There was a certain art to ditching one's Guards.
She supposed it was more complicated for the elder: after all, a body which happened to be twice the size of just about anypony else in the realm had a certain tendency to stand out -- and that was before you factored in the whiteness of that fur. Kick in wings, horn, the semi-tangible nature of both mane and tail, increased mass adding to the sound naturally produced by hooves and no matter where a space had been designed to direct the attention of those within, a single step turned Celestia into the focal point. Additionally, her sibling's skill with illusions was on the same level as Rainbow Dash's natural talent for tact, and so the category of magic which was almost best suited for vanishing in a hurry had been forever denied her. (Teleports had their points, but the burst of power necessary for departure was usually registered by any unicorn within a rather unhelpful radius: those familiar with the working would be all too aware that somepony had just left.)
But for Luna...
The palace had changed, because it had been a thousand years and so some degree of change could be seen as inevitable. But the old secret passages had simply required that some of the spells be recharged or recast: it had actually taken more time to get rid of the accumulated dust. Every balcony was a potential exit point, and when it came to illusions -- well, she had been the single most talented caster of one era, and had almost immediately reclaimed that status in the new one. Her modern Guards were dedicated, loyal, truly cared about her welfare, and had almost reconciled themselves to the fact that every so often, the alicorn who'd been reading on the bench for the last hour had actually been gone for fifty minutes. The key was to get close enough to see the book: Luna could easily create the image of her own form, and having the spell set to breathe, blink, occasionally mutter and irregularly turn pages -- all without ever quite dropping into attention-drawing full repetition -- was well within her skill. But her memory wasn't fully eidetic and so at most, the first few pages of the imaginary text would carry legible print: anything beyond that was a random arrangement of characters added to fragmentary memories of things she'd read long ago and, in the almost-worst-case, the chance that she'd accidentally combined letters into a grievous insult.
(The horror came from the prospect of having subconsciously recreated any portion of her diary: it hadn't happened yet, but...)
She ditched her Guards so regularly that she suspected there was a betting pool in the armor changing rooms: place your bet on a fifteen-minute square, then prepare to accept either profit, loss, or blame. But it wasn't because she didn't respect them: she actually liked the majority of that portion of her staff, although there was a natural difficulty in telling them that. She appreciated their efforts in keeping her safe (although frankly, most of the time, they were completely unnecessary in that regard and she was perfectly capable of protecting herself. The exceptions were things which occasionally saw her using private moments to visit some very old graves). It was just that...
...they were there.
They were almost always there. Even when she didn't want them to be. Sometimes, especially when she didn't want them to be.
And they explained things.
Yes, she had missed -- call it 'a lot', and that was the sort of linguistic understatement which could set off hours of renewed misery. It was true that she'd spent just about the entire first year after the Return in desperate, half-futile review, trying to capture any portion of what had long-since passed: something which had kept her almost entirely out of the public eye until she'd risked entering Ponyville on a rather singular holiday. And there were times when she still had to retreat into the history books for frantic clarification of something which had just turned out to be all-too vital, or carefully asked somepony to provide the needed information. After all, a Princess needed to be in possession of the facts, as opposed to what a ruler simply might want to believe was true.
But even as half of the Diarchy, the final authority for all the categories of law which were within her dominion... there were still members of her staff who seemed to occasionally perceive her as a barely-trotting foal, one who had just mastered her first full sentence in Equestrian. The only thing she could say at all. And with those ponies, her unspoken-yet-constantly-heard words were "What does this do?"
It had been eight nights into her Return when somepony had tried to explain door levers, although this could be seen as an improvement on the night prior. The seventh night had found Luna silently watching a mare steadily, inevitably sweat herself into a near-faint, the weight of froth and approaching doom pressing down on black fur as the frantic Guard dug herself in deeper with every sentence. Ten minutes of ongoing, tumbling, and finally terrified sentences which, somehow, just hadn't fully covered the history or concept of 'shower.'
She sometimes found herself fighting the temptation to remind ponies while she wasn't old enough to have been present for the creation of gravity, she did have some rough familiarity with its operation. Also that she was fairly certain as to how her lungs worked, along with the fact that the Royal Voice remained a demonstration option.
There were many reasons for ditching her Guards and as far as Luna was concerned, all of them were valid.
She needed time to be by herself.
She needed time to be herself.
And the best way to learn about the world was through going out and being a part of it once again.
Canterlot's suburbs were exceptionally quiet for a summer night, and some of that could be blamed on the heat. As the season crossed the halfway mark, the Weather Bureau inevitably reached the point where they allowed things to just coast for a while, and so the high temperatures of the day found only the nighttime moderation which were created by Sun's absence and entropy. Anypony else venturing out into the small hours would find that the air possessed an almost liquid quality, akin to a poorly-regulated sauna (which she also hadn't needed to have explained to her), something which soaked into fur, skin, and lungs: not necessarily in that order.
It didn't apply to Luna: she could regulate the humidity around her form with a few casual shifts of her wings, and when it came to the temperature... it was always at least a little cooler in her presence. Those who moved beneath her sky were her charges, and so very little stopped her from going out to be among them. To watch over them.
Not that there was really anypony to watch over just then.
She wandered down the streets of the suburb (streets she was still learning, and there always seemed to be a new one) on hoof, and she did so alone. No Guards: that was the desired condition. But to encounter nopony, even on a night when so many had retreated to the nearest fan and moved only enough to wind up the clockwork again...
