The alarm clock went off at 7 o’clock in the morning as always, and Orion got up to brush his teeth and wash his mane. For some reason the toothpaste tasted especially bitter, and he washed his mane slower than usual. No servants came to help him brush when he finished; he had to go get his own towel and work out the kinks by himself. No butlers swooped in to give him his predetermined dress for the day. Nopony came in with a list to run down his schedule. It didn’t even look like a normal morning. The Sun was shrouded by frumpy, angry looking clouds, making the whole world outside muted and oppressed.
But he did not mind. For some reason today having no servants around felt like a good thing. He peered at the calendar as he slipped on his favorite necktie. A Monday, and it was nearly eight thirty. Wasn’t he supposed to have started lessons by now?
He expected Father to come bursting in to see why he was late, but he did not. Nopony did.
He opened the door and found a maidservant bustling by, dusting down random things.
“Excuse me,” he said, almost making her drop her duster. “Where is everypony?”
“Young master Blueblood,” said the maid, blinking owlishly, “half the staff is absent today.”
“And the teachers?” asked Orion. “The tutors and the house guests? Why is everything so quiet? I must start my lessons.”
The maid blinked again, irritating Orion greatly. Was she new? It was so hard to tell when they all wore the same clothes and had the same simpering faces. “My young master Blueblood,” she stammered, “do you not remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Your poor mother, dear,” she sighed with a look of alarming pity. “We held the funeral for her just yesterday. Your father ordered a day of rest and sent most of us home.”
Now Orion blinked, and swayed on his hooves. The maid didn’t speak above a whisper, but it felt like a stormy breeze buffeted his face. Everything felt heavy. The walls closed in around him.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh. I… Oh.”
“I’m sorry, young master,” the maid said. “Your father is still in his room and won’t let anypony see him. Might I get you anything?”
“Thank you,” said Orion, and shut the door in her face.
———
He remembered getting up at some time or other and managing to wrestle his mane into a serviceable side part. He remembered dull rumbling that might have been thunder, or instructions from his father on how the funeral was to play out.
He felt nothing about what was going on. No keen pain in his chest. No burning in his eyes as he cried. Nothing but the actions. The pictures. The moments. Playing out like a silent film with mannequin actors going through the motions with eerie nonchalance.
Mother is dead, a voice nagged at him. Mother is dead.
Yes, he replied. A thoughtless response, mechanical and automatic. She is dead and I am still here. This is how it is. In the end, wanting her to be alive did not matter a fig.
A slate grey sky smothered all good cheer when he looked outside. The clouds made a flat ceiling stretched across the entire horizon. Only pale and sickly sunlight bled through, leaving everything dull and gelid. The Duke had paid a battalion of pegasi to blot out the sun from here to Ponyville, as it was only proper that the sky itself mourned for a pony like Goldspinner. There was nothing to do but mourn. Even happy memories were choked by the knowledge that no more would be made with her.
Orion stood dull and dreary-eyed at the door to the mansion. A carriage waited at the bottom of the front steps, its rear doors yawning wide open to receive Mother’s casket. He was one of many ponies who stood in a somber line down the steps like an honor guard. Nobles from every house major and minor, as far away as the Hayseed Marches, but Orion did not notice any of them. He did not even remember seeing them later. His eyes stared forward at nothing, unblinking.
A casket passed in front of him, levitated by solemn-faced unicorns. He did not see what was inside.
They placed it in the back of the carriage. A gust of cold wind chilled the tears on Orion’s cheeks, but he did not wipe them or blink them away. He did not care who saw him or what he looked like. He didn’t care about anything anymore.
The ride to the burial place took them through a green wood behind the manor, to a tiny plot of land nestled in the hills far away from buildings or ponies the Duke had purchased in perpetuity from the crown. Orion might have found it pretty if it was not the place his mother would rest forevermore. It was a sacred clearing beneath a young maple tree perched in a rocky nest which would serve as the headstone. Ancient unicorns believed young trees were as magical as their horns, and Goldspinner had always enjoyed learning of those old legends.
The procession entered the clearing like holy pilgrims over soft leaves that smothered the noise of their hooves. A hole had already been dug. It gaped at Orion like a mouth, ready to swallow. It disgusted him. He wanted to fill it back up with earth and let the trees have it.
Dirt was just such a common way to end for an exceptional pony like his mother. She had deserved so much more. She deserved to live long enough to see Orion become a Prince, and all the treasures he would have brought her from the ends of the earth.
It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair. But that was the world’s way.
