Cooling Embers

by Incandesca

Chapter 2: How the Dawn Breaks

To the sound of rain, beside flickering candlelight, Head Matron Swan sorted papers.

She enjoyed this aspect of her work the least. Yet, as the manager of an orphanage, tedium was an expected - and necessary - evil. If nothing else, it gave her a quiet space and time to think. The days afforded with rare exception such luxuries.

She did not complain. Few ponies could say they loved their job as much as Head Matron Swan.

Stamping one document, signing another, she thought on tomorrow. Perhaps Pimento Berry would come tottering at her with tales of her friends at the lake, or Comet Crash would display his latest planetary model. If luck blessed her truly, she'd receive another one of Cake Mix's latest confectionary creations.

A soft smile creased her cheeks. Again, she found herself grateful. Ponies her age often looked behind more than forward. Raising children demanded she do the opposite, and live in the present.

That did not mean she never reminisced. She often did - sometimes for the worse, majority the better.

Her wings, dexterous as in her thirties, fell into a rhythm. Dream-like, her mind drifted to the day she discovered her passion.

She'd been older than most who got their cutie marks. At the time, the blankness of her flank hung over her head like a raincloud. The meaner girls at school made it the source of her mockery, and a few boys joined in. Most colts, however, would rather hit on the pretty filly by the lockers than jeer her, cutie mark or no.

Occasionally, she wondered what her life might be had she never taken that job. Would she have discovered the same destiny at a later date? Would she have taken another path entirely?

These days, a few academics touted the philosophy that destiny was what you made of it. Swan couldn't say herself whether she agreed, but she leaned towards not. Your cutie mark was your cutie mark, and that was that. It was how she'd been raised.

The day she earned hers had been utterly ordinary. Had she been told that morning, she never would have believed it would be the most pivotal point in her life, a river bend from which there would be no return. She imagined it went that way for most.

A week prior, her father came home from work with important news. "Hey kiddo," he greeted, ruffling white and rosey hair with his hoof. She'd groused, swiping it away with a teenage whine. She held a magazine in her wings, browsing the catalogue of Cloudsdale Chic's latest edition. "Guess what your old dad heard today?"

She rolled her eyes. "Ugh, I don't caaare."

He grinned through his beard. "I think you will. Remember that saddlebag you wanted?"

Her eyes lit up, catalogue abandoned. She'd been wanting that saddlebag for months, a designer purse built especially with a pegasus' comfort in mind. All her friends were raving about it, but her single parent household simply couldn't afford the expense.

Decades later, she remembered so many little details of the events surrounding that purse, yet she couldn't guess the brand name now if she tried. Funny, that. Flights of fancy came and went quick as clouds, but in the moment, felt like the most important things in the world.

"What?" she exclaimed. Her wings carried her above the couch, hovering in place with nervous flaps. "What is it? Telll me!"

"Woah-ho there little miss." He extended a wing of his own, far larger, a reddish-orange against her hot pink - now, a faded fuschia. Guiding her down to clouds, he went for the kitchen. "Met the Dailies today for lunch. They told me they'll be having their anniversary dinner in Featherston next Sunday. Won't be back home 'til evening."

She raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"Aaaaand..." The kitchen filled with the clatter of pots and pans, the open and shut of filled drawers. "Their son is going to need a foalsitter."

She made a gagging noise. "Daaad, ew. I'm thirteen! I'm not gonna hang out with a first grader! And I'm supposed to meet Skim and Diver on Sunday anyway."

The fridge opened, closed. Water rushed from the faucet, followed by the familiar sound of her father's chef's knife chopping against hard-packed cloudmarble. "Bet you'll change your tune when I tell you they're offering a hundred bits. Only one night by the way, if you're still curious."

It wasn't enough, not nearly. She needed thrice that and then some. Luckily, she'd been saving up, taking various odds and ends for over a month. It wouldn't get her the rest of the way there, but it was close.

By next week, she stood on the porch of the Dailies', waving them goodbye.

Turning around, her smile waned. She closed the door, locked it behind her, and observed him rolling marbles on the carpet.

Some days prior, the Dailies invited her and her father for dinner. They wanted to see how well she and their son got along. She'd braced for the worst, expecting some screeching, trampling nightmare of a hellspawn, but found herself pleasantly surprised by his soft-spoken demeanor. The degree of his shyness annoyed her to an extent, but she was infinitely more grateful to look after a quiet child than a loud one.

She would - could - never forget him. He'd be a stallion now, almost certainly with a life, a career, and children of his own, but she would always remember him as that demure little colt - powder blue coat, purple eyes, a curly mussy mop of gold and orange hair that matched his blonde, glitter-like freckles. He was among a rare few pegasi born with the fortune of not only colored primaries, but secondary feathers, the same orange and gold of his mane and tail.

In the beginning, she keptt her distance. To her, quiet and shy meant she wouldn't have to do much. The idea of fraternizing with a foal, even for money, seemed degrading. With age, she came to see the absurdity and - ironically - foalishness of that concept.

Despite intentions, as the day wore on, she found herself enjoying his company more and more. It began with the little things - his simple curiosity, his dedication to artwork. Half the paintings in his home, she'd been stunned to learn, were made by him rather than one of his parents.

Eventually, his outer shell cracked, and he exposed himself for the sharp, artistic, strangely insightful young pony that he was. In her mind, the most important thing she gained that day was the understanding children were just as much a pony as any adult. Kids had as vibrant an inner life as anypony else, and deserved - to a degree - their own autonomy.

They played games, ate snacks, complained about their parents. She had the most fun drawing with him, using everything from colored pencils and crayons to markers and watercolor. She still felt a twinge of shame at the fact he drew better than her, even now.

Once indoor activities wore themselves out, and listening to radio dramas lost their appeal, they left for the backyard. There, they could play in the ways she'd enjoyed as a filly, and still sometimes did with her friends - wingtag, flapscotch, stormball, even cumulus kick in the right mood.

In contrast to other tribes, most pegasi yards were not filled with grass and greenery, but clouds and water. Like much of Cloudsdale, they made their own structures, some packed until hardness, others loose and fluffy. The Dailies' yard was no exception.

