The Mare

By Stanku

Proofreaders/Editors: nucnik, kalash93, Kain187

On a cream white paper, a pen writes:

A velvet covers the sky, an enormous fabric spotted with tiny lights like holes in the canvas. Holes made of light, immobile, docile, eternal. A change in a constellation means countless lifetimes for a pony, and yet their particles, the stars, symbolize change for them, for us. An old star, a new beginning. Anypony can recognise the logical misstep in that wisdom. Another new lie disguised as ageless truth.

A mare leans against her window frame while the starlight caresses her naked figure with a cold touch. The moon is out there, too, but not on her window, not tonight. Only the distant stars witness her writing her diary, the pen held firmly between her clean white teeth. The mare’s mane, a mixed dream of auburn and golden yellow, rests in her way as she writes another line of her thoughts. She flips it away by jerking her neck, and the curls fall like autumn leaves.

She hears singing, and her frail and tiny ears turn towards the noise that comes from beneath her, from the streets. The noise gets louder by the minute and soon she can see a pair of stallions appear under one of the street lights. Their top hats give away their class like the stripes give away a tiger. The mare follows the pair with her gaze, stopping her writing as the two noisy individuals pass under her window, moving from one circle of light into another. Drunk as a skunk, she thinks as the singing becomes almost unbearable, and not only because of the volume.

A sleepy growl carries from the large bed behind the mare, and she senses somepony moving in the darkness. For a few seconds, she holds her breath. Then the noise stops, both on the street and on the bed, as the two drunken socialites turn a corner. Soon, a soft snoring descends again to offer a familiar vocal context for the mare. She sighs in relief, and continues her writing undisturbed.

A few pages later she closes the small blue book and sets the pen on a nightstand next to her. She glances at the sleeping stallion on the bed, listening to his faint snoring as his tail makes an idle swing in the air every now and then. She watches him like she watched the two stallions under her window—with contempt. It’s quite a different look from the one she gives their kind, to the elite of Canterlot, during daytime. She’s not wearing her mask now.

The mare turns her head from the sleeping figure and stares at the fabric of night. She knows almost all the constellations by name and appearance now, but still her eyes shine as if they were witnessing the beauty above for the first time. Her gaze travels a million miles in a second as she goes through the blinking lights one by one, and she greets them by their name. The Silvery Spear. Little Apple. The Maiden. She blinks when her eyes meets the last one, and her mouth twists into a mocking grin. It’s a wonder she can keep the blush away, considering the view I have offered her tonight, she thinks as she studies the constellation. I guess she must have gotten used to it by now.

A cold breeze travels through the window and pulls another displeased groan from the figure on the bed. The mare freezes for a moment, but not from the cold. Luckily, the stallion is fast asleep and only digs deeper into the blankets. She is quite comfortable with the chilly weather, which is one of the few reasons she has for liking the New Year’s Eve that looms ahead, under the horizon of tomorrow. She moves her diary off the windowsill, closes the window quietly, and locks it up with a hook. And yet she lingers by the window, now sitting on the thick carpet that covers the floor.

A neutral, almost sad expression masks her narrow and delicate face, as she looks at the stars as if some force was drawing her towards them. She places a hoof against the window panel, and feels the cold surface under her soft and gentle hooves, hooves that can do wonders if she so pleases. She can make flesh melt under her touch, she can make a stallion beg for more with a simple brush, and yet, right now, she finds the cool, lifeless glass more appealing than the steaming skin and blood.

The mare lets go of the diaphanous panel, but only when her hoof starts to freeze. She picks up her diary and pen and puts them in a drawer, which she then locks, using her mouth again. She does have such a nimble mouth and tongue, just like she has nimble hooves. She looks at the stallion on her bed again with the key in her mouth, and decides to hide the thing in her left boot for the night instead of its usual hiding place.

The window is closed, the diary and the key are hidden, and yet the mare hesitates to return to the bed. Its warmth doesn’t attract her at all; instead, it makes her feel unclean, sweaty, humid. The presence of another breathing, snoring, and moving body does little to incentivize her. In the dim light she can see the clock striking two, ever so slowly. There are still plenty of hours left in the night, and the mare still hasn’t found pleasure yet, not from the stallion on her bed, anyway. He is handsome enough in his grey coat and thin black beard that covers his jaw, and he is not in that bad of a shape, either. His age betrays not his looks but his capability.

The mare turns her head from side to side for a moment, undecided, and then a faint flicker crosses her eyes as she remembers. Perhaps it’s not too late. Perhaps I can yet have my pleasure pure and fierce. She heads for the door without bothering to dress warmly or seductively. In the state they’re in, I might as well shave my head and they would still have me. The thick wooden door closes behind her without a sound, just like its well oiled hinges were meant to.

The street is quiet and cold, illuminated by the lamps that stand on both sides of the road. Not every part of Canterlot has them spread around so precisely; this neighbourhood is an exception, and not just in that respect. However, the pale yellow light is not the only illuminating facet around—the stars are still above the city, and they follow the mare as she gallops in the direction where the two drunken stallions had gone some time ago.

Same old houses, same old streets. Even the cobblestones are the same. No matter what they say, this place never changes. It’s too proud for that. It’s too proud to die. The mare keeps a comparatively fast pace, she is almost running as her ears move from side to side, trying to catch that jolly laughter again. The decorated and luxurious buildings loom over her, but she pays them no mind. Only the moon manages to catch her attention as it greets her behind a corner, floating in the sky as the supreme light source. The mare grins as she looks at the silvery orb. Mark my words; I will make you turn your face tonight. I will make you look silly in your proud eternity. The moon looks as indifferent as before, and the mare quickly turns her eyes from it. But the moon doesn’t turn her gaze from the mare.

Minutes go by as her search goes on, but there is no sign of the two stallions. Annoyance begins to shade her face along with impatience. Have they crawled into their homes already? Did I underestimate their speed? Did they go the other way? Questions peck at the back of her head, and for a moment she considers turning back. It’s then that she hears noises around the corner. With a faint smile she walks along the wall and peeks into an alley.

“I could’ve sworn that there was a street here once…”

“Blah! You have a memory of a goldfish! I told you we should have turned left first, then right.”

“Don’t you mock me… I have an excellent memory; I can memorize all the ancient alphabets of the ancient Kelth– I mean, Gelthi– I mean…”

“You can’t even recall the name of the language!”

The mare’s smile grows as she listens to the slurred speech of the two stallions, both of whom seem to be young and well-built unicorns. Students. Most likely in the Canterlot School of History. Well, that makes things so much easier. Without a moment of hesitation, the mare walks around the corner and makes it towards the two arguing stallions with slow, pondering, and rhythmical steps.

“I say, you never even passed that course! And still you claim to know the better of it?”

