literature

Ordinal Stars

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Spike found himself in a familiar position. He was abandoned, in the corner, and expected to be on his best behavior.  There had been explicit instruction to be "the best baby dragon in a baby blue suit in this whole great big awesome gala" from a certain purple unicorn.  The laughter itched like his ridiculous suit.  The patronization dripping from "great" and "big" made Spike's skin crawl under a frilly gala wig.

Spike desperately wished the punch was mixed with fire-brandy.  It was not.  

Failing having good punch, Spike needed some air for the itchy wig and rising displeasure.  The small dragon struck out for the grand balcony's impossibly high French doors.  At the doorway, well-coiffed gentlecolts were plying their charm, hoping to court any comparably well-coiffed filly.  Spike managed to scrape past a few young colts and through the double doors, nearly tasting the cologne.

The balcony was large enough to host a minor soiree, but there was hardly a soul to be seen.  It was silent but for the wind, which caught noise from the hall.  Most of it was light speculation about the traditions surrounding the gala, and this nice little chalet I've rented rooms for the week just for the occasion.  Spike could nearly hear the frail smiles.

The balcony's slight breeze was cool and crisp, carrying away the chaffing under Spike's clothes.  It also did not smell heavily of perfume and dom peignoir. The darkness equalized all scales and errant spikes and ill-fitting pantsuits …

Spike tore away the powdered wig and raked up his scales. His tiny frame leaned deep between the balcony columns.  He tried to find consolation in the turning of the stars; it felt better than muttering to himself about dumb rich stupid attractive ponies.

The stars were in full display that Luna's night.  All the northern hemisphere's constellations were crisp that night; Spike's slitted eyes picked them out singly and in tandem with one another.  There was Canis, there was horribulus equus, there was the bandied girdle …

The heavens were equal-opportunity humblers. The stars and their rhythm weren't taller per say than Spike unlike certain ponies he could mention; they were taller than the very world.  There was no shape of a mane or the shimmer of a scale.  They were Beauty, capital-B.

"You, boy," came a rattle from the shadows.  There was a old smoky edge to it, as if a cigar box had learned to speak.

Spike turned around in a panic.  He prayed he hadn't broken another one of those dumb rules of decorum Twilight had been spouting about; he'd get such a terrible lecture later, he could nearly feel the condescension now -

There was a looming shape in the shadows gathered near a far wall.  The great red beast was huddled on himself, great tan belly dwarfing the tallest stallion in the land.  It was strange to see anypony - anyone - without a formal dress at the Gala, regardless of size.  

Spike supposed any number of cotton fields or sheep would have to die to garb those wide red scaly shoulders, but the many golden necklaces and slate-gray chain-mail spoke of haute fashion.  As with any proper aesthetic, to Spike's mind anyway, it accentuated claws and teeth and two inscrutable reptile eyes.

To wit, he was a dragon.  A full-grown dragon, with brilliant scarlet scales and a jet black beard, holding his claws proudly and with grace.  He was a dragon, standing in plain sight at the height of an Equestrian ball, and Spike somehow hadn't seen him coming or going.  There was … something in those amber-orange eyes.  They were puzzled and detached, very nearly glowing fire-red in the borrowed light from the hall.

Hidden half-shaded to the dragon's left was a cart-sized hookah, burning a fair bushel of tobacco.  It lent the cool night air the smell of burning applewood, with a - surprisingly pleasant - tinge of smoldering leaves.  A few pony-sized hoses snaked away from the stoker.  Spike couldn't help but notice the cart's steep roof barely reached the red one's hips.

"You, small one," the red hulk rumbled again.  It came out thin and private, but as loud as expected of a fire-breathing giant.  To Spike's amazement, one on the balcony seemed to have heard it.

"Y-yes?"

"You have pony friends,  yes?"

"Yeah, I do," Spike bit off quickly, "But what's your name-"

"You can call me The Red One," came neatly clipped.  "So you have pony friends …" the dragon rolled off his tongue, sounding amused.

"It's why I'm here," Spike spat sternly, taking his punch from one paw to the next.  The Red One sounded awfully amused at a private joke, and Spike didn't feel too swell being the butt of it.

"Mmm, yes, you have acquaintances," a puff of smoke rolled from shadow into night. There was a pregnant pause.  "But do you have friends?"

"Sure, I have my friends from Ponyville. I help Twilight Sparkle learn about the magic of friendship!"  Spike wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but he liked where it'd gone so far.  Namely there were two dragons involved.

