“Here’s the eggs for your pa. Nab me a slice of cake as well, wouldya?”
“Only if you promise to come over again and get it.” I giggled, a smile on my muzzle as I leaned forward, my face brushing up against Honey Milk’s pearl coat and briefly nuzzling against her.
She giggled in return and nuzzled back, “I very well just might, it’s not like ma needs my help anymore with Oatie.”
“Does this mean I won’t have my little teddie to cuddle whenever you’ll come over now?” I spoke with mock grief, the smile that was on my lips prevalent even in my mind.
Honey smiled and gave me a playful shove, “You’ll just have to settle for me then, now get out of here and tell your pa to expect me over.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll meet you after work?”
“Yes. Now get outta here, your pa can’t make us any cakes without his ingredients!”
I chuckled and parted away, trading one last wave as I retreated out the door of the little grocer and into the streets of Canterlot.
Ponies milled about, although ‘milled’ probably implied more aimlessness than was present. The times Dad had taken me Pony watching had taught me how to notice a few things, how that red coated Pony led with their horn, always pointing it in the direction they wanted to go. How the Pegasus with the blue coat and strange haircut shuffled along in apparent reluctance, and how the older charcoal coated mare walked as if she was used to balancing something with a great weight on her back. The Ponies of Canterlot always walked with direction. Nopony wandered about Canterlot, unlike smaller towns where someone might go for a stroll through the neighbourhood, instead always having a direction in mind as they travelled the wide and open streets.
You could make comparisons between Manhattan and Canterlot, and many people who hadn’t visited both often thought them near the same, but the times I had visited Manehattan with Dad to visit or stay with family had opened my eyes to the many differences between them.
They were both big cities, yes, and both were far more crowded than a town, but Manehattan inhabitants moved with a constant rush. Whether it was going from point A to point B, talking to the Ponies next to them, even the Ponies on the street trying to grab your attention and sell you something moved with that same anticipation, rush, and thrill to get things done that Canterlot lacked.
Because in Canterlot you couldn’t be seen if you were rushing. Where Manehattan power walked, Canterlot strutted.
Everyone went out looking the best they possibly could, decorated in the latest fashions, trends, and styles as they strutted their way through Canterlot with pop and panache. While Manehattan styled for business Canterlot made its business out of style.
The small things about people that might be seen but never taken the time to really notice or appreciate.
I passed by an apartment block that Dad had told me he once lived in when he first arrived in Canterlot, taking a bit of time to appreciate how the late morning light reflected off the leftover morning dew that still clung to the railings and windows like the grime on the walls of an old warehouse.
My thoughts ruminated on the site until a much more familiar locale took my view as if it was a mother sweeping up her filly into her warm embrace. A simple park where strands of grey concrete walkways twined through the green canvas painted by the grass and trees. Memories of Dad taking me there to play, to watch him paint, or merely to listen as he told me stories and lessons that he had learned and chosen were worthy of being passed down.
The park wasn’t big or complicated, it wasn’t home to a large array of flowers and hedges made into breath-taking pieces of art, and no statues stood to keep the trees company. It was simple, and quiet, the kind of park where many a stressed college student walked, where frisbees were thrown during the afternoon, where people came by themself or in twos, with the rare group of three, rather than collecting the entire family or all their friends to enjoy the tranquility and quiet.
My earliest memories were of that park and its quiet lanes.
I paused briefly, to let my eyes trace the familiar paths and to see who occupied them, to note the musician playing on their guitar and filling the air with the melodies of someone dedicated to improving their skills rather than already possessing the talent.
I moved on, shifting the weight of the groceries in my bags until they were settled and comfortable once more as I picked back up the pace, images of home already filling my mind.
The rest was familiar exercise, trotting the roads and steps that I had travelled ever since we returned to Canterlot.
The door into the apartment gave way easily under the power of my key, and I walked inside without a sound beside the sounds of the door closing behind me and my hooves hitting the wood flooring. My eyes idly glanced towards one of the many paintings on the walls as my body moved without need of my direction.
It was one of Dad’s older works, and one that wasn’t shown off anywhere besides home, a long piece that stretched almost three times as wide as it was tall, the art depicted a torn snowy landscape filled with crystals and frost covered gems, all painted in dusty greys and washed-out whites with charcoal used when darkness was needed. A pink Pony stood in the centre of it’s barren landscape, possessing both wings and a horn, a beacon of pink hope directing washed-out and snow-burdened Ponies away as a blizzard raged on and encroached upon them all.
Whenever anypony asked, Dad said it was meant to depict the evacuation of the lost Crystal Empire in its final moments before it disappeared forever.
