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// The Pulley 
// Story: Tales on the Periphery 
// by PartedThreeWays 
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Come closer, and look down at it. A story told in whispers, a poem scrawled on pages kept secret in the scrollboxes of Gods and contemplated on lonely days when the rains flood the valley. So you’d hear it all. You’d wish, Daughters of Canterlot, to know the story of why Celestia sometimes pulls from a worn chest the crest of the sword and sun and sighs, cradling it. Perhaps you have heard that tale and it troubles you. 


For once, there was a Goddess who would love a mortal pony, a young pegasus of fierce eye and strong wing. Captain Battle Born was his name, and ever was he first among the Princess’s Royal Companions. First was he before the others all in the matters of the mind, and most skilled was he in all the world with the lance and the hoofblade. He was the envy of every stallion of the guard, and their most prized pony. Every mare from the palace to far off Las Pegas could sing the tales of his feats and knew his face, tracing it with their hooves in the secret rooms of their hearts, enamored.


And Celestia, Songborn, was a mare, and in this one respect perhaps came close to touch the earth her subjects also trod: for she too loved this stallion. That love common to all ponies began to grow in her slowly, starting as admiration and ripening into a kind of devotion perhaps foreign to one who saw the stars being concieved.


But the rub was this: Battle Born was a stallion devoted to duty, and romancing a princess, no matter how much she would welcome his ardor, was not dutiful. 


Celestia’s heart was troubled, and the sun wavered for a week as it rose and as it sunk below the world’s edge. When she raised the moon with acolyte’s grip (for in these days the palace was new and the Mare so recently put into the Moon), the night sky lost some of its lustre. The ponies of the city did not notice, but Battle Born and the College of Mages did.


Celestia and her student, Ink Well, sat in the gardens and she finally told him the secret.


The young unicorn—hapless he!—was woefully ignorant in the softer arts, and had little good to say. But faithfully he began to offer a plan.


Blessings would be the road upon which the affections of the Sun’s Shephard would best tread. Simply, Battle Born must be shown that his mistress favored him high above others. 


Princess Celestia, Songborn and also without knowledge, agreed, and so she ordered that Battle Born, Lord Marshall, be given estates and gold. A pension of wine was awarded his personal bodyguard, and richly purchased armor was acquired for them. Proudly, his family’s Sun and sword crest was displayed upon the barding of those proud souls.


And he was not moved, though he bowed and was humbled. Still his heart would not be towards her. He was blind, or would not see.


And so Ink Well began again. If riches would not sway noble heart, than perhaps it was Celestia of the West who must be the gift. For such blasphemies, any other pony would have been struck and his fellows with horrified dismay would have drawn aside... but he was the Faithful Student, and so she listened with eagerness as the confused and poor unicorn with wine-red curls tried to explain the arts of seduction to a goddess.


So strength first made a way. Celestia showed herself proud on the field of parade and with keen eye addressed her troops, and they were overcome with awe for her. She raced Battle Born, and in other ways she proved that she was no simpering princess of soft pillows only. But for all of his reverence and worship, he was not moved how she wished.


Then wisdom, and honor. The Princess would summon him for walks of the city and the halls, and there discuss weighty things with her favorite pegasus. Years of wise counsel and peerless privilege enjoyed with propriety shaped him into a stallion of world-class learning and intellect. And yet, for all of his keen insight, he was moved as she wished.


Came pleasure. Wine and song, the company of beautiful and brave youths and the echoing of laughter in the personal quarters of a Princess whose eyes spoke the sun. Symposiums that lasted until the morning, and when all were cheerful with the wine from the valley below, Celestia would sometimes ask him what he thought. About this. About that. And always he was honest, for he could do nothing else. And yet never she dared to ask him what she wished. And he was not moved as she wished.


And years passed and Celestia feared. For a mare who has given much will sometimes fear, as a stallion would, that it was all for naught. He might, she whispered in the quiet places of the palace when the day was newly born, simply love what I give. He may simply love the fruits my service gives him, and not the giver of the gifts which bring him such joy. And she was sick at heart.


For Battle Born had grown and grown. No longer peerless he amidst the strife, but still a legend. His eyes were deep with knowledge. His wings strong, and his tongue swift and soothing in turn. He above all others was a true son of Eon’s love, that one who gave birth to the Pegasi in the days of the Song. And she saw her sister in him, and wept bitterly at the suspicion that he might not love her at all in any way. 


Alone of all the treasures she could give, rest lay at the bottom of her great stores. She pondered it quietly. For in all of her rush to bestow on him every joy that mortal heart could ken, she had given him Rest only as a collateral. 


And so she decided that her love’s desire would be tested.


She took from him rest. He walked and flew the fronts and the borders. His hooves touched every cobblestone and every rampart in Equestria, and his weary eyes inspected every soldier and every militapony. His leisures with her and with his fellows drained his energy. Though he slept, he found no lasting peace. All was busy energy and happiness that battered.


No longer did Celestia give him all the pleasures of life, but Battle Born took all of it in stride. With stoic smile and great heart (which will not be denied) he continued in the service of the Sun’s Mare.


And surely, Celestia was torn. Without him, her heart grew sad and the waters of her mind roiled like the seas north of Vanhoover, those cold and dismal blue-black wastes.


And finally, years of service past and still he would not crack. Nothing had changed. Always he was the same.


And Celestia’s heart was great with sorrow, and finally, she summoned him home and housed him in the palace and would let him do no work.


He had grown old but had done so well. And he perceived the sorrow of his lady and asked her at last what troubled her heart.


And she told him it all, as Rest found him finally on the soft cushions and the loving company denied him. It had been her love that she had waged this long campaign for, harsher than any against Griffon or Dragon menace.


And he wept, for always he had loved her and thought that she was blind yet. That she would not see in his devotion to his duty his fervent love. And a blind goddess was taken aback. And the gray-maned bowed his head, and all the words were spoken, and yet still there was happiness to be attained. But not right then. Then was regret’s time.


And that, daughters of Canterlot, is why when the dusk of work’s ending approaches, our fair Lady of the West will take out a small crest and stroke it, and remember how once she loved and made the best of stallions.