“You know I only failed because Professor Axiom hates me more than he loves to torture us with his linguistic puns…”

“Oh? Is that’s so, then tell me why–”

“Hello, gentlecolts. I do hope I’m not interrupting anything important?”

The two students fall silent at once and turn their heads towards the voice. They see a young, stunning mare walking towards them with the moon shining behind her. The light creates an almost divine aura that follows the figure as it approaches them with firm, secure steps. Their jaws would have dropped from less.

“Uhm… Who are you?” begins one of the stallions, the one with a styled letter “A” as his cutie mark. His coat is chestnut brown, which creates a stylish contrast to his dark and short mane and while he is the smaller of the two, firm muscles cover his back and legs.

The mare licks her lips quickly. “A lady doesn’t introduce herself to a stranger, does she?” she says with a shy smile.

“But you–” says the same stallion, but the other, clearly the brighter of the two, interrupts him before he can ruin the moment. “Forgive my friend’s manners, for he was spared when they were distributed. My name’s Willow Fall and this creature here is called–”

“–Syllable. They call me Reg Syllable, and I’m quite comfortable doing my own introductions, thank you very much.” Syllable glares at his friend for a moment, even though his eyes have trouble keeping focus.

Competitive. Oh my. This might turn fun. The mare stops a few steps from the couple and flicks her mane from her forehead with a sharp movement of her neck, all the while smiling softly. The move doesn’t fail to steal the words from their mouths.

“I, uhm… How could we be of assistance to you, lady…?” says the one called Willow Fall. He is the taller of the two, and his wide and powerful shoulders line perfectly with his back and hindquarters that are covered with a blue-grey coat. He, too, seems to prefer keeping his mane short. As the mare tilts her head a bit, she can make out a feather quill and an ink pot on his left flank.

“Sugar Blossom,” she says without blinking an eye. “I seem to have lost my way on these streets—I’m not from around here, you see.”

The two stallions give each other a quick look that speaks volumes. They’re interested, but still hesitant. Marefriends at home, mayhaps? A bit more encouragement might be in order... She takes another step closer. “I venture that you know these corners quite well,” she says with her sweetest tone.

Willow Fall takes the initiative, and the mare makes a mental note of that.“Yes, we study at the Canterlot School of History and Linguistics. It’s just around the corner. There is a party taking place there now, and there ought to be a few carriages left that will take you wherever you need to go.”

“Or,” begins Syllable, “we could escort you straight to your accommodations. Are they close by?”

The mare notices how Fall cringes at his friend’s simple directness. A bold one, and a sensitive one. This scene begins to resemble some play or a novel.

“History students, you say? Oh my. I wouldn’t have guessed…” The mare’s tail, coloured like her mane, brushes the ground idly, and she smiles as she catches both of the males following its swinging. They turn their heads quickly away.

Syllable is the first to recover. “History and linguistics, yes. We’re specializing in dead languages. But what do you mean, ‘couldn’t have guessed’?”

The mare’s smile becomes more intimate, and she takes yet another step closer. She could almost stretch and touch both of them with her front hooves now. “Why, nothing. I only imagined that such ponies would be more… Oh, forgive me, I’m beginning to ramble.”
“No no no,” say the unicorns in unison. They throw annoyed glares at each other, but Fall manages to continue first. “I mean, you’re not rambling at the slightest. Please, we’re curious to know what you first thought of us.”

Bingo. “Well… It may be a bit inappropriate for me to say such things… but both of you seemed quite less nerdy than what I would’ve expected an average history nerd to look like.”

Willow Fall chuckles, but Syllable seems less amused by the remark. “Well, not all scholars of history and linguistics like to spend all their time in the library,” he says with a cool tone. “And not all of them fancy being called nerds.”

Willow Fall looks just about like he’d want to give his honest friend a good shove to the flank. The mare pretends to be totally unaware of this, and turns her face to Syllable’s slightly sour expression. “I beg your pardon. My intention was not to offend, you see.” The mare lets her eyes travel slowly over Syllable’s shoulders, neck, and hindquarters, all of which show a set of tense muscles underneath the chestnut coat. She manages to spot a few bruises in the moonlight, too. “I take that you’ve done something else than library-time, haven’t you?” she says as her gaze returns straight to his eyes.
Syllable swallows as the deep red eyes meet his own. “Eh, yes, as a matter of fact. We’re both in the School’s pony-boxing team. A jolly good way to keep oneself in shape.” The mare’s eyes seem to flicker, and the stallion finds himself unable to draw away from their depths. They are the most unnerving eyes he has ever seen, and yet there is also something very intimate about them. It’s almost as if he was staring at a naked flame.

The mare cuts the eye contact as easily as she makes another with Willow Fall, who quickly snaps his own eyes away from the mare’s round rump. To her joy she notices that he is sweating a bit despite the cool autumn air that surrounds them. “Two history nerds who fancy boxing,” she states. Why, can a mare get any luckier?

Willow Fall has trouble finding the words, as he is also enchanted by the cool fire he finds in the mare’s stare. “So… It’s getting somewhat late. Mayhaps we should be on our way to the School?” He doesn’t make a move to show that he’d actually want to leave the scene.

“A good point, old chap. We do have the actual New Year’s party ahead of us, after all.” Syllable, on the other hoof, is still somewhat ignorant of the game he’s become a part of. As he turns to leave, Willow Fall closes his eyes and swears that he’s going to knock the teeth out of him during the next boxing session. But when he opens his eyelids, he finds that the strangest thing has happened. The mare is standing on her hind legs and has captured his friend against the wall, with both of her front legs on either side of his head. Syllable is also only on two legs, with his shoulders nailed to the bricks behind him and his eyes lost deep into the pools of fire that stare at his very soul.

“We’re not in that great of a hurry, are we now, Syllable?” whispers the mare. Her breathing washes over the stallion’s left ear, and suddenly he forgets how cold the air actually is.

“I… I suppose not… Who are—”

And suddenly all Reg Syllable can think of is the sweetest, nimblest, and hungriest tongue he has ever tasted that has found its way into his mouth. The mare’s kiss, long and deep, takes him by complete surprise, and all he can do is answer it with instinct. He closes his eyes like the mare has done, and wraps his hooves around her shoulders. They are the softest and most tender shoulders he has ever touched, and feeling them move under his hooves makes his heart beat like a jackhammer. The top hat falls to the ground without anypony giving a damn.

Tastes like apple cider. Juicy. Succulent. Not that bad a kisser, either. The mare studies the inside of Syllable’s mouth with her tongue without hurry, enjoying the soft warmth and the taste of alcohol. Her right hoof moves to caress his ear, which stirs a quiet moan from the stallion. She devours the sound as she devours him: With devoted mindfulness.

