//------------------------------//
// The End 
// Story: The Search in Winsome Falls 
// by Comma Typer 
//------------------------------//

In Canterlot, it was a quiet night.
The moon's light shone, accompanied by its plentiful stars adorning the sky—from the horizon to the top, this expanse. A few pegasi flew in the night, way above the capital's royal architecture glittering under artificial lights, but their silhouettes were obscured in the darkness.
Just like in the day, wealthy ponies strutted along in the night, walking on the sidewalks with a fancy gait that exuded from them a feigned importance—some heads were raised high, even. The tourists, just like in the day, felt envious as they saw the rich abundance of elegant clothes and accessories the ornate ponies had on display—the tourists gave them a mean glance before they trotted on.
Fragrant flowers, wooden aromas—perfumes and colognes mixed in, just like in the day, with other such smells to create a unique scent that may not appear again.
Carriages were in no hurry to get to where they needed to be; their speed was slow as the passengers inside took longing looks of the city they lived in.
Past the parks, past the restaurants, past the stores, past the mansions—and, one would finally reach the castle.



Princess Luna stood in the hallway.
Moonlight pierced through the tall windows, flooding in it equal parts and decorating the room with faint beauty.
Her mane shimmered under the moonlight as it twinkled in its flow.
She looked up. She looked at the moon.
A firm face—one that bore no smile.



A few hours ago


She stood in her small bedroom—with its crescent bed, its blue walls and its drawn curtains, its rug and its four slippers.
"What could this be?" she asked herself, levitating a note that had been right before the double doors.
It glowed blue and floated in front of her face as she read it.
"'Your Highness, Princess Luna,
"'I apologize for the hasty writing, but we have arrested the suspect known as Watts Onion. His criminal activities include: unsensibly beating a pony up, causing public disturbances, and destruction of private property. A medal of royal identification has been found on his person; this could add to his charges misrepresentation of the Crown.
"'Since you have tasked him chiefly for a certain mission some time back, we are currently holding him custody at the Friendship Penitentiary, awaiting your working hours to send him to you at the Royal Hall.
"'The rest is up to you, Princess.
"'From, Public Security.'"



In the present


She stayed silent as she kept looking up, wondering over there.
The doors at the far end swung open.
A guard in his uniform armor ran to the Princess and kneeled down. "Your Highness!"
She turned to him—said nothing.
He lifted his head. "Princess Luna, we've brought Watts Onion here. I have made sure that he is more than fit for the...chat that you wish to have as stated in your reply."
She nodded—slow, closed eyes.
"Is there nothing else?" he asked.
"Nothing else, Public Security," she said. "Now, bring him in. I shall see him in the Royal Hall."
"A pleasure to do so, Princess."
And, he rushed back to the far end.



