• Published 29th Apr 2012
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Today I Will Be a Princess - Cloud Wander



Mayor Mare greets a new day. Her faithful clerk defends Ponyville. A party! And after.

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Marigold and Fletcher

MARIGOLD

A tiny, well-kept bungalow in Ponyville, at dawn:

Early morning light slanting across her closed eyelids, Marigold stirred in her sleep and reluctantly slouched towards wakefulness. Another day, she sighed.

“No!” she exclaimed, sitting up. “Not just another day. Another day in Ponyville! Yay, Ponyville! Yay, me! Go, go, Marigold!”

Marigold threw back the covers and leapt from her bed. Her hip creaked a bit, but she pulled herself up, stretched, and stood proud.

“Marigold,” she said to the empty room. “You are awesome! You will seize this day and make it your own!”

She stood for a moment, breathing deeply, reaching for her center, then opened her spirit as a blossom greets the sun.

“You are as young as you feel!” she affirmed, cheerfully pulling on her robe and striding towards the bathroom, limping just a little.

Flush. Shower. Brush. Gargle. Spit. The heavy garment of sleep fell from her and she felt fresh, renewed! “Every day is a new day. Every day is a gift,” she explained to her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Marigold brushed her mane out. She had been told, as a filly, that one hundred strokes were required for a healthy mane. But who had time for that these days? she wondered. Fifty… wait, no, sixty should be fine… well, seventy-five wouldn’t hurt… well, okay today one hundred. When she was done, Marigold’s mane flowed like liquid silver.

Looking at the results she was mostly pleased. But oh, those wicked roots, darn them! Her original color was starting to show again. Another weekend with that horribly smelly hair dye. Oh well. She had just been planning to stay in this weekend anyway, reading a book. Might as well put in a little time in personal mane-tenance, ha ha! A stay-cation from the world! Lucky me!

Oh, Celestia and Luna! I hope my tail is okay! Marigold looked back at her dock. Still silver. Well, better safe than sorry; might as well “update” my tail, too.

When her hair color had started to turn and the first streaks of gray emerged, she had been dismayed. But one of her friends down at city hall had told her that the gray streaks gave her a certain gravitas. Which, of course, sounded horrible, since Marigold thought that it made her look fat. But it turned out that gravitas just meant that she looked dignified and important. And, wow, that was great!

“I am a Very Important Pony in the best Very Best Place in Equestria!” she reminded her reflection. “Go, go, Marigold!”

Breakfast. “The most important meal of the day,” she told herself, as she heated the tea kettle and buttered a muffin.

She sat quietly by the kitchen window as she ate. Years ago, she had started the day by burying herself in the day’s news, trying to get a jump on whatever crisis awaited her at the office. But look at her now! Calm, composed, Marigold savored these early moments of the day, this precious me-time that energized her for the day ahead.

“Today,” she reminded herself, “whatever problem presents itself, I am the solution.

Outside her kitchen window, there was an old plum tree that she loved. It didn’t produce much fruit, and most of that was eaten by the little birds, but the tree was strong and tough. And, as old as it was, it was still graceful. And so pretty in spring, with all the tiny white blossoms!

“Bless you,” Marigold said quietly, as she looked out her tiny window. “Bless you, dear old plum tree!”

Her muffin gone and her teacup empty, Marigold rose from her tiny kitchen table, meticulously washed, rinsed and dried her cup and plate, then turned towards her dresser.

“Let’s look our best today, Marigold!” she told herself, walking to her closet.

Most ponies would tell you that dressing for the day was no big deal. We don’t usually wear clothes, they’d say. But Marigold knew better. Dressage was not a matter of style or fashion or something trivial like that. Dressage was making a statement. Today, this is who I am. Deal with me!

If someone disses your clothes, give ‘em the hose! Iron Will had told her. Good advice, Marigold thought, nodding. Although, for her, “give ‘em the hose” meant “raise an eyebrow.” But, it wasn’t the action that was important, it was the intent.

Marigold put on her stiff, high collar and selected a lovely teal tie for the day. “’Teal’,” she pondered, as she fluffed out her tie. “Teal. Seal. Meal. Glockenspiel. Real deal! Yes! Today, I’m the real deal! Ha ha!”