He sat down on a chair and listened to the extensive eulogies, saw the tears he believed were all fake, didn’t even recognize most of the ponies who came and talked about a mare they had never met or visited when she was sick. His mother got very few visitors just for her, even before she was sick. Her title had been rendered meaningless decades ago and she had no living family save some old doddering cousin far away in Trottingham. After her illness, guests all just ignored her while she was cloistered up in her room like an animal. Every Sunday dinner, every party, every visit from abroad. Not a one had ever gone up to Goldspinner’s room like he did, never showed her things from the world she missed.
And now the only thing she’d ever see was dirt.
At least the casket had cushions inside, and enchantments to keep it from being eaten by local animals and worms. The undertaker who prepared it explained years from now when everypony had forgotten a pony was even buried here it would simply disintegrate on its own.
Forgotten, Orion decided, was the most awful thing his mother could ever be.
His father stepped up, standing in front of the awful hole that was to receive his wife. His was the only speech Orion actually listened to. His father’s eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Like Orion, he seemed only to see what was directly ahead of him.
“There are no words for this,” he said, his voice rote and flat. “There are no words for the loss of somepony like Goldspinner. She held the world in her hooves and cradled it with a smile. She bore her illness with the grace of an angel, and she never brought anyone anything but joy.”
That was a bald-faced lie, thought Orion. Her sickness brought everyone misery and uncertainty and they tried to hide it away. Goldspinner hid her pain from him, and he realized asking Celestia what exactly caused her illness was the first time he’d ever really thought about it. Mother had hid the cause of her pain. Everypony here was hiding something. His father hid tears and the guests hid boredom and Orion hid nothing at all and that was what really bothered him.
Somepony coughed and Orion felt some distant part of him wish to rise up to smack them in the face. But he didn’t do anything, and the fire snuffed itself out in due time.
“She…” The Duke faltered. “She wanted to stay with us. She wanted to be with us so badly, and I—I didn’t—”
Orion’s ears perked and he felt a rising tension in the air, like everypony was joined by a cord suddenly snapped taut. His father always said the best way to do something was to be seen doing it. If he was seen crying in front of everypony there would be scandal unending.
But the Duke clamped his jaw so tight it shook his whole head, and he blinked rapidly to clear the mist.
“My wife was a mare who had a better influence on House Blueblood than any of its occupants present or former. I noticed her across a room years ago because she was beautiful. I married her because she made everything around her beautiful. We did not give her the dues owed her in life, for such cannot be given to a pony who is beyond giving. To bequeath something upon her implies that we were in a position to decide what she deserved.”
His impassive eyes swept over the crowd. Orion was not sure, but he swore his father’s gaze lingered on him for just a second longer than anypony else.
Then the Duke stared straight ahead once more and spoke in a soft, quiet voice.
“She deserved more than any of us could ever give her.”
Orion tilted his head, felt a chill go down his spine. Some of the mares present sniffled and put their hooves over their hearts, but Orion noted how some in the crowd murmured to each other and shook their heads. The naked sincerity in his father’s voice outstripped everything he had ever heard the Duke say. Such sentiment was touching, but also a touch improper.
It pulled at something in his heart, cracking the ice, and he cleared his throat to choke down the knot in his throat. Then the Duke went to him and put a hoof on his shoulder. The sincerity, the vulnerability was all gone. It was time for Orion to do his duty and speak.
He walked up to the hideous hole in the ground with his mother’s casket resting beside it and he caught a peek in. Just an ugly dirt hole to be filled with disgusting dirt. It terrified him.
Then he turned to face the crowd and found himself utterly petrified. He didn’t remember his lines. He didn’t remember how to stand or how to look or how to do anything. He didn’t know what to say about a mare who had birthed him, raised him, been the focus of his dreams and now was gone, how could he put that into words, so many ponies staring and waiting and expecting, expecting what, how dare they expect anything of him now—
“Uh, my mother—” He felt her presence in the casket behind him. Was it cold in there? Was she sleeping well? Was she still in pain?
“My mother was…”
Golden hair. A perfect smile. Patience when he broke her precious Trottingham teaset. Millions of thoughts and ideas and memories all gone, all gone.
“She...” Orion licked his lips and found them chapped. Curses, the lip balm, he knew he’d forgotten something, you’re such an idiot you stupid stupid pony this is all your fault—
“I-I was… I was going to go places and… it just happened…”
“Orion,” he heard his father growl somewhere in the audience.
