Not for the first time that day, Ponet wished he hadn’t brought the wretched stick along.
What on earth had possessed her to get that sceptre-cane? It’s hideous. And it’s so obviously cheap. A baby wouldn’t use it for a toy.
Nevertheless, he stuck his muzzle up as high as he dared, flicked his sinuous fringe as casually as he could, and strode along the streets of Ponyville, ignoring the raised eyebrows and mumbling comments. Beside his glowing horn, the wretched stick stepped onto the ground, fell behind for a moment, and then arced up and over to step forwards again.
There: the unicorns Twinkleshine and Minuette tittered into their hooves. Here: even the earth stallions Caramel and Noteworthy blushed for him. Hauteur rose up in his defence. What does it matter? One does not simply abandon a graciously offered gift. And I think I have enough style and elegance for the both of us.
All the same, he passed any number of tempting trash cans, and longed to hurl it into one.
Soon, the marketplace of Ponyville opened its arms to embrace him. The hub of rural hubbub, the wooden stalls and the hundred smells, ponies of all tribes and colours scattered about to hawk their wares or haggle over prices. As though basking in the sun, he stopped and stretched himself up to his fullest extent.
In the middle of the marketplace was his true calling. Among the shouts and the rustle of clothes and the chink of coins, he let out a long breath as though sinking into a hot bath. The muse awaits.
Perhaps this warmth, this radiance, this reassuring bustle was part of the Canterlot legacy. Oh, born and bred in Ponyville, of course, of course, but one inevitably feels the rising urge of noblesse oblige, does one not? So long as I live and breathe, I live and breathe Canterlot.
Waiting for him, his faithful canvas stood as a bulwark against the common dirt and timber. Even if he’d had any issue with the rustic charm and wonderful community that washed over him now – he waved and smiled at various stall owners, and shouted greetings back – the canvas was a portal to another place.
Gently, he propped the sceptre-cane against the support and summoned his paintbrush. A box of paints flipped open at his magical command.
“I wake up today,” he said cheerfully, “and I think, ‘This Ponet, this Elite Pony; what wonders will he perform?’”
His paintbrush rose to his teeth, and he clamped the gnashers tight over them. Thus armed for the glorious battle, he sat down and waited for inspiration to strike.
The market carried on. Ponies walked along. Ponies sold things. Ponies bought things. Ponies said things. Ponies waited for any of the above to happen.
Overhead, the sun drifted across the sky.
Paintbrush drooping from his clenched teeth, Ponet glanced at each stall in turn. Apples. Did them. Carrots. Did them. Cherries. Did them. Ooh, corn on the cob… no, wait, I did them last month.
He tapped his chin thoughtfully.
That morning, he’d open the special chest in his attic and run a critical eye over the paintings. What it was supposed to do was inspire him to new works. Yet he’d seen Remembrance’s Night Watch so many times he was running out of ways to replicate it interestingly. The Last Eclipse, once the centrepiece of his Princess Luna collection, now was nothing more than yet another daub with too much darkness. His imitation of The Whinny left a lot to be desired too. In fact, all of the paintings suddenly seemed to be hopelessly inadequate. Mere shadows of the originals.
Is this all I’m going to be remembered for? said a loud voice inside his head. Imitations?
Ponet shook it down and jumped forwards as – who else? – Rarity the unicorn happened to walk by. “Good morning, Miss Rarity!”
A sidelong glance took in his blank canvas, his drool-slick paintbrush, and to his horror the wretched stick laughing at his dream. However, Rarity smoothed it over and bowed, her expertly curled mane having just the right amount of shiver to it.
“And a delightful afternoon to your good self, Mister Ponet,” she said.
“Afternoon?” He checked the position of the sun. “My my, how time flies. I, uh, I hardly noticed. Such a busy morning, you can imagine.”
Once more, she caught his empty canvas full-on.
“Oh, I’ve already done a few,” he lied at once, and then wondered why he’d done so. “Inspiration like a fountain, I can tell you. I shall produce my masterpiece any day yet, just you wait and see!”
“Indeed I shall.” With a graceful dip of her head that made him stare in envy, Rarity granted him a smile and moved on.
“Goodbye,” he called after her, waving and grinning for all it was worth. As soon as she was lost to the bustle, however, he glared at the wretched stick. “Oh, most gracious, Mister Ponet,” he muttered under his breath, “with his country works and his useless garbage. I’ll get there someday, you just wait and see. If she can do it, so can I.”
Only then did he notice his mouth was empty of brush. After glancing about, he spotted it on the grass in a hoofprint, and hastily summoned it to eye level. Someone with muddy hooves had trodden on it. Bits dripped off.
