Another sunrise washed the streets and homes of Canterlot in its warm embrace. For most, it was the beginning of another happy day to spend in the pursuit of their dreams and passions. For some, it was the end of the same. There was at least one, however, who could not say the same with integrity.
The alarm clock beside his head ticked by as he waited. There was no hurry, no reason to rise from the empty comfort of the silk sheets that kept the cool of the night at bay. And so he waited, awake, but not alone.
Lost on the other side of the massive four-post bed, his wife still slept, dreaming what she willed. Two ponies could easily fit within the empty space between them. A cruel smile twisted his lips at the thought.
In the microseconds before the alarm sounded, his hoof found the switch and flipped it, preventing the migraine-inducing bells from breaking the silence of his chambers.
His repose finally at its end, the white stallion rolled from the foam-based mattress with care to make as little disruption as possible. The mare on the other side would not have noticed had he jumped upon it like a foal, but it was the principle of the thing.
He shivered the moment his hooves touched the cold stone floor. With bleary eyes, he looked down and realized he’d, once again, failed to put to use the slippers his wife had given him for their anniversary three years past. He smiled. It had become his own private little joke, almost a thousand chances and he had never set hoof in a single one.
Without any conscious thought, he glanced back at the mare to whom he’d promised his life. Only a puff of soft pink mane could be seen of the mare in the sea of deep blue sheets. He could just barely make out her lithe form, her slender legs gripping the silk to draw it tight about her.
There had been happy times... well, better times. When they’d first met while floating through similar social circles. There were a few shared interests and many agreed upon philosophies. From that first day, everypony talked about them being so perfect for each other—many still believed it too.
That was what had forced them together: social pressure. They’d both been young and on their way up, looking for any way to become more accepted and important in the eyes of the ponies they called friends and equals. Society had tied them together with manacle and chain, and to even attempt an escape would destroy everything they had worked for.
Suppressing a sigh, he finally left the bedside. His hooves clicked softly against the hard floor as he made his way to the bathroom.
The oak door closed behind him in a soft blue aura in the same moment that the knobs for the shower twisted.
Cold water poured forth from the brass fixture for a solid twenty seconds before the pipes finished flushing and the hot water from the boiler finally made its way to the third-story bathroom. Steam filled the enclosed space, driving out the morning chill.
Without further ado, he stepped into the shower, flinching slightly at the scalding water soaking through his fur. It took a scant few seconds for the stallion to be completely waterlogged, strands of blue mane hanging listlessly over his face and neck.
Blinded by the joint efforts of the steam, water, and his mane, he was forced to rely on practiced precision to bring his shampoo to bear. With the use of a coarse brush, he worked the soap into his coat and mane. A grimace took shape under his mustache as he applied more and more force to the brush, scraping through the hairs of his coat in the vain attempt to scour away the years of regret built up beneath his skin. It didn’t work... It never did.
By the time he finished and stepped out of the shower, he could hear the sounds of his wife in her bathroom on the other side of their shared bedchamber. She was singing, as she always did in the mornings, a soft tune in her native tongue. It would not be called a joyful song, more happily content, and completely at odds with his own mood.
He did not understand how she could maintain such a state, given their situation. Oh, he could wear the facade before the world, his mask a perfect replica of a pony filled with a joy for life. Indeed, it was only during this time, the early mornings, when he let the mask slip. It was a necessary thing, else the pressure would build to the breaking point. But Fleur... she never took it off. He could see through it—after living together for so long, he couldn’t help but to pick up on such things—but he had never once seen her slip.
A towel rose from the pile next to the sink and began its work, drawing out the moisture still trapped in his coat. It took three before he was dry and another two for his mane and tail. With the last bit of unsodden cloth, he wiped the moisture from the mirror.
Fancypants watched his reflection. For a short time, he tried to imagine what things would be like if they had gone his way. If he had never met Fleur or simply refused to succumb to pressures of society. Shaking his head, he cast out the false memories. He would have been no happier there.
He held no ill will toward the mare preparing herself on the other side of the bedchamber. It was no more her fault than his, less so by any real measure. He envied her ability to cope; that was all. He did not truly blame society either; they simply provided the convenient scapegoat. No, there were only two ponies to blame for his ennui, and one was busy glaring at himself in a bathroom mirror.
It took fully as long as his shower to bring his mane and mustache to heel before he exited the solitude of his bath. Stepping back into the bedroom, he was forced to put aside his dour mood. His valet stood ready, and they immediately began their morning dance and parlay as they sorted through his choices for clothing and accessories for the day. It was a solid twenty minutes before he sat down at the breakfast table for his morning paper and coffee.
Fancypants allowed himself his first genuine smile of the day as he took in the delicate aroma steaming just below his muzzle. For all his wealth and connections, his choice in coffee was simple. He did not believe in lattes and cappuccinos. To his taste, coffee was perfect in its purest form. Simple, black, strong.
That was not to say he was without variety. He enjoyed every style of coffee bean from every country fortunate enough to be able to produce it. From the smell alone, he could deduce the origin of the bean. This particular brew was grown in the northern reaches of Zebrica; the climate there produced a bean with a distinct hazelnut flavor that he rather enjoyed.
Smiling again, he brought the porcelain cup up to his lips to take the first sip as he opened to the morning edition of Canterlot Times.
The cup stopped mere inches from his frowning lips. He barely noticed the smells that he had been savoring only moments ago, too distracted by the image printed upon the front of the newspaper. Scanning the article confirmed the topic of the picture and the roles of the ponies therein. The delicate cup found its way back to the table as a sour twist in his stomach left him feeling ill and without a taste for the drink.