Orion froze. Ponies would remember today for years to come and he’d be remembered as the stupid little colt who shamed his mother’s funeral. He wanted to scream at them for even caring what he had to say about his dead mother. He wanted to scream at his father for letting Mother die, at himself for not exploring the world fast enough, at everything and nothing in general. He wanted to run away and hide forever. Was that right? Was it okay? What was the proper thing to do?
The proper thing, his father’s glare said to him, was to do his duty and get it over with. Make your speech and let them see you do it. So Orion returned to that place of tranquil nothingness. He didn’t think about Mother. He didn’t think about father or speeches or ponies or anything. Only the words rolling out of his mouth one after the other like parts on a conveyer belt.
He cleared his throat and clamped his mouth like Father and made his eyes look at nothing, and staggered his way through the rest of his speech. He didn’t remember what he said afterwards but nopony wagged their hooves at him, so it must have been all right.
He almost went back to his seat when the Duke rose to stand beside him. Abruptly everypony else followed suit, and the casket bearers stepped forward. It was time to put Goldspinner in the ground.
Orion heard the tinkle of unicorn magic and refused to look up. He kept his head down and his gaze focused on the floor as the musical chime swept overhead along with the shadow of the casket, and closed his eyes when it began to lower. Somepony sang something beautiful and sad.
When he opened his eyes again the coffin rested snugly in its hole. It looked cramped and uncomfortable and hideously unadorned. Would his mother be happy with it? Was she ashamed wherever she was now, embarrassed her family skimped on a proper unicorn tomb? His father stared at him expectantly. Everypony did. There was yet one more duty to perform, stomach-turning though it may be. But they had to see him do it. They had to take home stories of his piety and solemn observance of the proper rituals.
Orion reached down and scooped up a hoofful of earth. It was wet and unpleasantly cool and clung to him, refusing to let go as he rotated his wrist and shook.
The clod finally released its grip and fell with a sorry thump on the coffin’s lid. It did not give him closure or satisfaction. It was just dirt on a lid.
As far as he’d been told, that was the last of his obligations. Orion turned away from the grave, climbed into his carriage, and hid his face from the world.
———
It was evening of the next day when Orion opened his door again. Breakfast and lunch sat cold and untouched at his bedside, and he felt more disgusted than hungry. The curtains were drawn over his windows. Thin lines of light peeking into the cracks teased at a world outside the manor, but he wanted no part of it. There was nothing out there, just a vast empty space that lacked everything that was his mother.
Everything felt grey and flat, like dusty sheets draped lazily over old furniture. His skin sagged over his bones and every muscle felt sluggish and heavy. He slumped into the hall and considered calling for a servant, but why bother? There was nothing to help with. He still wore his funeral clothes and dumped them in the hall as he trudged along, not knowing where to go.
He only heard his soft hoofsteps on the thick carpet—muted, scratchy little noises like rats in the walls. It irritated him. No wonder Mother liked it quiet. He wandered all through the second story of the manor, encountering nopony and shying away from sunlight that seeped in, cold and pale and ugly.
The manor felt big and empty even on party days. Whole crowds, if sectioned off into particular corners of the house, could go unnoticed by somepony on the other side. Orion used this to his advantage and skulked here and there, keeping to dusty old rooms nopony had visited in ages. He saw only three servants who studiously avoided his gaze, which was easy as he mostly kept it on the floor.
He did not know how long he wandered, but when he looked up again he was face to face with the head butler, his skin drawn tight over his face, dreadfully pale and forcefully polite.
“Young master,” he said, managing not to sound impressed upon. “Is there something you required from your father?”
“Huh?”
Orion looked around and saw he was in the hall that led to the Duke’s study. The door was shut but a sliver of candlelight shone from inside. A tense, heavy feeling settled around his shoulders like an ill-fitting cloak.
“Yes,” he said after a while. “Yes, I think there is.”
“Ah,” said the butler, fiddling with his cummerbund. “Then I shall relay what you desire to him in the morning. He has given strict orders not to be disturbed by anypony—”
“I’m his son, aren’t I?” asked Orion.
The butler hemmed and hawed and refused to look him in the eyes. “Well, yes, of course, but—”
“Then I will speak with my father.” Orion tried to make his voice like the Duke’s, quiet and harmfully intense and subtly inflicting shame. He seemed to do it well as the butler blushed and cleared his throat.
“Young master, your father was very specific that nopony should disturb him.”
“I am not disturbing him if I am his son wishing only to speak with him, correct?”
