Onstage, the cast were singing, 'Who is Lily Gild?' but 'Who cares?' was all Sweetie Belle had to say to that. This whole night was annoying her to no end. It wasn't fair. Rarity was her sister, and sisters were supposed to listen to sisters. But here was Rarity, the worst sister in the world, refusing to meet her at the airport, making her wait in the theater, and now ignoring her completely. Sweetie Belle almost preferred being back at the academy, even with all the other stupid fillies. It was better than sitting so close to Rarity, and yet being ignored. She fidgeted in her seat and huffed in boredom, waiting for the night to end so she could go back to Rarity's penthouse. The music faded into a drone, over which the ponies in the darkened booth started whispering to each other. Sweetie Belle didn't care about that anymore than she cared about the show, but they were so close she couldn't help but listen.
In the row in front of her, one asked, “Was this Lily Gild a real pony?”
“I don't know,” the stallion replied. “In Thornhoof's Brief History of Canterlot, it says some tracts appeared about the same time Solara was vanquished. Cryptic pamphlets filled with vague hints about a new spiritual revolution in Equestria. They were all signed 'L.G.'”
A third pony whispered, “I read those pamphlets were slander devised by Solara.”
"You're wrong," a fourth said.
"How so?"
"Slander is spoken. When something is printed, it's libel."
“Weren't the Ponicrucians against both princesses? I read they were scholars who visited the Varnetian Academy in Unicornia and came back committed republicans.”
“All the better the Empire shut that place down.”
“The Academy was closed down over a thousand years ago, long before the Empire was founded. Probably before the Ponicrucians existed, even.”
“Nopony knows who they were, let alone if they existed at the same time as the Varnetian Academy."
"Those pamphlets could've been written hundreds of years before Solara fell, for all we know.”
“I read Starswirl was a part of the movement, so that dates it.”
“I read that he wrote a scathing indictment of it.”
“What was it called?”
“Uh, 'A Treatise on....' something, I don't remember. I think it was a lost work.”
“No, it wasn't. I remember what you're talking about. But wasn't that him railing against a literary society that savaged one of his books?”
“But if he was a Ponicrucian, wouldn't it make perfect sense that he writes his indictment in code?”
“Well, anyway, I think we can all agree on one thing: Cynic DeKey may be using the Ponicrucians for inspiration, but it's obvious he's getting in a few cheap shots at a certain present-day author.”
“Cheap shot?” the first pony asked, somewhat offended. “This is rather faithful, actually.”
“They've been delivering a monologue about Lily Gild through song for the last...." He checked his pocketwatch. "....ten minutes. If being a thundering bore is faithful, excuse me if I lapse.”
“The Wealth of the Wellspring is a cornerstone of modern economic philosophy--!”
“Shush,” the mare sitting next to him said. “Jet, just watch the show.”
Sweetie Belle realized that nopony had cared about the ponies chatting to each other. So why couldn't she talk to Rarity, then? She turned to her sister and tugged the sleeve of her dress. “Rarity?”
Rarity, lost in thought, became aware of Sweetie Belle for what felt like the first time. “Don't be rude,” she said, glancing around at all the well-dressed ponies sharing the booth. She absently fiddled with her mane, fixing it and shaping it as she often did when she was about to wade through a sea of paparazzi. “Other ponies are trying to listen.”
Sweetie Belle knew that was a lie, but Rarity hadn't been paying attention to what was going on around her. As usual.
“But I want to talk to you about school--”
“I'm not going to tell you again, Sweetie. Shush.”
Sweetie Belle snorted and whipped her head away from her sister. She thought, She cares more about the other ponies and how she'll look in dumb newspapers than she does about me. That was the final insult; she couldn't bear this any longer. Slipping out of her seat, Sweetie Belle declared, much too loudly, “I'm going to the bathroom.” When Filthy got up to follow her, she declared, “Filthy, stay.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said quickly, planting his haunches back on the seat.
She stomped out of the booth and into the hallway that wrapped around the balconies. She walked past the velvet curtains and marble columns lining the walls, under the eyes of busts of old playwrights. The occasional staff member or theatergoer she passed gave her a brief glance, and then walked on. She kept her eyes peeled for a secluded corner until she noticed an unassuming door with 'Employees Only' on the front. It looked promising. She took a quick peek around, making sure nopony else was in this stretch of corridor, then bent the handle down and swung the door open to reveal a dark storage closet lined with metal shelves. She slipped in, closed the door behind her to keep the prying eyes away, and nestled herself between a stack of cardboard boxes and the far wall. From out of the folds of her dress she pulled a portable radio.
What a joke this night was turning out to be. She had missed the newest episode of her favorite radio show because she had to attend her stupid academy. And then, she missed the afternoon repeat because Rarity wanted her to come to Canterlot. And yet, despite Sweetie's sacrifice, now that she was at the theater Rarity had done nothing but shush her and ignore her, make her feel like she was nothing. She never wanted me to come, she only wanted the dress I'm wearing to be seen. Sweetie Belle refused to take it anymore. Why bother sitting next to a sister she tried her hardest to impress - in vain - when she could go to a place where her friends were waiting for her?