It wasn’t fair for him to feel betrayed; he had no right to be. He could place no claim upon the pony the article featured. That bridge had been crossed long ago and by all rights should have been forgotten by now. He was a married stallion and faithful if not loving. His path had been set, and, by Celestia, he would walk it with a clean conscience.
With a heavy sigh, he set the paper aside, and, staring into the dark surface of his coffee, allowed himself to brood.
He remained there for a time, unmoving, until the sound of hooves and an opening door brought him back to the present. Fleur, finally finished with her own preparations, stepped briskly into the sunroom. They shared a pleasant enough smile with each other as she took her seat across from him, though neither said a word. Moments later her lady’s maid entered carrying Fleur’s meal on her back, and, placing it upon the table, she left as quickly as she had arrived, leaving her employers to their meals.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of Fleur’s silverware clicking softly against itself and the dishes.
Pausing long enough to take a sip of her tea, Fleur took up the morning paper to glance at the headlines. Her tongue clicked loudly, almost echoing around the small room with its disapproval.
“Will the princess never manage to rein in her nephew?”
Huzza, it is here! I loved the ending. Really made me sit up straighter in my chair and go, 'Huh, well, that makes so much sense now!' Great stuff, HM!
Well, this is good and all, but I wouldn't call it "tragedy"...
*final line*
... Why would you write this? You brilliant, twisted sociopath!
As bermudatri stated, I wouldn't call this a "tragedy".
However, this was nicely paced, even though it didn't have too much of a plot. Very good, my dear.
2371213
The story behind this story is based on another story.
See I'm writing a batman crossover titled Erebus (that you should also read) that features Fancypants in an important roll. As I brainstormed about many things Batman I was reminded that said character has always carried a certain... uh... 'reputaion' around him regarding his co-crimefighter. Since the scene I was writing focused on the not quiet romance between Rarity and Fancypants my brain, for whatever reason, decided to tie these two things together.
2371244
I use Tragedy in the classical definition, I.E. problems caused by the charactes own actions/inactions rather than outside forces. Also, I couldn't justify a 'Sad' tag and 'Slice-of-Life' just doesn't quiet cover it.
2371328
Hmm... Understandable. A very nice little story nevertheless.
This feels less like a story than it does like a proto-story... an IDEA of a story that you got the first few strides out of, but never managed to get to a proper climax or finish line. It doesn't so much end as it simply stops at an arbitrary point, with so much left unsaid. While there's nothing wrong with the idea behind it, neither is the idea, by itself, original, powerful or deep enough to justify its existence.
A perfectly enjoyable read, what little of it there is, but it could've used a week or so longer on the old mental backburner.
2371725
I completely agree, and to be honest, in the hours since I posted this I have realized that this could easily be turned into a prompt dump similar to 'Egghead and Featherbrain'
I, however, already have enough on my plate with the other stories I am committed to without adding this to the list.
Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I appreciate that far more than favorites and thumbs up.
-Honey Mead
2371725 2371851
It wasn't so much arbitrary as slightly unclear. I actually had to make a double-take before I truly understood what was going on.
I wish you continued with this little one-shot, but it certainly embraced an idea you wanted to show. Just, with all the other things that you mentioned in this one-shot, it was a lot you could have done.
Fleur noticing Fancy's little ticks at the article, perhaps questioning him on it. Delving a bit into their past. Maybe even Fleur wanting to do something about their relationship.
I, for one, enjoyed the story. It was good in its imagery, its idea was left until the end for full appraisal and understanding from the reader, and overall, it was well-written. If there were problems, then they were mere tiny potholes to me.
Such a simple problem... yet it seems to hit us all pretty hard, eh?
2372049
That is making a number of assumptions about Fleur.
Out of curiosity, what were the plot holes? My author blinders seem to be on full tint.
2372086
No plot holes. Just plot waiting to be explored. Those assumptions were made as ideas that the story might chase if you think about expanding it.
Oh... 'potholes'. Nah, that was more referring to semantics than anything (grammar, spelling, etc.)
Quite sad. Being stuck in a fake marriage. Unable to express who you really are. Just tragic, really.
Well, I read through the comments and I seem to be the only one. But what? I get the "not-exactly-a-happy-marriage" part, but the last part with the newspaper confuse me to an extent.
Fancy is feeling betrayed by Blueblood? Or is the article something completely different and some other pony who happen to be a part of the news? Fancypants actually wanted to marry Blublood? I just don't get it, or if that's the point then I can't say it's all that enjoyable.
2373203
The idea is...
Fancypants is gay and in love with Blueblood, but through his own life choices, in seeking to be an accepted and important part of the Canterlot Elite, he chose to marry Fleur. Though he regrets his choice, for a number of reasons, he is still unwilling to risk the fallout of a divorce.
I hope that clears things up for you.
-Honey Mead
2371328
This story qualifies as Tragedy based on the sites metrics as well. The tag is supposed to be used in the traditional sense of Tragedies, most people just don't, however.
2371725
I found the brevity part of the point. It's not something that needs a long story to explain. Everything that needed saying was said; His unhappiness, his unwillingness to try to change the situation, his fear of what would happen if he did, and in the final line the reason for that unhappiness.
Could it be expanded? Yes. But I don't think it would help the message in this case.
2373232
Oh, wow.
I had no idea that was the connotation.
Perhaps I'm just a little slow, but there didn't seem to be any clues helping the reader come to this particular conclusion.
Well-written story, though.
Space in between. The context of it as it is now suggest a change in subject or support of a previous statement, and I'm very sure you don't mean it that way.