Presents.

Normally, I wouldn’t have to worry about them, seeing as all my closest friends are fairly rich, and superstars to boot — another reason we’re not considered a proper military unit by the common pony. We can buy pretty much whatever we want, so it’s really just our time and company that’s the most valuable thing we can offer. And even then, we see each other basically every day. As a result, birthdays have grown less and less remarkable the longer I’ve been a Bolt.

This one, however, is a little different.

The saddlebags feel slightly heavier than normal on my back, and that’s not just because one of the pouches carries something very special; this is the first time I’ll have ever actually given him something. Not like the photos of the snow mandalas up in Yakyakistan, which was me just sharing an experience — I mean a proper gift; something you give to somepony completely free of charge and any expectations, solely for their enjoyment.

I’ve dressed for the occasion as well, supposing that, even for a friend as close as him, I ought to make myself look presentable. Nothing fancy at all, just a little extra attention to my mane and tail and the casual Wonderbolt attire; black polo, blue jacket with a gold and white stripe around the base of the collar and a gold right sleeve. Cheap, frankly — one could and would correctly assume, if they put two and two together, that it was a last minute decision.

But anything more swanky and I’d probably stick out like a broken feather, and anything less just didn’t feel right. This is the perfect balance, I think.

I hope.

It probably wouldn’t matter anyway, would it? I’m showing up. That’s enough in his mind, right? I’m showing I care. Even though he already knows that. Known it for a whole year, and especially now that the cat's out of the bag.

I sigh, realising I’m overthinking this again. I’m not sure if it’s grown worse ever since I let him know, but I’m definitely starting to notice it more. Maybe that’s only natural, but then again, maybe it isn’t — this is new to me, so how am I supposed to know?

But no matter what the problem is, whether real or imagined, all I need to remember is that I’m still in control. And with that, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, and then let it go. And the world feels calmer.

A pub on the foreshore, The Tiny Dancer, just around the corner from Seaford’s Riviera — that’s where it’s being held. And as I continue trundling down the sidewalk toward it, I scan the windows along its side and see the interior appears rather packed. On the roof is an open-air seating area, rentable for private functions if one so desired, and that’s where I’m headed.

Word wouldn’t have gotten out about this small gathering, since only him, myself and the guards knew precisely where and when, so if I’d known this place was so popular, I’d have suggested somewhere else. The Friendly Card down in Baltimare, perhaps — quite a hike for a birthday, but I trust the establishment more, and if it’s ever my turn to talk, there are more memories I can recall.

Approaching the entrance, I can hear the eager cheering of hoofball fans — that explains the crowd; there’s a match being played up north between two international teams. Peering through the glass before I enter, the supporters seem overwhelmingly in Equestria’s favour, with one or two griffons sporting the colours as well, all fixated on the TVs in the corners.

I pull open one of the two doors and stroll through, pausing for a moment to test the water. No immediate change, though the air is a little more humid and drips with the bitter, somewhat tart smell of a noxious amount of alcohol, assorted nuts and salted pretzel biscuits.

Good. At least it’s not me they’re paying attention to — one of the rare few instances a crowd has already gathered and I don’t steal the show. Could’ve gone with more of a disguise, just to be safe, but that’s more baggage to carry and keep track of when I arrive. No time for that on anypony’s account, his least of all.

With a mental shrug, I amble onward, passing by two tables on either side, the one on my left looping a euphoric team chant that I get the feeling is going to spread like wildfire soon enough. With the right momentum, they might be singing it long after their cups stop refilling. The current bartenders — twin brothers, by the look of it — seem rather pleased with the number of patrons tonight, despite the noise level. No doubt the profit outweighs the potential damage to anypony’s ear canals.

Reminds me of the first time I ever had a fangirl squeal in my face, right after I signed her favourite book in Las Pegasus. Screamed so loud I found myself waking up with ringing ears three weeks straight. I won’t pretend to know how that worked, but it taught me to bring a pair of earplugs on any official Wonderbolt trip.

One of the players scores a point and the whole room lets out a massive cheer, some pounding on the tabletops and one spilling her drink in her excitement. She instantly lets out a hushed curse and looks about for a serviette to wipe up the mess, darting to the bar and cutting me off for a moment when she sees a stack on offer. I do my best to walk around, but she bumps into my flank on the way back.

“Sorry!” she blurts out fretfully, as if this is the latest in a long list of accidents. But when she looks at me to offer another apology, she stops and stares with wide eyes and an open mouth. “Oh my stars…”

I know that look anywhere, so I quickly turn and resume my course at a trot, heading for a narrow staircase towards the other side of the room.

“Fleetfoot! It’s… it’s Fleetfoot, guys! Over there, it’s her!”

Her calls are easily drowned out by the revelling of the hundred or so fans filed in every booth, sitting at every table, so numerous that some have to stand to be with their group. But if I don’t vacate soon, the more ponies will listen, the more eyes will spy me, and for all I know, a horde of half-drunk, hyped-up fanatics will be hounding me for a moment of my time; a photo or an autograph, or whatever else — I once had some sanctimonious type try debating politics with me, probably aiming to impress me and set himself above the rest. Not all fans are mindless, he said.

Absolute twat.

I reach the staircase in short order, where a lone bouncer — a tall and unusually powerfully-built mare, even by earth pony standards — halts me with an outstretched hoof. Kind of reminds me of that big, red stallion down in Ponyville, in terms of height and bulk. “ID, please.”

I blink, creasing my brows, sparing a cautious glance at the rest of the room to see that nopony else has seen me. Yet. “You know who I am, Miss…” I squint at the nametag on her protective vest — a favoured style of armour for law enforcement in the cities, “Apple Bloom.”

Behind dark shades and a black cap, an eyebrow quirks.

And then the reality heaps on me like a tonne of bricks and I do a double take. “Wait, hold on… you’re not the Apple Bloom, are you? Little sister of Element Bearer Applejack?”

The corner of her mouth curls slightly upward in a faint smirk and she gives a small nod. “Indeed I am, ma’am.”

“What are you doing out here, so far away from Ponyville?”

“Guarding.”

I blink again. “Well, I can see that, but I mean… why? Aren’t you supposed to be looking after the homestead, or something?”

The smirk fades; her face grows neutral. “I love my sister and everything she stands for, but that doesn’t mean I have to become her, if that’s what you’re implying.”

