The question can't leave Feather's quivering muzzle, as well as the idea of organ and magic theft upstairs.
Time to shoot his shot to the Gift Giver, the spirit of All Gifts in the Present, presently smack-dab in her domain, the Grove. She's a doe, a female deer, so his muzzle locks up, his tongue-tied lest the secret operation unravels. He sets his words straight, gets his crazy companion to aim her heart-eyes and her lethal magic on poor him. Gifts and glittering red-green lights snake like vines across the stairs to the second floor, betraying no looming shadow from that back- and horn-stabbing unicorn.
Love, friendship, other sappy answers stride forth. The Elements would've said friendship (the best gifts are free of charge; he's willing to pay to get out of here). That's still a hard ask. He hasn't been home from Our Town for months or years, foalnapped by Starlight then strapped to anti-cutie mark propaganda—
"So, is that a gift request I hear?" asks the semi-divine deer.
He's not yet caught in the headlights. Keep the jig up, juggling and judging every word. How to tell her the sense of urgency without that witch Goldcap's knowing—"Uh, yes!" She ascended the stairs, led All Gifts in the Past, Aurora, to the slaughter with surplus in tow in the form of Alice, All Gifts in the Future. Steal their gift-seer powers, and she'll be halfway to alicornhood.
Two birds in one stone, Feather holds the third. Curse Goldcap and her silver tongue.
"Well, dear," nearly sings Bori, "what kind of gift brings you here?"
His seasonal frozen lake and Mom's sometimes silent apartment share the loneliness. The equal sign-shaped conclave snug in the mountains have radiated the warmth a million-strong city can't (that part-time party, part-time prison of dear Mother). Lively with her silver-going-golden girls, an army of them can't hold a candle to his Dad, wherever he'd gone.
The thin ice captures his attention again, fragility mixed with the terror of going down under. Oh, a union of opposites! Skating across the surface, graceful in moves, in twists and turns like the written words and letters painstakingly drafted, all for him to reply with the same old platitudes. Our Town called: another Hearth's Warming party on the way, with Double Diamond doubling down to etch art on the wintry slopes, where Feather can settle for the lovely croon of not-so-secret admirers—
"Feather Bangs?"
He is re-introduced to a unicorn whose mane appeared struck by his good looks and a thunderstorm. Her witch-hat cutie mark should've re-rang his alarm bells. Two seasons ago, three new dating partners camping out in the woods showed themselves as eager would-be dates; they swept away their chances when arguments evolved into hoof-icuffs and violent dustballs because he looked "too good." They were magicians, expert wizards, so they said. Supposedly, allegedly.
One was red, another was blue, leaving the golden and only one here with a name stuck on his tongue. Good thing he's been itching to write, teeth-gripping his trusty pencil. Still, she has to be answered. Superior, eviller stallions can turn mares into putty with the right words; his arsenal of pick-up lines fall flat like a deflated ball. "Oh, yeah, that's me."
Her eyes scan him, see through him like glass, about to break like thin ice. First impressions of her fighting kind (not the lover one) never go away. "I can't help but notice you seem a little troubled."
Already a nosy mare, too. Trapped in her line of sight, stallion-esque embarrassment rearing its ugly head to block him from just galloping away. He mustaddress the simple question.
"Some Hearth's Warming blues, hmm, hunky colt? Besides, why are you out here in the freezing cold with nothing but a scarf?"
Paper and pencil are a way out, if a romantic one, segueing into his beautifully written lines were it not for how blank the pages are. "Penning some poetry by the pond!"
Her head leans in to discover the empty truth. "Nah, why are you really here? Looking sad, all on your lonesome. Close to Hearth's Warming, too. A gift on your mind, handsome?"
The heart flutters, crushed against the image of so-called friends scarring each other for his undivided time. Feather bravely ran from the scene to pen more sonnets on trees.
When the perfect gift for Mom is mentioned (he lets it spill, poor him—tongue as loose as a goose), a legend and a map she produces. "If you're feeling stuck, I know just the place! Some rumors here and there, a secret library… if it's all real, and I know they're all real, we'll have the Gift Givers ready to help you with the best gift for your mother!"
In it for the long haul.