She put on her glasses. Marigold did not actually need glasses. Or, at least, she did not need them in the conventional sense.

Marigold did not need glasses to see. Rather, she needed them to be seen. She needed to be seen wearing them because, once upon a time, somepony had told her that glasses made her look “intellectual.”

And intellectual means smart and I am smart, she nodded.

Marigold stood at her front door, giving herself a last-minute inspection before she stepped out into the world.

Years and years ago, when she was still a young filly, she had made a crown out of construction paper and glitter. Such a silly thing: yellow paper cut into sharp angles, gold sparkles scattered over too much paste. The art of a child. The dream of a child.

And yet there it was, after so many years, taped over her hall mirror. The glitter was mostly gone, the paper torn and faded.

This morning, Marigold sighed. But still she straightened before the mirror, so that her reflection wore the crown.

“Today”, she announced confidently, “I will be a Princess!”

***

FLETCHER

Ponyville City Hall, in the early morning hours:

Fletcher Veterinary examined the scroll before him. Although the text was clear and plainly legible, the unicorn squinted. His black eyebrows suggested the message, what is this ridiculous thing before me?

“You realize, of course,” pronounced Fletcher, at last, slowly, “that this business application is nonsense?”

The bright yellow Earth Pony standing before Fletcher’s desk fussed with his straw hat a bit and said, “Yes?” in a manner that suggested that nonsense was perhaps a hopeful sign.

Fletcher suppressed a sigh. Patience, he cautioned himself.

He continued, with calm deliberation. “Your name, goodpony, is Lemon Squash. Is that correct?”

“Oh, yes sir, that’s me, Lemon Squash,” nodded the stallion, agreeably. “‘Squash by name, squash by nature’, as they say.”

Fletcher’s heavy eyebrows twitched. “And who, in Equestria, says that, I wonder.”

“Wull,” said Mr. Squash. “They say. Them. You know. Clever folk.”

“Do you know any ‘clever folk’, Mr. Squash?” asked Fletcher.

Lemon Squash shuffled a bit. “I know you, sir,” he said, with a shy smile.

Touché,” said Fletcher, dryly. He frowned at Lemon Squash’s application for a Ponyville Merchant Cart License.

“This… ‘concoction’ that you propose selling to the good citizens of Ponyville,” said Fletcher, the quotes implicit in his tone, “is also called ‘Lemon Squash.’”

“Yes, sir. S’good name, innit?” said Lemon Squash, proudly. “No one else has it, right? S’my name! So I’m first on the market with it! ‘First mover advantage,’ they calls it, in them business magazines!”

“Quite,” said Fletcher. “Still, there may be a reason that nopony has selected this particular product name before, don’t you think? I mean, what does one associate with the word, squash? Have you sat upon these lemons, I wonder? Or cast them to the ground from a great height? Squash is less a name than a sound effect, I think.”

“Oh, no sir!” exclaimed Lemon Squash indignantly. “The squash is a noble plant, a fruit to rival the magnificent cornstalk or the climbing bean! From ancient days, ponies have thrived thanks to the proud yet humble squash!”

“Well said, goodpony. However,” persisted Fletcher, “there is no actual squash in your ‘Lemon Squash.’ Is that correct?”

The pony shuffled his hooves a bit. “No, sir. No. Not squash as such. No.”

“Is there lemon, at least?” Fletcher asked, delicately clinging to a spark of hope in ponykind.

“Oh, yes, sir!” exclaimed Lemon Squash, beaming. “Only the finest lemon juice!”

“Concentrate?” inquired Fletcher.

“Absolutely! Every batch has me full and complete attention! No distractions! No, sir!”

Fletcher Veterinary looked down his long nose at Lemon Squash. Ponies, in general, have long noses. But when Fletcher Veterinary cast his gaze down, it was in for a bit of a hike.

Fletcher, at last, continued, “So this ‘beverage’ of yours is lemon juice, sugar and water, is that correct?”