My eyes widen and I shake my head.

“Good.” She seems to relax, but it’s hard to tell. “Your friend’s guards asked for extra security, since they’re the guests of honour, and Princess Celestia saw an opportunity to mend certain bridges. I’m one of the builders.”

“You? Not Applejack?”

“AJ was part of whatever conspiracy that caused this rift to begin with — it’s not my place to know or comment.” She shrugs. “And since I was already pursuing martial arts, I figured why not.”

“As a job?”

“Hobby. Blame Rainbow — she introduced me to it.”

I nod, though I can’t help entertaining a small, unfortunately nagging sense of doubt; I lower my ears and lean closer. “I don’t mean to sound condescending, but… are you qualified?”

“I can handle myself. Celestia wouldn’t have let me come if I couldn’t.” She holds at an upturned hoof. “That’s also why I’m asking for your ID, ma’am — so I can verify you are who you seem to be.”

I pause, watching her, then with an accepting sigh and roll of the eyes, I dig a wingtip into my jacket for my wallet, then slide out the citizen’s card and pass it over.

She sits down to use both forehooves, checking it front and back for any signs of tampering and forgery. Then she compares the printed photograph and cutie mark with the real deal, paying close attention to the extremities. “Name?”

“Fleetfoot.”

“Date of birth?”

“Sixteenth of the sixth, nine-eighty-two, Celestial Age.”

“Parents?”

“Father: Slipstream. Mother: Mistral.”

“Occupation?”

My eyelids lower. “Are you serious?”

“Celestia’s orders, ma’am; no half measures.” she declares evenly, peering up at me over the top of her shades. “Considering how close you two are, I’m sure you’d agree.”

At that, Inside of me something tightens and recoils, put on the defensive like a startled cat. She couldn’t possibly know the whole truth, though, so it’s a feeling that’s easy enough to keep hidden. I slake the instinct to panic with a glance to my right, and see there aren’t as many eyes on me as I’d originally feared; maybe only five pairs out of the closest group of twenty.

“Occupation?”

“Senior Airpony of the Wonderbolts.”

She looks down at the card again, then nods to herself and returns it, offering me a tight-lipped smile. “Alright, everything’s in order.”

I slip it back into the wallet, and the wallet back into my pocket. “What, you’re not swabbing my gums and comparing DNA samples?”

Her brows crease and she looks up in thought. “Now that you mention it…”

“Okay, I’m going,” I announce, walking around and ascending the staircase as fast as I can without seeming too rude. “Good night, Apple Bloom.”

She chuckles and tips her hat. “You have a good night too, Miss Fleetfoot. And don’t worry, I’ll keep y’all mighty safe.”

That part, I don’t doubt; one doesn’t look upon a frame as solid as hers and not have second thoughts about whatever it is they’re doing. Even a completely wasted, victory-crazed hoofball fan would probably have to think things through before they tango with her. And taking into account the stories of how hard her sister kicks, I’m not sure I’d like to see the aftermath of whatever she decides to hit.

The stairs eventually end, I open the door at the top, and the cool ocean breeze welcomes me in a dry, salty embrace. Night creeps along the eastern sky, though dusk isn’t quite over, so not all the stars have come out to shine just yet. A brazier blazing in the centre of the rooftop patio draws my attention first and foremost, surrounded by benches and four distinct forms: three ponies, one human.

My entrance hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“Fleetybee!” the group calls out in unison, though his soars above the rest. And then they share a laugh at how predictable the greeting had become.

I look down for a moment as I smile, instinctively shy to be welcomed at such a small gathering. Even with friends, it can’t be helped.

“We were wondering when you’d show up.” Philip waves me closer, a grin on his face and a glass bottle of juice in his other hand — mango, banana and pear, judging by the label. Even on an occasion such as this, he’s denying himself the pleasures of a proper drink. Typical. “Come, sit, share my fire. We’ve much to discuss on this hallowed night.”

And then there’s his spontaneity shining through. I stroll onward, leaving behind the wooden pillars of the undercover area, cross onto the artificial lawn marking the firepit zone, and take my place on the circular bench, setting my saddlebags at my rear hooves. The world seems to darken in the warm glow of the flames, and what’s illuminated can’t decide whether it wants to be orange or yellow.

Phalanx, Brave and Ironside, now opting for more pedestrian clothing in lieu of their armour, have already laid claim to their own spots. Together, we form a fairly symmetrical line-up: the human in the centre, two stallions on either side, and both girls on either end. A collection of tinted bottles lie in a cooler full of ice behind Philip; beer, mixers, a flask of champagne, whatever takes your fancy. The guards have some in their hooves, half-empty.

Woodsmoke and salt, and the raw heat of the fire; that’s what I smell now. And maybe the faint hint of cologne — Ironside must’ve gussied himself up.

“Brave was about to head out and search for you,” Philip continues, gesturing to the mare, who nods and offers a light salute with her plastic cup of wine. She’s less physically imposing than the other earth pony downstairs, but for all the crap I give the Royal Guard, I’ll never deny their training is exemplary. “Phalanx thought you’d just drop in from the sky.”

“Even though that would be a clear violation of Fillydelphia’s airspace restrictions,” Ironside adds, angling his head toward me with an eyebrow raised in a gently warning look. His voice is gravelly, befitting a film set on the wild frontier; a stallion with no name. “Need I remind you of the last time you tried pulling that stunt around the local police.”

“What?” I playfully query, turning to him with a perfectly innocent smile. “Unlike you, I don’t keep track of every city’s legal differences down to the subsection.”

“Indeed. And you wonder why the Guard looks down on you Wonderbolt types.”

“Speak for yourself,” Phalanx chimes in, leaning forward just a tad to gain a better view. “You’re the one who didn’t make the cut.”

Ironside snaps back to him, wings ruffling in place. “If you think I still hold a grudge from being rejected, soldier, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Then don’t bring profession into it.”

“I’m only saying, as representatives of Equestria, we should all be expected to—”

“Okay, okay, enough with the histories and rivalries and who’s taking what far too personally,” Philip declares with a wave and a chuckle. “We’re gathered here to stroke my ego, thank you very much. And seeing as I’m the dungeon master, and all my little pawns have found their way to me, I think I can safely say this party has officially started.”

Brave tilts her head to the sky and howls.

