Chapter Text
It begins at sea, and it begins with a wedding.
Vows are exchanged, spoken over the crashing of waves and the keening of gulls. Horn-rings gleam under the summer sun, set high in a blue and cloudless sky. And at the moment when the brides kiss, the gathering cheers, and their stamping hooves raise thunder from the wooden deck.
Nopony can accuse it of being a well-planned or totally organised occasion, and the spontaneity of it all is betrayed in the provisions hastily wheeled out, the makeshift decorations, the frequent breaks so that the ponies there can split off, act as key members of crew, keep the ship upright and en-route. But there’s dancing, and gathered friends, and joy that lasts past the sunset.
They’re sure it’ll last forever.
They endure for just over a year.
It continues on land, at a summer camp for fillies, some years later.
WELCOME TO CAMP WYRD announced the banners strung between the pine trees framing the main trail, heralds for the sprawling complex of log cabins and huts and camp grounds that were, at that moment, boiling over with newcomers. Great coaches, drawn by teams of hefty stallions and mares, dropped off their chattering, laughing cargo and their cases. Smaller, personal carriages weaved around them and decanted daughters in ones and twos. The sounds of summer were augmented by the sound of parents bidding farewells and then making hasty retreats, by hapless counsellors trying to wail some semblance of order onto proceedings, as the gathering host self-organised into its own groups, cliques, and warbands.
One unicorn filly squeezed her way off a busy coach, heaved her case out from the rack slung underneath, yelled “Thank you!” in the direction of the coach team. She turned towards the camp, her eyes shining.
Her coat was a pale mulberry, save for flashes of white along her belly and at her fetlocks. Her purple mane, streaked here and there with raspberry and inclined to slight curliness, was tied back in a rough ponytail.
Her name was Amethyst. She was a little over eleven.
“Miss Amethyst!”
She glanced over at the mare who’d called out. An earth pony whose mane was pulled back in a tight steel-grey bun under a broad-brimmed hat, Camp Wyrd’s director, Sugar Maple. She strolled towards Amethyst amidst the bustle, attended by a general staff of harried-looking counsellors, stopping occasionally to grab her whistle and whistle at whatever seemed like it needed whistling at.
Amethyst cantered over to meet her halfway, her horn lighting up to heave along her case. “Yes?” she said.
Sugar Maple imperceptibly nodded at her counsellors; several of them detached to form a little cordon around the two, affording them as much distance from the madding crowd as possible. “Miss Amethyst,” she said, “a pleasure to receive you at Camp Wyrd. Your mother sent word ahead of you.”
“My mo— oh! Right, yeah, we spoke about it. Don’t worry, I know what’s what.”
“Princess Twilight Sparkle asks that you enjoy Camp Wyrd like any other camper, without fear or favour or particular privileges, without it being generally known that you’re her daughter. We’re happy to keep schtum. I hope I can trust you to do the same?”
Amethyst winked and threw off a jaunty salute. “Don’t worry, Director Maple. I’m trustworthy.”
“Delighted to hear it, Miss Amethyst.” The crow’s feet around Sugar Maple’s eyes creased in a brief smile. “May you have a fun and fruitful time at camp. Be seeing you.”
She turned on her heel, whistle blaring and counsellors fanning out, and left Amethyst where she stood.
Amethyst studied the camp before her once more, and grinned the cheerful grin of a conqueror contemplating a new stretch of continent. She yanked along her case, heavy with her necessities — not least of which were her treasured toolbox and enough sketchpads to sink a mare-o-war — and marauded off in search of friends.
Five minutes later, a slightly confused group of fillies found they had a new chief. The summer boded well.
A young mare in harness eyed the tangle of coaches and carriages outside of Camp Wyrd from a safe distance. She glanced backwards to her passenger. “How does here suit you as a getting-off point?”
“Suits me fine, Auntie Sweetie.” Her passenger, a unicorn filly, hopped off the little carriage Sweetie Belle had hired for the jaunt out to camp and hauled out her case. She regarded the camp ahead, her expression thoughtful and reserved.
Her coat was a pale mulberry, save for flashes of white along her belly and at her fetlocks. Her purple mane, streaked here and there with raspberry and inclined to slight curliness, was worn down around her withers and brushed immaculately.
Her name was Lavender. She was a little over eleven.
“Got your case?” Sweetie asked.
“Yes.”
“Got an idea of what you’re doing?”
“Sort of.”
“Got your head screwed on tight?”
She smiled faintly. “Yes.”
“Got a tip for your chauffeur?”
Lavender glanced around at the ground, spotted a fallen leaf, and deployed her magic to proffer it to Sweetie. “And you don’t have to share it with anypony.”
“At last, I’m rich.” Sweetie tucked the leaf behind a strap of her harness, close to her heart, and smiled fondly down at her niece. “I’ll miss you, Lav. I’ll be waiting to hear about what a great time you’ll have had.”
“I’ll miss you too, Auntie Sweetie.” Lavender reached out to hug Sweetie, and was drawn into her embrace. Slightly muffled, she said, “Don’t let Mom work you too hard.”
“I’ll try my best.” Sweetie released Lavender. “A night’s rest at port and on the voyage back should prepare me nicely for the toils to come. You make a million friends, okay?”
Lavender grinned. “Deal.”
She glanced back to the camp, and studied it a moment longer. Her reserved expression returned, braced by a subtle smile. Eventually, she hefted her case — straining to contain the sheer volume of books she’d packed — and ventured forth. Sweetie watched her all the way.
At last, once Lavender had disappeared amidst the hosts innumerable, Sweetie turned for the road that led back to the port and, eventually, home. “There you are, Rarity. Task complete. Dropped your daughter off at camp safe and sound. Everything’s coming up Sweetie Belle.”
She trotted off, and sang softly to herself.
Five minutes later, another group of fillies found they had a new grey eminence. The summer boded well.
And far, far away in either direction, two mothers — one concluding the business of that afternoon’s court and wishing dearly to take off her regalia, the other studying a new dress critically — felt a pricking in their hooves.