Chapter Sixty Three: I, Professor
~BlackRoseRaven
Scrivener Blooms grumbled as Twilight fussed with the tie around his neck, rolling his eyes as Luna and Antares both peered over the couch at them, giggling like children while Twilight continued: “-postmodernism, and don't take nonsense from them, Scrivener, you're the one in charge. Now, today I've highlighted-”
“If you wrote in my books again I'll kill you.” Scrivener threatened, and Twilight gave him a flat look before the charcoal earth pony grumbled and swept the textbooks stuffed with notes and bookmarks from the side table into his messenger bag, muttering as he looked into this and poked at the binders and books: “I never really went to school, you know. Celestia must have pulled some major strings to get me this job. This stupid job.”
“No, she pulled major strings to let you keep the job after you made that kid cry.” Twilight replied flatly, and then she poked him with a hoof, saying moodily: “You could really be nicer.”
Luna and Antares giggled again at this, and Scrivener glared at them for a moment, making them both duck back behind the enormous, plush couch: one of several large, cozy furnishings that decorated the massive den room they had that was complete with shelves stocked with books and knickknacks and the immense fireplace. They were living in a set of rooms meant for an ambassador – a very respected ambassador – to take lodgings in, inside Canterlot Castle itself.
It had been eight weeks since they had come to Canterlot so Scrivener could start his teaching job, and six weeks since the doctors had begun running every possible test they could on his body, thanks in part to a generous donation from the Baroness. Celestia really was ready and willing to do anything it took to help Scrivener... and it both scared and enthralled him that she cared so much about his well-being.
Scrivener was now on a whole list of pills and vitamins, most of which he took only because Twilight harassed him if he didn't. He had gone through every kind of scan known to pony-kind, and he thought they'd given him every type of blood test as well. Most of these came back abnormal, and a few of the doctors had already suggested exploratory surgery... although Scrivener was not exactly ready to let them gut him like a fish just so they could ogle his insides. He had enough scars as it was, after all.
“You just told me to stick up for myself.” Scrivener replied finally to Twilight, and he huffed after a moment, adding grumpily: “And Luna's my wife, you know.”
“Apparently not when somepony has to look after you. And yes, stand up for yourself, Scrivy, and you won't have to worry about being driven to the point where you snap and go way over the line.” Twilight retorted, poking him a few times. “They're just kids!”
“They're adults. At least, they tell me they're adults.” Scrivener rolled his eyes, replying moodily: “They want to be treated like adults, I will treat them like rational, reasonable adults, even though I really shouldn't. They start acting like they want to be treated like kids, and... well, I'll treat them like kids. Little kids who I don't have to censor myself around.”
Twilight sighed and shook her head, then she leaned in and kissed his cheek before opening the door for him and waving him out, saying quietly: “Well, get out of here or you're going to be late again.”
“Wouldn't want that.” Scrivener muttered, and he nodded before leaning in, nuzzling Twilight quickly before turning and heading out. Luna huffed at this, half-leaning over the couch, but Antares only smiled as the door closed.
Then Luna grumbled and scrambled hurriedly over the furnishing as Twilight began to head towards the small kitchen, asking seriously: “Art thou trying to steal him away from me? To make him into a proper husband? Thou cannot, for he is already my wife!”
“Luna.” Twilight said flatly, and Luna cleared her throat and dropped her head awkwardly forwards, the violet mare shaking her head out moodily. Then Antares ran between them, and he hopped up to hug Twilight's leg, making her smile in spite of herself as she said softly: “You comin' here to scold me too?”
“Nah. You help a lot with taking care of Dad, and I'm really glad to see that. You and Mom are both... really good for Dad, and really good for each other. We're all good for each other, that's all that matters.” Antares gazed up quietly, nodding thoughtfully, and Luna and Twilight both smiled, gazing down at the colt softly. “Besides, Mom is no good at all that stuff.”
“I am so!” Luna said in an offended voice, and Antares giggled a little before Luna swung her horn at him in mock-frustration. “Beware, Antares! Soon thou shall be old enough for me to teach in the same ways I teach thy father!”
Antares only giggled at this, and then he swung his horn back at Luna as his leathery wings flapped and Luna smiled slightly as she easily parried this with her own before nodding firmly. “Good! We shall have a good time today, Antares, and we shall visit thy father at lunch, how does this sound?”
“Okay. I really like seeing Dad working... he seems... I dunno.” Antares paused thoughtfully, then he giggled a little when Luna poked at him with her horn, flailing a bit before he smiled up at his mother warmly. “He seems grumpier outside, but happier inside. I think he likes teaching.”
Luna nodded firmly, then she grinned widely as she rose her head, concentrating... and Scrivener sighed, rolling his eyes on his walk into Canterlot city and towards the university, which wasn't far from the enormous castle. “Shut up, Luna.”
A few passing ponies looked at him oddly, but Scrivener only cleared his throat awkwardly and turned his eyes away, smiling despite himself as he turned to follow a cobblestone path that cut through a park and to the towering, ancient Canterlot University. There was a light dusting of frost along the path and grasses, but only a smattering over the trees: they had been in a bit of a warm spell for the winter months, and in Canterlot it didn't often get quite as visibly wintry as it did in Ponyville, thanks to the weather teams employed around the city, but Scrivener thought that only meant they were due for a cold snap that would cover everything in ice and snow. And admittedly he looked forwards to being able to take a few extra days off once he got the chance.