“That’s the spirit!” He pulls out his phone, activates the screen, and then hovers his finger over a button of some kind — I can’t quite see at this angle. “But if I may, let’s hone that excitement into something slightly more lowkey.”

I snort. “Like what?”

“Like this.” He taps the screen, and then from all four corners of the patio, music plays: a trill of the piano, followed by a harmonica.

Billy Joel’s Piano Man.

I narrow my eyes and slowly turn from peering off into the dark back toward him.

That shit-eating grin is plastered on his face again — the kind I love but hate but can’t get enough of, perhaps because seeing him smile was so rare once upon a time. But also perhaps because I just like seeing him happy, even at my expense. “Humour me,” he says, shrugging.

What would the you from a year ago think?

Doesn’t matter. She isn’t here anymore. So, I smile, I roll my eyes, and I sing along.

---

“So, none of you have ever once considered pursuing any other career?”

“Nope.”

“Not really.”

“No, sir.”

Philip glances between all three guards curiously, bordering disbelief. The glinting reflection of the fire in his eyes is barely noticeable. “So, this business of finding your destiny and everything, it really is more or less preordained?”

“By what?” Brave asks, finishing her third cup for the night.

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Your parents named you, and your name pretty much always matches the occupation you seem to be best at, so does that mean… your parents literally determine your fate? Or do they have some weird power of foresight? Or… I don’t know. Does all of this cutie mark stuff happen by pure, highly improbable, extremely unlikely, basically zero-to-one chance?”

There’s a silence as the other guests share looks amongst themselves, Ironside slowly opening and closing his mouth as he tries and fails to offer an explanation.

I can’t blame him; I don’t have the foggiest on how to respond either.

“This boy’s asking the real questions,” Phalanx muses, levitating his glass and taking a sip. “Pretty deep stuff, and you’re not even off your head.”

Philip blinks. “None of you know?”

“Why would we?” Brave shrugs vacantly. “It’s just… something you accept as fact and don’t really think about — if nopony else does, why should you? Of course, if you come from another world where none of this happens, that grants you an entirely different perspective on things. I imagine it’s far simpler when you don’t have to worry about magic messing up your physics.”

“You don’t understand the science of magic either?”

“Science,” Phalanx scoffs. “Not much of that to it. Magic is a fickle instrument; so many different kinds, all related in a way, but never being consistent. Hoof magic is different to pegasus magic, which is different to unicorn magic, which is different to earth pony magic, and so on and so forth ad infinitum. Just when you think you have it figured out, you find an exception to the rule, and then several, until the rule may as well be Swiss cheese.”

Philip pauses, then sits up and folds his arms, staring into the fire, bemused. “Well then, that’s vexing.”

“Tell that to the scholars. I know quite a few have spent their whole lives coming up with a flawless set of laws, only to fail, and then become depressing poets in their twilight years.”

He huffs a laugh. “My world has those types too,” he says, peering over to Phalanx. But then a look of recognition crosses his face and he turns to his left, pointing at me. “Oh, that’s another one, Fleetybee: Swiss cheese.”

My ear twitches and I raise an eyebrow, confused for a moment, but then I realise our game of similarities hadn’t really ended. “You have that over there too?”

“Yep. Named after a country called Switzerland — famed for its mountainous terrain, staying neutral through two world wars, and being exceptionally rich.”

“World wars?”

“Indeed. With casualties in the tens of millions, most of which were civilians.” He reaches behind him and grabs a bottle of apple and black currant, twisting the lid. “This world’s history may not be as objectively interesting as mine, Fleet, but sometimes, I envy that.”

He didn’t say it in a sad manner, but it comes off that way. Last time I checked, Equestria was the most populated country in the known world, just breaching the forty million mark. So, to imagine more than half that number gone… and then imagine the world taking a similar hit…

“Sounds like the diamond dogs before their collapse,” Ironside ponders aloud, watching the fire. “This Swiss cheese place, I mean. The dogs kept to themselves, making their burrows and mines under the mountains, hoarding all the wealth they could find. But in the end, it was their own greed that led to infighting, and they’ve been scattered as a people ever since.”

Philip raises an eyebrow. “What’s got you so histrionic?”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Phalanx says, rolling his eyes. “He just likes rambling whenever he thinks there’s some moral lesson to be had.”

“There’s nothing wrong in learning from past mistakes, even if they aren’t your own,” Ironside defends, peering across to his fellow guard. And then he looks to Philip. “As a fellow history buff, I’m sure you’d agree.”

“Sure, sure.” Philip bobs his head from side to side. “But I don’t think Switzerland was at any risk of collapsing when I left home, let alone the whole of Europe. In fact, humanity was living in its most peaceful age in the last twelve thousand years — it just didn’t seem that way because we had more widespread news coverage.”

Brave baulks. “Twelve thousand years?”

He smirks. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

She blinks, and then shakes her head. “No, not… terribly hard. It’s just… strange, I guess. I mean, to have records that date as far back as… well…”

“Records? No.” He lightly shakes his head and takes a small sip. “Archaeology: that’s the ticket. Twelve thousand years ago was when we started leading sedentary lifestyles, building villages and farms, and eventually temples and defences. You could argue that change is what led to us being so… prone to war, but without it, I don’t think society as a whole would’ve progressed as far as it has.”

“You’re thankful for your past?”

“Not thankful, just…” he drifts off, staring into the distance beyond the brazier with creased brows, slowly running the tip of his tongue along his teeth. And then he sighs and shrugs and lowers his gaze. “I don’t know. Things wouldn’t be the same if history happened any other way. People live, people die… people do great and terrible things. And if you go back in time and change the past, how do you know you’re not preventing us from landing on the moon?”

“The moon?” I ask incredulously. “Why would anypony want to go there?”

“Because we could,” he answers plainly, smiling again. “And also so the US could claim they won the space race, when the Soviets made all the big leaps.”

“Careful with the info dumps, Philip.” Phalanx gently waves a calming hoof. “Small doses, remember? Or else you may as well be talking to a brick wall.”

“Trust me, you don’t want me to elaborate.” Philip chuckles and shakes his head, lifting his bottle for another sip. “The Cold War is just plain depressing.”

Brave leans forward a little way and looks at him in morbid curiosity. “Stars above, how many wars have there been over there?”

