-slapping had by all. Maybe too much. Ow.

Then Baldr leaned in for another kiss and everything outside the two of them cuts off like a badly-tuned radio.

Sweet Celestia, how had it ever taken him this long to ask?

---

It’s only natural he’d slip eventually.

Mud’s thick, and neither the rain nor the foremare's agitated barks are doing anything to help. Even ten stallions in a froth can only move so much at a go, and that moon-burned wagon is overloaded to hell and back. Whose bright idea was it to downsize from six teams to four on a worksite this size, anyway? Each of them push and grunt against the slushy ground; against the taut, biting straps of the work harness. Any other day, any other work-site, they’d be joking at the sexualness of it, but right now it’s all they can do to save their breath.

He knows it’s coming—knows it has been for a long-ass time; the sharpness when he bends down, the bluntness when he rolls over at night. The boys had told him it was normal, all part of the job, that everyone went through it at some point. He could always try his luck elsewhere, but in a town like this, with a skillset like his . . . ?

And besides, didn’t he need the money?

Rent wasn’t getting any cheaper, so he’d drowned his anxiety and his painkillers with a pint that night—every night since—and gone back in the next morning with a smile on his face.

And when, this afternoon, he felt the first long-ignored something shift in his back on the seventh or eighth heave, he’d swallowed whatever noise he might’ve made and pressed on ahead.

The second time—now—he screams: his legs jelly beneath him, his whole spine on fire. The wagon slips, and the whole team grinds to a halt as he falls into the mud. The foremare whips around, murder and insurance premiums in her eyes, and the boys around him just stare and stare and stare.

And of course it’s only natural, he realises later, in a moment of hospital-bed opiate clarity. Too much left for them to lose.

---

When Da died, blessedly, the worst of the debts died with him; only so much they could try to claim, and she swore to the magistrate she’d be takin’ his sorry butt to court if he tried to press on with the subparagraph whoosit that was leanin’ on the house or whatever. She was sixteen and as Celestia was her witness—signed and notarised—she knew her rights.

But there are some things even those protections didn’t extend to, and she knows it—knows it’s fair, too. Debt from crop failure or a bad hand of cards was one thing; twenty years’ worth of back-payments on a tractor? Luna’s beard, Da. Heck, she knew Old Man Sorghum like he was her own grandpa, and it’d been damned kind of him to forestall that long, no matter how Nightmare-fearing he might have been, or how good a friend of Da’s.

And in the end, when the accounts were emptied and the heirlooms pawned, it came down to two last bits of collateral, old and cheap and ratty as they were: the house, and the balloon. It shouldn’t have been as hard as it was, nor come as close to tears, but the taxmare had said it best: with Discord burning the Heartland for a fortnight now, even if they managed to get him back in that statue, well . . .

Well, it’d be hard for anyone to find a house without chickens for doorknobs, or stale mooncake for plumbing. Doubly so some girl from the North without a penny to her name.

Deliberate or not (though she had her suspicions), that had struck home. And, predictably, she’d shouted and stamped and puffed out her chest, and they’d been politely unimpressed, and in the end she’d sat herself down in the sparse little kitchen and cried herself into a corner.

She briefly fancied just locking up the house, and—and just going. There were so many places left to see, left for even the Ministry of Surveyors to explore, Daring Do . . . She could take the balloon and never come down again, except maybe to bathe, or trade.

The empty house sighed noiselessly about her, settling in the summer sun.

She could buy another balloon.

The old goat was coming to pick it up now—some out-of-towner from Celestia-knew-where—and here she was out in front, neat little sundress and a neat little hat, practising primness. She kept forgetting to take her hoof off the neat little package beside her on the unkempt lawn. Her stiff legs ached.

And her eyes flew up, and there he was, coming down the walk, all smiles, and her hoof flew to the neat little knot again.

Just a minute more. Please.

---

They’d bickered about the nursery. Pink or blue? Adventurous green? Or something more neutral, like mauve? Was there even any point in it, when they didn’t know what the child would be yet. That wasn’t part of the surrogacy programme at this stage, unfortunately—the mother carried it to term, and until then it was still technically her choice as to doctors’ visits and such.

But they’d bought the paint anyway—whole cans of it that they’d had to lug back, as well—and said they’d figure it out with a little testing in the room itself. But that was the sticking point, as it turned out; curtains and kitchenettes and bedspreads they could handle, but as Cadence blessed them both they could not agree on the baby.