My thoughts were snapped back into focus by the thud of the fridge closing after the last of the groceries had been put away.
I blinked for a moment, stunned by brief indecision as the world around me crystalised into focus, before turning around to seek out where Dad had squirreled himself away in the apartment. Although I already had a good guess.
Navigating between the furniture of the home was a thoughtless task, my mind having painted and memorised all the various paths and ways that I could travel between the couches and coffee tables and those small draw things that you put lamps on that I could never properly remember the name of (lamp desk? Lamp table?). Meanwhile my eyes hopped between the artworks that decorated the walls, many painted in Dad’s familiar style, each illustrating a different scene of Ponies in washed colours, with the one or two contrasting bright or dark spots that drew the eye. If one would look closely they’d see that the washed out grey of the “common” Ponies had hints of other colours in them as well, hints of red or yellow or blue or green, something to show the emotion buried inside.
Many of the events illustrated were interpretations of fantastical events that history says may have happened long ago but little could be found to support their occurrence. I remember Dad calling it “Fictional History” once.
Opening a door and peeking into Dad’s studio my vision crawled across the decidedly empty room- not a hint of furniture aside from Dad’s stool and easel - and onto the figure sitting inside.
Dad sat on his stool, reading a letter held aloft in his magical glow.
“Back from getting groceries Dad.”
My voice seemed to shatter him out of whatever stupor he’d gotten himself, and he turned to face me as his eyes did a few rapid blinks. “Oh? Thank you, Tumbling.”
“I also invited Honey Milk over for dinner.”
“Did you? Well, I suppose I should start getting ready to do some cooking anyway. Will Carton and Almond be joining us as well?”
I shook my head, “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I suppose I should make myself scarce after dinner then. Give you two some time alone, eh?” He grinned, and I felt a blush rising through my cheeks.
“Dad!”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Although… I will probably be out after dinner, I need to talk with Casus about something.”
“Really? Casus? You two never get along. I’m pretty sure you both hate each other.”
“I don’t hate Casus, you know that. I just don’t agree with him a lot. But he’s still family.”
“What do you need to talk to him about?”
Dad’s eyes drifted back to the letter he held, “Family is calling me to Manehattan again. It… might actually be important this time.”
I blinked. “What’s going on then?”
“It’s about the Small Queen.”
My mind paused, thinking over those words and the new information it presented.
Finally, my mind justified on a suitable set of words to blurt out. “Princess Cadance is in Manehattan?!” What was the Heir of the Changelings doing there? It made sense, she hadn’t been seen in Canterlot recently and Manehattan was were where most of our family lived- wait, did that-
“Yes, The Small Queen is in Manehattan, I’d known for awhile and it seems that now they want me over there as Canterlot’s representative and to hear my opinion on some matters.”
“Oh…. Can I come along with you?”
The spike of surprise that shot through Dad was almost enough to send me tumbling to the floor.
“I hadn’t even said if I was going or not.”
“But you are, aren’t you? You keep telling me you want to do more to help rather than just be a figurehead, and if they’re calling you even when pretty much no one lives in Canterlot then they’re probably calling a bunch of other local leaders as well. This is your chance! Lots of people are going to be distracted by Princess Cadance, you can use that as an opportunity to lend aid and set up deals without anyone else getting in the way or taking notice!”
“I know, I know, and who gave you such a devious mind?”
“I learned from the best!” I smiled brightly, and felt Dad’s flame warm too.
“I guess so.” He smiled for a moment longer before turning dour, “If they’re calling me in they’re probably going to ask me to tell the story of her claim again. Might want to bring my art supplies in case we get held up there for longer than intended…. maybe I could use the opportunity to see if I could meet with the Small Queen? We really should’ve introduced ourselves earlier. The Queen named her the successor with her death, the Small Queen won the right through combat, but I’m not even sure she knows that or understands how it happened or that I was witness.”
“So I’m coming?”
There was a brief hesitation, but I saw how acceptance blossomed inside of Dad when he answered, “I suppose so, It’s about time you got introduced to everyone important again.” A mischievous smile blossomed on his face, “A lot of them haven’t seen you since you were a little nymph unable to hold a disguise, I bet they’d love to see how the adorable ‘Littlest Flower’ has grown.”
A mix of excitement and embarrassment clashed within me, pulling at me and my reaction in two different directions. Doing my best to hold myself together I stamped down on the two distracting forces and answered, “So, when are we going? You said we might be there for a month?”