On most nights, there would be somepony on the streets. Police officers who had (usually) learned not to question the presence of a wandering Princess. Those heading back from dates: the later the travel, the more successful the encounter. Insomniacs trying to tire themselves out through exercise, or the ponies who'd found the best time to be in the world was when just about nopony else had claim to it. Others had the demands of labor and marks place them within her hour. Her dominion.
Mothers waking to look after infants. Those who watched over the sleeping world. Anypony whose most natural sky was lit by stars. Those were her truest subjects. But there were also ponies who never should have been present in her hours, those who wandered under Moon because there was nothing else which could give them shelter. She had come across a few of those in her Canterlot travels: ponies who had believed simply coming to the capital would begin their lives anew. They were ponies who usually had to be given back to the day, or at least to something which had a roof.
She looked after them, when she could. It was part of her duty. But on that night, there was nopony to look after at all.
Dark houses. Empty roads. Lawns where the grass failed to rustle under the weight of a saturated breeze. Flowers whose true colors were known only to her, for every moment since her after had begun found her able to see perfectly in the dark. A few rare blooms were rotated towards the half-Moon: blossoms which had realized there was less competition in her hours.
She found a fence which was about halfway through being painted: not a simple coating of but one hue, but a design of swirls and waves. It was something which found her approval, and she decided to return on the next night: she wanted to see the design when it was complete. There might even be a chance to meet the artist, as the work had apparently gone on for some time: parts of it were still somewhat damp.
And then she saw the box.
It was two houses down from the fence, sitting at the edge of the curb. Large, cardboard where the edges sagged somewhat with accumulated moisture, and the words written on every face read Free To Good Home. A box where the sides bulged with weight.
Her first thought was that she was about to make a trip to the cottage, and it was tinged with anger. There was seldom a problem in finding Fluttershy awake, and those within the box would certainly find a good home. However, to simply abandon animals on the street --
-- but the box was utterly silent: no mewls or barks. The bulges were constant from inner pressure, not intermittent from paws.
She trotted closer, sniffing the air: no scent of newborns either. There was an odor, but it was a musty one. Something familiar --
-- Luna looked down, and several dozen hardbound worlds did their best to greet her.
Books. Just books. Shelves had reached the point where their contents began to overflow. Or there had been a stable sale, one which had been just like every other stable sale because all such things ever seemed to do was redistribute that which a pony no longer wanted it to somepony who was going to be putting it in front of a fence next year -- and nopony ever got rid of it all. Prices dropped throughout the day and it seemed that when a Sun-lit 'free' wasn't even good enough... you got a box.
Books.
Legally, it was her dominion: the laws which governed freedom of expression, copyright, and everything else that went with it belonged to the Night Court. The sisters had divided some things according to their interests, and Luna had always been more prone to read for pleasure. There had been times when she'd been caught reading at exactly the wrong moment, precious seconds during which she should have been doing something else, and she'd just promised herself that she'd keep her ears at a higher loft next time because that was better than giving up the brief moments of sanctuary held in those ancient pages...
Books had nearly gotten her (and so many others) killed.
Books had saved all of their lives.
Somepony wanted these books to have a new home. Had stopped on the border between possession and trash, to give them one last chance.
Her horn silently ignited, lifted the box's contents and began to speed-sort. Eventually, she picked out the twelve which looked to be the most interesting, returned to the rest to their wait, and resumed her travels with the new acquisitions bobbing in a field bubble on her right.
A thousand years in abeyance had been endless pain. Coming back to the world brought its own kind of agonies. But with centuries lost to torture, an abyss of time she would never be able to fill... there was always something new to read.
She'd managed to get through six chapters of the first novel before Sun had been raised, and congratulated herself on the retention of instincts: if nothing else, Luna still knew how to spot a good story. But after that, it had been sleep, and then there had been Moon-raising. Some documents to review, including a partial preview of next year's budget because she'd always been better with math than the elder and so Celestia was once again trying to pass off some of that work to Luna, with an increasing lack of subtlety. Three new laws were signed, one was rejected, and a fifth was carefully chewed to pulp before she ordered the remains sent back to the idiot who'd tried to get that one past her, along with a suggestion that the mare might find the results suitable for framing.
But after that, she'd rendered her horn's corona invisible, pushed a single (rather ugly, and frankly deserving) vase at the moment she was passing a balcony -- and then she was free.
The fence was white.
She was still for a few seconds, looking at the insult. White. There had been swirls and waves of color, with the work about half-finished. She had perceived talent in that effort: something which still needed some practice, but there was promise there. She'd been curious to see how it would come out, made sure to come back -- and now there was white.
Well... to be fair, it hadn't been expert. Promise, yes, but a promise which had yet to be completely fulfilled. It was possible that the artist had found fault with their own work (doing so early: the white was dry) and decided to wipe the wooden canvas clean. Perhaps there would be a fresh attempt tomorrow.
But she was still disappointed, and so she resumed her journey down the empty streets (because Weather Bureau schedules had inertia and this night was no better than the last), quickly spotting the box again --
-- is that -- heavier?
It seemed to be. The cardboard bulges were larger, and part of a join line was starting to tear.
Luna trotted over. Looked down and yes, there was definitely more weight there, because there were more books. But as her corona lifted and sorted, curious as to what had been added, the source became confused.
The original contents hadn't just said something about the first owner's taste: they had defined it. Luna was now rather familiar with exactly what that pony might enjoy reading. The new arrivals had come from different shelves.
