Sylvie the Bat


                                            >So, apparently, you're not as handy as you thought.

                                            >In trying to build the newest addition to your cabin, you accidentally tore a hole clean through the roof, and a pretty sizeable one at that.

                                            >Here in the Everfree, with its unpredictable weather patterns, that mistake could prove disastrous at any moment.

                                            >You can't risk a flood. Not with winter right around the corner. It'll take weeks to dry everything out, and once the first frost hits it'll be that much harder.

                                            >And that's not even considering the dry rot that will inevitably ensue.

                                            >What once was set up to be a leisurely day building at home has now become a race against time. You don't know when that bomb could go off, but the clock's definitely ticking.

                                            >Such is life in this unforgiving forest.

                                            >Grabbing your handaxe, you march out the door.

                                            >You don't have enough lumber on hand to patch the hole. Most of it went toward the project that caused it. You'll have to get some more.

                                            >You make it about thirty paces before doubling back to the cabin; you forgot your longbow.

                                            >You're in a hurry, but that's no excuse for unpreparedness. Last thing you need now is a beast wandering by.

                                            >Quickly, you sling your bow and quiver over your shoulder, and head out once more.

                                            >It's a twenty minute hike to the grove where you source your wood. The trees there are no different from the ones around your home, but it's not safe to clear-cut too large a radius.

                                            >That's bad forestry management. A large clearing leaves you exposed.

                                            >No, you thin out the tree line an appropriate amount, haul away the underbrush, and keep overgrown branches trimmed.

                                            >Over time, you refined the art of keeping creatures away while keeping the cabin hidden.

                                            >Someone could come within fifty yards of your door and never realize there's a structure there.

                                            >It took you a long time to strike that perfect balance. Nothing could make you disrupt it.

                                            >That's why you're burning daylight getting this much-needed lumber from the grove.

                                            >Axe in hand, you hack at the brush as you trek, slicing it away.

                                            >You have a few forest paths you maintain. You do your best to keep them clear, but the ones that run through thickets seem to grow back every few days, like clockwork.

                                            >Those ones are always a pain. Especially when all that hacking builds the underbrush up, and you have to spend a day clearing the forest floor.

                                            >For now, though, you're doing a particularly hasty job at clearing a path. Bushes and brambles you miss on the downswing scrape across your arms with every step.

                                            >If you're not careful, you might tear your sleeve. But that concern's pushed from your mind, overshadowed by the urgency to repair the roof.

                                            >After several minutes of slashing through the brush, you tear your way into the grove.

                                            >You internally groan at the thought of having to drag your lumber through back the half-cleared path. It'll take twice as long just hauling that thing home.

                                            >After picking out a tree of decent girth, you raise your axe to make the first strike.

                                            >And then you hear a branch snap.

                                            >Slowly lowering your axe, you turn towards the direction from which the sound came.

                                            >It's probably nothing. You know from experience that most sounds in the forest are nothing.

                                            >But on the off chance it's not, you'd rather wait a few seconds to be sure before making any loud noise.

                                            >The bushes at the edge of the grove rustle in a shaky manner, only a few feet away from where you stand.

                                            >Your bow's no use to you this close. If you're being stalked by something, your only hope is to get the drop on it before it gets the drop on you.

                                            >Silently, you draw closer to the thickets, praying it's just a rabbit.

                                            >Once you get within arm's reach, you take a steady breath, raise your axe, and pull the bush aside.

                                            >The creature within emits a terrified shriek, shielding itself.

                                            >"EEEEEEK!"

                                            >Primed to attack, you stop yourself from instinctively swinging the axe at it. Because the thing it's shielding itself with, its wing, is torn. Pretty wide open.

                                            >Through that tear, it opens one eye to look back at you, trembling uncontrollably.

                                            >It's strange. From what you make of its figure, it almost looks like a pony.

                                            >But that wing...

                                            >That's no pony's wing.

                                            >The narrow slits in its eyes dilate as it gazes up at you fearfully.

                                            >It's just some injured creature. In the Everfree, looks can be deceiving, but you don't think it's any threat to you.

                                            >Slowly, you reach out a hand towards its wing, as an offering.

                                            >The creature takes one look at your hand, looks back at you, and instantly scowls.

                                            >The curled-up legs tucked beneath the wing suddenly thrust out at you, slamming straight into your shins.

                                            >"Don't touch me, you filthy animal!"

                                            >You'd be surprised by the sudden exclamation, were you not too busy tumbling down onto the forest floor.

                                            >You hold out your hands to brace your fall, but they get tangled up in the underbrush rather easily. Your head comes down hard on a protruding tree root.

                                            "FUCK!"

                                            >Eyes clenched in pain, you grab at your head, feeling around frantically for a wound. A head injury out here would almost certainly be the death of you.

                                            >"Holy shit, you can talk?"

                                            >Quickly relieved by the lack of sensation of blood, you lower your hands and open your eyes.

                                            >The creature's staring down at you, wide-eyed.

                                            "Of course I can talk. You're telling me YOU can talk? What the hell did you kick me for?"

                                            >"You were sticking those paws in my face! I didn't know what you were you gonna do!"

                                            >With a groan, you manage to prop yourself up.

                                            >The creature slowly leans in to get a better look at you.

                                            >"What... are you?"

                                            >You rub your forehead, trying to dull the throbbing.

                                            >It's been a very, very long time since you were asked that question. For a split-second, you almost forget the answer.

                                            "I'm a human."

                                            >Raising your head, you re-focus your vision.

                                            "What are you supposed to be?"

                                            >The response comes without hesitation. "A bat pony, obviously"

                                            >A bat pony. Of course there are bat ponies. Just one more item to check off on the list of farcical creatures that absolutely should not exist.

                                            >Maybe that blow to your head really did kill you. Or maybe you're bleeding out and this is your mind slowly collapsing in on itself, making up weird creatures.

                                            >Though it's not too far a stretch. If you squint, it— she— looks just like any other pony.

                                            >You mentally correct yourself. This isn't just another beast of the forest. She's a sapient creature.

                                            >The first one you've come across in a long while.