He made his way across the road and towards the university doors, shoving through them and grimacing behind his glasses, reaching up to smooth out the rumpled dress jacket and shirt he had to wear as part of the dress code. His tie was still loose around his neck, since Twilight didn't know how to properly tie a tie as well as she thought she did, but he didn't exactly care: he was pretty sure the students paid as much attention to him as he did to them, after all.
The earth pony took a moment to reorient himself with his surroundings, and then he nodded once before heading down the corridor, past administration and the professor's lounge, where he had quickly learned was the territory of the full-time professors and not barbaric, uncivilized part-timers like him.
“Imagine if they knew I never even finished grade school.” Scrivener muttered, then he wondered absently how he could work this into the lesson for today's class as he made his way to the classroom, past a group of ponies excitedly talking about anything but schoolwork. He shoved his way through the ajar door... and as always, found most of the class already in their seats, the earth pony feeling oddly cranky as he looked through the lecture hall before approaching the side table and tossing his messenger bag onto it.
He ignored them pointedly as the students all stared at him, and then Scrivener dug his wallet out of the messenger bag before hurrying back out of the room. A few minutes later, he returned with a cup of coffee, putting this down on the table and glancing up to ensure that the class hadn't abandoned him.
They were all still here, and he felt a fleeting moment of disappointment before clearing his throat as he dug out one of his textbooks, saying clearly: “Yesterday we began studying postmodernist writing... in particular, I asked you to take a look at the work of Martingale, did anyone at least start on the except of Filly outlined in your texts?”
“That book is banned in more than fifty countries, and for good reason.” whined a loud, snobbish voice, and Scrivener sighed inwardly as he looked up to see the exceptionally-pretty, exceptionally-annoying mare that had spoken. He thought her real name was Divine something but he preferred to think of her as Bitchy Britches. “It's amoral and evil.”
“Well, yes, it does follow the course of a pedophile on the search for the perfect little filly.” Scrivener replied dryly, and then he glanced down at the text, opening his mouth-
And before he could speak, a thoughtful, slow voice asked: “But how is it... postmodern? What is postmodernism?”
Scrivener slowly closed his eyes, not bothering to look up at the stallion who had spoken and already feeling another headache coming on. Slowpoke was one of those extra-annoying philosophy students, but Scrivener thought he understood the male's real reason to try and sound all deep and serious: pretending he was deep and musing seemed to help score him a lot of mares. “Well, funny you should ask, since we did tackle the exact definition yesterday when we began the study...”
“But what is it? How can it be?” asked Slowpoke seriously, the large, tan-color unicorn nodding seriously as his dreadlocks swayed around his face beneath his beret, and several mares sighed and stared at the handsome unicorn with something like awe as Britches only glared over her shoulder, as if offended by the fact that no pony was paying attention to her anymore. “Aren't we... modern? How can there be... post that?”
“Very easy, we dig a hole in the ground and shove a block of wood into it.” Scrivener said dryly, and there were a few scattered laughs before the charcoal stallion sighed and said seriously: “Back on the subject of Filly, we-”
“That book has been the subject of burnings since its publication, I refused to study something that heroizes evil.” Britches complained loudly, then she closed her book and nodded firmly. “Furthermore, it perpetuates the stereotype that all mares are weak and-”
“Oh it does not.” Scrivener snapped before he could stop himself, and when Britches stared at him, he decided the damage had already been done, so he continued in an irritable voice: “First of all, you didn't read it. As foals we're taught 'don't judge a book by its cover,' and yet we all seem to do that anyway, and you're doing it right now: read it, then you get the right to judge away all you want. Especially since this is a class based on critical analysis as a way to develop both our understanding and practical use of writing.
“Yes, it's up to interpretation, and it can be confusing: the narrator is both a self-absorbed bastard but also a victim of both himself and circumstance: the filly he admires and spends his lifetime hunting and 'looking after,' in more than one way, is not illustrated as a shining star of virtue. But whoa, wait. Could. Could it be that because it's being narrated by a self-absorbed bastard we're actually seeing her through a distorted lens? That the writing isn't just... handing us all the information on a plate? Horses of Heaven, what madness is this?”
Scrivener slammed a hoof against the podium, and his students were now staring: as a matter of fact, more than one looked excited now, likely expecting him to go into another rant or debacle. But instead, the earth pony forced himself to take a breath as he put the text aside, continuing in a more-rational voice: “I'm not here to spoon-feed you. My job, actually, is a pain in the flank: I have to make you all think, and more than that, I have to somehow make you all understand that the characters in a story have emotions, just like you and me. That even in a story, there's not always black and white, just a lot of gray area. That there are stories out there you're going to read, that are going to rip you apart from the inside out, that will not give you a moment of 'joy' or 'happiness...' but they will be the best damned things you'll ever read, and you'll come back to them again and again, because even if they make you hurt... they give you that strange, deep, dark pleasure, too that no pony can truly explain. And there are stories that you're going to read that will cut you, and hurt you, and scare you so bad you throw them in the corner and want to lash out at them and rip them apart and hunt down the author and shoot him in the face-” Scrivener shoved his own hoof against his temple. “But stop and wonder for a second if they're supposed to do that. Stop and wonder why they would do that. And see if you can read just one more page, push a little more towards the end. And hey, you might be surprised what happens when you do reach that final page... even if I know, I know, reading is such a pain in the flank and why would you bother when it's something so obviously morally outrageous and just like, bad?”
