Vale

by AShadowOfCygnus

I.

‘Hey! Are you awake?’

I am now.

I groan and roll over. Even without the benefit of a window, I know it’s entirely too early to be dragging myself out of bed: about fifteen minutes before sunrise, about five seconds after she bounds out of bed herself. I’ve seen her do it. One second she’s asleep, then something in her internal water-clock ticks over and she springboards out from under the sheets and dashes off to go do whatever strikes her fancy.

And now she’s standing impatiently at the foot of my bed, waiting for me to join her in the morning routine. She’s not quite tall enough to be able to prod me from where she’s standing, but I know her sharp little eyes are regarding me intently over the edge of the bedspread. She probably thinks I haven’t woken up yet, and in another second, she’ll—

‘Come on!’ she says, and I can feel something pawing at the comforter just shy of my tail. ‘The sooner you get up, the sooner we can have breakfast!’

Water-clock.

Ugh. It was—what, two past the Aught when I fell asleep? Sun rises early this time of year, so . . . yeah. Three hours. Or less. Depends on how things are going in Canterlot this morning.

‘G’murnin ter you too, Princess,’ I say, the greeting somewhat muffled by the pillow I’ve thrown over my head.

‘I’m not a Princess!’ she wails, stamping her little hoof. ‘Princesses don’t get up early and do important things like . . . like have breakfast! And shower! And garden! And . . . and stuff!’

She gets so indignant when I call her that. I mean, really, it’s the only reason I do it at all. Can’t for the life of me understand what gets her so hacked off—every little filly I knew when I was young wanted to be a princess when they grew up.

Still, I can practically hear her pouting, and I know the limits of a good tease, so in the interests of starting the day on the right hoof, I relent.

‘A’ight, I’m getting up.’

‘Yay!’

She bounds away, and, after a few moments, I stir. With a practised motion, I throw back the duvet and perform the far-too-acrobatic-for-this-time-of-morning reverse-vertigo-flop out of bed and onto my waiting hooves. (Mornings! The best time of day for Words.) It’s not exactly what I’d call comfortable, but I can’t deny it does the job.

One of my bunkmates the first couple of years out of the Academy taught me that one—his way of getting back at the sergeants for keeping us up at all hours, he said. His ears were perfectly attuned to the clank of those heavy golden boots, and any time they drew near the barracks door, he’d be out of bed and at parade rest before it even finished opening. Bastard snuck in so many extra winks that first year.

My vision is still clearing, but even as I stretch and yawn and roll my neck, I can’t deny that I’m a lot more awake than I was a second earlier. He was always going on some homeopathic screed about getting the humours flowing and balanced and all that guff, but as far as I’m concerned, it just works.

That last roll of the shoulders produces a very satisfying pop, and I wince appreciatively at the release. You taught me that one.

When I look up, I fully expect to be alone in the room, but—no, there she is, still standing there in the doorway. Apparently there’s some doubt as to whether I’ll keep my promise and not crawl back under the covers, perfect track-record of breakfasts notwithstanding.

But it’s more than that. Her little body is tensed, and she has a massive grin plastered over her face. It takes a moment, but I recognise what she’s after.

‘Lookin’ for a race, kiddo?’ I mumble, stifling a second, truly massive yawn.

She nods vigorously.

‘Better get a head start, then. I won’t go easy on ya.’

She gasps, eyes wide, and gallops off down the hall, pushing off the bedroom door with enough force to slam it shut behind her.

‘That’s a false start.’ I call out as I amble over to the wood-panelled sliding door. ‘Ref hadn’t called it yet.’

I fumble with the latch for a moment, my horn—and brain—still getting used to the idea of using magic this early in the morning. The door rattles open just in time to cover whatever muffled apology was flung my way from down the hall.

I ponder my next move, leaning on the wall to steady myself as I stretch my back legs. Bathroom? Bladder’s not so full it needs immediate attention, and the shower can wait ‘till after breakfast, so probably not.

Pushing myself off the wall, I wander down the hall to the kitchen. The wood-panelling slips past, dream-like, along with a few more sliding doors. The house is surprisingly compartmentalised—lots of little rooms along the hall, bedrooms mostly, each with their own weathered sliding door. Only real outliers are the musty storeroom, where we got most of the furniture, and the surprisingly well-appointed bathroom down the other end of the hall. A quick survey is enough to confirm that none of the latches besides hers have been disturbed. Good.

And at the end of the hall stands the lone, triumphant filly, her fluffy chest puffed out with pride.

‘I win!’ she gloats, grinning widely.

I chuckle, again covering for an absolute ripper of a yawn. ‘Yeah, kind of amazing what you can do when you sabotage the competition right out of the starting gate. We’ll rematch tomorrow.’

‘You’re on!’ she positively squeaks. Still chuckling, I ruffle her mane affectionately and move past her into the kitchen.

Well, I call it the kitchen. Whoever built this place had clearly meant for it to house a dozen or so ponies at any given time, and, as such, the . . . conservatory, or foyer, or whatever damn fool thing the architectural types back home would have called the common area around the front door, comprises an open kitchen and dining area on one side, and a sort of spartan sitting-room on the other. The short stair leading down to the front door demarcates the two halves of the room, and an ornately-patterned rug – only slightly moth-eaten – leads from the top step to the end of the hall.

The sitting room side has a well-stocked bookshelf built into the back wall, and also contains much of the furniture we’d found in the storeroom: a low sofa, some assorted armchairs, an end-table or two, and some lamps. The kitchen, on the other hoof, was fully furnished when we’d arrived – wood-burning stove, countertop, sink, even an icebox (albeit empty). A short-legged slab of hardwood, fashioned in the Neighponese style, serves as our dining table, the soft cushions dotting its perimeter in lieu of traditional chairs.

It’s still fairly dark, but a faint glow is beginning to colour the shuttered windows on the west-facing wall. Unbidden, the little filly races over and begins flinging them wide as I head for the larder. I peer inside for a moment, thanking the non-existent gods of the hearth for dark-adjusting equine eyes, then reach carefully around the largest sack of oats for a box of cereal and some fruit. Grabbing some dishes and cutlery from a nearby cupboard in my field, I set about preparing breakfast for myself and the little one, who has since finished opening the windows and plopped herself down on one of the cushions. I slide a bowl of cereal and a generous helping of mountain berries in her direction, and she tucks right in.

If she misses the milk for her cereal, she doesn’t say anything. The last of our stock ran dry a few days ago, and . . . well, I don’t even remember the last time we saw a cow, much less one in a fit state to produce.

I stare for a moment at the bowl of cereal and diced apple I’ve thrown together for myself, almost unconsciously. You’d have managed to pull off something spectacular each and every morning with everything that lives in that larder. However much you tried to deny it, you always were an absolute wizard in the kitchen.

Me? I’ve been having enough trouble figuring out bread from scratch. Mixed greens, tinned beans, pancakes: those’re more my speed. And if it were just me I had to worry about—

‘Aren’t you hungry?’

My head snaps up. She’s almost done with her bowl and is looking at me inquisitively, spoon halfway to her mouth. A rueful smile crosses my muzzle as I belatedly pick up my own utensil and tuck in.

‘Yeah, sorry. Just waking up, is all.’

This seems to satisfy her, and she nods sagely before returning to her bowl, fishing around in the bottom for whatever berries might have escaped her before. It’s fascinating to watch her eat. She gets this little look of determination with every bite, like she’s trying to sample every little nuance of flavour, but at the same time, she puts it away at speeds even your old dad would’ve been hard-pressed to match.

Snapping up a last spoonful of berries, she grabs her bowl and heads for the sink. She tries to fumble with the faucet for a minute without using the stepping stool, then grumbles and admits defeat. She is a very little pony for her age, and that seems to aggravate her more than anything else.

