Author's Notes:

Hey, the story is finally coming to a closure of sorts. Should be just a few chapters away now.

A shrill and abrupt scream cleaves through the air, ringing all over the courtyard. Another shriek follows soon after, this one even more fervent. Inside a nearby barn, laying on a stack of hay, a stallion tries to dig deeper into the depths of the blankets. When that doesn’t work, he desperately buries his head into the hay, hoping that it might ease the pain brought by hellish noise. It doesn’t. After the third scream of the rooster, Willow Fall rises his sleepy head, blinking in the dim of the morning. A wide yawn escapes him. He collapses back into the stack, stretching his limbs and licking his dry lips. After a few minutes of cognitive recalibration, he stands up, just as an orange mare trots into the barn.

“Howdy, Fall!” she says, smiling cheerily. “There’s still some breakfast in the kitchen for ya, if you’d fancy some of tat.”

Fall gives her a dizzy and suspicious look. “You… ate breakfast already? Before the rooster started to crow?”

“Sure we did!” she answers, brisk as the morning itself. “That roosters old and tends to sleep late nowadays.” She notices the bags under his eyes. “Although ah reckon you wouldn’t have minded an extra hour or two?”

“Four, more like,” Fall responds, yawning again. “I’d be glad to accept your offer, though.”

Applejack nods and collects the blankets from among the hay. “I’d come for compania, but the chores don’t wait,” she says as they walk outside. “Apple Bloom's there helping Granny Smith with them discesé, though. I’m sure they’re keep you homely enough.”

The sun has barely made it past the horizon, but its rays still make Fall squint. “If we don’t meet again, then I’d like to express my gratitude one more time,” he says as they trot across the yard. “My night would have been quite different without your hospitality.” Water splashes in a puddle as his hoof stomps on it.

“Don’t mention it. We got a reputation to take care of, ya see.” She winks at him. “Now, I gotta take these to the wash and head to the orchards.”

“Goodbye,” he says.

“See ya around.”

He watches her walk behind the house. Well, she proved that not everypony in this village is full of suspicions. He turns towards the front door; it’s open as he expected it to be. “Hello?” he calls inside.

“Come in, dear,” calls and elderly voice from one of the rooms. “Don’t be afraid.”

Fall walks in and closes the door behind him. Right as it thuds softly, a little filly with a bright red mane and tail swoops around the corner in front of him, smiling with all her teeth.

“Howdy!” she says. “You slept in the barn last night, right?”

“Yes,” he says with a smile. “Your name’s Apple Bloom, I presume?”

“Yeah, and Granny Smith’s in the kitchen,” she explains. “Come, there’s carrotta-apple pie I made!” She turns and runs excitedly around the corner.

Fall follows her and finds himself in a large kitchen. In the middle of the room there’s a table laid with a few pies, lettuce, and what seems like a glass of apple cider. An old, green-light mare by the sink turns her wrinkled face at him. “Good day, visitor. Take a séat and dig in, don’t mind me.”

“With pleasure,” he says and sits on the table. He has barely cut himself a slice of pie when Apple Bloom's head bounces from under the table.

“So, why did ya sleep in our barn? Did your marefriend kick ya out?”

“Applebloom!” snaps Granny Smith, glaring at the filly. “Mind yer tongue! It ain’t proper asking about a pony’s marrefriend like that.”

“Sorry…” Apple Bloom mutters, rubbing the table cloth between her front hooves. But the glint in her eyes returns soon enough. “So, are ya a hobo?”

Fall can practically feel the sigh that Granny Smith lets out. “I don’t mind a little chat,” he says, smiling at the elderly mare. She shrugs and turns back to the dishes. Fall takes a thick slice of the pie onto his plate and glances at Apple Bloom, who seems to be holding her breath. “The answer to both of your questions is a no, although I can say that my story includes a certain mare.”

“Your story?” she asks, her ears perking up.

He picks a hoofful of pie with his horn and stuffs it into his mouth. He chews for a moment and says: “A delicious gourmet. I’d say you might have a shot at becoming a baker someday.”

Apple Bloom beams with pride.

“My story, or at least the one that lead me to your barn, also happens to be quite the brew,” he continues. He sips his drink, which indeed proves to be apple cider, the best he has ever tasted. “It’s a long one, though. Longer than a breakfast, I’d say.”