Suddenly, a familiar scent breaks through the smell of sweet cider and Syllable's perfume. A musky scent which can only mark one thing in the entire world. The mare pays a small glance beneath, and blinks as she sees the stallion’s member fully erect, almost touching her thigh. Without a second thought, she moves her leg and lets the hot flesh brush against her skin just long enough so that she can steal another moan from him. Syllable’s lungs draw air as if he is about to suffocate, and his body is heating up like a forge. Easier than I thought. Easy enough to get bored. Thank Celestia there are two of them.

A final lick to the lips closes the long kiss and leaves a strand of saliva lingering on Syllable’s lips, connecting with the mare’s. She smiles as he slowly opens his eyes, which only have one word, one thought, inscribed in their hazy depths: More. The fire in the mare’s eyes burns through him like a candle through wax, and it says: Soon. The mare turns her head and sees Willow Fall standing like a statue where she had left him. “Care to join in?” she asks casually.

Fall blinks, as if he only now realized that he is watching a live scene and not some fantasy born in dreams. He hesitates to speak, but only for a moment. “I know who you are,” he says, unexpectedly, calmly. “I saw your cutie mark.”

The flame doesn’t flicker in the breeze that swoops in the alley. The mare studies Fall with curiosity, smiling all the while. “...So? There’s no need to get shy because of it.”

Fall cringes. “It’s... not that. I—we cannot afford your... services.”

The mare keeps her eye on Willow Fall, the flame blinking in the darkness. Why, somepony seems to need more attention. And perhaps a bit of reassurement. She detaches from Syllable, whose attempt to pull her back falls in vain. She steps slowly to Fall, who stands like a soldier in attention, every muscle tense. His arousal lingers in the air, too, the mare can practically taste the scent of it. She walks close enough to feel his heavy breathing on her cheeks.

She leans her head close to his ear and whispers: “If you promise to forget me and remember Sugar Blossom, I’ll ensure that you and your friend will remember this night for the rest of your lives. No bargaining, no regrets. Tonight knows only pleasure. But only if you play along like a good gentlecolt.”

The combination of mare’s soft voice and the promising warmth of her body almost makes Willow Fall tremble with lust. Yet he stands still, even as he feels her nibbling his ear in the most sensual fashion. “I… I have a marefriend…” he manages to say as the pleasure fights against duty both on his face and in his heart.

The mare keeps working on his ear. “Trust me, it’s not the first time I’ve heard that. She will never know, and I can make you stop caring.” She slides her hoof across his neck, and feels those wiry muscles push against her as his body begins to betray his honour. “Besides,” she continues, “New Year’s Eve is almost upon us. It’s a time of experiments, of adventure. A time for new beginnings.” She ends her line by giving the inside of his ear a long, ponderous lick. It’s the strike that breaks the wall, and Fall groans as the small, agile tongue that drives him over the point of no return.

“What are you two talking about?” Syllable has found his tongue again, and steps closer to the now kissing ponies.

Fall breaks the kiss and looks over his friend, slightly panting. “Syllable. For this one time, stop asking questions and go with the flow.” The mare puts her hoof around Fall’s neck and pulls him into another kiss. The sight is hypnotic and unbelievably erotic; the way how Fall strokes the mare’s neck and back, how she reaches slowly under his legs and begins to playfully caress his stallionhood with soft brushes—the combination is overwhelming. Syllable can barely control himself as the mare’s perfectly round rump moves from side to side right in front of him. He feels the blood rushing from his head like never before, feels the pressure in his loins. But he forces himself to act in a controlled fashion: This is a moment he doesn’t want to ruin with hasty actions.

He takes a step closer, and then it hits him. The scent of the mare’s excitement travels through his nostrils, brain, and mind; it electrifies his already burning body with vigour that even the alcohol in his veins fails to milden. With closed eyes he breathes deep the intoxicating smell and almost drowns in it.

He notices that the mare and Fall are no longer kissing, or rather, that she is now kissing his neck, his chest… and moves lower with each contact. Fall is trembling under the caress of her full lips, and as she bends her back down, he begins to put more weight on his hind legs. Soon he is practically standing on two legs as the mare coats his belly and lower chest with saliva. He finds that it’s kind of difficult to hold balance like that, especially when you’re getting mad with lust.

“Why won’t you ask your friend to offer a hoof?” says the mare with a casual tone between the kisses and licks. Fall glances at his friend, who looks like he’s about to explode, the way he is staring at the rump of the mare. “Hey, Syll’?” Fall says, and nods at his friend. “You heard the lady. Come give me a hoof.” A faint flicker pays a visit to Syllable's starving eyes.

Like in a trance, he gets over the couple and aligns himself right behind the mare’s rump, which has remained in upward position even as her front half dives ever deeper into Fall’s nether parts. Her scent is unbelievably strong. She is practically begging to get fucked right then and there, the round and soft flesh of her rump pressing against Syllable’s hips and his cock soon finds itself in between two lovely dark orange cheeks. He is panting already in anticipation of the pleasure to come. It’s almost better to wait for it, to let his cock rub against her ass while the cold air blows on it. Put when the mare starts to shake her rump gently, he loses it and surrenders for the drive.

Fall can’t balance himself on two legs anymore, and even the thought of lowering his weight on that lean and slender back is out of the question, so he settles his forelegs on top of his friend’s shoulders. Syllable doesn't even notice, for his tip is about to enter into the wetness under him, and all he can think of is the pure pleasure every moment is now pulsing with. He moves over the mare’s back, lowering his own forelegs on her sides and lets his friend support himself on his shoulderplates. Using all the willpower he has, Syllable sinks himself slowly into the mare, working himself inside with care and tenderness. He is rewarded for his mindfulness with a soft sigh and a moan from the mare.

The mare seizes her own play for a while and enjoys the feeling of a hard cock filling her inch by inch. With her eyes shut she waits for the stallion to go as far as he can, and when he stops, she pushes her rump against him. Syllable gasps and the mare smiles at that, but quickly begins to moan herself when the stallion behind her begins to rhythmically pump into her, slowly but steadily increasing in speed. She almost loses herself to the sheer pleasure of it all then and there, but as the other stallion aligns himself better on top of her, she is reminded of the member just inches from her mouth. She opens her eyes and gives the tip of the cock a playful lick.

Fall is observing his friend penetrating her under his hooves when his eyes go wide and he almost bites through his own lip. The tongue playing with his rod is now delivering everything it has promised ever since it began its journey from his lips. And the first lick is always the sweetest. He has to press his hind legs into the ground so that he wouldn’t give in to the urge to push with his hips. The temptation to shove his stallionhood into that hot, wet, and willing mouth is almost irresistible. But he lets the mare go about it her way, and resolves to channel all his mental energy to keeping still as that nimble tongue rolls over him, under him, around him. He can feel pure bliss knocking at the doors, and it’s only a matter of moments before he is allowed to rip the thing off its hinges and plunge in with no regrets or restraints. But until that, he remains as still as he can, and enjoys every moment of it.

