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Organised by
RogerDodger
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2000–8000
Sabbatical
The door to Short Line’s office burst open to reveal a livid pegasus mare.
“Transferred?” she demanded. Her wings were spread wide, ears folded back, and he swore there was smoke curling from her mane. “What kind of ponyfeathers is this, me being transferred!”
Short Line plastered a vapid smile on his face. He wouldn’t break; not to her. “Captain Spitfire,” he said, gesturing amicably, “please, come in. Is there something my office can help you with today?”
Spitfire marched up to him and leaned over the desk. “Me. Crystal Empire. Explain. Now.”
“A-ah, that business, is it?” The quaver in his voice was well hidden. “Not so much a transfer as, well, a sabbatical. Mandated from on high, I’m afraid. Every member of the Wonderbolts, captain included, is required to take a minimum number of days of leave.”
“I just took mine…. Well, only a few months—”
“Seventeen months ago.”
“It was not!” Spitfire pulled away with a huff and began pacing. “I remember, there was… no, that dragon business was after… when was Fillydelphia…? Look, it was not that long ago. I’d know.”
“Yes, you did ignore the leave summons over Hearth’s Warming. Stood up a most welcoming seaside cruise, you did.”
“There’s nothing to do on a seaside cruise! They’d tie me down on a chair somewhere and make me read a book! Or drink lemonade! Or make me play some kind of non-contact sport!”
Carefully enunciating every syllable, Short Line explained, “I understand that is rather the point.”
She glowered at him. Finally, she said, “You can’t make me.”
“I,” he said, stretching the word, “don’t have to. You’re going to the Crystal Kingdom on the first train tomorrow. Canterlot central, oh-nine thirty hours. This comes from Her Majesty herself.”
Spitfire paled. “Princess Celestia… ordered me away…”
“Look on the bright side. Three days and you’ll be right back where you want to be, fit as a fiddle and as just as high-strung, I’m sure.”
The train ride was Tartarus. Confined spaces. Unnatural noises. Foals. Fans.
Fans were the worst. There was always one who could pick her out even without the uniform. The older ones she could usually wave off. ‘I’m sorry, you must have me confused with somepony else,’ or, ‘you know, I get that all the time.’ When that failed, there was the autograph and canned pep-talk; she was good at those, too. But sometimes, there was that one fan who wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t approach, but neither would they go away or stop gawking. Having someone she could see out of the corner of her eye, perpetually just there, watching her, and wouldn’t come up to her and let things drop… well, it put a huge damper on her ability to sulk properly.
After a half hour, Spitfire finally got to her hooves and walked towards the little colt—why was it always the colts who were shy—but he ducked behind the separator. When she made it to the end of the carriage, he was nowhere to be seen.
She muttered disfavorably under her breath and started back towards her seat.
“You said a bad word.”
Spitfire tripped, spinning to find the speaker.
A young fuschia filly with her nose buried in a health magazine flicked her eyes towards her. “Mommy wouldn’t want him hearing that kind of language.”
Spitfire scrunched up her nose. “Is that your brother who keeps staring at me, then?”
“Yeah.” The filly turned a page. “Says you’re some kinda Wonderbolt.”
“And what do you think?”
The filly gave her a once-over. “Kinda thin.”
“I will have you know that I am the perfect—” She caught herself and took a deep breath.
The filly shrugged. “Just saying.”
Spitfire chewed her words for a minute before storming back to her bench.
After a few minutes, she noticed that those drooling eyes were watching her again.
The train ride to the Crystal Kingdom was absolute Tartarus.
Like a boat parting a fogbank, two crystal-pony guards appeared on the platform.
“Captain Spitfire? I am Lieutenant Ruby and this is Lieutenant Ruby. Welcome to the Crystal Kingdom.”
Spitfire glowered at them, as if they bore the full responsibility for her displeasure. “Don’t you threaten me.”