She looked at all of it for a while, thinking. Put most of it back, and then flew off into the night.
"Free libraries," the elder carefully said, nudging her plate to the edge of the breakfast table. "I think I'm missing something, Luna. Once you look past the taxes --" and that triggered a sigh "-- which some ponies never do, since I'm still getting letters from the ones who complain that they're paying for books they're never going to read -- every library is free."
Luna nodded, carefully chewing the last bit of kale before swallowing that part of her dinner. "True. But we are in Canterlot, Tia. And in the capital, the process of visiting the library can be somewhat -- shall we say, intimidating."
Celestia frowned. A sunlight-held napkin checked for bits of arugula on the white snout.
"Intimidating," the elder repeated, and failed to keep the disbelief out of it.
"Let us say," Luna proposed, arcing her neck forward somewhat, "that you wished to remove a book from the Canterlot Archives. How would you proceed? From the beginning."
The older mare thought it over. "Well... obviously the first thing is to identify the book's nature. If it was fiction, and the exact genre. Nonfiction, the category."
"Because you would need to know which building to visit," Luna politely set the trap.
"Right --"
"-- of the more than two dozen which comprise the Archives."
Celestia blinked. The napkin took a dangerous dip to near-table level, almost winding up within marmalade. (It was blood orange, a mutual favorite of the siblings, and it was one of the things they could never have a food fight with because the palace laundry always misinterpreted the stains.)
"...oh," the elder quietly said. "But there's other libraries in the capital, Luna, ones which are more standard. Places which aren't trying to house everything which everypony and everyone has ever written. Smaller selections, easier to get through --"
"--but when most ponies think of library and capital together," Luna calmly interrupted, "they think of the Archives. Including, I suspect, those who reside here. They think of that first and for some, it will be all they ever envision. They picture the Archives. Having to deal with those who reside within -- the onsite apartments may not have been the best idea -- and almost never venture out. There are Archivists whose fur has not been touched by Sun or Moon for years, who see every book within as their own and guard their false possessions zealously. Do you recall the reaction of the one who took over Ancient History, with your student posted to Ponyville? When you ventured there and told her that you wished to remove so much of the contents for my review?"
"Distinctly," Celestia dryly replied. "It's not all that often that a mare takes so much trouble in telling me exactly where to go. And sending her assistant down to Atlases for the map was a fairly unique touch." And another sigh. "I think I'm starting to see part of your point. We need to begin promoting the city libraries and Archives as separate entities."
"Basic training in pony interaction would aid the Archivists as well," Luna added. "With the sending of scrolls optional, especially as they would lose hours to the correction of grammar in any Diarchy reply. But that is only part of what I intended, sister."
Curiosity added a tilt to the white head. "Go on."
"Imagine something akin to a large birdhouse," Luna explained. "But with a hinged door at the front. Glass, so that one might view the contents upon the shelves within. Ponies place the structure in front of their dwellings, and fill it with books which they no longer need. Ponies remove books. Ponies deposit books. There is no need to ever return anything unless the reading party so desires it. Every home which wishes to participate becomes its own library -- and one without late fees. A small selection, yes, but -- freely offered. Willingly taken. And with some luck, the contents would be freshly loved."
She waited. It didn't take long.
"Yes," Celestia smiled. "I like that. But books are your dominion, Luna. What do you need from me?"
"A review of the residential zoning laws," the younger replied. "As those belong to you, and I am certain that if you do not either find the exact reason why having such a structure is fully legal or create one, we will get at least one self-elected ruler of their street who declares that property values have been destroyed, the sanctity of their home is forever lost, and lawsuits are the only possible resort. And we can look forward to that regardless, but it would be pleasant to cut them off in mid-rant."
Celestia nodded. "I'll take care of that this afternoon. Anything else?"
"Potentially, assistance with the design," Luna considered. "The recommendation of carpenters. The cost of the structures can be diverted from the library budget: it will not take much, and the libraries will have the right to place some of the titles which had failed to find new homes during their own sales. And we can either give the little shelves away, or see what fraction of cost can be billed to the willing public as a means of recouping our expense."
"All right," Celestia agreed, with her field now flowing forward to encase a muffin. "And we'll make sure to put your name on the front of --"
"-- no." Immediate. Insistent. And, incidentally, pre-planned.
"Come again?"
"I will not be --" was this the appropriate term? "-- branding this. We both know ponies can act rather oddly when they merely believe we desire something, and this could be seen as somewhat closer to issuing an order." With narrowed eyes (which had not been part of her internal script), "You might recall that I recently had a rather harsh reminder of that?"
"Yes," the elder eventually said, and did so after diverting the baked goods well away from her mouth. "So how are you playing this?"
"It shall be promoted as coming from the government. Not from myself. That way, the level of participation should be more natural."
And her sister smiled. "Done."
They both ate for a while. There was the usual struggle over the rambutan: Celestia took the round through using the hairs on the shell to tickle Luna's nostrils.
Eventually, "However..."
"What is it?" Celestia asked.
"We should place a contact address on the side of each construct," Luna stated. "Somewhere to which ponies can send letters if problems arise. And those missives will be forwarded directly to me."
"Because...?" It was almost teasing, that little lilt in the elder's voice.
"Because we are introducing something new into the world and we have been in charge of this nation for something more than five minutes."
A long pause.
"What do you figure," the elder said, with her tone not as light as it potentially could have been, "for the odds of this summoning a monster which tries to destroy the world?"