"Mmm.  Much like a pony need a dragon to learn," another deep engine-backfire chuckle.  A claw twisted at a dial on the cart, and the pufft-pufft noises grew more insistent.

"You don't know what she does-"

"Don't I?  I was introduced.  Her studies are quite favored in the royal court.  Miss Sparkle is a fine girl, but she does not seem the kind to pick up their own books or clean up their own messes," a puff, eyes rolling to Spike appraisingly, "And you do those things for her.  Because that is what friends do?" Red One mused, chewing idly at the valve stem with glorious fangs.

Spike was already growing tired of the admonishment.  He felt his punch glass squeak slightly between his claws.

"How did you know--"  Spike stopped short.  He'd smelled something.  The rolling fire had a tinge of something beneath it.  It was like tasting a color.  It was familiar.

Spike's eyes squinted to better see the pipework cart.  The fire had no wood and was puttering away quite merrily.

It was magic.  There was no hint of unicorn horn flicker-flame or breathy incantations or the slightest whuff of dragon fire.  It was simple burning-magic, there and boiling away in a persistent cataclysmic alchemical reaction Twilight couldn't muster for some thirty seconds.

"How can you do that-" Spike stammered.

"The fire?  Good Lord, don't you know proper fire magic?" Red one puzzled, head swiveling.  Spike had never experienced a gaze that large in physical size.

He had neither experienced one so sad.  He had opened his mouth to say something smart, but in the face of that earnest disappointment ...

"N-no.  I'm not really a student, I just help Twilight with sparring and magical construction," Spike sputtered, lapsing into silence.  He felt his legs cross and his body draw itself small in the sky-blue tux.

The Red One frowned deeply.  It was the particular frown for those annoyed at Spike for not doing properly.  Those frowns came just before a shower of chastisement.  Spike shut his eyes tight, muscle memory quite strong in the face of Twilight's many speeches.  Tiny knees buckled just a little, as they often did in the Library back home.

"Little one," came very evenly.  It was the sound of an old oak barrel speaking tenderly to a young child.  "I should not expect that from someone who is just beginning."

The little purple dragon opened his eyes, awash with relief.

"The friendship of magic is strong.  But we have many magics beneath these scales, little one," Red One rumbled, doubling down.  His face was at the balcony floor, large snout nearly breathing Spike. His breath came in gusts of warm air of smoke, magic and basil and tobacco.  He semeed to be weighing a choice very carefully.  At length he mumbled half-to-himself, "And you need to hear of that."

Rising to his haunches again, the dragon pointed skyward, "I have seen the shape of stars bend before me.  They will do so long after me.  You see their magic?  It is in their movements.  You see my magic?" A red claw gestured to the cart's fire, "It comes from my past.  Let me tell you of my past."

Any other time, this stranger would receive an earful on how Twilight and his friends really were and how dare you tell me about how to live my life-

But instead Spike's gaze held firm. Spike decided to listen.

The stranger spoke of the apple orchards with which he'd grown 300 years ago in a fertile valley when he was much younger.  He spoke of the smoke rising from the steeple of Princess' vizier 130 summers ago, less so if you counted it was Wintermas time.  The red creature rumbled and rumbled and spoke on.

There were stories of the sound-magic of tribes Red One discovered on the farthest plains with strange stripes.  There were stories of the cold fresh waters of a strong coursing river with giant rats on its banks, large as cows.  There was the beauty of the summer dawn over Canterlot in the wake of civil action 200 years ago, golden light stripping away pain and tears.  Those strange orange eyes, watery from the smoke and memory - those eyes had seen everything.

The occasional pony trotted to the cart to take a few draws and enjoy the night air, talking amongst themselves.  It was always light conversation, drawing on the present or soon-to-come.  They listened half-way and went back in, marvelling at the sight of two domesticated dragons, "How funny darling, isn't that precious ..."

Spike hardly noticed the ponies; his eyes and ears were only for Red One.

A great red claw pointed to certain constellations, calling Equus Nobilis jah'ral sengal, Red One never quite explaining what languaged he used.  With a broad sweep of his claw, the very stars seemed to shimmer and change back to the way Red One remembered them on a mountain cliff as a pup.  He recounted the brave stunts pulled as an adolescent Belshorn valley to the West, the courting of a female.  Spike couldn't tell in the dark, but he could swear there were tears ...

The wheel of stars turned.

Spike's punch had run dry long before a surprisingly riveting tale discussing a treaty between unicorns and pegasi 400 years ago, or so Red One had been told by his father-

Chimes inside noted the beginning of the Beryl Coronet dance.  It would be poor etiquete not to attend.  Remembering himself at some two stories tall, Red One began to push his cart toward the door, "It was good to remember, little one.  I must be going."