Britches glared at him but didn't speak up, before a hoof shot into the air, and Scrivener sighed as he asked tiredly without checking: “Yes, Mort?”
Mortimer Mortimer grinned awkwardly, the ghostly-white earth pony looking up with his oddly-bright blue eyes and asking hurriedly: “Is it true that Martingale was-”
“No. This was not a veiled autobiography about a pedophile. Although yes, Martingale was accused – and very often, particularly after the publishing of Filly – of being one. However, as we should all know here...” Scrivener looked almost accusingly over the lecture hall. “Is that you can't compare writers to their literature. Yes, someone's writing can tell you a lot about a person. But you have to look at more than what they write about... you have to look at style, their word choice, how they structure their stories or poems... not just at the content. The content can only tell you so much... and there are plenty of writers out there who write about stuff they absolutely hate.”
There were mumbles throughout the hall at this, and then Mort rose his hoof again, waving it wildly, and Scrivener sighed tiredly: he wondered if all the time sniffing the embalming fluid at the funeral parlor was responsible for making him so... special. “Do you write about stuff you hate?”
“Yes.” Scrivener said simply, and then he said clearly: “Returning to the subject of Filly. The except you all had to read is one of the most controversial parts of the book, when the narrator describes how he attempted to drug his stepdaughter and-”
“It's disgusting and amoral.” Britches complained loudly, opening her textbook and looking down at it. “It's gross! How could anyone write about this?”
“Yes, ponies never hurt each other, ever.” Scrivener said dryly, and then he sighed a bit when Britches glared at him and a few other students mumbled between themselves. “We just went over this-”
“But he's heroized! I mean, he fails at night and then it goes on this huge paragraph about how she ends up being the one to seduce him the next morning, that's wrong!” Britches complained loudly, and Scrivener sighed tiredly, dropping his head forwards. “That-”
Scrivener held up a hoof for silence, and then he lowered it slowly and enunciated slowly and carefully: “For one thing, there is no such word as 'heroized' or 'heroizing' or any permutations of those, okay? Now. Do you know what tragicomedy is? What satire and irony are? Do you know what solipsism means? How about symbolism? If the answer to any of these questions is 'no' then you have some reading to do. This story can be seen as the corruption of innocence that eventually attempts to free itself from evil, or as a child already traumatized and poisoned first manipulating the corrupter, but then trying to escape its own evil, its own past. Either way, you can choose to keep going 'oh it's gross and wrong' or you can think of it as a story of hope. That maybe we can change. That maybe evil can do even just one act of good, even if that act comes through selfishness and pain. But my job isn't to critique or to opine on the story, it's your job to tell me your thoughts on the story, or at least on this fragment, and to do it without telling me how you would love to hold a book burning for this nasty piece of literature.”
Britches huffed and sat back in her seat, and there was quiet for a few moments before Scrivener started slowly: “Now. On the subject of Filly...”
“There's a spelling error!” called a voice, and Scrivener sighed, tossed his textbook away, and instead grabbed his coffee, guzzling it and ignoring the dribbles of dark liquid that rolled down his chin and dripped over his dress jacket. It was going to be a long class.
The moment his class on critical analysis was over – and these are the third years, for the sake of the Horses of Heaven! – Scrivener hurried away before any of the students could pin him down to talk to him and ran to his next class, which was thankfully one he enjoyed more: second years and Writer's Craft.
He came into the room to find only a few students present at the moment, and he smiled a bit: unlike critical analysis, where he only knew the ponies who stood out the most because they did nothing but argue with him, he was getting to know each and every one of the eighteen ponies taking this course, and had a chance to work with them all one-on-one.
He headed towards the desk at the front of the small classroom, then glanced up as a young mare approached before he said mildly: “You're not going to ask me about Luna again, are you, Pipes?”
“Will you please let that go? I swear I didn't know she was your wife.” Zampona blushed a bit as she shook her head quickly, then she slipped a set of papers to him, saying awkwardly: “Here. Sorry it's late.”
“I only care that it's done.” Scrivener replied with a smile, tossing his messenger bag up onto the desk before he added mildly, as the bright-blue earth pony began to turn away with a sigh of relief: “And as long as you do the punishment.”
“You're a real jerk, you know that?” She blushed deeper, and Scrivener smiled as he picked up the three sheets of paper, paging through them and reading over the short poems quickly before he nodded thoughtfully to himself and held the second out to her. “No, no, no no no, not-”
Scrivener looked at her pointedly, and she sighed and nodded moodily, taking it as Scrivener put the other poems aside and pulled out his binder. He flipped through it until he found a list, then put a checkmark beside 'Pipes' before looking up with an amused smile at her as he saw her lingering. “Go sit down for now, ten minutes before class starts still.”
Zampona nodded after a moment, and Scrivener smiled amusedly after her: while he didn't assign late marks for any work that was handed in after the due date, he instead employed a particularly-effective policy: he made them read a sample of their writing they were handing in late to the class. Unsurprisingly, very few ponies turned their assignments in late.
He was only just beginning to delve into the basics of wordplay and making them begin to understand how to bend and break mechanics and rules in writing to their advantage. The first thing he had taught them was respect: to respect each other, and to respect other writers, no matter what level they were at.