“That is technically true, however—”
“And you are here to ensure that the needs of the Blueblood family are met, is that so?”
“For the last eleven years, young master, but—”
“I have a need to speak with my father, and I order you as my servant to open that door.”
Eerie calm suddenly settled over the butler’s bony features. His jaw unclenched and his eyelids sagged with resignation. Orion stared at him for a while, wondering if he was being condescending or actually helpful. There was no guile in his eyes, no sneer of self-importance or false gravitas. Orion had always known him to be a truthful type. There was no reason not to believe that going to see his father really was a bad idea.
“Young master,” he said with a kindly patience Orion had never heard him use before, “today more than any other day I am intent upon the wellbeing of all Bluebloods. And today I must tell you that speaking to your father is not in your best interest. At least not right now.”
From within the room came a howl like a creature possessed. Something crashed onto the floor with the sound of cracking wood. The butler did not flinch. Orion did.
“… Very well,” he said. He continued his lonely circuit around the house, around and around again to no discernible end. He went to bed without supper and woke up feeling exactly the same as he did yesterday, which would have frightened him if he could bring himself to care.
———
Three weeks passed without incident, each day in them about as bland and grey as the next. Orion woke up, dressed, cleaned himself, and sat through his lessons, because the Duke ordered that structure and routine be maintained at all costs. Without them, without the rules, they would all go mad. Orion already felt mad, because he barely remembered going to any lessons whatsoever, and found himself forgetting where he was because everywhere felt the same. The end of one lesson merely bled into the beginning of another. Dusty Pages often tried to rouse him with stories of old explorers and heroes, but Orion just sighed until she stopped.
Duke Blueblood left his room late in the mornings and went to bed even later, milling around the house like a dog without a master. Orion passed him by every so often and they shared a glance, frightful and timid. Orion did not know what to make of his father’s change in behavior, but they had never been particularly close. It was not the distance that worried him, but that it seemed to be increasing.
Without Goldspinner the house had no direction. No purpose. Everything revolved around her room, her sickness, her future. The Duke had held parties to maintain the veneer that all was well. Now there were no parties. No visitors. No friends. Just long empty hallways and vast empty dining rooms, and servants flitting around like shadows. Far from being free of Goldspinner’s illness, her death had settled an even more terrible shroud over the house than before.
When he was not sitting in lessons or staring out windows with a blank look on his face, Orion continued to wander the house. He found nooks and crannies from when it was a younger place, frightened the servants by peeking into their quarters, and always turned away from the solar when he went near it. Dusty Pages insisted they have their lessons there, but Orion no longer saw the point. It only reminded him of how he’d failed to save his mother before he even got started. How his father had all but ignored her illness until it destroyed her.
“Dusty,” he said during one of his lessons.
The old mare looked up from the chalkboard. “Yes, little nip?”
“Why won’t Father talk about Mother?”
Dusty sighed and put her chalk down. “He has not spoken to you at all since the funeral? About the letter?”
Orion shook his head.
“That horrid old stallion,” Dusty whispered, but Orion heard it. He did not feel up to rebuking her, because he felt pretty horrible himself. Dusty turned to him with infinite pity in her eyes. “Your father is not well, Orion. I should not have to be the one explaining this to you; it’s his duty as a stallion to help you, for Celestia’s sake! But that poor colt and his sweet wife kept things from each other as much as he’s keeping himself from you now.”
Orion felt perturbed. “How do you know more than I do about what my parents did?”
Dusty sighed and went to sit next to him, dropping heavily into a chair. It groaned in protest. “Little nip,” she said, her voice cracking as she regarded him with pity and fear. Her old eyes shimmered. “I have tutored many children, and in those houses I am often as invisible as the child to the parents. They loosen their lips because they think hired help isn’t important enough to pay attention to. Sometimes parents do things for their children that they themselves do not understand. And they tell themselves it will be for the best. But in trying to do the best for their child, they forget that their child is their greatest good. I don’t know what exactly happened between your parents, but I do know that your father cares more than he lets on, and that’s what’s killing him. He is doing something he believes will protect you from himself. He is consumed by his own grief. But Orion…” She reached out and pulled him into a hug, which he did not resist. “I am afraid the only way to get an answer is to ask a question.”
“Then what letter did you mean?” Orion asked.
Dusty gulped. “Young master, your father has already scheduled for your continued education in Canterlot. The Princess herself endorsed the idea.” Her gaze fell to the ground. “I received notification my services would no longer be required three days ago.”