The doors glowed blue and then closed.
None of the features had gone away or had been changed. The stained glass windows, the rows of columns, the illustrous banners, the long red carpet, the guards stationed at supposedly strategic points—all under the familiar guise of night with its moonlight.
Eye contact with the guards.
Then, a shy away.
Luna raised a hoof, about to step forward to the elevated throne.
And put it down—not moved.
She turned around to face Watts Onion—escorted by guards on his left and on his right.
Head down, face down—eyes downcast, mane covering a part of his face, hiding some of it.
Luna's mane flowed as she stood still.
As the guards stood still.
It was a quiet night.
"May I ask why you have done what you did?" Luna asked, breaking the silence.
A croak—no word spoken.
Luna looked on—a step forward.
No word.
The escorts stepped away, though still near and still keeping a watchful eye on him.
"But, it is more than just what you've done today, is it not?"
No word.
"Is it not, Watts Onion?"
A single nod—never looking up.
"Your friends have written to me," Luna said, standing firmly in place—never pacing, never moving from there; her stare glowered down on him as her ethereal mane continued to flow freely. "They have told me of the events that transpired right after the celebratory ceremony less than a week ago."
No word, face down.
"They have told me that you have become mad with the fame you have accumulated as of late. You have spent less precious time with your friends—and, dare I mention, even with your family—allocating more of your time to what they have regarded as 'fan time.' I do not wish to prevent grateful ponies to give their thanks to you for your gallantry, your quickness to answer a call to serve Equestria through extraordinary means—however, it is not their fault when all has been said and done."
No word, still face down—slightly away.
"I was thoroughly convinced that you had pure motives—and so was my train of thought: A pony picked as if by random to carry out a duty commissioned by none other than the Princess of the Night. Surely, I thought, given all that he needed to do what must be done, he would gladly take it up and validate his love of Equestria, of peace—of friendship—by hurrying to defend all these things."
No word—trembling.
"I am not naive. I know that not everypony would do noble tasks for noble reasons, but your background told me otherwise. A farmer of onions in a town where plenty is abound—from all that I perceived, you were more than content with what Equestria has given you."
No word—shivering.
"The mystery in Winsome Falls did lead to you performing acts of courage and bravery—those things, I commend. But, you have received your fair portion of commendations and congratulations, so I shall not repeat myself here."
No word—mouth open, teeth gripped.
"I imagined that, as with all others who I have commissioned, the time of power would just leave—that, for a while, you would be overly proud of yourself and of your friends and then, after that, it would be over. However, it was in the height of that time of yours that you and your friends received the news about Flim and Flam's exact punishment."
A quiet growl—no word, face down.
The pegasus guards opened their wings, sharp in their sound even.
Luna looked on at the pony in front of her. "That was your breaking point, was it not?"
The stare of hers—that glare of hers.
He looked away—a single nod.
"Where were you when the various villains of both old and new threatened Equestria and were defeated not by sheer might but by offer of friendship?"
Her voice was raised.
"Where were you when, in your history class, you were taught that it was friendship, not strife, that brought the three pony tribes together to form Equestria, with everypony willing to overlook their grievances—to forgive each other—to create a better world?"
No word—face down, shivering.
"Where were you when I returned not as Princess Luna but as Nightmare Moon? When I desired to engulf all of Equestria in eternal darkness, in eternal night? When I deserved no mercy nor grace for the harm that I wrought upon my own home—and the home of all ponies? If you had the ability then to banish me back to the moon, would I still be here, reunited with not only my land and my subjects but, ultimately, with my sister?"
No word.
"Princess Twilight Sparkle agreed to punish Flim and Flam with a year's time in jail. Do you know what prisoners do in, say, Friendship Penitentiary—exactly where those two conponies are, the two conponies you've been mad at for so long?"
No word.
"There are reformation activities," Luna said. "Several ponies—equipped with friendship lessons and, more importantly, friendship experiences—are given the job to educate the prisoners to live a life of friendship—of good harmony. Cooking time with each other, chess and checkers with each other, book-reading with each other, even just discussion at the table—all under the hopes that, when they are released, they would re-integrate into Equestrian society as productive, happy citizens."
No word.
"I am not ignorant of Flim and Flam's crimes, considering the gravity of what they have done in scamming ponies out of their hard-earned bits. This is the reason why they are in jail—they are not free to go in and out as they please, to go wherever they want to do whatever they want. That alone is a heavy price to pay for their deeds. But, as I remember from the time when Applejack and Fluttershy were sent to Las Pegasus, their talents—though not as completely honest as others—can be used for upright goals."
No word.
"It is clear-cut proof that they can be good if it is the only proof they have. It is much better than your idea of locking them up forever, doing nothing but wasting their time."
No word.
"But, even then, I do not think that is the end of your reason."
No word—looked up fully.
His face was haggard—bags were under his eyes, bruises and scars were on his face. A hoarse groan as he looked on.
"It is nothing complex, nothing complicated, Watts Onion."
She drew in breath.
"You are selfish."
A drowning syllable—an attempt to speak up.
Face down.
No word.
"You are willing to forego your principles of friendship and harmony to preserve your fame. Indeed, a shorter punishment would mean, to the public, that the effort of you and your friends were not that important. They are, of course, but the public is the public. You thought to yourself that if Flim and Flam were not given the punishment they deserved, your popularity as the sole pony who brought down two of the greatest criminals in Equestrian history might dwindle because your work might be seen as in vain—worthless. You ended up being fickle—rushing to protect your own interests—only, in your unwise haste, you've brought failure upon yourself. You tried to bring matters into your own hooves, even attempting to capture another pony to regain some of your 'lost' notoriety. And, look at what has spiralled down on you, Watts Onion."
No word.
"It is saddening to know that this is what you've become in return—when all believed the four of you to be good, resolute ponies. It is much more of a disgrace for everypony who has placed their innocent trust in you as a hero—"
And she looked away
"—than it is for us."
Seconds.
Half a minute.
Looked down on him.
His face covered, hidden beneath—not even the light of the moon lifted it.
"I do not think that you are beyond good. You are certainly not the worst pony I have met. But—the law must be upheld, the punishment must be meted out. I cannot let you go off scot-free. Hopefully, in your time, you will truly realize what you have accomplished."
Head sunken.
With a loud voice and an outstretched hoof: "As Princess of the Night, as co-Ruler of the entirety of Equestria, I sentence you to six months in prison!"
Echoed through the hallways.
The guards stood tall, regaining their stance.
Shackles clicked between Onion's four hooves.
Walked between guards—clank, clank, clank of the chains.
And the Princess watched on—that dreading tread, face turned away.