One glance told all she needed to know on why - and how - they'd be willing to drop so many bits for a single night's work.

It must have been twelve thousand square hooves, at minimum. Tall terraced walls formed the border, the interior space smattered with decoration. Her eyes widened at the sight of it all - a multi-tiered bird bath, weather garden, a fountain for each of the five corners, all of which fed into their own ground level aqueduct with a flat marble bridge over each. They came together at the yard's center, a deep basin filled with water. From its center rose the most arresting feature - the statue of a tree, hoof-carved, wind-polished, complete with bark texture and leaves made of rainclouds. Blue and gold lanterns hung from the branches, and swayed in the breeze like windchimes.

She couldn't recall how long she stared, then or now. Before, she hadn't seen their three-story home as particularly outside the ordinary, her teenage mind too young to reflect on the class disparities. After, she wondered how on Equus her working dad came to befriend such ponies.

When she managed to shake herself of the stupor, they began their games. All went well.

For a time.

By sunset, in the midst of wingtag, she switched tactics. Rather than continue her chase she kicked up a cloudpuff, and seized on his distraction. She dove for the tree, nestling herself in the canopy of rainy leaves. She grinned in spite of the damp, knowing wet fur was a small price for what she had planned.

Through cracks in the cloud, she watched him whirl around. Confused, he kept spinning, zipping from one corner to the next, calling her name. She giggled, snorting every time he almost found her, but remained just quiet enough to go on unnoticed.

Finally, he turned his back to the tree. She snuck out, barely containing her cackle, and brushed his haunch with her feather. "Tag, you're it!"

He yelped, followed by a huff, and banked towards her. She let the cackle free, laughing maniacally as she sped away.

Age and experience made evasion a breeze. By no means could she have ranked with the Junior Speedsters, but outfly a colt less than half her years? Now that she could do.

But perhaps she'd gone too fast, tempted to push him too far.

She didn't see what happened, but she heard. In a split second her trajectory snapped back, racing to his side. She'd acted before processing the sound - a high, squealing yell. Never before nor since had she felt a fear so palpable.

She found him crumpled.

Curled in the fetal position, he cradled his foreleg. Wailing, he tried to hide it, shifting his wings to block her view, as though he were embarrassed to show her.

Fuelled by adrenaline, she fought to pry them off. Her heart stopped when they came back bloody.

Tears stained his cheeks as much as red stained the fur. She remebered in vivid detail - too much detail - the striking clash of wet crimson against matted teal, shining in the early amber evening.

It was a simple scrape, nothing that couldn't be fixed at home. A cloth, hot water, soap and some pressure would do just fine, but it didn't change the hurt. It made her heart ache.

She scooped him up, cradling him with wings and forelegs. Crooning, she ran primaries through his mane, rocking him back and forth. She promised him everything would be okay, until his sobs became cries, became sniffles, became silence.

When he gave her a nod, she helped him inside. She washed the wound, cleaned it, wrapped it, compressed it. For the trouble she made him a bowl of icecream, the biggest she found in the cabinets. He only ate half, and gave the rest to her.

"You have it," he said, beaming. And, wrapping himself around her legs, made a confession - one that she could replay in her mind so clearly it might have happened that morning. Until the day she died, it would be her companion.

"You're the best foalsitter ever!"

From her core blossomed a feeling - the feeling - one that she today could say she'd not felt since. She could take that feeling and ride it to the tallest peak of Equus. She could hold it dear on a freezing winter night, and never grow cold.

She could die with that feeling, and be happy.

He gasped, and she pulled back. "What is it?" she blurted. "Is your leg okay?" Before he could say anything she grabbed his hoof, eyes frantically scanning the bandage.

"No," he giggled, waving her off. "Your cutie mark!"

"What?"

The word spilled off her tongue. What in Equestria did he mean by that? She didn't have her cutie mark yet. Tartarus, sometimes she worried she never would.

She placed his hoof down, her own shaking. "I- What are you talking about?"

With insistence, he pointed behind her. Her head turned with the slowness of forever. At last, her eyes met her flank.

She understood.

Smack dab on her haunch was a brilliant bubblegum heart. Around it the white-feathered wings of a swan formed its outline, as if to embrace and hold it close. Inside the pink of the heart laid one smaller, a passionate red.

It was her destiny.

She loved children. Nothing in Equestria existed that gave her the joy of caring for them, making them smile, offering comfort when they were hurt. Raising them up, higher than they were, to glean their truest potential.

She took a lot more foalsitting jobs after that.

Graduating from highschool led her to search for proper employment. She faced limited options. Many fields involved with foals required degrees she did not have, nor did she desire.

At nineteen, she found work at a nursery. Given menial tasks such as providing food, water, changing cloths and diapers meant she always had something to do, but she missed the satisfaction. These weren't just foals, they were babies. Her individual participation held no impact, made no difference. So, after some years, she began to search elsewhere.

With experience under her wings, she wound up at the Senator Blue Orphanage, located in the heart of Cloudsdale's center. It would not be the one she stayed at, but it would be the one that propelled her to her dream career.

The orphanage, out of practicality more than prejudice, could not allow non-pegasi. It was for their own safety; without the use of reliable, high-level magic, other tribes could not walk the clouds as they did. Swan, however, wished to help foals from every tribe. She yearned to experience the rich tapestry of Equestrian life, diverse and fluid, not so static and conformist as Clousdalian culture.

At twenty-seven she resigned, leaving for the shining jewel of Equestria to find opportunity. There she discovered the Royal Canterlot Orphanage, run off the direct funding from the Crown's own coffers. Offering the best conditions and most - albeit historical - prestige, it seemed an obvious choice.

The paycut was insignifcant in the face of those details. Paycuts also mattered less when the orphanage offered on-site living. Ever since, it was there she resided.

Countless children came and went. Some found adoptees, others did not. She loved them all the same, and took pride in helping them grow. Thirteen years of service flew past, and she ascended to the high position of Head Matron - the youngest in the orphanage's long history.

That was some two decades ago.

She was an older mare now. She had plenty life left within her, but the years and stress had taken their toll.

