Vellum and Vapors: The Scholar’s Three-Month Memories part1

                                                                                1

    The quill scratched against the parchment as I transcribed the final passage of Temporal Paradoxes. Every word was a precious, heavy weight, a fragment of history I was desperate to capture before the early light betrayed me. This work was too vital to pause.

    ​The morning sun, filtering harshly through the arched windows, felt like a painful, golden intrusion—a stark contrast to the comfortable velvet darkness I had cultivated all night.

    ​“You’ve been up all night again,” Spike said from the doorway, his voice holding a familiar, weary concern that served as a gentle rebuke. He stood there, expertly balancing a tray with my perpetually neglected breakfast: tea and toast. I could see the glow of the young dragon’s emerald eyes even without looking directly at him.

    ​I didn’t look up; my attention was fixed firmly on the densely cramped script before me. My long hair, a vibrant cascade of indigo and magenta streaked with bright pink (like crushed berries), fell forward, effectively obscuring my androgynous features as I leaned intently over the manuscript.

    ​“Princess Celestia says, ‘rest is part of studying too,’” Spike added, his tone shifting from worry to a light-hearted mimicry of authority. With a decisive but careful movement, he set the tray on a clear corner of the desk, gently easing it between a stack of scrolls and an inkwell.

    I finally let the quill rest, just for a moment, and sighed—a sound thick with three weeks of fatigue. “I appreciate the sentiment, Spike, but I genuinely cannot stop,” I murmured, my voice rasping from disuse. “Professor Aethelred’s assignment on dimensional rifts is all-consuming. I’ve been subsisting on power naps.”

    ​Spike’s gentle demeanor vanished, replaced by a firm, almost desperate intensity. “Dusk, you have to take a break!”

    He insisted, stepping fully into the room. “Look at you! You’re drowning yourself. You haven’t had a proper meal or left this room in days.”

    ​“And if I stop now, I might lose the thread!” I countered immediately, rubbing my temples. “The risk of missing a critical insight is too great. This passage could hold the key!”

    ​He crossed his arms, unimpressed. “You can’t solve a dimensional rift if you collapse from exhaustion! You think a genius idea is going to hit you when you look like you wrestled a flock of angry sheep and lost?”

    ​“But…” I started trying to grasp at a reasonable defense.

    ​“No buts.” Spike cut me off sharply; his voice broke no argument. “Pinch a fork, Dusk, you need to eat! But first, I took a shower. You also haven’t taken a proper cleaning in a while.”

    ​At his final, blunt command, I shifted uncomfortably. A faint, stale wave of my own aroma hit me, and a wave of nausea rolled into my stomach. Ugh. Man, he's right. I'm starting to stank. Defeated, I pushed my chair back, trudged to the small wall mirror, and stared at my reflection.

  I look horrific. The evidence of my self-neglect was undeniable: my skin was pale, and the dark circles beneath my eyes seemed to have their own dark circles. I have bags, and those bags have their own bags. 

     I let out a groan that was less annoying and more a profound lament for my current condition. Turning away from the mirror, I gave Spike a weary nod. “Fine. You win. But don’t expect me to be happy about it. Professor Aethelred’s dimensional rift project will just have to wait twenty minutes for me to smell less like a forgotten sock.”

     ​Spike beamed, clearly relieved. “Twenty minutes is all I ask! I’ll put your tray by the fire, so the tea stays warm.”

     ​I pushed myself off the desk, and the simple act of standing sent a dizzying wave of lightheadedness through me. Each step I took toward the door felt like dragging lead weights. I shuffled out of the study and found the staircase. It was a beautiful structure, carved wood spiraling gracefully upward, but at this hour, it looked less like architecture and more like a cruel, vertical climb.

    This is too much effort for cleanliness, I thought darkly. I could have solved Aethelred’s paradox in the time it would take me to climb these twelve steps. 

    With every ounce of willpower I possessed, I hauled my exhausted body up the stairwell to the second floor. My feet seemed to catch on the polished wood of each riser, and I had to grip the banister hard to maintain my balance. When I finally reached the landing, I felt a desperate urge to collapse right there on the rug.

    ​But the thought of Spike’s expectant gaze (and the lingering scent of an unwashed research assistant) spurred me on. I turned down the short hallway toward the only sanctuary available: the washroom. The promise of steam and temporary oblivion was just enough motivation to make it to the door.