                                            >Just as you're about to speak, you hear more rustling coming from deeper in the thickets, this time coming from movements much more deliberate.

                                            >You turn back to her.

                                            "You here alone?"

                                            >She nods.

                                            >Then something's coming to investigate the commotion, and you're not keen to stick around and find out what.

                                            >Grabbing your axe from the brambles, you rise to your feet and command the pony in a hushed tone.

                                            "Come on!"

                                            >You step back out into the grove, but stop when you hear a pained "Agh!" behind you.

                                            >Looking back, you see her raising her front limb tenderly. "My hoof's hurt."

                                            >Without warning, you return and scoop her up into your arms. Her eyes go wide upon being lifted, but she allows you to pick her up without resistance.

                                            >Right now, she's more afraid of what's lurking the brush than you.

                                            >You charge back to the path and begin pushing your way through the thickets. Moving quickly with your arms full, you don't have any chance to push the brush aside.

                                            >Instead, you're forced to take them head-on, and so is the poor pony. She shoves her face into your sleeve to avoid getting smacked by the sharp brambles.

                                            >You try to keep your head down as best you can, but you're inevitably forced to endure an unending series of tiny nicks all over your body as the thorny bushes tear through your clothes at great speed.

                                            >Though the torment feels like an eternity, you don't dare stop until you reach the opposite end of the thickets, finally satisfied you're no longer being followed.

                                            >The bat pony pulls her head from your arm. "Are we safe?"

                                            >Completely out of breath, you can only respond with a thorough nod.

                                            >Wordlessly, you carry her back to the cabin and drop her onto the bed inside. By then, you've caught your breath and the adrenaline has subsided.

                                            >Until you look up and see the hole in your roof.

                                            >And beyond that hole, far up in the sky, dark clouds drifting in.

                                            >You look back down at the bat pony, and utter two simple commands.

                                            "Stay here. Don't touch anything."

                                            >Picking your axe up, you rush back out the door, trekking once again into the Everfree, and leaving behind a completely stunned pony on your bed.

                                            >You don't take the path leading back to the grove. Not after ditching whatever that was back there.

                                            >Instead, you follow one of your less-overgrown hunting paths. You'll just cut a random tree a fair distance from the cabin.

                                            >Priorities changed. Clouds are darkening the skies, leaving you scarce other options at this point.

                                            >If it weren't for that bat pony, you'd already be hauling a tree back to the cabin right now.

                                            >Suddenly, you wonder whether she can be trusted to be left alone in your home like that.

                                            >The Everfree's full of nefarious creatures. But the beasts are simple. They eat, they sleep, they kill. They don't play games or deceive you. Not intelligently, at least.

                                            >Sure, she looks injured and helpless, but she was awful quick to knock you over. Maybe she's the bait in a hunting party, and you just lured her pals right to your doorstep.

                                            >You shake your head forcefully. Hypotheticals are useless to you now. Get the tree, bring it back, and then stake the cabin out.

                                            >You won't let your desperation lead you into an ambush.

                                            >A good distance down the path, you step off into the woods and find a healthy, solid tree.

                                            >Wasting no time, you cut it down and clip the branches. You hoist the end over your shoulder, and bring it up to the path.

                                            >A moment is all you spend checking your surroundings before setting back down the path.

                                            >In six short minutes, you reach the perimeter. Quietly, you set the log down and crouch, watching the cabin through the trees.

                                            >No movement. None on the ground, none in the treetops. Either they're craftier than you, or there's no one there.

                                            >Then you feel a light tap on your shoulder.

                                            >Instantly, you leap up and spin around, poised to fight back.

                                            >But there's no one there.

                                            >You look down at your shoulder and see a tiny drop of water.

                                            >Another one comes down, hitting your head.

                                            >It's raining. Far sooner than you'd hoped.

                                            >There's no time to saw the wood into planks anymore. You have to resort to Plan B.

                                            >Breathing a sigh, you pick up the tree and hastily drag it over to the cabin.

                                            >You set it down beneath the awning so it doesn't get soaked in the storm.

                                            >Placing your hand upon the door handle, you take only a moment to pause before bursting into the cabin, axe gripped tightly.

                                            >You're half-expecting to meet a squad of attackers, but all you find is that quiet little bat pony sitting on your bed where you left her.

                                            >She just looks at you curiously.

                                            >Dropping your axe, you motion for her to follow.

                                            "Come on. I need your help."

                                            >"...what?" she asks, understandably confused.

                                            "Let's go!"

                                            >As you gather your tools, she comes over, half-limping to avoid putting stress on her injured leg.

                                            >You lead her outside, to the ramshackle storage shed. With four walls slapped together under a flat roof, it just barely qualifies as its own structure, rather than a glorified box.

                                            >You dig through a crate to retrieve the tarp you're looking for, and swing it over your shoulder.

                                            >You back out of the shed without a word and proceed to a ladder leaning against the cabin's north wall.

                                            >Hammer in one hand and a fistful of nails in the other, you start to ascend.

                                            >Halfway up the ladder, though, you hear her call out from behind you.

                                            >"Um, do you want me to follow you?"

                                            >You glance back to see her standing uncertainly, her hoof curled against her breast.

                                            >With mounting frustration, you set the supplies on the roof before climbing back down to help her up.

                                            >It's a cumbersome job, carrying her up the ladder, but you eventually manage to set her down upon the shingles.

                                            >Once on the roof, you bring the tarp and tools over to the hole.

                                            >It's drizzling steadily. Any moment now, that could turn into a torrential downpour.

                                            >You unfold the tarp and lay it over the hole. It flaps around in the breeze.

                                            "Take the other end," you instruct. "Keep it taut. Any slack, and water will pool inside."

                                            >She complies, setting her good hoof firmly down on the opposite end.

                                            >In the span of a few seconds, you drive a nail into both corners.

                                            >You then circle around to her side and do the same there.

                                            >Once finished, you step back to ensure it'll hold.

                                            >As the wind begins to pick up, and the rain along with it, you gaze up at the overcast sky.

                                            "Let's get inside."