It didn't take long for the rest to show up, a few saying hello to him and Scrivener smiling back and returning the greetings before he held up a hoof for quiet. Before he could begin, however, a distinct glimmer caught in the corner of his eye, and Scrivener slowly turned towards the door before a starry, ephemeral mane twisted carefully through the ajar space, seeming to feel around before Luna's head leaned into the opening, a wide grin on her face... and a moment later, Antares poked his own head happily in, calling cheerfully: “Hi Dad!”
“Well, Pipes, it looks like I'm going to beat you out for 'most embarrassing classroom experience' today after all.” Scrivener said mildly, and there were a few laughs as Zampona looked both relieved and embarrassed at once: after catching Scrivener with Luna – or more precisely, seeing Luna tackle Scrivener outside the university and kiss him firmly – she had shown up at his office to lecture Scrivener about the 'affair' he was having on his wife, Twilight, who had shown up to class more than once in the early weeks. This had led to great amusement for Scrivy, compounded by the fact that then Luna had shown up and had proceeded to laugh as well before explaining in unnecessary detail what was going on.
After that, Luna had started to show up randomly while he was teaching classes, both to annoy Scrivener, tease Pipes, and to cheerfully harass some of his students. Not that anypony was about to kick her off the premises... and Luna shoved through the door in her full armor, Antares giggling a bit as she strode over to Scrivener and sloppily attempted to kiss him as he winced and turned his head away, meaning she only splattered drool all over his cheek before biting it and making him wince. “Aren't you supposed to be training the Starlit Knights positioned in Canterlot or something?”
“'Tis classified information, Scrivener Blooms!” Luna said in an outraged voice, and then she grinned and half-lidded her eyes, leaning in and saying teasingly: “I shall have to interrogate thee later.
“But nay, thou simply forgot some of thy teaching material at home.” Luna said pompously, and then she glanced back at Antares, who nodded brightly as he hurriedly dug in the satchel bag hanging off his mother's side before he pulled out a book, and Scrivener stared in horror at it as Luna asked curiously: “Has the beetle read any of his own poems yet? It seems remarkably stupid to trust him to teach thee if none of thee have ever read any of his writing.”
“Luna, don't make me tell She Who Must Not Be Named.” Scrivener said flatly, leaning forwards, but Antares only giggled louder as Luna blew a loud raspberry at him.
“You did kind of promise that one day you'd show us your own writing, after we started writing ourselves, and... we have.” added a voice helpfully, and Scrivener glared towards a pony at the back of the room wearing a Wonderbolts headband, the Pegasus looking back and forth at his peers for support... who all nodded in agreement, to Scrivener's further frustration. “You did totally promise.”
Scrivener sighed and rolled his eyes, then he hesitated for a moment before Antares held up the book with a smile, saying warmly: “You know you gotta keep a promise, Dad.”
The earth pony stallion sighed at this, and then he nodded and reached out, taking his book with a grumble before he added flatly: “And don't think this means you're off the hook, Pipes. I'll get you to embarrass yourself next class. Mostly because now this entire class is going to end up being about humiliating me. Thank you, Luna, you... you can go now.”
Luna only huffed at this, however, flicking her horn to slam the door of the classroom before she dropped on her rear, and Antares giggled as he hopped off his mother as she declared: “Now I shall stay for the entire hour!”
“Eighty minutes.” Scrivener corrected, and then he winced when she bopped him with her horn, much to the amusement of the students. “Professionalism, Luna?”
“Bugger professionalism!” Luna shouted cheerfully, and Antares gave a yell as well in response, giggling wildly as Scrivener slumped a bit before the sapphire winged unicorn added: “And 'tis not as if thou art very professional either. Look at thee! Twilight will be upset again, thou hast gone and spilled coffee all over thy wretched self and thy wretched tie.”
“You're a wretched tie.” Scrivener muttered, and then he sighed as he found the poem he was looking for, grumbling under his breath as Luna began to raise a hoof, then paused and leaned back instead with a smile. “Alright, alright. This poem is... this poem is just a short one. It's called 'Eye of Imagination.'
“Look upon this wretched and broken whelp with his eyes closed but ever-seeing
From the mind's eye, the bleeding, gaping socket in his brain,
Staring out of his forehead, eternally, endlessly, from his missing horn.
“Oh unicorn, is that what you are? But no more;
Now your pure-blood stains your face in rivers, cascades down from the pit,
That sunken all-seeing eye open forever without and within.
“Eternal eye, what do you see?
Staring into you I see blood and darkness, one flows outwards, one flows inwards,
Giving away your worthless heritage, giving in the only thing that keeps you warm.”
Scrivener halted and cleared his throat, blushing a bit before he closed the book firmly and turned around, putting it back on the desk before smiling and glancing over his shoulder, asking quietly: “Who can tell me what the poem I just read to you was about? And you can say anything you want about my writing. I'm already well-aware it's plenty bad, after all. Just don't compare me to Flourish, I'll beat whoever compares me to Flourish or any other post-ren writer to death with my bare hooves, whether it's in front of my kid or not.”
Antares smiled up at his father, and Scrivener looked down at him seriously, adding: “And hey, don't think you can get away with it either. I'll leave you in the street. Canterlot's a huge place, not even Luna will be able to find you in time.”
“And what about I, Scrivener, should I dare to commit such an atrocity?” Luna teased, leaning towards him, and Luna looked at her pointedly before she glared at him, saying flatly as an image passed between their minds: “Oh thou would not!”