“Darn it,” he said.
While the sun sank lower and the crowds thinned and the songbirds crisscrossed the blue sky, Ponet sat down and waited. Occasionally, he waved and grinned at passing ponies, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Around the time Applejack was closing her stall and wheeling it away, he turned and stared at his cutie mark.
“One yellow star, four smaller stars,” he said, and then he groaned and picked up his dropped brush. No matter how many times that happened, the great artists of history had always used their teeth, and he’d be darned before he did it any way the great artists of history had not.
It’d made so much sense at the time, he thought grimly. A star, a celebrity surrounded by many admirers. An aficionado of shape and colour. A connoisseur of the night – what ho! Maybe that’s why I don’t like my daytime works. Oh no, wait, I don’t like my night-time works either. No joy there, old bean.
Now, something in his head was laughing at him. That was how it was supposed to go, though: turn up the Canterlot-isms in the speech, show a little class and hauteur, always keep an eye on art.
Nevertheless…
One lone pegasus flashed by overhead, and he recognized Blossomforth’s hues. Another followed, which he instantly identified as Thunderlane. A third passed by, and he half-wondered if calling out “Raindrops” would be a good move.
But no, they must have their dance. More and more flew by, defying he who had to be stuck on the earth and the grass amid the wood and the fruit. They could look down and see everything. They could land if they so wished. They could zip and glide and spiral all over the sky, seeing fields stretched out like patches on a quilt, seeing things he, little earthbound struggling worm that he was, could not even hope to see. The baby Ponet looked up wide-eyed, the colt Ponet looked up with the knowing smirk of one who’s just got his cutie mark and figured out life, but the stallion Ponet looked up and watched the pegasi fly on, and he did not.
He sighed, and didn’t even bother picking up his paintbrush.
“Oh well,” he murmured. “Time to call it a day. You win some, you lose some, as they say out in the fields, what?”
Leaving his canvas behind him, Ponet picked up the sceptre-cane and shuffled along the empty stalls to the street. Not even bothering to make the gift go step-by-step, his magic fizzed and glowed along his horn.
“What exactly am I doing?” he said to the ladybugs flitting by. They gave him weird looks and hurried onwards. “I had everything planned out: become amateur artist sensation, catch some elite attention, work my way up to Canterlot, get painting in gallery. Where did I go wrong? Too predictable? No. Too unproductive? I’ve got chests of the stuff. Too dull?”
No one else was on the street. Soon, his unthinking hooves led him outside of town. As he cleared the last of the cottages, he wound his way up the path. One hill loomed above him. At least he could always watch the sunset.
Provided he didn’t mind company at all: some silhouette was already there, sitting and staring out at the horizon. As for said horizon? Only greens and a few pinks at this point, but his artistic eye could at least see some ethereal hues there that would appeal.
The silhouette flapped its wings, and her head turned around.
He’d recognize that lumpy fringe anywhere. “White? Is that you?”
Weakly, she smiled down at him. He never did find out why she never spoke. Not that it was his place to pry, after all. A gentlecolt would not be so unseemly as to pry.
As he drew closer, he could see another package lying beside her. Blushes tinged her cheeks. Oh for heaven’s sake, he thought, she hasn’t gone and tried that stunt again, has she? As much as I won’t shed tears over this sceptre-cane, it’s not as if I ask her to splash out what little money she has. Who is she trying to impress?
“Wonderful scene, is it not?” he said, forcing a bright-eyed smirk where he felt only the urge to roll his eyes and grimace. “I’d fetch my canvas, but I’m afraid I’ve done this one a hundred times already. A true artiste must never become a rolling stone, what?”
Ponet sat down beside her. He wasn’t sure of the phrase himself, but then a rolling stone gathering no moss sounded like a very dead stone to him.
Once more, he was painfully aware of how close he was sitting to her. Surely, a gentlecolt would have granted his lady a tad more room, but he’d barely thought about it. He was too busy trying to hide the sceptre-cane on his other side.
Staring though she was at the sun, her eyes were shining orange and the skin underneath was puffy. Fear shot through his chest. Tears did not fit into his view of her.
“I had the most delightful conversation with Miss Rarity this morning,” he said, ignoring the twinge from his heart. “Wonderful mare she is, too. Did you know she’s selling a new line of accessories at Rarity For You in Manehattan? Spoon-inspired tiaras, eh? Culinary accoutrements, or so she told me. Where oh where does she get her inspiration from?”
White Lightning looked at him as though his words had meant nothing to her: still shiny-eyed, weak smile disintegrating into an overturned crescent, simple blink that barely registered his presence.
