Brass hinges sang their high-pitched squeal as the telescope shifted angles across the evening sky. A purple lid blinked over a catlike emerald iris, and the talon-tipped hand adjusted its grip before it moved to the focus. Through the balmy haze of midsummer evening he searched for his target: the long distant stadium of Cloudsdale, which had come close enough to his old home during its slow drift around the continent.

Flashes of gold, green, purple, blue, and red illuminated the distant skies and drew the corners of his mouth ever so slightly upwards. In his mind he could hear the bugles call over the deafening roar of the assembled crowd. He could feel the arena shudder in jubilant exaltation as the Royal envoy heralded the arrival of the Princesses who would declare the Eighty-Second Equestria Games open then sit and honor the procession of athletes from all corners of the globe.

And just like that, his smile faltered.

Spike leaned back from the telescope and let a slow breath pass between his lips. Black care gnawed at the back of his mind, demanding his attention as he stood idle; fore yesterday he was in the Crystal Empire at the seventy-fourth Equestrian games. Tomorrow he would read in the papers the announcement of the One-Hundredth Games.

Yesterday was over thirty years ago. Tomorrow would be over seventy years hence.

Spike shook his head to clear those thoughts from his mind and moved from the window towards the inner sanctum of his home. There he stood near the hearth in which sat fragrant cedar knots waiting for a night cool enough to be set ablaze. That distant tomorrow that all too soon would become today.

He craned his neck up to the photos gathered over the mantelpiece. From behind panes of glass lightly speckled by dust he saw faded faces looking back at him that brought a tightness to his throat and placed a heavy feeling in his stomach. They were all so young back then.

Spike picked up the central picture by the brown wooden frame and held it close to his muzzle where he gently blew at the few speckles of dust that dared to gather there. A picture of Twilight, the colors dulled and the edges growing yellow, looked back at him through time, a youthful filly with bright eyes eager to learn. Held close to her chest was him as a young drake, back when he was still small enough to ride on her back all over the old Golden Oaks Library.

A smile once more found its way to his lips as he considered the picture. How simple things had been back in those halcyon days when his biggest concern had been where she’d hidden his snack gems and comics. He turned back to the window, weights tugging the corners of his mouth downwards, then placed the picture back on the mantel with the others. A walk, he thought, would do him good.

Ponyville was a town out of time in some ways: a curious place that progress had forgotten in its ceaseless march. Perhaps that was why Spike preferred to call it home when his duties as envoy to the dragon lands permitted him the time. Or perhaps it was in his nature as a dragon to cling to that timeless quality like it was the finest coin of gold.

Yesterday he was following Rarity down these same dirt roads with a bucket of gems in his stubby arms. The day before he was checking off groceries from one of Twilight’s many lists. Tomorrow he would lay a wreath on their weathered gravestones and brush his taloned fingers over the cold stone surface.

The knot built in his throat once more, and Spike walked a little faster. Black care couldn’t catch the runner whose pace was quick enough.

He passed Sugarcube Corner, closed for the night with all the lights off. He could smell the almost sickly sweet scent of sugar as he passed by. The Cake siblings ran the place now, their parents having retired. Last Spike had spoken to them they’d said that Pinkie still came by when she was in town and helped out. The last he’d seen her she’d been much the same as when he’d first met her. Her exuberance was more muted than in the past, though no less effusive, and her bouncy pink mane had grayed a bit. But she was still Pinkie.

A mile down he passed Rarity’s boutique and felt his heart ache anew. He still saw Rarity more than all his other friends save Twilight. Her Ponyville Boutique was staffed by her daughter now while Rarity kept busy in Manehattan and Canterlot.

Spike winced. Yesterday she’d designed a dress for Ember and a suit for Spike. Tomorrow he’d dig the old suit out of an ancient cabinet and marvel at how small he used to be.

Breaking into a sprint, Spike dashed through the dark and silent streets of town. His long legs carried him in powerful strides through the winding roads, kicking dirt, sticks, and pebbles up as his claws propelled each step. For miles and miles he ran, the black care nipping at his lashing tail until–breathless–he fell to his knees at the crest of a hill overlooking Everfree River.

Collapsing to his hands and knees, Spike clutched at the long grass. The delicate green blades crushed and tore between his fingers, and he clenched his eyes shut white he struggled to fight back the knowledge that had grown to torment him ever worse as the years flew on.

He could still hear Fluttershy’s anguished wails when they laid Angel to his final sleep, and he remembered Twilight first explaining to him the concept of death. He’d struggled to comprehend it back then. But in time he grew more familiar with it. First, it had been Angel. Next it had been Applejack’s pain, muted, and held tight between her hooves like the still glowing coal when Winona passed. Then it had been Twilight’s mother, the sweet mare he’d come to love like a grandmother, stricken down far too early. And one day too, even that terrible sound would be lost to time

Yesterday Twilight had tucked him into bed and kissed him goodnight. Tomorrow he would mourn with Celestia and Luna at her memorial.

He looked up, the river flowing before him in an endless cycle. Far in the distance he could see the veiled silhouette of Cloudsdale. In his mind he could still hear the roar of the crowd over the deafening burst of the fireworks.

It had been Ember who had first told him how very like those fireworks ponies were to a dragon, their lives bright and full of color, only to be gone in a moment, never to return. Spike felt his eyes burn. Tears dripped unbidden down his cheeks. He thought of the night so very long ago when they had all sat on such a similar hill watching meteors draw lines of light across the evening sky. He could still smell that night when he closed his eyes. He could feel Twilight’s warm chest on his back, pulling him close to her heart which beat a steady rhythm that had lulled him into a deep, safe sleep.

Yesterday that rhythm was his lullaby. Tomorrow he’d struggle to remember it.

Yesterday he was ten. Tomorrow he’d be over five hundred.

He rose to his feet with measured breaths and stepped towards the river. His eyes caught sight of a leaf as it drifted down the current. How he wished in that moment he could be that leaf, so blissfully unaware of his existence.

But he never could be, and he cursed the gods that he knew it.

Yesterday Twilight told him that a story never truly had an end, nor did it have a beginning. Rather one is merely presented with an arbitrary point of introduction and conclusion. A slice of life achieved through countless moments leading up to it, and one that would leave ripples long after the author had penned the final period. The experience that the characters chose, either looking back or forward, was what made the story.

Yesterday he rode into town, bouncing on Twilight’s back. He couldn’t know what tomorrow would bring. All he had was today.

Maybe today was all he would ever need.

Author's Notes:

This story was written for the Everfree Northwest Iron Author competition.
It was an honor to compete and receive third place.