‘I’m gonna go shower,’ she announces from the stool, giving her bowl a cursory rinse before setting it in the sink.

‘Okay. Do you want me to come with you?’

She considers that for a moment, then, a little unsure: ‘No. I think I got it.’

‘Alright. Shout if you need anything?’

‘Mkay!’

And she trots off in the direction of the bathroom.

I can hear the bathroom door slide open, then slam shut a second later. My ears flick in annoyance, and something beneath my horn twinges sharply in response. I hate having to talk to her about it again, but twice in one morning is enough to warrant the reminder.

I like to think I’m figuring her out, now. The worst days, when we were just starting out, and the magic was still bright-white fire in everyone’s heads and any sharp noise or surprise was a crystal spike to the eye-socket, I’d just scream. I know she understood, that she knew the difference between that and raising the hoof to her I never did, but I still see the fear in those eyes any time I start to get angry. Such a rutting balancing act.

She’s been getting much better about it lately, though: less flinching, more acknowledging nods. Maybe I’m finally rubbing off on her. Or—mm. She’s definitely getting on towards the age where the independent streak asserts itself, and she’s been doing a lot more around the house to make sure I ‘know’ she can take care of herself. It’s a very quiet and comfortable sort of rebellion, but it’s there. Nothing like the fights you and Marigold—

. . .

I open my eyes again. The last dregs of my soggy apple-and-cereal concoction are staring balefully at me from the bottom of the bowl. Food suddenly seems a great deal less appetising, but I force myself to down what’s left before walking over and depositing the bowl next to its sister in the sink—maybe a little more roughly than usual, if the clatter is anything to go by.

I’m sorry. It’s always been harder when it comes to her. I told you that once, and you seemed to understand.

Shaking my head furiously, I walk to the bathroom, where I can already hear the water running. I knock before entering—she’s not especially modest, but it’s still polite—and when there’s no complaint, I enter. The shower’s already running full-bore, filling the room with a thick, buoying blanket of steam. I breathe out a sigh of pleasure, and close the door quietly before any of the delightful vapours can escape.

She’s humming to herself in the shower.

‘Doing okay in there?’

‘Yep! I’ll be out soon. I wanna make sure there’s enough hot water left for you.’

‘Thanks,’ I chuckle, wiping some of the condensation off the mirror. The bright green eyes that greet me through the slightly-less-steamy hole are the same ones as they are every morning. Which is good. Wouldn’t want to wake up suddenly a Changeling or something.

Mane’s a mess, but that’s to be expected—starting to get too long to handle. I know you always preferred it short—so did I!—but guess which one of us actually did the cutting? And I don’t care if it is just one little filly who sees me on a day-to-day basis, I’m not going to risk the ember-ends trick all your friends in Canterlot used to suggest I try. The girls at the salon called it mange-fire for a reason.

Speaking of which . . .

Taking my mane in a magical grip and leaning in close, I pull back my bangs to check my rootline, running a practised eye over the length of the border between the wavy black strands and the softer tan fuzz beneath.

Nope, just as dark as ever; a few stragglers that escaped the magical field, but no grey. No fractures, either—good. Every instructor I’ve ever had has made it a point to tell me that I have exceptional magical stamina, but I doubt they ever considered the toll this level of activity could take.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. Am I overthinking again? Probably. But it’s never exactly been a secret what can happen when we overexert ourselves, and it’s only gotten worse since the Pyre was lit. The kid and I saw more than our fair share of shambling dregs on the roads in the early days.

My eyes scan further down.

Body looks fine. Better muscle tone and a little less mass than you would remember. I was never a slouch, but the work I’ve been doing on the house has kept me fit. Probably thinner than I should be, of course, but that’s kind of inescapable these days, especially since it means she eats her fill. Coat looks good too; almost imperceptibly lighter where the scars are showing through, but no patches—means we’re getting enough protein. Thank the skies for tinned beans.

Behind me, the shower curtain is flung wide, and a dripping-wet-and-sputtering filly head pokes out, followed immediately by a reaching hoof. The latter grabs for a towel as the remainder of the filly hops out of the shower and onto the mat, not bothering to turn off the water.

She shakes off some of the excess before draping the towel over her back and beginning to scrub.

‘Want some help?’ I say, looking over from the counter.

‘Yes, please.’

She stands there patiently as I amble over and pull the towel off her back to start drying her off. ‘Good shower?’

‘Yep!’ she chirps through the towel as I swab her face. ‘You can go in now.’

‘Left me some hot water, yeah?’

She nods, rubbing up against the towel that’s now working its way through her obscenely long mane. Seriously, I’m complaining about mine—hers is practically dragging on the floor.

When it’s dry—drier—I pull the towel back and offer it to her. ‘You gonna be able to do the rest yourself?’

‘Think so,’ she answers, taking up the slack. I give her damp mane one last ruffle, then head towards the shower.

Ah, right, before I forget:

‘Hey, by the way, what’ve I told you about slamming doors?’

Her eyes fall. ‘Right . . . sorry.’

‘No sweat. You’re a big, strong pony, yeah? I just don’t wantcha breaking down the house, is all.’ I give her a hearty wink as I step into the shower.

At least she laughs.

I slide the shower curtain shut, and—ohh, the water’s still hot. Not just the usual high-altitude tepidity, hot. What goddess did I please this morning?

From the other side of the curtain: ‘Can I go outside when I’m dry?’

‘As long as you promise not to fly higher than the house, alright?’

‘Alright!’

‘Alright what?’ Yeah, I’m being cheeky. I’m also making sure she gets it.

She sighs. ‘I promise.’

‘Right-o, off you go, you little scamp. I’ll be out in a minute, okay?’

‘Kaythanksbye!’

She practically gallops out of the bathroom, sliding the door shut with a crash. It’s by no means a small noise by itself, but it echoes painfully through my skull in the enclosed space.

‘Door!’ I call out after her.

‘Sorry!’

---

The shower does wonders for my wakefulness, and I bask in every second of the white-hot stream, but it starts to cool before long. I step out of the shower and—following the kid’s example—shake myself down, spraying droplets everywhere.

It’s not exactly the most refined method, but if you need to get dry quick, nothing beats. Still, I grab my towel from the rack and quickly finish what the shaking started. I’d rather not leave her outside by herself too long.

When I’m mostly dry, I slide open the bathroom door, running a hoof through my damp mane to try and force it out of my eyes. I’m mostly successful.

As I wander into the sitting room, I notice that sunlight is streaming freely into the room from the eastern windows. Must’ve taken longer in the shower than I thought. Or—something. The days are strange now.

One final flip of my tail and I head down the stairs to the north-facing front door—which she’s left ajar. Sigh. I mean, I can follow the logic: if it’s not closed, it can’t have been slammed. Fortunately, it’s early yet, else the sun-caffeinated bugs would probably have gotten in by now.

I call out to her as I step onto the porch. She’s out on the lawn, muzzle-deep in a dandelion blooming in the thick grass. She waves when she sees me, and goes back to what she was doing. Perfectly fine; so long as I know she’s alright. I wander off to one side of the porch to take in the morning view.

It's a pretty morning. Those aren’t exactly a rarity around here, but I do my best to appreciate it nonetheless. Feeling the sun on your face is something you learn to appreciate when it’s one of the few things you can count on day-to-day, and watching it play off the water the way it does from up here is something I’ll never get tired of. I rest my head on my hooves, leaning on the balustrade, and just watch it for a while.

The—tch, I’m really not inclined to call it an ‘estate’, even if that’s very likely what it was at one point. The house, and its very nice grounds, are situated on a wide grassy shelf at the head of a narrow valley sweeping away to the east to meet the sea; the sheer cliff forms the eastern edge of our little domain. To the south, starting about fifty yards from the house, dense evergreen woods swallow the land completely, enough to muffle the thundering river that feeds the gorge below; to the north and west, the craggy spires of the Unicorn range lose themselves in the high mists of the coast.