“Well…” He looked at the letters again, and I saw his expression morph into one of deep thought, “... We will probably be leaving in a week or two. So we’ve both got some time to prepare and I can get everything sorted with Casus and the others.”
I stepped into the room, straight out of the doorway and towards Dad, familial love blossomed in my chest as I wrapped my hooves around him. “Thank you, Dad.”
“Love you too, Tumbling.” He returned the hug, and we held it for a moment before I slowly pulled away.
“I’m going out again, I’ll be back with Honey after work.”
He nodded as I began to head towards the door, “Okay, see you then. Stay safe.”
I waved him goodbye as I stepped out the door and the process of going around the house and grabbing everything I’ll need for work.
The day was finishing up just as nicely as it had started in the Canterlot Gardens.
Only the visitors that sought silence and privacy were still around, whether that be couples, the exhausted, the artists whose mind’s would only work when on their lonesome, or the strange… or those who worked here.
Sometimes it was a mix of those.
Artistic couples were the cutest to see together, no question.
I moved around as just another piece of the scenery, doing my jobs on autopilot as my mind and eye wandered.
Through the hedge mazes and the flower gardens and the ponds with their ducks all the way to my favourite place in the gardens.
Statues of equines and the occasional non-equines surrounded me, a menagerie of shapes both accurate and exaggerated.
Images of those belonging to greatness chiselled into eternal stone sprung from the ground like trees.
Magicians, mages, leaders, warriors, even the fabled draconequus, all had a place among the great statues that stood here. The entire garden was a collage of the past, it’s mightiest and it’s worst, it’s ideals and it’s warnings, and perhaps most amazingly how the artists saw the world around them.
None of those statues were my favourite though, and I planned to end my day with a visit to that one.
It wasn’t an incredibly popular one. It wasn’t representative of triumph over foes or the ideals of Pony Harmony, it wasn’t a statue that had withstood the elements for thousands or even hundreds of years, in fact, it was barely older than a decade and represented something many would rather not think about.
And maybe I was a bit of a daddy’s girl, but it’s hard not to appreciate what he’d managed to do.
He’d made a statue of Queen Chrysalis, the Mother-we-wouldn’t-meet, and placed it right into Canterlot gardens without a single Pony noticing or questioning a thing.
I strolled to a stop when I finally reached the statue, as the near-setting sun dappled it and the niche alcove in it’s warm glow and the final bits of work were being finished for the day.
I had only a few jobs left to do, and I’d do them with her right beside me. Raking the fallen leaves away, picking up any stray bits of litter that a thoughtless Pony had left behind, and doing a check to make sure no statues had been graffitied, either by Pony hoof or by nature’s birds.
“Good evening.”
The voice sent a brief wave of confusion through me. Not that the voice itself was strange- it was soft, calm, and assured, and I wouldn’t call it posh because that implied a certain smugness or condescending attitude that this voice lacked despite it’s unmistakable high-society attitude.
But it was a guest- definitely a guest, and not a frequent one or staff, since I didn’t immediately recognise it- and they had decided to talk to one of the garden caretakers.
It wasn’t unheard of but people didn’t tend to walk through the gardens looking for conversation, especially not this late and usually not in the out-of-the-way spaces like this.
It told me a few things immediately. This Pony wasn’t looking for solitude and they weren’t part of a couple since nopony else was around, nor did they look exhausted, so they were an artistic type or something strange.
I turned to the Pony, an orange coated Pegasus. Her mane was a mess of fiery red and yellow that gave the impression of a blazing fire. Something contrasted by the sparkling glimmers of curiosity that made up her tiny heart. As if she had found a curious looking bug under a leaf.
I gave the mare a simple nod and relaxed smile in greeting, “Hello! How can I help you?”
“I was wondering what your thoughts are about this statue.” She asked, pointing.
I paused for a moment, my mind turning. Gesturing towards the statue of Queen Chrysalis I asked, “This one?”.
“Yes, It’s called ‘A Mother’s Lament’ is it not?”
“Ah, well Miss….”
“Sunset Shimmer.”
“Thank you, Sunset-”
“Please, I prefer Shimmer. The name Sunset is somepony else to me.”
I took the correction in stride, “Shimmer then. I think I could tell you a lot about that statue, but I’m not sure I’m the right Pony to ask.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
I gave the mare a grin, “Because I am definitely biased, so I don’t think it’s my opinion you’d be looking for.”
“And what would make you biased?”
“Well…. My dad is an artist, he does paintings mostly, but he and some of his friends made ‘A Mother Lament’ together.”
“So… this is a statue of your mother?”
