Rainy Day
They were two great writers of the time. The first, a stallion, was by far more experienced and analytical. Yet that led him, at times, to drone on and on. The second, a mare of the utmost beauty, honed in on what was beautiful, but often missed important details. It was so that the mare was by far more poetic, and more popular. Still, the populace would only ever go to the stallion for wisdom, as they considered the mare to be young and brash. It was only destiny that the two would meet under the shady trees of the scenic lake that is and always will be, Tsukuyomi.
On a rainy day, the tired stallion Fable, head hung low, stared at the lake, pondering the infinitesimal possibilities that lay before him. It hadn’t occurred to him that he would’ve written such things, but then there it was. Not surprising really, considering how much he had seen. The knowledge had made him tired, rain crushing his shoulders into the slump that they had grown used to. Funny, how much it had managed to sneak on him. Who knew what he would write next?
The mare, Ghost, was sitting by the fire, dripping wet and shivering. She had always loved the rain; it gave her the chills, made everything dark and mysterious. A feel of adventure was what it was, exciting and new. Fire crackling before her, she glimpsed of the vast expanse that flickered in the dwindling sparks, living their last breaths of lives, fulfilling the dreams and desires that others could not.
“The lake,” the owner of the quaint in had said, “is a place where all tourists should go.”
It had been her next destination, yet she had not wanted to go at the moment. An odd sensation had crawled up the nape, telling her that it wasn’t quite time. Ghost had always listened, as instinct had proven right on many occasions before. She wasn’t about to doubt one of her best tools. Besides, she could hardly suppress the yawns that were rising out of her throat. With that in mind, her lidded eyes slowly closed, and she slipped into oblivion.
Fable started to laugh. It was ironic really. He wouldn’t mind being buried here, under the weeping willows. He hadn’t realized just how tired he was, how unwilling he was to move from the spot anymore, hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to close his eyes, how badly he wanted to just give in. So he did just that, and by the lake, rippling with each tear dropped from the heavens, a lone figure sat, exhausted.
The moon watched over them both, the soft glow freezing time where it was.
As day came, the sun rose to watch over the lake once more. The warm, nurturing rays caressed the figure on the bench. Slowly, the figure revived into the world of the living, blinking his eyes in disbelief. Looking at the reflection in the water, he realized just how ridiculous the face he was making was, and burst into another bout of laughter. It seemed that he wasn’t meant to die this day.
Ghost, on her trek to the lake, heard the laughter that rang deep. Curiosity peaked, her gait took on an extra bounce that led her down to the lake even faster. It was breathtaking. The way the willow branches hung, dew glistening in the sunlight, tears cried for all the suffering in the world, made her smile. And the lake, pure and pristine, had collected all of the drama and tension that were the tears. A loud whistle pierced the laughter, as she admired the settings that could be created from such a moody environment. The gears in her brain began to turn, slowly but surely, creating ideas, magical ideas, that would be breathed into life with words.
Fable heard the whistle, ostensibly from a younger mare, and turned around. When he saw her, he gave a low whistle, having the compulsion to act like a dirty old stallion. “Hey sexy,” he shouted up the path.
She looked down at Fable in mock disgust, recognizing the tint of sarcasm in his catcall. “I’m coming babe.”
Dashing down the last stretch of the path, grinning the entire way, the mare was having fun. It had been a while since she had found somepony that might be as intellectually inclined as she. He too, was mildly surprised that the mare had picked up on the subtleties of his vocalization. Ponies didn’t seem to be able to appreciate the shift in tone, despite all the loaded information that came with it. So began their little tête-à-tête at the lake, the opening words forming the bridge that would begin something mystical. That it was, until Ghost saw the damp fur matted against Fable.
“You’ve swimming in the lake?” She had underestimated the old stallion if he had been swimming in such a sacred lake.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” said the Fable calmly. He knew why Ghost would make such an assumption though.