                                            >Hurriedly, you carry her back down the ladder and return her to the safety of the indoors.

                                            >Once the door shuts behind you, you're free to breathe the first sigh of relief you've had all day.

                                            >The bat pony looks up at the tarp covering the hole, the gentle sound rain steadily pattering in the background.

                                            >You lean against the door and slump down to sit on the floor. Quietly, you murmur an acknowledgment to her.

                                            "Thanks."

                                            >She looks back at you wordlessly while you undo your boots.

                                            >After kicking them off, you bring a hand to your forehead and thump your head against the door.

                                            >"Is... is this your home?"

                                            >You open your eyes to look back at her and pause silently.

                                            >It's the first chance you've had to get a clear look at her.

                                            >Her coat is a pale grey, with wings just a shade darker. She has a steel blue mane, cropped messily into a pixie cut.

                                            >But possibly most intriguing are the two little fangs hanging over her lip.

                                            >You've never seen them on a pony before.

                                            >Breathing an exhale, you beckon her over, failing to answer her question.

                                            "Right. Let's have a look at those injuries."

                                            >She comes up between your legs, and you take her left wing, lightly spreading it over your fingers.

                                            >The tear is fairly substantial, running a good third up the width of the wing. At least it's not bleeding.

                                            >You then take her hoof in your hand. She submits to your touch rather reluctantly. Slowly, you run your finger around the circumference of her leg, taking care to note where she winces.

                                            >After a moment, you set her hoof down.

                                            "I don't know much about pony anatomy, and even less about bat ponies, but you'll be fine. Your hoof's sprained. You'll need a splint for a few days."

                                            >"And my wing?" she asks.

                                            >From her tone, it seems like that's far more important to her than the hoof.

                                            "Not much I can do for you there. Just have to keep it bandaged. Give it a few weeks and it should mend on its own, provided you can keep yourself from ripping it all over again."

                                            >At your cue, she stops fidgeting her wing. "Weeks?" she groans.

                                            "How'd this happen?"

                                            >"I was foraging in the treetops. My wing got caught on a sharp branch and I took a nasty fall."

                                            "Aren't bats supposed to be nocturnal?"

                                            >"Maybe," she replies brusquely, "what's it to you?"

                                            >Suspicion gnaws at you.

                                            "And you're out here on your own? No family wondering where you wandered off to?"

                                            >She hesitates.

                                            >"Yes."

                                            >You shake your head.

                                            "Don't lie to me. I don't let strangers in my home. I'd just as soon throw you out."

                                            >Finally, she breaks.

                                            >"I ran away, okay?" she shouts angrily. "I couldn't take it there anymore. They still treat me like I'm a filly. I just— I had to get out."

                                            >Stunned, you fail to find the proper response. You don't know what you were expecting, but it wasn't that.

                                            >"I left yesterday," she mumbles, simmering down. "I couldn't find a decent shelter, so I've just been wandering since then."

                                            >Finally, you speak up.

                                            "The Everfree's an unforgiving place to try and make it on your own."

                                            >"That's what Dad always says," she scoffs. "And he's been using that as an excuse to keep me prisoner in the colony all my life. Well, screw that. Not anymore. I'd rather die out here."

                                            "You were about to," you respond gravely.

                                            >Her expression tenses up.

                                            >She's young. Acts like it, too. Not a teenager, maybe a couple years your junior at most.

                                            >That naivete will get her killed out here.

                                            "What's your name?"

                                            >"Sylvie," she answers.

                                            >You frown.

                                            "Doesn't sound like a pony name to me."

                                            >"That's because it's short for Silverstone. You want to call me that, go ahead, but I won't answer."

                                            >She's got something of a rough edge to her.

                                            "Well, Sylvie," you begin, rising to your feet, "I'm Anon."

                                            >You grab your whittling knife off the shelf.

                                            "Let's get you that splint, shall we?"

                                            >As you plop yourself down on a stool and reach for a scrap block, Sylvie stares quietly at the tarp draped over the roof.

                                            >"What happened?" she asks.

                                            >You look up from your task and follow her gaze to the hole. Shaking your head, you return to whittling.

                                            "Nothing. Just a little mistake."

                                            >"Doesn't look so little."

                                            "Yeah, well, it came down to saving either my tarp or your skin."

                                            >She stares back at you, not getting what you mean. "What?"

                                            >You point your knife up at the tarp.

                                            "Four little holes in there now, one from each nail. If you hadn't shown up, I could've gotten a permanent fix before the storm blew in."

                                            >"I don't get it," she says, coming around to you. "What's so special about this tarp?"

                                            "It's my only tarp," you stress once again, "and now there's holes in it."

                                            >Taking a pause, you set your knife down and look at her.

                                            "You have no idea what it's like out here, do you? You've been that sheltered your whole life? Where have they been keeping you?"

                                            >Her face sours. "It wasn't my choice. My dad never let me leave the colony. Not for foraging, not on hunting trips, not even for one lousy minute just to see what it's like. You have no idea what that does to a pony!"

                                            "You keep using that word as if I'm supposed to know what it means."

                                            >"What word?"

                                            "'Colony.'"

                                            >"Stone Cavern."

                                            >You stare back her blankly.

                                            >"The giant cave system that runs underneath the forest?"

                                            "I don't go out of my way looking for caves. Out here, that's exactly the sort of thing you try to avoid."

                                            >"Hey, you asked. That's where I'm from."

                                            >You look over her curiously.

                                            "You mean to tell me you've literally been living under a rock your whole life?"

                                            >She frowns. "That's a stupid way of putting it. I'm not an animal. We have a whole society down there just like any other pony. If you wanted, you could live your entire life down there, as long as you had the colony supporting you. So to answer your question, no, I've never been to the surface until yesterday, but that doesn't make me an idiot. So don't think you can pull one over on me."

                                            "Whatever," you mumble.

                                            >You pick up the knife and go back to whittling.

                                            >As if she'd be worth your time. She's completely misguided in the suspicion that you aim to deceive her.

                                            >What a self-important delusion! You couldn't be more indifferent to her.

