//------------------------------//
// A Princess's Love 
// Story: Hassenfeld Pony Anthology 
// by Chicago Ted 
//------------------------------//

Bus line 14 stopped at Old Creek Road, and a single man got off. “Thanks!” he shouted to the driver. After lingering for a moment longer, the bus pulled away, and the man started walking.
It was late in the afternoon, getting cold, and his walking was growing weary. His apartment building loomed beyond, an ominous gray from its brutalist concrete construction. Unperturbed, he went through the front door, and entered the stairwell.
Once he got up on the third floor, he stopped at the communal mailboxes. He unlocked number 314, and pulled out a single envelope. Another bill from the power company. He sighed, relocked the box, and went down the hall to his apartment.
When he got to his apartment door, he fumbled around for his key, then unlocked the door and went inside.
As he shut and locked the door behind him, he noticed the smell of sautéed garlic on the stove. “So, what’s cookin’?” he asked.
“Almost done getting dinner ready, Sam. How about spaghetti tonight?” A Hassenfeld Celestia grabbed the pot of spaghetti in her telekinetic grasp and brought it over to the sink. She ran the contents through a strainer, then dumped the spaghetti onto two plates.
“Sounds delightful,” Sam replied. When he sat down, he let out a weary sigh.
“One of those days?” she asked. She set a plate in front of him.
He just nodded, and started with his dinner. His cheeks started flushing with the first bite, from the warmth, from the flavor, from the love she had seemingly poured into it straight from her own heart. “I dunno how you do it, Celestia,” he commented, “but you nailed it. Again.”
She sat down with her own plate. “I’ll be honest with you,” she told him, “I’m starting to worry for you. Every day, I watch you strain yourself to your limit between your classes and your job. This isn’t good for you, Sam; you should take some time for yourself.”
“I know.” Sam cleared his throat. “But you shouldn’t have anything to worry about yourself. As long as I stay on track, I’ll be out of college by the end of next semester with a proper degree, I’ll land myself a better job, and then we can relax. Just a little. . . .”
Celestia wasn’t convinced. “Please. Just relax, if only for just tonight. My heart aches for you when you put yourself through this.”
Sam didn’t say anything. He just kept eating his dinner, unbothered by Celestia’s concerns.
“If nothing else,” she followed up, “know that I won’t be around to take care of you forever. I’m ten years old; I’m halfway through my lifespan. What are you going to do when I’m gone? Hm?”
That got Sam’s attention. “What are you, my mother?” he asked.
She giggled. “I may as well be, with how our relationship is.” She sighed wistfully. “I remember watching you grow up into the man you are today. I remember seeing you in the bathroom, cleaning your wounds from He-Whom-We-Won’t-Name from middle school. I remember the last time you went trick-or-treating. Your father was brilliant in coming up with going as Don Quixote. Was I a good Rocinante?”
“You were,” he replied, “even with the horn and wings.”
“Yes, even with my extra. . . appendages, I should say, I managed to pass as your steed.” She looked out the window behind Sam, watching the sun set. “I remember your first day of high school, and how you apparently got lost on the way to science class.”
“Hey!” Sam jerked his head up. “That was a typo in my schedule.”
“Well, if you’re going to be so defensive about that, then what about the time I first caught you—”
“Nope, nope!” Sam put his hand up. “Don’t wanna hear it!”
“. . . watching My Little Pony.” She giggled. “What did you think I was going to say?”
“Uh, yeah. Let’s just go with that.”
“Fine, I’ll stop my reminiscing.” She rolled her eyes. “Though sometimes I wonder—what if I could live a thousand years?”
“Then we’d have the opposite problem.” Sam had cleaned his plate, and was getting up to wash it.
Celestia’s telekinesis grabbed it out of his hand. “Uh-uh, young man. I’m doing dishes tonight. You’ve earned a rest.” He opened his mouth to protest. “Nope. I’m not going to hear it.” She pointed her hoof towards the bedroom. “Clothes off. Jammies on. Now.”
He sighed in defeat. “Yes, Mom.” He trudged into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.
Celestia’s telekinetic grasp was invaluable for a task like washing dishes. The horns of Hassenfeld unicorns and alicorns had varying upper limits on how much they can carry in their telekinetic grasps. Simply put, the heavier the items were, the looser their grip was on each item. Alicorns could generally carry more than unicorns, but even then there was some variation between models and even individuals. There were reports of some owners experimenting with “overclocked” horns, but this was extremely dangerous, often fatal, and a surefire way of setting off the remote distress.
For Celestia, it was a cinch to do dishes. She queued up the plates, glasses, and silverware in her grasp, then with the same, lathered up the sponge and started scrubbing each one under the water, setting them in the rack once she was finished with each one. It was a smooth operation, almost mechanically so, and she was in and out in two minutes.
As if on cue, Sam reappeared in the kitchen, dressed in freshly-laundered pajamas instead of just being in his underwear. “Well, now what?” he asked.
“Couch. Plant it, mister.” She pointed in that direction. “It’s Movie Night, and I’m picking.”
“But—”
“Hup! No buts.”
Almost with a sulk, Sam took a seat in front of the TV. Celestia joined him a moment later, taking up the two seats next to him and laying her head on his lap. “We’ll be watching Avatar 2.”
“Really?” Sam asked. “I was in the mood for some anime.”
“Lu rä’ä nafi’ua snaytuti.” She winked at him, then grabbed the remote in her telekinesis. “There’s a reason why Cameron broke his own record again, with a sequel no less.” With a few button presses, she pulled up Netflix and selected the film.