The valley floor is all water—and I don’t mean, like, the river continues down there or something, it’s all water, fed by that torrent of waterfall down south—and if you catch it on a good day, you can see all the way out to the sea. I don’t remember the unpronounceable name the locals had for it (‘ffyord’ or some-such), or how it was marked on our official maps, but I do remember every single one of those giggly half-drunk joke names we passed around the table those first few nights: ‘the Divide’, ‘the Scar’, ‘the Mare in Repose’, ‘the Great Sucking Sea-Gash of the Eastlands’.

It’s all very sharp land, full of absolutes: you’re either halfway up a sheer cliff-face or perched on some idyllic grassy outcrop you could balance a wineglass on. Definitely a far cry from the rolling hills and sloping dales you’ll find just about anywhere else in Equestria. Would’ve inspired its fair share of rugged ink sketches, I’m sure—the rocks and the shoals, above and below.

Back home in landlocked Ponyville, the river was the biggest body of water most of us ever got to see. There were a few ponds scattered here and there around the outlying farms, true, but nothing on quite this scale. The closest thing probably would’ve been the artificial lake behind the dam, way up the river, and as far as I know it wasn’t really all that much of an attraction; I can’t remember anyone in town daytripping up there on a lark.

I never had. I’d never really paid much mind to water—it was just . . . there, ready to be drawn out of wells and taps and showerheads whenever it was needed. Those wells never ran dry, so we never wanted for it; the dam-keepers and the weather-tenders saw to it the river never flooded, so we never learned to fear it. It never changed an iota, and so we never appreciated it. I never appreciated it.

And then I saw the sea.

I caught it on one of the good days, couple of weeks after deployment. At first, I thought it was some trick of the light—not even the fields and forests back home, the tightly-ordered orchards and geometrical acres of grain, were so perfectly uniform. I could see all the way out to the horizon, and all along the shimmering length, from the foot of the cliff below me to that dim and hazy line eastward, the ripples, the colour, the grey-green alienness of it never changed, never faltered. Where were the trees? Where were the rivers and houses and roads? Where were the ponies?

I remember standing there, in the courtyard of the Dun, staring down the length of the ravine and out to the sea, just . . . dumbfounded, y’know? I thought maybe one of the other Unicorns was having a laugh at my expense with some kind of negative-space illusion—hazing one of the newbies or whatever. Or maybe just the opposite—some kind of art-piece to keep the enlisted rabble comfortable and entertained.

I asked the lieutenant about it later, and he just laughed. Had the same effect on all the down-homers the first couple times, he said. Even him. I’d get used to it.

All the time I spent at the Dun, all the distractions, even now—never really did.

It’s still there, of course, sure as I can trace the old contours: built half into one of the far walls of the ravine, grey and squat and foreboding as the name would imply—definitely designed by Unicorns. Who else would get it in their heads to carve something that damn ugly from the living rock at the ass-end of the world?

(Popular joke in Ponyville: After Canterlot slides off the mountain and into the river, will they build the new capital somewhere more sensible? Nah, they’ll just start with the smoothest side of the wreckage they can find and work their way out from there. Architects.)

Empty as it was when we got here, of course. No milling shadows against the rock, no wafting scents of ration-rolls and smelting iron, no bells to toll the Marks and Aughts. Just a quiet grey husk, barely distinguishable from the salt and weathered rock clawing it back into its own.

Not that I’m complaining, of course.

A swarm of seabirds scutters around the foot of the cliff below it, their cries lost amid the tumult of the crashing surf. I let my eyes linger on them for a moment, then, with a sigh, I push off the balustrade and stretch my back one last time. There’s things that need doing today, and while the sea’ll still be where it is now in a couple of hours, the sun won’t, and I’d rather get the work done before it gets too late. You wouldn’t think it would get that hot up here, with all the fog and diffuse light, but some days, when the sun hits just the right angle . . .

It takes me a moment to find my fellow naturalist among the tall grasses of the front lawn, but the sight of twin wings fwoomp-ing out of the green gives her away soon enough. I trot over to discover her watching a couple of bees—fighting over a particularly colourful chrysanthemum, as it turns out—with an intensity usually reserved for engineers and model train enthusiasts. There’s no difference between this and watching her eat: every detail is to be savoured. Every new discovery is suddenly the single most important thing in the universe, every new patch of earth her home, each new creature the apple of her eye.

She’s so focused on the two battling insects that I’m not entirely sure she’s noticed me walk up, and I stay quiet. It takes a few more moments, but the bees apparently finish whatever they were there to do and buzz off to go do more bee-ish things elsewhere.

She looks up at me, eyes shining, smiling brightly. ‘Did you see that?’

‘I did. What’d you think they were up to?’

Her little face scrunches up in thought. ‘Pollen-ating, I think,’–her split, not mine–‘I read about it in a book back at the last house.’

‘When certain bugs go around transferring pollen between flowers to help them breed, right?’

She beams. ‘Yeah! Sometimes the wind isn’t enough to blow it around, so a lot of plants let insects or other animals do the work for them!’

I nod along. It tallies; or at least, I remember being taught something equally simplistic.

‘I wish we could’ve stayed there.’ She frowns. ‘It was nice having so many books around to read.’

‘We’ve talked about that.’

‘I know. I just wish, that’s all.’

‘Well, hey, remember? I told you I’d take you down to the Dun in a few days, as soon as I’m done working on the house.’

‘You said that ages ago.’

‘I know. It’s just taken a little longer to get things finished than I expected. I’m not holding out on you, I promise.’

She looks up at me again, dubiously. ‘You mean it?’

‘I do.’ I try to think of some way to convince her, and, entirely unbidden, the old ditty our centenarian of a baker used to sing back in town flits through my brain. ‘Cross my heart and hope to fly; stick a rumcake in my eye.’

She giggles. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay,’ I echo, sticking my tongue out at her. ‘I’m going to be on the roof. Would you mind doing a circuit of the garden?’

‘Sure thing!’

‘You know what to do, right? Water the plants—’

‘—check for bugs, pull weeds, and tamp the furrows?’

‘And if there’s a problem, come fly up and get me.’

‘Got it!’ She beams, and scampers off towards the garden, quickly disappearing among the rows of assorted vegetation.

I watch for a moment, waiting to make sure there’s no problem. When neither hew nor cry issues from the foliage, I head in the direction of the shed, a little ways behind the house and off to one side of the garden.

The garden itself takes up a considerable portion of the north lawn. Legumes, potatoes, berries, and a startling variety of other produce grow in neatly parallel rows, each carefully marked and furrowed. Given the cold and the elevation, it’s amazing just how well these more temperate crops are holding up: the beanstalks alone are taller than any I’d ever seen, taller in places than the roof over the front porch.

I know better than to question it, even as a lifetime’s worth of secondhoof horticultural savvy screams at me to do so. All the seeds were things we’d found in storage here—maybe they’d been treated for the cold, maybe an Earth Pony did a rain dance over them at some point, and maybe we’d picked up a few tricks along the road; it didn’t actually matter. When the dry stores run out, the yield out here will keep us fed for a season or two, at least—long enough to get to the next house, if nothing else. As far as I can tell, the worst we’ll have to contend with is keeping the produce from going bad on the vine before we can get to it.

I have to cut across the last few rows to reach the shed, stepping carefully over a lettuce larger than my head and wending my way between a few stallion-sized blueberry bushes. The little one is nosing around in the foliage behind me, and a few of the nearer beanstalks wobble dangerously in response.