Sparkling water, sir, if you please,” insisted Lemon Squash. “The finest, fizziest sparkling water in all of Equestria.”

“So your ‘Lemon Squash’ is merely carbonated lemonade, yes?”

“Wull,” said Mr. Squash, thoughtfully. “Champagne is just bubbly grape juice, innit?”

Fletcher Veterinary considered. At last he said, “You have a point.”

Lemon Squash grinned.

Love and tolerance, Fletcher reminded himself, grimly. Love and tolerance to the death!

Fletcher harumphed. “Very well then, Mr. Squash. Since your ‘product’ is unlikely to actively harm our citizens, I must approve your business application.”

Fletcher’s horn willed the pen to the inkwell and thence to the scroll. He paused, eyebrows arched alarmingly.

“This cart permit is good for one year. 15 bits, renewable annually,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Lemon Squash. He presented the fee. Fletcher counted it, then set it aside.

“Your cart will not have a place in the central market, I’m afraid. For safety reasons, the number of permits there are limited. Otherwise, you are free to position your wares as you will. I suggest a position near the schoolhouse. Innocent, suggestible children would be your likeliest market, I think. And, please, pick up a copy of our educational pamphlet, Putting the Cart Before the Horse, on your way out.”

Fletcher signed the scroll.

“Thank you, sir,” said Lemon Squash, bowing. “This is a great day for me. And a great day for Ponyville.”

“Indeed,” said Fletcher, extending the scroll. “All of Ponyville will rejoice to the easy availability of fizzy lemonade.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lemon Squash, collecting his permit and putting his straw hat on. “A great day!”

Fletcher Veterinary put away his pen. “Thank you, citizen. Good day,” he said, sweeping the bits into his petty cash drawer.

***

MARIGOLD

Ponyville market place:

“Good morning!” Marigold cried to Mrs. Cake. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

It was a lovely day, Marigold thought, as she crossed the Ponyville market place. Celestia’s Sun, beaming in the sky, all’s well with the world. Go, go, Marigold! She told herself. Make today your own!

Mrs. Cake, who had been up and about her business since two hours before dawn, as busy as a one-winged parasprite, looked at Marigold said, “Oh, yah! Yes! Lovely… oh! Pumpkin! Take that out of your mouth this instant!”

“Nom! Nom!” exclaimed Pumpkin Cake, the baby unicorn, around the edges of a large wooden tray.

“Hehe! Woo!” gurgled Pound Cake. The baby pegasus tumbled through the air past his twin sister, bumped into Mrs. Cake and clung to her, sighing, “Mom! Mom!”

“Oh, gracious, you two!” said Cup Cake, gathering up her children into a hug. “Say hello to this nice lady!”

“Ah! Ah-AH-ahhh!” declared Pumpkin Cake, smiling.

“Rowlrbazzle! Thribbit!” insisted Pound Cake, burping.

So precious. I will never have children of my own, thought Marigold, tears starting in her eyes. She dismissed the thought quickly and smiled. “Good morning, children,” she said, brightly.

“Ah-ah!” said Pumpkin Cake, grinning.

“Rugglebuggle! Hoo!” said Pound Cake, drifting away from his mother to shyly brush up against Marigold. “Haha! Blarp!”

“Pound Cake,” warned Mrs. Cake. “You come back here, Little Wing! Don’t go bothering everypony!”

It’s fine, Mrs. Cake, Marigold thought. It’s wonderful. But she held her tongue as the little pegasus drifted back towards his mother.

“Rascals,” said Mrs. Cake, looking fondly at her children. Remembering Marigold, she looked up. “I’m sorry, dearie. Was there something I could do for you…?”

“Oh no, Mrs. Cake,” assured Marigold. “I’m fine. I just wanted to say good morning to you all.” Such a lovely family, she thought.

Marigold continued on her way, limping a bit.

***

FLETCHER

Ponyville City Hall:

The door to Fletcher’s office cracked open slowly. A minute or so later, the space between door and frame had widened enough to strike the little bell above the entrance.

Fletcher Veterinary calmly ordered the papers on his desk, replaced his writing quill and sat up straight.

“Ah! Mrs. Smith. Good morning,” he greeted.