She tuned the radio to the station to catch the evening repeat of her show, while thinking, Rarity probably won't even notice I'm gone.
The last thing in the world she expected was that the clog of anger and rage aching inside her chest would suddenly swing around and turn into a sudden knifelike piercing that cut her to the core. Make her feel fragile and hollow and easily broken, so easily it made her tremble and shake. Her eyes itched and burned, ready for the flow of tears. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She couldn't get enough air down past the knot in her chest. The mix of fury and sorrow filled her up until she was at the breaking point. She was about to shatter, and she hated feeling so powerless.
The tuning knob clicked into place. The soft static of the radio gave way to an advertisement. Sweetie Belle sat in the shadows and waited for the familiar voices of her dearest childhood friends to come on, waited for the moment she could close her eyes and drift away on the radio waves to the world of The Princess's Pride. Waited for those magic words to sound:
“Once upon a time, in the magical land of Gauleonia, there ruled a wise king named Charlemane....”
With the shade drawn, only a sliver of light could come through the window, but Apple Bloom preferred it that way. She huddled in the corner, staring into the darkness, which she could paint whatever she wanted onto. Any place, any time, any thing, any pony. No more being forced to stare in horror at the real world. She didn't have to believe in it anymore, not here, not by herself. There would come a time, later, when she would have to face it, but any moment she could put that off was a moment well-spent.
On her cheap, beat-up turntable, the record spun endlessly. The needle was still in the end groove and sent harsh crackles out of the speakers. She didn't want to get up. There was a weight on her back, an enormous weight that came with being Apple Bloom, but her new record wouldn't flip itself over and play the second side on her own. She wearily pushed herself to her hooves. Moonlight gleamed off the revolving grooves, cut into the X-ray of a unicorn's broken muzzle. She pushed the arm up, flipped the record over and put it back down, then replaced the arm on the outside groove of side B.
She settled back down on the floor and waited for the new chapter of The Forgers of the Future to start.
“There is a spectre haunting Canterlot,” the record proclaimed, barely audible over the crackling, “the spectre of we who shrug off our chains and forge the future....”
Posters of Captain Daring-Do covered Scootaloo's room, concealing the starkness of the pale yellow walls. She paced back and forth, wings itching and fluttering. As a pony of the skies, walls went against everything she was. They made her earthbound and useless, and kept her from her freedom. I'm not useless! she thought harshly. But everywhere she turned, the walls waited for her. In every direction, left and right and back and forward and above and below, they blocked her way. This whole city was full of walls, some standing a hundred stories tall, with walls and walls and more walls inside them. Why wasn't she flying away from them? Her heart wanted desperately to know. Her brain told it that her wings did not work, but the burning flame in her heart would not listen. It only cried out to be fed.
She looked at the clock. Just one more minute! The radio on her nighttable, though silent, was ready and waiting to speak to her, and she couldn't take it any longer. She marched across the room to turn it on. Captain Daring Do was her new favorite show, and because it was meant for teenagers and adults, there wasn't any of that baby stuff. It was totally mature and awesome. She flicked the radio's power switch.
“--soaring through the skies,” it said.
Shocked, Scootaloo recoiled away from the speaker grille. Was it trying to mock her?
“Raptor Airways,” the advertisement said. "Fly the eternal night with us."
It's just an ad, Scootaloo. That's all.
“Promotional consideration for Captain Daring-Do has been provided by Raptor Airways,” the continuity announcer said. “When Daring-Do flies, she flies Raptor! When we last left our intrepid heroine, custodian of the secret documents that could save the Empire of the Moon from destruction, she had just set off across the treacherous desert....”
Scootaloo smiled to herself, laid on the rug, and settled down to listen. The last episode, where Captain Do had unmasked a traitor inside the Equestrian Army, had been fantastic, but it ended with her plane being shot down and about to crash into the Changeling desert, far away from the hoofful of good Changelings who had helped Equestria win the war with the Griffons. Would she make it to safety?
Scootaloo both loved and hated cliffhangers like those, but they sure did get her to tune in the next week. She had a feeling this episode would be even better than the last one.
Had the queen's crusade been worth all this?
Darkness and pain were all Pupar knew. One shrouded his good eye, the other consumed the empty socket where his second eye used to be, and seeped in through the cracks where the chitin on his leg had been broken. Mercifully, though, the noise had stopped. He didn't know why, but he wasn't about to question a bit of good fortune thrown his way, the first in a long while. He was so far away from the Great Mother, but sometimes he still felt her, so close to him. Was this her work?
