//------------------------------// // Intolerable // Story: Daily Equestria Life With Monster Girl // by Estee //------------------------------// Had there been so much as a second, all of the dreams would have come flowing back. How long had it been? Cerea couldn't be sure. She felt it was her oldest dream and in that, she was wrong. There was something which predated it, the hope she'd given up on so early, a dream denied because she'd decided it was dead -- and when she finally put true thought towards all which had happened in Japan, she would realize that was the one which had come true. But for this... Alone in her room sometime after having been pushed into another contest against fillies who were older, stronger, faster, everything more than she was: a situation where coming in second was the best she could hope for, and that only in a two-filly race. Her mother so often saw second place as being nothing more than the first loser and while locked in the battle for the heart of the one she'd felt could be her beloved, Cerea had finally started to agree. Crying softly so that her parents wouldn't hear (although she had never figured out what her father would make of tears, or if he even understood that kind of pain at all), with only her books for comfort. Was that where it had truly begun, from trying to tell herself that stories could make her feel better? Or had her mother read to her when she was but a foal, tales of glory sinking into a depth of memory which was almost (but not completely) impossible to fully recover? What had she truly latched onto, trying to use words as the grips which could temporarily pull her out of misery? The fact that knights traveled, when the filly believed she never truly would? Perhaps it was that they were so often alone: the struggle to create order in a world which resented it frequently came across as a solitary task, and a knight was fine with that. But there were other moments when they gathered with their fellows, and those were true companions indeed. They toasted each other's glories, were never jealous, engaged in constant support and at most, told a few jokes where the subject of the jest was the one who laughed loudest. They won more often than they didn't: the opposite of her own life. And even in those times when they lost... when a knight fell, and a filly's tears had to be hastily wiped off the pages before damage was done... even in death, a knight could manage some level of final accomplishment: taking your foe with you was highly prized. A knight's existence always seemed to find its purpose. So there had to have been some point during her endless prison sentence where the filly had decided that the only way for her own life to -- -- but perhaps the exact timing didn't matter. There had been stories and in the end, a dream was nothing more than a story she told herself. There had been so many of those stories. She had seen herself in armor, battling across lands she would never know for someone whose face occasionally changed as she tried to figure out what her own tastes might be. (She was arguably still working on that part.) But there were commonalities. She cared about that person, about their cause, they had recognized it, she charged into battle on their behalf and... A knight lived for something. A knight fought for something. A knight died for something. Given a single second to take it all in under moonlight, implications sinking through suddenly-frozen ears, every dream would have come back at once as an army, and the charge of phantom selves would have fighting a battle against disbelief. Because it couldn't be happening, not to her. The dark Princess hadn't just said those words, because applying them to Cerea was impossible. She'd been in the presence of Nightwatch more than anyone else, just about had the little mare's aura embossed into her memory. The title of Guard didn't matter, because Cerea knew what her teacher was: a knight. And if Nightwatch was a knight, and the dark mare (royalty, a Princess, one of the leaders of a nation) had just made Cerea into a Guard, then that meant she had just become -- One second. That was all she needed. One second for the inner war to begin: every dream versus everything she believed about herself at that deepest core. And in spite of all previous evidence, every tally of the dead mounted on a wall of slain hopes and mutilated self-perceptions... perhaps the right side still could have somehow won. But she didn't get one second, because the shouting began immediately. Later, she would tell herself that she wouldn't have been able to understand it if every word had been in French. Just about everyone was yelling, everyone, the reporters were shouting questions and some ponies (Mrs. Panderaghast very much included) had chosen to go with screams of purest outrage, the dark mare was just beginning to react to all of it while the white horse was frozen, the large rib cage had completely stopped moving as that strange mane's flow came to a full halt... There were too many ponies calling out at once, and the flow overwhelmed the disc. Dozens of terms began to overlap within her ears, she instinctively flattened them against her head in self-defense and the vocabulary still kept on coming, she'd already been operating on the edge of sensory overwhelm and her skull was filled with echoes of "No/no/no/no/no," so she tried to focus on scent instead and all that did was tell her what outrage smelled like -- -- there was a faint whiff of alcohol, overlaid with something she just barely managed to recognize as a unicorn's sweat -- -- a horn ignited, and dark light lanced in a dozen directions. It wasn't quite instant: the Princess had to