Ruby and Ruby shared an uncertain glance. “If you would please follow us, ma’am, we will escort you to your lodgings.”
She fell into step between the two, but couldn’t resist the urge to ask, “And if I don’t ‘follow you’? What then?”
The other Ruby answered, “We are not at liberty to say, ma’am.”
“Of course not. Am I going to be hearing that phrase a lot while I’m here?”
“We are not at liberty to say.”
“Welcome to the Salt Mines! Every luxury for the luxurious mare! Our facilities hold host to the original Imperial banya, forty schools of massage, eighteen mud baths tubs of pure sapphire, an Equestria Games-sized swimming pool, five magma-heated indoor springs, five magma-heated outdoor springs, and a royal catering kitchen that serves three hundred twelve different flavors of ice cream.”
“Ice cream,” Spitfire parroted.
“Please remember, there is to be no running in the Mines. There is to be no yelling in the Mines. No pets are allowed in the Mines, including birds and salamanders. There is no flying allowed in any of the Mines rooms or halls. There is to be no bowing on the part of the guests to each other or the unremoved statues of Sombra lining the halls. Live sacrifices to the unremoved statues of Sombra will not make you immortal. Smiling is highly recommended. Swimming is allowed only in the pools, and is strictly forbidden in the springs and mud baths. Small talk, gossip, chit-chat, and other forms of tittering among guests is welcome and encouraged.
“Once again, welcome to the Salt Mines, and we hope you enjoy your stay. Do you have any questions before we begin your first session?”
“Did you all practice this for days, or is there some curse that makes all five of you talk in perfect synchronicity?”
All five of the mares laughed. The crystal unicorn took a step forward and addressed the others. “Right, then. Ruby Hooves, see to this mare’s wings. Ruby Hooves, make her mane and tail radiant. Ruby Hooves… Ruby Hooves?”
“H-here, m’lady.”
“Ah! Prepare the mineral soak and the rollers. Finally, Ruby Hooves, fetch a collection of mixed fruit for our guest’s delight.”
As one, the hoofmaids answered, “Yes, Headmistress Ruby,” and set off to their appointed tasks.
It was barely afternoon and Spitfire was already dead. She was still breathing, of course; still twitching, still growling, moaning, fuming, and all the other business associated with receiving forty forms of massage, but as near to dead as anypony could be.
Every day of her working life, Spitfire relied on her body. She knew and loved her body, much in the same way that a blacksmith knew and loved an anvil: beat it senseless over and over to get the things you want, and if it breaks the game’s over. Her muscles were taut and hard, rigid and powerful. When she wanted her body to do something, by Celestia it did it regardless of whatever it may have wanted instead at the time.
Accordingly, her body, specifically her muscles, had largely adopted the policy of keeping quiet about any problems until they became severe enough that things would start going wrong. A sprained joint, Spitfire would know about it. A torn ligament, you bet your life she’d feel it. Dead weight from unrelenting weeks of Wonderbolt Ace-level performance and training, however, went perpetually unnoticed. But, when given cue by no fewer than four sets of hooves, those same muscles wasted no time in filing abuse complaints.
All six of Spitfire’s limbs, and a great deal of the rest of her, had turned into a colloidal morass or indulgent suffering. Spitfire had long ceased paying any attention to the unending stream of questions being addressed to her by the five Rubys. If they paused with an upward inflection, Spitfire would offer an indistinct mumble. If a small piece of fruit or the edge of a glass of water was presented to her, she would chew or swallow appropriately… or, as best as she was able given her present state. So detatched, she planned in vivid detail exactly what she would do to them in terrible, terrible vengeance.
Spitfire lay in a sapphire bowl filled with mud and agony. The mildly warm liquid cradled her punished body, her mental social workers assigned to the cases caught in a turf war with her mental mafia attempting to keep the ingrates mute. If it weren’t for the pillow supporting her head, she thought she might slip into the pool and drown. She decided to call that ‘plan-B’.