His ears, bruised and battered by the pony music, had finally stopped ringing and he could almost hear again. But there wasn't anything to hear, not in the darkened interrogation room. Nor was there anything to see. Out of his good eye, that is. The other eye, the one he'd had since he was hatched, would never see anything again. He gingerly touched the dried liquid caked around his eye socket, then swallowed down the urge to vomit. Perhaps the darkness was better; being able to see would only make him realize how much he'd taken his sense of sight for granted.
He started to feel strangely lonely. He had one eye and nothing to see. He had ears and nothing to hear. The music at least made him feel like the ponies outside the door were paying attention to him. That they existed, even. Now he couldn't even he sure of that. Maybe nothing but darkness and pain existed. Maybe all of life was just a fever dream in this abyss, and he was all alone, totally and completely. The only being in the universe. Certainly it was an appealing notion at the moment.
This pony world was so alien to him. All those imposing steel buildings, so far removed from the desert he'd known for most of his life. The polar opposite of the Great Mother desert. Where she was soft and curvaceous and warm, this city was hard-edged and cold. There was no real love here. Not enough to sustain him, at least. So why was he even here? Why was he in this place?
A great chasm of despair opened inside him, one that threatened to swallow him up and bury him in a black hole of yawning horror. It was his duty to the hive, the queen had told him. All for the good of the tribes. The ponies, she said, had manipulated the brood into fighting their war against the Griffons. The brood did it gladly; they had lived next to those filthy mongrels since history began, and it would've been harder not to hate them for the cullings, when the Griffons rode out and hunted the brood down for sport.
But the desert had been kind to them, even if it was a harsh kind of kindness. The tribe had been forced to make their own niches in the inhospitable terrain. Wellsprings of life, carved into the enormous monoliths rising from the sands. The great pull of community had brought them all together and united them as one hive, one tribe, even as the raids intensified. Oh, the Griffons said it was because the brood sneaked into their cities in disguise and stole their love and lovers, but ever since Pupar was a broodling he had heard all the stories about the Griffons being born liars, and he was smart enough not to trust them. Besides, even a larva could see the hole in the Griffon's claim: how could the tribe have struck first if the Great Mother Desert had only given them the gift to save them from the hatred and scorn of the Griffons?
Never trust a Griffon, the tribe had told him all his life. But they never said the same about ponies. The war with the Griffons had ended long before he was hatched, but he had seen on occasion those strange creatures of wild colors standing in the hollowed-out cave of the communal hall. They were dressed in finely-stitched uniforms, all identical and all identically blasted by the sand and wind. Standing erect, the ponies held their heads and ears high and proud, unfazed by the desert. Pupar had been a bit awed by them. What luxury they must come from, he thought, what a wondrous world that had given them this poise and attitude. The ponies' leader offered to help all the hives in their eternal war against the Griffons, and the old queen had blithely accepted. It was a sign from on high, she said, from the Great Mother Desert.
Ha! What a joke.
And after when the Griffon Kingdom crumbled and the ponies rolled into the land, with their settlements, the new queen had stood up and cursed the old one. The communal cave fell silent. The old queen, whose chitin had grown cracked and worn with age, creaked as she turned to face the new queen, shining and strong.
“Those ponies were not sent by the Great Mother to aid us,” the new queen said. “They used us to harry the Griffons so they could steal everything they owned. Soon, they'll come for us, too.”
The old queen had offered empty words about trusting the desert, but the new queen ignored them. By then, Pupar was older and wiser, and when the new queen left to form her own hive, he had followed her. But she had not led them away from the ponies; no she led them straight into Equestria. Their lives would not be easy, she warned them, but neither would life under the hooves of the invaders. The old tribe had grown lazy and indolent after the culling of the Griffons, and the ponies were content to let them get fat and weak, ignoring the harsh lessons the desert taught them. When the ponies came, the old hive would crumble and accept it meekly.
And yet. Here he was, years later, and the ponies had not done a thing to the desert. Their tanks and planes had not tread on the sacred sands, had not blown the hives to pieces, had not crushed the old tribes under their hooves. In fact, they seemed to be more worried about him, him and his queen sneaking into pony society in disguise.
"The zebra have bloodied their muzzles," the new queen had said. "They have no stomach for war right now, but it will not last. Conquest is in their blood."
But maybe she was wrong, after all. Maybe she led them all astray. He even heard her contemplating attacking first, to goad the ponies into invading the Great Mother. A harsh lesson to the old hive and a call for what warriors remained to rise up. She had prophesied war, and now she would rather start one herself than be proven wrong. The prospect terrified him, and he longed for the desert, for home, for the old tribe.
So why was Pupar resisting the ponies so much? Why did he continue to fight the new queen's war? Why not just tell the ponies everything? But as soon as he doubted himself, the answer came to him, shining like a light in the darkness:
Because of her.