                                            >What does she think you'd do? Enslave her? Eat her? Of course not. You have your own issues going on, obviously.

                                            >She means absolutely nothing to you, and you actually resent the insinuation otherwise.

                                            >You don't even know why you're carving this stupid splint for her. Let her fend for herself, find out what life's really like out here if she's so damn curious.

                                            >But of course, impassive as you are, you speak none of this aloud.

                                            >Because beneath all the irritability and vitriol, you don't really mind that she's here.

                                            >I mean, you're not happy, but you're not exactly unhappy either.

                                            "So there's a whole damn colony of you out there. This is the first I'm hearing about it."

                                            >"Yeah, that's kinda by design," she replies. "We're very private, a close-knit community. Keeps us safer that way. We don't even communicate with the other pony races, assuming they're still out there. It's been so long, they probably forgot we exist."

                                            >She watches you work with a reserved interest. "We know all about the different species of the Everfree, though. I should be the surprised one here. They never told me about— what was it— humans?"

                                            >You scoff rather loudly.

                                            "I think your kind's just as ignorant of me as I am of you."

                                            >"I doubt that very much," she responds candidly. "There's not a creature in the forest my dad doesn't keep tabs on. He's probably even met one or two of your kind before."

                                            "I don't think so, kid."

                                            >"How do you know?" There's a fair amount of skepticism in her voice.

                                            "It's just me out here."

                                            >"You mean you're the only human in the forest?"

                                            >You smooth out the final bevel on the splint and set the knife down.

                                            "Anywhere."

                                            >You state it plainly, without any of the emotional weight such an implication would ordinarily carry.

                                            >She just squints at you, not fully understanding.

                                            >"You're saying you're the only human, period?"

                                            "Yeah," you answer somewhat impatiently.

                                            >You hold up the splint for her.

                                            "Let's get this on, okay?"

                                            >She holds out her hoof thoughtlessly, her mind clearly preoccupied with the subject at hand.

                                            >"How's that even possible?" she asks. "Are you the last of your kind?"

                                            "No. Or, yes. It's a long story. One I don't particularly feel like getting into."

                                            >"How did you end up here, then?"

                                            >Steadily, you affix the splint to her hoof, making sure it stays snug.

                                            "Like I said, it's a long story."

                                            >Once finished, you set her hoof down.

                                            "There. You should— no, don't put any weight on it yet— keep it stiff, and you'll feel better in a couple days."

                                            >"Thanks," she mumbles, flexing her hoof slightly to test its rigidity.

                                            >Watching her, she's obviously oblivious to the craftsmanship than went into it.

                                            >A continuous arch that specifically contours the shape of her hoof. The little bevels on the edges so they're not sharp against her skin.

                                            >Maybe it's better if she thinks there wasn't any thought put into it.

                                            >Maybe it's better if she thinks you don't really care.

                                            >Suddenly, you get up and retrieve a roll of bandages from the aid kit.

                                            "Come on, let me wrap that wing for you."

                                            >The two of you are uncomfortably silent as you slowly wrap the gauze over and around her outstretched wing.

                                            >The quietude gives you an opportunity to see the details of her wings up close. They're nothing like those of a pegasus.

                                            >No feathers. No fur, either, like the coat that covers the rest of her body. They're paper thin, almost transparent, and leathery too. With spindly little bones that run through the length of them.

                                            >You don't remember much biology, but she's mammalian, so they're probably evolutionarily analogous to fingers.

                                            >How that works on an equine, though, you can't even begin to fathom.

                                            >Even then, the leaps of logic that went into her evolutionary blueprint are still nothing compared to the half-lion half-scorpion that lurks these woods.

                                            >Once finished, you tear the gauze from the roll and release her wing.

                                            "There. Keep your wing folded from now on. Even with the bandage, extending and contracting it will keep the tissue from healing."

                                            >She looks up at you, your eyes meeting for the first time in several minutes.

                                            >"Why are you helping me?"

                                            "Why shouldn't I? Out there in the elements, a small injury like that's a death sentence if left untreated."

                                            >She lowers her gaze to the floor uneasily.

                                            >You can't help but feel pity for her.

                                            "Go back to your family. I don't know what you're looking for out here, but you're not going to find it. The Everfree will chew you up and spit you out without a second thought. You're safer back home."

                                            >"I can't," she mutters.

                                            "Kid, this pride of yours is going to get you seriously hurt."

                                            >She scowls at you. "Stop talking down to me like I'm a petty little brat. You're putting on this tough face, but I'm not as clueless as you think I am. I can tell you're not any older than I am. On the inside, you're just as lost as I am, you just don't want to admit it. And you're sure as hell not any better than me just 'cause you know how to live out here on your own."

                                            >Who the hell does she think she is?

                                            "I don't care about your feelings, and neither does Mother Nature. We can argue all day about specifics, but that's a fact that will kill you if you let it. You don't know the first thing about surviving out here."

                                            >Suddenly, her ears perk up.

                                            >"So teach me."

                                            "What?"

                                            >Oh no.

                                            >This can only end poorly.

                                            >"Yeah," she says, her tone growing a little hopeful. "Teach me. Teach me how to live on my own. Then I'll leave you alone, and I won't have to go home."

                                            "Are you dense?"

                                            >The hope on her face disappears as quick as it came.

                                            "It's not something you can condense into a lesson. It takes years of learning, and even then you're never finished. You're always one small problem away from life-and-death."

                                            >"Then just tell me the basics," she pleads, "and then I'll be out of your hair. The important stuff. How to build a shelter, start a fire, make this splint thing."

                                            >You shake your head in frustration.

                                            "No. I'm not enabling this delusion of yours. You can't make it out here after being sheltered your whole life. It's just not going to work."

                                            >"Fine," she huffs. "Then I'll do it without your help. That was my original plan, anyway."

                                            >You can't believe her adamancy.

                                            "Do you have a death wish or something?"

                                            >"Maybe I do. So what? I'm not your problem, am I? Why do you care so much what happens to me?"

                                            >That does it for you. Her jeering succeeds, and rather foolishly, you allow yourself to be gotten.