There was the sound of hoofsteps and indistinct voices whispering. Then the pool shifted, stirring Spitfire into action. “Look, you’ve done quite enough for today.” Her intended sharp words came out as distressingly languid. “I don’t know how I’d manage it, but if you even touch me—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
Spitfire’s eyes shot open. There, still sinking into the pool with her, white towel wrapped around her bubblegum-pink mane, was the last pony she expected to see. “Princess Cadance?”
The princess chuckled brightly. “Welcome to the Crystal Kingdom. And, please, just Cadance is fine.” Spitfire began to shift. “No, no bowing. None of that here, remember?”
Spitfire managed a disgruntled hoof, but settled back into a more relaxed position. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Why do I need a reason to seek out company with an interesting pony? Life as a princess is hectic, and it’s important to get away from time to time.”
“That sounds pointedly familiar.”
Said as a tease, “They told me you were a grumpy one. Ruby?” One of the hoofmaids appeared and bowed low. “If you would, please find a small serving of double-chocolate hazelnut torte.”
“Of course, m’lady.”
“Spitfire, anything for you?”
“A set of wingblades and some incendiary—”
“And a raspberry-mint for my guest.”
“At once, m’lady.” With another bow, she retreated.
Spitfire steamed for several breaths, staring at the veil Ruby had disappeared behind. At length, she said, “I thought there wasn’t supposed to be any bowing.”
“By the guests,” Cadance said. “You can’t get them not to. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Right….” She felt Cadance’s eyes on her but said nothing further.
The ice cream came. Clear goblets with an opaque sphere nestled in each. Spitfire made a show of ignoring hers. Cadance began eating delicately with her magic and her eyes returned.
Spitfire leveled a flat gaze at Cadance. “Do you want an autograph?”
Cadance laughed, a rich, tinkling thing.
“What?”
“No, I’m—Sorry, you….” Cadance forced a slow breath in and out to quit her giggling. “I wasn’t expecting that. Have you begun to enjoy your leave, at least?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“I have a train ride where a colt gawked at me the entire time. I have to trot on the ground all day, when I’m not sitting or lying down. I have my own body turned into a pile of broken, burning parts…. No, Princess—er, Cadance. No, not even a little.”
Cadance gave a resigned sigh and set her empty goblet on the floor beside her. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” Ruby slipped into the room and began to lift Cadance from the mud bath. “I wish I could stay longer, but, unlike you, my pampering is on the fast-track. I do hope you’ll come around to the idea. Maybe trot about my beautiful city, if you feel up to it tomorrow. Look out your window at the brilliant lights overhead. And, if the massage causes you that much pain, it is likely that the problem is not with the massage, but with you. You won’t find a better masseuse than the Rubys. I do hope you’ll come around.”
Spitfire stared at her balefully. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Cadance answered with a wan smile. “You of all ponies should know—holding your breath is not the way to live.”
A bemused Spitfire watched as Cadance was escorted away.
“Miss Spitfire?” Spitfire twitched at the unexpected voice near her. “Miss Spitfire, please, come with me. Your meal will be waiting for you.”
Spitfire looked down at the crystal goblet near her, the ice cream already sagging as it began to melt.
She made sure her hoof knocked it over as she was pulled from the tub.
The remainder of Spitfire’s evening had been tranquil. A shower-down, then a robe; a meal of salads: greens, fruits, and nuts in combinations she had never dreamt existed; a cellist performed solo beneath the aurora, and then she was shown to her lavish room. The bed itself was larger than the Wonderbolt’s locker room in the Cloudiseum; she supposed the mattress was cloud, as if that was anything special for the likes of her. Lamps, columns, and statues rimmed the vast walls between nested bookcases and murals. The lavatory was no less opulent, every surface some form of crystal or gemstone. As an experiment, Spitfire turned the faucet and watched as the aerated water danced like starbursts in the sink.