"We are keeping the trial gallop in Canterlot," was the dark reply. "And out of Ponyville. Based on all available evidence, that should halve the odds."
"So fifty percent."
"With some generous rounding in our favor. Yes."
And neither was completely sure if the other was joking.
It wasn't a question of expecting problems. There had been roughly two and a half centuries of mutual rulership prior to abeyance and as far as demonstrating the arrival of problems went, that was more than sufficient to establish inevitability. There were times when Luna dearly wished to forget that, and others where she had been temporarily blinded by her own ideas. But when you introduced the new to a trio of species which, far too often, was content to simply graze in the same pastures for all their lives, problems were going to occur.
She wasn't perceiving any means by which the creation of little libraries had a chance to destroy the continent. However, it had also been something more than ten minutes, and so she also wouldn't have been the least bit surprised.
The little houses (because they did look something like homes, although Luna deliberately roughened the resemblance: there was no point to offending any of Canterlot's more religious minotaurs. Tiny exacting houses in front of the real were for the dead, and ancestors presumably desired more in their residences than a giant's library) were finalized in design. The program was announced and much to Luna's comfort, a good number of ponies waited in line to pick up the first of the creations. Posts were planted in front of homes, and the loading of shelves quickly followed.
And with the program begun, Luna checked her desk every night for the dark green envelopes which had been designated for the forwarding of complaints. For it was her creation, and so the best way to solve any issues which (inevitably) arose was to see them taken care of.
Personally.
...or, at least for the first outing, with a touch of assistance.
There were many ways to describe the sounds which were emerging from the argument. It was, on the surface level, closest to a sort of chittering birdsong. However, as the disagreement went on, the noises added growling, snarling, hissing, whimpering, and one particularly tense moment created a screech worthy of a recently-concussed owl.
There was also some whining. Part of that was because there were newborns present, and a portion could be attributed to the fact that the Lady Rarity wasn't involved in any of it. The party who could communicate substituted with pleas towards reason, the occasional moment of negotiation and, just when it seemed all would be lost, one extremely harsh stare.
"...okay," she finally said as the affronted occupants began to flow out of the box. "...they won't come back." And paused or rather, given who was speaking, paused longer than usual. "Or they won't try to as long as they think there's a chance of getting caught. So what you need to do is treat the wood. Ammonia's good. Or a really hot pepper. Even after the smell fades to where we can't scent it, they will. And it'll keep them away."
The furious mother turned at that, and dark eyes glinted in the depths of the mask as the chittering doubled in volume.
"...I've met you before," Luna's assistant softly told parent and family. "...well, not you specifically. Your relatives. But you all think the same way, don't you? There's only one rule for you, and that's 'Do anything I can get away with.' That wasn't for you, and so you're not coming back."
The raccoons collectively hissed.
The pegasus' lips pulled back from her teeth, and the lone visible blue-green eye narrowed.
The raccoons scattered. Some went over the nearby fence, others tried for the nearest tree, and one rather young specimen loudly pretended to be brave from the lowest branch.
"...a group of raccoons is called a gaze," Fluttershy quietly told Luna, who'd been watching from a short distance away. "Did you know that?"
"Yes," Luna admitted. "Given the occasion, I would call that suitably ironic. To the next, then?"
They began to trot along: Fluttershy generally preferred to stay on the ground, and Luna didn't mind accommodating somepony who had come to help. And it wasn't unusual for the caretaker to be awake at this hour: the needs of her nocturnals could not be altered, and so the alicorn who visited Fluttershy's dreams knew those nightscape voyages were concentrated into a rather narrow span of time. About three hours of sleep per night -- and the pegasus managed perfectly well with that. An aspect of the talent.
Fluttershy lived and worked under Luna's sky, and that made her Luna's charge.
"...it's not their fault, really," the caretaker eventually said. "Except that they're raccoons. They don't think about what they're doing, most of the time, not like ponies do. They can't. But they're closer to it than most animals. They're smart, smarter than most ponies prepare for. So sometimes they do think. They think of the thing you weren't ready for. But they're still raccoons, so when they think..." The incredibly full tail dipped somewhat, and more of the beautiful features vanished behind manefall. "...they don't care."
It would have been rude to say that once you understood raccoons, you were at least partway to understanding the more undesirable types of sapient. It also would have been perfectly natural, but this was Fluttershy and so Luna tended to keep a few more things to herself.
"Scent all future libraries," she said in its place. "And soak the current ones in those odors. Was there anything else we could have done to prevent this?"
"...not really," Fluttershy considered. "Not with the current design, and even for new ones... raccoons just about have hands. So they can work a knob or lever, and some of the smartest ones figured out latch eyehooks. Plus latch eyehooks are really hard to work by mouth anyway. My lips get poked."
"When their manipulative capacity goes beyond our own," Luna noted, "then the more we do to lock them out, the closer we come to defeating ourselves. Correct?"
"...yes," Fluttershy eventually agreed as the two moved down the quiet streets under Moon. "...they just see -- little houses. Safe places. Raccoons sort of -- move in. They'll take over the homes of other animals, and they're always looking for a way into pony attics and basements. They take out the books, maybe shred some of the pages first --" which produced a shudder, because you couldn't have a given mare as a friend and not develop that shudder "-- and then it's a place to stay, where they can see anything coming because there's glass. But the smell will bother them too much."