Syllable is panting hard by now, and concentrates all his energy not to succumb to mindless fucking, not yet at the very least. Enjoyment like this is too rare a treat to be wasted in mere minutes. He silently curses his drunken state that denies him some of his enjoyment, but the thought is only a side note in the orchestra of carnal pleasure that plays his body from hoof to head. Every thrust feels better than the last, every moan of pleasure that escapes from the mare sounds sweeter. He slows down and changes his angle a bit so he can reach ever deeper into the female flesh under him.

The mare lets Syllable choose his own pace, although she can’t help herself from responding to his pounding with pushes of her own every now and then. His cock does feel better than the last one she had inside her, and the one in front of her isn't that bad either. She is still only playing with it though, sliding her lips over it in a ponderous manner and giving the head a few random licks. Fall is keeping his composure quite well, she must admit—someponies would have tried to take the matters in their own hooves by now. Same virtue of self-control applies for Syllable, too. Perhaps studying history and dead languages does teach patience. The mare is grateful for that, for she certainly intends on extracting every ounce of enjoyment from the two. Still, Fall has arguably deserved a treat for his obedience.

With one smooth motion, the mare takes Fall’s throbbing member halfway to her mouth, up to the entrance of her throat. She hears him gasp for air and feels him shaking atop her, and his hips instinctively push forward. She lets him dive deeper in, stifling her gagging reflex as the tip of his cock pokes at her esophagus. But right when she expects to receive all of the male meat into her throat, he pulls back voluntarily and settles for keeping half of his length inside. Truly, a well-trained nerd, this one. She rewards him again by bobbing her head rhythmically over him, all the while rubbing her tongue against the underside of the throbbing member.

Fall has a hard time keeping his head from spinning as the wet warmth of the mare’s mouth envelopes him. He has had his fair share of blowjobs before, but never before like this—it’s as if her mouth was built to pleasure the needs of his flesh. He tries his best to keep quiet, just in case somepony might hear them, but the treatment he is facing makes the gesture rather futile. His heavy breathing is filled with muffled moans of pleasure, with the random sentence fragments like “Oh my Celestia” appearing at steady intervals. Under his hooves, his friend is expressing his feelings with very similar noises. Fall has never seen his friend having sex, indeed he has never witnessed another male penetrating a female (except in those comics he keeps under his mattress), and the sight stirs his own felicity even more. For his life he can’t say why that is, and neither does he care to know.

For the mare, the experience is better than she dared to hope. Practice has enabled her to relax her throat at will, which leaves her free to focus on her own enjoyment, which is growing by the minute. She loves the feeling of fullness that lives both in her marehood and mouth, the feeling of fulfillment that the situation gives birth to. Her rump is responding to Syllable's motions even more now, timing itself perfectly with his thrusts. Waves of bliss travel through her whole body, making her hooves scrape the ground and her shoulders tense, only to relax again as he pulls back. Her tongue is beginning to lose its practiced rhythm and instead of planned motions, she is now succumbing to just sucking the succulent flesh with all the vigour she has in her. Fall lets his reaction be known as his hips, too, begin to push ever deeper into her.

Syllable has finally lost whatever was left of his self-control, and only the need to shove himself deeper into the bliss remains, unguarded. His thrusts are losing their rhythm and pacing, and it’s getting hard to tell whether the mare is bounding herself into him or vice versa. The pressure is building inside his balls, but the fireworks in his mind won’t let him regret the fact. Instead, he raises his right front hoof and wraps it tightly around the mare’s slender body, locking himself against her. His face lies amidst her auburn curls, and for a moment he is assured that it’s all a dream, a wonderful drunken dreamy haze from which he’ll wake any minute.

Fall’s eyes stare down as his friend’s panting and bounding, see how he loses all restraint and becomes one with his lust, turns into the lust and nothing more. Fall’s eyes see all that, but his mind doesn’t have the time to consider what the sight has to offer for it. His heart is pounding like it’s the tenth round in the boxing ring, but instead of feeling exhausted, he could run ten miles straight with his hooves tied together. And just when he thought that the pleasure couldn’t get any deeper, his spine almost snaps from the way he jerks his hips forwards. He can feel the tight throat of the mare squeezing his cock, and not just the tip of it. Willow Fall is not what most mares would call average sized, and still the one under him has managed to take him deeper than anypony ever. His moaning reaches another level as her tongue begins to fondle his balls, with his entire length inside her.

The mare’s eyes are closed, her ears pressed down, and her tail lies squeezed between her own and Syllable’s thighs. Syllable’s cock has almost reached the entrance of her womb, and she has definitely reached Fall’s limits. It has been a while since she felt this stuffed, this submitted, this good. She holds her breath with the rod of flesh in her mouth, and coats his balls with saliva as she plays with them. And before she begins to pull back, she gives him the gentlest bite she can. Immediately she feels the cock in her throat twitch and the stallion whine in pleasure above her. The smile on her lips is not hindered in the slightest by the cock that sticks from her mouth. But when she feels Syllable bite her neck, her eyes go wide and she almost gags on the member on her mouth, for the sensation sends shivers of unparalleled contentment through her every cell. The uncontrolled and unplanned moan that escapes her mouth is partly muffled by Fall’s cock, but still it reaches Syllable’s ears and spreads a wide grin on his face. His teeth close again on that succulent skin, and the mare rewards him by quivering her rump while another groan of ecstasy departs her stuffed mouth.

The final chapter of the triangular play of carnal bliss endures for a few more moments, and then it shatters as Fall is the first to cross over the line. His whole body writhes and spasms as the orgasm hits him in waves. His moaning and panting almost turns into screaming as his member makes its final twitch, and explodes its thick and hot content into the mare’s mouth. She felt his orgasm coming as he himself did, and had had more than enough time to ready herself for it. Jet after jet of the creamy liquid fills her and she swallows all of it, her sucking reaching its peak as she closes her lips around the mid length of the shaft. A series of gulping noises replaces her moaning for a while, but only for a while, for she can feel her own peak of pleasure reaching a point of convergence with Syllable’s.

The chestnut-coated stallion is so close to the ultimate satisfaction that it almost makes him scared to step over the line. He can sense that the mare is also near, and makes an intuitive oath to last long enough to serve as her vessel of bliss to the end. His teeth clench tight and his chest presses against the mare’s backside while his hips begin to pump faster and deeper than they have ever before. Under him, he feels the mare first wrap herself into a tight package, as if she was trying to curl into a ball, then open up like a flower in full blossom as her orgasm electrifies her slender figure and sends it flying through the clouds. It’s only when Syllable hears her thin voice, still muffled by his friend’s member, breaking an octave, that he allows himself to embrace that same feeling.
Syllable’s right hoof detaches from the mare’s flank and slams into the ground as his whole front half becomes the mere extension of his hips that sink his cock against the limits of her marehood. His whole frame pulses in rhythm of the loads that surge inside her. Some of it spills out from her pussy and mixes with her own juices, the flow trickling along her thigh to the ground. Despite his orgasm, the vigour and heat haven’t left him, but keep on urging him to push. He obeys the drive, for he is the drive and the drive is him, nothing else exists but their symmetry and synthesis. His hips slam against hers and she abides, ramming her rump against him again and again as she rides from one orgasm into another without the slightest crack occurring in between the waves, all the while whipping her tongue against the still hard member in her mouth.