My mothers would have loved her—loved it here, honestly. Green-pasterns both, happy and well at home in the mud. Kind of wish I had something of them to show her, or to stick in the garden—a photo, mane-beads, the old gardening boots they swore Grandma Greensleeves had had enchanted.

Probably for the best, though. For all that they were tied to the earth, by blood, breed, and profession, they hated the thought of ending up in it when they died. They were never much for gathering moss.

I’ve reached the shed, and throw the hook-eye latch before swinging the doors wide and stepping inside. It’s small and musty and thick with cobwebs, as the unspoken storage shed credo upheld around the world demands it must be, and also thick with clutter. Some of the mess is left over from the original inhabitants of the house, and is mostly composed of that particular brand of stuffy upper-class sporting equipment: tennis racquets, a croquet set, bats and wickets, and even a moth-eaten, deflated hoofball. The rest comprises what little we brought with us that we couldn’t bring inside the house. I’m sure I’d feel safer with a few spears next to my bed, but I can’t take the risk the little one might hurt herself on them.

Near the very back of the shed—as it must be, because I’m currently looking for it—lies my objective: a tall metal A-frame ladder. Grumbling, I begin to shift the teetering piles of rubbish carefully aside, working my way through the shed towards it. It’s a few tense seconds of dodging falling hockey sticks and rolling spider-filled wheelbarrows slowly enough as not to disturb their irascible occupants, but soon enough I’m dragging it from the dusty confines of the shed.

Hefting the miserable thing in my field, and ignoring the slight twinge of protest that emanates from the root of my horn, I head in the direction of the house, edging carefully past the garden and around the back of the house. It’s slow going, given the weight of the ungainly fifteen-hoof thing, but it doesn’t take me too long to find the spot I surveyed yesterday, on the side of the house overlooking the valley. Setting down the ladder next to a trio of rusty paint cans, I stretch out the frame and balance it as best I can on the uneven turf.

As I begin my careful climb up to the tile slatting, I find myself wondering—not for the first time—why ladders exist. They’re awkward, they’re cumbersome, and they don’t do anything another piece of equipment or better-equipped pony couldn’t. There’s a reason roof-repair businesses were staffed exclusively by Pegasi; even Earth Ponies prefer scaffolds and ramps. Nothing with hooves was ever meant to stand on something so narrow and rickety.

As if to prove my point, the ladder sways precariously and I’m forced to grab onto the gutter to keep my balance. Cursing, I kick the thing back into an upright position and hoist myself up onto the roof. The purlins shift and groan beneath my hooves, and I steady myself on the slanting jade tiles for a moment, praying the roof doesn’t pick this particular moment to cave in. After a moment, the groaning subsides, and, being careful to step only where I know the evenly-spaced wooden rafters to be, I begin to pick my way towards my goal.

It’s been impressed upon me repeatedly since we first got here that this house was not designed with Unicorns or Earth Ponies in mind. The roof I’m standing on isn’t the topmost portion of the house; rather, it forms a kind of ring around the two-room upper ‘storey’ of the dwelling, empty but for the cobwebs. The whole structure is built to look like some kind of sharp-edged, two-tiered wedding cake, and I’m wading through the dark ceramic—fondant? Fondant.

I didn’t come up with that one, I’m afraid. We’d all had a pretty good view of the house from the Dun, and the sheer strangeness of it made it a popular topic of conversation. Rumours were always circulating that it was the vacation home of some prominent, eccentric noble, obsessed with Neighponese culture. I’d tried to do some research on the place while on leave once, but I hadn’t been able to turn anything up from the Archives office back home.

Regardless, whoever it was that built this house obviously didn’t plan on having anypony along to remodel.

I make the last few careful steps to my destination, and tap the tile a few times to test its stability. Then, convinced that I’m not about to fall through into the bedrooms below, I set about my work. The rusty buckets sitting at the base of the ladder float up, set themselves near the wall of the empty upper floor, and begin to stir themselves gently as I ready the primer.

I really wish I didn’t have to do this. The original red-gold colour scheme was absolutely gorgeous, especially in contrast to the jade-tile roof, but anything that bright stands out like a beacon against dark evergreens and cool grey mountains. There were mornings, back at the Dun, when the sun hit it in just the right way, when we’d actually thought it had caught fire. We’d even used it to sight our field glasses before heading out on patrol. The only reason it’d taken me this long to get around to repainting was that there were so many other things that needed to get done to make the place liveable first.

Two things, fortunately. First, only the sides facing the valley need doing; we’re close enough to the mountains on the other side that anypony coming from that direction wouldn’t be fooled anyway. Second, the new coat doesn’t have to look particularly nice; it just has to be slathered on thick enough to cover the old, and that’ll save me time. Considering how little time it took me to finish the downstairs, I don’t foresee this taking the work of more than a couple of mornings.

That paint job was the first one that hadn’t been a wagon or a filly’s bedroom, and I was pleasantly surprised to discover that as soon as you’re willing to sacrifice aesthetic, the work goes a whole lot quicker. The paint can run a little here. Long drips replace the Pegasi, cartwheeling along the sideboard; bubbles, the pink balloons floating across pale turquoise skyscapes. Flicks and splotches are romping jungle animals, and the careless splash of chartreuse on the railing of the crib . . .

Something pounds behind my eyes for a moment, and when I open them again, the world is far too bright. The dapple-dark green is a minor blessing.

I lift a brush, thick with primer, and begin slathering on the first layer. Primer goes on first, then the darker green, then the lighter, dappled patches. Do it by halves; can’t let it crack. I haven’t had the chance to see the effect from any real distance yet, but I’m hoping that between the jade roof and this forest-y colour of camouflage, the house will blend into the treeline a bit better. That’d buy us some time, at least.

The brush moves up, then down, almost hypnotically, in parallel columns, thick white strips silencing the intricate red and gold patterns. Two or three good strokes, then dip back into the can. Repeat.

We’d been lucky to find the paint cans in the shed. Most of them were warmer colours, most of them open and far gone by the time we got there, but there were a few unopened tins in darker hues at the bottom of the pile. Lord or Lady Eccentric must’ve bought a full rainbow set at some point—either willing to shell out for something that might prove useful long-term, or just not caring enough to economise. Whatever the case, their indulgence was our good fortune, and I’d been able to whip up a solid forest green after only a little in the way of curse-laden experimentation.

Half the facing wall’s primed now, and the sun’s not even halfway to the midday Mark; I can probably afford to slow down. Need to make sure it goes on thick, so the darker paint sticks.

Time passes; the sun climbs. I enter that comfortable state of non-thought that always accompanies hard work. The primer goes on in coats: one, then another. Then comes the darker coat of green, broad strokes swallowing up the white. Then the spirals and blotches and whorls of the lighter grey-green. Each coat is dry by the time the next one is applied; each stroke occludes the colour of the last.

Maybe I missed my calling; art’s in my blood sure as farming, if I’ve been told true. It was kind of a horrible surprise to discover my great-grandsire was the architect responsible for all those kitschy statuary fountains around Ponyville. I can’t remember who told me that—could’ve been my mothers, could’ve been you. You always did hate it when I went off about how backwards and classless the art there was.

It’s like they’ve never been up the mountain, I’d say.

They’re farmers, not artisans, you’d say.

Silk purse, pig’s ear, I’d say.

Don’t be an ass, you’d say.

The place hasn’t changed since it was founded, I’d say.

Nothing wrong with that, you’d say.

It’s not the kind of town I wanted to spend the rest of my life in, I’d say.

If you hate it so much, why are you still here? you’d say.

And then I would have nothing to say.