Imaga had been part of the same brood as him. They had both followed the new queen out of the real desert and into this desert of the soul, to fight for the future of their race. He had loved her since the day he had learned the word itself. He felt a giddy thrill at the way her chitin gleamed in the light. The speculara of her wings as she spread them. Her graceful, slender fangs. She was in this city too, somewhere, though he didn't know where. All he knew was that it was somewhere high up, a position that needed to be protected and concealed from the ponies above all else. The lives of the new queen's tribe were a neverending string of things that could not be said. He had never told Imaga how he felt, never asked her to come away with him and start a new hive somewhere far, far away from both the ponies and the new queen.
I should've told her. We could have left them to their 'war'.
But Imaga was gone now, hidden somewhere he couldn't know, her beautiful face hidden beneath a disgusting pony's skin and coat.
Sing to me, O great mother,
Of the hero of thesands
Who did tread most far and wide,
Against his heart, distant lands.
Give to me the grace divine
To sing of all the danger
Waiting for his weary heart
When he wandered, a stranger.
Pupar wondered why the ode had come to him know, a long time from all those nights by the campfire in the communal cave, listening to the storyteller recite it orally. Imagining the travails of that great and mighty wanderer, the subtle and cunning Lepideus, as he went from land to land in search of the way home to the desert and his queen. How, along the way, he had drawn the hatred of the lands he went through, until he had pleaded to the Great Mother Desert why he had to bear their scorn. And so she had gifted him with the ability to change his face and body, allowing him to walk among the many equines of the lands, hidden.
The more he thought about it,so far from the desert, the more he realized the ode had never left him at all. He was made from it; his whole tribe was cut from its cloth. The tale weaved itself through their culture, threaded itself right through their lives, their very way of life itself. It told them everything they needed to know about their lot in life: how they hid their faces, how they were hated and despised by the other races, how they were always looking for the way home. Pupar was Lepideus, on his endless journey. And in that moment, so far away from home, he finally realized it.
His voice was weak and wavery, but he was alone in the darkness and there was nobody to mind. To keep himself company, he took up the ode and began to sing: “O subtle Lepideus....”
With a grating screech, the door swung open. Brilliant light filled the room, making Pupar wince and shield his one good eye from the white blaze. He hissed softly, trying in vain to scare away the ponies whose hooves he heard hitting the floor. They had come to pry the secret out of his head: where his handler could be found. He felt them standing over him, glaring at him with hate-filled eyes. Bit by bit, his vision adjusted to the light . His head had to turn unnaturally so he could center them in his vision, now half what it used to be.
He didn't recognize the tall, slender pink pegasus at first. Not until she said, in her haughty voice, “Hello. We're going to have a little chat.”
As soon as understanding came, a lightning bolt of recognition hit him. Pupar averted his eye and affected a sullen attitude. Mustn't think of her. Mustn't give the slightest hint I know her. It might unravel everything. He refused to even think her name, in fear that his tongue might slip and reveal it. He didn't know her, he couldn't know her. Because if they knew what she was, it would lead them back to....
Imaga. Beautiful Imaga. His queen.
When they tried to get him to talk, he refused. He pretended he was Lepideus, lost in this strange world, surrounded by equines who wanted to destroy him. He was a hero, and would not forsake the Great Mother Desert or his queen. She asked him questions she knew he could not answer, making his struggle much easier. He almost thought he might get through this.
"This is useless," she said finally. "It's not going to tell us anything. Tell Spitfire I'm having it transferred to Obelisk House for enhanced interrogation."
"But...."
"Did I stutter? Go. Now."
As the Shadowbolt left the interrogation room, the pink pony grabbed Pupar and dragged him to his legs, and he almost thought she meant to free him. But then he felt her subtle hooves pressing something into his own. He took a quick glance down at the tiny little pill, and he went numb. He understood why she had come to him now.
It was Tetroxide-D.
Standing there, on one broken leg, he shuddered and quickly wrapped his fetlock around the pill. I don't want to die, he thought. Not without telling Imaga how much he loved her. There was still time for them to run away together. All the time in the world. The ponies began to march him out of the interrogation room, to spirit him away for 'enhanced interrogation'. If the Shadowbolts had brutalized him this much, he shuddered to think how 'enhanced' the Guard's hospitality could be.
Tell them what she's doing! he screamed at himself. Save yourself!
But no. He couldn't take the risk that, through her, they would uncover Imaga. His love, whom he was so far away from. 'How I long for those sweet sands,' Lepideus once said, long ago. 'And that sweet hoof of my queen.' Pupar's home was simply at his queen's side. He knew that. But it all felt so far away now. He was never going home, he realized.
When they marched him limping out the interrogation room and into the office, full of ponies with unbuttoned dress shirts and loosened ties, one turned to them and asked, “What are you doing, Soarin?”
Pupar's escort held up a sheet of paper. “The, uh, liaison to the Midnight Guard here, she's authorized to take custody of the prisoner.”
“Does Spitfire know?” the other Shadowbolt muttered.
