The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Luna, overcome with either exhaustion, emotion, or perhaps both, had shrouded herself in falsehood once more and then had made a hurried departure after leaving a kiss on Gosling’s cheek. Gosling too, was exhausted after the emotional confrontation, but knew that there would be no rest, no solace; he was far too unsettled to know any sort of peace at the moment.
He felt far too enervated, too fatigued to even find answers, but still had a pressing need to talk, a deep desire to converse, but not with Celestia. No, for now, he chose to avoid her, but knew that he would have to face her soon enough, and that would be an exercise in endurance because that needed to be sorted out. To do that though, to deal with all of the things that needed to be said, and to do so after his time with Luna—the very thought of it was almost too much to bear. This was the trouble with having not one, but two wives; he had a responsibility to both and could not favour one over the other, not without trouble. To be successful in this marriage would mean developing stamina, the emotional kind. Though she did a better job of hiding it, Celestia was no less emotional than Luna and she would need reassurance.
Gosling told himself that he wasn’t avoiding Celestia, no, he was preparing.
Raising his hoof, Gosling knocked on Seville’s door. According to the guard, Seville had returned to his apartment after the morning reports had been cancelled—for whatever reason they had been cancelled. Today was certainly shaping up to be one of crisis. Everything about today was just wrong and Gosling was almost certain that his earth pony friend would reveal that he was secretly a changeling.
A moment later, Seville opened the door and Gosling saw that his friend was wearing a smoking jacket of all things. It was silly, ridiculous even, but Gosling had nothing left within him to laugh with. Soft music floated out into the hallway, old music, music from a bygone era, music from before the time when his mother had been a filly. Something soft, but lively, something that was from the classy golden era of Manehattan when the streets had been lined with jazz joints and hep cats. It sounded a bit like slowed-down swing, but also sensual, and maybe sexual.
“Ugh, there’s an ugly guy at my door,” Seville muttered. “You’d think the security ‘round here would do something about the bums. Get outta here, ya panhandler!”
“You gotta moment?” Gosling asked.
“Yeah, sure.” Seville gave a nod. “I was working, but some ugly mug shows up at my door. Come in.”
Before Gosling could reply, Seville grabbed him by his leg and yanked him inside.
Seville Orange’s apartment was almost a time capsule, an homage to a fading Equestrian era that may or may not have existed. Oh, it might have existed in the mind, in cheap, pulpy serial novels, on the silver screen, and there could be no doubt that some ponies held a fervent belief that kept the flame alive. Reporters were seen as romantic heroes, the guardians of public opinion, private dicks that could be depended on to find the truth, always there to support a noble cause, and classy dames appreciated a fella with a little gravel in his voice. Truth, Justice, and the Equestrian Way.
Framed movie posters from decades ago lined the walls, populated by movie stars who had long since passed their prime. The stink of ink and botanical citrusy gin left a heady signature in the air. Cameras—antique ones that belonged in a museum—were scattered about on every available surface. For Gosling, it was always disorienting to enter Seville’s apartment, because it was like being flung back in time.
Thousands of books lined the walls, ranging from every subject one could think of, but most of them were cheap, pulpy novels and anthologies from journalists long since departed. Hearing a clunk, Gosling turned around and watched as Seville poured gin into a tall glass filled with ice. Then, when he was finished, Seville refilled his own tall glass. Something about the smell was comforting to Gosling and when he crossed the room to claim his glass, he managed a half-smile of appreciation.
“Whatareya workin’ on?” Gosling asked while he held his cold drink in his primaries.
“Cleaning up an old scoop so I can do it justice,” Seville replied while he shuffled off to his chair on three legs, holding his glass of gin in his fourth. “Because of you and your ugly mug, I get to live a dream. Of course, it also means I gotta get on trains with you, but hey, that’s the cost of the job.”
Gosling too, sat down, and settled into the comfortable high-backed chair where he had sat so many times before. As disorienting as this place might be, it was a refuge of sorts. Here, he was no prince, just a wiseguy from the Broncs. The first sip of gin made Gosling’s eyes water and the following burn bloomed with the taste of bitter oranges. It was breathtaking and he shuddered while trying to fill his lungs with air.