Wrinkles, however small and subtle, tugged on her face. Her fur, once sleek and luscious, faded to a dull, kindly warmth. Her mane and tail retained its vibrance, though hung more limp than the smooth waves it once held. Her eyes, meanwhile, soft and warm like baked blueberries, remained bright as ever.

She hummed a tuneless melody, placing signed pages to the stack on her left. Those stamped, she set to the right. As she prepared to begin last month's paperwork, she heard a hollow, distant sound.

Her ears perked and strained to listen. While her vision remained sharp as in her youth, the same could not be said for her hearing. The sheets of rain from outside, pounding against the roof, made her task no simpler.

She waited, and heard it again - rhytmic, hard, impactful. The noise floated from down the hall, near the front entrance. It sounded like... like a thump on wood.

No, not a thump.

A knock.

Grunting, she stood from her chair. How long had she been sitting? The snap, crackle, and pop of her joints told her it must have been hours.

Gently clip-clopping her way towards the front, two large double wooden doors, she wondered what it might have been. After her time working at an Orphanage she had reason to suspect a couple things. At this time of night, one seemed more likely than the other.

Undoing the lock, she pushed open the leftmost door. She discovered no one present. She called out, just in case, and received no answer.

She knew what this was, then.

Glancing down, she confirmed her suspicions.

A basket lay at the precipice. Inside rest a swaddle of cloth, colored like a tropical sea. Between the folds, towards the top, a golden nub of a horn poked out through a mess of red and yellow strands. The way they curled and twisted reminded her of living flame, or a phoenix's feathers.

Big, soulful eyes peered into hers. They were, she noted, the same shade as the blanket.

"Hello little one," she heard herself say. Her voice sounded distant, muffled by the rain. "Let's bring you in, shall we?"

Taking the basket's handle between her teeth, she paced backwards. She shut the door, and made for her own room. Not until paperwork had been settled and the foal had become adjusted to this place could she put them in the nursery.

"There you are. I have to work now, but I'll be back soon, alright? Just close your eyes and get some rest."

Placing the genlest of kisses upon the baby's horn, she noted something. A tag was attached to the handle, and a pair of letters were fit in beside the blankets. Squeezed in beside the foal fit a hoof-stitched plush toy, a bright golden sun with a big, smiling face, sewn onto it a pair of sunglasses perched just under the eyes.

She took the former, and left the latter. Walking downstairs away from the Matron's Quarters, Swan re-entered her workspace. Placing each upon her desk she read.

The tag came first. 'Sunset Shimmer', it said. The name of the foal.

Next were the letters, sealed within non-descript envelopes. She cracked open the first.

'My gorgeous, shimmering Sunset'.

She stopped there. This was not meant for her eyes.

The second addressed her. Not specifically, but in spirit. It described the author's situation, why she had left her foal - a filly, Swan now knew - and a desperate plea from mother to mare.

Like other letters of similar ilk, she would do her best to honor it. From now on til she could no longer, the care of Sunset Shimmer was her duty.

Her, among many.

---

Sunset was a willful little thing.

This became apparent the first day, when she tossed her food in Swan's face. The other foals ate their breakfast without issue, a mix of unsalted, unspiced peas and porridge. But no, not Sunset Shimmer.

Wiping the grool off her fur, she attempted to feed Sunset more directly. The second the spoon neared her lips, magic flung it across the room.

Swan tried everything she could, all the tricks, techniques, and combination of words that could settle unruly foals. None worked. Sunset would not be dissuaded.

Swan gave up. She had to figure out what this imp of a unicorn would take. Several hours and bowls of spilled food later, she had her answer.

As it turned out, the little she-devil liked her meals spicy.

Her wild nature extended to places beyond meal time also. Swan had seen this before; foals did not always take so well to new locations, let alone without the presence of their caretaker. Worse, the mare who'd birthed her. Sunset looked around a year old, more than enough time for her mother to imprint.

Interactions with other foals yielded just as poor results. She hoarded toys, and when another child - or adult - attempted to take them from her, she threw the hissy fit to end all hissy fits. Blocks were thrown, dolls ripped apart, many an infant left crying, and a mess for the matrons to clean up.

One afternoon, she and they discussed what should be done. They concluded on the idea of isolation, keeping Sunset away from the others until she learned to play nice.

The tipping point came with her magical outbursts, once nearly every hour. Common knowledge spoke on the power of a baby unicorn's magic, but Sunset was something else, her power seemingly fuelled by the intensity of her emotions.

The worst of it happened so innocuously. Matron Mayflower, preparing the babies' bedtimes, attempted to coax a train from the filly's grasp. Sunset had none of it. With an angry cry, her horn flashed, and Mayflower teleported inside the wall.

Fortunately, her front half stuck out, allowing the poor mare to breathe. It took an hour to remove her, and now they had to wait until Wednesday before repairponies could come fill the hole.

No less chaos marked the weeks following. Sunset proved herself a ticking time bomb. It was a matter of when - not if - she blew up, other foals or no.

"She's a firecracker," Okra said. Her tone made clear it was not a compliment.

Nutmeg smiled, amused. "Have you seen her hair? It's no wonder she's got such a fiery personality, ha!"

For a few months, Swan worried the foal might have to be moved elsewhere.

She hated transfers. In other orphanages, she couldn't know that a child was being treated properly. Sometimes though, no other choices remained. It was that, or they'd have to call the Royal Manager to deploy a psychologist.

This, thankfully, did not come to pass. They learned, pouring through various methods, that Sunset most consistently behaved for Swan. Said consistency was relative, but better relative than not at all. Some worried for her, said this child was not her burden to bear, but Swan ignored them.

She had read that letter. She understood, on some level, without the license for psychiatry, why Sunset lashed out the way she did.

Thus, she took on sole responsibility. Others would help, but she would remain the filly's primary caregiver. In other words - a replacement, for the mother she'd loved, and lost.

In the meanwhile, she played with her, read to her, taught her the things a small one needed knowing. To her surprise, the little girl delighted her. One thing she could say on her behalf - she was not a dumb filly.

She learned fast. Round pegs in square holes? Forget it. That toy set got tossed out before the week's end.

Swan pulled out the mazes. Then the puzzles. Finally, they settled on construction sets, the sort that a pony could mix and match to their heart's desire. Only then did she sate Sunset's endless demand for stimulation.