                                            >Nothing quite so irks you as the suggestion that she means anything more to you than the sand beneath your boots.

                                            >Perhaps because it's closer to the truth than you consciously care to admit.

                                            >But insofar as you are aware, she's dead wrong. She doesn't mean a damn thing to you.

                                            >You could have just as easily left her in the grove to fend for herself. It was a trivial decision to bring her along and patch her up.

                                            >She ought to realize that by your casting her out. You don't care in the slightest what becomes of her.

                                            >She thinks she can ask to stay and learn from you, and insinuate you care too much when you deny her? Where is the logic in that?

                                            >You'll show her just how little you care. She'll leave and be forced to risk her hide out there.

                                            >You won't shoulder the blame in the slightest if she goes and gets herself hurt. SHE'S the one too stubborn to return to the safety of her home when it's there waiting for her.

                                            >If she gets killed, it's not your problem at all.

                                            "Then go."

                                            >You wave her to exit.

                                            >She stares back at you a moment in silent indignation before turning and marching out the door.

                                            >Before the door swings shut behind her, you can hear the loud roar of the wind billowing through the trees.

                                            >Then, only the quiet pattering of the rainfall against the tarp.

                                            >Frustrated, you get up off your stool and toss aside your tools.

                                            >It's her own damn fault. You have better things to do than play babysitter.

                                            >This isn't a game. You live each day not knowing if some small accident will make it your last.

                                            >If she wants to be free so much, she ought to leave the Everfree altogether. Past the walls of its tree line, life is safe and mundane.

                                            >And painfully annoying.

                                            >You toss a few logs into the fireplace and get a fire going. Once the flames are high, you sit back against the coffee table and warm your feet by the hearth.

                                            >Life outside the Everfree was so taxing. All those ponies...

                                            >It felt more like a prison out there than it does in here.

                                            >Sure, you were safer out there. But you just couldn't do it.

                                            >Here, your life constantly hangs in the balance, but you're free. Forever free to live your life the way you please. That's where the forest gets its name.

                                            >So, at the end of the day, you'd rather risk your life here than be forced to endure it back there.

                                            >...just like her.

                                            >You groan and push the table back, allowing yourself to slide down onto the cool floor.

                                            >You don't miss much about civilization, but you sure miss having a stiff drink to calm your nerves.

                                            >All you can do now is stare up at the ceiling vacantly, at the thin gray tarp stretched over the hole in your roof.

                                            >It'd probably be whipping loose in the wind if she hadn't helped you nail it down. Instead, it sits tight, laid flat against the shingles, motionless against the storm it separates you from.

                                            >Raindrops cast tiny shadows as they strike the canvas and dribble down the side.

                                            >A thin layer of sawdust from the incident earlier cushions your head against the floor.

                                            >That hole in your roof is everything that's wrong with you.

                                            >You can hang your tarp over it, but it's still there. You're forced to stare up at it, like a glaring stain on your soul.

                                            >You lay there on the floor for an indiscriminate amount of time, lost in your thoughts.

                                            >Somehow they just keep finding their way back to her.

                                            >You know, logically, it's her own responsibility to do the right thing and go home.

                                            >But she's made it very clear that's not happening.

                                            >So, does that make it a little bit your responsibility to keep her safe?

                                            >Not really. It's not your job to make sure she doesn't get herself killed.

                                            >So why doesn't the decision sit right with you?

                                            >You clench your eyes shut, but still you hear the patter of the rain against the tarp.

                                            >You press your hands over your ears, trying to drown out your senses, but in your mind's eye you see it louder than ever.

                                            >She's out there right now. While you're in here.

                                            >And even if she is a stubborn little minx, you're not going to rest easy tonight knowing that fact.

                                            >With a heavy sigh, you get up off the floor and brush the sawdust off the back of your head.

                                            >You look around for your axe before remembering you had carelessly thrown it aside in your frustration.

                                            >Truthfully, you don't even know what you're going to do. You just can't in good conscience lie around doing nothing.

                                            >Donning your coat, you open the door and gaze out at the storm raging on before you.

                                            >You never go out in the rain if you can help it. It's a pointless exercise in stupidity.

                                            >But in this case, it seems necessary.

                                            >You set out onto the porch, looking over at the freshly-cut tree still sitting beneath your awning.

                                            >Taking a deep breath, you march off into the forest, fingers clenched around your axe.

                                            >The mud beneath your boots squelch with every step. The paths are slippery, and nearly indistinguishable from the forest floor.

                                            >Had you not lain them yourself, you might have a difficult time following them. Muscle memory guides you onward.

                                            >Even with the aid of the path, though, you're still wandering aimlessly, with no clue where to begin looking.

                                            >In the dark cloud cover, you can scarcely see through the trees.

                                            >You're going nowhere.

                                            "Sylvie?"

                                            >Your voice comes out a croak at first. You don't speak aloud in the forest. There's never been any occasion to.

                                            >More than that, though, it's a great invitation to make your presence known to any number of threats that might be lurking just out of sight.

                                            >Still, you brave the potential danger and call her name out again, a little more loudly this time.

                                            >But, of course, you receive nothing in return.

                                            >The forest is a vast place. The odds that she'd hear you, especially above the forceful downpour drowning your calls, are considerably slim.

                                            >And yet you don't stop.

                                            >You continue to walk along, scanning what nearby surroundings you can discern, calling out her name.

                                            >All you hear in response is the slapping of rain against mud and the cries of exotic birds in the treetops.

                                            >You circle a wide radius around the cabin, going from the east grove path to the south path, even cutting your way through the western brambles to search the area up north near to where you found her.

                                            >The process is long and arduous, but you keep at it, refusing to let the harsh weather deter you. She could have gone in any number of directions, and you're determined to search them all.

                                            >Your efforts are expectedly fruitless.

                                            >You slump down against a tree in the north grove, not even registering the mud smearing the legs of your pants.

                                            >It's been a bit over two hours now. You are thoroughly drenched to the bone and shivering.

                                            >In a near fugue state, you're barely aware of your own condition.

                                            >But you're just lucid enough to acknowledge that however crippled from exposure you may be, she's almost certainly off worse.