“You’re right,” he said, giving up his act in relief. “Nothing important.”
The sunset faded into a yellowing streak over the horizon. A v-formation crossed the glowing disc, honking and flapping in waves.
He was barely aware of her hoof sliding the box over the ground, and a flicker of curiosity bloomed inside his chest. Sadly, the flower was a stranger in his weed-ridden gardens, and it soon wilted and died like all the others.
“Have you ever gotten the impression,” he said to the sun, “that you’re stuck where you are in life?”
The sliding sound stopped. Despite himself, a few drops of water nourished his insides. Ah, sweet relief, he thought.
“Not that I’m stuck at all,” he said. After a furious shouting match in his head, he continued, “Well, granted, I am a little stuck, but it’s only a temporary pothole on the road to success. At least, I darn well hope so.”
In the distance, a few shadows rose up from the fields. He counted six pegasi, presumably playing some ineffable game as they weaved trails amongst themselves.
“Notwithstanding all that,” he said, “and supposing for the sake of argument I were to paint something monumental. I could be in the history books! First, Mare Meadows, then the Griffon de Grenouille, and lastly, me. Ponet, the Elite Pony! Such class, they’ll say. Such sophistication! Can you imagine it? I’d be there, seeing my signature in the gallery. I don’t mind telling you, White; it would feel” – he groped for the right word, and then smirked and grabbed one popping up – “positively electric.”
He cast a sideways glance in case she’d spotted the flash of wit. No. Still staring at the sunset.
Oh, why do I even bother trying to be smart? Groaning, Ponet kicked at the grass by his hooves. Stop beating about the bush, Ponet. I wish she’d say something, though. I feel like I’m trying to talk for both of us, and I just can’t do that. It wouldn’t be right.
“I envy you, White,” he said to the sky. A few clouds hovered over their heads.
Movement: he looked down, and she was facing him, one eyebrow raised. He’d seen that one before, and he cleared his throat.
“I mean,” he added, avoiding her eye again, “you get to do whatever you want. Flying around, no barriers, getting as hooves-on or as muddy as you want, saying whatever you like…”
He glanced back. A more skeptical eyebrow raised itself at him.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”
He tried a grin and then watched the pegasi zooming back and forth.
“Make no mistake: it’s not as if I actually dislike being the Elite Pony. The suave, sophisticated socialite that I am, eh?”
Waggling his eyebrows did nothing. He still squirmed inside his chest. Fires burned along his horn. For once, he wished he could rip the stupid thing off.
“But sometimes,” he said, forcing himself to speak, “you look back and think… and think: where am I going with this? When do I get off the train? I keep telling myself it’s the next stop, but then it’s not. It’s always the next stop, never the one I’m actually at.”
No one listened like White Lightning did. He could almost see his own pathetic words vanishing into the void. No nonsense could survive there for long. Hastily, he checked the hill for signs of ponies, but only the bushes and the grass and the trees listened in.
I hate my life. He didn’t dare say it. He didn’t know if it would vanish into the void as well. It's garbage. I hate what I’ve wasted on it.
To his shock, he realized he hadn’t asked her about her yet. Talk, talk, talk, and all about myself. What must she think of me? Some stuck-up snob? Well, no. I won’t sink that low.
The skies finally did it; yellow streaks gave way to a golden veneer, bordering on wonderful oranges. His muse stirred.
“So,” he said, and his vision was blurry, and he wiped his eyes at once. “I believe you wanted to show me something?”
Blinking in apparent surprise, she nodded. Beside her, the box slid across the grass once more, and then stopped. A determined frown crossed her face. She stuck up a hoof.
“Wait here?” he said. “Whatever for? Wait a moment!”
Too late: White Lightning took off from the hill and zipped down to the rooftops and streets of Ponyville. For as long as he could, he followed her swooping and undulating flight with his narrow-eyed gaze until she randomly ducked down and vanished.
The box lay unguarded next to him.
He skewed his jaw thoughtfully. One errant leg reached across, and then snapped back again.
He tapped his hoof, and shivered a little.
It’s, uh, awfully quiet up here.
A moment later, she shot up again, zooming straight towards him. Whether she was carrying something or had angled her wings in a funny way, her flight seemed stiffer and her outline more jagged. Then the wooden stand stood out against her white fur.
“My canvas?” he said. “And my paints?”
With a clatter, she dropped the lot next to him. A few tugs of the parts later, she had it erect and ready. Opening her mouth, she let the paintbrush drop onto the grass.
White Lightning landed on his other side, flapping so easily that she barely shook the sceptre-cane. To his surprise, she beamed at him, reached down, and rose up preparing to throw it down the hill.