More time passed, and she spoke her first word.

"No!"

It hardly surprised her. Squinting, Swan appraised her peas' porridge. Nothing seemed amiss, until she sniffed.

No spice.

At least she no longer threw it.

Time continued its inexorable march. Swan handled the orphanage's duties, as always. In them she managed Sunset's paperwork, and got her in the system. That dealt with, they could wait a few years and find her a placement in school.

Once Sunset could speak, Swan instructed her more personally. She taught her the concepts any pony young or old should know - boundaries, kindness, empathy.

These Sunset took to less easily, but she managed. By the fourth year, she could interact with others without too much incident.

That wasn't to say she was perfect about it, though few children were. She got into fights. Nothing serious ever occurred, but she'd embroil herself in the occasional spat over what toy belonged to whom, or if said comment was meant as an insult.

And she loved competition. Wherever she could make one, she did, with peers and matrons alike. Staring contests, tower building, speed reading - nothing lay out the realm of possibility.

There was nothing wrong with that, not necessarily, but Sunset despised losing. If she blinked first she denied it, would turn it into a whole debate. If her tower toppled first, she smacked the other down in anger. If her competitor finished reading before her, she took the book for herself, or ripped it up in front of them.

On this matter, Swan had two comforts. One was that Sunset rarely lost.

The second, that other children got quick to her ways. If she proposed a contest, or who could do what for longer, they shut her down, or left entirely. On the other hoof, Swan could see that bothered her. Profoundly.

It wasn't that Sunset meant to be mean. While she had issues interacting with others, she meant welll. When push came to shove she could be the friendliest, most charming little filly this side of Equestria, with the biggest smile and widest blue eyes Swan had ever seen. A real heartwarmer, if there ever was one.

Yet she was so easy to upset. Any friends she made she' inevitably pushed away, often without intending to, because of her explosions or callous disregard. Other times, she got wrapped up in her schoolwork and own ambitions, forgetting the friendship existed to begin with.

From the reports Swan received, the story went the same way in school. Teachers lauded her performance, but lambasted her attitude. She was mouthy, they said - loud, egotistical, disruptive: a troublemaker. Sadly, Swan couldn't disagree.

She knew the label that applied to Sunset Shimmer:

Problem child.

She'd dealt with those in the past. A fact of working with children meant you would inevitably come across at least one. How you chose to deal with that was up to you.

Swan handled hers with patience, compassion, and understanding.. She saw how it went with those who preferred punishment and retribution. It never fared well.

Expressing empathy, finding the root of it all - those solutions reaped the best rewards. Bad behavior was rarely the illness, but the symptom. If you could determine the underlying cause and tackle it with care, the problem resolved itself. In this way, Swan acted as a kind of therapist.

The challenge Sunset posed, was she simply refused to speak on any of her issues. Swan knew they were there. She saw it in her eye, heard it in the way she spoke.

Where other ponies cracked under Swan's gentle words and earnest reassurance, Sunset clammed up. No pony that had nothing to hide did that.

"Are you doing okay?" Swan might ask.

"I'm fine." Sunset would always say.

"What did you do that for?"

"He looked at me funny!" or "She was being stupid!"

"Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"No."

The pattern stuck on repeat, over and again. Sunset was an enigmatic filly, a blackout puzzle box Swan wanted to piece apart, but could never so much as remove the exterior shell.

She had her guesses, thinking that Sunset did what she did as some form of self-imposed expectation, but couldn't say anything for certain. She could try for firmer methods, but Swan couldn't bring herself to punish a kindergartener for not spewing out all her problems. Eventually, she realized it wasn't about her age at all.

Sunset was exhausting, simple as that. But Swan... To Swan, Sunset meant something else.

Swan might not concern herself to this extent with any other foal, but Sunset was different. She took that oath. she swore the filly would be her charge years ago. That she hadn't met her mother and didn't even know her name made no difference. She'd die before Sunset entered that household again.

The worst of it, she saw the potential in Sunset. Smart, determined, ambitious, talented - she bore the traits of somepony who could become great. Just as much, she lacked discipline, forethought, and self-reflection.

Then, one night, she glimpsed Sunset's mind for the hint of a moment.

Up late again, she busied combing through documents the same way she'd done the evening Sunset arrived. Only, there was no rain. There was no knock. And she had a lantern burning, instead of a candle.

The voice startled her, pulling her head from work's bureaucratic mire. She glanced up, and smiled at the foal in the doorway.

Tears stained her amber cheeks. The one thought which passed through Swan's mind - 'Sunset never cries'.

Celestia knew for all the tumbles she got in, she had plenty reason to. Swan remembered once, playing tag outside, Sunset fell and scraped her knee not unlike the colt from Swan's past. Unlike him, she didn't cry, barely made a peep no matter how ugly the pain twisted her expression.

"Sweetness," she said, stood, moving towards her. "Sunshine. Is everything alright?"

She half expected her to say 'Yes, I'm fine', like she had every time before.

Sunset shook, choking back a sob. Swan closed in, wrapped a wing around her neck, and rest her chin atop her head away from the horn. "Shhh," she soothed, the way she'd done with that little pegasus boy. "It's okay. I'm here. I've got you."

It took minutes before Sunset managed words. When she did, they came out tripping, blubbering over her own tongue. "I-I had a nightmare. I've had it a bunch of times and I thought they would go away but they keep happening a-and, and this one was the worst."

Swan nodded, shushing, nuzzling her cheek. "Tell me. I'm here for you."

"On any other night, Swan would meet with denial, obstruction, walls upon walls upon walls.

"I'm i-in the rain. It's nighttime, and raining really really hard. Somepony is... somepony is above me but I can't see them, b-but I know they're trying to keep me safe. B-b-but I can't see anything else, and I don't know what's going on, and then they put me down. I keep begging them not to leave me alone but they won't listen, o-or can't hear me, I dunno which. And it's dark, and I can't see anything, but it's cold and raining and it's stupid and I'm stupid but it just keeps making me cry and I don't know why." She gasped the final words, breaking back down to sobs.

Swan understood. And in that moment her heart broke, just a little.

She didn't push for more. The dream was clear - a half-forgotten memory, twisted and tainted by time, festering with the implaceable sense that something was missing.