———
That night, Orion followed his father with the intent of asking many questions. The Duke staggered through the halls to his study, where the head butler met him. The two stallions shared some quiet words, and then sharp ones, and then the Duke poked the head butler with his hoof and that settled that. The butler allowed the Duke to pass, and he went inside and slammed the door shut. The butler took up his post next to the study door, and Orion approached him. He tried not to shake too much.
“Young master—” the butler began, but Orion held up his hoof for silence.
“I know what you’re going to say,” he said. “But I don’t care. Please open the door.”
The butler looked at him in a way that said he believed Orion was still a child and should be treated as such. That things should be kept from him like Dusty kept the letter secret and his father apparently kept things from Mother. “You will not like what you see, young master.”
“I haven’t liked a lot of things I’ve seen recently,” said Orion, brusquely. “Please open the door now.”
The butler sighed and gave the door a knock.
“Lord Blueblood,” he said, “your son is here.”
A muffled, angry snort.
The butler cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Pardon, your Lordship?”
“I said…”
There was a lengthy pause.
“I said let him in.”
Orion found the study in a sorry state when he entered. It used to be a venerable place that looked out into the gardens behind the house, where guests would coo over the two-story book collection and the globe in the corner enchanted to make locations glow when you said their names. Now books and notes and bottles were scattered everywhere, torn from the shelves and tossed aside, as were several plates of half-eaten, spoiling food. The furniture was all haphazardly rearranged, like the Duke had tried to find several ways to get comfortable and hated all of them. The large desk in the center of the room was covered in papers with scribblings all over them.
At its head sat the Duke, lazily chewing on a biscuit. His hair was unkempt and his eyes had the same vacant quality as the day of the funeral. A half-full glass of whiskey swirled in his magical grip. His entire body was slouched over his chair like forgotten clothes, and if not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest one might assume he was halfway dead. Orion felt a lurch of worry upset his stomach, but he ignored it even as the door clicked shut with a note of dreadful finality.
“My son,” the Duke drawled, watching his drink swish around and around. “My son.”
“Father,” Orion said, gulping. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“What about?”
Orion’s composure crumbled. He’d never seen his father like this, and it frightened him horribly. The fright stole away his grand plan of storming in here blustering with righteous indignation. “I just…” He scuffed the carpet with his hoof. “I’m sad, Father.”
“You’re sad.” The Duke gulped down the rest of his drink and set it on the table. “That’s understandable. I am very sad as well.”
“You’ve been drinking a lot lately.”
“OF COURSE I’M DRINKING!” the Duke’s voice cracked like the table as he smacked it with his hoof.
Orion flinched, curling into a ball as he stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Father,” he whispered, his voice a dry husk. His heart crunched in on itself, holding tight to the tears threatening to spill out. No wonder Father wanted to send him away, if the mere sight of him incited this reaction. No wonder he felt everything falling apart at the seams.
The Duke stared forward, chest heaving, eyes wild and bloodshot. He blinked several times and rubbed his eyes, then looked around as if confused.
“No,” he slurred. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Orion. I’m sorry, Goldspinner, my love. I’m so sorry.” As Orion watched, his father covered his face with his hooves and slumped in his chair, slowly sliding down like spilled syrup until he hung halfway to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he kept saying. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
An awful empty silence surrounded them both. Orion felt naked and alone and wondered if he was the reason his father was angry. The silence stretched on and his father still didn’t move, nor did he speak. Orion sat for a while and listened to him breathing. He had never really heard his father breathe before, though he heard his mother do it many times. Sometimes her breathing was slow and steady and calming, others it frightened him as she wheezed and coughed.
Father’s breathing was almost too quiet to hear. Like everything else he kept it to himself. But with Mother gone, Orion felt compelled to at least try to reach out to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I wish I could have done something sooner.”
“My son,” said the Duke, “that is a sentiment that our family is all too familiar with. But I have done something.”
Orion’s gaze fell to the floor. “Canterlot,” he said.
“Yes,” the Duke said. His eyes widened, and he seemed to look at something he had not seen in ages, something that very slightly roused him from his stupor, making him sit up straight. “Canterlot. The First City of Equestria. Seat of the Princess. There is much good waiting for us there, perhaps we should move.”
“Move?” Orion wondered, though the Duke didn’t seem to be speaking to him.
“Th-there will be so many opportunities for us,” his father murmured. “So many things for the little one to do. W-we could… uh, we could…” The moment of reverie faded. His eyes dimmed and he slouched once more beneath the weight of the world. “Canterlot, yes,” he said, nodding firmly. “It’s a good idea I think. Arrangements have been made.”