Apple Bloom fidgets in place. “Is it exciting?”

“I’m afraid so,” he says, helping himself to more pie.

“Full of adventure?”

“No… It’s more of an adult story.”

She arches an eyebrow. “An adult? Like, scary?”

“Romantic.” He adds quietly: “And a bit tragic, too.”

“Oh…”

He eyes her from the corner of his eye. “But I’m sure it will have a happy ending.”

“When are you gonna know that?”

“Today, if everything runs smoothly.” He gives her an enigmatic smirk. “But with stories, who can say when they really end?”

“You got that right,” says Granny by the dishes.

Applebloom glances at the mare, then at Fall. “So… You’re not gonna tell the story?” she asks from under her eyebrows. Fall guesses that this is the face Applejack has to deal with on a weekly basis.

“It’s not that exciting, really,” he says after gulping down another mouthful of pie. “Also, it’s not all about me, and I’m not that big on gossip.”

“Apple Bloom, come here and dry these plates,” Granny says. “The gentlecolt has a breakfast to finish.”

“Okay…” says Apple Bloom with a hint of disappointment. She climbs on a stool and starts drying the plates as Granny hooves them over to her.

Fall watches them work for a moment and then turns his eyes to the window while finishing his pie, lettuce, and cider. Despite the nightly rain, the day seems to be turning out beautifully. Reg… What are you thinking right now? Did you really come to your senses last night? He chews ponderously, admiring how the young light plays with the shadows in the yard. This farce has gone on long enough. One way or another, I will make sure that we both leave this town before nightfall. Even if it means tying him up and shoving into a sack. He drinks the rest of the cider with one long gulp and stands up. “Thank you for all your hospitality,” he says. “I don’t know how to pay you back for all this.”

Granny Smith turns a casual smile at him. “Hoof me that plate and glass and we’re square.”

He floats the dishes to her, says thanks one more time, and then heads for the door. Outside, he hears a familiar voice calling out from behind him.

“You really think I’ll be a baker someday?” Apple Bloom asks by the door.

“It’d be a loss for the whole Equestria if you wouldn’t be,” he answers. The filly’s excitement incites a short laugh out of him. He winks at her and trots on his way, never once turning to look back. The trial is in the afternoon, which means I have plenty of hours to kill. He walks by the road that travels past the orchards; each tree seems about to bend over from the weight of all the apples they harbour, although some of them have already been harvested. The dense foliage appear naked without the deep red decorations. Can I ever again look at the color red and not think about her? Is this how it started with Reg, too? With slight reluctance, he turns his eyes straight ahead. No. I will not let that happen. Not again.

In Canterlot, in a flat near the School of History and Linguistics, a frail voice whispers: “Pep…” An eye opens, an eye grey as dust. Dim coats the room where the word still lingers, floating among the dust particles like a ghost. “Pep?” he asks, afraid that somepony might answer, terrified that nopony will. Silence ensues. The pony gets up, not bothering to pick up the pillow that found its way on the floor during the night. Lights appear with a flick of a horn, fire sparks as he puts the kettle boiling. In the bathroom, a spectre stares at him from the mirror. He stares at it back without flinching. The kettle whistles, toast gets buttered, a few carrots get chewed. The routine is impeccable all the way to the moment of dressing, but past that, the tiniest anomaly seeps into the performance that has endured over three decades. He stands in the hallway, key in the lock, a faint gray glow surrounding it. He gives it a long look. And leaves it there.

His way to the School wears out five and a half minutes faster than usual. Instead of using the small door on the eastern side, he walks straight through the main doors, past the hall and via the shortest route into the Principal’s office. As he turns a corner, he sees a young stallion and an even younger mare kissing intimately in a small alcove; an act strictly forbidden by the School’s general regulations. The stallion cracks open his eye and yelps as he recognizes him. “P-professor Axiom!” he blurts, desperately trying to straighten his tie while staring at him. “I–”

Axiom trots past him without giving him a second glance.

The stallion stands frozen as he disappears around another corner. The mare, a faint blush on her face, gives her companion a questioning look.

“What got into you?”

“That was Professor Axiom,” he says, still staring at the corner. “And he just walked past us.”