“In twelve thousand years?” He shrugs. “Hundreds. Thousands. Plenty more undocumented, I’m sure, and all of them unnecessary. But at the same time… practically unavoidable.”

Another silence. More glances.

I decide to break the peace. “How so?”

His expression has turned pensive; brows knitted together in a soft, thoughtful frown, lips pursed in that pout he does. Even when I know I should be concerned, there’s something about simply looking at him that grants me a feeling of ease. “I don’t believe in fate,” he says rather flatly, giving myself and the others a quick, blank glance. “Not in the strictest sense. We’re programmed from birth to be more or less likely to do something, but the world affects us as much as we affect it. You can stack the odds all you like, but nothing’s one hundred percent guaranteed.”

A longer silence. I get the feeling either myself or one of the guards should speak up, perhaps, to maybe change to subject, but none of us do. I guess because we’re all too curious for our own good.

“At least, that’s how it was in my world; science can make sense of stuff, but really, everything happens by chance. No rhyme or reason to any of it. Here, though… who knows? Maybe coming here was my destiny all along.”

A pit opens up in my stomach. I didn’t need to hear that. I don’t need that guilt weighing on me now. Not when this is supposed to be a happy night.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ironside soothes as best he can in a voice as gruff as his. “As Phalanx said, magic can be fickle at times. Some have even claimed it has a consciousness of sorts, seeing as ‘dark’ magic can trap its users in a state of psychosis. Nightmare Moon and King Sombra were both obsessed with darkness, after all.”

Phalanx groans and sinks his head into waiting hooves. “Again with the history lessons.”

“Princess Twilight Lite,” remarks Brave.

Ironside gives them both an unimpressed look, but drinks his whiskey without comment.

I keep my mouth shut.

Philip peers up at all four of us, assessing us from behind his reserved, stoic mask. And then he stares blankly at the ashtray beneath the brazier. “An exile by fate, or an exile by chance,” he murmurs to nopony in particular. “Which is the lesser of two evils, I wonder?”

My teeth clench and grind and I look away, hunching forward a little way and folding my forelegs in my lap, trying my best to keep my wings at my side and ears from sinking too far down.

Tell him.

Not now.

Then when?

I don’t know, but not now. Not with others around. Besides, what good would telling him that do? It won’t make things better.

Maybe not, but it’ll help clear your conscience.

Oh, great, so now I’m putting my own interests above his.

It’ll have to happen at some point if you want to keep seeing him without guilt. You can only put it off for so long. You know this.

“Let’s not focus on the hows and whys,” Phalanx says in a careful, pacifying tone, nudging Philip’s elbow, clearly picking up on the awkward air. “You’re here. You’re alive. And schmaltziness aside, I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re glad to have met you.”

“It’s true,” Ironside assures, tipping his head toward him in a gentle nod.

“I know I am, sir,” Brave agrees with a salute of her glass.

I look up cautiously, but try to appear neutral. That becomes difficult when all three guards soon take notice and turn their attention my way, and one by one share knowing glances among themselves, varying in degrees of cunning. And when Philip joins them, even if his gaze remains rather dispassionate, it becomes all the harder — the weights in my stomach and on shoulders grow heavier.

“And I think we all know who’s welcomed your arrival the most,” Phalanx says, returning to him, teetering on a knife’s edge with the definition of teasing. “Really, Philip, I don’t believe anypony regrets meeting you. Even those you… aren’t too keen on meeting again yourself. Whatever happened, whether it was destiny or an accident, it doesn’t matter; you’re here now and we’re here for you. Isn’t that right, guys?”

“Aye.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sure,” I whisper to myself.

“See?” Phalanx continues. “You’re a gift to us all, Philip. At this point, I don’t think any of us can imagine life without you. And on that note, I think it’s time for—”

“Presents!” Brave excitedly announces, flinging her forehooves in the air, lucky she’d already emptied her cup. She sets it down, leans back, and pulls out a canvas sack from behind the bench, which she lays in her lap and fumbles through the folds for the opening. The alcohol is probably making it harder than it needs to be.

Philip sits upright, glancing between the two other guards only to see them looking back at him, Ironside with esteem and Phalanx with enthusiasm. Instead, he turns to me with a quizzical eyebrow raised.

I shrug and shake my head; I’m as clueless as he is.

“Ah, here we go.” Brave finds the cords and tugs them loose, then shimmies the lip of the sack down to reveal something made of rounded metal.

Philip gasps, a hand rising in an instinctive attempt to cover his mouth, though it doesn’t reach that far. “You didn’t…”

“Mm-hmm, we did.” She pulls out the object and lets the sack slide to the floor; a bronze helmet, close to the colour of gold. It isn’t shaped for a pony, that much is clear, and it doesn’t appear to be styled the same as any armour issued by the Royal Guard, which means this was made as a commission — a custom order.

It has plume of black and white, standing tall as a zebra’s mane would, two curved cheekpieces for adequate face protection, a small flap to cover the neck, and a short visor to shade the eyes from the sun — much easier when they’re as small as his. It’s polished and lustrous, but doesn’t bounce light like a mirror, as I know some guard prefer their armour.

“Got your measurements from the hatter when you needed a replacement, sent them up to a blacksmith friend in the Canterlot armoury.” She passes it down to Phalanx, who passes it on to Philip. “This baby didn’t come cheap, sir, but we hope you enjoy it.”

He stares at the helmet in utter amazement, almost as if he thought it were a mirage. “Guys,” he breathes, “this… just… Wow…”

“What, you think we’d skimp out on you?” Phalanx nudges his elbow again. “Happy birthday, you big goof. And go ahead, try it on. We didn’t order it just for you to gawk at.”

Philip looks at him and blinks in apparent disbelief, but soon returns to his present, reverently flips it over, then slowly bows his head and fits it onto its rightful place. He sits up once more and casts his gaze around the group, trying to keep his mouth straight, but there’s an ecstatic glint in his eyes, so obvious despite his face being framed in bronze.

I could almost say it suits him quite nicely. Almost. I’m not wooed easily, and I’m no sucker for a pony in military garb… but there’s something about this image I like, and I can’t put my hoof on it. His joy must be rubbing off on me, I suppose.

“Look at you, a wannabe general.” Brave claps. “Ready to lead us into battle now, sir?”

“Oh, girl, you know I would.” He looks to her and smiles, giving a light shake of the head. “But what would we do when there’s no more world to conquer?”