“My dream is going great,” Seville said while he leaned back in his chair. “Something tells me that your dream is currently a nightmare. You look like shit, Goose.”
“I feel like it too,” Gosling wheezed as the gin burned away a little bit of his colthood in a fiery conflagration that left his throat ablaze like some runaway tenement inferno. Seville liked his alcohol aggressive and a struggle to drink; Gosling, less so.
A curious thought passed through Gosling’s mind of the times that he and Luna had shared a drink together. Should he feel troubled? Was he judging her by modern standards again? After a moment, after another sip of gin, he decided that he was and let it go. A few sips in and he was already feeling lightheaded. There was no telling how many glasses Seville might have already consumed.
“So, what’s your story?” Gosling turned his head to look at his friend and couldn’t get over how silly Seville looked in a smoking jacket. “What’s the scoop?”
“A story about love and forgiveness. The sorta sappy, syrupy stuff that makes the world go around.” While Seville spoke, the horn section stepped up their game and began to blow double time, a crescendo that existed as an echo from the past. “A story about a single father and his struggle to raise his daughter. Reminds me a bit of you and your mother, Goose. Lotsa sacrifice and suffering. I couldn’t sell that damn story to save my life and was told to get the fronk out from so many press offices. If it was some sob story of some dame on the skids with a few hungry mouths to feed, I probably coulda jump started my career, but no. Nopony gives two shits and a princess’ skidmarking fart for the plight of single fathers.”
Unsure of how to respond, Gosling nodded and took another sip of gin.
“You know, Goose… you were raised by a single dame on the skids—”
“We were never homeless,” Gosling interjected while raising his glass in Seville’s direction.
“Yeah, but the sentiment’s the same, Goose. You were raised by a single mom who had to give up everything in her own life to see that you were raised right. You oughta help me bring some attention to this fight. Now that I am where I am, I aim to pick a fight and cause a few bloody noses. Up for a brawl?”
Lifting his glass, Gosling poured some liquid courage down his throat, gave some thought to his friend’s words, and while the elixir of truth set his insides ablaze, he nodded. “Yeah, sure, for you, anything. Let’s pick a fight, Seville. This gin, it ain’t bad once it burns away your taste buds—”
“Hey, my family makes this gin!”
“Then your family should be arrested.”
When Seville began snickering, Gosling relaxed a little and listened to the music playing. The next song had started and some guy was crooning about some sweet little chickadee. More gin was had, a big gulp this time, too big of gulp, and Gosling shuddered once more while he fought to draw breath. Everything was oranges; his airway, his sinuses, everything. The bitter, pungent twang of oranges had taken over all of existence. Gasping, it felt as though the sloughed off remains of Gosling’s throat were sliding down his gullet.
“Hey, go easy on that stuff, prettyboy, it’s a hundred and fifty-two proof. This is a sippin’ gin, not a guzzlin’ gin.”
“Seville… how… how do you handle the truth? I mean, when it comes right up and hits you in the face. The hard truth. You know, the kind that nopony wanna know. The mean truth. Mean like this wastewater gin your family makes.” Gosling felt a moment of alarm when he realised that he couldn’t feel his lips, nor his teeth, or most of his tongue for that matter. No doubt, they had packed their bags and left. What he could feel was oranges, his lips had turned into dry, bitter orange peels and his teeth were like oversized hard-edged pips.
“Are you about to tell me something that’s gonna get us both in trouble?” Seville eyeballed Gosling while holding his glass of gin in his fetlock. “Look, I already got squeezed by Celestia once and she threatened to stick my oranges in a press if I ever betrayed her trust. Don’t tell me things that might wreck this good thing I got going. Goose, I have a pretty good life right now, and I’m all for finding the truth, but even I understand that some things are best kept under wraps. Don’t mess this up for us, Goose.”