The voices of pleasure emitted by the three ponies fill the alley with the scent of their intercourse. They create a forge that heats the cool air around them, that pulses with life, pleasure, and warmth amidst a desolation of temperature. The moon stands as their only witness, as a silent, calm, and utterly indifferent spectator. Or at least it would stand, were it only the silvery stone that shone upon them that night. A pair of eyes study the salacious scene that takes place in that alley, a pair of eyes that hide themselves in the moonlight itself. And quite contrary to what the mare had earlier that night wished, those eyes never turned their dark side, never once blinked as they witnessed the carnival of flesh that the three ponies created. Rather, they made sure to memorize every single detail of it.

Finally, after all the waves of bliss have settled and the surface of the pond only quivers in the memory of the storm that had just raged on it, the three ponies detach from each other and thus break the unio mystica. The two stallions collapse against the walls of the alley, the tenseness in their bodies now replaced with utter relaxation. The mare lies on her back in between them, a faint blush colouring her orange cheeks as she studies the stars above. Only one constellation can be seen from her position, and as she recognizes it, a shadow travels through her eyes. A shadow that she can’t escape.

“That. Was. Something.” Syllable’s lips barely find the strength to form those three simple words that by no means do justice to what he actually feels at that moment.

“Syllable. Just. Shut up.” Fall’s voice sounds as if he had to mason the words to create a sentence. Neither of them bothers to glare at each other anymore. They do, however, turn their heads when the mare abruptly stands up on all fours.

“It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, gentlecolts. I wish you both good night.” With that, the mare begins to walk away from the alley with the same ponderous, casual steps that marked her entrance in the first place.

Syllable springs on his legs. “Uhm, wait!”

The mare stops as if she was expecting the stallion to move. Her eyes tell the same tale as she turns them towards him, waiting for him to continue.

“I mean, ah, miss Blossom—it is Miss, right?—could you, uhm, perhaps give us an address where we can reach you later?” The look on Syllable’s face tries to hide the desperation in his voice, and fails miserably. The mare looks at him as if they had met for the first time, smiling courteously.

“There is no need for such a gesture, for we will never meet again. Don’t take that as an offense, nor as a criticism of your stallionhood, which, I swear, is quite admirable.” The mare’s eyes and smile soften a bit. “Someday, you will make some mare very happy. I will not be that mare.” She lets him search for an opening in her eyes for a moment, and blinks only after his head falls down along with his ears. After that, the mare turns to the other stallion, who hasn’t made any attempt to rise. Even his eyes remain closed. The notion makes the mare frown a bit, and she walks over to Fall.

She leans to his ear and whispers: “Are you a good gentlecolt, Willow Fall? Can you keep a promise?”

Very slowly, Fall opens his eyes, and meets the mare’s intense gaze without even thinking of flinching. He leans closer himself, and whispers in return: “Sugar Blossom. Your name is Sugar Blossom. It’s a name I can remember for the rest of my life.”

The mare nods, turns, and leaves without anypony stopping her. Syllable looks at her while she walks into the moonlight along with his heart, and yet he doesn’t move a muscle to stop her. He knows that the bridge of silver she walks on can only carry one. The flick of her auburn tail is the last glimpse he sees of her, and the sight strikes him on the face like a whip. He turns to face his friend with ears drooped down.

“Whatever just happened?” he asks. “Did we share an intoxicated dream or were we touched by the divine itself?”
Fall picks up his top hat that had fallen off his head at some point, wiping the dust off while smiling faintly. “I sincerely hope that it wasn’t a dream that we shared, for the mouth that tended me certainly was real. And I myself am too stiff to reach my own nether parts…” Fall grins wickedly as his words sink into his friend’s consciousness.

Syllable cringes and sniffs loudly. “I say, you better wish that the mare we shared was real indeed, for I certainly didn't fuck myself just a minute ago.”

Fall chuckles as he puts the top hat on his head again. “In conclusion, it is best for the sake of both of us to say that we did indeed have a real and pleasant encounter with an extremely real and pleasant mare. Or perhaps we just fucked each other in our drunken haze.”

Syllable blushes and his eyes go wide. “Shut it, or I swear we’re going to have a rematch of this year’s championship, gloves or not.”

Fall stands up, but not in anticipation of a fight. Instead, he picks Syllable’s top hat with his magic and hands it over to him. “You’ll get your chance to reclaim your honour next year, I’ll wager. This night is too perfect to be wasted on petty brawling.”

Syllable eyes his smiling friend for a moment, but soon a friendly grin spreads on his face. He accepts the hat with a nod and puts it on with one smooth motion. “More like I will make sure that the next year’s match will not be judged by Professor Axiom.”

“Oh, come on, the professor hates everypony in equal measure and you know that!”

“Quite. Anyhow, I can’t shake the feeling that you had a somewhat better sense of the nature of the encounter we just experienced.” Syllable narrows his eyes and gives his friend a theatrically suspicious look. “Tell me true. Did you set this up?”

Fall’s laughter echoes off the walls. “A set-up? That’s your suspicion? Tell me, dear friend, would I really share a treat like that mare with you? You really imagine I think that highly of you?”

Even Syllable chuckles at that. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Still, you did exchange a few words in private with her. Care to explain that?”

Fall keeps on smiling happily as he looks his friend from eye to eye. Reg is such a good friend for him, a good sport and a saviour during the exam seasons. And yet, a promise is a promise, and the mare certainly held her end of the bargain. Perhaps Fall is, after all, a good gentlecolt.

“She must’ve known that dirty talk is more of my thing than yours. Would you care to know what she said to me?” Fall licks her lips like the mare did.

A shudder travels through Syllable's figure. “Seriously, sometimes I get this nasty idea that you joined the boxing team only as a pretense to get into the male’s locker room. Keep your fantasies well away from me.”

Fall smiles, and changes the subject. “Forget the mare, Reg. She was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences that one finds mostly in special comics. Forget the mare and remember the night: That is what I intend on doing.”

Syllable looks after the bridge of moonlight with longing, yet finally shakes his head and puts his hoof around his friend’s shoulder. “You always give the best pieces of advice, Fall. That mare makes a better dream than a wife. Come, let’s get to bed.”

