The Pursuit of Penance

by Paracompact

Deep as it Runs

A griffon’s life is one of constant negotiation and exploitation. I like to think I’m pretty darn good at it, too. Case in point: I managed to avoid the full brunt of my wife’s ire by interposing our sparkly-eyed little Gamila between us.

“Did you hear that, Gam?” I called, after my re-entry. “That kind pony out there says she’ll gladly do our winter chores for the rest of the week! Sleep-ins all around!”

My daughter beamed and screeched with joy in the foyer, as my wife glared at me from the kitchen. I could tell, our child’s squeals of delight were not winning me father-of-the-year, in Gwendolyn’s eyes.

“But… why?” Gamila inquired after her show of excitement. “Are ponies always this nice?”

Oh, my precious child. She was growing into the age of reason and skepticism, but not yet out of the age of naivety. “Well, not all the time. But, it turns out she owes our family a little bit of a debt, actually. And what have I and your mother taught you about outstanding debts?”

“We pay them off! With interest!” she answered. No doubt we had read her enough Griffonstone fairytales with that particular moral, by now.

My wife stood silently with crossed claws in the kitchen doorway, staring venomously at her traitor of a husband. Against my better judgment, I walked up to her and attempted to make a case for myself:

“I promise, she won’t even learn the names of you or the little one.”

Body language and common sense informed me that I couldn’t expect to sleep anywhere but the couch for the near-future. But hey, it was still a winning trade, in my eyes!

~~

And so the week went by, and we made good use of our little workhorse. In any given season, we could never quite sell all the bottom-of-the-barrel frostcarrots at the local market, so I had no issue with allowing Tempest to subsist on some in exchange for her work.

Nevertheless—bleeding heart was I—one day I decided to bring her a portion of my own home-cooked meal, and dined with her in the shed.

“So just how long are you planning on staying with us, anyway?” I pried, before digging into my soup.

Tempest certainly looked worse for wear than she had one week ago, although no less determined. “It’s not up to me. However long you think is right. Be that one more day, or one more lifetime.”

I knew by now to expect ridiculous answers from this very ridiculous pony, but it still caught me off-guard. “You can’t be serious! Ah, if you think somewhere in this selfish heart of mine there’s a well of pity deep enough to turn down a personal servant for life, I would advise you to reconsider your offer. I call your bluff.” I looked for a reaction on Tempest’s part, but found none in that ever-serious countenance of hers. “Nah, my pity runs only as deep as this bowl of soup. Now eat up, you look like you’ve been gnawing on frostcarrots for a week.”

Truth be told, I was concerned she might work herself into the ground with no advance notice, and then where would that leave us? Nonetheless, her complexion glowed upon finally being given permission to partake in the steamy, savory meal.

“Thank you, Gelfand. This is more than enough.”

“Yep. I fancy myself a pretty good cook, you know. That’s one chore I don’t think I’ll ever let you take from me, even if my wife did let you inside the house one day. I guess you haven’t quite kept to your word of winning her over, now have you?”

“Maybe not.” Despite several spoonfuls of my home cooking, Tempest’s grateful expression suddenly sagged anxiously. “W-what happens to be in it, the soup?”

“Good ol’ family recipe, can’t take credit for that. But I did go through the trouble of throwing in some fresh parsley with an extra helping of garlic, and of course I caught, gutted, and cooked the field mice myself, aaand you’re a strictly vegetarian species. Right. I, uh, forgot.”

The purple pony didn’t wait for me to excuse her as she got up, stumbled outside and loudly purged herself of her forbidden delicacy. I looked down into my soup in shame, my appetite obviously departed.

I waited inside patiently for her retching to cease, before finally easing my guilty conscience and checking up on her. She stood, eyes closed, with one hoof against the shed, seemingly uncertain whether she was finished.

“Uh, real sorry about that. My fault… of course.” I really was unsure what to say in this situation, but for better or for worse, Tempest didn’t seem to be taking in my words anyway. “I think I at least owe you another meal, huh? Vegetarian, naturally. Does that, uh, sound good?”

Tempest still didn’t seem to be listening. Her eyes remained pressed shut, betraying some great pain. She swayed slightly from side to side, and I worried she might lose her balance. It was at this point that I realized the quivering lip and the moist eyes: What she was struggling against at this point was not her stomach, but her own emotions.

“I’m… struggling. After just one week, I’m struggling already. I told myself I…”

She was muttering under her breath, and I had a hard time hearing her. “I’m sorry? You’ll have to speak up for me.”

“N-no thank you, the soup was enough… One bowl, you said, you said that was as deep as… as it ran… didn’t y-…?”

I was straining so hard to hear her disjointed whispering, I didn’t realize it until it had happened, when she collapsed sidelong into a pile of snowmelt.

“Tempest…? Tempest!”

Without a concern in my mind for the consequences, I rushed to bring her inside our home for the very first time.