    ​I reached out and gripped the cool, ornate brass handle. I paused, resting my forehead against the unyielding wooden frame, attempting to marshal the minimal strength needed to finish this enforced detour. I twisted my neck to look back down the hallway, articulating my request louder than I intended. My voice, a hoarse instrument, thickened with profound exhaustion.

    ​“Spike,” I called out, managing a slightly steadier tone, “could you lay out my sleepwear? I believe a luxurious, relaxing bath is definitely the immediate necessity, rather than a fleeting shower.”

    ​Spike’s positive response was immediate and exuberant, instantly cutting through my weariness. “Sure. They’ll be ready for you, Dusk.”

    ​Hearing the unwavering certainty in his voice provided me with a small, unexpected anchor of assurance. I released the door frame, pushed the door open with a reluctant shove, and finally stepped across the threshold, ready to succumb to the hot water.

    …I made my way back down the second-floor hallway, the profound weariness now replacing the urgent panic that had previously fueled my movements. I navigated the familiar architecture of my home.

    ​I pushed off from the washroom door and began the short, measured walk toward my bedchamber. I passed the first door, then the second. My room was the third door down—an unassuming panel of dark oak, distinct only because of the minor scuffs near the handle from years of my hurried entrances. The fourth door stood beyond it, marking the end of the short corridor.

    ​Spike, true to his word, was already gone, but a neat pile of sleepwear rested upon the turned-down duvet. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, feeling the immediate shift from the hallway’s cool stillness to the room’s inherent warmth.

     ​My chamber was less a bedroom and more a secluded repository of knowledge. The dominant features were the towering bookshelves that lined up two entire walls; their mahogany frames groaning under the collective weight of centuries of thought. Every shelf was packed with texts, ranging from crumbling leather-bound tomes on forbidden history to shiny, newly printed tracts on theoretical enchantments. The scent of old paper and dust motes perpetually hung in the air.

    ​My bed, positioned squarely in the center of the largest free wall, was relatively unassuming. While small in its overall frame, it was sufficiently wide to allow for comfortable rest—a necessity given my tall stature. Next to it, serving as the room’s central hub, stood a sturdy, antique desk. The surface was currently cleared, indicating Spike’s prior cleaning efforts, yet it still bore the characteristic stains of dried ink and parchment fibers. Upon it, a small, yet complete, arsenal of writing tools rested: a ceramic bottle of rich black ink and a cluster of spare quills; their tips neatly trimmed, ready in case one should fracture under the pressure of intense notation.

    ​The garment was a testament to comfort, made of exceptionally soft, brushed cotton…

    My exhaustion was absolute. I settled onto the mattress; the soft give of the bedding immediately enveloped me.

    ​A small, content sigh escaped me. I was asleep before my head fully pressed into the pillow.

    ​I awoke to the sound of persistent, rhythmic tapping—not the frantic scratch of a misplaced stylus, but the gentle, insistent percussion of etheric precipitation against the windowpane. I opened my eyes, anticipating the harsh, golden incursion of morning that had previously driven me to despair; instead, the chamber was suffused with a soft, diffused luminescence, characteristic of a day veiled by cloud-spun enchantment.

    ​For a moment, I felt utterly disoriented. The oppressive physical heaviness that had previously plagued my limbs had miraculously dissipated; sleep, like a draught of pure starlight, had cleansed the system. The sheer sensation of true, restorative rest was a luxurious novelty. I stretched languidly, my muscles protesting only minimally against sudden exertion. A stark antithesis to the aching rigidity of the preceding dawn—a dawn that felt like a long-forgotten chronological era.

    ​I sat upright in bed, the blankets pooling around me. I reached up and tentatively felt my face: the repulsive sensation of stagnation was gone, replaced by clean skin, and I noted that the residual puffiness around my eyes had subsided considerably. The clock on the antique desk informed me I had slept for an uninterrupted diurnal cycle; ergo, I had traversed the temporal gap from one weary morning to the tranquility of the next.

    ​A quiet, pleased exhalation escaped me. Spike’s intervention, though initially unwelcome, had proven invaluable; the project still demanded my focus, but now, I possessed the necessary cognitive clarity to rigorously engage with Professor Aethelred’s demanding work.