“You’re that good, are you, that the world wouldn’t be a challenge?”

“A challenge, yes. But with my brains and your brawn, how could we lose?”

“Oh, stop it, you.”

He shakes his head again. “You know I can’t do that, Brave. But seriously, thanks. Always wanted my own set of armour.”

“Then we’ll make it a yearly thing,” Phalanx proclaims. “One piece every birthday.”

Philip snorts. “I’ll have to wait a decade, then.”

“Indeed you may. But that’s not all we got you.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Ironside reaches into his sweater pocket — a homemade jersey, knitted by his husband for their anniversary, if memory serves me right — and slips out a small booklet, which he lays in Philip’s lap. “Compliments from the house.”

Philip looks down and picks it up, squinting and examining the cover closely. Then he flips through a few pages before peering across to Ironside. “A Lunar Bean coupon book…”

“Won’t last long, will it?”

I snicker.

His attention switches to me and he breaks out into another smile. “Oh, and I suppose you had something to do with this, didn’t you?”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “All them.”

“Well then, where’s your gift?”

He means it in jest, I know, but I feel a guilty pang in my stomach all the same, remembering what I’d brought; it could all go so very wrong, if I’d judged things incorrectly. “It’s here,” I assure, bending forward and patting my saddlebags. “I’m just biding my time, is all.”

“Oh, well, now you’ve got me curious.”

“Trust me, it’ll be worth the wait.”

If only I believed it myself.

“And wait it can,” Brave agrees, though not in a meanspirited way, reaching behind her once again for third present, which she passes down the line to Philip. What this one is, nopony can tell: it’s packaged in purple gift-wrap and topped with a red bow. “This isn’t from us, just to be clear.”

Philip quirks an eyebrow at her, but it only lasts a moment, undoing the satin lace that binds the parcel, then searching for and pulling apart the wrapping at the seams. And when he finishes and lets the patterned paper slide from his lap, what he’s left with is a book. A tome. A veritable encyclopaedia from a bygone era, judging by the golden accents down the spine and illuminated text on the front. “An Illustrated Exploration of Pre-Equestrian History,” he reads aloud, clearly in awe, “by King Orion of Timbucktu, first of his name, son of the noble house of Urania.”

My eyes widen, and so do the guards’.

“Ooh, buddy…” Phalanx murmurs, fixated on the book, “that’s… that’s something special right there. You’d better hold it tight and never let go.”

Philip looks to him. “Is it valuable?”

“Priceless,” Ironside answers reverently. “Timbucktu was a floating city, destroyed a thousand years ago by the changelings, and Orion was its last king. That book must be the only one of its kind in existence.”

Philip switches to him and continues to stare wide-eyed, but eventually returns to the tome in his hands. “Whoa.”

“Understatement of the century,” Brave says, holding back an awkward giggle.

He slowly nods, carefully reaching across and lifting the cover open, as if making too sudden a movement would turn the pages to dust. Firelight sparkles off the gold leaf, decorative fragments of ruby, sapphire and amethyst; even though it makes no sound, it echoes with age and the tender hoof of an artist in love with their work.

But then he stops, his brows crease, his lips curl into a soft pout, and he picks up a loose note from the first page. He takes a moment to read it, and then he doubles over and bursts out in silent laughter, slapping his knee with the edge of his palm. And just like that, the magic was gone.

“What?” Phalanx asks, as curious as he is bemused. “What did it say?”

Philip hands it over.

Phalanx lingers on him for a second or two, but accepts the offer and clears his throat, holding the note out for his eyes to adjust. “Dear Philip. Happy twenty-seventh. We figured you might still want some time to yourself, so we won’t be attending this year. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be there in spirit. We know from our time together you’re something of a history nut, so Twilight pulled a few strings. Unfortunately, the original is far too precious to give away, but I’ve done my best to copy it in all its glory. I hope you’ll have more fun reading than I did writing.

“Best wishes, Spike and Twilight.”

I blink, and eventually, one by one, our collective attention falls on Ironside.

He glances left and right. “What’re you looking at me for? You all got conned just as hard.”

“We have to pick on someone,” Philip replies, suppressing a chuckle. Barely. “May as well be Mister Goody Two-Shoes.”

Ironside’s eyes narrow. “Perhaps I should take those coupons back.”

“No.” Philip’s smile falls and he hugs both books protectively against his chest. “Mine.”

“Good. Then maybe we can forget this little mishap and continue the presentation.”

Phalanx sighs heavily and ignites his horn, floating a lone slip of glossy paper from his own pocket — an unzipped jacket revealing a buttoned-up flannel shirt stitched with flowers. “Always the party pooper, aren’t you, Ironside?”

“I party when it’s appropriate, thank you very much.”

“Except when you’re the butt of a joke.”

“You’re the butt of a joke.”

Philip turns and squints at Ironside. “Did you seriously just pull a ‘no, you’ on him?”

Ironside blinks. “I won’t pretend to know what that is, but since it’s coming from you, I’m going to assume it’s nothing good.”

Philip smirks. “Clever girl,” he hums, reaching out for the paper slip without looking, but only grabs thin air. After two more hurried but fruitless attempts, he takes a proper glance and snatches it from Phalanx’s magical aura. “So, what’s this?”

“Booth seating for next month’s Wonderbolt performance in Las Pegasus,” Phalanx responds coolly, as if he hadn’t almost snorted at the pitiful display of coordination. “Captain Spitfire delivered this personally. There wasn’t a card to go along with it, but she wanted us to make it abundantly clear that you’re allowed a plus one.”

My ear twitches, and I feel an anxious nerve pluck at my core.

Philip nods to himself, but slowly arcs his gaze toward me. “A plus one.”

Again, I try to stay as calm and neutral as possible. This might just be a friendly and completely innocent gesture, but if Spitfire’s playing matchmaker, that’s the last thing I need. I’ll sort things out in my own time — I don’t need assistance from anypony else.

“Well, since Fleetybee’s in the show, that disqualifies her.” He looks between the guards. “And you three would be coming anyway. So, I’m stuck for a date.”

That’s not entirely true; I could, if I wanted, ask to be replaced by Hurricane for the show, and Spitfire would explain I’d sprained a wing, or something like that. But I don’t speak up. I don’t think I’d mind watching the performance with him, and especially not when it’s just us together, but again, help isn’t wanted, help isn’t needed.