Feather Bangs marchedstraight to the snowy door. Magic fizzles, crackles at the back of his head (that tension of do-or-die from behind).
To Mom, the perfect gift of his body on a unicorn-fried platter. Bury this stupid hunk of a son, should've just ran away and said love and friendship.
"I've been watching you, watched out for you ever since I set my eyes upon you." Her words dripped, twisted and turned like a knife, condemnation for being so blind. "All I ever thought about is how we would just be there together... forever! It's a long time, isn't it? You and me, alicorn princess and alicorn prince, but before that, we've got to capture time. What better than to start with the deer who're glued to it?"
How she's turned coat, turned the cutie mark on her coat into a warning sign.
But the gift, these miraculous deer—
Baseless rumors. Just say it's baseless rumors, he lambasts himself.
"Follow my plan or else."
Her muzzle contorts, distorts into a kindly, warm, candle-esque smile for the deer who should've seen the wicked coming.
"Heh-heh..." Feather sweats against the fireplace. Towers of gifts are bundled together like close friends by the flames. "Do you... know the perfect gift for my mother?"
Just barge in and talk on about gifts for... at least it isn't his own gift. Selflessness is a virtue, its own Element of Harmony or just Generosity. This mysterious pink deer may croon to him a song about going back home, digging up the treasures found in staying simple. Just spend more time with her. That possibility is better than nothing. Nothing or shackles to an insane alicorn-wannabe.
Bori coughs to break the ice. "Oh, that is quite the sweet request! And if I remember correctly, you're from Our Town, hmm? That's a peculiar little town..."
The interrogation is more a chat over coffee. Sugar Belle and her pastries, with a cup of black. Hot, sweltering anything to steal him away from his invisible cage. The empty stairs watch him, observing his speech. "Well, yeah. I lived a little more south than that before I met Starlight, eh-heh..."
"At least that nasty business is over." Miss Present's accent has that old-timey flourish. "A few kites are in Starlight's inbox, I must say..."
A few muffled hoofsteps blur the small talk. Praise for the former cult leader, with all the indoctrinations and connotations, dissolve with a thump. Another follows suit. The ghost of a magic horn straddling on his withers is a signal of a second-floor disturbance, a putting-to-sleep. "Y-yeah. She's... doing real pretty now!" (Watch your words.) What next, maybe Starlight might swoon for him. Stupid love, puppy love, newly-weds—get her out! He heard much about the Crystaller eyeing her, old-time friend. Love somewhere, like Mom and Dad... a vacation home, deep in the shores, drifting down the river on a foundation of shifting sand, beholding the world in a forever honeymoon before his Dad rose to work, their faces shifting to Feather's own and Swoon Song's or Fond Feather's from his new home, those picture-perfect faces and personalities—
Wood whines against wood from upstairs. He can't see it. Bori explains it away as heavy-duty gift-giving. Studio sets, entire crates, fun for the whole family. The crate may as well be another body or a pair, together forever, should never pass away—not under his watch, if he had to do something about!
He bumps into her, close to her face. Not a kiss! No smooching! His heart vibrates, may explode, almost kissed a god. "I... I-I've got a confession to make," he half-spits out, breathless. He ought to keep moving, keep talking. "It's... I made a mistake coming here. The pony that came with me... didn't just want a talk... I've... brought someone... she's with... she's not as good as she—"
"You can't betray me, you hunk!" yells Goldcap barreling down the stairs, two pairs of antlers stabbed into her; its magic oozes. "You handsome single-sibling blank face!" Her speech allures; her eyes, aglow. If she can only be as stunning as—
"Goldcap!" Bori rears up, aims her own antlers. "How... how can you do this?"
"Nullification matrices." No danger, no-nonsense. No worries. I got this, she proclaims. "I don't have 'Princess' Twilight's skill, but I can read a lot. This spell scrambles all scrying. Good counter-measure, given the whole seer mumbo jumbo the legends go on about."
They circle each other, rainbow-colored gift boxes the childish backdrop to a duel to the death. Feather Bangs should've just gotten on, should've just fled the scene. Curse his instincts for trying to woo this mare! For pursuing Mother to the ends of the earth!
Goldcap takes a step forward. "You'll try to kill me, huh? I know what will happen. Or try to, heh."