The mare tilts her head. “So? He was just being discreet about what he saw.” She takes a step closer to him, licking her lips. “Come now… It’s not courteous, making a girl wait…”

He gives him a look. “You don’t understand. Axiom wouldn’t find the word ‘discreet’ from a dictionary. He is–”

“–not here,” she finishes, wrapping her hooves around his neck. Her tongue whips the doubts out of his mind.

In the Principal’s office a few corridors farther, an elderly mare says: “You resign?”

“At once,” says Axiom, staring straight at the mare. “Here are the necessary papers. You’ll find that they have been filled accordingly.”

She doesn’t even glimpse at the few sheets of paper that float in front of her on the table. “After all these years… and just two months before your retirement… What is this, Axiom?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. It takes her a second to realize that he is smiling. “Despite the arguments that we have had over the years, I would like you to know that from all the ponies of this facility, you were always the one I hated the least,” he says.

She arches an eyebrow.

“I know this may come quite suddenly, and that you’ll most likely face insurmountable problems finding substitute teachers for all the courses I will be abandoning, but I am sure you believe me when I say that I won’t be staying another hour inside these walls.” His mouth twitches some more. “Goodbye.” He turns around.

“Axiom…”

“Yes, Agathea?”

“Don’t ever show your face in my School again.”

He leaves without a response. As he gets into his office, he closes the door and starts collecting some papers from his desk drawers. Most he leaves where they are. Next one to disappear into the black suitcase is his array of quills that stands on the desk in a small rack, after that four books from the shelves, the ones with his name on them. Lastly, he turns to look at the painting about the stallion dressed in a uniform. It’s a big one; over a meter wide and one and a half tall. The jade eyes stare back at him as if they knew what he was thinking.

Axiom coughs. “I’m sorry about this… but I have to cut you loose for a moment.”

The painting doesn’t smile.

“I know it’s not very dignifying. But would you rather get carried around the streets like a billboard?”

The painting doesn’t smile.

“I thought so,” says Axiom. A faint glow envelopes the painting, pulling it off the wall. A pale rectangular shape leaves behind. He breaks apart the frames and bins them, after which he rolls up the painting and pushes it into a specially made container which hangs from his neck. He barely breathes during the whole procedure but when it’s done, he sighs heavily. “There you go; it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

The container remains mute.

“Suit yourself.” He picks up the suitcase and leaves the office, leaving the door open behind him. Sunshine greets him as he trots through the School’s main doors, and he greets the rays with another corpse of a smile. Heading towards the railroad station, he starts to whistle a happy tune. Ponyville… Ponyville… I wonder if anypony has even thought about setting up a decent hotel there. It simply won’t do to leave the Colonel in some repository locker for Celestia knows how long. And I must prepare myself for the possibility that Chillburn knows that I’m coming. That accountant might have told of my visit to him… or that Fall’s whore. Maybe Reg and she herself are suspecting something. They are a cunning lot, all of them.

He gets to the station eight minutes before the train’s scheduled departure. Before getting into his carriage, he checks that his ticket is safely tucked inside his suit’s pocket. Inside, he lifts the suitcase on the shelf above while keeping the container in his lap. Opposite to him, there sits a young mare with a little colt. As the mare searches her bag for something, the colt’s eyes happen to meet Axiom’s. The foal shuns his gaze immediately and soon whispers something to the mare. She glances at him. They leave shortly after.

Axiom watches them go, stretching his legs in the now empty compartment. A steam whistle blows, and the train budges forward. He looks at the ponies on the platform; some are waving while others hug each other. A young couple argues about something. They all disappear as the train increases its speed gradually. After fifteen minutes, the conductors appears on the aisle behind the compartments window. A young earth pony stallion, just over his twenties if Axiom is any judge.

“Tickets, please!” he says, stepping in. As Axiom offers him the ticket, the conductor asks cheerily: “Ponyville, eh? We have a brochure about it, if you’re interested. It has everything you need to know about the place in twenty pages.”

Axiom shows him his teeth. “Oh, I can do better than that. My plans for this visit can be summed up in just one line.”

The conductor gives him a curious look. “Oh? And what might that be, if I may ask?” He offers him back the marked ticket.

Axioms accept it and folds it into his pocket. “You may not. Goodbye.”