    ​I swung my legs over the side of the mattress, my gaze sweeping the room’s distinctive architecture. My chamber was less a bedroom and more an attic observatory—a slanted-roof sanctuary defined by its deep, violet, and indigo hues. The towering bookshelves that lined two entire walls were not merely functional; they framed a small telescope aimed at the angled ceiling window, and displayed various celestial models, including a mobile of planets and gilded stars suspended above the bed. The furniture itself—the dresser, the robust desk—featured intricate, dark carvings, complementing the deep purple and blue tapestries on the walls. It was, indeed, a secluded repository of knowledge infused with a celestial bias.

    ​Although my energy was profoundly regenerated, a subtle, residual languor still clung to the periphery of my movements. I felt like a creature emerging from a chrysalis, still damp but fundamentally reformed.

    ​With deliberate effort, I moved toward the door, not with the shambling urgency of yesterday, but with a measured, purposeful stride. I paused, resting my hand on the cool brass handle, and then spoke, projecting my voice down the hallway.

    ​“Spike!” I called, ensuring my tone was clear and authoritative, yet underscored by the deep resonance of the recent slumber. “Spike! I require sustenance and retrieval of my notes. I believe I am now prepared to resume the dimensional hypothesis.”

    ​A beat of silence followed. I listened intently, expecting the familiar scuffle of small claws on the wooden stairs, or perhaps the faint clink of ceramic as he prepared a fresh infusion. Nothing. Only the steady, etheric percussion of the rain remained.

    ​My jaw tightened; the remnants of my academic impatience quickly resurfaced. The fatigue was gone, replaced by a keen desire for efficiency.

    ​“Spike!” I called again, amplifying the volume, allowing a slight edge of exasperation to sharpen my tone. “I require immediate attendance! Are you indisposed?”

    ​Still, silence.

    ​I sighed, recognizing the necessity of action. My renewed vigor was now being wasted by this inexplicable delay. I exited my chamber and moved swiftly toward the main stairwell, descending with a purposeful stride that was utterly alien compared to my pitiful ascent yesterday.

    ​As I reached the vestibule on the ground floor, my eyes immediately fixed upon the source of the dragon’s distraction. There, near the entrance, was Spike—his back to me—his emerald eyes completely absorbed by a large, crudely wrapped parcel.

    Just as I prepared to speak, my peripheral vision caught a flash of movement beyond the open doorway. A figure, recognizable as the courier responsible for inter-realm deliveries, was quickly retreating from the threshold, his satchel bouncing against his cloak.

  ​  Ah, I mused internally, the puzzle solved with a clinical precision my rested mind now afforded. The courier’s visit provides an antecedent for this sudden inattention. Ergo, he was preoccupied securing the morning’s postal delivery.

    My irritation, though not eliminated, was instantly tempered by understanding.

    ​I stopped short, crossing my arms over the deep purple sleepwear. "Spike," I enunciated again, my voice retaining its clear, authoritative quality despite my underlying annoyance. “Did you not hear me calling you, Aide?”

    ​Spike jumped, the unexpected address causing him to nearly drop the bulky package. He spun around; his attention was abruptly pulled from the cryptic brown paper and twine. His face was a mixture of surprise and sheepishness.

    ​“Dusk! I—I apologize; I was merely examining this parcel that just arrived. I didn't mean to ignore your summons.”

    ​I expelled a quiet breath and let the momentary lapse in discipline dissolve. My newly acquired serenity was not yet worth sacrificing over a minor delay. I offered Spike a genuine, though small, smile and placed my hand gently atop his head. “Don’t worry about it, Spike. Punctuality is a virtue, but curiosity is a necessity. So, this package—who is the sender?”

​      Spike gave the crude wrapping another momentary, focused look. He hadn’t had the opportunity to locate the provenance amidst the excitement. He then glanced up at me, his emerald eyes wide. “It’s from… Princess Celestia.”

      ​This revelation immediately validated the unorthodox method of delivery. If the communication had been merely textual—a typical missive or an imperial decree—Spike would have simply incinerated the scroll with his magical fire, causing it to manifest directly and instantaneously. The physical package necessitated a conventional postal courier.

      ​“Naturally,” I murmured, my interest piquing. “A physical object of this size must transcend the usual teleportation matrix.”

      ​Both Spike and I moved into the adjacent salon, a more formal living space, where Spike carefully placed the package upon a low, inlaid table. The unwrapping was a brief but meticulous affair.

    ​What was contained within the crude exterior were two primary items: a stack of meticulously folded clothing and a single, heavy sheet of official imperial parchment.