“Don't doubt my masochism.” Scrivener replied mildly, and then he turned his eyes back over the class, asking easily: “So who wants to take a potshot at their professor? Come on, hurry up, I'm not going to be an open target all day. Well. I am, but you know what I mean.”
There was still hesitance, and then Scrivener rolled his eyes before smiling when one of the students rose his hoof: and in a class composed of thirteen mares and five stallions, it wasn't too hard to keep track of the names and faces of the males. “Go ahead, Fizzle.”
The stallion smiled brightly beneath his short-cut mane, nodding a few times hurriedly before he asked: “Is it about the fact that you're... you're a unicorn?”
“Not bad. Sorta, yeah.” Scrivener smiled a bit and nodded, reaching up to touch his forehead as Luna looked impressed and a few of the other students smiled over at Fizzle, as he blushed awkwardly. “Yes, my parents were both pure blooded unicorns. So am I, even though I don't have a horn.” He reached up, tapping his forehead gently. “Hard to see the divot up there, but it is up there. You know, beneath the fifty billion other scars.”
There were a few chuckles at this, and then Zampona asked impulsively: “Mr. Blooms, how did you get those scars?”
“Oh come freaking on, how many times do I have to tell you all, it's just Scrivener or Scrivy or... anything else, not Mr. Blooms.” Scrivener laughed, shaking his head.
“Or beetle. Or idiot. But if any of thou calls him daydreamer I must warn thee, thou must sleep with me before thou gets to sleep with him.” Luna added cheerfully, and Scrivener and Antares both shot her glares as a few stares and a few shocked giggles ran through the classroom, before the sapphire mare hurriedly cleared her throat. “I... uh. I shall be going now. Scrivener, take good care of Antares!”
“I, Luna, wait, no, you can't-” But Luna had already opened the door and run out into the hall, and Scrivener sighed tiredly as he dropped his head forwards as Antares smiled happily up at him, and Scrivy smiled back after a moment despite himself before he reached down and quietly ruffled his mane, making him giggle. “Okay, okay. You guys seriously want to waste a class talking about me?”
“Well, you're always telling us to write about our experiences, but... not a lot of us have fought dragons or battled aliens or visited planets with exotic mares in bikinis but... that's all the same what a lot of us want to write about.” spoke up another stallion who was wearing glasses, and then he cleared his throat when all eyes turned to him. “Okay, that's. What I want to write about.”
There were a few laughs, but they were good-natured, and Scrivener smiled before he nodded and reached down to pick his son up before setting him on the table, and Antares giggled happily before he leaned forwards over his father's shoulder as Scrivener looked up over the classroom, asking easily: “Ever been to a foreign beach, surrounded by people who just kind of stared at you, didn't even seem to speak your language?” When the pony nodded hesitantly, Scrivener shrugged, saying softly: “There's your starting point. Draw on that experience and then exaggerate it with metaphor and hyperbole.
“When a lot of writers say... 'I drew on my own experiences,' they're not actually talking about... you know, charging into battle against some horrific demon from Helheim seeking to devour the soul of their beloved.” Scrivener smiled a bit, looking up and continuing quietly: “But certain demons in our mind, vices and... the vices of other ponies, are as scary and damning as anything hell can throw at us. You warp and twist that, you use those emotions and feelings and you manifest it into a physical entity, or a physical conflict.
“I know, complicated. Don't think about it, just do it, as I keep telling you guys. You're all already writers, the only thing that's missing is you writing, and we're all doing that now, starting simple, working our way up.” Scrivener continued calmly, shaking his head with a smile. “But we're gonna get there. We're gonna make sure each and every one of you is a writer, at least for a while. Mostly because if I screw up this class my sister will never let me live it down. Well, sister-in-law, but... she's like a sibling.”
Scrivener smiled at Antares, who nodded happily a few times before he said brightly: “Aunt Tia always helps my Dad out... she always reads his writing and gives him all kinds of suggestions and stuff! In fact, she hired him, right Dad? That's how you met Mom!”
“That's right, kiddo, but don't spoil the plot now.” Scrivener laughed as he ruffled the child's mane again and the colt shook himself briskly out before the earth pony turned his eyes forwards, reaching up and touching his own scarred face quietly. “You look at me and you see the scars I wear on my body, and does that give me a better grasp of what it feels like to be cut, to experience battle, to know pain? Maybe. But only maybe: we all experience things differently, we're all built for different things, and we all try to explain things differently... and to someone out there, your descriptions and writing are going to sound way better than mine, no matter how little or informed our pieces of writing are. Simple truth: ponies like what ponies like. You are never, ever going to please everypony with your writing, so don't even try. Hell, don't even go out there, trying to make other ponies happy, as I tell you guys again and again. The best reason of all to write, the most honest of all, is to write for yourself, and write your stories without ever worrying about what others think, or what others want, or anything like that. Take compliments with grace and handle insults with either dignity or horrible, remorseless retaliation that turns your enemies into crying heaps of jello, shivering in the corner.”
Scrivener ground his front hooves together almost savagely, and then he cleared his throat and finished softly, as all eyes stared at him: “But don't go changing your visions for them. You might never make as much money off your writing that way, you might not get as many fans... but I'm not teaching a class on how to make money or get famous. I'm teaching a class on how to write. That's all.”