That someone was missing.

Afterwards, she turned often to that unread letter. Curiosity chewed her insides, but she refrained from reading. She did wonder if she should bring it up - all of it - to Sunset, explain the missing piece in her soul.

She decided, better to not. Sunset was too young. She wouldn't understand, and it might make things worse. When she was older, more mature, her mind properly developed, then it would be time.

Until then, Swan would do her best. She would raise Sunset. She would make her happy.

She would be her mother.

---

Sunset blinked, yawned. Through squinty eyes, she saw dim gray-blue sky through her window, and frowned.

Morning. It was morning.

Morning meant school, and she hated school.

She rolled over in bed, facing the door. She didn't wanna go. School sucked. Her teachers sucked. None of her classmates liked her. The work was boring.

Why couldn't they move her up to third grade? Yeah she was seven, but she was way smarter than the other kids. She could take it, she was tough!

Stupid. It was stupid. And dumb.

She closed her eyes. If she couldn't see the light, maybe she wouldn't have to go. If she pretended to be asleep or sick, maybe Swan wouldn't make her.

Except, she'd tried both of those before. A lot. It never worked.

Swan was old, so she knew all the tricks. One time, Sunset tried giving herself a fever by heating her face up, so Swan left and got the thermometer. Another time, she tried coughing, so Swan nodded, closed the door, pretended to leave, and opened it up with a big grin when she caught Sunset playing with her toys. It didn't matter what she did, Swan always knew.

Sunset listened to the sounds outside. Birds chirped, and a quiet breeze made her curtains flutter. What if she hopped out the window and hid behind the bushes? Bet Swan wouldn't find her there.

She huffed through her nose. She'd be in big trouble if she tried that, so she decided against it.

Pretending to be asleep was her best option. It wouldn't work, but if she fought long enough she'd get to school late. That was good enough.

The door knocked, three times. "Sunset!" Swan called. She sounded so nice and sweet, like honey. "It's time to get up."

Sunset huffed. Obviously it was time to get up. She wasn't stupid.

Quiet returned. Then, more knocking. "Sunseeeet."

Sunset didn't move. She wanted to stay in bed, just a little longer. And what she wanted, she was gonna get.

Turning back over, like a little sneaky mouse, she grabbed Mister Sun. She nuzzled into him with a smile, hugging him close. He smelled nice, kind of like perfume, but not like Swan. She didn't know why she liked it, but she did.

"I know you're awake in there. You can't fool me." Sunset didn't answer. Swan sighed. "Alright, I'm coming in!"

The ugly old brass knob rattled, and the door's hinges creaked open. The wood creaked under Swan's hooves too. Without having to look, Sunset felt Swan standing over her.

"You can't stay in bed all day, you know. You have to go to school. It's important."

Psh. Important for dumb ponies, maybe.

"Okay, last chance. Get up now, or I'll make you get up."

Sunset said nothing.

Hoofsteps moved around her, to the end of her bed. Something gently grabbed her covers, then yanked hard.

Cold air seeped into her fur. She whined, kicked her hindhooves, and coiled into a tight ball around Mister Sun. He'd keep her warm. He wouldn't make her get up.

"Nooo, that's not faiiir!"

"All's fair in love and war, my dear. Now!" Smirking, Swan clapped her hooves. "Get that patootie of yours up and at'em! It's time for school."

"School is dumb," she said, glaring. "Everything is easy."

"What is or is not easy is of no concern to me. School is school. Now, maybe I could petition the administrator to bump you up a grade-"

Sunset shot right up, eyes wide. "Really?" she gasped, almost out of breath.

"If!" Swan held up a hoof. "You be a good girl, and move that little flank out of bed."

Sunset scrambled up, leaving Mister Sun behind. She grabbed her saddlebag with her magic, shoving her books inside and the finished worksheets from Friday night. Clipping it on, she trotted over to her door and hopped from hoof to hoof.

"I'm ready!"

"No." Swan shook her head. "You're not. You need to brush your teeth, and you need to eat breakfast."

Sunset stamped her hoof. "But whyyyy? I hate breakfast. And why would I brush my teeth before eating, shouldn't I do it after?"

Frowning, Swan walked behind her and pushed her forward with both wings. "Because I said so, Missy. Now hurry up. If you hate breakfast so much, it's about to go cold and you'll really hate it then. You're already late."

She didn't want to, but did what Swan asked. She flew into the closest bathroom, used one of the disposable brushes - she forgot to grab hers on the way out - and brushed her teeth angrily. Nopony would see it, but it made her feel better.

Breakfast was boring - the same as usual. Eggs, haysausage, with some mushrooms and peppers that made it at least kind of interesting. No spice or flavor though, barely any salt. The hotsauce bottle helped, and she was glad Swan kept her a cabinet stocked with it just for her.

Then, she was out the front doors. Swan stayed behind, waving and wishing her a good day.

Yeah right. Like any school day was ever 'good'.

When she got to school, she tried to stay on her best behavior. Better chance Swan would do what she promised. So, she didn't speak unless spoken to, didn't fight her teachers - even when they were wrong - and didn't play a single prank. She still raised her hoof to answer things though 'cause she knew more than the other kids.

She was getting antsy by math class. She had recess next period, and she had to get out and do something or she was gonna explode. The other kids didn't like playing against her one on one - they said she was 'too mean' - but teams always wanted her if they could get her. Cause mean or not, they knew she was the best.

But, until then, she had to behave.

The teacher - Mister Cosine - wrote some numbers on the board. Last grade they did single-digit addition and subtraction, before moving on to double digits. He started this year by reviewing that for a couple weeks, and now they were getting into multiplication. She wondered if she had to wait another grade before they got to division.

Sunset yawned. Fidgeting, she looked around for something to hold her attention. She wanted to draw, but whenever she tried outside Art class she got scolded. The teachers said she couldn't focus if she was drawing, even though that wasn't true! Sometimes it actually helped her focus. They never wanted to hear that though. Adults always thought they were right.

She glanced down at her bag, thinking. She had her lunch inside - a grilled HBLT, some fruit, and a juicebox with a straw.

Hmmmm...

She had an idea.