I am in control.

“Rude, sir,” Brave complains. “You make it sound like our company’s not good enough.”

“Oh, please, don’t get me wrong, my friend, you’re all the apples of my eye. But you forget, you can’t do your job properly if you’re chatting me up. No, if I were to use that plus one slot, it’d have to be with someone who doesn’t have to watch my back twenty-four-seven.”

“Bifröst.”

Philip turns to me once more and quirks an eyebrow. “What was that, Fleet?”

It came out quiet, and part of me resents the fact I’m letting such a blatant opportunity pass me by, but there’s only one pony I know I can vouch for. “Bifröst,” I repeat, looking at him directly. “My local courier. She drops off my mail often enough that we’ve had time to talk, and… I’m just saying she might be available. You know, if you really want to go with somepony.”

Just because I’m too proud to accept Spitfire’s invitation doesn’t mean he has to miss out on having somepony else there. And who knows? Maybe he and Bifröst would both find it a pleasant experience.

He pauses, then glances away. “Well, I mean… if you think she’ll be interested…”

“Don’t worry, she already has a boyfriend and they’re perfectly happy staying a couple.”

He blinks. “I, uh… didn’t mean it like that, Fleet.”

“Oh.” I lower my gaze and feel my ears do the same. “Well… at least you know, I guess.”

“Aw, look at that,” Phalanx gushes, putting a hoof to his heart. “She’s so hopeful.”

“For the last time, I’m not…!” I begin, snapping back to him, but the words escape me before I can say anything of substance. So, I sigh defeatedly and shake my head to the floor. “Just shut up.”

“Yes, let the Wonderbolt be,” Ironside placidly commands, looking at Phalanx and Brave as he does so, then returns to me with a composed, if somewhat sympathetic expression. “I’m sure she’s worried about being judged enough as it is.”

I give him a meek smile. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” He glances down. “But now, I think it’s your turn.”

I follow his gaze to my saddlebags, and the tightness in my chest returns. “You’ve given him all his presents, have you?”

“Bar one,” Brave answers, “but we’re saving that for lucky last.”

No use arguing. The longer I put it off, the more expectation there’ll be, and if I don’t meet those expectations… I don’t know what I’ll do. Leaving would be rude and show how thin my skin is, but staying would have its own awkward air — one I’d forever regret, because everything hadn’t been perfect. So, I sigh again, I nod to myself, and then I lean over and unbutton the flap carrying my present.

Philip’s face falls to disbelief once more — less enraptured than he’d been with the helmet and the book, but a look of awe all the same. “Is that… a—”

“A ukulele, yes,” I finish, pulling it out and holding it just above my lap, admiring the sprigs of holly and oak leaves painted on a cream-coloured, lacquer base. “I know you like stupid little things, so I… you know. I thought I’d get you one.”

“…Fleet, that… You really didn’t have to. I don’t even know how to play it.”

“That’s okay,” I quietly assure with a soft smile. “I’ll teach you.”

I can practically hear his jaw drop. “You… learned the ukulele?”

“As well as I’ve been able to, against my better judgement.” I take a deep breath to steel my nerves and turn my smile on him. “And I thought I’d baptise it with a stupid little thing of my own.”

“You wrote a song too?”

“Yeah.” I giggle, looking down to the ukulele once again. “I, uh… tried to, at least. I think it turned out alright, but I guess that’s up to you. I mean… if you want to hear it, that is.”

He blinks, taken somewhat aback, then sweeps a hand in a permissive gesture. “By all means, please do. Grace us with your musical prowess.”

Or what little of it I have.

Shut it. He’s given you permission, and you’ve been eager to let it out all night.

Eager? No, I’m not completely sure on that count. Anxious describes it better — I’ve been both excited for and dreading this moment over the past week, ever since I finished composing the damned thing. I’m happy with it. What he’ll think, however, is another matter entirely. I just hope I’m not overstepping my bounds, because unlike all the performances I’ve choreographed since he arrived, this song, I can safely say, was definitely inspired by him.

“Just a quick warning,” I anxiously murmur, “this gets… personal. Fast.”

“Hey, Fleet.”

My ears perk up and I look at him.

He watches me with a careful, caring, kind… comforting expression. And his smile… Even with the helmet on, I can’t get enough of it. “All the best songs are.”

…Stars above, he’s perfect.

You’ve found a good one.

That remains to be seen. And I won’t be getting any closer to an answer by gawking at him. So, I lower my gaze to the ukulele again, take another deep breath, and prepare the tune in my head. I imagine it’d sound better with a whole band backing me up, but the music on the speakers has faded out, so it’s just me, my hooves, and my voice. And so, I begin to play; a short introduction of strings to start it off… and then an ad lib repeat of the same chords while I gather my wits. But then, finally, I find the courage to sing.

The last note of the ukulele hangs in the air, and when I look up again, everypony’s eyes are wide and on me, as if they’re watching a flower petal lazily drift in slow, sweeping arcs to the floor. Of them, Philip seems the most… absorbed. It’s the closest word I can think of; he’s clearly aware I’ve caught him staring, but he doesn’t shy away, paralysed with… emotion.

That sounds rather vague and cheesy, I know, but that’s how it is; his mouth hangs ajar and his brows are lifted, like he’s seeing me for the first time again, but with far more feeling. His lower lip slowly curls up to form a response, however feeble, but nothing comes.

I gently press one rear hoof against the other as my whole body bubbles with warmth and anxious anticipation. I try to keep a brave face, but with so much attention on me after such a… frankly heartfelt performance, it isn’t easy. “So, uh… what do you think?”

Still, nothing comes. He seems to barely even notice I’ve spoken.

“That was… amazing,” Phalanx exclaims. “And you wrote all that yourself?”

I linger on Philip for a moment, but soon switch over to Phalanx and nod, if somewhat languidly. “Yeah, mostly me. I mean… Philip’s music library helped a bit, since all my junk isn’t terribly… well, sappy. And I hope this wasn’t too sappy either.”

“It wasn’t,” Brave remarks, shaking her head, still in something of a daze. “That was really beautiful, Fleetfoot. Truly.”

A heat rises in my cheeks. “Thanks.”

“No,” says Ironside. “Thank you. I might just be speaking for myself, but I wouldn’t mind hearing that on vinyl. In fact, if you ever decide to record it, my husband might be able to hook you up with somepony who owns a studio.”