“Now now, hold on!” He found himself spluttering. She tried to hurl it like a javelin, but her hoof went over, and she frowned and looked up.
The sceptre-cane hovered in midair. Horn aglow, Ponet placed it by his side.
“Of course, I can paint the sunset, if you so wish,” he said sternly. “But this is frankly ridiculous. Why on earth would you throw this away?”
White Lightning gave the levitating thing a pained expression. Then she stared at the grass.
“No, don’t you even think that!” In spite of his inner critic shouting him down, he puffed out his chest and adjusted the profile of his head with a curt rising of his muzzle. “I shall keep it. OK, maybe not parade it out and about again, but it is most emphatically not garbage anymore.”
Her suppressed chuckle turned into a grunt. This time, he recognized what the twisty-lipped look was saying: You serious?
“Whatever else it is,” he said, determined not to break eye contact, “it is a gift from you. That’s all there is to it. I am not a slave to outward appearances like some artists I could name. It might not make sense to you to keep stuff like this for more than a day, but it makes perfect sense to me. The thing stays.”
And he placed it onto the grass as reverentially as a princess would place a royal orb.
“I, uh,” he continued, “apologize if I came across as a bit curt.” He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, it has been one of those days, what?”
Once more, she was staring at him. After a while, he shuffled where he sat.
Then, apropos of nothing he could tell, she tackled him. Alarm shot into his chest – what offense had he committed now? – but then she squeezed his ribs. Both of his forelimbs chafed against his torso. He was horribly aware of her clumpy cerulean mane pressing against his neck.
Hoping to the heavens he was doing the right thing, he waited a few seconds before tapping her scalp with his chin. Her warmth still clung to him even after she’d stepped backwards, her smile stretching almost to her ears.
Finally, he relaxed. He could breathe again. He could breathe easily again.
“Now!” he said at once, moving to the canvas. “I believe I have one sunset to paint. Coming right up” – briefly, a giggle escaped his lips – “Lady White Lightning.”
She shot forwards and a rather hopeful side of him stretched out his forelimbs for a second hug. Instead, she shot round, gripped him under each pit, and flapped her wings hard.
“Wait a moment, wait a moment!” he cried out. Hastily, he turned his anticipated hug into a grab for the canvas and box. “What are you doing?”
Her head over his shoulder, White Lightning looked up. He followed her gaze.
“You want me to paint clouds?” he said.
Grinning, she shook her head and began beating her wings faster. Their turbulence fanned his flanks. Already, his stomach tried to drop out of him.
Realization dawned. “Oooooh,” he said.
Both of them escaped the pull of gravity, and he looked down at once. The carpet of green became stains on the hill, which became a lump beside the swirling, spiralling, brown-marked streets of Ponyville. Fear and joy widened his eyes. A whoop escaped from his mouth, yet the mosaic of cottages shrank further, became an eye in the face of a complex portrait of green. The gleaming palace and the white dot of Rarity’s boutique fell away from him. His whoops became screams.
Look at all that! His inner artist bounced around his skull. Look at it, look at it, look at it! It’s even more beautiful than I imagined! So much complexity! So much life!
They reached one of the clouds overhead, a lone platform just large enough to place his canvas and box onto. Nothing else impeded his view. Although the sunset hadn’t changed, he fancied he could see the new slope, the green edge of the world. Below him, the fields stretched out like patches on a quilt. The baby Ponet fell silent with shock, the colt Ponet gaped with shock, but the stallion Ponet looked down and watched the pegasi fly on, and he did too.
“Oh, thank you!” he cried out. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Behind him, White Lightning groaned.
“Uh oh.” Ponet levitated the canvas and box out of her grip at once. “Are you… OK back there?”
He felt the shrug through his pits.
“Well, if you say so. I did ask.”
Sparkling, the canvas settled onto the platform. He placed the box next to it and flipped the lid open. When he levitated the brush into his mouth, however, he got a jolt from the pegasus, and hastily took it back out.
“What?” he said.
Her head was just visible over his right shoulder. Her gaze was on his levitating brush, and he saw it flicker towards his own horn. For a moment, he thought he saw his own hungry look in there. Her grip around his torso tightened.
Grinning, he turned back to the canvas. “Oh, if you must. It’s… not my usual style, but… Whyever not? Watch and learn from the master.”
The oranges blushed to a rosy red. Ponet, one moment making the brush dance across the paper in imitation of the sunset fields, glanced to one side and smiled. White Lightning never took her eyes off the sparkling golden sheen, her chin resting on his shoulder.
Ponet chuckled under his breath. The Elite Pony, and his faithful lady. Never change, White Lightning. Never change.