Silent Bori shoots from the horn.
Her magic ray freezes. Shoots back. She crumples into nothing.
Blood on his hooves.
Anything Goldcap touches turns into ash and death. (Run.)
An explosion spell hanging over poor Mom's head if Goldcap can really see forward, backwards, sideways—"Come with me."
"It's terrifying, isn't it?" speaks the vortex of possibilities, bubbles of every moment scrolling through the fabric of space and all time—it's his best guess, and it speaks in her voice. Well-versed in everything arcane, Goldcap must be, the self-styled master of the universe, hiding in the forest. Way out of his league. (Anywhere in the real world but here!)
Floating in the void, she steps aside so he can see the everything-ness whooshing by him and her and everything else, all that might've been and may ever be gifted, colored in grins and cheers, served in drinks and joyous tears, cookies and milk devoured at the table and the bedsides of united or broken families (or singles when they're able), across skyscrapers wielding hovercars and ancient grazing wheat fields. Time is her empire: she once went googly-eyed after him, what if Celestia or Luna fell in love with him and his slightly above-average looks.
"So be with me," asks the fake princess. She lays out the terms: to be in each other's forelegs, an eternity of outpouring love on one another—"And your mother, too. For her, I can give..." A dizzying list of numerous bets all won with the help of future knowledge, scrying into the very desires of her friends and strangers around the high-rises, given jewels and complexes and prepared rooms. Servants will burst from the doors, arrive at her beck and call. Prince and Princess to rule the galaxy, the universe beyond, with Mom as Regent.
The beauty of it all, he admits, tantalizes him.
The crackle of a burning twig catches Feather from a shaking orb, like a crystal ball. Within, an inferno licks every dry tree into ash, wrappers and ribbons disintegrating into scorching dust. Ash falls where presents are still given, scant few boxes thrown at scrawny hooves if they aren't fleeing from collapsing homes and sinking continents.
Back against the fire, the silhouettes are two.
The connection is made. Guilty of so much already. His hypothetical criminal record stands to be as long as death.
"N-no!"
She can only turn. Once-graceful eyes are framed by her messy mane. "What do you mean no?!"
To be trapped here for who knows how long. Mother can't be reached. Moments float everywhere, colored by autumn, the leaves burn, they are dying. The fire keeps growing, consuming! All his fault... how stupid he was for saying his intentions out loud on that cursed lake! Curses to this magical prison! Maybe Goldcap will tire out, yes... no thanks to a poor misguided love for Mom—love or guilt at not talking back, doing nothing more than a token reply? Just a response for not having any for the past year or more?
"If it means... I stay here, forever... I-I don't know... I just..."
The perfect gift. Beauty in the simple things, of saying sappy words—he loves the sappy; Sugar Belle certainly appreciated some of it in his pony idol phase before it turned overbearing. A shady mare from the woods bearing only ill-will should've given him wings just to fly away, never for her to see him again.
Whenever the world's on the line, the Elements have always done better, proactive. His rescue plan when Princess Twilight visited Our Town was to beeline away from Starlight when she was outed. Double Diamond and the other more upstanding members kept kept the search on for Starlight (how cowardly it is to stay home).
"I... I won't let you use my mother"—(Goldcap may just use her as another way to worm into your heart)—"or my friends"—(yet another list of ponies for her to hang onto, hang ten to kill them)—"or my town or anyone"—(more and more piled upon, just shut up, at least woo her away from the idea—)—"I just know—"
"You'll do what's right and yada-yada-yada!" She rears her ugly head, old and young, wrinkles and youth shifting in and out. Smells like burning wood. "If you can't have her, none of us will! I'll burn it all! And you will... you will just... I will hunt her down, then everyone else in that thing you call a town! Then it will just be me! I am here! I've ascended! I am risen! Why won't you just... be with me?!"
I'm a lover, not a fighter.
I'm a lover. Can't even talk to mares right. Loneliness is more powerful than social awkwardness mixed with a great jawline. Starlight and Goldcap make for two mares today he'd fallen for, mares that went on the verge of the apocalypse.
A lover loves. Not the kissing type, not the type where white flowers and white gowns and white suits say, "I do."
Do the stupid thing and reach out.
