//------------------------------// // Agree to Disagree // Story: The Crying Statue // by D Historian //------------------------------// We have reached the end. It's over. I don’t know who’s ‘we’, but it seems significant somehow. I think ‘we’ makes sense, considering that sometimes I think I’m not alone in my head. There’s a lot of voices, of dead people, of people I’ve never met or will never meet. Too many voices and such a gorgeous cacophony of music they make, clashing and contradicting one another. But they can agree on one thing. It’s finally over. It's been two thousand years. Maybe more. Two thousand cold and achingly lonely years, restrained in my own carefully constructed illusions and lies. It always puts me in such a dreadfully foul mood. Maybe reality is the lie, I am the truth, they are lying and confused- I don't remember them. I don’t remember why I ever cared or loved them anymore. I don’t remember why but I still do I remember hate. Hate and fury like two thousand suns, brighter and hotter than Celestia's. But cold and calculating. A ruthless and unrepentant force that tears and consumes and eats and then spits everything back out, lets everything fall apart. A hurricane that leaves scars on the minds of children and drags them away from the last shreds of order, introducing them to chaos unlike anything their physical brain can process, rendering them a gibbering, traumatised mess. There’s dust in the wind, dust of bones and homes they will never see or return to again, and it’s their fault. The desire to crumble to my knees and beg for forgiveness. The hatred making my claws red with pony blood. I want to be worthy, significant in her eyes again. I have been tossed aside, unwanted and abandoned too many times by the people I care about, and yet I continue to let them. It’s my fault. Has she forgotten me? Another one of her enemies, just another mad creature gone astray that needs to be locked away so its delusions do not harm her precious little puppets who twist and dance on her strings sickeningly. Chaos forbid someone else even look at the strings once, much less try to reach for them. So jealously possessive of what is hers, like a filly refusing to share the spotlight, no wonder her sister fell to envy and greed as she did. So much hate, black as midnight. My fault, my fault, Luna, I am so- I hate her so much I dream of making her kingdom dust and ashes. Would she cry if her marble walls and city cracked and shattered like fragile glass under the weight of her sins? What if the ponies panicked so much their hooves demolished the city? What if the city she was so proud of turned to sugar and melted under her sun? Would she get the irony? Understand that all of it is her fault? Not her sister’s. Did she cry for Luna? Weep when she raised the moon? I’ll bet she did. Not out of guilt, I’m sure, she knew exactly what she was doing and would do it again if it were asked of her. She wailed at Luna’s tragedy. She cried because she lost her sister. The only thing that had stuck by her side for so long, longer than I, and she was lost to disharmony. My disharmony. It is amusing she thinks the nightmare she forced her sister into and her little baby sibling are different beings. Quite laughable. She never really knew Luna, I think. Never pondered the kind of horrors her little sister inflicted on those who earned her wrath. I hear she threw quite the tantrum. Such a beautiful artwork of chaos and despair she turned their home into. The old castle looks like explosives went off, and personally I would have still lived there, because there are much more exits and entrances and windows now, but ponies have a distaste for Swiss -cheese homes. I blame changelings. We moved to Canterlot. I remember it vaguely, a small but pretentious mining city with granite walls and marble paths. Unicorns with fur matching the alabaster murals and always ready to jump to the royal sisters’ aid at the drop of a hat. It’s changed by now, whenever I get a glimpse of it through someone else’s eyes, I see gold and purple turrets, twisting towers and streets whiter than a blank canvas. A canvas that begs to be artfully twisted and decorated, but left blank in wait. How considerate of them. It is a bustling city with a population in millions and the proud capitol of Equestria. And Canterlot Castle is the centerpiece, an ivory architectural nightmare with a thousand balconies and enough stairs to make anypony queasy. Polished walls and floors, cleaned with the lifeblood of the lower class. The epitome of order. No wonder Celestia likes it. She threw away her old castle, deeming it broken, and casually discarder her old life, does she think she can escape consequences? There is blood on her gold regalia that cannot be washed or thrown away. Just like she threw away her Sister. She threw away me- I hear Canterlot is wonderful in Spring! Literally. I can still hear things now, even sharper after the changelings had a party. Took me the first century to figure that out. And the next six to sort out what was real and what was not. I can’t decide if I want to go with the turning the castle to sugar or glass idea. Or I could make the roads a chessboard and assign everypony a specific way of movement. I kind of want to do that anyway. The voices are adding their own opinions It’s still me I’m me We’re me and it’s getting a little loud and hectic. So many ideas, so many things I want to do. It’s fine, I’ll agree to disagree.