A leaden heaviness overtook Gosling and he thought a great deal about truth while a swinging tune acted as a soundtrack to this tumultuous moment in his life. Every breath tasted of oranges and the bitterness permeated into the very center of his being. No, he wouldn’t betray Luna’s secret, but he resented her and her sister just a little bit for leaving him stuck with an unwanted truth.
Distracted, he allowed his eyes to travel the walls, to roam over the bookshelves, the movie posters, and the framed newspaper clippings. Seville Orange was a pony displaced by time, a curious quirk, an oddity. Gosling’s eyes came to rest upon the model of an old Manehattan streetcar trolley, and he drank in the details of the bright white and valiant blue machine from a golden age now mostly forgotten, a helpless victim slain by endless budget cuts. Seville had to be a time traveller to have an appreciation for such a mechanical anachronism.
“Seville… the Confessor did a very brave thing today.” Another sip was had and Gosling wondered if his vocal cords might be transmuted into leather strings. “The Confessor faced his greatest fear but he’s still pretty unsure of what else he’s accomplished. At the start of it all, he thought he had a pretty good grasp of the situation, but at the end of it all, he doubted everything he knew and decided that not much was certain. Now, he is transforming into an orange.”
“Welcome to the family tree, Goose. Long may your oranges hang and bask in the glory of the sun.”
For some reason, this was far, far funnier than it should have been, and Gosling found himself laughing. Laughter tasted like bitter oranges, as it turned out. But laughter was tragic for reasons unknown and Gosling’s face now had a curious wetness to it. He could feel his juices leaking and the liquid pouring from the corners of his eyes had a certain oranginess to it that stung.
“Who does the Confessor confess to? I… I have nopony to go to, Seville. Where does the Confessor confess? The same pony that I might turn to for help is also one of the ponies who manages me. Manages me? She keeps me on track. Worst part is, I still trust her, but she kept something from me and it really is sinking in that I am a pretty bird in a gilded cage. I love that pink pony”—here, Gosling began to sniffle—“she’s like my sister… really, she is, but she’s a naughty sister that keeps awful secrets and how do I pour my heart out to somepony who keeps awful secrets from me? I feel like I’m in so much trouble now but I don’t know who to go to. I can’t even tell my mom, or my brother who’s given me this awful gin.”
Lifting his glass, Gosling emptied it in one reckless gulp that he was almost certain would kill him. No air could reach his lungs and bright starbursts filled his vision. A torrential flood ran down his face, pouring from his eyes, while a citrusy fiery fury hollowed him out from within. Thunderous drums pounded in Gosling’s ears, discordant and out of time with the music coming from the hi-fi. When he could draw breath again, his lungs ignited and each drawn breath was a special sort of torture.
Somehow, Gosling had the presence of mind to put down his glass on the table beside him, but it came down hard, with a solid clunk, and then he belched, roaring orange thunder from his maw. Citrus-scented wind seared his nostrils and millions of meaningful thoughts swirled around inside of his mind as his consciousness continued the emergency shutdown procedures.
“Give my body to the sun, so that it might be burned,” Gosling gasped, choking out the words just as reality punted him from existence. Before the darkness consumed him, he had one final thing to say: “Ex Ignis Amicitiae…”
Alarmed, Celestia looked up from the guard bearing the news and glanced in the direction of the approaching yellow-orange earth pony. From behind her and to her left, she heard a gasp from Twilight. As for Cadance, Celestia could almost hear Cadance rolling her eyes. It was just that sort of day. When Seville drew closer, Celestia could see two things; he was wearing a smoking jacket, and he was angry. Behind him trailed a unicorn guard bearing the body of one comatose pretty pegasus.
“I have something to say to you,” Seville said, his words clipped and terse, his accent strong.
Worried for Gosling, Celestia waited with her heart in her throat.
“You gotta be more careful with your playthings.” Seville halted, drew himself up to his full height, and glared upwards at Celestia with an unrepentant, unwavering stare. “Look, I don’t know what happened, and I’m not sure I wanna know, but I know a broken heart when I see one. So Goose comes to my door with a broken heart and he’s going on talking in some round about way about some secret—which he didn’t tell me—and he starts talking about himself in the third person, going on about the Confessor this and the Confessor that, and he goes on about how Cadance is a rotten sister for keeping secrets from him.” To punctuate his words, the yellow-orange earth pony stomped his hoof, utterly fearless of the much larger alicorn that loomed over him.