The balcony opened to see the castle pointing high into the night sky. Spitfire took it in, frustrating churning in her gut. She yearned to shed the robe around her, spread her wings, and fly the leagues back to Cloudsdale. The air called to her, beckoning… taunting.
Instead, confined by her abused muscles, she paced. It was a slow trot, back and forth. With each stride, she deliberately felt her legs slide past one another. She imagined herself running, flying… anything that wasn’t being static and useless.
Once warmed inside, she began to stretch. Slowly at first, gingerly, she arched her spine and lifted her wings; lifted opposing hooves and balanced. Half a stretch, relax… two-thirds stretch, relax. Each time, each breath, pushing closer to the limit of what she could bear.
The clock chimed.
Nine-tenths stretch, relax. Ninety-five percent stretch, relax…. One hundred percent stretch… relax.
Her eyes snapped open as her body continued to give. Five, ten, percent past her limit. Her wings lifted higher than she had known possible. Her spine bent so much she thought her nose might touch her tail. Again and again, her body moved…,
“Miss Spitfire?”
Spitfire snapped into a fighting stance, limbs tight. “What are you—OW!” She folded up over herself, muscles aflame from the sudden reaction.
“Miss Spitfire!” Ruby Hooves darted over, stricken with surprise. “You must be careful! Your body must adjust to its relaxed state….” She backed away from a warding hoof. “I did not wish to startle you, m’lady. I was coming to see that you were set to bed for the morrow.”
Spitfire hissed through clenched teeth.
“Might I help m’lady into—?”
“Don’t you touch… me.” Spitfire's words dripped venom. She set her hooves beneath herself and pushed against the pain. So very slowly, she stood, stubborn defiance on her face. “I have everything I need and nothing I want. Now go away.”
Ruby gave a bow so low her nose brushed the rug. “As m’lady wishes.…”
Spitfire followed her with her gaze all the way to the door. The door was closed and locked, and the shadow underneath moved on. Spitfire’s legs gave out and she collapsed again to the floor. A pained whimper escaped her lips on contact.
She lay there for some time, staring at the many distractions around her, before slipping into a hollow sleep.
“Transferred?” she demanded. Her wings were spread wide, ears folded back, and he swore there was smoke curling from her mane. “What kind of ponyfeathers is this, me being transferred!”
Short Line plastered a vapid smile on his face. He wouldn’t break; not to her. “Captain Spitfire,” he said, gesturing amicably, “please, come in. Is there something my office can help you with today?”
Spitfire marched up to him and leaned over the desk. “Me. Crystal Empire. Explain. Now.”
“A-ah, that business, is it?” The quaver in his voice was well hidden. “Not so much a transfer as, well, a sabbatical. Mandated from on high, I’m afraid. Every member of the Wonderbolts, captain included, is required to take a minimum number of days of leave.”
“I just took mine…. Well, only a few months—”
“Seventeen months ago.”
“It was not!” Spitfire pulled away with a huff and began pacing. “I remember, there was… no, that dragon business was after… when was Fillydelphia…? Look, it was not that long ago. I’d know.”
“Yes, you did ignore the leave summons over Hearth’s Warming. Stood up a most welcoming seaside cruise, you did.”
“There’s nothing to do on a seaside cruise! They’d tie me down on a chair somewhere and make me read a book! Or drink lemonade! Or make me play some kind of non-contact sport!”
Carefully enunciating every syllable, Short Line explained, “I understand that is rather the point.”
She glowered at him. Finally, she said, “You can’t make me.”
“I,” he said, stretching the word, “don’t have to. You’re going to the Crystal Kingdom on the first train tomorrow. Canterlot central, oh-nine thirty hours. This comes from Her Majesty herself.”
Spitfire paled. “Princess Celestia… ordered me away…”
“Look on the bright side. Three days and you’ll be right back where you want to be, fit as a fiddle and as just as high-strung, I’m sure.”
The train ride was Tartarus. Confined spaces. Unnatural noises. Foals. Fans.