In the dim, a pony pants quickly. Wet, squelching sounds fill the bedroom, its air thick of sweat, musk, and lust. It sounds as if somepony was slurping an icicle, except that instead of drinking sweet juice of a fruit or a berry, they would be licking flesh and nerves. Instead of engaging in the solitary pleasure of their selves, they would be sharing it by giving it. An excited, thick wail cuts the air. “Aaah! Hmmmhhmmhaah… That’s good, keep on doing that…” It’s a female voice, light as a feather, heavy as a promise. Precious as a ruby. “Ahhamm!”

Thunderlane raises his head from between her legs. Transparent goo drips from his chin on the white sheets, some of it barely missing her thigh. “You mean… this?” He swirls his tongue over her folds, scarcely missing her love button.

“Ah! Ahhah!”

“...or this?” he continues with a husky voice. In one smooth motion, he slides inside her.

“Hmmhahah…” She opens her eyes, two pools of carmine wherein bliss dwells. “You’ve deserved your cookies tonight, birdie.” Her hind leg rubs against his back, reaching for his protruding wings.

“I think I’ve had my fair share already,” he says. His tongue travels ponderously over her labia.

“Aww, really? I was hoping for one more flight…” Her hind leg touches his extended wing, gently rubbing against it. “Do you have any idea how good your wings look like when you’re horny?”

“They still lose to your eyes,” he whispers, kissing her marehood.

Just for a moment, the blush blooms a tad deeper on her cheeks. But then the playful voice dances away with it. “Oh, shut it, Coltanova.” She stretches her front legs on the bed, her whole body swaying in rhythm of her hips. “Come now, just a quick trip over the moon.”

He laughs shortly, resting his cheek against her thigh. “I don’t even know if I can make it past the treetops now…”

“Would some more lip from my part positively provoke you?” she asks matter-factly.

A burst of laugh. A glint in the golden eyes. “It might…”

Her right front leg moves idly towards his head, straining to smooth his magnificent mane. No matter how much she presses, it never stays down. “Seriously: what do you put into this?” she asks.

“Just love and respect. And some glue.” A dreamy smiles decorates his lips as he submits to her touch.

The carmine gaze studies him in the dim light that invades through the closed curtains. They both breathe as if every lungful was a reward, a price, a fleeting moment of fulfilment in an eternal chain leading to heavens. Without any haste, she pulls her hind legs from him, sitting up. His head falls on the sheets, completely relaxed. She bends over, crawling on her stomach past his extended front leg, over his gently heaving back… and by his pelvis. Not that relaxed after all, she sees. With a gentle motion, she guides him onto his back. Seeing him stretched out like that, his smile glistening and cock growing slightly with every twitch, a thought crosses her mind.

“Perhaps we’ve flown far enough tonight.” She moves on top of him, facing the opposite direction. “Time to float home.” Her lips brush against his tip, from there slide downwards towards his midring.

His eyes open in a flash. The first thing they see is her marehood right in front of his face, wet and lovely as an exotic flower. Without taking his eyes off the sight, he pulls a nearby pillow to support his neck. He draws her just a bit closer so that he can reach her without any effort at all. The first lick, or the hundredth, carries the same musky, indescribably intoxicating taste that all the others did. The honeyd gaze disappears behind dark eyelids. A shell of desire encloses on him, coats him in the sweet nectar and scented taste of the female flesh. He feels her lips caressing his length, but at this point it takes more than that to pull him out of the depths.

Chillburn breathes a bit heavier now, the blush glowing on her cheeks. She can taste herself on his surface, on the ebony meat that oozes carnal fragrance. Her tongue lolls past her lips, washing widely over his underside. The move stirs a faint shudder from him, only a faint. She can’t quite reach his balls, so instead she pulls back, drawing an intricate pattern across his rod on the way. The softness her tongue feels tells her that he is not yet fully erect. A sensitive girl might take that as a slight. But I suppose a fourth time in a night is a stretch for any stallion. A moan escapes her as his tongue ups its rhythm. A proud girl might take that as a challenge.

He gasps into her folds as the familiar feeling of warmth and moistness envelopes his dick. Despite the numbness, the sensation sends fresh blood surging through his veins and craving lust running along the shell of his desire immersed in her’s. But the spectre of bliss can’t get through yet; it can only tease him from the other side of the bubble. His hips push, begging to make her dive in deeper. She does. Her tongue gives way for the cock that drives into her throat, that fills her mouth almost completely. The bubble ripples, wavers, cracks. From the opening, a hoof emerges, a hoof made of light. He stares at it in the confines of his eyelids and without hesitation, lunges for it.