It takes me a moment to realise I’ve been holding the brush in the same place for awhile—long enough for a brush’s width of drips to harden in the unforgiving light of the suddenly noonish-looking sun. I crane around, trying to gauge my progress. I’m halfway through finishing the south-facing wall; to my left, the only remaining blotch of the original red-gold coat shines with an almost metallic splendour. The dappled green of my handiwork to the right looks all the more subdued in comparison. Craning further, I see that the entirety of the eastern wall where I started is also done. Just how much did I finish, wrapped up in my own thoughts?

I mean, on the one hoof, points to me for apparently hauling flank. On the other . . .

Well. It’s no secret I haven’t been sleeping as well as I should.

A fluttering of wings from behind me heralds the arrival of a small, impatient filly. She casts an appraising eye over my handiwork for a moment, then:

‘Aren’t you done yet? I finished in the garden ages ago.’

I carefully dunk the brush back in the can. ‘Not quite. But, hey,’ I say, waving a hoof in the direction of the two finished sides. ‘Progress, right?’

‘I guess.’

‘Oh, you. Just give me another half-hour, then I’ll be set.’

‘But it’s already getting on towards the Mark . . .’

I glance skyward and let the air out through my teeth. She’s right, of course. I’d noticed it even as I was marvelling at how quickly the painting had come. So much for expeditious reveries.

‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m not getting through with this thing today after all.’

Her previously dour expression brightens by several orders of magnitude. ‘Does that mean we’re going to the—’

‘Not today.’ The light disappears as quickly as it came. ‘Hey, I did say “as soon as I’m done”. And the sooner it gets done, the sooner we don’t have to worry about it anymore, right?’

No response.

‘Besides,’ I continue, hefting paint cans and beginning my trek back across the roof to the ladder, ‘It’s an all-day trip down there and back, and I want to get an early start when we do head out. Sunrise or earlier.’

That perks her up. Knowing there’s a plan in motion—assurance that I’m not just being arbitrary—always redeems me in her impetuous eyes. She positively beams.

Then again, that might just be the thought of mucking about before the sun’s up. I don’t know.

‘Sooo . . .’ she says, flapping a little closer as I descend the ladder, ‘It’s just about time for lunch, right?’

Aha. ‘One sec.’

The words are spoken; here begins one of our most important rituals: Where should we go today?

Just general enough to leave room for almost anything, but specific enough that we’ll always be doing something. Never more specific than today, in deference to whatever maintenance we’re obliged to undertake. It’s been its fair share of things, too: a morning hike, a lazy lunch under puffy white clouds, a hooves-free lesson on agriculture or ecology or natural philosophy, and sometimes even what she’d lovingly refer to as An Adventure, after the fact: rock-climbing, or a swim, or a good shallow spelunk, if I knew the cave didn’t delve too deep.

We’ve had a few good Adventures since we got to the house overlooking the valley—more than a few romps through the Wood, picking out all the different critters to be found there; a couple of swimming trips to the frigid headwaters of the river (as far as I can possibly get her from the falls); and, more often than not, putting off requests to finally go down the cliffside and visit the Dun. I’m running out of excuses for that last one—have to wonder how much time I can wring out of that last blotch of red-gold before she gets suspicious.

I cast a glance her way as I descend the ladder. She’s studying the intricately-designed roof tiles with the same intensity she had previously apportioned to the bees.

I can see the gears turning in real time. I was out of time as soon as she started asking why.

With a grunt, I descend the last few steps to blessed equa firma and fold the ladder again in my field. It gives out a grinding kind of shriek as the hinges protest, and both sets of ears pin back against our skulls.

‘Jeez. Sorry, scamp.’

‘That’s okay.’ She frowns, and gestures to the ladder as I swing it over my shoulder. ‘Has it gone bad?’

I hadn’t really considered that; everything else around here has been in pretty good condition, but, then, most of it is well-varnished wood and plaster. A closer examination of the hinges reveals that, sure enough, the inner mechanism is fairly choked with greasy brown oxidation. Even as I watch, a few flakes flutter off the bit I just moved to land on my shoulder.

I blow them off with a disgruntled huff. ‘Good call. I’ll have to take a look later.’

‘You shouldn’t have been up on it at all. What if it had broken?’ She has a much heavier brow than most fillies her age, so any time she frowns, her whole face darkens.

‘It’s fine.’ I wiggle the hinge for her. ‘See? It’s just that it hasn’t been used in awhile. Little work with a trowel and some oil and it’ll be good as new.’

Her frown is still firmly in place. ‘You’ve never had to do that in any of the other houses. I think it’s just bad.’

‘Well,’ I grunt, hefting the thing carefully over my shoulder again and tousling her mane on my way past, ‘Not much for it unless you’ve got another big ol’ ladder stashed under your bed or something.’

She giggles, trying to fix her mane. The frown is gone. ‘Noooo. But if you need stuff done up high, I could always fly up and—’

‘Nah. There’s repair work that needs doing up there that takes a horn.’ Good enough; she frowns, but nods. ‘Speaking of teaching, though—what would you say to a lunch-and-lesson out in the wood today?’

Her ears perk up. ‘Do I get to pick the lesson?’

‘Was there something in particular you wanted to know about?’ I grunt, teetering as I round the corner and begin the hike back across the yard to the shed. She keeps pace with me easily, hooves just trailing in the grass.

‘After we talked about the bees, I went in and looked through all the things I brought from the old house. There’s an ema— . . . enamatol—’

‘Entomology?’

‘Yes! An enatomology textbook in there I want to look at.’

‘Alright. Got an idea of where you want to settle in? Out by the cliff, maybe?’

She considers that. ‘Mm. By the river, maybe? There are quiet spots out there.’

‘Sounds like a plan. If you want to try scouting it out from the roof, go ahead. Just don’t fly higher than—’

‘—the house, I know. It’s okay! I know where we’re going.’

‘Well, alright then.’ We’ve reached the shed. ‘You want to go grab what you can while I wash up?’

‘Of course! Want me to get started on sandwiches?’

‘No dressing on mine, please.’

‘Sure!’ And off she shoots.

I watch her just long enough to be sure she’s inside, and aim a vicious kick at the door of the shed. Stupid. Didn’t even bother to check the damn thing before getting up on it. I can already hear you sighing in my ear, but dammit, I’m getting old, and too reliant on my tools.

The dull ache in my hoof and my horn pulls me back—sharper, clearer than I was. There’ll be time for recrimination later; for now, lunch.

---

She’s waiting for me at the boundary, flush with anticipation. The book, basket, and blanket are piled neatly beside her, a careful distance from the dark line of turned earth separating manicured lawn from natural bramble. I’m rubbing the last of the moisture out of my mane as I wander over; the sun’s high and hot, and there’s not much risk of me dripping on the blanket, but even so, there’s nothing worse than the feeling of something unexpectedly dripping down your neck.

She’s already gabbing as I walk up. ‘I saw some squirrels out in the trees! I sat down and they just watched me for a bit. It was so cool!’

‘You sure you still want to read about insects, then?’ I say, striding up to the line and closing my eyes. ‘We can always grab another book.’

I can feel her eyes light up in time with my horn. ‘Noooo, it’s okay. I can learn about squirrels and birds and things from you!’

That gets a chuckle, but I know she’ll be too busy watching the lightshow to listen to anything I might come up with by way of rebuttal. It should be routine by now, but just like everything else . . .

I do my best to relax, letting down my shoulders and trying to ignore the nibbling twinge building just south of my horn, probing along the invisible boundary for the familiar knots and locks and contours. She starts to say something else, but I shush her, quietly. I can feel the gentle purples, pinks, and blues playing all too briefly across my face before falling away to either side.

‘Alright, should be safe. Follow right behind me, okay?’

‘Okay.’

I take the basket carefully in my mouth, the blanket neatly folded atop; she folds the book gingerly under one wing, and together we step over the little tamped-earth ring and out into the fresh-smelling forest.