“Then...” The sentence trailed off as she made the only logical conclusion. “You’ve been out here since last night.” Quiet passed from the finality of the statement. She wasn’t sure what to do.
“And?” He didn’t like the silence.
Her stare turned sharp and menacing, causing him to take a few steps back. “You”
“Yes?” said Fable, uncertain of what she wanted. It was probably going to be something bothersome.
“Sit.” It was more of a command than a request, and judging by the dangerous edge her voice was beginning to take, he knew to obey. He had some experience with mares before, and it never ended well if he tried to take off. It had been fun though, running.
A quick ring of stones was assembled, surrounding a bundle of sticks. Faggot, thought Fable, which made him laugh. The amount of connotations that had piled upon that word made it nigh impossible to use it without criticism of some sort. Language evolved and time passed, and he too would fade away, with or without the guidance of the mare.
He allowed the warmth to wash over him anyway, as it seemed that there was still things left unfinished. In another note, it was comfortable, and he had no desire to start the next leg of the journey. “Mmh, nice,” was his contented sigh, as he adjusted his hooves to be closer to the source of warmth.
The next thing he knew, a cup of steaming tea was thrust into his hooves. He looked up from the toasty tips of his hind legs and saw the kettle, boiling water over the crackling fire, bubbles making popping noises as they broke to the surface. He took a sniff, and was rewarded with the pleasant odor of fragrant green tea. It seemed this mare did understand the values of life after all. The small, porcelain cup, slowly rose to his lips, as a small drop of liquid sank into his lips and into his mouth, swishing this way and that as he savored the delicate, bitter taste of the tea.
Ghost stared at Fable with his eyes closed, face contorted into a strange case of ecstasy that betrayed a deep sense of taste, steadily acquired over the long course of years. It weighed upon the skin of his bones, wrinkling it slightly, leaving behind a worn, rugged look. She licked her lips. It was almost too easy, how quickly she had found her inspiration for a new story.
When Fable’s eyes opened, he found himself staring into the vibrant, purple eyes that were Ghost’s. He could see all the hunger that reminded him of his childhood, questing to defeat the dragon and rescue the princess. The sweet fantasy days, that at the time had seemed like an awfully good idea, were in introspect, a rather dark ideal that he had eventually begun to understand later in his life. A lot of things had taken on a new meaning, and he had found that it wasn’t always an entirely nice feeling. Not that he could ever take any of it back, or that he wanted to. No pain, no gain, the old adage proves right yet again. They really do have inklings of truth.
“Thanks,” said Fable, content and happy. The hot tea sitting in his belly wasn’t a bad feeling at all either.
Ghost blinked, then blinked again. “You’re welcome,” she finally stated.
“So, who are you?” asked Fable, curious as to why he was being helped in the first place. Many ponies were too busy to notice the old stallion. They always assumed he was on a philosophical stroll down memory lane, and didn’t wish to be disturbed. Nopony ever thought that maybe an old workpony wouldn’t want some company too. It was the way he preferred it though, as few had the patience for the long rants he inevitably descended into, recounting what he thought were the most important aspects which others thought were too many aspects.
“Ghost,” she said, “an aspiring writer at your service.” She took a short curtsy to flourish the sentence.
“Really now. That’s surprising. I too have written a few small pieces of drivel in my time, although I’m not nearly as famous as you,” said Fable.
“Let’s hear it then, the drivel I mean.” She had a feeling it was more than just mere drivel. The old stallion definitely had something up his sleeve.
And as Fable read his story, Ghost’s eyes grew wide with shock.
“You,” she said.
“Yes me.” Fable confirmed the simple statement.
“Y-you’re...” spluttered the mare.
“I’m Fable.” There was a brief pause, as Ghost tried to recollect her thoughts.
“The legendary writer himself,” she finally said.
“I can’t really say that’s the proper use of legendary, but sure,” said Fable, acquiescing to the statement.