Luna nodded, then subtly directed what was meant to be a reassuring hoof gesture at a rather surprised police officer, for there were those who were accustomed to seeing her among the populace -- and then there were the rookies, who tended to assume some kind of foalnapping in progress and decided to become Heroes. Heroes were, by the standard definition, at least a little bit well-meaning, and so the only ones who wound up being carried along in a field bubble were those who had gone for the other definition: 'only perceiving what they wish to see while being too stupid to convince of anything else.'
She'd seen a lot of Heroes in her life, and so the second category occasionally threatened to approach majority.
"...that's a nice one," Fluttershy softly observed, her gaze shifted to the left. "I can almost feel the spray..."
Luna looked. Trotted closer to the object of the caretaker's attention.
"You still have not been to any ocean, correct?"
"...no," the pegasus admitted. "None of the missions went that far. But I've been close to hoses, and..." The visible eye briefly closed. "...I imagine that's what it's like. Only with more salt."
"Perhaps one day," Luna told her. But the alicorn wasn't sure whether she meant it, or wanted it. Just about every mission was a risk. (Some, like the rare diplomatic meet-and-greets for those from the other nations who simply wished to be introduced to the Bearers, theoretically had no real way of becoming risks -- and, given the parties involved, simply turned into diplomatic incidents. There had been so many lies about six mares just happening to be out of town...) And a future mission could easily take the group to east coast or west. To the ocean.
To the sea floor, never to emerge again.
"The artist is advancing their style," she noted as a dark gaze moved over the changes. "And using the contents for inspiration."
"...sorry?" Because the pegasus couldn't see perfectly in the dark, and was apologetic for that as much as everything else.
"This particular little library," Luna explained, "features nautical tales. A rather rare thing to see in the current age, as we have never been much for seafaring." A closer look. "I am certain that the creator of Captain Bound Sterling would be rather surprised to learn that his work remains in print. It did not catch on immediately, given the subject matter. But there was a mighty venture to see the east, one which caused pony imaginations to catch fire. And with so little available, the publisher risked a reprint of what they already had."
"...and then he was famous? I know there's still plays. Spike was talking about how the Gifted School used to make the sets. He was famous, so he finally knew he'd written something good --"
"He did not."
"...sorry?"
Thousands of dead ponies marched before her eyes, and a stallion with a mane like seafoam paused, briefly glanced at her from the endless procession before slowly striding away.
"Two generations after his death," Luna quietly said. "That was when the public found his work. Perhaps he hears pages turning from his place in the shadowlands, or those who reached the last pasture informed him of what had taken place. But in life, he never knew a true audience. And for what did happen, one still might call him fortunate, for so many are never recognized at all."
She focused, and the procession faded from her imagination. Receding until the time came to hurt again.
"But this artist," the alicorn decided, "is improving. I saw a sample of their work recently, something incomplete -- but it was enough to learn their basic style. This..."
Luna closed her eyes and this time, she saw the waves. Heard orders moving across the deck of a ship which had only ever truly existed in the nightscape. A ship which still sailed.
"Tides," she said, allowing her vision to return to the real. "The artist has suggested tides. But they are still learning their craft." And doing so through paying work, because this little library was quite some distance from the original fence. Ponies had been hiring the artist, and the restored white was now doubly the frustration of the creator over what had been seen as a rough draft.
I should visit that fence. See what they did at the last --
-- and the movement caught her attention.
A different officer. Her foreleg moved, sending the all-is-well signal again. But not moving towards trouble. Simply patrolling.
It wasn't like this before --
"...I like it," Fluttershy decided. "I like it even better without raccoons in it. They were very rude."
There were times when it was just easier to take Fluttershy's word for it. "Yes. Well, we have yet to conclude our --"
"-- but at least they weren't cockatiels!"
It was a truism of sorts: nopony could be friends with the librarian for too long without developing a revulsion concerning bad things happening to books, mostly from imagining what she would do upon finding out. Similarly, anypony who spent extended time in Fluttershy's vicinity...
"...what?"
The caretaker completely overlooked the accidental imitation. "Oh, they can be great pets! They're very social. Although you have to be careful with them around foals, because they startle easily. But with how long they live, they can be a friend for decades, Luna! It's just that..." A small smile. "...they're clever. Like raccoons are, only instead of hands, they have their talons and mouths, and they can do more with that than anypony really thinks. A cockatiel laughs at an eyehook! And keys. Some of them manage keys. And when they decide to move in... oh, it could take hours to talk them out!"
The smile became brighter: relief for the disaster avoided.
Then it began to fade.
"...Luna? Your wing joints are all loose, your tail isn't really flowing... it's hard to tell with you, but it's almost sort of like something's --"
"...yes," the alicorn finally said. "Regarding our next stop..."
Luna's field flipped the pages of the thin book. Then she placed it back on the shelf, withdrew the fifteenth equally-thin book, and began to flip through that.
After a while, she placed what was (rather regretfully) not quite the last specimen back on the shelf close to That One Book (which had been separated for later), and closed the little library again before glancing at the house on the other side of the fence. Light illuminated one curtain in what she was guessing to be the workroom. Certain professions encouraged late hours, especially for those who really didn't want Sun to get a look what they'd been doing.
Then again, this particular little library existed, which seemed to indicate a certain degree of -- acceptance. Yes, she could certainly call it acceptance. Self-acceptance, at least, and with the hyphen now in play, there was at least one other word which could appear after 'Self-'...
And then she nodded to a passing police officer, glanced at the white fence across the street, spread her wings, casually flew through the security spells without so much as a flicker, and touched down on the little porch. Knocked twice.