I blinked, “Ah no, it's meant to represent my grandmother, or… well, her story at least. My mom is alive and well, if out of Canterlot a lot. But you understand what I mean, the statue is too close to family for me to judge it fairly.”
The curiosity in the mare had yet to die, despite how small it was, and her eyes sparkled as she spoke, “I think you’ve only given me more reason to ask your thoughts. You're close to one of its creators, so you have some idea of your father’s thoughts, but it looks like you spend enough time with it to form your own thoughts. You called it close to family.”
“I… suppose I can.” The statue took centre stage in my vision, it’s silhouette more than just another piece of the world around me.
My eyes ran along its shape, it’s depiction of an old and sickly mare wearing a kind smile as tiny foals played at her hooves.
The mare was going to die soon, and she had accepted it, but was sad to say goodbye.
It was a thought that popped into my mind every time I watched the statue.
But she isn’t, she’s already dead, and now she’s here and made of stone.
But it was like this was how people would remember her. Old, sickly, with her ribs visible underneath her coat and her features worn, sitting down because there was no way her thin stick-like legs could support her. Her smile was kind, and happy, but her eyes were sad, too sad for most Ponies.
The foals that played around her were joyful and seemed oblivious, but when you looked closely you could see how carefully they were playing. They were happy because they knew their mother loved them, but they knew to be careful around her because she did not have long left.
“I had never met my grandmother. But my Dad and the rest of our family tell stories of her.” I began.
Shimmer remained quiet, patiently listening as I began to weave the story together.
“From how I hear it she was a determined mare. Even when she got older she kept the attitude of someone who thought they were going to live forever. She believed in making the best out of whatever she had and not settling for less.”
“She sounds like an amazing mare.”
I grinned, “If she wasn’t I doubt my family would have so many stories of her.”
“What kind of stories do they tell?”
“Stories of how much she cared, how much we meant to her, and how she never gave up. She always fought for something.” I felt a grimace rising at my last words despite my best efforts to suppress it.
When I looked back to Shimmer I could tell she had caught it, a questioning brow was raised.
“She always fought for something.” I sighed. “Always. Even when she didn’t have to. It sounds admirable but… when you think about it, it made a lot of trouble. She didn’t have to fight a lot of the time. It was unnecessary, but she looked for the fights anyway, if there wasn’t anything to fight for she would seek it out. But you can’t fight all the time, you need to relax at some point. She didn’t, and she didn’t listen to us when we told her this, and… it led to her death.”
“She sounds…” Shimmer trailed off.
“Her ideals were admirable.” I concluded, my eyes trained on the statue of the sickly mare that no matter how hard I tried or knew better, a part of me still looked up to. “But we aren’t our ideals, and I think she forgot that. We don’t need to stick to them through thick and thin, and I think we get confused by that a lot. She fought, but all that’s left of her is a statue and our memory, a statue about how she did so much but faded away because of it. We can’t hold onto memories forever. Some stories of her might survive into the next generation, but how many beyond that? How many generations until she’s just a name?”
When I next looked at Shimmer she had a gentle smile on her face, her eyes were burning with a small thoughtfulness however, “You speak wisely…”
“Tumbling Flower, or just Tumbling.” I supplied.
“You speak wisely, Tumbling Flower. What you told me of your grandmother… It reminds me of a friend I couldn’t help. A friend that might’ve been family if I didn’t give her cause to hate me so.”
“How so?”
“She was stubborn. She poured all the spite she felt for me and my teacher, what would’ve been her father if she only claimed her as such, and turned it into stubborn will. Your words now… it has got me thinking.”
“About what?”
“About if I was wrong. Every attempt I made to help her, or help others help her, just seemed to make things worse, but I thought I had to help her when maybe it would’ve been better if I just… stepped back. Let somepony else try.”
“What happened to her, if it isn’t too personal to ask?”
“It… is a story for another time, perhaps. Would you mind if I sought you out here again, Tumbling Flower?”
I thought for a moment, but I think a part of me already knew the answer I was gradually approaching. “I’m heading out of Canterlot on a trip soon, but until then and afterwards I wouldn’t mind if you dropped in for a conversation every now and then.”
“Thank you, Tumbling Flower, I feel as if our conversation will be enlightening.” Her wings shuffled as she took a graceful step away, “Goodbye.”
I waved Shimmer away, and once she was out of sight I turned back to the statue of Queen Chrysalis.
Ideals were funny things.
… Maybe I could bring Honey Milk to Manehattan. Maybe I could share the secrets of my family with her.
She’d love the opportunity to maybe meet Princess Cadance at least.
I turned away from the statue and began to walk away. Those were things to think about tomorrow, because today we had cake.