                                            >With a pained heart, at last you're forced to admit that there's nothing more you can do for her.

                                            >Propping yourself up, you manage to get back up on your feet.

                                            >It's an especially rough trek back through the brambles in your weathered state, but you ride it out.

                                            >Eventually, you trudge past the perimeter into view of the cabin.

                                            >And sitting on your porch, dry as can be, is Sylvie.

                                            >You stop in your tracks, half-doubting whether it's a mirage.

                                            >But then, you look over to the shed, door ajar, and back to the bat pony wearing a sheepish smile on her face.

                                            >And in that moment, there's only one thing you can think to say.

                                            "Son of a bitch!"

                                            >Tramping up to the porch, you brush past Sylvie without offering any acknowledgement and push open the door.

                                            >She pokes her head halfway through the door, debating whether to follow you in.

                                            >"What were you doing out there?"

                                            >You slump into your kitchen chair and yank off your muddy boots.

                                            "Nothing," you growl.

                                            >She sets a single tense hoof inside. "Y-You were looking for me, weren't you?"

                                            "No."

                                            >You answer just a bit too sharply to come off believable.

                                            >"Yeah, you were," she retorts. "I can see it on your face. Why else would you go out in a storm?"

                                            >Finally, you look up at her. Tiny beads of water drip off your body, collecting in a pool beneath your chair.

                                            "Close the goddamn door."

                                            >She pauses with an air of uncertainty. "...with me outside or in?"

                                            >Sloughing off your soaked coat, you utter an affirmative grunt that doesn't lean one way or another. She takes it in stride and crosses beyond the threshold to your home, shutting the door behind her.

                                            >"Thanks, I guess," she mutters.

                                            >You strip down to your thermals and replace the wet layers with fresh, dry ones.

                                            >Breathing a weary sigh, you dump the clothes to dry by the hearth and collapse down beside them to warm yourself up.

                                            >Until now, you hadn't noticed how dangerously low your core temperature had dropped.

                                            >After a minute, she slowly steps into view. You still don't acknowledge her.

                                            >"Are you okay?"

                                            "Yeah."

                                            >Out of the corner of your eye, you can just barely make out her fretful movements. She shifts her weight from one hoof to another, not quite knowing where to place herself.

                                            >After a few seconds, she asks in a defeated tone, "Can I stay here tonight?"

                                            >The simple act of speaking those feeble words aloud induces within her a great humiliation.

                                            >Yet you know that she knows that she wouldn't have asked if she didn't already know the answer.

                                            >You just stare into the fire and answer her stoically.

                                            "Yeah."

                                            >You go to bed that night with a stranger in your home.

                                            >It's an unsettling feeling, after being alone for so long.

                                            >Isolation makes you naturally distrustful of others. That was something you hadn't realized until it was put to the test.

                                            >You find it hard to sleep, knowing full well that at any point, she could slit your throat.

                                            >It didn't matter how unlikely she was to do it. It didn't matter that you could probably catch and overpower her before she was able.

                                            >The possibility alone was enough to put you off.

                                            >But eventually, you do manage to drift off. No amount of paranoia could stave off sleep indefinitely after the sort of day you've had.

                                            >Besides, you don't need to worry for long.

                                            >It's not like she's here forever, right?


                                            >Morning comes.

                                            >You slowly open your eyes.

                                            >And scream.

                                            >You scramble back against the headboard just as a big grey blur screeching "EEEEEK!" comes crashing down onto your lap.

                                            >You push Sylvie away and she thrashes around, trying to get back up. After a few seconds, she finds her footing at the edge of the bed.

                                            >The two of you stare back at each other, panting from the heart attack you nearly gave each other.

                                            >"What the hell?" she yells. "Why'd you scream like that?"

                                            "Me?" you ask incredulously. "I think it's a perfectly natural reaction when I wake up to see you floating over me!"

                                            >She rubs her neck, sore from the fall. "I was sleeping."

                                            "Five feet above my head?"

                                            >You look up to see a sole beam protruding from the rafters, still exposed from your half-finished construction project yesterday.

                                            >Only then do you piece together what she was doing up there.

                                            "Wait, so you—"

                                            >"Yep."

                                            "Just like a—"

                                            >"Yeah."

                                            >Puzzled, you sit up straight against the headboard.

                                            "And you actually enjoy that?"

                                            >"No offense, but I tried to sleep in that armchair, and I just couldn't get comfortable. My brain wouldn't let me. I saw you had a perch up there you weren't using, so I figured you wouldn't mind."

                                            "But why upside down?"

                                            >"That's just the way we do it. Easy to fly that way. Just fall and take off. Makes for a quick getaway in a pinch."

                                            >You shake your head dismissively. It's always something with these ponies. Some weird new ability or quirk only bound by logic at its surface, never deeper.

                                            >She notices your disdain and scrunches her face in response. "Hey, don't give me that. It makes a heck of a lot more sense than you sleeping on your back all tied up under those sheets. If that was a real threat, you'd have been a goner. Not like me."

                                            "Oh, some quick getaway that was, you floundering around on my bed like that."

                                            >Her face grows red. "I would've been able to fly if I didn't have this stupid torn wing!"

                                            >It's first thing in the morning and things are already getting heated. You decide it's not worth the energy to keep going back and forth with her like this.

                                            "Fine. Whatever."

                                            >You throw the sheets off yourself and climb out of bed.

                                            >You have your work cut out for you today. The roof needs a permanent fix and your little construction project has to be finished.

                                            >Sylvie follows you to the kitchen. "I'm starved. You got any food?"

                                            >Ignoring her brashness, you open the cupboard, then hesitate and look down at her.

                                            "What does your kind even eat?"

                                            >From what you recall, ponies are herbivores, but you've definitely heard of bats eating rodents, so you have no idea where to start with her.

                                            >"Fruit, if you got it."

                                            >You toss her a peach from the cupboard.

                                            >Your fruit stores are getting low. You'll have to make a foraging trip soon.

                                            >Tomorrow. There's work that needs to be done today.

                                            >You munch on a handful of nuts as a makeshift breakfast before lacing up your boots.