“Seville, I’m sorry…” At a loss for words, Celestia was unsure of what else there was that could be said.
“I’m sorry too… but princess, I gotta say… if Goose ever comes to my door with a broken heart ever again… I’m gonna let Equestria know about it. Don’t mess with my friend. He’s loyal to you, totally and completely, and right now, I’m not sure you even deserve it. Whatever went on… and I have no idea what happened, Goose deserves to be treated better. Now clean up your mess and don’t make me shame you into doing the right thing, because we both know I will. Just try me, princess.”
In shock, all Celestia could do was stand there, blinking down at the little earth pony who reeked of citrusy gin. She noted his red eyes, his pricked ears, stiff legs, and rigid spine. In Seville, she saw another Raven, a pony bold enough to hold her accountable for her actions. In that moment, she adored Seville, and was grateful that Gosling had him as a friend.
“Mistakes were made,” Celestia admitted, feeling that she owed Seville some small measure of the truth. “Very serious mistakes were made and Gosling was caught in the middle of them. Once things have calmed down a bit, certain secrets will be made known to you, Seville, so that Gosling can have somepony to go to in times of trouble. Thank you for being a good and loyal friend.”
“Your husband is a featherweight, but even after a glass of liquid truth, he did not betray you. Even with all of his anger and hurt.” Seville kept his starchy gaze upwards and his tail flicked in a manner that was almost impertinent. “He deserves better from you. All of you. See that he gets it… or else.” With that, Seville turned around, flicked his tail in a final parting gesture, and stormed off.
Celestia could hear him muttering to himself as he departed.
“Well that was rather—”
“Shut up, Cadance!”
“Auntie?”
“Princess lessons, Cadance, my faithful student. The most valuable and the most important subject any princess can have is one who is fearless enough to deliver a good dressing down when it is necessary. Should you ever find one, you treasure them and keep them close to you. They will keep you honest and guarantee effective rule. Raven, and now Seville, are the most valuable assets that I have. You would be wise to heed my words, my most faithful student.”
“Of course, Auntie. I will think upon what you have said.”
Twilight, who shuffled forwards, appeared in the corner of Celestia’s vision. “This is why I keep Trixie around. She’ll fight me. She’s also super-annoying and I know that if I screw up, she’ll be letting me hear about for a long time. What a pest!”
Though Twilight had said something meaningful and important, Celestia made no reply. Instead, she lifted Gosling, taking him from the unicorn guard, and made the mistake of getting a little too close to his face. He reeked. A foul, eye-watering miasma assaulted her, threatening to peel off her eyelids. How much gin had her husband imbibed? Too much, by the looks and the smell of it.
When Gosling belched and released a fresh cloud of fumes, she almost dropped him.
“I had things that needed to be done today, but nothing is being accomplished.” Celestia let out a defeated sigh and then shook her head. “The nation is in crisis but I can do nothing because I failed to keep my own house in order. I am sorely out of practice. Twilight, you’re in charge for the rest of the day. Find Raven and absorb my schedule. As for myself, I’m going to take my husband to bed, and then I plan to sit with him so I’ll be there to nurse him through what is certain to be the worst hangover in his life. I do not wish to be disturbed. For any reason.”
“I’m in charge!” Twilight cried, her voice shrill, and she began to pronk around with reckless abandon. “Ooooh, I’ll get Fluttershy, Applejack, and Rainbow Dash to help me. I can’t wait to get this castle sorted out and in order!”
Before Celestia could say anything, Twilight was gone, just gone, vanishing mid-pronk.
“Yes, Auntie… today, mistakes were made. No doubt, Twilight is going to re-organise your schedule for maximum efficiency. Go on, go look after your husband. I’ll bring by some hangover cures and leave them outside your door so you won’t be disturbed.”
“Thank you, Cadance.” Saying nothing else, Celestia too, departed.