She lets him have his way, resolving to stay as still as possible while he humps her mouth. His pace is steady and easy, almost leisurely. An occasional soft nibble from her part makes dents to that. Gradually, the gagging sounds grow louder, more intense, less planned. In the same vein, she starts rubbing herself against his muzzle. The eternal chain of their breathing is long gone, replaced by the imminence of the moment, of the second link in the chain that is the only one there is. Their moaning is muffled by their genitals that they both consume tirelessly. She bobs her head in rhythm with his hips, he wraps his front legs around her rump and squeezes, locking her ass against his face. Their tongues whip each other hungrily, mercilessly, lovingly.

For Thunderlane, the bubble is gone, evaporated, punctured. A golden mare holds him in a tight embrace, a mare with no features except those of pleasure itself. He pants, trying to shove his cock harder inside her, but the angle isn’t optimal. Without thinking, he pushes with his hind legs and wings, tipping them to their flanks. They roll smoothly like a ball. His hind leg moves again; it rests against her neck now. He pushes, this time from two directions, and drives himself fully inside her. “Ahahhammah!” he moans into her pussy, his back arching like a bridge.

Can’t get off the ground, you said? So modest… She relaxes her throat completely, letting him have his way as he pleases. Whenever he plunges inside her, she suckles him earnestly, engorging herself into the male meat. His efforts to please her have severely diminished by now, but she hardly notices that. His humping eventually loses all traces of planning, of restraint, of mindfulness. He ruts her mouth as if there was nothing else in the world. Before the insatiable drive, Chillburn suddenly finds the limits of her comfortability way behind her. She tries pulling back, to slow him down, but his leg doesn’t sway. She can only breathe in small gasps now, her jaw aches irritatingly and the hard meat pokes painfully the back of her throat. Suddenly, she becomes aware of how slowly time is going. Can’t he just blow already? Is he prolonging this on purpose?

After a few more minutes, Thunderlane’s body finally reaches a peak as the golden mare melts into him. He moans loudly, practically wails, and shoves one more time with his hips. A violent trembling follows, crumbling his tension. He falls limp, panting and sweating. Chillburn spits his cock out of her mouth, coughing and gasping. Heavy strings of saliva cover most of her face under her nose. She rolls onto her back, trying to realign her jaw bones.

“I think we got to the moon, after all…” he says, exhausted.

She glances at him from under her eyebrows. “Too bad you dropped me halfway.”

He remains silent for a moment. “Yeah… Sorry about that. Uhm… I guess I got carried away there.”

“You hurt me.” She doesn’t say it unkindly.

He sits up. “Badly?”

She doesn’t hurry her answer. “Enough to make me mention it. Too little to make it worth remembering.” She turns onto her flank, resting her temple on a front leg. “Come here.”

He lays down next to her, eyeing her meekly. She guides him atop her extended front leg, gently pressing his head between her throat and chest. Tenseness fades away, their breathings synthesize once more, striving to match one another's rhythm. The scent of sex lingers heavily in the air in all it’s musky, intoxicating abundance. Words become criminal. Drowse is the sovereign law in the land, and it abides no infringements, not even those of the sun that stubbornly tries to sneak past the curtains.

“I don’t want to get up,” she whispers.

“Then why did you say that?” he asks from beneath his eyelids.

She steals a peek at him. “What do you mean?”

“If you don’t feel like getting up, why say it? There’s nopony saying you should get up in the first place.” His hoof travels on the mounds of her figure, carefully studying every hill and hollow. “Nopony except you.”

She opens another eye. “So when I say that I don’t want to get up, I mean that I need to get up?”

“Do you?”

“It depends…”

“...on what?”

“Is there going to be pancakes?” she finishes. In the amber that is unveiled from the dark, a glint of dream resides.

“As much as you can eat.”

An hour later, the kitchen downstairs fills with the delicious smell of freshly baked pancakes, spiced with cinnamon and served with honey. Chillburn sits by the table, munching the luscious food and watching intently as Thunderlane wields the frying pan like a great artist would a paintbrush, the hissing, liquid dough his canvas. Beyond the window, the sun has already started its descent from the zenith of the midday, yet it’s bright and hot as ever after a rainy night.