                                            >It feels gross sliding them on; they're still damp from last night. You make a note to leave them to dry in the sun around midday.

                                            >Until then, though, you've no other options but to simply deal with it.

                                            >Sylvie sets her half-finished peach down. "Where you going?"

                                            "Dealing with the roof."

                                            >"Well, can I c—"

                                            "Stay inside. You'll get yourself hurt, or worse."

                                            >Halfway out the door, you stop to add one last thing.

                                            "And don't touch my shit."

                                            >The weather outside is considerably better than it was last night. The storm moved on sometime in the early morning. The ground is still fairly damp, but at least the sun's beginning to shine through the treetops.

                                            >The tree you cut down still sits beneath the awning, dry for the most part.

                                            >At least you were spared in that respect. Wet wood warps.

                                            >You drag the tree out into the open grass and drop it down. It'll take a good two hours just carving neat shingles from this thing.

                                            >Last night, you would've settled for crude planks, but at least now you have the time to do it right.

                                            >You head over to the shed to retrieve your saw. The door is still open.

                                            >Inside, you find the tiny patch of bare earth where that pony must have hunkered down, while you were out looking for her.

                                            >Not that you'd ever admit that, of course.

                                            >It's just that she wouldn't have made it past the outer perimeter before kicking the bucket, and that meant sooner or later, you'd stumble across her remains.

                                            >You didn't want to see that.

                                            >You didn't care if it happened, just... you didn't want to see it.

                                            >Grabbing your saw, you swing the shed door closed and hook the latch.

                                            >You wish you had a lock for it. You wish you had a lot of things out here.

                                            >Regardless, you get to work stripping off the bark.

                                            >What follows is a laborious process. First the log has to be cut into lumber. Then you have to carve individual shingles from the planks, and give each one a protective finish.

                                            >It's a brisk day, but as you work up a sweat, you opt to toss aside your outer layer, leaving just your T-shirt and jeans.

                                            >Halfway through cutting shingles, you drop the saw and plop down on the stump beside the shed, wiping your brow.

                                            >That's when you notice a figure watching you through the cabin window.

                                            >Thirty yards away, Sylvie has her hooves propped up on the windowsill. She's just staring out the window. At you.

                                            >You're a little put off.

                                            >There's nothing malicious or eerie about her gaze. She's watching you the way a housecat would.

                                            >No interest. No enthusiasm.

                                            >Just mundane curiosity.

                                            >And it's still, frankly, uncanny. Because she's not a cat. She's people.

                                            >As you sit there on the stump, she sees you. She knows you can see her.

                                            >And she's not even pretending to masquerade her actions.

                                            >You just take a swig from your canteen and try to pretend she's not there.

                                            >But, inevitably forced to choose between continuing your rest and defusing an uncomfortable situation, you go with the latter.

                                            >It's back to work once again.

                                            >She watches you a while longer. You habitually look up at the window from time to time, checking if she's still there.

                                            >Eventually, though, you look up to find her finally gone.

                                            >You finish all forty-eight shingles by late morning. That's enough to patch over the hole, with a few to spare.

                                            >Gathering your hammer and nails, you take four trips up to the roof to carry over the supplies.

                                            >With everything set, you finally pry out the nails and pull back the tarp, flooding the cabin with sunlight overhead.

                                            >Inside, you look down to see Sylvie sitting in the armchair.

                                            >"Hi," she says quietly.

                                            "Hi," you say back.

                                            >There's a moment of silence between you before you begin the task of nailing each shingle to the rafters that frame the cabin interior.

                                            >With every addition, the hole shrinks in size, until your accidental skylight is no more.

                                            >Standing up, you walk over the repair job, bearing your weight down on it to check its sturdiness. Once satisfied with the stress test, you gather up your remaining supplies and bring them back inside.

                                            >Sylvie's there to greet you when you come in.

                                            >"You done?" she asks.

                                            >You glance up at the ceiling.

                                            "How's it look?"

                                            >"Good," she replies. Her eyes quickly trail off to the incomplete frame on the ceiling next to it. "But, uh, what's...?"

                                            "That's next."

                                            >You kick off your boots and drop them on the porch to dry out in the sun.

                                            >While you gather up your tools, she asks, "Something I can help with?"

                                            >You pause and look down at her hoof.

                                            "I'm not sure you should."

                                            >You pick up your toolbox and move past her, setting up in the kitchen area directly beneath the frame.

                                            >"I just wanted to see if I could maybe do something," she says, following after you. "Since, you know, you fed me and let me crash here..."

                                            "Literally..." you mutter to yourself.

                                            >She tilts her head, not quite hearing you. "Huh?"

                                            "Nothing."

                                            >You look over at her.

                                            "You want to do something, keep your weight off that hoof so you can heal up enough to walk on out of here."

                                            >You return your attention to your toolbox before you get a glimpse of her reaction.

                                            >Those words left your mouth on impulse. You didn't really mean it in an ungrateful way, more a 'just try to take it easy' way.

                                            >Geez, have your conversational skills gotten that rough around the edges?

                                            >You don't remember being this way back before. But it's been so long...

                                            >Seems like you're remembering less and less about that time.

                                            >You turn back to her.

                                            "Go grab the first aid kit, will you? I don't have a ladder in here and that's how I botched the ceiling in the first place. If I fall and get a nasty gash, you're gonna have to sew me back up."

                                            >It's hardly a legitimate concern. But even though you didn't see the look on her face when you told her no, somehow you could still sense it.

                                            >And for whatever reason, you didn't want to leave it at that.

                                            >While she goes off to get the kit, you climb up onto the counter and balance yourself.

                                            >You get to work putting joists up and nailing them into the rafters.

                                            >As you work your way down the kitchen, you shimmy further along the counter, careful to keep your balance as you lift up every plank.

                                            >The last couple joists are just out of reach from end of the counter. Grabbing ahold of a rafter with one hand, you lean far out at an angle to put them in place.

                                            >"You good?"

                                            >You glance down to see Sylvie looking up at you from the kitchen floor.