Fall smiles, and puts his hoof likewise around his friend, after which they walk along the moonlight. “You don’t know how right you are about that, friend.”

The two stallions help themselves off the alley and towards their apartment, bursting into awful singing after turning a corner. In the shadows, a pair of red eyes watch them go about their way, disappearing from the world as they disappear from the street. The mare steps into the moonlight only after she is sure that they aren’t trying to follow her, and wipes the tear from her eye with a hoof. Her other hoof scrapes the cobblestones and her eyes wander the empty street, looking for somepony, anypony. But the city is quiet, and only the moon shines as her companion, the indifferent, beautiful celestial object that sees everything the night has to offer. The mare stares at the orb with eyes stained in bitter tears.

A brightly blinking configuration of stars draws her attention from the silvery moon; the same constellation she saw while lying in the alley. The Mother. Why is it always you who ruins my nights? Why is it always you who haunts my pleasure? Why… A silvery tear hits the stones on the street. The mare turns her eyes from the perfection above, the perfection she has no right to, the perfection she hates more than she can describe with words. She doesn’t look up during the way back to her apartment.

She picks the key under the doormat and turns it in the lock, which opens with a quiet click. The clock is almost half past three as she closes the door and locks it again. The snoring in the room never stopped, it seems, and that at least is something the mare can be grateful for. She sneaks into the other room of her apartment, where she keeps a tub of soapy water exactly for these kind of situations. With the communicating door closed, she begins to wash her thighs and nether parts; her mouth, too. The water is cold, freezing even, but the mare doesn’t so much as cringe as the liquid washes the foreign smells and fluids from her coat. The cleaning is made swift by routine, and soon the mare smells fresh and clean again. The water she pours quietly into the sewer drain she has had built just for this purpose.
As her final act before going to bed, the mare draws heavy curtains over the window. Darkness descends in seconds. She knows the room by heart, though, and sneaks into the bed as if it was daytime, pulling a blanket over her. The grey stallion by her side doesn’t so much as grumble when cool air seeps into the bed. It’s quiet. It’s dark. It’s lonely.

It’s as if they were on the moon.

***

Morning rises at the death of night as it always does, but the heavy curtains keep the light off the small room where the two ponies sleep. The grey stallion grunts, shifts inside the blanket and slowly opens an eye to the darkness. It’s too dim to say whether the sun has actually risen or not, but his eyes are still keen enough to make out the form of a clock on the nightstand, even the hands of it. He stares at them for three full seconds before he blinks, and curses under his breath. As he gets off the bed, the blanket is pulled away from the mare, too. She still feigns to sleep, though, waiting for her client to wake her up properly. Most of her male customers prefer to wake her up with kisses, and she is willing to abide this time, too.

The mare concentrates on her breathing, feigning sleeping like she was born to do it. Minutes go by, and she hears the curtains being drawn aside, hears him loudly walking around the room. That’s weird. He usually does his best not to wake me up like this. Another few moments pass as the stallion apparently opens the wardrobe, pulls something out and curses. She cracks her eyelid, and can barely make out the figure standing by her closet, apparently with a shirt stuck on his head. She can see the faint glow of his horn as a grey aura surrounds the piece of cloth and pulls it over his head, after which he snaps his top hat from the rack by the door. Is he… trying to sneak out on me?

With a theatrically noisy yawn, the mare makes her awakening known. She even curls her body slightly, giving the impression that she is cold and needs a warm hug. But the stallion simply keeps on dressing as if he was alone in the room. The look in the mare’s eyes drills into his back, yet her voice is soft and sweet as a dream: “Hmm… darling? Did you wake up already? Please, come back to bed, I’m feeling cold…”

The stallion turns his head as a monocle find its place over his left eye. “I recommend you get dressed, then. I have no time to cuddle with you.”

The mare blinks, and the knives in her stare have disappeared as she opens them again. “Oh my… but I don’t have anything proper to wear... Would you have me dress in the maid’s uniform?”

“It’s not my business to decide your clothing. I’m leaving in five minutes. The bits you shall receive from the usual place.”

“Did I… did I offend you, my sweetling?”

“I told you to leave the curtains open so that the sun would awaken me. It’s because of your neglect that I must explain my absence to Princess Celestia herself.”

The mare bites her lip, and weaves a hurt and apologizing expression on her face as she sits on the bed. “I apologize to you, Professor Axiom. It was not my intention to shame you in the eyes of Princess Celestia. I just…” For this one time, her hesitation is not acted. “I just… couldn’t find sleep during the night. The stars bothered me too much.”

Professor Axiom looks at the mare through his monocle with indifference, and sniffs. “I recommend you familiarize yourself with them soon. You will be seeing quite a lot of them at the New Year Eve’s gala tonight.”

She doesn’t have to fake surprise. “I beg your pardon? You’re referring to the Grand Gala?”

“Quite so. I am inviting you as my companion to attend it. Will you come?”

The mare stares at the Professor as if he had just told her that he is actually a changeling. “You would… actually invite your whore to the New Year Eve’s Grand Gala? Have you become demented overnight?”

Axiom flinches. “I would advise you to stop calling yourself that, my dear. You are not—”

“—I know what I am and so should you. What on earth gave you the notion that we would make a suitable pair at the Gala?”

The stallion shifts his legs uneasily, and turns his gaze away from the fiery eyes on the bed. He is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice lacks its usual edge and formality. Now it is almost what one might call soft. “I know the idea may seem a bit far-fetched, and it certainly might raise some eyebrows in the Royal Court. I might even get fired, actually. But you see, I realized something during the night. I had this dream—”

“—A dream?! Is that it? You fantasized having sex with me in the Royal Court and thought it’d be okay to actualize that fantasy?!”

“Do not jump to hasty conclusions, please.” He smiles, or at least tries to. “It was not that kind of a dream. It felt… more like waking up than sleeping, actually. It made me see things in a new light.”

“Things? What things?” says the mare, with annoyance shining through every syllable.

His smile widens. “I will tell you… but only if you accompany me to the Gala.”

Her eyes narrow. “What kind of a game are you playing with me now?”

“No, games, sweetheart. Not this time.”

Her eyes gleam in the morning light that cascades past the open curtains. Axiom stands still and takes on her gaze without flinching. For a moment longer, the flame tries to consume the stone, but finally it cools down and blinks. “Fine,” she says. “I will fulfill your request… but only from the urge to see you regret it later. Don’t bother crawling into my bed once you roam the streets unemployed.”

Axiom smiles, quite truthfully this time. “Capital! I shall see you at the School, say… six o'clock? Meet me in the hall, and we shall depart along with the other staff.”

The mare rolls her eyes. “Your indulgence knows no limits, I find. You do realize that you have to pay extra for this?”