Granny Smith, an ancient Earth Pony, green of coat and white of mane, worked her way into Fletcher’s office.

She’s only using the cane today, thought Fletcher, smiling inwardly. Her hip must be better.

Fletcher knew, from past experience, not to offer Granny Smith assistance. Instead, he raised his voice and asked, blandly, “How kind of you to grace this office today, Mrs. Smith. Might I tempt you with a cup of tea?”

“Whazzat? A cuppa tea? Well, mebbe,” allowed Granny Smith, as she inched her way into Fletcher’s office. “Watcha got in tha’ pot?”

Fletcher rose to greet her. “I thought, this morning, a bit of sweet licorice would be pleasant.”

Granny Smith’s eyes lit up. “Oh. Tha’ good stuff.”

“Well, it was cold this morning, and I felt a need to indulge,” dissembled Fletcher. When he entered the office this morning, he had noted the day and had, at once, prepared for Granny Smith’s appearance. He knew she enjoyed sweet licorice tea. “May I pour you a cup?”

“Well, since you’re standin’, why not?” asked Granny Smith.

Fletcher busied himself preparing two steaming cups as Granny Smith eased herself towards his desk. Earlier, Fletcher had placed a raised cushion close to his desk. Now, Granny Smith positioned herself above this and gratefully dropped herself onto it.

“Whew!” Granny Smith exclaimed as she settled herself. “Bit of a walk, gettin’ here,” she said.

She has been walking here since before sunrise, calculated Fletcher. Any of her grandchildren could have made the same journey in a fraction of the time. Am I a bad pony, he wondered, to be gladdened to see her this morn?

Fletcher placed a cup before Granny Smith. The elderly pony lifted it, drank a bit, and set the cup down, smacking her lips. “Mmm! Good stuff!” she said.

“Well now,” said Granny Smith, getting down to business. “I’m here to settle accounts! The Sweet Apple Acres Merchant License! Here ya’ go!”

Granny Smith spilled the contents of her coin purse on Fletcher’s desk. Three gold solars, fourteen silver lunars and two dozen copper bits.

Fletcher counted out three copper bits and set them aside.

“That ain’t right!” said Granny Smith. “15 bits a year! That’s the right price, that’s what I heerd! Don’t think you can fool me, you whippersnapper.”

“Ah, my mistake. Thank you for your correction, Madam,” said Fletcher, drawing 12 more bits across his desk. “You are most honest, Mrs. Smith.”

“Darn tootin’!” exclaimed Granny Smith, thumping her cane.

“Still…,” said Fletcher. “There is still the matter of the Founder’s Fee.” He carefully counted out 12 bits and pushed them back towards Granny Smith.

“A fee gratefully given to the noble founders of this fair community,” he explained. “Without whom, none of this,” Fletcher waved his hoof, “would have been possible.”

Granny Smith looked suspiciously at the pile of bits.

“Are you trickin’ me, Fletcher Vetin’ry?” asked Mrs. Smith, waving her cane. “I knowed you when you were a little ’un. Don’t lie to your Granny Smith!”

Fletcher Veterinary folded his hooves. “Madam, everypony in Ponyville owes you this and more,” he assured her. “You would insult us and all that we have built, if you did not accept this tiny gratuity.”

Granny Smith glared at the pile of bits. Eventually, she declared, “Well… darn it! I don’t wanna upset everypony! We’re good city-zens here, in Sweet Apple Acres! Don’t tell no one we’re not!”

“Madam,” Fletcher Veterinary said, quietly, “I cannot imagine that anypony would ever question the integrity of Sweet Apple Acres, its family, or its fruit.”

Granny Smith scooped the bits into her coin purse. “Well, mebbe,” she said, grudgingly.

Fletcher Veterinary smiled. Inwardly.

***

MARIGOLD

Ponyville plaza:

“Whoops!”

Marigold looked up, then stepped back quickly. Derpy Hooves was the kindest, sweetest pegasus pony in Equestria, but her navigational skills were a bit lacking.

Derpy landed with a dusty phlumph. She shook her blonde head, smiled, then looked around until she spotted Marigold.

