Gypsy sings a song

“Oh, young pink bird,

To continue to laugh must be so tough,

Do not hide your giggles in a house of cards,

Confess that you really needed my love.”

Cloud-like chambers were what I’d stepped into, filled to the brim with ponies in plush cyanic chairs, surrounded by thick solid white and aquamarine walls, very clearly decorated by somepony wanting to remember the old days of what Cloudsdale had once been. Even the stage misted over, as the lights fell on the singing starling, projecting her voice into the squall. There was no other noise, no interruption or disturbance of her heartfelt calling to the room. The lights, the eyes, and the hearts were all set on her, her microphone and her voice.

“Oh, my bluebird,

Be loyal to yourself from the start,

Changing yourself now is too long a path,

Your strength and resilience is an art.”

The melodic harmonies were easily mistaken for Sweetie Belle’s from a crystal clear radio transmission, the first time I heard that angel sing. It was an elementary mistake to make; my eyes were closed, my body broken. After the forty-eight hours before that wake-up call, I ought to have been dead.

“ Sing your songs, little birds,

Then the sun shall rise,

Spread your wings, little birds,

and return to the bluer skies.”

My vision hurt, but only for a moment. I had not been subjected to waking up in any bright lights, even if that was hard to find in cloud-punished Equestria. I had just one candle, a bed that was some relief no matter how hard and lumpy it was, and the passerine who sat watchfully over me, soothing me with her aria.

“Please, sweet young birds,

know that kindness and trust never burns,

I see your innocent beauty under tattered feathers,

and still feel the good in my oldest friends.”

As she saw me waking, she did not cease to sing, only boosted her voice an octave more, stroking the only cheek that did not hurt. As I looked to her, I wondered if I had died, and this was the new vision of Celestia; not a mare of graceful white but now an amethyst with a top and tail of pure golden ambrosia. Her eyes reflected the light of the simple flame in my room as she silently promised that, from that moment on, she’d look out for me in this brave new world; where I would be without the wings of Periwinkle to guide me. Where I would lose my nerve to soar as I had once done. Where I would follow the only stallion I’d be foolish enough to follow.

“Whether I am yours, whether I am not,

I will love you, no matter what.”

The crowd burst into thunderous applause. Molasses reached me as Gypsy Breeze stepped around the microphone stand on the stage and took a curtsy to her new fans, though she seemed above it all. Something about the Gypsy I first met, and the mare here today was very different, and it didn’t take a psychologist to work out what.