The smile quivers, but does not fail. “Why, of course… I will see that you shall be rewarded appropriately.” He quiets down, and for a moment his eyes seem to find the floor the most interesting thing in the whole wide world. Then he tenses all at once. “My goodness! I really must be going now, or the Princess will think I have slept in!” He rushes for the door with his jacket flying behind him, but after he is out already, his head bobs into the room for one more time. “Six o'clock, correct?”

The mare nods with an emphatic smile on her lips. The door closes like some great stone on a tomb. The mare looks at it for a long while, unable to decide whether she is still dreaming or not.
He invited me to the Gala. Why, I have to remember that trick I tried on him last night, for it seems to incite a most positive response… She turns her eyes from the tomb door into her wardrobe. None of its contents are meant to be worn in public. She rubs her temple, trying to remember if one of her other apartments includes a suitable outfit for a Grand Gala. Her rubbing becomes more fervent, but all it succeeds is to cause her a mild headache. She simply doesn’t have the outfit for the occasion to come. None except… the one dress… The memory makes her stop her rubbing, and breathing, too. It makes her feel sick. I’ll be damned if I ever wear that dress again. The moths can have it, for all I care. I just need to buy a new one today.

The mare stands up, stretches her long limbs and neck, and goes for her boots. The small key is still safe in the bowels of the rubbery footwear, which some males love to see her wear in the bedroom. It’s a wonder how shoes that weren’t made for walking can cost such a fortune. She picks the key with her teeth, goes for the nightstand and opens it. Inside, a bag of bits jingles as she reaches for it, picking two coins for the housekeeper that will come later in the day. After having locked the nightstand and the bits within again, she leaves the apartment without bothering to close the door, with the key hanging on a rope around her neck.

***

In a small room, two ponies slumber, or at least give a strong impression of this. The one laying on a mattress on the floor breathes in a calm, controlled fashion, paying every lungful careful attention. His friend on the couch simply snores heavily. At some point, Reg Syllable mutters something sleepily.

“What?” asks Fall.

“I said, keep quiet. I can’t hear my own breathing.”

Fall smiles against the pillows that have buried his head. “Is that essential for the success of your method?”

“Quite so, I’m afraid.”

Silence steps in again, only to leave as Syllable’s lungs empty themselves again. Fall continues to speak after a while, his voice muffled by the pillows: “I thought about trying that spell Longroot invented last week. I heard it’s quite effective at disposing of excess alcohol.”

“So I heard, too. Too bad it also disposes of the body that holds that alcohol.” Another breath in, another one out. “Apparently the barrel of apple cider they tried that spell on melted like a candle in an oven.”

“Yeah, but that was only the first version…”

“True. In the second attempt, they managed to explode the thing.”

“Oh? That’s not what Longroot told me.”

“Perhaps that was because of the third experiment.”

Fall’s head rises from among the sea of pillows. “What third experiment? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Oh, few have. But I happened to be behind Professor Axiom’s door when he had a little talk with Longroot about that.”

Fall blinks, for even the faint light that spills through the drawn curtains hurts her eyes. He rubs them with his hoof while he talks. “And what were you doing behind Axiom’s door, I wonder?”

“That’s another story. Anyway, the professor had heard about the two previous experiments and had decided that the spell’s development had reached a point where it could be applied to ponies. He also made known his eagerness to assist Longroot in his endeavors, and offered to cast the spell on him right then and there.”

“No way… Even Axiom doesn't hate students that much.”

A faint smile creeps on Syllable’s lips. “Well, Longroot sure wasn’t ready to find out. He dropped his little project immediately. Although it seems that he is keen to see somepony get into the same trouble with him because of it.”

Fall blinks his eyes, and sits on his bed. The room is dim, small, and stuffy, and thus an ideal example of an average student apartment in Canterlot. Still, it’s the closest thing to a home he has ever known. “Could you tell me more about that breathing technique again?” he says.

“Why, I’d be honoured to. Take that as a payment for the night I got to spend here. I couldn’t have made it back to my own quarters, not if my place on the boxing team depended on it.”

“Don’t mention it. You want some breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you very much.”

“Then go make some.” With that, Fall falls back to his bed. Syllable empties his lungs for one last time, and manages to get up without dropping his head. He goes for the cramped closet that Fall calls his kitchen.

As he searches for a kettle and ingredients, his thoughts try to wander idly. Somehow they can’t, though. A strong gravity pulls them towards a point of convergence, towards a memory of a certain mare walking along the moonlight. The sight troubled him in his sleep, and to his anguish it haunts him in the awakened life, too. He makes a fire with his horn and fills the kettle with water from a great cowl, and while he watches the wood ignite, he can see a pair of eyes staring at him. A pair of red eyes reaching for his very soul.

Fall’s shout from the other room snaps him out of the illusion. “Don’t forget to get the vegetables from the cellar!”

Syllable sighs, and closes the stove’s lid. The sight evaporates the moment the fire leaves his field of vision, but he can feel the heat burning inside him. He shakes his head, and heads for the door and downstairs, where the access to the cellar is. The building includes several smaller apartments mostly meant for students that have come to Canterlot to study, and is the largest such building in the city. It’s also the oldest, and the stairwells testify to that as they creak noisily under Syllable's hooves. The cellar door that stores the food of the inhabitants is worn by constant use, and its hinges scream in agony as Syllable opens it with his magic. Inside he lights his horn, goes for the shelf that has the label “Apartment 17” stuck on top and starts to pick some cabbages, carrots, and other vegetables with his horn.

As he climbs up again, he almost stumbles on a Pegasus stallion who is heading for the stairwells, too. “I’m terribly sorry,” says the Pegasus clad in a blue uniform of the Postal Service, and flies upwards. The unicorn soon follows behind, and dodges against the wall as the same Pegasus soon flies past him, shouting something that sounds like “Sorry again!” as he leaves the building. Syllable mutters under his breath and makes for Fall’s apartment.

When he opens the door, a white envelope stares at him from the porch. It has his name on it, inscribed in golden letters. He stares back at the thing for a whole minute, his wits slowly coming into a conclusion that it really is a letter, and it really is meant for him. A halo envelopes the letter and lifts it at level with his face, turns it around, and finally opens it. Inside he finds a piece of paper, no larger than his hoof. His tired eyes read it once, twice, thrice. They read the three lines on it four times, and still they fail to convince his mind that the reading is correct.

Congratulations. You have been invited to the New Year Eve’s Grand Gala, held at the Royal Court of Canterlot on the last evening of the year 1004. Inside this envelope you shall find the full instructions that address the proper procedures and details concerning the event.

Invited. Royal Court. Proper procedures. Random words and fragments try to organize themselves into a coherent message inside Syllable’s still intoxicated mind, but the big picture eludes him even as he reads the letter for the fifth time. He doesn’t notice Fall who emerges from the apartment into the corridor.