And it had escalated, and there had been acrimony, and recrimination, and name-calling, and now his boy had stormed out for a (long, he’d shouted) drink and here he was in the cute coveralls he’d picked out for today, and the paint had gotten under the tarp, and everything just sucked.

He could’ve sat there, and he could’ve cried, and he could’ve finished the argument in his head. But gods-damn him if he didn’t get up on his four hooves, burst through that front door, and chase down his hard-headed husband before this could fester.

He caught him from behind, burying his face in feathers, felt those tense shoulders drop. It was the best thing all day—weeks, maybe. Work had been hard, words harder. He said something to that effect, muffle-fluff, into the back of Baldr’s neck, and the Griffon laughed. He hadn’t heard it that rich in a good long while.

They walked back, and he placed his head firmly in the crook of Baldr’s shoulder, just like they used to on the walks home from school. It was silly, and they giggled when they reached the house—he almost said something about inviting him inside, but . . . no. No, it was time for seriousness.

And seriousness they had. They sat, and they talked, and they bitched, and they worried, and they spilled every bean from here to Ponyville. Baldr was worried about being a good father—not pushing the kid in any one direction, letting it figure itself out for itself. The paint was part of that, apparently; some kinda Griffon tradition he’d never bothered talking about because he thought it was universal.

He worried about the kid becoming a breaking point, worried that it was going to cause them stress. If they couldn’t handle this, were they ready? The doctor had said they could opt out at any time—other parents, other couples could be found. He didn’t want to bring it up because he didn’t want to be a worrywart—wanted things to work out fine. Because they would, right? Together?

It was dark when they were done, and their stomachs rumbled. They got a good joke out of that—some parents, not even listening to their own needs. Dinner helped, and the talk had too.

And when they went to bed that night, the paint cans resealed and haphazardly piled in a corner with the brushes, he felt . . . better. More confident than he had in weeks. Together.

Commitment. Together. Responsibility. Together. All the scary things the world could summon. Together.

Sweet Celestia, how had it ever taken them this long just to talk?

---

He wishes the chair rocked.

Autumn’s quiet, with the neighbourhood kids back in school, and he has a little more time than he would otherwise to admire the long orange sunset stretching out over the plain, nicely framed in living pine. Another gentle moment in a long parade of similar, though whether by dint of memory or simple repetition, they still hold something approximating meaning.

Ah, and there they are now, scampering back to their homes, bookbags flapping. One of them notices him, stops to wave. He returns it, mechanically; smiles, by force of habit. It seems to satisfy the little tyke, and off she runs, catching up her expectant peers.

They never really liked him, he got the feeling, but the vaunted title of Town Confectioner won you more friends than you knew what to do with anyway. Chocolate’s a perennial favourite, after all; and the various forms of taffy, liquorice, and rock-suckers besides.

Chocolate’s best for them, he reckons, after many long years of study—all the sugar they could crave, and the barest hint of bitterness to remind them what life would be without it. Not as though he’s got the energy left to be bitter these days, of course. Or overmuch in the way of kind. He just . . . is. And is is most definitely old.

He pops the wheel-locks, and rolls himself back inside. The chair bumps a little on the threshold—of course—and over barewood floors. The door clicks on its automatic lock behind him, and his ear flicks—just a little, recognisant. He bypasses the dining room, heading for the little closet under the disused attic stairs. Dinner can wait, on a night like tonight.

A little cloud of dust rises as he pulls open the door. Surely it can’t have been that long since the last time—surely? The guitar itself seems pristine, at least, and it sounds exactly as he remembers.

The acoustics in the front room are best, and, hey, he can still watch the sunset, even without glasses. Maybe better that way—less likely to burn out what he’s got left if he can’t actually see it, right? It doesn’t take him long to situate himself, to feel the soft rays warming the grey fur of his muzzle again, to breathe in the comfort of four walls.

In the soft light of open-windowed afternoon, a few gentle chords ring out on the breeze, and are just as swiftly lost in the whisper of the evergreens.

And he smiles. In the end, it’s just for him, and that’s exactly as it should be.

---

Pans and breakfast plates clatter against the old, cast-iron sink as she watches the four of them romp around the yard.