turn somewhat in order to get a sighting on all of the possible targets, and there also might have been an upper limit on how many of the projections she could send at once. But that light moved, Cerea felt the memory of phantom leaves spray up around her body, and verbal silence fell upon the moonlit courtyard. The quiet didn't last. Snow-bearing wind howled beyond the columns, and the carried sounds of protest sent one final deep snake hiss into Cerea's ears. "Decorum," Princess Luna imperiously stated, "shall be maintained. I recognize that this is an announcement which instantly inspires a rather natural number of questions. However, while the gathering is capable of asking any number at once, there is a certain difficulty in simultaneous answers." Several earth ponies were scraping forehooves against the dark light around their jaws, to no avail. Multiple horns sparked, and the hold did not weaken. Dejected simply sat quietly, waiting. The griffon's beak was vibrating with seeming frustration. And Nightwatch... The little mare's hover was bobbing all over the place. Her armor was slightly askew, and the tail kept miscorrecting its position. But she hadn't said a word. The true knight had found no need to comment. "Are you all quite done?" the dark Princess inquired, and even those actions stopped. Cerea could smell the fear again, beginning to overwhelm the outrage. She didn't understand why it was resuming at that level of intensity. They had something new to feel about her now: anger. That someone so unsuitable, so imperfect had just been chosen. Not just a stranger, but a horror -- -- she's just saying it to buy time, cover up the stall while they look for something else I can do, if that's anything at all -- There had been no time for dreams, and so doubt had the floor. Judging by part of the reaction from the audience, it also had also claimed a major part of the courtyard. "Good," Princess Luna decided. "Now, let us consider who was the most likely to have both already formulated and organized their protest into something which might pretend towards coherence -- well, Ms. Spinner, it rather surprisingly seems as if the thrones have an additional need for your voice after all." That patch of light winked out first, and a silver-clad foreleg politely gestured in the appropriate direction. "Do proceed." The unicorn took a breath. Some part of Cerea's overloaded senses noted the sweat in the off-blue coat, and the fumes of liquor reached her again. (She'd seen that the ponies had alcohol, smelled the contents of the cellar where she'd been imprisoned. She didn't indulge much herself: human brews were pitifully weak and when applied against her body mass, her bladder succumbed long before her brain. Suu had far more trouble: the slime girl's metabolism processed such drinks very slowly, and she would stumble about with a red inner haze distorting translucent blue for a couple of days. Papi's low weight meant she became drunk quickly, but the high metabolism meant that state lasted for about an hour. Rachnera dismissed such things as poorly-flavored liquids which dried her out more than they satisfied thirst, Mero tended to lose all estimates of others' breathing capacity, Miia had a similar body mass issue, and a drunken Lala had been known to rather literally lose her head. And the centaur girl recognized that she was thinking about all of that because it was something to consider other than the impossibility which had been said, along with almost simultaneously wondering just how many of those in attendance would finish the conference by heading directly towards a bar. Human media suggested such press behaviors were common.) "Species," the reporter stated. It was a rather obvious statement. It called attention to something which could not be considered as anything other than an absolute fact and as Cerea would learn, when it came to Wordia Spinner, that made it something of a rarity. The white horse, whose posture somehow suggested an equine who had been thinking rather quickly, finally took a breath. "There has never been a restriction on who can serve as a Guard," Princess Celestia told the courtyard. "Not when it comes to that. Look back to the very first days of this nation, and you will find Equestrian citizens who were not ponies. But that population has remained small. About two percent, at the last census -- not counting protected/vulnerable/tenants, of course. So for someone to hear the call to serve, out of such a small sample, when all they see within the armor is ponies... that's rare. The last non-pony Guard ended her service one hundred and forty-eight years ago." Purple eyes briefly closed. "Ended it in the same manner as far too many, before and after. Her name was Blitzschritt, and she was the last ibex citizen of Equestria." More softly, "Her death... was the reason they withdrew back to the mountains. You can find her statue in the highest part of the gardens, where the snow never melts, carved from granite I took from the world's tallest peak. Hardly anypony has seen an ibex since. They remember, and they say they have forgiven... but the majority always kept to their own borders, and the few who joined us had no more reason to stay." And now the courtyard was truly silent, as the dark mare's head bowed. "I'd hope that some of you remembered her from your history classes," the white horse softly wished. "But too much becomes lost, and if nopony else will remember her -- then the palace still does. No species restrictions on Guards, Wordia. Now or ever." "But there are other restrictions," broke the crowd's silence. "Citizenship: that has to be one! Even if you somehow managed to look at that pile of paperwork as