Scrivener shrugged and smiled, and Antares smiled happily as Scrivener gazed over the class before he clapped his hooves together, asking easily: “Alright. Next topic?”
Scrivener held up an easy dialogue with his class for a short while, stopping only long enough so he could go get Antares a bottle of water. When he had returned, about half the class was clustered down around his son, who was quickly and easily answering questions with shining, happy eyes about himself and his family. And Scrivener smiled softly as he opened the bottle of water, handing it to the foal, but letting them finish up their little session before he went back to doing a bit of teaching, taking the time that remained to go over some basic etymology and the use of descriptive words in writing.
The class ended, and the students filed out, a few staying around to talk a bit more with Antares and Scrivener as the stallion packed up his things slowly. He had a little over an hour of break now before he had to go to his next class, so he was in no hurry, and Antares Mīrus still seemed honestly happy... although Scrivener only finally understood why a few minutes later, as they were walking down the university corridor together. “All those ponies... really liked you, Dad.”
“Yeah, well. They like me when I'm competent and giving them good marks. Half the time I'm stupid out of my mind and my other classes all hate me.” Scrivener responded, and when Antares gave him a flat look, the charcoal stallion laughed. “What? Usually you reserve that glare for your mother.”
“Dad, don't be so hard on yourself.” Antares chided, and Scrivener smiled despite himself as they headed down to the cafeteria together. Antares' eyes widened at the sight of it, gaping around in amazement before he pointed excitedly: “They sell pizza and, and, and apple pie and... and...”
“Pretty much everything, yes.” Scrivener pulled his messenger bag off, dropping it on an empty table before he picked Antares up to sit him on the bench, the foal smiling up at him. “I'm going to go grab some food for us, kiddo. Then... well, I guess you can come to my last class for today. It's not going to be a very fun one, though, so we'll find you a book or something to look at while I teach, okay?”
Antares nodded a few times, gazing up at him happily before Scrivener turned and headed for the lunch line, curious as to what Luna was up to. He could check if he wanted, but the last time he did that in the lunch line, he'd ended up standing and drooling for a few minutes while ponies awkwardly walked around him and poked at him, likely thinking he was stoned until he'd shaken himself out of it.
Luna's job, besides, wasn't as 'official' as his. She was mostly doing it as a favor to Celestia and to keep herself occupied during the day, while Scrivener was working in order to cover his medical bills and because Celestia had asked him to. Twilight was apparently doing work too, but... since that meant doing a lot of notes, sorting, and writing for Celestia, much of it could be done wherever she pleased.
When Scrivener returned to Antares, he first winced when he saw a student sitting beside the colt before sighed in relief when the stallion looked up through his dark silver mane. Scrivener dropped the food tray on the table, then reached a hoof up and rubbed slowly at his face, glad it wasn't Britches or anypony else he had developed an aversion for. “Horses of Heaven, you scared me, Flint. I thought you were uh... somepony else.”
Flint only smiled awkwardly: a deep-green earth pony who had also come from the traditionalist unicorn north, Scrivener had a soft spot for the younger stallion who was struggling along in Canterlot only here because it was better than up north. He bowed his head almost embarrassedly, but Scrivener smiled as he slipped into his seat before Antares asked curiously: “Is he from the story?”
Scrivener opened his mouth... and then his blood ran cold in his veins as he looked slowly over at Flint, remembering the story. Remembering the Moon Blessed, how one had been named Fleur, and the other...
He shook himself hurriedly out as Flint frowned curiously, beginning nervously: “Story? I mean... sir, is something wrong?”
“No, no, nothing. And you don't have to say that, Flint, just... Scrivy. Hell, we're both slave-hoofs, right?” Scrivener smiled a little, and Flint blushed and bowed his head, but visibly relaxed all the same before the charcoal stallion gave Antares a pointed look, and the foal nodded seriously before he picked up the burrito Scrivener had brought and promptly shoved almost all of it into his mouth.
Scrivener repressed a laugh, then he turned his eyes back to Flint, asking curiously: “What's up? You're not in... what class am I teaching next...” Scrivener glanced into his open messenger bag, then wrinkled his muzzle in distaste. “Right. You're not in Classical Equestrian Literature. Which, by the way, is not a class I should be teaching.”
Flint smiled a little, then he shook his head and asked nervously: “I... I was just wondering if it would be okay for me to get an extension on my essay... I really... I really haven't had much time...”
Scrivener cocked his head curiously, and Flint looked at him embarrassedly before he glanced at Antares, then laughed a bit despite himself at the sight of the foal, the burrito still hanging out of his mouth. Then his eyes returned to Scrivy, and he awkwardly mimed a drinking motion, saying finally: “Friend's... party. I'm way behind on my research.”
“No you're not.” Antares pulled the burrito out of his mouth, looking inquisitively up at Flint before he frowned a little. “You okay, mister? You've been crying.”
“I... I have... I have not.” Flint said incredulously, and the deep green pony blushed a bit, rubbing nervously at his bright green eyes, which Scrivener realized were a little puffy. “I just... I mean, it's from drinking.”
“I'm sorry. Who died?” Antares reached out and quietly touched Flint's foreleg with his own hoof, and Flint stared in disbelief. He leaned slowly back, looking spooked at first... but then Antares shook his head slowly, whispering: “You don't have to hide it. Not even if it was for a bad pony. If you cry over a bad pony that just means... you tried that much harder to care for them even though you knew they didn't deserve it.”