Fans were the worst. There was always one who could pick her out even without the uniform. The older ones she could usually wave off. ‘I’m sorry, you must have me confused with somepony else,’ or, ‘you know, I get that all the time.’ When that failed, there was the autograph and canned pep-talk; she was good at those, too. But sometimes, there was that one fan who wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t approach, but neither would they go away or stop gawking. Having someone she could see out of the corner of her eye, perpetually just there, watching her, and wouldn’t come up to her and let things drop… well, it put a huge damper on her ability to sulk properly.
After a half hour, Spitfire finally got to her hooves and walked towards the little colt—why was it always the colts who were shy—but he ducked behind the separator. When she made it to the end of the carriage, he was nowhere to be seen.
She muttered disfavorably under her breath and started back towards her seat.
“You said a bad word.”
Spitfire tripped, spinning to find the speaker.
A young fuschia filly with her nose buried in a health magazine flicked her eyes towards her. “Mommy wouldn’t want him hearing that kind of language.”
Spitfire scrunched up her nose. “Is that your brother who keeps staring at me, then?”
“Yeah.” The filly turned a page. “Says you’re some kinda Wonderbolt.”
“And what do you think?”
The filly gave her a once-over. “Kinda thin.”
“I will have you know that I am the perfect—” She caught herself and took a deep breath.
The filly shrugged. “Just saying.”
Spitfire chewed her words for a minute before storming back to her bench.
After a few minutes, she noticed that those drooling eyes were watching her again.
The train ride to the Crystal Kingdom was absolute Tartarus.
Like a boat parting a fogbank, two crystal-pony guards appeared on the platform.
“Captain Spitfire? I am Lieutenant Ruby and this is Lieutenant Ruby. Welcome to the Crystal Kingdom.”
Spitfire glowered at them, as if they bore the full responsibility for her displeasure. “Don’t you threaten me.”
Ruby and Ruby shared an uncertain glance. “If you would please follow us, ma’am, we will escort you to your lodgings.”
She fell into step between the two, but couldn’t resist the urge to ask, “And if I don’t ‘follow you’? What then?”
The other Ruby answered, “We are not at liberty to say, ma’am.”
“Of course not. Am I going to be hearing that phrase a lot while I’m here?”
“We are not at liberty to say.”
“Welcome to the Salt Mines! Every luxury for the luxurious mare! Our facilities hold host to the original Imperial banya, forty schools of massage, eighteen mud baths tubs of pure sapphire, an Equestria Games-sized swimming pool, five magma-heated indoor springs, five magma-heated outdoor springs, and a royal catering kitchen that serves three hundred twelve different flavors of ice cream.”
“Ice cream,” Spitfire parroted.
“Please remember, there is to be no running in the Mines. There is to be no yelling in the Mines. No pets are allowed in the Mines, including birds and salamanders. There is no flying allowed in any of the Mines rooms or halls. There is to be no bowing on the part of the guests to each other or the unremoved statues of Sombra lining the halls. Live sacrifices to the unremoved statues of Sombra will not make you immortal. Smiling is highly recommended. Swimming is allowed only in the pools, and is strictly forbidden in the springs and mud baths. Small talk, gossip, chit-chat, and other forms of tittering among guests is welcome and encouraged.
“Once again, welcome to the Salt Mines, and we hope you enjoy your stay. Do you have any questions before we begin your first session?”
“Did you all practice this for days, or is there some curse that makes all five of you talk in perfect synchronicity?”
All five of the mares laughed. The crystal unicorn took a step forward and addressed the others. “Right, then. Ruby Hooves, see to this mare’s wings. Ruby Hooves, make her mane and tail radiant. Ruby Hooves… Ruby Hooves?”
“H-here, m’lady.”
“Ah! Prepare the mineral soak and the rollers. Finally, Ruby Hooves, fetch a collection of mixed fruit for our guest’s delight.”
As one, the hoofmaids answered, “Yes, Headmistress Ruby,” and set off to their appointed tasks.