It’s some kind of game he brought with him from down south—some combination of tag, flag-football, and keepaway the kids in his caravan came up with on their way out the Heartland after Discord’s attack on Ponyville and Canterlot. She’d never really gotten the hang of it herself, but watching him bound and frolic out there reminds her of when they were young—she, meagre farmer, careworn; he small, mousey, and earnest.

How she’d convinced him to stay she’d never know; how he’d helped her make that empty house a home again she’d never forget. Kids came after, reluctant though she was. Solitude had its benefits, and she would’ve been just as happy to keep him all to herself—or cut him loose, if the dreams of world travel didn’t suit.

But we all make compromises; she’d learnt that lesson early. Plans were postponed, duties invented, and futures provided for—school for the foals, retirement for themselves; food and a carriage and renovations to the aging house. And it wasn’t as though they weren’t well enough off: between the two of them, they’d never hurt for money again, but that didn’t . . .

She sighs.

Here she is again, hoping for the unreasonable. Even if she got her hooves on one, would she even remember how to pilot it? How to catch a current, make it her own? How to manoeuvre the basket with just her weight and ballast?

It’s a thing of the past, and she—

A sudden change in mid-morning light catches her eye. One of those beautiful puffy-white clouds has moved out from in front of the sun and . . . and before her a shining tableau. Her husband, arching around a two-pronged attempted tackle by the twins, and her youngest, the surprise Pegasus . . .

The pot drops with a clang, and for a moment, the breath catches in her throat. She’s never used those wings before except to flutter in place, and now she’s bounding over the hedge, nearly twice again as high as her father is tall. But that’s not what hits her hardest.

It’s the look of rapture, of joy, as she crests the hedge, her head slightly tilted, as if—as if seeing the world through new eyes.

And in an instant it’s gone, and the three of them have dogpiled their poor father, muted giggles covering up whatever adorable squeaking noise he made when he hit the ground. And she just stands there, as her heart beats faster and faster; as it all floods back. She feels lighter than she has in years.

No more waiting. She leaves the dishes where they lay, and starts pulling down account books. They have the money, and she the plan. No more waiting, and no more hoping for that little extra time.

Today’s the day she starts, and today’s the day she shows them the her they’ve been missing.

Not one minute more.

---

They’d sat there for a long time as the doctor had explained. He’d known from the start it wasn’t good news, but it isn’t until he notices the tremor running through the hoof holding the clipboard that it really starts to sink in.

There are so many apologies—so many little danger signs they say they should’ve caught. Irregular visits, seemingly clinical fatigue, elevated hormone levels on the rare occasion she did keep an appointment. And when they finally found the body, it had been days, and even then they could smell the poppy on her tongue.

His eyes glaze over.

Haemorrhage . . . died painlessly, at least . . . the child . . .

And there it was, the child. No chance for the little one; of course not. Not after the near-week it had taken the local magistrate to think there might be a problem. Even if it—she—had been born, the brain damage alone . . .

Mortified . . . can’t imagine what you’re going through . . . the state is ready to offer . . .

By the end, he isn’t even listening anymore. Neither of them, he suspects.

The carriage ride is quiet; it hasn’t really sunk in enough for there to be tears, yet. They jump a little, with the bumps, but beyond that . . . it’s just a matter of holding.

It’s dark when they get home, but Baldr met someone from the office on the way home, explained what had happened and that they wouldn’t be likely to be in for a day—maybe more. There had been no objection. Or, well, he supposed. He didn’t seem to be hearing too well around this strange ringing in his ears, so maybe someone had said something and . . .

Words. Just . . . words. And he can’t bother with them anymore, they’re so little use.

It takes awhile, but Baldr joins him in the baby’s—Claria’s—room. The ruddy glow of the flickering gas streetlight outside does nothing to warm them, or the frosty-blue walls with their painted fluffy clouds. The skies are on fire.

He sits, heavily, narrowly missing the unfinished crib, and Baldr joins him. Shoulder to shoulder, they just . . . sit there, for a bit. He doesn’t object when he feels the soft wing-tips crawl around his shoulder, nor the gentle beak grooming his mane. It may not be for his benefit, but what does it matter, really?

No tears, no closeness, no . . . nothing. Right now, all he can think about is the girl, and how it could have taken them so fucking long to notice.

---

And it may yet be that Tragedy
Is ever only a matter of Time:
A glacial chase at snail’s pace;
The chilling tide of mortal rime.

But in the end I cannot say,
With so much Time still left to burn,
We should not chase what dreams we have
Or rage at scars we’ve yet to earn.