“Arrangements?”
The Duke waved vaguely at the table.
Orion looked around the room and decided to pull up a chair next to his father. The Duke did not stop him, merely sat and stared at the wall. On the table next to the Duke, among all the papers and dusty books, lay an unfurled scroll. It taunted him with its flowing script and total accessibility. Orion snatched it up in his magic to read before he lost his nerve.
My dear Blueblood,
It has been exactly twelve years, four months, and nineteen days since we last saw each other on good terms. Forgive me. I have been remiss in our correspondence, though I must admit that one finds it hard to remain motivated when one’s letters are never answered. I am glad I was able to see you smile at the Ambient’s presentation before the recent tragedy, at least. If nothing else, you make such wonderful ships.
I do not want to be short with you, yet you have ever been a short-tempered pony, so I will not mince words. I will not pretend that either of us have a hope of reconciliation. But I do want you to know, Polaris, that I have always cared for you, even when you shunned what I wanted to give you. I have always held out hope that one day you would see the wisdom in what I had to offer.
That same offer is one I wish to extend to your son.
I have heard much about Orion through the grapevine, his maturity and curiosity and continued endurance in the face of your family’s immeasurable tragedy. My meeting with him was illuminating. He has potential I have not seen in a century, potential that I wish to cultivate, and rather than leave him to the sharks of noble politics now that he is the sole chance the Blueblood line has of survival, I am formally requesting to be his custodian, and to shift the focus of his training to my School for Gifted Unicorns. This is no barter, no noble trade of blood and hostages. Nor is it a punishment for how cruelly you cast off my guidance long ago. It is an option for you to take, and to decide with your child. I am keenly aware of the turmoil that has enveloped your house in recent years, Polaris, and I also know that you do love your son, and want him to grow apart from what you did. This is his best chance of doing that.
I do not want you to live alone in that great big house either, or think I am taking your son away from you. A place remains for you in Canterlot as well, and you need only ask. I want your family to flourish, Polaris, and I want to give you hope in this dark time. You and your child. Goldspinner’s loss does not have to define the Blueblood name.
Orion.
Orion’s eyes widened. Had those words been there before? They seemed to spring out of the page the moment he got to them. He thought he had reached the end, and yet…
Please do not lose faith, Orion.
Sincerely,
Princess Celestia
Orion put the letter back in a daze, confused and amazed and hurt all at the same time. To live in Canterlot? With the Princess herself? Would that make up for the trainwreck of his life? Could be do what his mother believed he could? Would that make him a Prince? Would it even matter if he was? Who could tell?
He curled up on the chair with his hooves between his legs, hunched and miserable. Time passed them by like a rich man passed the poor.
“I’m not sure I want to go, Father,” said Orion, after the sun had set.
“Go where?” the Duke asked.
“To Canterlot.”
“You’d rather stay here in this dreadful house? Canterlot is a wonderful place, my son. You will be with ponies your own age at last. You will be staying with the Princess.” He took a drink from a wine bottle without pouring a glass. “I have made my decision. You are going. It will be better for you.”
Orion’s breath hitched in his throat. “I want to be near Mother. I want to be near the places she was because somehow I know leaving them won’t make me feel better. I feel like if I go I’ll have given up on her.” He sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hoof. It was undignified but he didn’t care. Nobody was watching. Not even Father, who stared blankly at the far wall.
“I feel like if I go I’ll be admitting I failed. And then… then what would the point be? Of anything at all? What would be the point of saying I loved her so much if she didn’t care and she left us anyway and…” He coughed and hiccuped as tears started to flow freely.
“And,” he said, “what’s the point of loving somepony if they just die like that?”
His father snored in response.
The ineffable Duke, the rock of Orion’s life, had passed out from too much drink.
“Oh,” said Orion, lapsing back into silence. He found it more comfortable than having to talk about his feelings, which had a bite like snakes and felt just as poisonous. The silence comforted him. And so Orion learned that it was not just rules, but silence that ruled the house.
He thought for a while.
Then he thought some more.
Then he sighed and went back to bed after a tepid, lonely supper, and dreamed of houses made of gold, and homecomings after long journeys. He spent the next few days dreading and fretting and hiding from the inevitable. He avoided the solar, his drawings, and all thoughts of adventure, because he hated the thought of going outside at all.
Then, one grey and dreary morning, the Sun rose over his house, knocked on his door, and asked to come inside.