The wood is almost certainly safe—safe enough for brief forays like this, at any rate. We’ve yet to see anything larger than a skunk during the day, and those are only trouble if you startle them; the usual suspects this far north—the bears, the wolves, the greater fae—generally only wander at night, and generally much later in the year. Worst we ever got at the Dun was a timberwolf ranging way out of its territory along the south cliffs. Bitch to fight, but the wood kept us warm that whole winter.

We stop a few yards into the forest, long enough for me to feel the curtain close behind us, and at last I open my eyes. Dappled sunlight streams through the thick branches above, painting us both in mottled greys and greens.

‘So, what was it you were trying to tell me?’ I ask around the basket handle, as she steps past me.

She looks up. ‘Oh. Only that there was a rabbit that ran past while you were doing magic. It looked scared. Can rabbits sense magic?’

‘Some.’ She’s picking her way through the thin bramble, slanting off towards the thicker forest in the direction of the river; I follow. ‘Like anypony else, there are smart rabbits and dumb rabbits. Most of them know to avoid magical fields on instinct, but occasionally you get the dope that has to try anyway, y’know?’

She smiles at that, but a pair of passing cardinals grabs her interest and derails whatever train of thought she had going.

It’s quiet the rest of the way to the glade. The heat of the sun is cut by a thousand-thousand narrow leaves, and a gentle breeze lifts our manes as we meander through low scrub and over the moss-covered logs of our little alpine hideaway. She knows the way, and I follow at a distance, never letting the little head disappear for more than a moment around the nearest bush or trunk, watching her little eyes dissect every scampering rodent, every flutter of a feathered wing.

We never had much interaction with the wildlife around here, so I doubt they ever really learned to fear us in the same way as most creatures around Equestria do. Even the masters of the house back on the hill seem to have restrained themselves from the usual woodcutting or game-hunting. Pegasi are like that, I’ve learned; I still get shivers thinking about all the displays of pheasant and quail I saw the one time I ended up in Cloudsdale.

I follow her lead in hopping a truly prodigious collection of toadstools, and we’re there. The little brambly patch of heath she always picks when we come out this way is exactly as we left it—cool, quiet, and just far enough from the river that we can hear ourselves think over the burgeoning snowmelt roar.

I lay out the blanket, and she flops down immediately with the book while I get out the sandwiches. She’s thoughtfully marked hers with a little hoofprint, and I slide that and a small serving of barley crisps her way and settle in to my own daffodil, lettuce, and tomato on white. Everything but the tomato is fresh, and she even remembered to pat down the vegetables before slapping on the bread; we’ve long since agreed on the sheer vileness of a soggy sandwich.

She has surprisingly little to say this afternoon; absorbed as she is in flipping through the textbook—a seventh- or eighth-year primer on insects for the budding horticulturalist, probably a little old for her, under normal circumstances—she appears to have forgotten lunch entirely. I nudge the plate again with my hoof, and she jumps a little, glancing at me ruefully. It gets her to eat, though.

‘So—the bees. Learn anything interesting?’

‘Um, well . . . there’s a lot of different kinds,’ she starts. ‘I think the ones I saw this morning were, um, honeybees? The pattern was the same as the one in the book. So they would’ve had stings, and there’s probably a hive somewhere around the house. We could have honey?’

‘Only if we feel like braving the wrath of a hundred angry bugs.’

She frowns a little, not looking at me. I try again.

‘Anything in there about wasps?’

‘They weren’t wasps.’

‘I know. Still, I’d rather have a guide if we end up running across a nest somewhere. We always had to call out an exterminator for that sort of thing.’

‘Exterminator?’

‘Somepony whose job it is to kill or remove bad insects from a house or something. Wasps, cockroaches, parasprites—’

She makes a face.

‘Yeah, trust me, if we never have to run across a swarm of those again . . .’

She flips through a few pages without answering, then: ‘“Wasps can be a major difficulty for any farmsteader. They will aggressively defend their nests and, unlike their honey-producing cousins, do not die when they sting. Smoke is not as effective on wasps as bees, but can still work in a pinch if you can get close enough to the nest to light a controlled fire. If possible, wait until cold weather, or enlist the help of a local unicorn cap—capable of performing frost magic.” Can you do frost magic?’

‘Probably, yeah.’

‘Okay. “The cold will make the wasps sluggish, and they can then be disposed of as you see fit. Burning or drowning the hive is recommended?!’’

She snaps the book shut. ‘That’s horrible!’

‘They’re pests,’ I shrug. ‘Better to knock them all out in one fell swoop than have to try and get them piecemeal. It’s not like drowning a dog or something—something that has feelings.’

‘But they’re still animals! Why get rid of them at all?! Can’t you just leave them alone?’

‘Well, look at what the book says. What if they set up shop in—’ I cast around for examples, settling on something familiar. ‘—in one of the trees on your apple farm? You couldn’t buck that tree, or probably a half-dozen around it, without risking getting stung, right?’

‘Then don’t go to that part of the farm!’

‘And if you need all your crops to survive the winter? Or some other pony wanders in there by mistake?’

‘Well—’

I wait for her to finish the thought, but she’s just screwed up her little face, not looking at me. ‘It’s just not fair,’ she says, belatedly.

‘Life frequently isn’t, little one.’

She grumbles, but the frown subsides as she buries herself in the book again and her look of searing focus returns.

We pass the time that way for awhile, as the sun climbs and crests the Mark. Lunch is one of those things I’m comfortable letting run a little long, especially if she’s found something to keep herself occupied. She doesn’t invite me to read with her, and I don’t ask: comfortable silence, I think. Closeness without expectation. I shuffle a little on the blanket, settling in, getting my hooves under me, ears flicking this way and that to the snatches of birdsong piping from the treetops and the cliffs. A sunbeam has found its way through the branches to land comfortably between my shoulder blades, and nestles there like a warm and lumpy cat.

I can hear you laughing. You always loved—always hated—how easy it was for me to fall asleep like this. Those twinkling eyes you’d get when you’d shake me awake, curled into the windowseat with Marigold, or splayed across my bench, hammer and oil still clutched tight in my hooves. And always so gentle—pushing and prodding me into a comfortable shape, draping that old yak-hair blanket over me in the winters, dragging me to bed when you could. And sometimes I’d catch this perfect glimpse of you, just smiling through that mess you pretended was a respectable beard, and I could trace the laugh-lines around your eyes as your skin peeled and your bones bleached in the white-hot sun that spilled across the field and the grasses and into every home and I could see you turn to me and grip my face and scr—

My head snaps up in time to see a half-dozen gophers, rabbits, and squirrels go zipping across the grass at mach speed, scurrying into burrows and up trees. There is a squeak of alarm from beside me, and I whip around to see the last of the birds shooting out of her mane like little feathered rockets. The book and basket are open where I left them; the sun is still high and the trees still guard the edges of the clearing.

She’s trembling as I lay a hoof on her shoulder. I speak as gently as I can around the pounding in my chest, my throat.

‘Sorry! Sorry, scamp. I didn’t mean to scare them off.’

She stares at me through the part in her too-long mane, eyes wide. ‘I’m sorry. You looked so peaceful, a-and they just came out of the trees, and—’

‘It’s alright. They’ll be back—you know they can’t get enough of you.’

She relaxes slightly. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

A rattling breath. ‘Okay. I—I know you don’t like them getting too close to the house, so . . .’

Forced laughter. ‘No, no. Don’t even worry. If it’s, like, a bear or a wolverine or something? Then we can worry about them getting near the house. And maybe wake me up if that happens?’

Forced laughter from us both.

---

The late-afternoon sun is slanting beautifully across the bay the next time I really start paying attention again. We’re on the porch, and have been since we got back from lunch: she with her book, I juggling the ladder, oil, and our increasingly-ragged outdoor cloth. I’ve managed to strip at least the top layer of build-up off the hinge, and it squawks only vaguely like a stuck bird now, so I reckon I’ve done all I can with it for now.