“Oh! Hay! Good morning!” Derpy said. “It’s still morning, right? Yes? Okay!”

Derpy, you precious soul, thought Marigold. She helped Derpy up onto her four hooves and brushed her off. “Good morning, Derpy. How are you, today?”

“I had oatmeal this morning,” exclaimed Derpy Hooves. “Oatmeal with a little butter and maple syrup! Wow! Oatmeal is the best!” Derpy hugged herself with the memory of breakfast.

Marigold and Derpy stood together, for a moment, in the gathering light of a brilliant Equestria morning, contemplating the glory of warm oatmeal with a little butter and syrup.

“So, Derpy,” nudged Marigold, at last. “Do you have any messages for me?”

“Whut? Hay! Of course! I think,” Derpy said. She rummaged through her messenger bags and brought up a thick envelope. “This is for you.”

The envelope had a thick red band around it. Messages from Canterlot. Top priority. Oh, dear. Marigold accepted the parcel.

“Thank you, Derpy,” Marigold said. “You are a good pony.”

“Woo! Thanks!” exclaimed Derpy, beaming. “You are a good pony, too!”

Derpy pulled her bags onto her back and leapt into the air, hovering over Marigold. For a moment, Derpy’s eyes uncrossed.

“You know, you are better than you think you are,” said Derpy, smiling sweetly. Then she flew away, into the beautiful blue arch of the world.

***

FLETCHER

Ponyville City Hall:

And then there was Bean Counter, standing before him.

“Good morning, Mr. Counter,” said Fletcher, reluctantly. Love and tolerance certainly, he thought. But surely there are limits?

Bean Counter was, perhaps, the most elegantly arrayed Earth Pony in Ponyville. His current ensemble echoed the sleek smartness of Fancy Pants, if Fancy Pants limited his color palette to shades of gray and drab. His cologne carried the scents of gold, silver and copper; he literally smelled of money.

“Morning it is,” sniffed Bean Counter, adjusting his pince-nez. “But: good? Well, let us see, Fletcher, let us see.”

Bean Counter wore two stiff, hide-bound cases in place of saddlebags. He opened one and withdrew a flutter of documents that he tossed upon Fletcher’s desk.

“Ah,” said Fletcher Veterinary. “Mr. Rich’s watermill application. Again.”

“Yes, again. And again and again!” exclaimed Bean Counter. “Mr. Rich’s desires are quite plain. He has conformed to every silly law and ridiculous regulation that you have thrown against him, but still his application is denied! How does the Mayor explain this… this absurd obstruction?”

Fletcher harumphed. “Madam Mayor has not had the opportunity to review these documents, as you well understand. I have not yet brought them to her attention.”

“And why not?” demanded Bean Counter, glaring.

“Because they are horrible,” said Fletcher, calmly.

“As I’ve explained previously,” he continued, slowly, inexorably. “The Royal Pony Corps of Engineers have surveyed the Ponyville river and have determined that the diversion required by Mr. Rich’s proposed watermill would result in both upstream and downstream agricultural disruptions that would more than offset the economic gains of the proposed watermill.

“Further, let us consider the structure itself. This is not a pleasant picturesque mill with a splashing waterwheel and a cheerful green pond happily occupied by fluttering ducks and the occasional swan. No! This is a three-story monstrosity that would tower over almost every other structure in Ponyville. It is a gray, slab-sided thing that would dampen the spirits of every creature that looks upon it. I hesitate to imagine the effect on the poor souls damned to toil within it.

“And how, pray tell, shall this small community feed this beast? Given the extraordinary capacity of its grinding gears, it would devour the full production of Ponyville, grain, fruit and vegetable, in a matter of weeks. Would it stand idle for half the year, then? Would it go hungry? No, no, I think not. I imagine that you plan to drain the agricultural product of all the lands around Ponyville into the hungry maw of this monster, spinning corn, carrots and apples into gold for your pocket. You are not merely proposing a simple mill, but, by implication, a vast infrastructure of roads, trains, ships, silos and warehouses.