⁂


The next morning at college, Sam was having trouble staying awake in his philosophy class. Ugh, why did I sign up for this again?
As fascinating the subject could be for some students, many felt like fish out of water—Sam included. The professor droned on and on about the difference between a dog and the idea of a dog. . . or something like that. Basically put, things change, ideas don’t. Next lesson, please.
The worst part about it was that he was barely engaging the rest of the class. Even the ones who were genuinely eager to sign up were starting to space out. The professor had a whiteboard and projector at his disposal, but was simply content to read from his copy of the textbook. Sam had half a mind to address him as “Professor Audible.com,” but the last thing he wanted was a disciplinary action on his record.
The only upside about this class was the lack of homework assigned. In theory, the professor explained at the start of the semester, students who were interested in philosophy should be motivated to learn the subject outside of class without his help. But in practice, at least for Sam, what happens in philosophy class stays in philosophy class.
He checked the math in his head. Okay, if I get at least an 85% on the next quiz, I should squeak by with a 70% overall grade. Quite a bit to ask for, considering his track record, but hey, stranger things have happened.
“Samuel, are you paying attention?” Just one question out of the blue was enough to snap him out of it.
“Uh, yes sir!” he stammered out. Did I miss something actually important?
“Well then, perhaps you can tell me, besides nominalism, what the other view of the nature of universals is.”
Christ, didn’t catch that part. C’mon, think. . . Realism? No, that’s too cheap. Determinism? Nah, haven’t seen that come up on Wikipedia. Better go with my gut. . . . “Realism.” I hope that was convincing.
The professor nodded. “Very good. I guess you were paying attention after all.”
Speech 100. As the professor started droning on, Sam’s mind then started wondering again, this time on something else.
Celestia’s always been there for me, ever since my parents got her for me. He was grateful, not least because of the price tag—alicorn models cost three thousand dollars apiece, and that was ten years ago—but probably because she never left his side since then.
She’s helped him with his homework, chores around the house, comforted him in his darker moments—in some ways, she was his second mother. But he wondered, maybe she was holding him back. As nice as it was to come home to a hot meal in a clean, warm apartment, perhaps it was better if he got used to doing these things himself. Maybe she had a point last night. . . .
Then, finally, 12:00 noon rolled around. “Unfortunately, my time is up, so you are free to go,” he drolled out. Surprisingly, this snapped him out of his reverie.
Finally. Now that class was over, so was his day at college. Time to go home. . . .