She had to stay hidden, and magic would give her away, so she pulled her bag up like non-unicorns did. She grabbed the straw, got it out of the plastic as quiet as she could, and watched the room to make sure nopony was looking.

Her class was big. She sat in one row, fifteen seats from front to back, with two more rows on both sides. Five times fifteen meant five times five plus five times ten, which was twenty-five and fifty. Minus one for her, that meant she had seventy-four ponies to pick. The further away they were the better.

There! A dorky colt with dark brown fur and pink hair. He had big round glasses, and his eyes were glued to the chalkboard.

Perfect.

She kept him in the corner of her eye, ripping out a slip of paper and chewing it up. Pressing it into the straw with her lips, she checked again to make sure no one was looking, and took aim. The shot flew, and she hid the evidence before the spitwad hit him with a funny splat!

"Heeey!"

Mister Cosine's head snapped over. His gray-peppered mustache quivered when he spoke. "Mister Strawberry Fudge, what is the meaning of your outburst?" The slant in his eyes said he didn't find it very funny.

"Someone spat paper at me!"

Sunset hid her snicker. She couldn't let anyone see or they'd know.

Trying to avoid getting noticed, she stared at her notebook. He looked at her anyways. Why was he already blaming her? That wasn't fair, even though she did it.

"Miss Shimmer."

"Yes, Mister Cosine?"

"Did you have anything to do with this?"

"No, Mister Cosine. I was reading my notes from Friday."

She hid one lie behind the other. If Celestia smiled upon her, he wouldn't notice the first one.

"You should be taking notes on this class, not reading notes from last, Miss Shimmer. You may do excellent work but that does not excuse you from following directions. Now, as I was saying-"

It worked! Yes.

For the rest of class, she kept blowing spitwads. By a miracle, nopony realized it was her. She picked her victims too fast, and ducked down too quick.

Ten minutes before the bell rang, she made a dare. Spotting a girl to the row on her left, two seats up, she aimed for the back of her head. She lined up the final shot, and blew.

The filly shrieked, and Sunset's luck ran out. She saw Sunset before she finished hiding the straw.

"Mister Cosine, Mister Cosine!"

"Yes, Miss Tinsel?"

"Sunset is the one doing it!"

His bushy eyebrow raised. "Doing what, exactly?"

Sunset's eyes darted between them. Her hooves fumbled, and she got the straw inside.

"Blowing spitwads! She just did it to me, see see?" Tinsel turned her head, pointing to the wet paper on her mane, a pretty weave of tight gold and platinum curls. The moment he noticed, she shook it out of her hair, scowling.

"And what proof do you have that it's her?"

Tinsel scoffed. "Uhm, she's Sunset"

Mister Cosine harumphed, walking their way. "Whether or not you are correct, I don't appreciate your tone. See you treat your elders with a little more respect."

Tinsel nodded, squeaked, and shrank back as he approached. She gulped, before puffing up and got back a little bit of confidence, pointing to Sunset's desk. " I saw her put it in there."

Her heart thumped.

He loomed next to her. "Miss Shimmer, is this true? If you admit it now, this will go much easier for you."

"I didn't do anything," she blurted.

Moon! Why did she say that? He was gonna find out anyway. Stupid stupid stupid!

Frowning, he leaned down to peer inside. She leaned back.

He grumbled. "Please move your things to the back of class, Miss Shimmer."

Everyone 'ooooh'ed at her. Head down, she nodded and obeyed. In a flash, she teleported with her things to the empty detention desk in the right corner of the room.

"Show-off!" Tinsel jeered. For the first time, Sunset noticed she was a unicorn. Sunset stuck out her tongue and blew a rasperry.

"Silence! I've had quite enough interruptions today. Since we are finished with the lesson, I will assign you your homework. I expect it on my desk by tomorrow. I'll be leaving for the rest of this week, so there will be a substitute taking my place."

The class cheered.

"Oho, don't think you're getting off easy, ponies. She'll be checking to make sure everyone has turned their work in. If it's not there, no recess for any of you for a week!"

The class 'Awww'ed.

After explaining the assignment, he cut class early. Everypony laughed and raced for the door, pouring into the hall. Grinning, Sunset got up to chase them out.

He stopped her at the door.

"Not you, Miss Shimmer. We need to talk."

Her tummy got tight. She ignored the feeling and went to his desk. She waited, but he didn't say anything.

The clock ticked and tocked while she watched him grade papers. They looked like they were from a higher grade because of the long division. She'd seen it in the last sections of her textbook, but it confused her when she tried doing it herself. She always forgot a number somewhere.

Finally he finished. His orange eyes met hers and pinned her in place.

"Miss Shimmer. Are you aware of why you are here, instead of playing out there?" He gestured to the window. Her classmates were playing out in the courtyard.

"No," she lied.

"Because you were causing trouble and interrupting my class. Several times, might I add. Six, in fact."

"You counted?"

His mustache quivered. "I'm a Math teacher. I counted."

"But I-"

"No buts. This is a pattern of behavior I've noticed from you, Miss Shimmer, and I grow weary of it. Troublemakers are something I am accustomed to, and you have officially crossed that line for me from mere troublemaker to delinquent. If you do not shape up your act, I will be forced to report you to the Principal's office."

She pouted.

"Furthermore. As punishment, you will not be going to recess today. You will stay here, and you will write 'I will not blow spitwads at ponies' on the blackboard until I tell you to stop. With!" he punctuated. "Your mouth. I do not want to see a single solitary twinkle of magic from that horn of yours. Am I understood?"

She looked down and answered, "Yes, Mister Cosine."

"Good. I will be here to make sure you do your job. Now get it done and be quiet aboutt it. I have papers to grade."

She trudged to the chalkboard, taking up the least used chalk that was there. She was going to need it.

I... will... not... blow... spitwads... at... ponies...

Used to her magic, the words were clumsy, messy and jagged. Not like her neat smooth hornwriting.

When he wasn't looking, she glared at him. Jerk. He knew she only used her magic to write.

Stupid. Stupid Tinsel. Stupid Mister Cosine. Stupid school. Stupid Swan for making her go to school.