Flint closed his eyes, then he bowed his head forwards and whispered: “My mom. She was... she was a unicorn, who treated me like a slave most of the time. I didn't want to talk about it to you, Mr. Blooms, because you know about what it's like and-”
“And that's exactly why you should be honest with me, Flint, because I do understand pain like this. And caring about a parent even though she...” Scrivener stopped, then he shook his head and said quietly: “Don't worry about it, Flint. Get the paper done when you can. I won't penalize you, you're one of my good students.”
Flint smiled in relief, glancing up and nodding hesitantly, and then he slipped away from the table. Scrivener hesitated for a moment as the earth pony began to walk away, and then the charcoal stallion asked impulsively: “How'd you know I was sitting here?”
It was a veiled question, but Flint didn't seem to pick up on it, as he glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. “Well, your stuff was here, and I figured that colt must be your son... you mention him almost every class and he looks a lot like you. He... he sounds like you too, sir, I hope you don't mind me saying.”
“I don't. As long as you try a little harder to call me Scrivy in the future, like everypony else.” Scrivener smiled a bit, nodding to the earth pony, and Flint blushed and bowed his head before he rose a hoof to him. “I'll see you around, Flint.”
Flint nodded and turned before walking quietly away, and Scrivener watched him leave, a frown spreading over his features before he glanced at Antares and asked curiously: “How'd you know? How... how could that even be...”
“I don't know, Dad... it just is.” Antares replied with a shrug, looking up at his father with a bit of a smile. “Gymbr is real, after all, isn't he? So why wouldn't everything he talks about, everyone who was with him... they must be real, too.”
“Yet he never fought Clockwork World, did he?” Scrivener asked thoughtfully, looking down and shaking his head slowly. Then he sighed and smiled across at Antares, saying softly: “But maybe that's a good thing. Eat up your burrito, kiddo, then we'll go to the library.”
Antares nodded a few times, and he gobbled down the food. On the way out, Scrivener stopped at a vending machine to pick up a bottle of cola for his son, tucking this into the messenger bag for now before they made their way to the enormous library and archive of the university.
Nibelung were wandering the shelves in here, Architects who were guardians of the library and on staff because of their expertise in a variety of areas... and because it made it very difficult to steal any of the valuable books in the shelves with the dwarves constantly sorting through the tomes and organizing out everything.
Scrivener smiled a bit as he found an Architect he recognized on duty: Peru, who was still a rookie by the rankings of the Architects, but always happy to lend a hand. He was constantly trying to push forwards the plans for his flying machine... and Scrivener had scared the Helheim out of him one day by asking him mildly if he'd figured out a better design for his zeppelin yet, then cheerfully refused to explain how he knew the exact title for his 'flying machine' until he had helped him smuggle some very valuable books out of the library for Scrivener to peruse at his leisure. Twilight had gotten quite upset with him over this, he remembered, but after about five minutes she had been marveling over the ancient tomes taken from original Canterlot with him.
Since Scrivener had actually brought the books back, and included with them a summarized version of the story he'd dubbed Because Love Conquers All, Peru was now more than glad to trust him and help him out with anything he needed. Which for now was a short novel... something about ghosts, since that was where Antares' interests were right now.
Peru returned with a few books, and Scrivener had shrugged before deciding to take them all: he was here at least three days a week, after all, and Antares liked to read. Once they checked them out, though, Scrivener had to hurry, Antares giggling and riding on his back as they headed to the next class... which he realized with a groan Britches and Slowpoke were also both a part of a moment before he shoved through the door and into the large lecture hall.
The students all watched him, giving him a strange feeling of being judged as he headed over to the podium, then put his son down and said softly: “Go ahead and just read while I teach the class, okay, kiddo? And I'll try not to use too many bad words.”
Antares smiled and nodded, taking one of the books before he brightened when Scrivener gave him the bottle of cola as well, and then the charcoal stallion dug out his textbook and tossed this onto the podium, clearing his throat. He looked up over the class, then grimaced a bit: a good sixty or so students, seated across eighty or so seats. Most of them third years, a few fourth years, a few who were just taking the class for the hell of it before Scrivener flipped the textbook open and began clearly: “Good afternoon, everypony. Let's jump right into things... we were discussing the roles of gender in romantic literature, and our first reading was... Romeo and Jeanette.”
There was a loud snort at this, and then Britches' voice loudly complained: “Females always follow the same roles in every romance, it's contrived and stupid! Just like how mares and stallions are always-”
“We haven't begun yet.” Scrivener said flatly, looking up and scanning the crowd irritably before he shook his head and asked mildly: “Now, I know that this love story has been told so many times a lot of you are desensitized to it, but it does make a good example for our discussion. Remember the age difference as well, in this-”
“Oh, like Filly?” Britches' voice again, and Scrivener sighed even as a few mumbles rose up from the crowd. “What, are all great romantics pedophiles?”
“Well, sure. You can look at the past and the fact that mares married very young, almost while they were fillies, and call pretty much every old romance story a story about pedophilia if you want... or we can just scratch that age number out for now and focus on the gender and the romance aspects of what is clearly a romance story.” Scrivener said tiredly, looking up and adding flatly: “And I swear to Horses of Heaven I will throw your flank out of this classroom if you continue to drag grudges from last class into this one, Divine.”