building something real, she's an immigrant. How can she be a guard if she isn't even a --" "-- before there was a nation," the dark mare interrupted as her head came up again, "there were Guards. Not necessarily under that name. I believe we can consider the clause to have been sufficiently granddammed and should updating be required, that is a law which both of us would sign. Your first two queries have been born from lack of knowledge and guesswork, Ms. Spinner. Can you do any better?" The red eyes flashed. "Age," Wordia declared. "There's a minimum. How old is --" Princess Celestia nodded. "For ponies. Different species mature at different rates, and the Doctors Bear assured me that Cerea is an adult." Cerea's mouth automatically began to open, doing so in perfect (unknown) concert with that of Vanilla Bear -- -- there was no flash of hornlight. Something warm and fully invisible briefly (and very gently) pressed against her jaw, and the words went tumbling back down her throat. "Strength of magic," was the next volley. "I know there's standards which have to be met." "Unless the palace directly intervenes on a hire," Princess Luna countered, "because there are times when talent is more important than any degree of casting. In this case, an assessment of 'unique capabilities' would more than serve for the override." Which was when the dark blue stallion found his voice. "But don't worry, Wordia," Crossing told the pony who also served as his enemy. "I think I can safely promise that as soon as we figure out what the exact scale of centaur magic is, we'll test to see where she falls on it." "Centaur magic," the reporter starkly repeated. I don't have any -- The head of Immigration shrugged. "Anti-magic? Don't worry: we'll put something together. Of course, that may require --" Many kinds of instinct became easier under a full moon, and so Cerea's mind filled in the deep sarcasm of "a larger sample size" just before his mouth mysteriously closed too. "A what?" Wordia challenged. The stallion's left forehoof came up, awkwardly rubbed at his jaw until mobility resumed. "Some time," he falsely finished. "Since we only have the one centaur, and we're not likely to see any more. Next?" The reporter took an exceptionally deep breath. "Just this," she declared. "Nopony --" the disguise for the malice came from not really having any "-- or in this case, no one -- can just be made into a Guard on the spot. There's a training period. The palace may have the discretion to choose its own candidates -- and do so while fully ignoring what should be a rather interesting public reaction --" She's going to say they hired a monster. There's already been at least one riot. A monster working for their leaders... Her hands were beginning to twitch again. She wanted to panic, she wanted to tear at her hair and pull at the sweater just before she galloped into the darkness -- -- but the dark mare had chosen her to be a knight. Something she hadn't earned, something she couldn't succeed at, she was going to fail again because she always failed and -- -- she had been chosen. All four knees vibrated. Her breasts heaved. But her hooves remained still. "-- but those candidates are evaluated. I think the nation has the right to insist that she go through the full course before assuming her --" and this was spat "-- duties." Princess Luna nodded. "That much I will grant you," she steadily acknowledged. "She certainly requires education for the parameters in which Guards operate, and a degree of combat training shall accompany that." "You're going to teach her to fight." It was exceptionally stark. "She is already rather capable in that regard," the dark mare responded. "But she does not know about the potential foes which inhabit our part of the world. So that shall be part of the training." "And what if she has to fight ponies?" Princess Luna's head tilted slightly to the right. "Fighting ponies," she semi-repeated, "as part of her Guard duties. A rather interesting proposition, Ms. Spinner. Which ponies would you consider to be our enemy? We are at peace with griffon nation/Protocera, and so their native pony population is unlikely to attack. Prance --" (Cerea shook her head a little, which did nothing to reset what the wire had just rendered.) "-- tends to keep their conflict with us to the verbal. Also the eternal and constant. Did you have another region in mind?" The pause was deliberate. "Something rather more local?" The reporter was silent. "Nothing which comes to mind, then," the dark mare decided. "Or at least, nothing voiced." A casual shrug. "So the full training: that is fair enough." "But training," the white horse cut in, "adapted to a centaur. We don't ask unicorn applicants to pass pegasus magic tests. She'll be judged on her own merits. But in the meantime -- Princess Luna?" The dark mare's glance moved across Cerea's lightly-vibrating form before finding its target. "We usually don't do this before the training is complete, and the established oath can be taken then. But I think everypony needs to see that this is official. So..." The other Princess nodded. "Cerea," she instructed, "step down from the dias. Orient your body towards the south." She did, moving forward over the rim. (Part of the crowd pulled back, and she'd expected that.) But even with the moonlight, she could barely feel her legs. Stepping across stone on mobile numbness, with her tail unable to figure out what it should be doing with itself and a pair of permanently-attached arms suddenly uncertain regarding that status. It left her facing away from the press. More towards the palace. But she could still scent their presence, fear and outrage added to confusion and what she was