“Why are you standing here? And why are the cabbages rolling on the floor?”

Syllable rips his eyes from the letter, and looks at his friend’s sour face. With a calm clarity he says: “I have been invited to the Grand Gala at the Royal Court of Canterlot.”

Fall’s attention is limited to the greens spread on the planks. “Look at them, now! All dusty and dirty… Don’t you have any respect for vegetables?” He begins to lift them one by one with his horn, mumbling as does.

“I have been invited to the Grand Gala at the Royal Court of Canterlot,” repeats Syllable, with calm clarity giving room for dim panic in his voice.

“No respect for the common cabbage… Hmm, what’d you say?”

Syllable is shaking a bit as he hands the small piece of paper to his friend, who snatches it quickly with his magic. A moment goes by as he reads it, muttering some of the words aloud. The cabbages Fall has picked up fall again as the magic that held them finds better things to do. Then he looks at his friend. “You have been invited to the Grand Gala at the Royal Court of Canterlot.”

“Wh—what is this? What have I done?!” shouts Syllable, his shaking spreading from his legs all over his body. Terror stains his eyes like ink.

“Indeed, what have you done!” shouts Fall excitedly and stomps the floor with his hoof, sending a cabbage flying down the stairs. “This is great! No, this is incredible!” He begins to dance right then and there, but a door opens on the opposite side of the hallway and mare’s voice shouts. “Quiet down, you fools! Your racket is driving me insane!”

Fall stops his hopping, and blushes a bit. “Eh, I beg your pardon, good neighbour! We may have gotten a little bit excited here—you see, my friend is going to the—”

Fall’s sentence becomes muffled as Syllable stuffs a carrot in his mouth with his horn. “No need to fret, dear lady,” he says as he pushes Fall back into his apartment. “We’ll be getting off your nerves this very instant.” Before he slams the door shut, Syllable quickly grabs all the vegetables he sees and throws them inside, where Fall catches them before they can spread all over his apartment. “Whoah, there!” he says. “Don’t take it out on the greens, pal.”

Syllable strains himself to stop the shaking by taking deep breaths and leaning up against a wall. Fresh blood veins have broken in his eyes during the past few minutes. “This week is beginning to turn very strange, indeed,” he says between the breaths.

“Strangely wonderful, you mean to say?” Fall settles the random vegetables into the kitchen, where the water is boiling hot and fierce. He goes for the cupboard and begins to search for something.

“I wouldn’t vouch for that. Can you truly imagine me in the Royal Court? Me! I’d make a terrific fool of myself there, but a guest? No way in the hay.”

Fall finds the strongest tea he has in storage for occasions just like these. Calmly he crumbles the leaves into a powder, and filters it into two cups full of purple liquid, offering the other for his vexed friend. “Come now, Reg. Every party needs a fool—especially the royal ones do. You’ll fit right in there.”
A hysterical laugh escapes Syllable’s mouth as he accepts the steaming cup. “Quite. I’ll be the spirit of the party!” He takes a sip, and his face turns the same color as the tea.

“Hmm, perhaps a bit too strong?” Asks Fall as tears well up in his friend’s eyes. He swallows the sip nonetheless, taking deep breaths afterwards.

“Who needs spells or breathing exercises when one has tea like this!” says Syllable, coughing hard as Fall beats him on the shoulders.

“I save this only for special occasions, you know. And this event is worthy of the name ‘special’, I find.”

Syllable dries his tears, coughs one last time, and looks at his friend with tormented eyes. “You honestly think I should go?” Fall simply nods, and takes a sip of his tea without even flinching.

“I guess it can’t be avoided, then,” sighs Syllable. “Even though it makes very little sense to me. How did they even know that I’d be here in your apartment?”

Fall shrugs, and takes another sip. “Could be the other Princess saw us coming here last night. The dark one, I mean—I hear she sees everything the moon does.”

“E—everything?” The red eyes flash again in Syllable’s memory.

Fall only smiles. “I bet she has better things to do than watch a few students fuck in some alley. Still, with princesses, who can tell?”

A slightly hurt glimmer burns in Syllable’s eyes. “Is that all it was? A fuck?”

Fall studies his friend over the cup’s rim as he raises it to his lips. “For a potential outside observer? Definitely. For us? No. Not by a long shot. I’ve had sex before, and what we experienced yesternight was something else, even though it mayhaps did look a lot like sex.”

“So… You miss her, too?”

“I don’t know what I miss, and that’s the problem. That mare is a mystery, Reg, a riddle, and you know your mythology better than most. Riddles mean danger.”

Syllable looks at his friend, whose face shows the calm understanding he has come to cherish over the years they have known each other. His own eyes fall quite short of that peace. He looks at his cup which floats in the air, and carefully takes another sip. Somehow, it tastes better now... softer. “I also know that riddles were meant to be solved.”

Fall sighs, and walks to the window. The curtains give way for daylight, which blinds both ponies for a moment. “Do as you will, Reg. It’s your life you’re living. But I wouldn’t put all my hopes in basket that walks off on you, no matter how fine a basket it was.”

Syllable looks at his cup that the sunlight illuminates. In the bright light the purple tea almost looks red. “This is really good tea, Fall.”

“My mother gathered the leaves.” The sun burns Fall’s eyes, but he remains still, and forces his eyes to embrace the morning.

“...I didn’t know…”

“It makes no matter, Reg. Tea is tea. It’s made to be drunk someday. Might as well be this one.” He takes another sip, ever slowly sucking in that exotic aroma.

Syllable sighs. “I still don’t understand… Why invite me? I’m not in any way a special student, so it can’t be because of the School. You think I’m in some kind of trouble?”

Fall turns, and dries his eyes with his hoof. “Were all in trouble one way or another. Some of us only have the luxury to be unaware of the fact.” He walks to the kitchen, and begins to prepare a stew from the vegetables lying around the room. “It could be they picked one of us in a lottery. You know, just for the kicks or because of equality or something like that.”

“Don’t get philosophic on me, now.” Syllable smiles as he says that. “I guess that could be true. At least it makes sense, on some level.” He ponders something for a moment as another gulp of the tea falls down his throat. He is beginning to like the stuff by now. “What was it that you said to me yesternight? Right when you were kissing that mare?”

“Stop asking questions and go with the flow. Or something like that,” Fall says as he chops a carrot.

“I suppose that rule fits for all kinds of situations, don’t you think?”

“That’s why it’s such a popular saying in my village, I’d say.” Another carrot gets under the knife.

Syllable feels a strange calmness descending on him, and not only because his drink is´having an effect on him. He sits down on the mattress, and relaxes his back against the wall, enjoying the homey sounds his friend is making behind it. He admires the way how the dust particles dance in the cascading light, how their chaotic movement creates forms and configurations in the thin air. With a little help of imagination, of course.

It’s almost as if he was watching a constellation.