I look up at Herself, still poring over page after page of facts and advices for budding farm-mares. Or apiarists, I suppose, though that was a dying art long before she was even born. Still, I’m impressed that she stuck around for all the cursing and shrieking of tortured metal earlier; she’s young, and her ears are still far more attuned to the loud and the shrill than mine are at this point.

‘Hey.’ She looks up. ‘You know you coulda gone inside any time, right? You didn’t have to stay out here and listen to the noise.’

‘I know. It was nice and warm out here, and I got to watch you work.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. After we talked earlier, I wanted to know how you could make the ladder all better.’

I sigh, rolling one of my shoulders. ‘Well, it’s never going to be perfect, but this should at least keep it from making a horrible racket every time I move it.’

‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Rust? Nah, not to us—not much. I wouldn’t go eating it, but . . .’

‘No—the ladder.’

‘Oh, that. Eh, it’ll hold up. There’s some corrosion in the hinge, but the beams themselves are fine. Worst comes to worst, I’ll pull the usable side off the A-frame and just balance it against whatever I need to get up. Old-fashioned, like.’

‘Corrosion?’

‘Uhh—metal rot. Kind of like the termite damage we saw at the last house, remember?’

She wrinkles her nose. ‘Are there things that eat metal? Like termites?’

‘Well—dragons, maybe. But there definitely aren’t any left around these parts. Or, y’know, small enough that we couldn’t see them zipping around causing trouble.’

She giggles at the thought. ‘Tiny dragons.’

‘Zipping.’

She giggles again, and I rise, tossing the ladder into the grass. ‘Still—if you’re wanting to learn something useful, go grab me some of the soap flakes from the kitchen and come out to the spigot, alright?’

She trots inside as I heft the ladder back into the shed—closer to the entrance this time, I remind myself, rolling my eyes as a spider the size of my ear darts furtively into the corner. Might have to hunt that little bastard down next; the big ones don’t tend to be poisonous, in my experience, but I’d still not rather have a reason to test the theory.

I’m just locking the door as she trots back out, a box of soap-flakes in her mouth. We meet at the earthenware garden spigot, and I pull the horrible orange-stained rag off my shoulder. The poor thing’s seen more than its fair share of use since we got here: birdshit, paint thinner, cobwebs. One size fits all.

‘So,’ I start, turning the handle and waiting for the water to clear. ‘Water’s usually enough to clean this thing the way we want, right? Gets the dirt off, the grease, whatever. Soap,’—I jiggle the box—‘is great for ponies and plates, but get anything harder than food or sweat, and it stops being nearly as useful.’

I gesture to the rag now draped over the spigot. ‘See the rust? That’s hard. You saw how long it took me to get it off the metal. If we want to be able to safely use this thing again, we’ll need to work even harder to get it off of here. So—’

I pick up a hoof-full of tilled earth, and begin working it into the fabric, just like we were taught to do in the field. ‘We’ve talked about how dirt is actually a bunch of little rocks and particles and things, and that’s what we want—this is called an abrasive, and it’ll do a better job of working the gunk out of the fabric than just water and soap.’

I take two corners of the towel and rub the dirt between them vigorously. I can feel the sharp little bits and stones rolling between my hooves.

‘How does that work better than soap?’

‘Soap works chemically, not frictionally. It makes it easier for water to wash things away, but it doesn’t really do anything by itself.’

‘Frictionally?’

‘You know how your hooves warm up when you rub them together? Or your wings when you go into a really steep dive? That. It’s a natural force.’

‘Like magic.’

‘More basic. Physical.’

‘Okay.’

She doesn’t get it, but whatever. What’s theory to a kid? The proof’s in the pudding.

And so it seems to be. I know it’s a crap trick at the best of times, but it seems to be working fine now: the rag is filthy, but a lot of the excess gunk that had started to seep into the fabric seems to have popped out a little.

‘See, there? The stain is starting to lift.’

‘It’s just brown instead of orange, though.’

‘Which is why we’re going to give it a good strong wash with soap now that the dirt’s done its job.’

I walk her through the rest of the process, and we let the rag soak for a bit as the sun nears the horizon. I keep checking it over my shoulder as we work; I want to make sure she has plenty of time to eat before she knocks out for the night.

Soon enough, I’m running the thing under the tap, and the whole ugly mess just slides right off and into the runoff ditch. ‘See? And there we are.’ I rinse and strain it a few more times, and throw it over the line to dry—still a clown’s kerchief of ugly earth-tones, but far lighter and thinner than it had been earlier.

She looks positively bedazzled as we head back inside. ‘Seriously? Dirt can make you cleaner? Why don’t we all just do that, then?’

‘Instead of bathing? Some do. It’s common enough among animals, and I think even the Zebras had it down to an art-form at one point. Sand-dancing, or something.’

‘Why them, and not us?’

‘We don’t live in a desert, and water’s easier.’

‘Oh.’

I check the twilit sky as I usher her inside. A warm, peachy sort of sky, fuzzy at the edges, promising fog—means we should both get near enough a full night’s sleep. She’s already rubbing her eyes, there on the doormat.

‘Aw, come on, Princess. You can’t tell me you’re tired already.’

‘It’s laaate.’

‘It’s barely even sundown. Watch the moon hit the Aught, then you can tell me it’s late.’

‘I don’t caaare.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Are we having dinner?’

‘Something small,’ she yawns, even as I light the little oil lamp I’ve rigged to the stove.

I fumble for a moment in the pantry as she flops down at the table, trying to figure out what I did with last night’s bean-and-canned-olive salad. As much credit as I have to give her for burning through the days, she’s only got about twelve hours in the tank, and once that’s gone, you could put a Hearthswarming banquet in front of her and she’d hardly notice. You probably would have.

Ah well. That’s what leftovers are for, as far as I’m concerned. Who can stomach cooking after ten hours in the yard?

She’s fading fast by the time I slide her bowl across to her, and for the next quarter-hour I watch her pick apart a third or so of the vegetables, nibbling listlessly. She shrugs off conversation, and the several querying gestures I make in the direction of the pantry. It’s never a guarantee that someone her age is going to want something besides what’s put in front of them, but always worth checking. Seems the switch has been flipped, though, and that’s all there is to it. I finish one healthily-portioned bowl, and then another, in the time it takes her to finish a half-dozen olives, and by the time I’ve washed up, she’s resting her head on the table next to her bowl, glazing.

That’s my cue, I think.

‘Alright, scamp,’ I sigh, dropping my bowl in the sink to dry and levitating hers over to the counter. ‘Let’s get you squared away for the night, hm?’

She doesn’t protest as I gently nudge her off the pillow and onto her hooves. Her head is drooping, and even her mane drags across the worn wooden boards as we amble down the hall in the direction of her bedroom. The sun’s gone completely, now, and out here in the darkness of the frontier, the only indications that any world exists beyond the heavy paper-panelled shutters are the soft sounds of waves rushing up from below. Seems there’ll be no moon tonight.

The covers on the low bed have been flung wide—presumably some nanoseconds before she was bouncing off the lintel in my room—and she clambers in without much prompting, flopping down on her side. She tries to blow a few strands of hair out of her face with much the same efficacy as the lettuce-leaf.

I pull the covers over her, gently pushing her mane out of the way.

‘Hey.’

I stop. ‘Yeah?’

‘I don’t blame you for scaring the rabbits.’

‘I—thanks.’

‘You can tell me if you have bad dreams, you know.’

I really can’t.

‘It’s alright. I was just dozing and heard a noise. Maybe one of the little varmints came up close.’