Why did it even matter? It's not like spitwads killed anyone. She was just trying to have fun. Wasn't her fault school was so darn boring. If anything, it was their fault for placing her in the wrong grade!

Her parents would understand.

She tried not to think about them too often, but she couldn't help it. Sometimes, she felt like she remembered her mom, or what she looked like, or smelled like, or sounded like.

She missed them. She didn't understand why they left her behind. Did they not love her?

No, no, that couldn't be it. Parents always loved their kids.

A couple times, she thought about asking Swan about them. She couldn't work up the nerve to do it, though.

One day, she would.

After what felt like forever, stuck inside with the sound of scratching chalk, her teacher writing, and playing outside, the bell rang. Recess started. After two lines, she had to grab a stool.

Don't look down, don't look down. Don't look down or you're gonna fall.

She got to five full lines when the bell rang again.

"Mister Cosine, the bell rang."

He kept grading.

"I'm gonna be late for class."

"Yes, you will."

He kept grading.

She kept writing. The clock kept ticking. He kept grading. Fifteen minutes past time, he spoke up.

"You may leave."

She grit her teeth. She wanted to yell, or throw something at him. But, if she did that, he'd just get her in more trouble even though he was being unfair.

Saying nothing, she dropped the chalk back on the tray and left. Running to next period, she hoped Miss Globetrot wouldn't be too angry. Three voices chattered past the left hallway corner. She ignored them and turned. She had to get to class.

"Oh wow, look what the cat dragged in!"

Sunset froze. "Oh. Hi, Tinsel."

Tinsel sneered. The expression made her pretty beige, silver-freckled face look ugly. Two fillies flanked her, Gold Foil and Emerald Eminence.

Gold had a mocha-golden coat and swooping, pale-yellow waves that fell over her face. She grinned at Sunset with sharp yellow eyes that made her tummy upset.

Emerald looked bored, eyeing her up and down like she was a bug, frowning. She had the straightest hair of the three, one side of her mane was loose and the other pulled into a Prench braid like the one Matron Dejeur had. Her coat and hair sparkled like jade and emeralds, but her eyes were more like opal.

"What do you want," Sunset asked. "I'm late for History class."

"I don't want anything. You're the one who barged in front of us."

"I was trying," Sunset snorted. "To get to class."

Gold giggled. "Bet you'll get in trouble again."

"Mister Cosine made me late!"

Tinsel cocked her head. "That's your fault, though. You're the one who blew a spitwad at me."

"I was bored."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should have picked someone else. Orphan girl."

She snarled. "Take that back."

"Nuh uh. Orphan girl, orphan girl, orphan girl!"

They stepped towards her. Gold and Emerald chanted with Tinsel. 'Orphan girl, orphan girl, orphan girl.'

Flaring her nostrils, Sunset scraped the linoleum with her hoof, like she was a charging bull. "Stay back or I'll zap you!"

"Ooooh, I'm soooo scared." Tinsel nodded to Emerald. "Emmy, see how she likes getting spat on."

Sunset tried to dodge. It didn't matter. Emerald spit, and the warm goo splattered on Sunset's cheek. She shuddered and whined. "Stop it!"

Tinsel nodded to her left. "Gold?"

Gold spit in her eye. Sunset winced and squeezed it shut.

"I-I'll zap you, I'm serious."

"Awww. Orphan girl is crying! Poor widdle baby," Gold said. Sunset wanted to slap her. "Can't even stand the taste of her own medicine."

"Maybe we should chew up her note book," Emerald drawled. Then spit the wads back at her."

Tinsel gasped. "Oh my gosh, Emmy. You are so smart," she gushed. "Get her bag!"

"No!"

Sunset didn't know magic well. She could teleport and manipulate, but that was about it.

She didn't need spells for this.

Revving up her horn, she concentrated. Seeing the magic in her head, she imagined it like a point of bright blue light, growing bigger and brighter until it crackled with energy.

She fired. Once, twice, three times. Tinsel yelped and jumped, but too slow. The bolt smacked her in the chest. In the commotion she stumbled right, knocking Emerald out of the way. The shot meant for Gold landed, the filly glued to the spot before it hit.

Sunset smiled.

"Teacher, teacher!"

Her smile died. Heart racing, She glanced around, teleported past them, and ran.

---

Sunset sat in her room, at her desk. She had her sketchbook in front of her, free to doodle in without teachers being annoying. There was no math in this one, no essays or schoolwork. It was all for her and nopony else!

Thankfully History went okay. Miss Globetrot, a 'pal-a-mino' earth mare with two pretty blonde braids, understood why she was tardy and excused her. Sunset still worried about the Principal for the rest of the day.

Nothing happened. She didn't bump into those girls again. The Principal never called her into her office either, so she hoped that meant she was safe.

Since she got home, she hadn't seen Swan once. She tried looking in her office, but didn't see her there, so she guessed she must be busy somewhere else in the orphanage.

She thought maybe Tinsel still said something, but eventually Sunset was pretty sure she was in the clear. She wouldn't get in trouble. Principal Primrose probably heard her story and was smart, so she knew Tinsel started it and not her.

At dinnertime, Swan came in with veggie noodle soup and crackers. Sunset's stomach rumbled, but when she saw her face her stomach fell.

"Hello, Sunset," Swan said.

"Hi, Matron Swan."

Swan's frown inched lower. "Formal tonight, are we?" She placed the tray on her table, refolding her wings. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

Sunset paused a little too long. "...No."

She didn't sound super convincing either.

"I think there might be." Swan's eyes went to her sketchbook. "What are you working on there?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing to me. I think it looks very pretty. Did you draw this yourself?"

That was a stupid question. Who else would draw it?

No, she didn't wanna think like that about Swan. She shouldn't be mean. Swan was just asking.

"Mhm," she answered.

"Have you finished your homework?"

"No."

Swan sighed. "Sweetness, it's late. Do your work, please? The Principal already informed me about your little incident today."

Sunset chewed her lip. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think you do. You were blowing spitwads at your classmates in Math, and you zapped three random fillies in the hall."

Liar. Tinsel, she meant, not Swan. She only managed to catch her and Gold. Emerald was fine. And they weren't random!