It took a while (plus four more knocks) before anypony reached the door. Ponies didn't knock on the door at this hour. Many of those who'd both read the books and could breach the security were more likely to -- pound.
The door opened.
"Who the buck are --"
She was familiar with what happened next. A pony, knowing only that it was night and the protective workings had failed, would open their door. They would have a device at the ready, something designed for protection: in this case, the homeowner had a fifthhoof rammer, and 'fifthhoof' was the best case: the accumulated flaws in the ivory had the device significantly closer to fifteenth. And they would also have a speech, because they were about to prove themselves as Heroes and for this pony, that very much meant the Stupid option. The speech was designed to be launched at the moment the door opened and ideally, at the same instant in which the intruder saw the rammer, decided they didn't want to be hit with dozens of oddly-solid small artificial field bubbles, and immediately left.
The speech was planned. The moment had been, in a very real way, scripted. And so the first four words emerged into the world which mostly existed behind the eyes of the speaker.
The pause represented the instant when reality stepped up in front of fantasy, tapped an attention-getting hoof against its shoulder, and then speared it through the neck.
His gaze slowly moved up and as he wasn't particularly tall for a pony, it had to go a fairly long way before it found the dark eyes waiting on the other end.
"-- oh," the stallion finished with something of a whimper.
The rammer, seizing the moment, slipped off his left foreknee, dropped to the porch, and rather patiently broke in half.
"Good evening, Mister Tingle," Luna peacefully stated. "Or morning, if you like." Thoughtfully, "I have never quite understood the reasoning which citizens use to divide the two. I have heard ponies describe the time at five minutes prior to Sun-raising as 'evening' while for others, anything from midnight on becomes 'morning'. With no Sun required. Odd, yes?"
The stallion thought about that as his eyes roamed over regalia, mane, tail, and some fast-surging stars. This gave him some time to consider his response.
"Glh," he said and with that, Luna considered him to be doing surprisingly well.
"But we can discuss that later," she generously offered. "Assuming the initial topic concludes in a manner which allows conversation or, for that matter, consciousness --"
His back legs went out.
"Glick," the stallion declared.
"-- as I happen to have a reason to visit you tonight. That," with a small nod backwards added to the direction-verifying lash of semi-tangible tail, "being your library."
"Gah..." the stallion tried and with that, Luna revised her opinion of him downwards. Most ponies would have been at polysyllables by now.
"I found it to be rather well-stocked," she admitted, which fulfilled the basic societal requirement of getting the one purely technical positive out of the way.
"Um..."
"However, there are those who might find the authorial selection..." She brought up her left forehoof, thoughtfully rubbed her chin as if trying to choose a word which she'd settled on minutes ago. "...limited. Yes. Let us say 'limited'. A word which might also apply to the subject matter."
"I..." He swallowed. "...I have the right..."
"Well, that would depend on the interpretation," Luna considered -- then tilted her head slightly to the left and did the worst thing of all.
"...you're smiling," the trembling stallion said. "Why are you --"
"-- because strict examination of the law would find no scenario under which an author has the right to self-promotion. But as for the books themselves? The nature of their contents? A surprising number of ponies are unaware of this, Mister Tingle, and by that I mean it surprises me when anypony is aware of it -- but freedom of expression laws belong to the Night Court. The oldest statutes Equestria follows were written by me. And so I say, you do in fact have the right to create your work! I would never argue that, because to do so would be to go against myself!"
"-- you're still smiling," the writer declared as his foreknees began to shut down. "Why are you --"
"Legally speaking," Luna smiled, "I acknowledge that erotica exists. I also recognize that ninety-eight percent of it should cease to exist, but that is mostly a matter of desiring to dismiss that of low quality. And I may be rounding down. Rather generously, now that I consider it -- well, at any rate, you have the right to compose your stories, Mister Tingle, as well as to self-publish. I am not here tonight to dispute your rights."
She watched him as he waited for it, although this now required somewhat more looking down than before. And the smile never faded, even as some of the stars in her tail kicked away their outer shells. Several phantom heavy elements were instantly manufactured, and none were more weighty than the tension.
"However," she politely added, "while you certainly have the right to compose and bind your stories, with self-promotion undoubtedly being the reason why you have filled your library with nothing but your own work -- I would ask you to consider that the library is fully public. Anypony can open the door and remove a book. Anypony at all. Something which, in fact, several ponies have already done. Your fame is spreading, Mister Tingle, and thanks to the colt who couldn't quite work out what was going on and so asked his parents for help with the details, it has spread to me."
His forelegs went over his lowered head. On the third attempt.
"...I didn't think..." the horrified stallion whispered. "I didn't..."
"Clearly," Luna coldly stated.
"...I'm.... I'm sorry..."
"Incidentally," the alicorn said, "I have been reading your work."
They were magic words, when said to a writer. The spell instantly removed all of his fear, and replaced it with the purest of Dumb.
"You did?" There was Hope in his voice because in many ways, Hope was about as Dumb as it got.
"I find that in order to properly form an opinion regarding somepony's work," nature's oldest critic said, "one must read it."
"What did you --"
"Firstly," she began, "I must admit that I had noticed a certain -- theme."
"Theme," the author hopefully repeated.