It was barely afternoon and Spitfire was already dead. She was still breathing, of course; still twitching, still growling, moaning, fuming, and all the other business associated with receiving forty forms of massage, but as near to dead as anypony could be.
Every day of her working life, Spitfire relied on her body. She knew and loved her body, much in the same way that a blacksmith knew and loved an anvil: beat it senseless over and over to get the things you want, and if it breaks the game’s over. Her muscles were taut and hard, rigid and powerful. When she wanted her body to do something, by Celestia it did it regardless of whatever it may have wanted instead at the time.
Accordingly, her body, specifically her muscles, had largely adopted the policy of keeping quiet about any problems until they became severe enough that things would start going wrong. A sprained joint, Spitfire would know about it. A torn ligament, you bet your life she’d feel it. Dead weight from unrelenting weeks of Wonderbolt Ace-level performance and training, however, went perpetually unnoticed. But, when given cue by no fewer than four sets of hooves, those same muscles wasted no time in filing abuse complaints.
All six of Spitfire’s limbs, and a great deal of the rest of her, had turned into a colloidal morass or indulgent suffering. Spitfire had long ceased paying any attention to the unending stream of questions being addressed to her by the five Rubys. If they paused with an upward inflection, Spitfire would offer an indistinct mumble. If a small piece of fruit or the edge of a glass of water was presented to her, she would chew or swallow appropriately… or, as best as she was able given her present state. So detatched, she planned in vivid detail exactly what she would do to them in terrible, terrible vengeance.
Spitfire lay in a sapphire bowl filled with mud and agony. The mildly warm liquid cradled her punished body, her mental social workers assigned to the cases caught in a turf war with her mental mafia attempting to keep the ingrates mute. If it weren’t for the pillow supporting her head, she thought she might slip into the pool and drown. She decided to call that ‘plan-B’.
There was the sound of hoofsteps and indistinct voices whispering. Then the pool shifted, stirring Spitfire into action. “Look, you’ve done quite enough for today.” Her intended sharp words came out as distressingly languid. “I don’t know how I’d manage it, but if you even touch me—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
Spitfire’s eyes shot open. There, still sinking into the pool with her, white towel wrapped around her bubblegum-pink mane, was the last pony she expected to see. “Princess Cadance?”
The princess chuckled brightly. “Welcome to the Crystal Kingdom. And, please, just Cadance is fine.” Spitfire began to shift. “No, no bowing. None of that here, remember?”
Spitfire managed a disgruntled hoof, but settled back into a more relaxed position. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Why do I need a reason to seek out company with an interesting pony? Life as a princess is hectic, and it’s important to get away from time to time.”
“That sounds pointedly familiar.”
Said as a tease, “They told me you were a grumpy one. Ruby?” One of the hoofmaids appeared and bowed low. “If you would, please find a small serving of double-chocolate hazelnut torte.”
“Of course, m’lady.”
“Spitfire, anything for you?”
“A set of wingblades and some incendiary—”
“And a raspberry-mint for my guest.”
“At once, m’lady.” With another bow, she retreated.
Spitfire steamed for several breaths, staring at the veil Ruby had disappeared behind. At length, she said, “I thought there wasn’t supposed to be any bowing.”
“By the guests,” Cadance said. “You can’t get them not to. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Right….” She felt Cadance’s eyes on her but said nothing further.
The ice cream came. Clear goblets with an opaque sphere nestled in each. Spitfire made a show of ignoring hers. Cadance began eating delicately with her magic and her eyes returned.
Spitfire leveled a flat gaze at Cadance. “Do you want an autograph?”
Cadance laughed, a rich, tinkling thing.
“What?”
“No, I’m—Sorry, you….” Cadance forced a slow breath in and out to quit her giggling. “I wasn’t expecting that. Have you begun to enjoy your leave, at least?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“I have a train ride where a colt gawked at me the entire time. I have to trot on the ground all day, when I’m not sitting or lying down. I have my own body turned into a pile of broken, burning parts…. No, Princess—er, Cadance. No, not even a little.”