There was mumbling, but Britches quieted, and instead they delved into calm discussion for a little while before somepony finally asked curiously: “Does the type of writing have anything to do with gender?”
Scrivener smiled at this: the rare comment that actually managed to perk his interest. “Yes and no. Officially, poems are treated as of one gender and the novel is treated as another. Would anypony like to take a guess as to what is what?”
“Poems are masculine, male. The novel is female.” answered a voice, and Scrivener smiled, surprised but pleased as he nodded.
“Correct. But as my wife and many others will tell you, just being a poet doesn't make me a stallion.” Scrivener remarked, and there were a few light chuckles through the crowd. “If you want to look at things purely through the gender systems that have developed over the years, you could argue that all works of this type or that type have more to do with one gender or the other. But it's an inherently flawed argument: as a matter of fact, I find a lot of gender arguments are, because-”
“You're a chauvinist?” remarked an irritable voice, and Scrivener looked moodily for Britches as mumbles ran through the group, a few of the ponies looking awkward and Antares looking up with a frown from his reading.
Scrivener's eyes turned to his son, and he sighed before smiling reassuringly to the child. A moment later, he turned his eyes forwards, saying quietly: “No, because I believe firmly that both genders are equal. Female or male, we're all ponies, all people. We can be what we want to be. Not even our emblems, our cutie marks, determine who we have to be. We can turn those talents into a thousand different things, if we have the will and the drive to.”
There was silence for a few moments, and then Scrivener shook his head, saying quietly: “Romantic literature, you'll find, does favor a lot of traditionalist elements: even if the female is a heroine, she often ends up almost needing a male character to lean on, to take guidance from, and her portrayal becomes someone who is physically strong but emotionally and mentally weak, as if she has a masochistic need to be controlled. That brings up the question: is it possible for a mare to allow herself to appear vulnerable in today's society, without being judged as weak, or frail, or needing a stallion to support her?”
Scrivener smiled up over the crowd: he hated gender arguments, he hated teaching this stuff, but it was all in the lesson plan and it was, unfortunately, something he was required to cover. But as he talked, he thought of Luna... of how strong she was, of how much he admired her, of how she had come in that morning and made his one good class of the day so much better. Of how she and Twilight were doing so much to raise his son to be so strong...
He thought of Celestia, truly a Valkyrie, truly proud and yet able to clearly, calmly, and fearlessly reveal her inner weaknesses, her needs, her anxieties, without ever seeming weak. So different from Luna... who even when she was mashing her face into his neck was clearly the one in charge and control, who even as he was comforting her... it felt like she was the one comforting him. And he smiled, closing his eyes and bowing his head forwards before a voice asked hesitantly: “Well, isn't that all based around society's perceptions? If society refuses to acknowledge you as strong... how can you be seen as strong?”
“Simple. By being strong.” Scrivener replied easily, glancing up with a smile as his eyes opened, and then he reached up and adjusted his glasses, continuing softly: “No culture in the world, no matter how forwards-thinking or backwards-ass, has heroes of only one gender. Because you need to give idols to people to make them idolize ideals. You can't just say, for example 'all mares must serve stallions.' Doesn't work too well, does it? Not exactly a compelling argument.”
He paused, then said softly: “But if I tell you the story of Belle the Obedient, who is held up as a hero for the way she sacrificed her life for that of her masters... well, then you have some mare with 'incredible' qualities, held up as a 'hero.' As what all good little mares are supposed to be. And the good little mares, raised from birth to believe this, are going to chase that ideal, try and become this 'perfect' vision. Whether they believe they're striving for something greater or not. Heroes, idols, they're great ways to get kids to start thinking in one direction, one set way. Just like villains are a great way to show kids what they're not supposed to be... well, until they hit that phase where the bad guys become 'cool,' or worse, they start to sympathize with the villains.”
“So you're saying they only exist as conditioning elements... that there's subliminal messaging in all folk mythos to push us towards... what, deifying certain elements to better maintain societal norms and reduce instances of deviance against society's standards and rules?” asked a voice curiously, and Scrivener looked lamely up over the audience.
“First, who said that, and second, can you phrase it in smaller words? Just because we're in smart school doesn't mean you have to use really smart words.” Scrivener said mildly, glancing back and forth through the crowd as he rubbed awkwardly at his own head, and there were a few scattered laughs before the earth pony shook his head after a moment when there was no response, sighing and saying quietly: “To answer your question, yes, I do believe that stories play a major role in conditioning us in how we act during our lives... hell, a lot of people in way better fields than literature will tell you the same thing, that we all... are basically shaped by a thousand influences, some benign, others forcible, and either way many of them so natural to us that we don't recognize they're actually impacting our thinking until we stop and think about it. Many of you have been programmed to think the way you do by outside influences, just as I have been; we naturally rebel against this thought but... now we're getting way out of the field of romance literature and into free will and psychology, and those are things I'm even worse at than classic lit.”
There were few mumbles through the room, and Scrivener smiled as he looked over the class before his eyes roved to Antares, who was gazing warmly at his father, his book down, looking as if he was drinking in every word whether he understood it or not. Scrivener smiled despite himself at this, and then he quickly turned his eyes back ahead, trying to pretend that happiness he felt was just over his son's approval and the rest of that churning in his stomach was indigestion, not pride, as he began calmly: “Back to Romeo and Jeanette, let's explore the aspect of Jeanette as an individual and a tragic heroine...”