Swan sat down, and broke crackers into the bowl like she knew Sunset liked. "Tell me what's wrong. The spitwads..." She sighed. She sounded tired, and Sunset felt a guilty lump form in her throat. "The spitwads I can understand. But the magic bolts? You could have seriously hurt somepony. And..."

She paused. "You know I have to ask. Is everything alright?"

The guilt went away. Not that question again.

"Yes. I'm fine."

Swan's expression changed. Sunset couldn't read it. "Could you at least explain why you did what you did?"

"I wasn't doing anything wrong," Sunset explained. She did believe it, honestly. Why did nopony else? "The paper, the spitwads I mean. I was just bored and trying to have fun. I don't get why it's a problem."

"It's not very nice to spit on ponies, and you should have been paying attention in class to begin with."

She considered that. And, what Tinsel and her friends had done. The burn in her eye.

No. That wasn't the same. She did it for fun. They were being mean, and trying to hurt her.

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry."

"And what's this about attacking those three fillies? Tinsel, Gold, Emerald, do those names ring any bells?"

Sunset blushed. She stared at her sketch - a canyon landscape - for something to focus on that wasn't her Matron.

She whispered super quiet. "They were bullying me."

"Bullying you?"

"Uh huh. I blew a wad at Tinsel, and she caught me and got me in trouble with Mister Cosine. Then Mister Cosine made me write "I will not blow spitwads at ponies" on the board, and wouldn't let me use my magic. He held me back from History on purpose even though I tried to tell him I was gonna be late."

Sunset dared looking at Swan. Her face didn't change.

"Go on," she urged. "I'm listening."

"And when I left for History, Tinsel and her friends were there. They called me Orphan girl, and-"

Swan furrowed her eyebrows. "Does that bother you?"

"Uh huh."

"Why?"

"I... I dunno, but they were using it to make fun of me."

Swan sighed, brushing her feathers under Sunset's chin. Sunshine... There is nothing wrong with being an orphan. That is just the situation some ponies find themselves in. It's not your fault. But still, unkind names are not a good reason for hurting other ponies. If someone is bullying you, tell a teacher, or try to get away. Escalation of conflict does no pony no good."

Sunset huffed. "You didn't let me finish! They called me Orphan girl, and then started spitting on me. Emerald, or Gold, I don't remember. She spat in my eye, and it really hurt. Then they were gonna steal my notebook, and eat the paper and spit it on my face."

Swan scowled, but it didn't seem like she was scowling at her. "Is that true?"

"Uh huh."

"I'll speak with the Principal then, and your Math instructor. We'll get to the bottom of this, alright?"

"Okay."

She leaned in, kissing her forehead. Sunset leaned back and nuzzled her chestfluff. Sunset heard pegasi had extra chestfluff and if Swan was like them it was totally true. So warm.

"Thank you."

"Of course. Now go do your homework."

"Okay," she promised.

Swan started leaving and closing the door behind her, but stopped. "And one more thing. In spite of all that, if it is true, my point stands. Escalation only makes things worse. Next time, leave them be, and get away if you need to. If you'd have done that, this whole mess could have been avoided. Can you keep that in mind the next time something happens? For me?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good girl. I'll be back for your bedtime story in an hour."

Sunset went back to her sketchpad. Pushing it aside for dinner, she got a spoonful and hummed at the flavor. It was tasty.

Matron Nutmeg must have been cooking tonight. She was the best cook in the whole orphanage, and she knew exactly what Sunset liked. She didn't just throw in hotsauce or some more black pepper, but added a bunch of neat spices Sunset couldn't remember all the names of. Matron Nutmeg did it just for her, since the other kids didn't like spicy food very much, which she thought was dumb 'cause spicy food was the best.

Sunset snorted. She remembered Swan telling her how, when she was a baby, she'd throw her peas' porridge in her face because it wasn't spicy. It made her giggle. Swan laughed about it too.

Finishing up, she started her homework. She got through it fast because she was smart, but it was Monday, and teachers loved giving work on Mondays, so she had a lot to do. It took her over an hour. Swan waited a few minutes before she got done.

Crawling into bed, Swan sat beside her with a book in her wings. She read the story about a little ember lost in the woods in winter. Drifting around, it looked for something to light, and found a family freezing around their campfire, put out by the cold. The flame offered to help, and it lit the campfire, roaring up into a big happy blaze. The story ended with the family sleeping warm through the night, and the ember drifting off to find another spot.

Sunset wished she could be that ember, but really she wanted to be the family.

When it was done, Swan kissed her on the forehead, wished her goodnight, and turned the lights out. Sunset snuggled under the covers, pulling Mister Sun close and staring up at the dark blue of her Moonlit ceiling.

Swan said Mister Sun came with her at the orphanage. She said it was hoofstitched by her mom, also a blanket that matched her eyes. It was starting to get small for her now, but she kept it close anyways when she wanted to think about home.

Home.

Not here. Not this home. Her real home. The she was supposed to live and sleep in.

She liked Swan, but Swan wasn't her mom. They both knew that. Sunset would never say no to her stories, but...

Her mom should be the one doing that. Or her dad. They should be here, with her, helping her through school and reading her bedtime stories and waking her up in the morning even when she didn't wanna get up.

What would they say? They had to take her side, right? That made sense, for parents to know their kids better than other adults. Swan was nice, but to her she was just another filly like all the other orphans. She didn't really matter to 'Head Matron Swan'.

Except, Swan was there. Her parents weren't.

So... why?

She squeezed Mister Sun.

They should be there. She liked to believe they had good reasons for abandoning her, but she didn't know that. Maybe they were lazy. Maybe they hated her, or didn't want her.

It didn't make sense. That wasn't how things should be. Kids were supposed to grow up with their parents. That was just how it was.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She whispered to the room, hoping that maybe her parents would answer.

"Why did you leave me?"

Outside, a breeze blew. Her curtains fluttered. A dog barked.

A thought popped into her mind. It was an ugly thought, and she didn't like it, but she couldn't stop it either. It spread anyway, like a slow angry fire.

If they were good parents, she wouldn't be here right now.

She kicked the thought away. "No!" she yelled. They loved her!

They had good reasons. Honest ones. Somehow, some way, she just knew it had to be true.

It had to be true.