Tangled sheets and blankets formed unwanted lumps in all of the worst places. Blackbird lay on her back, looking up at the ceiling while listening to the sound of Dim breathing beside her. The sounds he made worried her, left her body tight with anxious energy. It felt good to be doing nothing after a long day of doing mostly nothing. Half-awake, half-asleep, she thought about the kisses—and there were many kisses to think about.

Nothing had happened, and nothing needed to happen. Just kisses. Many kisses. But then Dim’s melancholy returned, and with it, Blackbird suspected the return of Darling’s spectre. But Dim had not sent her away—in fact, in the moments and hours that followed, they shared a closeness that Blackbird did not believe possible. Not many words had been said, but they had lounged together, enjoying each other’s company in companionable, compatible silence.

Not the awkward, cringy, unwanted silence.

Dim was dozing, but sleep was elusive prey for Blackbird. The wine on her breath tickled her nose, but the booze in her blood did nothing to help her slumber. What she needed—what she wanted—was to rub one out. Blackbird needed to have a go at her kitty-slitty and work out her frustrations, but this felt like an impossible dream at the moment. She thought about humping and delighted in just how delightfully dirty of a word it was.

A girl had needs.

As powerful as her needs were, she wasn’t ready, and neither was Dim. For now, this was enough. This was good. He was right there beside her, and that was enough. She wanted to roll over onto her side, but that would mean flopping about and trying to find that perfect position where she wasn’t laying on her wing in some terrible, uncomfortable way. It would also mean disturbing Dim, as he was currently laying atop one of her wings at the moment. Well, partially. His head rested upon a warm, feathery, comfortable place, and she was certain that doing so brought him comfort, at the cost of her own discomfort, but that was fine. That was okay.

The thunderous crack of gunfire utterly destroyed the peace and stillness of the night.

Blackbird lept from the bed and caused Dim to tumble to the floor. One shot. From the other rooms, the rooms of her companions, she heard shouting. As Dim roused himself and picked himself up from the floor, Blackbird was arming herself, as one tended to do when one heard gunfire in the middle of the night. She heard Dim snarl and the cold light that emanated from his horn brought no comfort, no reassurance.

Their door slammed open and Blackbird brought her revolver to bear, pointing it at the dark silhouette in the doorway. It was Motte, and he was armed with his crazy-ridiculous quad-barreled shotgun. Biting her lip, Blackbird lowered her gun and tried to steady her nerves. Bailey was just behind Motte, her mane all wrapped up in curlers.

The rough, barked shouts of soldiers could be heard in the hallway…

Magic at the ready, Dim had a look around the crowded hallway to determine what he could about the situation. Munro was wearing only his breeches and held his revolver in a trembling hand. Puke Puddle was right behind him and Dim could not help but notice that she was wearing a nightgown. In different circumstances, he might have taken a moment to enjoy the sight, but now was not the time. Motte and Bailey were armed to the teeth and ready to respond. Even Prominence and Thod had come out of their room and were trying to keep their tails from being trod-upon.

“Bombay.”

Something about the way Motte said her name chilled Dim’s blood. Bombay’s door was closed and she had not responded to the sound of the gunshot. A peculiar, unwanted queasiness overcame Dim, and he found himself frozen in place, staring at the door while a cold sweat began to dampen his hide.

“Why hasn’t Bombay come out of her room?” Blackbird asked in an almost foalish sort of way. Shoving Bailey aside, Blackbird made her way to the door, but then hesitated before entering. “Bombay, are you decent?”

Dim saw Motte’s jaw clench.

Jolie and Gratin—whose room was in a different hall, a different wing, rounded the corner, with a great number of guards following them. The little mare and the big griffin were sweaty in appearance, downright messy, and it was painfully obvious what they had been doing to pass the nighttime hours.

“Open the door, ‘Bird,” Motte said, his voice cracking.

Nodding once, Blackbird did as she was bid.

One leg could still be seen twitching. Bombay’s paw dangled down from the side of the bed and her paw-fingers still flexed. Next to the bed, on the floor, was a pistol, and a curl of smoke could be seen rising up from the barrel like a question mark. The head of the bed was a mess, and the less time Dim spent looking at it, the better.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Blackbird, followed by retching.

In a rare moment of tenderness, Dim pulled her away and turned her around to spare her from the awful sight. Doing so came with consequences, as Blackbird’s hot, chunky puke splashed all over his front hooves. The stench of bile and soured wine rose up to assail Dim’s nostrils and before he could react, Blackbird blew chunks yet again.

“You dumb fucking cunt, how could—”

“Motte, don’t do that!” Bailey stepped closer, but then retreated when she saw the look upon her counterpart’s face.

“We would have sat with you!” Motte’s voice was ragged, torn by rage. Grinding his teeth together, he lifted up a chair and then smashed it into the wall. “You could have told us! You didn’t have to be alone! You kept telling us everything was okay! Why did you lie to us?” Grimacing, grinding his teeth, he began to kick around the splintered remains of the chair

After gurgling and almost choking, Blackbird spewed with terrific force, enough so that the contents of her stomach bounced and splashed, soaking everything in the blast zone—including Dim, who in a moment of perfect stoic endurance, just stood there. Munro clamped one hand over his mouth and shaking his head, retreated from the room.