“If Spitfire has a problem,” the pink pony said, a sickly sweet drop of poison in her voice, “you're welcome to direct her to my office. Now, can we go?”
But as they marched him out of the room and into an elevator, the pink pony gave him a sly smile and a curt nod. Willing him to go through with it. There was steel in her eyes, a secret message that he would be taking that pill, one way or the other. He had no choice, really. He had to do it. Give up his life. For Imaga. It was the only way to protect her. They couldn't get any information out of a corpse. The pink pony was trying to spare him from that, really. This way was surely easier than going through with the terrible betrayal on the horizon.
He was a hero, like Lepideus before him. And he was coming home.
He feigned a coughing fit and slipped the pill into his mouth. Suddenly and painfully aware it was one of the last things he'd ever do, he bit down on the pill. The taste was surprisingly sweet. Hard to believe it was poison. The elevator doors opened and Pupar let himself be marched out into the parking garage, savoring the feeling in his legs - even the pain in his broken leg had a certain sweet feeling - the weight of the air, even this dark, oil-stained air, as it caressed his chitin. Soon he would feel nothing at all, and he was overcome with the urge to cram as much sensation into his last few moments as possible.
One of his knees buckled. He fell to the concrete. The ground was rough and hard, and it hurt, but he devoured the pain hungrily. Soon there wouldn't be any pain. That should've been a good thing, but he had grown accustomed to the consequences of living. Soon, he wouldn't be. Pain was essential for life. Without it or the threat of it, how would a pony even know they were alive? They would be like the old tribe, growing fat and weak.
“Enough messing around,” the pony named Soarin said, trying to drag him upright. “Time to go.”
How right you are, he thought.
He raised his head and grinned at the pony, full of spite for his kind. But in the shadows, he suddenly saw that even ponies had a kind of beauty. His failing mind told him he was just savoring sensation will he still had it, and that they were as ugly as they'd ever been.
The pony cried out, “What the....?”
Pupar started to convulse as his body fought to keep living. His good eye unfocused. There was nothing for him to lock his vision on, nothing real and solid his world could revolve around. Everything became a blur. Nothing was real. Nothing could be known or felt. The fever dream called life was over. His part in this crusade was ended.
And he found he didn't mind much at all.
As the rousing ending theme punctuated Captain Do's shout of disbelief, Scootaloo jumped up in shock, her mouth gaping. Her mind reeled as it wondered how Captain Do would make it out of this sticky situation alive. Would she make it out? Scootaloo imagined herself lost in the desert with a broken wing and being hunted by the Changelings she thought were the allies of Equestria. Where would she go? What would she do? Scootaloo didn't know; but then, that was why she listened to the program. Captain Daring Do was much more quick-witted and clever and courageous than she was.
Those Changlings, they're evil. Pure evil. Even though we helped them win their freedom from the Griffons, they betrayed us and try to steal everything good away from us. She wanted to punch one, right now, for doing that to a pony who was so amazing and had more courage and honor than a whole evil tribe of those monsters. Never trust a Changling.
Apple Bloom paced all around her little room, energized by the amazing record. She went to the window and stared out at the buildings downtown. Hearing all about the triumph of the Forgers of the Future, taking the fight to the unicorns, made her want to go out and blow up some buildings herself. They made it seem so easy. She desperately wanted to show the unicorns that they couldn't control her, that the earth ponies would never take oppression laying down. Those evil, sneering unicorns had always tried to take the labor away from earth ponies, since time began.
But Apple Bloom refused to let them. She would follow the lead of the Forgers of the Future, and stand up to the unicorns. They just got to go and steal everything that belongs to us! Viciously, she thought, Never trust a unicorn.
Sweetie Belle stared at the spot on the floor where she'd thrown the radio down in horror and anger. Its broken pieces littered the linoleum. The bulge in her throat prevented her from breathing properly. A flush went through her cheeks. Sweat dripped from her mane as she heaved and huffed. The rising tide of anger in her chest was too much, far too much for her to hold back. It welled up inside her, making her shake and tremble. To make her hooves stop beating against the ground, she trotted from one end of the supply closet, back and forth, but it wasn't enough to get the rage out of her body.
How could Bayard Avon, creator of The Princess's Pride, do this to her? How could the best show on the airwaves betray her so badly? Didn't she spend all that money – her money! - on the toys and the books and the bedcovers? Didn't she deserve better than this? The pain of betrayal burned.
Why, she asked for the thousandth time since the program ended, why did Charlemane knight Oliger - Oliger! - as his Pawladin instead of Roarlando? Why?! Roarlando deserved it so much more! He was brave and courageous, a true knight who always fought for his princess's pride with everything he had. On the other hoof, Oliger was an annoying jerk who always acted so smug about how virtuous he was, always pointing out these 'flaws' in his younger brother's behavior that weren't really flaws at all. What was so wrong with punishing the servant of Primella the seamstress when all the dresses the servant stitched were horrible? Why shouldn't a servant be punished for not obeying its superiors? But there was Oliger at the end of the episode, spouting a stupid lecture about how only the master can punish their servant, just like only the parent can punish their child. But somepony had to show the servant he was wrong, and Primella wasn't pony enough to do it herself!