“Then why? Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you sit out in the pouring rain, drenched and cold? With all that fame, why would you—” Her angry questions were stopped by a simple hoof, raised in her face. An insulting gesture to be sure, but effective.
Fable laughed a little. “I was just tired. Besides, for what it’s worth, fame isn’t everything.”
Both of them knew how inadequate and flimsy the explanation was, yet how much truth it hid.
Ghost raised her hoof, eyes betraying a grimace that told Fable how much Ghost was adverse to giving up on life. This caused Fable to start shaking, unable to contain his laughter anymore. It burst out infectiously, causing her to laugh too, despite the tears streaming out of her face. It was yet another scene from out of a book, a story. It could’ve been something that Fable would’ve written. He could begin to picture out the scene.
The intervening sunset threw images of fire across the lake, and both of them stopped and stared out the colorful show of light that graced them. Wind whistled through the willow trees, playing the haunting tune that punctuates how ironic it was that they weren’t crying out of sadness. They sat there, side by side, listening to the birds and the trees, and staring at the dim array of fire that showed brief glimpses of the hopeful future. Tomorrow will be a new day, thought Fable.
“Beautiful, isn’t it,” said Fable.
“A fitting scene for a love story I would add,” said Ghost.
“Yes, I can see it now. They lean in, and kiss,” said Fable, extremely sarcastic.
“And they dance under the moon when the sun finally sets,” continued Ghost.
“And then they had sex,” finished Fable, his poker face slowly stretching into a wide grin.
And they both laughed at how cheesy the scene would’ve been. Yet to actually see it for themselves, it was another thing altogether; a magical moment that would be engraved in their hearts. The innate power of it swayed the artist in their souls, and they sat there, appreciating every last spark until at last the fire was extinguished, and the moon once again froze the world in its soft, motherly glow.
But their fires had not gone out, and they stayed the night by the campfire, admiring the moon’s otherworldly views as well. Both of them knew that there was always another side to the coin. Besides, the faint glow was perfect for a camping trip. Ghost created the fire anew, with a larger ring of stones. This time, the fire was bright and happily danced along the logs, illuminating the landscape.
They sang songs too, ballads and odes to the lake before them. The poetic lyrics rang across the lake the entire night. At the same time, they were raunchy as well, a satire of the multitude of bad romance novels that had flooded the market. They danced as well, to the beat of the tunes. It was a sight to be seen, both of them dancing flawlessly to the beat that had been constructed, contrasting with the satiric attitude. Jokes, laughter and merry were the themes of that night.
Most of all, they shared their stories at the campfire. Riveting tales of intrigue, steamy tales of forbidden love, exciting escapades for treasure, they had written it all. It was good fun, as they pointed out what they should’ve done in hindsight, and critiqued one another. What made them laugh most though, was commenting on what others thought of their works. Many of the others missed out on all the clues that they had loaded in, and they shook their heads in amazement at all the stupidity they had seen.
Then Fable went into his rant on ponies’ opinions on him. A wise old stallion he was, full of advice on everything from child rearing to astrophysics. Ponies would flock to him far and wide, trying get his opinion. It was a good thing that he was reclusive, otherwise he would’ve been swamped to the death by the large number of ponies that all wanted his blessings for their endeavors. Didn’t they understand that he was only one pony, that even he, wise as he was, didn’t know everything?
Fable even went out of his way to pretend to be the old geezer, lifting his tea cup sagely to his mouth, took a sip, and then gave a wise saying accompanied with a sagely nod, all with a straight face. They both had a good kick out of that one, and couldn’t stop rolling on the grassy ground, snorting. It was the perfect recreation of the image that Fable had built for himself over the years. They had become close friends that night.
The moon glowed throughout. Two figures, sleeping soundly next to a dimming campfire that was out of fuel. For today, the passion had been spent, burned out to fuel creative juices. There was always a tomorrow, where the flames could rise anew, from the ashes. The friendship of Fable and Ghost had already kindled that.