Cadance gave a resigned sigh and set her empty goblet on the floor beside her. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” Ruby slipped into the room and began to lift Cadance from the mud bath. “I wish I could stay longer, but, unlike you, my pampering is on the fast-track. I do hope you’ll come around to the idea. Maybe trot about my beautiful city, if you feel up to it tomorrow. Look out your window at the brilliant lights overhead. And, if the massage causes you that much pain, it is likely that the problem is not with the massage, but with you. You won’t find a better masseuse than the Rubys. I do hope you’ll come around.”
Spitfire stared at her balefully. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Cadance answered with a wan smile. “You of all ponies should know—holding your breath is not the way to live.”
A bemused Spitfire watched as Cadance was escorted away.
“Miss Spitfire?” Spitfire twitched at the unexpected voice near her. “Miss Spitfire, please, come with me. Your meal will be waiting for you.”
Spitfire looked down at the crystal goblet near her, the ice cream already sagging as it began to melt.
She made sure her hoof knocked it over as she was pulled from the tub.
The remainder of Spitfire’s evening had been tranquil. A shower-down, then a robe; a meal of salads: greens, fruits, and nuts in combinations she had never dreamt existed; a cellist performed solo beneath the aurora, and then she was shown to her lavish room. The bed itself was larger than the Wonderbolt’s locker room in the Cloudiseum; she supposed the mattress was cloud, as if that was anything special for the likes of her. Lamps, columns, and statues rimmed the vast walls between nested bookcases and murals. The lavatory was no less opulent, every surface some form of crystal or gemstone. As an experiment, Spitfire turned the faucet and watched as the aerated water danced like starbursts in the sink.
The balcony opened to see the castle pointing high into the night sky. Spitfire took it in, frustrating churning in her gut. She yearned to shed the robe around her, spread her wings, and fly the leagues back to Cloudsdale. The air called to her, beckoning… taunting.
Instead, confined by her abused muscles, she paced. It was a slow trot, back and forth. With each stride, she deliberately felt her legs slide past one another. She imagined herself running, flying… anything that wasn’t being static and useless.
Once warmed inside, she began to stretch. Slowly at first, gingerly, she arched her spine and lifted her wings; lifted opposing hooves and balanced. Half a stretch, relax… two-thirds stretch, relax. Each time, each breath, pushing closer to the limit of what she could bear.
The clock chimed.
Nine-tenths stretch, relax. Ninety-five percent stretch, relax…. One hundred percent stretch… relax.
Her eyes snapped open as her body continued to give. Five, ten, percent past her limit. Her wings lifted higher than she had known possible. Her spine bent so much she thought her nose might touch her tail. Again and again, her body moved…,
“Miss Spitfire?”
Spitfire snapped into a fighting stance, limbs tight. “What are you—OW!” She folded up over herself, muscles aflame from the sudden reaction.
“Miss Spitfire!” Ruby Hooves darted over, stricken with surprise. “You must be careful! Your body must adjust to its relaxed state….” She backed away from a warding hoof. “I did not wish to startle you, m’lady. I was coming to see that you were set to bed for the morrow.”
Spitfire hissed through clenched teeth.
“Might I help m’lady into—?”
“Don’t you touch… me.” Spitfire's words dripped venom. She set her hooves beneath herself and pushed against the pain. So very slowly, she stood, stubborn defiance on her face. “I have everything I need and nothing I want. Now go away.”
Ruby gave a bow so low her nose brushed the rug. “As m’lady wishes.…”
Spitfire followed her with her gaze all the way to the door. The door was closed and locked, and the shadow underneath moved on. Spitfire’s legs gave out and she collapsed again to the floor. A pained whimper escaped her lips on contact.
She lay there for some time, staring at the many distractions around her, before slipping into a hollow sleep.