But nopony ever took Roarlando's side, not even his brother. Oliger was always quick to tell him how wrong he was, and that made Sweetie Belle so angry she wanted to scream. He's always trying to keep Roarlando down, she thought savagely. Never trust a sibling.
In a fit of rage, she lifted a cardboard box off the ground, heaved it, and threw it against the wall with a cry of fury and exertion. It collapsed on impact and sent packaged cleaning supplies falling to the ground. No use; the rage was still there, and it hurt so badly as it coursed through her body and made her temples pound, tearing her insides to shreds and stretching those shreds to their breaking point. Roaring, she lunged for the shelves and pounded down on them so hard they buckled and slipped free of their metal hooks. They all came tumbling down, spilling their contents all over the tiled floor. When all the shelves were off, she gave the shelving frame a running shove and sent it falling backwards. It crashed on top of a floor buffer, which started spitting sparks everywhere. She grabbed a piece of shelving that had fallen off and held it in her fetlocks like a bat. She reared back and started swinging it at the cabinets on the wall, imagining they were Oliger, who deserved being punished for keeping his little brother in all this emotional pain.
Lost in her mist of fury, she couldn't remember when the other ponies appeared. She only noticed them when they wrested her off the ground. While she struggled to get free, they carried her out of the storage closet, and she didn't have the strength to fight them off. But she kept thrashing and trying to break free, because they didn't have the right to hold her back like this.
Nopony did.
The billowing clouds rolled across the rim of the world as far as Fayton could see. He basked in the gentle moonlight glow. The wind blew back his mane and tail and slipped across his coat, cool and soothing after the blazing, torturous sunlight that scorched his body and burned his eyes. The serene circle of the moon was a perfect symbol of a higher perfection. It watched over him as he took his midnight flight. His shadow fell, distorted, on the clouds below, stretching and warping to their contours.
Down there, far below the cloud cover, were all the ponies who mocked him, spit on him, pushed him around. But up here, he was free of everything but himself. He could never leave behind his thoughts, his memories, his failures in the past. They would follow him always. And so, with this burden in his heart, he drifted through the clouds aimlessly, letting the winds carry him where they wanted him to go. He was so lost and alone, and had no other way to go than where the trade winds blew him. Trade winds that whipped around the dome of the sky like so many stringed instruments fluttering in an orchestra. And the stars twinkled like a piano, a forlorn melody to a measured, sadly sweet ballad.
“So why must I burn myself,” he sang into the night, “and others with my desire?” He twisted and turned into the night, imagining the sky consumed by the scorching sun. “An amorous passion so wrong, a blemish like the fire, of the sun our destroyer that hangs in the sky above. Why must I be the doomed one, doomed to feel this love?
Under the ever-watchful eye of the moon, his only confidant, he took a deep breath, then launched into the song's final chorus with gusto, letting his most intimate thoughts spill out, some wind to join the air coursing around him. The brass section joined him, to grant his words extra oomph. He folded his wings and took a gentle, graceful dive into the clouds.
“Why do I feel like the evenstar has been struck blind, by the harsh unwanted glare of sunlight?” He turned away from the watchful eye of Luna and let his vision wander across the river of stars streaking through the sky. “How will the stars guide my voyage across the firmament, if the sun consumes and devours the night?”
He broke through the cloud cover again and burst into the sky's upper reaches. The colossal eye in the sky watched him. He turned to the serene orb and felt the radiance of the princess behind it. Although she lived in Canterlot, through the moon Luna watched over her ponies and guided their way when they were lost and confused. So why did he still feel this way? Worthless? Scorned by all the other pegasi? Given dirty looks wherever he went? Why couldn't she tell him what he should do to make the pain stop?
“Tell me how to go on when I feel in my heart of hearts,” he sang, “a sensation so heavy I can't take flight? And how can I fight these feelings dwelling inside me, feelings of such sweet joyous delight?”
A smile lit up his face as he flapped his wings and lifted himself into the sky, closer to the moon. “Ooh, it's something unnatural, and it makes me shiver....” He spread his forelegs wide and flapped his wings to carry him higher, trying to embrace the serenity of the moon. “Oh, I know it's wrong....” In a flurry of mad passion, caught in the turmoil of his emotions, his voice rose and he belted out, “Oh, yeah, I know it's wrong....!” Nopony was watching him, but felt compelled to ward off their criticism nonetheless. “Yes, yes, I know it's wrong!” A nameless feeling, an unsettling restlessness without reason or purpose, had settled over Fayton, making him a--
“Oh yes, I know it's wrong....but I'm in love with River.”