Right outside the steps, a blur.
A look left, a look right, turn and twist of the head.
Hollow voices, almost clear but not exactly so.
"Sir, we're going..."
Flowers in the air—a sweet, familar fragrance taken out.
"You're not allowed to stray. You have to follow us."
Figures on the sidewalk—through damp vision, onlooking, watching, observing—a gasp from there.
Up to see—burned by a lamp's glare.
Away and closed eyes.
Remembering, feeling the cold, hard rock of the surface.
Almost tripped—caught by a hoof.
"Steady, now. You know you can't extend your hooves that much when you're in custody."
Gasped. "I-is that...?"
"Is what?"
Another close stumble—caught by a hoof.
"You've gotta focus, mister! We're never gonna make it to prison if you keep shambling along like that!"
Whispers beyond those near.
Hoof forward, another hoof forward on the stony ground.
Turned his head up—a glimpse of the sky.
The moon, the stars—all distorted, watery.
A tear trickled down his cheek.



The next day, in the morning


"Ice cream! Ice cream! Get yer' ice apple ice cream!"
A lone vendor stood at the corner of the intersection, wallowing against the sheer rejection of his wares by the upper-class ponies who went from mere ignoring him to outright expressing a "Hmph!" and turning right around. There were even some who opened up the windows of their extravagant estates—with their wide open front yards, back yards, and side yards all behind closed gates—making a mocking face at him before shutting their windows. Despite that, the smile on his face did not go away.
The vendor himself did not look as fancy or as uppity as those ponies: He wore a flat cap and an apron with an ice cream symbol on it. He stood behind the simple ice cream cart which was half-wood, half-metal. The sign on it read: "Apple Ice Cream! Only right here!"
On the amiable occasion that a tourist or a more considerate aristocrat came by and ordered, the vendor's smile widened as he went through the process of scooping the ice cream up, hoofed it to the customer, and received his pay.
Among the customers was Isobar as he landed right in front of the cart.
"Ah, good morning, sir!" the vendor said in his thick accent. "May I—"
Isobar threw a few bits.
All landed on the counter.
"Two apple ice creams, please," Isobar said—tense. "Nothing else."
"No toppings or other changes o' mind?" the vendor asked, raising his voice and his head.
"No."
"Well, if that's what you say so!"
And, in quick motions—scoop twice, hoofed once, and pay received.
"Thanks."
"You're wel—"
But Isobar was already back in the sky, holding the two ice creams in hoof.



"You're gonna be meeting someone, eh?"
No response.
Escorted by the guards through a tight hallway of wallpaper and paint. Musty wooden smell—dust flying about. Too dark to see all of it. Hoofsteps noisy and resonating the way through.
"We send out our best janitors here to make sure it gets scrubbed clean. But, it doesn't work—always dusty by tomorrow. Some say it's dust magic—I'm a unicorn and I don't think it's that."
"Tour Patrol, we're under orders to not talk with the prisoner."
"Who said we were under orders? This is Friendship Penitentiary. I'm going to make it as friendly as it can possibly get."
"What if you end up sympathizing with him? And then you'll end up going into jail as well?"
No word.
Creaking open of the door.
Flash of light.
Turned away, closed eyes.
"Sit down. Your buddy's across the table."
Shuddering.
"We can't wait all day."
Looked on.
A chair. Brown rug covering the entire floor. Windows with curtains—open, letting in the sunlight with its warmth and brightness. Walls blank—just yellow. A table. Another chair over there across.
Isobar.
Long look.
A sigh.
Sunken face.
Sat on the chair.
"We'll be leaving you two, OK? We trust you!"
They closed the door.



Isobar sighed as he hovered beside the chair—his two hooves still holding the ice cream.
Onion looked up to his friend's face—shackled.
Isobar hoofed a cone to him.
Received it—did not eat, yet. "D-don't worry..." he managed—a gravelly voice. "Six months is gonna be fine. It's...short."
Isobar looked.
He went to his chair and sat.
"It's not gonna be fine. And yet...here we all are."
Silence.
"I don't wanna say that I told you. But I did."
Narrowed eyebrows.
"I told you to not let it get into your head. I told you not to let your ego take over you."
"How's...the others?"
"Don't try to change the subject, Onion."
Looked down, cleared his face with a hoof.
The scars, the bruises on there.
"Onion?"
"Just...six months. I...did it for the Princess, for Equestria."
"You've let this go on for too long and you've went too far, Onion." Isobar stood up, sliding his chair back. With raised voice: "Too long and too far! Do you think you're better than the ponies who take care of the prisoners here? Do you think you're better than the ponies who made the laws regarding unscrupulous ponies? Do you think you're better than the Princesses for giving Flim and Flam a shot at friendship?!"
A croak—a sound, raised hoof with the clank of a chain.
"I'm disappointed. I thought you knew better."
Looked down again—lowered hoof.
Silence of seconds.
"Onion—" now quieter, calmer "—we're still gonna visit you. But, I hope that...you change, right? Come on, Onion." The frown disappeared—though no smile replaced it.
A hoof on his shoulder.
"Onion. You're our friend. Hero or not, we're still here—and being a hero won't make you better. Think of that. Think of us."
With that, Isobar opened the door and left.
Watts Onion was silent.
He placed the ice cream on an empty plate on the table.
Looked out the window.
A bright blue sky.
Between him and there, a wall and a window.
Sighed.