Spike ran after him, little legs barely keeping pace, "W-wait!  Your stories!  They're amazing!  I want to hear more!"

Red One stopped short.  He had the appearance of a very well-to-do hill.

"You will hear stories.  You simply have to make your own, as I have, little one."

"But I need a dragon in my life!"  Spike shouted, arms flung to the sky, grasping for the stranger and his stories and the wild strange magic and the strange little cart.  The piping shout drew the attention of several ponies in the doorway.

Red One chuckled softly, the sound of a great laughing tiger.  He threw his great snout over a shoulder.  His red pebbly scales looked strange against the clear yellow light pouring out of the hall. He fixed Spike in the strangest gaze …

"I think you have one," the red tall one chuckled, "It is you."

"How can you say that," Spike huffed, arms buffering about, throwing a loose button into the darkness, "I didn't say a word!  I just listened and thought it was amazing!"

"And you will remember?"

"Of course!"  Spike bellowed into the night.

Two pebbly lips vaulted into a smile.

"So you are a dragon after all …" Red One murmured, pushing his cart along into the light and grace and champagne of a thousand silly colts and fillies.

With an uncanny ease, the huge red dragon passed through the double doors, pushing the cart before him.  Ponies traipsed around the strange red shape in their midst, barely glancing up.  Was it a food cart?  Was it a tray of hot sandwiches?  They didn't know or particularly care.  Before long, the cavernous hall and its banners and bright lights swallowed any sight of Red One.

Spike stood on the balcony, wig in hand, staring blankly at the last patch of wall he'd seen the red scales clash against.  Without the cart and without the mountainous fire-breather, the balcony was growing quite cold in late evening.  He felt a shudder.  Surely it was from the chill.

The stars wheeled above.

Spike didn't feel like going back into the sound and expectations.  He wanted to stay out and recapture the magic he'd just felt.  He convinced himself he wasn't pouting.  But yet after a time the cold grew unbearably cold for thin costume dress.  The stars were beautiful, but they didn't have the same effect as cheery ballroom fireplaces and bubbly champagne.  Spike eyed a champagne cart puttering along inside.

Spike waddled sadly to the door.  Speaking with a wise old dragon, even one so mercurial, had been wonderful.  Now it was back to that sea of lords and ladies who didn't pay him attention at all.  He sighed deeply and reached for the handle.

Just before grasping, he stopped.  Suddenly he saw the door, the hall, the gala, everything through a stranger's bright orange eyes.  How many times did Spike have the opportunity to make a name for himself, to do amazing feats, to be a person worth telling stories about - only to shy in the corner?  How many stories had he been a part of, and not been the focus of?  How many more chances would he get?

How many had Red One missed and desperately wished he hadn't?

Standing there, Spike knew it was a cusp of possibility. Throwing aside the silly wig onto the marble, he raked up his head-scales, proud and shining.  He popped the remaining buttons and shucked his pants, letting his dragon paws pad on cold stone.  Opening the door, he held his tiny frame tall.

Spike looked at the stars once again.  They sang to him, silent and strong.

He entered the din.  With a swoosh of a door and a crooked smile, Spike began his own story.

It began with a flourish.  He shot upwards a four-foot jet of pale green flame, stirring the crowd piling up by the door.  The burst of light and heat elicited shouts and laughter and whoops of excitement.  There was no need to squeeze past; every pony on the far end of the hall made room with smiles, nervous and otherwise.  He spied a few groups coming over to speak with him, or at least see what was going on.

For once, Spike felt like someone worth telling a story about.  The strength of his own story grew warm and full in his mind.  He planned on dancing, singing, and speaking to others as a student and gentledragon.  The night would take him places.  After all, it already had brought him a clear view of beautiful stars and the remembrances of a new friend.

Strutting his way through the suddenly adoring crowd to the nearest drink cart, Spike licked his flame-dry lips.

A cream-colored young filly with long tresses (not unlike those of a certain dressmaker …) and a flowing blue dress started ambling beside him, bubbling gently, "Are you a dragon? That is so fascinating."

Spike grinned, grasping a flute, "Hells yeah I'm a dragon."
The night of the Gala, Spike tries to find some consolation in the stars, only to find it in another guest.

(Normal, oneshot.)
© 2011 - 2024 Yamathan
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gruntcrazy's avatar
awesome! this fandom needs more spike fanfics, hes pretty awesome