Huh? Fluttershy thought. She blinked heavily, again and again, in shock as she tried to wrap her mind what Fayton, turning in tight circles over the dry-ice covered stage in front of a painted backdrop of the night sky, had sang.
That's not what I thought the song was about at all, she thought, supremely disappointed.
Meanwhile, the crowd had erupted into harsh and angry whispering. Shocked gasps and confused mutters punctuated the buzz. As if to reinforce what he'd said, only in a more tender tone of voice, Fayton sang once more, “She's something unnatural, and she makes me shiver. Yes, I know it's wrong, but I'm in love....yes, I'm in love....with River....Wilde....!” As his voice trailed off, so too did the orchestra come to rest, with only the twinkling piano left to play one, final, drawn out melody, before ending on a gentle chord of resolution.
The lights dipped down, and the excited and angry buzz of the crowd increased tenfold. In the dark, the more Fluttershy thought about the song the more sense it made in retrospect. 'Flying high, I head for the stars, wanting to break free, but I'm trapped in this world, part of the cosmic orrery. Reaching the limits of my flight, I fall to the ground. The thoughts take control, and they make me earthbound.' Clearly, it referred to Fayton's panic at his love for River, not his shame at being a weak pegasus - even if she thought that would make a much better song - and his fear at having all these thoughts in his head that he just couldn't control. Thoughts that made him feel weak and powerless and ashamed of himself.
The purple unicorn beside her spat, “Disgusting.”
Fluttershy wondered why the audience was so angry....?
Oh, wait, River is a unicorn, she remembered. Oh. Ohhh! Her heart began to beat rapidly as her mind wrapped itself around the implication. She pressed her forehooves against her slack-jawed, gaping mouth. They wouldn't, would they? Have a pegasus and a unicorn in love? That's....that's beyond taboo! They could all get arrested by the Midnight Guard! She looked around, half-expecting soldiers to burst into the auditorium and start rounding up the stage crew. No, not Fayton! she thought, feeling a terrible wrenching in her stomach, that of her whole world falling apart. He's the best part of this whole musical!
Finally, the musical had given Rarity something to make her sit up and take notice. It was nearly halfway through, but better late than never, she supposed. Her mind reeled at the audacity of portraying a mixed-race relationship on the lighted stage, in full view of the most powerful unicorns in Canterlot. Bold and daring, just like the Cynic DeKey she knew and loved, and a slight smile turned up the corners of her lips at the offended murmuring of the crowd. Of course, it could've been much worse. One of them could've been an earth pony. She could just imagine the uproar over that! Rioting in the streets, perhaps?
True, the division of the races was one of the Empire's sturdiest cornerstones. 'Everypony in its proper place', or so the poster said, as well as that other one about 'Dilution of blood becomes dilution of duty'. And in school, she remembered seeing in her textbooks all the awful pictures of the warped and deformed foals interacial relations produced.
But still, better to be daring than safe, she had always thought. And now, here Cynic DeKey was, openly flaunting everything the High Castle held dear. And, truth be told, Rarity was on the edge of her to see where this went. Here was the playwright remembered from his earlier work, gleefully toying with his audience every step of the way.
What will he do next? she thought, but she didn't have to wait long. In the row below Rarity, an aghast Upper Crust said, “Really? Giving Trotten Pullet dramatic material? Do they expect us to take this seriously?”
If it annoys you, Rarity thought, I do believe I shall give it a standing ovation.
Rising strings came from the orchestra pit, sharp pizzicato plucks that made each chord sound like a determined hoofstep up a steep mountain path. Her eye was drawn to the spotlight on the stage, where Trotten Pullet stood alone, her bittersweet voice calling out, “Mah name is Brownie Bay, an' Ahm heer ta recite, it's mah dooty ta brighten up Miss Rivvah's night. It don't mattah none, if she be sad oh blue, cuz carryin' her burden is jus' what Ahm heer ta do.”
Rarity stared at the earth pony in the spotlight, transfixed by her lone voice, so meek and yet so strong at the same time. It touched a nerve inside Rarity. When backed by the staccato strings, her voice filled the echoing hall with such sweet tones. They had a hidden beauty that transcended the crudity of the earth pony dialect. A revelation of the soul. A deep and abiding sense of understanding kindled itself in Rarity's heart as she watched the earth pony laying down her actor's mask to let genuine emotion out onto the stage. Like Rarity, she was surrounded by falsehood, but here and now she had the chance to let her own true inner self shine, and it was glorious.
“'Cuz Ah luv ta make ya smile, smile, smile,” Trotten Pullet sang, her voice and the strings growing bolder. “It sho'ly fills mah heart wit' moonlight all de while! 'Cuz all Ah really need's a smile, smile, smile, from dis happy mistress o'mine!”
In the dark, where nopony could see them, Rarity gently laid her fetlock over Coco's foreleg. In a flurry of shadow, her trusty assistant twisted in her seat to look at Rarity, but the fashionista just shook her head and whispered, “Thank you.”