"Yes," Luna clarified. "A repetitive one. You compose what is meant to be erotica, and your chosen pairings are always stallions. There is certainly a market for that. However, there appears to be a minimum of romance. Or interpersonal connections. In fact, the basic social niceties appear to be missing. Any situation you present only exists to have your interchangeable characters almost instantly reach the point where they -- now, what was the term? It was in every last one of your titles -- oh, yes. Are 'pounded in the butt.'"
"I have an audience," the stupidity defended itself.
"I understand that you were nominated for an award. Based on your front covers, of course."
"Well, yes --"
"The 'Tingle Trophy For Butt-Pounding Prose'," Luna quoted. "My dubious regrets regarding your loss."
"HEY!" the stupidity declared, because it was already too late.
"Repetitive," Luna repeated, and took a moment to enjoy the redundancy. "There are stallions. What are their personalities like? They enjoy being pounded in the butt. Where can these stallions be found? In places where butt-pounding is available. What happens to them? Whatever the situation, it shall surely encourage butts to be pounded. Suspense is not your forte, Mister Tingle. With a single glance at any character, I can determine whether or not their butt shall be pounded. If you happen to be curious, the answer is 'yes'."
"Look," he protested, "I have a market --"
"-- however, I can clarify your research," Luna helpfully added. "Or rather, your utter lack thereof."
"...what?"
Her field lanced backwards. Opened the door of the little library, surrounded That One Book, and floated it forward.
"Pounded In The Butt By The Missing Alicorn Prince I Found In The Secret Lost Castle Which Fell Because Of An Inadequate Amount Of Historical Butt-Pounding," she quoted. "Is the cover art also yours?"
"...yes."
"Can you explain why the depicted giant reptile does not appear anywhere within the actual prose?"
"I had a half-finished background from a rejected piece," the stupidity explained. "I thought it wouldn't matter."
It was genuine surprise, and her eyebrows were raised accordingly.
"You rejected a piece? I can only assume the imaginary butts simply were not up to their singular task -- well, at any rate, you have created an alicorn. The miracle of fiction, Mister Tingle: you have only to write the words and your alicorn is there! Pounding a butt." Her volume dropped. "Incidentally, if I had a tenth-bit for every red and black alicorn to appear in a story, we could eliminate the sales tax. But never mind that. I wish to discuss your interpretation of his mane. And tail."
"Um," said the oh-so-very-doomed pony.
"Which are portals to a realm of partial vacuum. A pleasurable partial vacuum."
"Umm..."
"Have you ever heard of ruptured capillaries? No? I hope that you will trust when I say it would rapidly become an issue, and that persisting would mean your character would rapidly find himself in a state of permanent damage in which he could never pound a butt again." She slowly shook her head. "That you may create your prose does not offend me, Mister Tingle. It is the repetition. It drones upon the mind. To skim through a dozen or more of your works in a short time is to reach a state in which butt-pounding might never mean anything again, which is the opposite of what erotica should achieve. I recognize that your work is not designed to find my interest. However, when it comes to the level of quality, a certain minimum level of effort should be made."
"Glick," the stallion argued, because that was all he had left.
"And as for research? My mane and tail are before you, and so you could attempt to place your snout within them. Naturally, you may pull back at the first sign of suffocation."
He didn't move. (She didn't consider the shaking to count.)
"Quality, accessibility, and accuracy," Luna concluded. "Those are my complaints regarding your creations and tonight, I am here regarding the second. You will remove your work from the mini-library immediately, and you will replace it with material more suitable to all ages. And if it had gone any further than tonight, Mister Tingle, there would be charges for distribution of erotic material to minors. There may still be community service, and none of it will concern your teaching a creative writing class. However... I am inclined to believe you, when you say you never thought about it. Because before I came here tonight, I spoke to your son. He loves you very much, are you aware of that? He told me that you are a pony who simply does not recognize certain realities, especially when they have no relationship to the literary manifestation of butt-pounding. But I expect you to learn from this, and to never again repeat your error. Do we understand each other?"
He just barely managed a nod.
"Good." She began to turn away --
"Before I depart," she casually added, "who did the painting?"
"...the -- the what?"
"The painting. Of your library. Because the artwork is superior to your own, while merely suggesting your favorite theme." Which required a little additional thought. "The use of the window's placement might lead to some further complaints. But as the developing style of the artist can be identified -- "
He said five words, and she believed them.
There were other problems. Any structure sitting in front of a house had a near-magnetic tendency to attract sports equipment: little windows were shattered and had to be replaced. Some ponies put out empty libraries to serve as seed, then complained when books didn't magically materialize. And while Mister Tingle was the lone pony to fill the shelves with nothing but -- 'erotica' got by on a technicality -- there were still those who complained about the inappropriate contents to be found elsewhere. Some comparison with similar letters sent to the Archives found they were nearly all the same ponies who didn't like those books being stored anywhere and no matter where the tomes appeared, having a male leading character was always going over their personal line.
But that was the minority. For the most part, she didn't hear about the program at all, and that was because ponies seldom discussed things which worked. Books went in. Books came out. Books were read. Books survived that much longer.
She had loved books for all her life, because when the world was chaos, books possessed the magic of order. Sequential events. Something would happen, then something else would happen, and you could count on that. Books had been an escape. Books had nearly taken lives, books had saved lives, and books were still there for her in the modern age. Some of them were the same books and when a millennium had been lost to torture... there was always something new.
A little change in the world. And in time, it wouldn't be a change at all. It would have existed yesterday and today, which just about guaranteed tomorrow: the definition of normal.
She had done something good.