                                            >Your body's contorted in an odd position, with one foot dangling while the other is firmly planted on the counter's edge.

                                            "Yeah. Yeah, I'm—"

                                            >Slipping.

                                            >Looking down briefly causes you to misjudge your footing, and your heel slides off the edge.

                                            >Sylvie dashes over the moment you start to slip.

                                            >"I've got you!"

                                            >Reacting instantly, you do the only thing you can think to do: drop the joist and grab ahold of the rafter with both hands.

                                            >Leaving you dangling from the cabin ceiling.

                                            >"Are you alright?"

                                            >You look straight down to Sylvie standing under you. A second ago, she was primed to catch you. Now she's standing there awkwardly.

                                            "I'm fine. You think maybe you could move over so I can come down without crushing you?"

                                            >Suddenly, her spatial awareness returns. "Oh. Yeah, totally."

                                            >She steps aside, and you let go of the rafter, landing on the floor.

                                            >"I could've caught you, you know."

                                            >You brush off the dust you knocked loose from the ceiling.

                                            "I'm twice your size."

                                            >"Don't underestimate me. You know, I—"

                                            "What were you even doing, distracting me while I was up there?" you snap at her.

                                            >Her camaraderie disappears, replaced by surprise at your temper. "You think that was my fault? I was just checking on you!"

                                            "Some help you are, charging headfirst into the problem without thinking! Last time I brought a good chunk of roof down with me, you could have just as easily gotten impaled by a beam!"

                                            >She snarls at you. "Well, I wasn't even here the last time, so maybe YOU should think twice before projecting your bullshit onto me!"

                                            >You pull out the dining chair and slump down into it, irritably burying your face in your hand.

                                            "Fuck."

                                            >She doesn't say anything more.

                                            >After a minute, you lay your hand down on the table and turn back to her.

                                            "I'm sorry, alright? I don't actually blame you. I shouldn't have even been up there without my boots on. I'm just — I'm not used to being responsible for the safety of anyone but myself, and I'm trying not to get you any more injured than you already are."

                                            >She lowers her gaze.

                                            >You turn back to your toolbox.

                                            "Maybe you should just wait on the porch until I'm finished."

                                            >"Fine," she murmurs.

                                            >You don't look back until you hear the door close behind her.

                                            >For the next few hours, you continue construction in silent contemplation. The way you normally do.

                                            >By the time you finish up, it's almost dusk.

                                            >You grab two pieces of fruit and head out onto the porch. Sylvie's sitting on the steps.

                                            >You set the fruit down at her side and take a seat.

                                            "Thought you might be hungry."

                                            >She looks down at the offering. "I love mangoes. But they're out of season..."

                                            >You pull out your knife and start peeling the skin off your own fruit.

                                            "They're from my reserves. My last two for the year."

                                            >She hesitates a moment before picking it up and biting into it.

                                            >The two of you eat quietly while the sun sets on your backs. You cut slices and eat them off the spine of your knife, while she uses her fangs to nibble little bites.

                                            >She's the first to break the silence.

                                            >"When I was little, my mom used to swipe me mangoes from the colony foodstores whenever I felt down. It was my favorite thing. Till one day, she just... stopped."

                                            >You look over at her. She's fiddling the fruit around in her hooves.

                                            >"I didn't know till I got older, but it was 'cause my dad had found out. Scolded her pretty hard for it. He said if word got out, then it'd reflect poorly on him. That it would look like he was giving his wife and daughter special treatment."

                                            >She takes a bite. "As a filly, I resented my mom after that, because I thought it meant she stopped caring about me. I was a kid, I didn't know any better. But now, I know it was just my dad being an ass to her. I still feel guilty about that. She was just trying her best to be nice when my dad was being hard on me."

                                            >With a sigh, she sets the fruit down on the porch. "Living with him never got any easier. At least back then, I got a mango every time he yelled at me. After that day, I didn't get anything but a bunch of self-esteem issues."

                                            >You stare down at the strips of mango skin lying on the ground.

                                            >After a few seconds, you set the knife down.

                                            "You can stay here a while if you want."

                                            >She looks over at you. "That wasn't supposed to be a sob story."

                                            "I know."

                                            >You hold out your mango and motion towards hers. She picks it up and you bump them together.

                                            "Cheers."

                                            >She takes a bite and stares out at the tree line.

                                            >"You got parents, Anon?"

                                            "I did. A long time ago."

                                            >"They still out there?"

                                            >You chew your bite mindlessly and swallow.

                                            "Maybe. No way to know."

                                            >She pauses tensely for a moment while she struggles to find the right words.

                                            >"It gets easier, right? Living on your own?"

                                            >You fall silent. You didn't anticipate the question.

                                            >Still, you know the answer.

                                            >But you lie anyway.

                                            "Yeah, Sylvie. It gets easier."

                                            >As the crickets start chirping, you finish up your dinner in silence and go back inside together.

                                            >She looks up at the ceiling. "It's done."

                                            "Yeah."

                                            >"What is it?"

                                            "A hayloft."

                                            >She walks about the cabin to inspect it. "Back home, we store food through the winter, too."

                                            "The hay's not for eating."

                                            >She furrows her brow in confusion. "Then what's it for?"

                                            "Bedding. It doesn't take long to go flat, and just one winter I'd like to have enough to last me the season."

                                            >She looks straight up at a vacant slot in the loft and kicks the lone plank on the floor.

                                            >"You forgot a piece."

                                            "I left the last one on purpose. I..."

                                            >You hesitate fretfully.

                                            >She comes back over to you. "What is it?"

                                            "I didn't want to cover up the beam. I thought you might want to sleep up there again."

                                            >She looks back over her shoulder, at the very end of the exposed beam protruding from the loft. The look on her face says it all.

                                            >This time, she does notice the way you filed down the edges into soft bevels.

                                            "I can always put up the last plank when you leave, anyway."

                                            >You try to make the gesture out to be less of a deal than it really is, but she sees through the charade.

                                            >For the first time, she gives you a sincere smile. It's a crooked little smile, with her fangs hanging over her lip.

                                            >"Thanks, Anon. I love it."