A sliver of light from the stage sank into the contours of Coco's face and etched out a puzzled expression. "For what?"
“For being there,” Rarity said. "For me."
“Um....you're welcome, ma'am. But it's just my duty.”
Rarity patted her trusty assistant's foreleg, then took her foreleg back and settled into her seat to watch the rest of the show before intermission happened. It was getting quite good now, though she couldn't say if she enjoyed it more for for its quality or because of how much it annoyed the gossipy socialites around her.
“Ugh,” Blueblood moaned beside her. "This is atrocious. And worse, it's boring."
Rarity's thrill deflated as she gave the fool sitting beside her a sharp glance. What a boorish bore, she thought, suddenly and deeply repulsed by the thought of spending another night with him. Of driving home and having to listen to another word out of his mouth. And, perish the thought, marrying him. She felt like throwing up when she brought up the mental image of their wedding. Blueblood may have had a handsome face, golden mane, and alabaster coat, but there was nothing worthwhile under his skin. Nothing inside his thick skull. He was just a null, a void. Hollow and empty, with barely enough brains to function.
I can't stay with him, she told herself. I would kill myself sooner or later. But how to break up with him?
Her image had to be maintained at all times. Fearless and unrelenting, like when she dealt with the concierge. Appearances were everything in this city, and she couldn't ever make it seem like her relationship with Blueblood was going off the rails. Her reputation would be tarnished, and every time she set hoof into another boardroom they would talk about that behind her back. Mock her and insult her. Erode her bargaining power. It was dog eat dog in Canterlot, and only the toughest Diamond Dogs got to the top.
Send the message that you don't tolerate fools, she thought. Competent and business savvy earth ponies, yes, but not fools.
Trotten Pullet's solo number ended then, and the curtains fell on the stage. Every pony in the booth turned to one another and furiously tried to get their opinions out first. Two actors came out on stage to trade lines, but the audience drowned them out. She heard Upper Crust say from the row below them:
“Is this what passes for entertainment nowadays? Shameful. We should walk out and demand our money back, Jet.”
Of course you wouldn't think it's entertaining. Nopony is gossiping about everypony else and dragging them all through the mud to satisfy their own bloated ego. You cow.
“Uh, sure, sweetheart,” Jet Set replied. He was slouched down in his seat and made no move to get up. “Soon as it's over, alright, dear?”
“How are we supposed to make a statement against it if we wait until the end?”
“Oh, it's not that bad.”
“Not that bad? Jet, what if our foals saw these filth? Assuming they weren't traumatized, they might start getting ideas about mixing races.”
Rarity stared at the stallion by her side, busy adjusting his outfit until it sat right on his body. If I had a foal with him, he or she would despise me when they grew up, for dooming them to be related to Blueblood. She began to chew her bottom lip in anger, but the booth door opened and interrupted her thoughts. Rarity turned to see who it was. Two ushers trooped into the booth, silhouetted against the electric lights in the hallway. They walked right for her, and Rarity was acutely aware of every other pair of eyes watching them. Staring down their muzzles at her.
“Miss Rarity?” one pegasus asked.
“Yes?” she asked diplomatically.
The pegasus ponies stepped aside to reveal a very sullen Sweetie Belle, her face flushed and twisted in a scowl, her body trembling like she'd just run a few rounds at the derby. Rarity's eyes went to her sister's seat, and in her confusion she expected to see two Sweetie Belles. But the seat was empty. She realized then that she couldn't remember her sister coming back.
“We found her wandering around,” one of them said.
Already the whispers started, so low as to be almost inaudible. The seed of a dozen different ghastly rumors took root in those fertile old minds, spinning any number of lies.. After her strong showing at the entrance, being so collected and self-assured, what would they say when she was revealed to be a hypocrite who couldn't keep her own sister in line? The pegasus gave Sweetie Belle a light tap on the flank, to get her moving towards Rarity. Well, at least they're discreet about it. Although I did just give them enough money to buy this building ten times over, so they should be.
Summoning up an iron tone of voice, she commanded, “Sweetie Belle, you sit your haunches down right this instant, and don't even think about moving until the end of the show.” She had to undo the damage, make it clear that who was in charge here.
“But Rarity, I--”
“That wasn't a question,” Rarity snapped, hearing the whispers around her increase in intensity and volume. “Right this instant.”
Sweetie Belle's lips curled back and her teeth snapped together, like she was about to start yelling back, but Rarity gave her a firm stare. The mischievous little filly planted her tailbone in the seat and, as Rarity commanded, didn't move an inch. What did I do to make her hate me so much? she thought. She gave her sister one last glare, then turned to Blueblood, whose dull, wide-eyed face made her want to slap him.
How could I ever have my own foal with Blueblood? she asked herself, settling back into her seat. She ignored the other ponies in the booth and stared fixedly at the stage. I can't even deal with the one my parents left for me.