⁂


Celestia was bored.
Usually she was content with tidying up around the place, but his apartment is now spotless all around, having completed that task within two hours.
Apartment. Right. Because Sam couldn’t afford a house yet. Not with his current pay. If only these college semesters would just hurry up and pass already, so they can move on to more promising pastures.
“Ugh.” She flopped onto her back on the couch. “Sam, when are you coming back home? I miss you.”
She grabbed the remote with her telekinesis and flipped on the TV. Netflix came right up, as it had the night before, but now. . . it just didn’t cut it for her anymore. Am I really so bored, she pondered, that I can’t find something satisfying to watch?
Eventually she gave up and went over to his computer. Looks like someone forgot to log out, she thought. Hopefully he won’t mind if I looked up something on YouTube. . . .
But the first thing that popped up caught her eye sooner. It was a diary entry, dated just this morning. She paused to read it:

Last night was pretty interesting, to say the least. Celestia was insistent that I take a load off, when I know that's not exactly an option. Work and class come first.

Somehow... I liked it. Maybe it was just the familiar feeling of seeing Celestia again. Or maybe I'm just so pathetic I can't even take care of my own self. I feel guilty for putting Celestia through this. I know she's a Hassenfeld, that she's supposed to love me regardless, but still... I want to do something for her. But what?

I've been considering getting her something, but what does she like? Well, she likes me of course, but that would be superficial. Besides, I don't know if I CAN afford whatever I have in mind.

I could of course give her the same treatment she gave me last night, but I can't imagine how much that would backfire.

Maybe I'll just have to lay the cards on the table and have a talk with her. It's blunt, straightforward, almost too much so, but it seems like the best option I have. I just hope she's receptive...

Celestia was moved. For starters, it was true—a Hassenfeld’s bond with its owner was absolute. The owner meant everything to the Hassenfeld. Celestia models, in particular, were more maternal than the others—it was very much in their blood to care for their owners, sometimes rather than the other way around. Their owners’ satisfaction was their own reward, no gifts nor favors necessary.
She sighed. “Maybe I should have a talk with Sam,” she told herself. “Be more honest with our feelings.”
She checked the time in the corner of the screen. 12:00 noon, on the nose. Better start on lunch, she thought. He’s coming home early from college. Good time as any to have that talk, now that I think about it.


⁂


Just as Celestia was finishing up, Sam walked into the door. “Welcome home, Sam,” she greeted. “I’ve got lunch ready right about now.”
“Thanks.” This time, Sam didn’t sound so tired. He didn’t have a shift today, and he only had the one class. He took a seat across from Celestia, as he typically did.
But before Celestia could serve lunch, she had something else on her mind. “Sam, I don’t want to alert you, but. . . .” She looked away from him. “. . . I may have seen what you typed on your computer this morning.”
Sam was taken aback. “I could’ve sworn I had logged out,” he said. “Why were you looking on there?”
“That’s not important,” she replied. “What is important is how you feel about me. You think I’m doing this as a favor, and that it need be paid back someday. Let me assure you, that isn’t the case. I like caring for you—keeping the apartment clean, cooking your meals, cuddling you when you sleep—really, I don’t mind it at all.”
“And yet you told me last night that you wouldn’t be around to care for me forever,” he shot back. “So which is it?”
“The two are not mutually exclusive. I don’t mind caring for you, but I also want you to care for yourself. You’ve got a great big life ahead of you, but mine’s genetically predetermined.” Celestia’s telekinetic grasp pulled Sam’s hand into her front hooves. “I want to see you succeed. I’ll help you however I can, but ultimately, it must be you who succeeds.”
Without warning, Sam leapt from his seat and grabbed Celestia in a bearhug.
She was startled, but returned the gesture. “I love you too, Sam,” she told him. When he finally let go, she followed up with “I’m sorry if I was a bit forceful last night. Maybe it worked against my goal of getting you to relax for once.”
“Eh, maybe you’re right,” Sam admitted. “I’m pushing myself to succeed now—but I want you there to see it, and maybe. . . I just wanted to keep you around a little longer. Do you know how much you cost?”
“Three thousand, five hundred dollars, plus tax,” she answered, seemingly from rote memory. “I know, I’m a high-end pony, but considering what we’ve done in the last ten years, and what we’ll do in the next ten—you think your parents got a return on their investment?”
Sam sat back down. “Yeah, and then some. Now, what about lunch?”
“Oh, right. Here you are.”
With their confessions out of the way, they both ate in silence.