I blink at him in surprise, then let out a breathless laugh. “Oh, I’m not much of a singer.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

I blink again, then laugh again, and then pass the ukulele down to him, which he sets on the bench between himself and Philip. “I guess that depends on what a certain somepony thinks I should do.”

“Yeah, you’ve been awfully quiet, sir,” Brave observes, leaning around Phalanx. “Care to share your thoughts with us, birthday boy?”

Philip returns to the present and looks at her askance. No feeling behind it, except maybe a hint of hesitation, but that might be imagination. I hope it is, at any rate. “Yeah, uh…” he drifts off, his gaze lowering to his shoes. And then he clears his throat and glances up at me. “It was good.”

The bubbling inside me stops, and I stop smiling. I can’t tell what he’s thinking exactly, but the shortness of his reply has me on edge, and my wings tuck in closer.

Another silence descends, each of the guards quickly realising this wasn’t the reaction they were hoping for, if they even knew what that was, none more so than Brave. “Well, uh… speaking of vinyl…” she murmurs, reaching behind her once more for yet another gift — the final one; an album of phonograph records. “This comes from somepony very special to us.”

Philip watches as it makes its way from her to Phalanx, and when it’s offered to him, he carefully sets both books on the ground alongside his mostly empty bottle of juice, then accepts the album. It’s a very unassuming cover: dark and sleek, with a crescent moon in the centre. “Moonlight Serenade,” he reads aloud. “A Compilation.”

“You don’t have to be a genius to figure out who it’s from,” Phalanx says, floating a card from his jacket’s other pocket — a very stately-looking thing styled in blues and blacks and purples, complete with illuminated borders. “I’ll let her do the talking, though.”

Philip stares at the card for a moment or two, clearly quite hesitant, and perhaps, in a certain light, unsettled. But eventually, he reaches out and takes the card between a thumb and a finger, examining the front with soft frown. He carefully unfolds it, and after another moment to appreciate the artistry on the inside for all its worth, he begins to read again.

“Dearest Felipe. Mere words cannot express in their entirety how deeply sorry we are for what we have done. No gift or apology can make right this wrong, or replace what has been taken. Perhaps the year is still too young, and we would be better off waiting for another moon, but however far you are from us, we cannot ignore you. You have grown precious to us. As such, we would be remiss if we neglected to offer a token of our appreciation on this most auspicious occasion; a personal album of all our favourite native singers and instrumentalists.

“This will not make amends for what we or our sister have done, but we trust it is a step in the right direction. Perhaps one day, we would have the honour of making your acquaintance once again. Perhaps, for as one Alexander the Mediocre said, nothing is impossible to those who will try. And we shall try, dearest Felipe, and we shall hope.

“May your stars shine bright, Luna and…”

We all know the name that follows, even without reading it ourselves, and its absence chills the air despite the fire, which has dwindled and begs for an extra log or three.

“You okay there, sir?” Brave asks restlessly.

Philip doesn’t respond; his frown has grown disapproving and his gaze has grown weary.

The guards share uneasy looks amongst themselves, no doubt coming to the conclusion that this, too, was a mistake — they’d let the princesses’ prerogative come before their own judgement. Rank has its place, but when it’s not in a position to make an informed decision, that’s when you delegate duties. This hadn’t happened, it seemed, or perhaps they’d handled things poorly in their weekly reports, and now it had come back to bite them in the butt.

“Yeah,” he finally answers, little more than a begrudging murmur, setting the card atop the album in his lap and rubbing his eyes. “Just… tired.”

A classic excuse: when you don’t know the cause, or know it but don’t want to say it, blame your frustration on not getting enough sleep. It says nothing specific, but tells everypony all they need to know, and the general solution is to just leave you be.

“Do you need some time alone?” Ironside asks plainly.

Philip sighs. “I think so.”

Ironside nods, then looks to comrades, and in a single, almost premeditated move, they rise as one and fall to their hooves, taking what personal possessions they came with. “We’ll be on the ground floor,” he says to him matter-of-factly as Brave and Phalanx step over the bench — Brave a little clumsier than she probably should be — and head for the stairway. When he turns to make his exit own, he stops before passing me by and gives me a judicious look. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything silly while we’re gone, alright?”

Already bemused by how three members of the Royal Guard were simply choosing to shirk their duty, I can only vacantly nod.

He bows his head in acknowledgement, then continues past me, stepping out of the firelight and following the other two down the staircase. The door closes behind him, and all that’s left to fill the void is the sizzle and pop of smouldering timbers, the cheering of the mob below, the distant chirp of some lonely cricket, and the lapping of waves of waves on the shore.

We’re alone. Really, truly alone, for the first time in ages. But as nice as knowing that is, I didn’t imagine it would happen like this.

Philip grows tired of having to mind the brim and cheekpieces, so he slides the helmet off, placing it beside him on the bench. He cradles his head in his palms — despairing, but not crying, taking deep, calming breaths as time slips by.

No use beating around the bush, I suppose. “Still not over it?”

“What do you think?” he retorts, frowning at me. But the second he does, he regrets it, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temples. “Sorry. But no, I’m not. At least, I thought I was, but then… then she has to…”

“Can you fault Luna for trying?”

“She’s not the one I have a problem with.” He looks at me properly, without hostility, only upturned brows and a heavy sense of exhaustion, as if he’s tired of being angry. “This was Luna’s gift, and I love it. But then she takes credit for her sister’s efforts. Her signature’s even in her handwriting.”

My eyelids lower. “Just say her name.”

“Fine. Celestia. She’s trying to weasel her way into forgiveness by piggybacking on Luna’s attempt, and that shit won’t fly with me.”

A fair call, but not an assumption I’m eager to share. Time for me to play Grogar’s advocate. “How do you know this wasn’t her idea too?”

“Don’t you think she’d be more tactful than to just put her name as an afterthought?”

“Perhaps.” I bob my head from side to side. “But if you’re having this much of a reaction to her, maybe it’s for the best that she didn’t go all-out. Like… maybe she’s testing the waters. Seeing what you’re comfortable with, or something like that.”

Philip doesn’t reply, staring at the ash heap under the brazier with the same expression.