He takes a step forward to ask what's wrong.
What he can fix.
Huts chopped up to the scent of roasted, well-done earth. Villages divided, dirt roads chronicled in pieces/saws/jigsaws for the gold-capped novice/newness to seeing/foresight.
A concrete foundation: a lake, an ocean: it's ice where they reminisce, back at home, back with three. A radiant, shaggy fourth stands by.
Two silhouettes wrap each other in one's own naïveté/anxiety, tied up with extreme appeal.
Turn away. Please turn away. How disgusting, so degenerating, demeaning to be on that level. Can't hold a candle to her, this blank-forehead face! By her power, she shall rise to the heavens!
Close the doors, so many doors of the frozen lake. One speaks of the remnants of a family not her own, so she closes her eyes.
Slams it shut, slams it shut, slams it shut, slams it shut slams it sh
Groggy, Feather tastes the floor. Joints and muscles sing in harmonious aching. They yield to the charred outline of what-once-was-Goldcap. Laid out in triangle form, deer young and old and his-age, alive if not exactly well, joining him in the waking. Back in the Grove, back in the real world.
A white blotch leads to an open door. His coat brushes against the freeze, the blizzard's darkening breeze, blanketed by northern lights, angelic curtains pointing outwards.
Dug deep in the snow, hoofprints remain.
The end is days later, the deer's gifted provisions running dry. He hurried on without explanation, didn't listen, took the biscuits and went. Tears crystallize in the night. Diamonds are tears, diamonds are a mare's best friend, too expensive for poor Mom. Snow crunches against immune hooves, unfeeling in the constant chill to solve the puzzle of the figure's sobs.
She sits by the lake, framed by trees' leafless claws. Her reflection is crystal clear, sharp as broken glass, broken as her heart (Starlight once had crocodile tears). Out of his league. Our Town's mares never had a cry on his withers. Easy for them to love when they're ordinary ponies, fellow ex-brainwashed neighbors. She is the brainwasher, the seductress, the temptress. Another hit of magic will spell fatal death.
He hangs in there, in the frigid silence. Scoot a little closer, inch a little nearer.
"You... you were there... you were all there..."—(her mother knew no better)—"I didn't... didn't dare look forward. Because you'd be there, too"—(a sonic rainboom, and everypony's made it the talk of the town)—"what does that mean for me? I didn't look all so powerful..." (who is she but just another unicorn, another spell-caster, a no-princess, no-world-saving—)
Not the alicorn, not a princess. She, deprived for all that is rightfully hers, so she believes, so she says. Another Starlight, another town in the making where no one knows your name, only hers.
Another inch conquers the snow and the space between bodies.
The pristine white sheets smother their vision, unable to stand against each dogged step they take. Dead branches break the sky into a million static lightning cracks, the horror show, the opening act, to an inviting orange aura: a burning barrel within a treehouse, its anemic flame sheltering its inhabitants.
Goldcap's inhabitants. The other two wannabe mages that fought tooth and nail for his attention, for the whole of him, doze away where makeshift mattresses and pillows make way for his break-in and entry (Dad, with his good looks, once schmoozed with so many until that last love at first sight.)
Hidden away, he sits, roasting himself by the barrel-fire, a breathing and sleeping Goldcap by his side.
"I... I don't know," he whispers. The anxiety clamps the tongue shut. Maybe she can't hear him. "I'll… maybe I'll come back."
A little house can be had here. Our Town was a dozen-pony project or so. Can haul her back to the village.
Where has his mom gone? The letter is now a far-off prospect, la letter to tell Mom that he'll be out for a long while thanks to a mare. Some great news this will be. Her heart will be a-flutter at the news. It's what she wanted, if by some villain mare.
A crooked, want-to-end-the-world mad mare.
Will... will you stay, you stupid fool? Goldcap may say when she wakes up this time, told of her better health (if not her bitter spirits). No, she's smarter than that, more cunning and clever. Yet, a second shot, a second chance. To settle down, look at the future. Interrogations, a list of questions rain in. Who you can be, what is your plan… a date to remember...
Or to just stay.
She's crazy-eyes over you, over you.
Together, we can rule the world.
The world will be ash, dust, echoes. All with her attached to him.