I receive only a little half-nod by way of reply, and take that as my cue to leave. At the door I pause, glancing over my shoulder one last time as she rolls over into a more comfortable position. Over the rustling of the covers, I can just barely make out a soft ‘Goodnight’, and then all is still.

‘Goodnight, Princess,’ I say softly.

And when she doesn’t respond to the honorific, I know it’s safe to shut the door. Nothing in life should be so painstaking as moving without waking a child.

The pantry itself is easier; I’m far enough away that I can risk magic without the bleedoff getting her attention. The panic room slides open easily, as no doubt it was designed to: an entire section of wall, shelf, and well-oiled rollers glides neatly to one side to admit me, and I hop lightly over a few sacks of grain to the well-lit space beyond.

All is as I left it: tables, stands, the case, the pinboard. Maps and notes undisturbed, spotty ink flickering in the soft purple glow of the crystal magefire lamp; more ink than paper in some places now. I should sit, and plan, and figure out where we should focus on heading next, but that can wait. All it would do is get me thinking.

The reflected patterns of light and shadow beaming off my old, gold-struck breastplate are more than distraction enough themselves. I throw the blanket back over it, cursing last night’s sleepless lack of care. There’s no point going over the scrivenery again anyhow; none of the enchantments have changed, and all it’ll do is wear my tired stag-stick of a horn out. Still not something I can afford.

The teeming swordrack gets a similar treatment, courtesy of one of the dustcovers we pulled off the beds in the spare room; the worked metal reflects everything, and even the tiniest sliver of light peeking through the crack I know is there would set little minds a-racing. Hard as that might be with Her sitting there, in pride of place beneath her intricate shell of glass and gold and light.

I’m only in here long enough to satisfy my paranoia, and then the door is sliding shut again. I turn, pause, turn again, and hastily shove a few sacks closer to the seamless frame. Then the pantry too is shut.

Giving silent thanks to the lunatic noble who felt the need for a secret sex dungeon on top of everything else wrong with this stupid wingbeater house, I trot out onto the porch and light my horn. It is dark out here—the stars are doing their best, but there are few enough of them now that even those that can break through the night-time fog are little more than pin-pricks against the velvety, enveloping black.

I stifle a primal shiver, standing there on the edge of the little ring of light cast by the oven-lamp. Nights like this are always the worst; whatever they sold us in boot, we weren’t built to be predators, and there’s only so much of a warren one mare can build.

The wards are holding steady, near as I can tell. No disturbances since last night, only the faint shimmer on my consciousness where the newer spells overlap the old. It’s a welcome surprise to find that none of the wildlife from this afternoon’s adventure decided to brave the field in its terror; I can’t say I’m looking forward to explaining the resultant fricassee to a sobbing child. Everything else seems to be in order, though, and—

No. There. North-by-northeast, along the cliff edge. One of the directed-energy aegi is buckling, and I can’t let that one go. I’ve been debating with myself whether I need to worry as much about physical repulsion on the cliff-edge, but letting that one fall would give us away to anyone with even a hint of the Gift about them. As it is, any slack-jawed second-year apprentice could pick up on the half-mile-wide deadzone I’ve burned into the natural weave of the mountains, but anyone with that level of training would pose a threat for other reasons.

Am I hedging? Of course I’m hedging. I very desperately do not want to step off the porch and into the ocean of dark grass beyond. For all the assurance in the universe, for all the knowledge that the wards would scream a violent green tattoo against the inside of my eyes at even the barest hint of intrusion . . . there’s nothing like darkness to make you feel like a child again. And it’s not as though I can just unhook the lantern and bring that along without risking her notice.

Venom, basted in (un)healthy doses of fear, and I sway. The distant tide is loud in my head, the rhythmic pulse of wind and leaf and branch stabbing like pins against my pinning ears, and the racing heartbeat as I push myself into your breast—

With a hiss, I light my horn as bright as I dare—bright enough to illuminate the grass at my hooves—and canter as quickly as my nerve-stiff legs will allow to the northeast corner of the perimeter. My head is on a swivel, seeing without seeing, tracing the endless patterns and tapestries I’ve woven, layer after layer, pulsing steadily in time with the thudding at the base of my horn. The pool of light around me is little comfort, and it wavers like crystal aerials as I focus my attention this way and that, the sick dread building in my stomach, on my neck.

And then I’m there. It’s a half-second job—a simple thing of friction and miscalculated tree-branches. I reach out, guiding myself through my own pinprick tunnel, and slice it off at the trunk. It flops quietly against the windy, misty soundscape, and I breathe again, shoring up the layers, painting and pasting and priming and soothing.

And then something rustles in the dark grass behind me.

I whirl, fumbling for anything close enough at hoof to form a makeshift defence. Heart in my throat, blood in my ears, pounding, adrenaline drowns the biting pain as the soft pool of light sharpens and bursts outward around me, silent and bright as She herself might have been.

It’s only a rabbit. Wide-eyed, darting away from the shimmering light for the safety of the darkness beyond. Miserable, rotten little thing, I curse, forcing the panicked flare back down into my horn. Had it snuck in on the way back from lunch? There was no reason anything that large should have made it through, unless . . .

I steady myself for a moment, quickly scanning the perimeter from my dimming, radiant sphere; the soap-bubble sheen of it echoes along my horn, whole and unbroken anywhere but the tiny thing I just fixed. Fine, good—if I need to hunt the thing down tomorrow, so be it. Enough for tonight.

As the pounding recedes, and the usual dull ache returns to replace it, I notice with a start the longsword hanging next to me in my field. I don’t . . . remember conjuring one, but it’s a familiar enough design—whitesteel, tapered, unadorned crossguard; a thrusting sword, Guard standard. I might have summoned one from the house, but . . .

Unnerved, I pull back a mound of topsoil beside me and let the sword fall. It produces a quiet but satisfactory thud as it hits the cooling earth, but I make to cover it nonetheless. Real or not, imagined or not, I don’t need any more reminders that I’m losing my grip. A few tamps of my hoof and the little grave is almost indistinguishable from the dark, turned earth around it.

Good enough.

It’s all I can do not to sprint back to the house, across the silent vegetable patch, past the skeletal shed. The world is pitch-black, save for my little ball of radiance and the warm and welcome blot of light streaming from the open door. The presence of one more potential alarm system running around nibbling on the vegetables does nothing whatsoever for my nerves.

I practically leap through the open door, and bolt it shut behind me. The windows, the latches, the blinds, the catches—and at last I can settle in at the table and try to get my breathing under control, feeling the burning oil-light falling gently on my shoulders. I don’t know how long I sit there, only that I have to jerk my head up when I remember that I need to go properly to bed. There are niceties to be observed.

I rise, turn to the stove, and pause with my hoof on the gas-switch. It is a very long moment before I turn it, and the darkness that follows—warm as it is—brings with it none of the usual bedtime comfort. Turning, hunched, I pad as softly as I can past squeaking boards and onto the low bed, wrapping myself in every sheet I can summon, swaddled close. I close my eyes, and the pitch-dark room looks exactly the same; I open them again, and I can almost make out the gentle rise and fall of your shoulder under the blanket beside me.

It’s almost reassuring, and I almost hear you chuckle as I mutter it to the dark and empty room.

Comments

[Lurks-no-More]

Oh, wow. Now this is a strong opening chapter!

Beautiful writing, comfy almost slice-of-life stuff, but with constant presence of something big and bad we don't understand yet. Ominous and definitely attention-grabbing!

[Shachza]

"Greater Fae," huh? Well, you've hinted at so much in such ways that I'm actually kind of scared to find out what real teeth her phobias have...

[Celefin]

Okay, I'm in. Great beginning!

[Cerulean Blue]

There's alot left unsaid here, and it's really intriguing.

[BleuBlooms]