guessing might be the olfactory signature of desperate denial... Twinned gusts of wind rippled her fur. The Princesses landed in front of her, and wings refolded themselves. "Kneel." The word had come from Princess Luna. It was the command of royalty. The order of a master (mistress) to an unworthy servant, and so Cerea's forelegs bent. Purple eyes briefly closed again. "It's been a long time," the white horse softly said -- something the magnifying magic precisely ignored, words spoken so softly that Cerea felt as if she had been the only other person to hear them, and just barely while under the enhancement of moonlight. "But before there were Guards, there was a protector..." The dark mare smiled. "Someone with hands," she quietly told her sibling. "Yes. Shall we use that? His action, when he swore himself to her?" "Yes," the white mare whispered. "I think we should. He would be honored." And at normal volume, in the most formal tone Cerea had heard from the horse, "You have taken up your weapon --" Stopped, as the large head moved hard to the right. Stared at the dark mare, and there was a single instant where Cerea felt she had scented the shock -- -- but it was only an instant, and the taller of the royals smoothly slipped back into serenity. "-- in our presence. Lay it sheathed before our forehooves." Her fingers fumbled at the straps, and contained plastic clattered against stone. The sword looked strange, under the moonlight. The scant exposed portions of metallic paint didn't seem to be reflecting enough back to her eyes. It was as if she was regarding it from the depths of dream. The Princesses looked down at her or, in the case of the dark mare, somewhat down. In a whisper, "We will shortly be placing our horns against your shoulders. It would help if you leaned forward somewhat." Her upper torso, mostly acting under its own volition, bent accordingly. Both horns ignited with light. Warmth radiated against Cerea's face from the left, while coolness failed to relax her on the right. "As Princess Celestia has stated, your full Guard oath shall wait until your training is complete," Princess Luna declared before the world. "But there is an older one. Something..." There was something strange about her eyes. They were dark, and yet there was a brilliance about them. The gleam of memory rising beneath moonlight. "...we have not heard spoken for a very long time. And most of that speech shall be ours, for the original recipient also had yet to master our language." "But more was understood than spoken," Princess Celestia gently continued. "And in the end... all we could ask for was agreement." Each looked to the other. Back to Cerea. "Will you protect us?" Princess Celestia asked. I can't. I'm not good enough. I couldn't protect him. Over and over. I just failed. I wasn't allowed to protect him. If I make one mistake... But the press was watching. "...yes." "Will you give your life, if need be?" Princess Luna advanced the oath. "Would you die so that others might live?" It was what a knight did. I'm not... Her shoulders were shaking. She couldn't look up at them. To look would be to break. "Yes." And the next words belonged to the white horse. "Will you save us from ourselves?" Cerea blinked. Stone flickered in her vision, developed a watery overlayer. "Ah," Princess Luna whispered as the press began to murmur again. "Truly the original." And waited. "Yes," Cerea answered, for it seemed as if there was nothing else to be said -- -- but she was wrong. The dark mare leaned in closer. It almost forced Cerea to stare into the huge eyes, eyes which radiated power and control and -- -- pain? "Will you let us save you?" The murmurs flowed into a river of sound, rushing waters of disbelief and incomprehension because this was like nothing they'd ever heard and Cerea matched them, this was an oath which had never appeared in any story, it was something which belonged to their lives and it somehow felt as if this was the first moment when any part of their nation had learned of it... What did saving her mean? Sending her home? "Yes." They leaned in. (For the white horse, it was more of an effort, and Cerea watched powerful legs bend.) A horn laid itself against each pink-covered shoulder. She didn't really sense the finer details of the contact: even the moonlight's overcharge needed to pass those impressions through fabric and bra straps. But it was as close as she had been to the horns, and there was warmth on one side and coolness on the other and... ...they weren't keratin: she could see that now. But they also weren't bone. She didn't know what the horns were made from, what biology had created in the name of channeling magic. It was just slightly heavier than she would have expected. But it was the weight of the words which pressed her into the stone. "We're close enough to be struck down," the white horse told the world in a matter-of-fact way, and it made the next shriek resound through the courtyard. "At this distance, with or without the sword, she could potentially kill one of us before the other could react." "But we could do the same," the dark mare noted from the heart of her own personal echo. "Death is upon her, should we wish it." It was taking everything she had left not to spring upright, to gallop. She could feel the sweat beginning to flow across her skin, wondered if froth was forming beneath the skirt. They had to scent her own fear: it was rapidly becoming all Cerea could sense... "And yet she maintains her ground." "As do we." "We believe you," declared Princess Celestia. "We shall trust you," stated Princess Luna. Their eyes closed. They held the position. Dozens of flashbulbs went off. And that was the front page.