Lydia Springflower had but one care in the world; to ween away her childish nickname of Little Lotte. And yet, it was a nice nickname to be called as she chased her filly friends around Canterlot's Sunshine Meadow in a game of Pony Princess Brigade.
"And then Little Lotte, princess of music, sweeps down to save poor Prince Raoul from the wrath of the dreaded swamp witch!" Lydia narrated passionately as she leaped around in the meadow.
"But Little Lotte gets trapped in the seaweed brook and April Showers, princess of weather, has to use her acid rain to dissolve the dreaded seaweed," followed her pegasus friend April Showers.
"And then April Showers gets zapped by the swamp witch and it seems that all is lost," exclaimed her earth pony friend, Bubble Sweets, excitedly.
"Until Bubble Sweets, princess of candy, comes in and ties the witch in everlasting taffy."
"Then Little Lotte uses her music power to send Prince Raoul, herself, and her friends back to the kingdom," Lydia finished.
The three ponies fell to the ground in an excited and giggling heap. Around April and Bubble, Lydia always had fun.
"Thanks for that, girls," she said to them with a smile.
"A good roleplaying game always gets my mind off of---"
"Well, well. If it isn't the three foolies," an arrogant voice shattered through the happiness.
The three looked up to find the ever-snobby Golden Rays and her crony Bronze Button prancing towards them.
"Something wicked this way comes," April whispered.
The three stood up and brushed the meadow grass off of their coats. Lydia, being the most confrontational, stepped up to the witchy, teenaged filly.
"Good afternoon to you too, Golden," she said coldly.
"What do you want, Goldisnots?" April spat from behind.
"Shut your trap, April Shooters," Bronze snapped back.
"I just wanted to remind you that my cute-ciñera is going to be on Saturday and I want you three to be there. Especially you, Little Lotte," she sniffed glaring and grinning at Lydia.
April and Bubble shot up to her side in a huff.
"Hey! You watch your mouth," April growled.
"Yeah! Nobody calls her that but us," Bubble exclaimed.
Golden's smirk was growing wider by the second as she brewed up insults in that cauldron called her mind.
"Hate to burst you, Bubble," she spat back with such an overtone of sarcasm that it almost oozed from her voice onto the ground.
"But I can call anyone whatever I want."
"That won't get you very far in life," Lydia asserted.
"If you call people names, no one will love you."
She could feel the air around her tighten up. The more intense the situation was becoming, the darker the sky was turning.
"Why should I care?" Golden huffed tossing her mane.
"As Niccolò Machiavelli said, it's better to be feared than to be loved. And besides, at least I have my cutie mark."
"More like the Dark Mark," April grumbled.
Lydia turned to her flank in shame. Golden Rays was right about two things; Machiavelli's principle on how to be perceived and the fact that she had her cutie mark, unlike Lydia and her friends.
"Come, Bronze Button. Let us leave this cursed trio of the unmarked to wallow in their shame," Golden sniffed.
As the duo turned to leave, Lydia couldn't help but feel violated. For as long as she had been alive, she knew there were two types of insults for ponies without their cutie marks; one was blank flank, which wasn't as hurtful due to the fact that it was now considered old hat. The other was called unmarked. Being labeled as an unmarked was considered one of the cruelest forms of shaming among ponies of her age group. On top of that, if you could still be called an unmarked upon reaching adulthood, you could be suspected in being a supporter of the devil or even of King Sombra. And if those accusations were true....
"That horrible, no-good wench!" April raged as soon as Golden was out of earshot.
"Just don't listen to her," Bubble advised.
"She's simply trying to get a rise out of you."
Good old Bubbles. She took after the demure composure of her mother; Applebloom, making her the main voice of wisdom in the trio.
"And besides, adulthood isn't for a few years. My mother didn't get her cutie mark until she was a teenager."
"I know. All of our mothers didn't get theirs until they were teens," Lydia sighed.
She remembered her mother telling her that she was most likely just a late bloomer.
"It runs in our family, sweetheart," Sweetie Belle said calmly.
"You'll get yours eventually. Everypony does."
"It's just not right, though," Lydia complained kicking a hoof against the ground.
"Why do some ponies bloom later than others?"
Suddenly she began to shiver a bit.
"Is something wrong, Lydia?" April asked.
A chill crept up her spine, delivering a suggestion to her teenage mind.
"I feel like we're being watched," Lydia shivered.
"Oh relax," April told her.
"It's probably just your anxiety kicking in again."
It seemed a reasonable explanation. Almost two years ago, Lydia had been diagnosed with depression and anxiety. She'd been taking medication for it, but it didn't seem to help so much as the doctor claimed. Now it seemed so much as a mere chill up her spine could send her into a burst of thoughts of "what if" and suggestions that seemed highly unlikely.
However, this seemed different. As much as Lydia wanted to believe it was simply her anxiety prying at her once again, something kept convincing her otherwise. And the more her mind attempted to shake the suggestion away that she was being watched, the more it persisted and the more she began to believe it was true.
"You're probably right," she said, donning a mask of feigned and forced calmness.
"Maybe I just need to get away from the meadow for a while."
"Probably. Hey. Why don't we head up to the Canterlot Café for something to drink?" Bubble suggested.
"Good idea," April said.
"We could use some shelter anyways. It looks like it's going to storm."
The three walked towards the city. The further they were from the meadow, the more relaxed Lydia began to feel. Maybe it was simply her imagination that she saw a pair of glowing, red eyes peeking at her from the bushes.
"Of course it was," she told herself.
Wasn't it?