“You just have to bring these to the picnic,” she says, bits of pancake falling past her lips.

“Sure thing. They don’t taste that good cold, though.” He flips the half-raw dough in the air. “What did you thought to bring?”

She swallows. “A secret.”

He glimpses at her over his shoulder. “Ah-ha…”

She smiles inconspicuously and chomps another pancake. “I thought we could push the event, let the grass dry properly. I hate laying on wet grass.”

Thunderlane turns around and graces her plate with another steaming, golden-black treat. “I know the place where the sunset became famous. It should be dry by the evening. It also happens to be an awesome site to share secrets.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“You’ve had enough now?” he asks, rolling the pan in his hooves.

She looks at her plate. The pile surpasses the honey pot that stands next to it. “I’ll go with a ‘yes’.”

He grins and puts the hissing pan into the sink before sitting opposite to her. As he starts taxing the mountain of pancakes, he says: “By the way, you’re out of flour. And eggs. And milk.”

“I figured. But what about the secret place? Why it’s good for sharing them?”

He glances at her meaningfully. “We’ll see that in the evening, I’m sure.”

She emits a deep growl, although the effect isn’t quite the same with her mouth full of pancakes.

He chuckles and pours honey on a rolled pancake. As he starts eating it, he notices the clock on the wall. “Can I use the shower first? I don’t think I have time to visit home.”

“I thought Wednesdays were off days for the weather team?”

He blinks twice. “They are. There’s some other… business I need to take care of before three o’clock.”

The chewing noises fill the kitchen for one sovereign moment.

“Rainbow Dash suggested we should meet before the trial,” he confesses eventually. “She thought it best to make sure that everypony has the story right.”

“Story?” she asks casually. “What about the truth?”

“I’ll make sure it’s there somewhere.” He shovels more pancakes into his face. “No matter what Dash says, it was me who started the fight.”

She gives him a long look. “Did you, really?”

He stops chewing. “Uhm… yeah, I’m positive about that. Not happy, but positive.”

She follows the movement of her saucer while pushing it back and forth with a hoof. A faint dragging sound screeches in the kitchen. “This Rainbow Dash… Would she lie for you if you asked her to?”

Thunderlane swallows. “What are you exactly saying? That I should let Reg get all the blame for what happened?”

“That would work in our favour, if he happened to come stalking either one of us again.” The carmine eyes rise from the plate, looking expectantly at him.

Thunderlane opens his mouth. Before he can answer, the front door gets knocked twice. They both turn to look at the hall’s direction. “Were you expecting somepony?” he asks.

“Not that I know of.” She gets up and walks for the front door. As she opens it, a surprised gasp flees her. “You!”

“Me,” says Willow Fall, unsmiling. “We need to have a word.”

“What do you want?” she blurts.

What do I want? thinks Willow Fall. “It’s about Reg.”

“Of course it is,” she says, brows furrowing. “But why would that concern me?”

Fall sighs. “Chillburn… could I come in?”

“Why? What do you want? You still haven’t said what you want.”

“I want to help Reg,” he says calmly. “And to do that, I need your help.”

She eyes him like she would eye a singing mailbox. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“You seriously don’t want to let me in, do you?”

“No.”

Fall looks at her like he might look at a mailbox which he wanted to hear singing. “I know that I promised to forget you awhile ago. Trust me: I did just that. But like we both know, Reg had other plans.” He shifts his weight between his legs. “I’m here only because of him. Please. Just hear me out.”

She bites her lip, staying quiet for a moment. “I have a guest inside. If you want to talk, come back in an hour.”

“Thank you,” he says, his shoulders visibly relaxing. He turns around, but before trotting away, he says: “I’m sorry about all this. I really am.”

She closes the front door. Fall gives the dark red wood one more look and leaves.

Inside, Chillburn presses her ear against the door, listening. It’s only when she can’t hear anything from the other side that she returns to the kitchen.

“Who was that?” Thunderlane asks while rolling another pancake.

“Some foals asking for donations on some camp trip,” she says, trotting straight to the sink. The sound of rushing water fills the kitchen.

“You’re finished?” he asks, turning around on his chair. “There’s still plenty of good left.”
“I’ll take them along to the picnic,” she says, collecting dirty bowls and dishes into the sink filling up with steaming water. “Saves you the trouble of making more.”