    Spike immediately retrieved the letter, holding it taut for my inspection. The calligraphy was unmistakably the Princess’s own, conveying a message both personal and characteristic of her foresight:

    ​“My Dearest Dusk,

     I am acutely aware that your current scholarly focus precludes any expenditure of time on mundane necessities, such as acquiring new attire. You lack the leisure to attend to such caprices. Therefore, I commissioned a tailor to fashion some garments for you. I trust this parcel arrived intact and without damage. The clothing has been specifically dyed to reflect the chromatic signature of your own extraordinary appearance, ensuring seamless personal expression.”

    I lowered the letter, a wave of profound, yet slightly embarrassed, gratitude washing over me. Celestia is perpetually astute, even regarding my sartorial deficiencies. 

    I turned my attention to the folded contents. Spike, recovering his composure, carefully lifted the top garment, allowing me to inspect its full design. The ensemble consisted of a tunic, trousers, and a pair of boots.

    The tunic was a masterpiece of fine loom work. Its foundation was a deep, almost midnight indigo, the color of the startled sky. This base was not monolithic, however; it was shot through with incredibly fine, iridescent magenta threading that caught the ambient light, giving the fabric a shimmering, ethereal quality—a reflection, clearly, of the magenta streaks in my own hair. The cut was elegant and unisex, designed with a mandarin collar and long, slender sleeves that fastened with discreet silver claps.

    The most striking feature was the embellishment: subtle, hand-stitched runes that traced the seams. These were not merely decorative; they were woven with rose-pink phosphorescent thread. A brilliant touch that mirrored the pink core of my hair and would softly glow in dim lighting.

    The accompanying trousers were fashioned from slightly heavier, yet equally soft, twill, dyed a pale, glacial blue. They were cut with precision, designed to allow for complete freedom of movement–a practical acknowledgement of my frequent, often erratic activities.

    The shade was a deliberate contrast to the tunic, reminiscent of the bright azure of the midday sky, adding a necessary dichotomy to the overall color scheme.

    Finally, the boots lay beside the clothing. They were made of supple leather and rose to just below the knee, featuring a minimal heel suited for both indoor and outdoor wear. The color was rich, deep purple, echonin’ the dominant hue of the tunic and providing a grounding, powerful anchor to the entire outfit.

      “...It is...exquisitely crafted,” I conceded, carefully taking the tunic from Spike’s supportive hands... ‘claws?’

      “The details are, frankly, superfluous for simple town wear, but perfectly suitable.”

      Spike peered up at me, a mischievous glint dancin’ in his emerald eyes.

      “I can discern that smirk upon your face, Dusk,” he remarked, his voice brimming with playful familiarity. “It is the identical expression you manifest whenever you are engrossed in the initial pages of a book.”

      ​I attempted to maintain my scholarly composure, but the dragon was not yet finished. He let out a small, rhythmic giggle—a sound that seemed to vibrate in his throat—before continuing. “I recollect one particular instance,” he said, his tone dripping with nostalgia. “Shining Armor presented a gift to you...It was a doll in a lab coat, Dusk. You tried to teach it multivariable calculus before you were ten,” Spike teased, his laughter echoing through.

    ​I looked down at him, my mortification slowly yielding to a quiet sense of contemplation. I was acutely aware of the passage of time as I observed him; at seventeen years of age, I stood on the precipice of true adulthood, while Spike, now thirteen, was navigating the complex transition of his own youth. This three-to-four-year age difference. Our relationship shifted sometimes from that of a guardian and ward to akin to brothers—or perhaps a lead researcher and his indispensable, if somewhat cheeky, associate.

    ​He had been there for every milestone, from my first failed transmutation to this current, grueling project.

    “Your memory is uncomfortably precise, Spike,” I remark, finally managing to suppress the crimson hue on my cheeks. I turned my focus back to the package, specifically the supple purple boots and pale blue trousers.

    “However, I believe it is time to retire the ghosts of birthdays past and embrace the benevolence of the present. I should don this attire before we proceed to the kitchen; I suspect you have a breakfast waiting?”

     Spike smirked, tucking the letter from Princess Celestia safely into a drawer of the inlaid table. “It’s been sitting by the hearth, but even dragon-fire tea has its limits. Go on, get a change. I’ll meet you downstairs.” ​I gathered the indigo tunic and the rest of the ensemble, feeling the weight of the ethereal magenta threads against my arms.