“It doesn’t pay well to assume the worst of ponies all the time. I can’t say what Celestia’s like in person — you’d know more about that than I would — but she doesn’t strike me as… well… bad, or uncaring. She’s just trying to balance your wellbeing with the kingdom’s—”

“Fleetfoot,” he lifts a hand and shuts his eyes, head hanging with a soft sigh, “I know you mean well, but… can we please stop talking about this? It’s just making me feel worse.”

I pause, processing his words, then quietly return to sitting in an upright, if slightly hunched position, forelegs resting in my lap.

“Two birthdays,” he mumbles, watching the floor gloomily. “Almost a year and a half, and I’m no closer to going home. All because she…”

Still, I make no response. If he needs to rant, then so be it. He’s listened to mine before, and I’ve listened to his — the context doesn’t make things any different; whatever we are, whatever I want us to be, we’re still friends and always will be. And friends are there for each other no matter what.

He continues staring a short while longer, then shakes his head and returns to me with an earnest look in his eyes. “I’m just happy to have you, Fleetybee,” he murmurs with a soft smile, brows creased as if he were readying himself for battle, or a deeper confession. “I’m not sure how I feel about… this… but you’ve been the one good, consistently positive thing in my life since I got here. And I can’t be anything but thankful for that.”

It feels like a blade, jagged and scalding, has been shoved through my stomach and up into my chest. And my bleeding heart compels me to put an end to its suffering once and for all, for its sake, for my sake, and for his.

“Lucky you flew by when you did, or I’d be six feet under right about now.”

You know it’s the right thing to do.

But, oh, how much I hate doing it.

“If I hadn’t flown out there that day, Philip… I don’t think you’d be here.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, that Mazda had a five-star safety rating, but I don’t that would’ve counted for much from a mile-high drop.”

My ears lower as I close my eyes and slowly shake my head. “That’s not what I meant.”

He doesn’t reply, waiting for an explanation, no doubt more curious than anxious.

I open my eyes again and meet his gaze from behind upturned brows. “I brought you here.”

Nothing changes at first, and while I take some small measure of comfort in that, all good things come to an end; his eyes widen, his brows rise and his lips part, all in one slow shift from interest to shock. Not the fearful kind, or the offended kind, or anything of the like — just shock, in the muted way I’ve come to expect from him. If ever there comes a day when he loses his temper, or otherwise lacks his stoic disposition, that will be a sore day for every party involved.

“When the storms were going on — the magical storms, if you remember — I was taking some time off for myself, just flying on my own. I was listening to some music too, and… in the spur of the moment, I did a rainboom through a cloud. Next thing I knew… that cloud had turned into a vortex, and you…”

He slowly turns away, staring at the ash heap again, and the dagger in my chest twists.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Philip, I just thought…” My eyes suddenly feel a little wet. “I didn’t think… How was I supposed to know that—”

“Fleet,” he interrupts, lifting his hand once more, then puts both the ukulele and the record album on the floor alongside his other gifts. “Enough.”

Oh stars, he’s leaving, isn’t he? I messed up. I shouldn’t have said anything — I should’ve kept my big mouth shut and played it safe, pretending everything was fine. He didn’t really need to know, did he? Now I’ve said it aloud, it’s only going to cause bad blood between us, like him and Celestia. He’ll isolate me from his life just like he’s trying to with her! “Philip, I—”

“Come here.”

I stop. And then my ears perk up, and I blink back the tears, my head rising in surprise.

He turns to me and opens his arms, tears of his own in his eyes, but he doesn’t seem terribly sad; he’s keeping it restrained for both our sakes, and wears an unsteady smile. “Hold me,” he croaks, voice catching in the back of his throat on the last word.

I slide across and wrap my forelegs around him in an instant, head to his chest and squeezing tight, not daring to question where this is coming from.

An arm drapes itself over my back and lays a palm flat against my barrel. Another holds my neck close and runs its fingers through my mane. He bows and rests his chin on the back of my head, smelling my hair on an inward breath, and then letting a stuttered one out. And in. And out. And in. And out. “I love you, Fleet,” he whispers brokenly. “Not like that, but I love you so, so much.”

My own breathing suddenly becomes ragged, and I shut my eyes as I break out into a wide, blubbering grin. I needed to hear that. Sweet stars above, I needed to hear that. “I love you too.”

And we stay like this, holding each other close, trying as best we can to fight back the tears and use the other for comfort and warmth. He doesn’t smell of perfume or cologne — most of his natural scent is covered up by the smoke and embers of the fire, and the salt in the damp air from the ocean — but I don’t need to smell him to know he’s here, and he won’t be leaving me; I would never leave him.

Time slows. It feels like hours before we finally calm down, and even then, we refuse to part; it’s perfect, this little world of our own, so quiet and peaceful, lost in the embrace. I could stay like this until dawn, but there’s no way of knowing whether that would be long enough.

But eventually, he gently pats my neck, and I give him another squeeze before I pull away, sidling across the bench a few inches as I rub my eyes clean.

He does the same and coughs and clears his throat. “That was nice.”

“Yeah,” I quickly, quietly agree, teeth chattering behind my lips and wings quivering at my sides — leftover jitters from the gratifying feeling of catharsis. “My mum always says it’s nice to have a good cry every now and then. I don’t understand it, honestly… but I think that’s as close as I’ll ever get.”

He huffs. “Sounds like quite the woman. Well, mare, or… You get the picture.”

“Sure.” I nod. “So… what now?”

He pauses, gazing into my eyes for a moment with a subdued smile, then looks down and pulls out his phone once again. He lights up the screen, scrolls through the list, selects an artist, and album, a song, and in an instant, the speakers are once again sparked to life, gracing the night air with the careful caress of acoustic guitars.

“Pink Floyd?”

“Wot’s… Uh the Deal,” he clarifies, stowing his phone away again and reaching behind him for the cooler. “Always gets me in a good mood, their early works. Between this and Fearless, I don’t know which song is my favourite.”

I smile at him and sigh wistfully. “You’re the kind of pony who wants to walk with a beat in their head everywhere they go, aren’t you?”

“Indubitably,” he replies, swinging back around with two beer bottles. He twists of caps off both and hands one to me, then lifts his and smirks. “Now, what say we get shitfaced?”

I snort, and surprisingly, I don’t feel the urge to roll my eyes. “Sure,” I happily agree, then clink my glass against his and raise it to my lips. “I’ll drink to that.”

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