He studies her back, slowly chewing a pancake. “So… Can I use that shower now?”

“Of course you can,” she says with her back turned. “And don’t worry about wasting all the hot water. I could use some refreshment now.” She starts dishing.

He finishes the pancake with a few chomps, stands up, and walks to her. The dark, strong hooves rest on her thin shoulders while his muzzle caresses her neck. “Is everything alright?” he whispers.

She stops her work, staring into the water filled with metal, wood, and remains of dough. “Everything is never alright. There is always something missing, something wrong. Something to complain about.” She rests her head back, closing her eyes. “But right now, things are more right for me than they have been in more years than I care to remember.”

He kisses her ear gently. “That is all I wanted to hear.”

She opens her eyes and turns around. “I know. Off you go now.” She pecks him on the cheek.

He responds likewise, smiles, and flies upstairs. Chillburn turns around. Below her, the dishwater, colored deep grey by the various metallic items at the bottom, whirls faintly. She stares at it for a moment, hooves raised to the table, ready to start working. But just before they do, the surface shatters abruptly. A circle appears in the middle of it, fading away even before the waves reach the walls. She wipes the corner of her eye, blinking. And then, she starts washing.

In a quiet cafe, on a lonely corner, in a table of one, Willow Fall stirs his coffee with a spoon. The dark liquid sucks in his gaze, imprisons it into a whirlpool of bitter blackness. I don’t even like coffee. Why did I order coffee? He lets the spoon fall idle and leans back in his chair, still staring at the clinically white cup. Gradually his eyes move up and to the wooden clock that ticks on the opposite wall. Exactly three and a half minutes have passed since he last gazed upon it. A heavy, stretched sigh rolls past his lips.

“You sure you don’t want some milk or sugar with that?” asks a pleasant female voice. Fall looks to the counter where a kindly smiling earth pony mare sits.

An automatic smile spreads on his lips. “If it’s not too late for that.”

“Of course not,” she says, picking up a tray with a silvery jug and a pot of sugar. “Almost nopony I know drinks their coffee black,” she continues as she gets by his table, setting the tray there. “Not this coffee, at least.”

Fall picks up the jug with his horn, pouring some milk into the cup. The blackness swirls some more, blends into a shade of deep brown. The two bits of sugar that drop in next spill some of it into the tablecloth. Fall hurries to wipe it off with a nearby napkin, noticing how they have little hearts printed on them. “This must be the most adorable napkin I have ever seen,” he says abruptly.

She takes the used napkin, stuffing it into a pocket of her apron. “Tell me about it. I’ve always thought them to be too much, but the owner insists on using them. He is all about details like that.”

Fall smiles and sips his coffee. “Details do matter. But only when they remain unnoticed.”

She tilts her head slightly. “I thought the point was just the opposite?”

“Well, yes and no,” he says, adding more sugar and milk into the coffee. “A good detail makes the scenery, but a bad one makes it stand out. And that’s what the setting should never do. It should remain invisible, unquestionable.” As he tries the coffee again, he notices how she is looking at him. “But those are just my two cents,” he adds quickly.

“Are you a designer or something?” she asks.

“A historian.” He smiles, but this time not purely mechanically. “Name’s Willow Fall.”

“Tinder Song. Most call me Tinder.” She sits down on the floor next to him. “So, what does a historian from Canterlot do in Ponyville?”

He raises an eyebrow. “How did you know I’m from Canterlot?”

“The way you talk. And sit. And sigh.”

“Sigh?”

“Well, maybe not that,” she confesses. Her smile is one of the prettier ones that Fall has ever seen.
“Let’s just say that I’m here because of a lot of reasons,” he says. “I’d loath to steal your work time with long stories, after all.”

“Does it look like I’m really working?” she asks, waving at the empty room. “Nopony comes into the Heartmend Cafe this early. Nopony except historians from Canterlot, anyway.”

He looks at her from past his cup that floats between them. “I’m here for a friend. A friend that got into trouble.”

“Big trouble?”

“About the size of a heart,” he says, sipping the drink.

Tinder Song winces. “Those are the nasty ones.”

“They are,” agrees Fall quietly.

“Are you gonna meet him here soon?” Tinder Song asks after a while.