“For fuck’s sake, Dim! Don’t just stand there, get Blackbird out of here!” Blood trickled from the corner of Motte’s mouth and his lip was already swelling. “Fucking bloody Tartarus! Bombay, how could you do this to us? Look for a note! There’d better be a fucking note! Dim! Get Blackbird out of here!”

Motte, furious though he was, was right. Dim tugged on Blackbird, but she did not respond. Then, in a moment of calm that defied the crisis, Dim knew that escorting Blackbird out would just make a huge mess of things. What he needed was a more direct means of departure, a means to get right to the bathroom so the both of them could get cleaned up and not leave a mess on the carpets.

Drawing the aether around both himself and Blackbird like a curtain, Dim withdrew.

Blackbird was a sorry sight. She lay in the bed, curled up into a fetal position. For now, she had stopped sobbing—but Dim knew that it could begin again at any moment. Getting her cleaned up had been a difficult task; she was a big, heavy creature, with a lot of her to go around, and she had bawled the entire time. Dim’s heart was not ready for this assault and his raw, recently recovered emotions were far too vulnerable.

Painful as it was, he did not try to hide from what he was feeling, and allowed it swallow him. Seated in a chair beside the bed, he stared into the ashen depths of his pipe and thought about Bombay’s final hours. How endlessly long the nights must have been for her, how they must have stretched on, unbearably, with dawn but a distant torment—because the daylight hours held no comfort.

He thought about his own mental state after Darling’s death, and how his grief had been expressed. His mind, eager to torment him, recalled the hazy memories of the massacre. His own downward spiral had been quite spectacular. A part of himself felt guilty for thinking of himself, for reflecting upon his own troubles while Blackbird suffered beside him.

Without so much as a single knock, the door opened. Dim lifted his head, squinting, almost hissing in pain as the light from the hallway dazzled his eyes. In the doorway was a foal-sized silhouette, which Dim could not make out given his current state of blindness. He raised one hoof, as if to ward his eyes from the light, and turned his head away.

“I thought I’d check on the two of you.” Jolie’s voice wavered to the point where it sounded as though it might crack. “Everything has, uh, been cleaned up. The room. The carpets. Bombay. What a mess.”

Blackbird whimpered.

“Had to put Motte down. Laudanum or something. I don’t know. He lost his shit completely and started smashing stuff. Bailey is looking after him now. Motte couldn’t find a note. No reason. No message. No final goodbye. I never thought I’d see the day when Motte cracked. He’s a fortress. Bailey is holding together, but I’m scared that it’s an act. If Motte can crack, then so can Bailey. They’re the same pony.”

Blinking rapidly, Dim tried to recover his eyes.

“Since it was so quiet I came to check on both of you. And maybe to talk. Shit, I don’t know. Gratin is taking this hard and he wants to be alone. I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone. Wasn’t sure where to go. So I went around checking up on all of us, hoping I could find a place to stay.”

Saying nothing, Dim gestured at the bed.

“You don’t mind?” Jolie’s usual confidence was nowhere to be seen.

“We don’t mind.”

Blackbird’s phlegmy words were not the least bit inviting, but it didn’t matter. Jolie approached the bed, hesitant, her ears back and her tail low. When she lept up, she stood on the corner, uncertain, but this did not last long. Blackbird, reaching out, grabbed the tiny mare and with a yank, pulled her close. Jolie was doll-sized compared to Blackbird, little more than a stuffed toy, and the small red mare vanished from Dim’s still-dazzled view.

“I still can’t believe that Gratin sent me away.” Jolie’s words were muffled now, smothered. “How could he send me away? I needed him. How could he not need me?”

Dim didn’t know. He didn’t have an answer. Dealing with grief was something he hadn’t yet figured out. Again, his thoughts turned to Darling, and he could feel hot, fresh wounds opening up. First Darling, then the Bard, and now, Bombay. Darling was a pony that he had feelings for. Not love, as he had once thought, but something. They had shared something, even if it was unwholesome, the bond they had was no less real for all the manipulation.

As for the Bard, Pâté au Poulet was his friend. The start of friendship was still friendship. Some friendships lasted for a good long time, while others didn’t. Dim realised that his friendship with the Bard was special because of what it had taught him—that is to say, friendship. And not the sort of weird, infatuated friendship he shared with Blackbird, but another, different type of friendship.

He and Bombay had bonded over what they had lost. They shared their grief and had grown close. Had he failed her? Could he have done more? Had his selfishness cost him a friend? Perhaps if he had been paying more attention—no. He interrupted himself and reminded himself that not a one of them had seen this coming.

The self-flagellation continued, unabated; perhaps if he had been a better friend, Bombay might not have offed herself. Closing his eyes, Dim tried to think his way out of this mess, but his brain kept finding new ways to twist the knife in the wound. If only he and Blackbird had made her stay, rather then spend time alone with one another. Bombay and Blackbird had been spending so much time together; they had grown close. And Dim, being the selfish sort he was, wanted Blackbird’s time for himself.

Grief, like a malignant cancer, grew. Dim, aware of his own shortcomings, conscious of his own failings, allowed it to overwhelm him. He needed this pain, this punishment. His friends deserved better, and they would have better. Maybe he wasn’t the best pony, and while goodness was not his way, friendship offered its own light.

It was a light that he could at least tolerate.

Author's Notes:

The holidays are a rough time. Reach out to those you know who've become a bit quiet.