“Ponyville would become, in the end, not a town of ponies, but the sad appendage of this… atrocity that Mr. Rich proposes to construct.

“You will harm us with this, Mr. Counter. With this proposal, you will destroy Ponyville and make it into something abhorrent. And not out of simple hunger, as a parasprite would, or out of mindless rage, like a manticore. But out of cruel, deliberate, calculating avarice, as a devouring dragon.

“I do not care to live in the shadow of this dark, draconic mill.

“And, so, as Ponyville’s defender, I must deny Mr. Rich’s application. Again.” Fletcher pushed the pile of papers back towards Bean Counter, folding his hooves.

Bean Counter gaped, slack-jawed. His face flushed a cherry tint that contrasted nicely with the dull gray of his suit.

“You dare! You dare, sir,” choked Bean Counter. “You dare to defy the wishes of the most important pony in Ponyville?”

Fletcher Veterinary sat back on his haunches and blinked. “Ah! I perceive your error. You believe that Mr. Filthy Rich, due his great wealth, is more important than any other pony in Ponyville.

“I have nothing but respect for Mr. Rich,” said Fletcher. “I knew his father. He believed in Ponyville, and contributed to its growth. The current Mr. Rich, I think, likewise believes in this town and its folk, and has assisted in their prosperity.”

Fletcher Veterinary leaned forward, his eyes glowing. “But, understand this, sir,” he said. “The smallest, poorest, weakest pony in Ponyville possesses the same worth, the same ‘importance’ as Mr. Rich. In the eyes of the law, sir, in the eyes of good governance, in the eyes of justice and mercy, he is co-equal with the kindly matron that provides me with my morning muffin and the dedicated messenger that delivers my mail. And with Madam Mayor, who will, ultimately, rule on this application.

“Princess Celestia’s Sun shines upon all ponies, the good and the less-so. Princess Luna’s Moon and Stars comfort us all in the night, when the dark fears enter our hearts. We are all treasured in their eyes.

“Who are you, sir, to question their wisdom?

“Where were you, sir, when Equestria was made?”

Bean Counter opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it again. Then shook his head as he collected his papers.

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Bean Counter hissed, as he turned away. “Not by a long chalk. Mr. Rich will have words, sir. Strong words. In the right places. And I will be back.”

“And I will be here, sir,” assured Fletcher Veterinary. “Good day, citizen.”

***

MARIGOLD

Ponyville City Hall:

“Good morning, Fletcher!” said Marigold brightly.

“Madam Mayor,” acknowledged Fletcher Veterinary, briefly glancing up. “There is licorice tea, if you would care for a cup.” Fletcher returned to his paperwork.

Oh, poor Fletcher, Marigold thought. First to arrive every morning, and the last to leave. And what do I have to offer him, but more work?

“We received these letters from Canterlot,” Marigold said, producing the packet with the red band.

“Ah. You may leave them with me, Madam Mayor. I will deal them presently,” Fletcher said, without looking up.

Marigold placed the packet on Fletcher’s desk. She trotted over to the teapot, which smelled wonderful. She poured herself a cup. Oh my, licorice! she thought, delightedly. Every day brings unexpected gifts, she reminded herself. Go, go, Marigold!

Sipping her tea, Marigold regarded Fletcher Veterinary thoughtfully. There was a question she had meant to ask him for years, but Marigold had held herself back. It’s too personal, she told herself.

If you have a doubt, punch it out! Iron Will had said. Go, go, Marigold! she thought.

“Fletcher, may I ask you a personal question?” Marigold said hesitantly.

“You may ask me anything, Madam Mayor,” he said, without looking up. “How may I assist you?”

“Your cutie mark. I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing. But, your cutie mark appears to be a quill poised near a red heart.”

Fletcher Veterinary paused and turned to her. “Yes, this is so, Madam Mayor.”

Marigold sipped her tea again. She said, “I would have thought, from your cutie mark, that you would become a doctor or a pharmacist. I thought you would become someone who takes care of ponies.”

Fletcher Veterinary glanced down, then up. “In my small way, I do, Madam Mayor,” he said.

Fletcher Veterinary turned back to his books, as his Princess sipped her tea.