And still, she was back in that same neighborhood, hovering high over dark streets. (This time, she'd had the wind gust start at the far end of the corridor, then slipped down the passage.) She had been there for portions of several nights now, watching the police officers moving about on their patrols and now, she understood why. Getting access to the forms, after all, had simply been a matter of asking.
Back at the house from where she'd seen the box. Hovering over the white fence (white yet again), too high up to be casually seen, and she was the only one watching that fence at all. She'd instructed the police to stay away from this section. To offer the opportunity provided by absence.
Waiting. Watching.
And then there were hoofsteps.
Would anypony else have seen him? Possibly, had the light been strong enough. But his coat was fairly dark and in any case, there was very little left to see. He almost staggered under the weight of the supplies in his saddlebags, supplies which had to be running out, but he was still carrying them because he had to. They were the last thing he had. The last of him.
He carefully slipped the saddlebags off. Cautious teeth extracted the contents.
She watched him work just long enough for testimony, and then she began to descend.
Anything she did would startle him: there was no way around that. But she didn't want him to run, and so she wrapped herself in illusion: shadows which matched the sky, stars twinkling across her form. Invisibility? That meant light passing through a body, and light passing entirely through the eyes would render an invisible pony blind. She wanted to watch, for as long as she could.
So she did, as she glided down. Watched, nodded to herself at a particularly interesting choice and, just before her hooves would have tapped against the street, surrounded thin legs in dark corona.
He didn't scream, and she would have understood if he had. He didn't even try to fight, because there was no strength left for that. He simply lowered his head, carefully placing the brush back into the little vial, and then weary eyes closed. Because it was over. Because he had been waiting for it to end for some time.
"Good evening," Luna peacefully said, and let the shadows disperse.
His head jerked up, with heterochromatic eyes (green and red, split on the diagonal) shooting open. She gave him some time to reconcile the sight.
"I..." Those eyes closed again. "...I didn't think I was that much trouble. Not enough to get you."
"Graffiti is a crime of vandalism," Luna softly told him. "And so some of those who found your work upon their property did summon the law. Others, however, left it in place. Even Mister Tingle has kept your creation against the advice of his neighbors, although he did take pains to tell me that he did not hire a painter. Why do you keep coming back here?"
"I had... I saw something in this fence," the young stallion weakly said. "I just want to finish. Before I..."
"When was the last time you ate a true meal?"
Much of the strength he had remaining went into the bitter laugh. "The night before I left home," the earth pony said. "I thought... I thought Canterlot would be easy. Just... show my work. But the galleries are so packed, and I couldn't find a sponsor, and... it's expensive here, all I can do is paint and..."
He stopped. His head dropped again.
"They feed you in prison," he asked. "Don't they? I didn't want to do anything which hurt anypony. I just thought... I'd work. For as long as I could. One way or another."
She looked at him and because she could see perfectly in the dark, watched his ribs move under the hunger-thinned coating of skin and fur. Switched to the mark, and regarded the icon for a while. Still bright, even when the body was weak, with every hint of color on the brush just so.
"It drives you, does it not?" she softly asked. "The soul made visible to the world: one of the oldest descriptions of a mark. You followed your dream..."
"It doesn't matter," said the last of him. "Just... finish it."
So she did.
The sisters looked at the fence, doing so in privacy within the light of fast-dipping Sun. Ditching Guards was more fun when done with company.
"About how much longer?" Celestia asked, because most of what she could do with art was try to appreciate it. "I can't tell."
"Three days, I think," Luna answered. "He is still learning, you see. Mostly self-taught. So he keeps finding errors and going back to correct them. But I do like the way this is proceeding."
"Enough that you put a fence in this part of the Royal Gardens," Celestia observed, "and had him paint it."
"Community service can take many forms," Luna shrugged. "Some of them come with a degree of wages. And having one's work displayed in any part of the palace tends to impress a gallery." She turned, began to trot away, heading towards the little bridge. Every part of the gardens was themed to replicate a section of their nation, and this portion always made visitors think of Haflinger's many rivers. She'd felt he would be more comfortable in working at home.
From behind, "You can't take them all in. Any more than I can."
Luna stopped. Let the sadness wash across her fur.
So that still hurts you.
It was a familiar pain. The shared agonies generally were.
"He moved under my sky," Luna replied. "And so he became my charge. He might even remain so, given that inspiration knows no true hours." More softly, "I have no ability to save them all, Tia, and nor do you. But for the ones we do find... we can make little changes. To our duties, and then a meal?"
"Yes." The huge white body began to move towards her. "I'd like to talk about expanding the mini-library program to other settled zones."
"It has proven itself here," the younger agreed. "Perhaps it is time to allow more words a chance at spreading themselves."
The mischief of the tone reached her before the words. "And Ponyville's so close..."
Luna stopped.
"Have you told her?"
"No. Did you ask Fluttershy not to tell Twilight?"
"Yes. And that is why -- as you already knew perfectly well before playing your jest -- Ponyville shall be the last place to take part in this." She began to trot onto the bridge.
"But just think about how she's going to react! No checkout cards, no late fees, no tracking, nopony maintaining their condition or galloping all over town to organize the shelves --"
This time, the elder stopped.
"I just thought of that," Celestia said.
Luna nodded.
"She's going to be galloping all over town. Sorting out shelves during the night, whether anypony wants her to or not..."
Again.
"One disaster at a time, Tia," the younger sighed as she went over the bridge. "One disaster at a time."