//------------------------------// // Scenic Route // Story: A Charmed Life // by BlazzingInferno //------------------------------// Charm pressed her foreleg into her designer saddlebag, relishing the gentle rush of escaping air as the bag went totally flat against the train’s cushioned seat. Another second Wednesday lay behind her, and another bag full of worldly weight and substance had been scattered to the winds. Perhaps she’d try the fifth bedroom on the mansion’s third floor next. There were some lovely candelabras over its fireplace that hadn’t been put to use in over a century. Into her bag they’d go, along with whatever old or opulent things caught her eye over the next month of deathly boring tea parties, galas, trustee luncheons, and whatever other silly things her lofty social rank demanded. And then it would be another glorious second Wednesday, watching the scenery go by through the train window and foisting her family’s centuries-old possessions on the working class, putting her polished yet unskilled hooves to a task beyond gesturing to the nearest servant. Bag by bag, second Wednesday by second Wednesday, she was doing it: taking her inheritance-riddled life apart piece by piece, so slowly that nopony could take notice. This wasn’t out of spite for her dearly departed ancestors, of course. Money had brought them happiness, or so she’d been told time and again. Every one of her ‘proper young lady’ lessons growing up seemed to come back to that idea, that a mare of her station existed to carry on the family legacy, to safeguard their ancestral home and add to its already full-to-bursting coffers until the next generation could take up that mantle. Except there wouldn’t be a next generation. Not this time. The boring, boorish stallions she was made to consort with all but guaranteed that. And so it came down to her, the last in a family line of noble ponies who’d done many great things in their time, or at least accumulated a great many things. Was she supposed to turn into a lonesome spinster, wasting away until a many-times-removed cousin, genuine or otherwise, swooped in to take over? She wouldn’t let that happen; the legacy would end with her. She leaned against the window as another of the villages surrounding Canterlot drifted by in the distance. Sometimes she caught glimpses of the ponies living there, walking their fair city streets in the company of friends, on their way to the market, to their jobs, or perhaps just to the nearest picnic spot. What wondrous lives they must lead! What would it be like for every day to have a real, self-appointed purpose? Charm smiled at the thought. She’d find out eventually. One day there wouldn’t be any antiques left in the parlors and closets. One day the family fortune would be fully squandered on fancy excesses bought only to be given away to those whose lives were already complete. One day, when she’d systematically dismantled her birthright and demolished everything that could remind her of it, she’d find out what being her own pony meant. Perhaps she’d serve coffee, or work in a bookstore. She’d do whatever she pleased far away from Canterlot, somewhere she’d never be recognized, never be introduced as ‘the great great granddaughter of such-and-such’ or ‘the last surviving remember of the so-and-so line.’ She’d just be Charm, and that would be plenty. All too quickly her monthly pilgrimage ended just as it started, with a mighty blast from the train’s whistle and one of the Canterlot station’s street lamps glaring at her through the window. The family estate came into view as soon as she stepped outside, crouching atop a nearby hill, casting a long shadow on the smaller neighboring properties. The estate would make a lovely park one day, or perhaps an outdoor amphitheater. Nearly anything would be an improvement over the stodgy, four story affair she currently called home, but that would come later. The mansion needed to be properly emptied before being given over to the wrecking balls, partly to keep the historical preservationist ponies from having too much say in the mater, and partly to keep her fellow socialites from snapping up the family possessions; she intended to squander her inheritance properly, not to move it to the next mansion on the block. “Oh, pardon me, Miss!” A porter sidestepped just in time to miss her, a luggage tag from the heavy trunk on his back glancing off the hem of her coat. Charm snapped back to the present just in time to tip her hat to him. “Quite all right, quite all right. My fault entirely.” He tipped his hat in kind, a genuine feat considering how much he was carrying. “Have a good evening!” She smiled, lingering in the moment, and in the street, far longer than he. How nice it must be to be a pony like him, helping others with their bags, seeing them off on their outings, and welcoming them home again. It must be hard work, yes, but rewarding too. If only she’d been born into a different life. If only her cutie mark had turned out to be a symbol of workmanship and utility like a wrench or a textbook instead of an overflowing cornucopia, a symbol of wealth and idleness just like her late mother’s wine glass and father’s monocle. “Do you think,” she asked the now distant porter, “that a pony can escape their own cutie mark? I for one intend to find out.”