“No; I’m waiting to go meet another pony.” He glances at the clock. “And I see that I must be on my way soon.” He finishes his coffee with a final sip. “You were right. The milk and sugar do make a difference.”

She flashes another cute smile. “You’re welcome.”

Fall enjoys one more glance at that smile, after which he stands up. “Thank you for the coffee, Tinder.” He produces a bit and hooves it to her.

“Just one cup? Consider it on the house,” she says.

“Then you can consider this as a tip,” he continues, still offering the bit. She rolls her eyes and accepts it. The bell on the doorframe chimes happily as Fall opens it, but before he can step outside, he hears her voice.

“See you around, Fall!”

The bell chimes behind him, drowning the last syllable of his name. Outside, the sun blazes in its sovereign glory, promising more warmth and light for all of ponykind. Fall heads onwards, making easy progress through the town and to the house that lies on its edge; a house with a dull red door. He knocks it twice, almost thrice. Birds keep on chirping in the nearby trees. The flow of river carries to his ears. Nothing else happens. And then, the door cracks open, revealing a curl of an auburn mane behind.

“Get in and close the door,” says Chillburn quietly. Fall abides, soon finding himself in a living room that, despite its size, has a rather poor assortment of furniture. Only one couch stands in the middle of it, harboring Chillburn. Her gaze tells Fall that it’s the one place in the house that he is not allowed to sit on. So he settles for the carpet.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he says stiffly.

“Get to the point,” she says, eyes nailed at him.

They are brighter than I remembered. “I need you to make peace with Reg.”

Her hoof, stretched over the back of the couch, taps it twice. “I’d rather steer as far away from him as possible. That is a sort of a peace, right?”

“No, it isn’t,” he says calmly. “In fact, that approach seems to be the very cause that has lead us all into this.”

“You’re blaming me?”

“I’m not blaming anypony. Believe me, I want this farce to end as much as you do, if not even more so.”

She snorts. “Then why did you come here? Why won’t you just grab your friend and leave me alone?”

“Because we need to end this affair, not deny it,” he says. “And that can only be done if you two split up as friends.”

“That will never happen. Not after what he has done.”

“Pretension shouldn’t come too hard for you,” says Fall coldly.

The carmine blazes. “You have some nerve, coming to my house accusing me!”

“For Celestia’s sake, forget yourself just for a minute!” he snaps. “Can’t you see what caused all this?! Your impatience! Your fear! If you had–”

“–shut up!” she shouts, eyes wide shut, front hooves pressed into her ears. “Shut up, shut up!”

“–if you had turned Reg down properly, with words and not with silence, he would’ve settled for that,” continues Fall, heedless to her reaction. “He needs a closure, an end that really is an end. It doesn't have to be a happy one, but it needs to be there.” He draws a deep breath. “I know him. This is how it must play out.”
Her hooves fall down, but the tension in her shoulders remains intact. “He beat up a pony, you know? He beat him up because I was seeing him.” The carmine eyes narrow down, sparking. “You think I can just forget something like that?”

Fall blinks, opens his mouth, and says nothing. His head droops down. “So that’s what happened…”

Chillburn taps the back of the couch again. “How did you even find me? How did he?”

Fall, his focus still on the carpet, says with a faraway voice: “Your middlepony in Canterlot. He told to Reg, after that to me, that you live in Ponyville. He didn’t give your address, but I asked around a bit.” Very slowly, he looks at her again. “Despite what you may think… Reg regrets his actions. Had you seen him yesterday, you wouldn't doubt my words. He was crushed, simply devastated.”

Her eyes flicker. “I hope I had been there to see that. I really do.”

Fall winces in disgust, yet he holds his tongue. “If you truly wish to end this… you will meet Reg today, before or after the trial, and make peace with him. Or fake to make one, I don’t care.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she says quietly. “Do you have any more orders for me? Perhaps some different tune?”

He stands up, eyeing her sadly. “Only one. Live a happy life.” He turns and heads for the front door.

“Do tell my best regards to your marefriend, whoever she is!” She shouts just as the door is about to close. The thud that follows exiles all the other voices, plunging the room into absolute quiet. Chillburn’s eyes wander slowly to the lamp that died out last night. It stands on the table, almost looking sad. Pleading. Accusing. She picks it up… and throws with all her might against the front door.