//------------------------------// // Home Is Where The Dog Is // Story: Three Steps Back // by Moproblems Moharmoney //------------------------------// Theatre, novels, and tawdry 'bit amusements' made out the life of nobility as one of uninterrupted leisure, royalty especially. Endless days of nothing but play, with rivers of wine and honeyed feasts available at the merest suggestion. Often their greatest difficulties were overly melodramatic love triangles, week-long balls, or some inane affair between the social classes.  If questioned on the subject, Twilight would be sorely tempted to use a rather impolite word she'd learnt within Ponyville’s one, and only, tavern. Her mother wasn't an idle showpiece, or some courtier's puppet, but rather the opposite. Blessed with an unhealthy work ethic not too dissimilar from Applejack's ceaseless drive, there had been times in the past when she frankly grew worried. A rigid cut-off point existed, naturally, of both Celestia and her government's design. Family came first, though the more sobering prospect of an exhausted Princess in control of their local star was a bigger concern, at least for those stallions in grey suits that made up her ministry.  Wine? The odd snifter was consumed at events for social reasons, but Twilight honestly couldn't remember a time where she had casually uncorked a bottle. Not even to accompany a meal. Thinking back, she'd never seen her consume any fluids save for tea and water. The honey notion…well on that she’d admit a passing resemblance, at least cursory.  Whether it was part and parcel of being an alicorn, or merely a sweet tooth that dwarfed an average pony, the facts were thus. Her mother consumed an inordinate amount of desserts. Bushels of bananas, crates of crepes, stacks of soufflés. All these and more were devoured in a single day, ‘sacrificed to fuel the eternal sun’ as one prominent celestite claimed during public discussions over royal finances. At one point Celestia's government had even clandestinely approached her, their plan being to float the notion of a sugar-syrup diet before the monarch's genius daughter and hope for the best. It had worked as well as expected, ie: terribly. Yet there was a surprisingly useful knock-on effect, with numerous tea rooms suddenly gaining an influx of a new sugar substitute, twice as sweet and marginally less fattening. That had been patent number seventeen, the licensing of which led to a tidy sum arriving in her account regularly. A necessity when experiments, both magical and scientific, tended to be rather resource intensive. Not to mention Pinkie proofing the lab. All this had taught Twilight was that fiction, especially when it came to the upper echelons of society, tended to take a rather liberal attitude to reality. Yes, there were the layabouts. Her cousin's rather eclectic social circle drew them in like honey to flies, but every day certainly wasn't a banquet, and night not a gaudy display of wigs and fans.  Despite this, there was a single, microscopic, grain of truth amongst the ostentatious tales that infested every bookstore in Equestria. Meeting royalty was never easy. The first port of call for her was Canterlot Castles' gatehouse. Despite being their sovereign's daughter, there were certain requirements for unannounced visits. A simple letter was sadly insufficient. This, therefore, required a meeting with her... ‘favourite’ Solar Guard. The kind of 'favourite' where little and infrequent was all the better for one's self. Calling him a "guard" was a disservice though: honestly, that implied danger, romance, and high drama! Who else but he could make paint-drying seem like an action-packed sport? As she entered the stallion's austere office however, Twilight gained a rather new and different view of the pony in question. "Captain Armour?" "Lady. Sparkle." Despite 'Stick-In-The-Mud Shiny' being as fun as a late fee, which she held responsible for the dreadful uptake in public library services, even with her stunted sense of social obligations it was clear to see when a moment had gone too far to make light of.  The burly Solar Guard Captain, a renowned hero of Canterlot and a pristine model for all aspiring guard cadets, was sitting behind his desk smothered in lipstick stains. Not only that, but the proud and noble helm of office, worn by every Captain for the last five hundred years, had suffered a ferocious dent, the burnished steel looking significantly worse for wear. Even in such a state, however, Shining Armour emitted an air of rigid, by-the-book, competency. From a mane cut flat enough you could land pegasi on it, down to his desk's pristine neatness. “Are you…" the bicce began, pausing to close his office door behind her with an inelegant kick. “Are you ok, Captain Armour?” Ignoring her question, the stallion mechanically reached below his work surface, a resounding click heralding forth both a tumbler and bottle of amber liquid. After a disastrous introduction, Twilight's relationship with alcohol effectively ceased to exist. Yet even so, if the way her sensitive nose wrinkled at that pungent smell was any indicator, the grizzled Captain had rather cheap tastes in alcohol. Shuffling, she felt a distinct sense of discomfort. The stallion's dead-eye stare was one thing, but his familiarity with this little routine added a rather sour note to the proceedings.   “I-I don't think you’re supposed to consume al-”  “Do you understand love at all, Lady Sparkle?” asked a warped recreation of Captain Armours' voice.  It always set her teeth on edge, just one of many reasons she disliked the Captain. Not the fairest way to review him of course, but it wasn’t exactly fair his presence caused her ears pain either. Mechanically speaking though it was fascinating, his ‘new’ voice currently consisted of little more than a tinny sound emanating from magically induced horn vibrations. As for the flesh… well, his mouth was locked into a trademark frown, while he itched at the second trademark of Solar Captain Shining Armour. An ugly red mess of scars, the vicious remembrance crawling all over his throat.  “Well, not on a personal level,” Twilight answered. “However, I know high levels of dopamine and a related hormone, norepinephrine, are released during attraction. These chemicals make us giddy, energetic, and euphoric, even leading to decreased appetite and insomnia – which means you actually can be so in love that you can't eat and can't sleep.” She grinned innocently. “Isn’t that fascinating?” If the rate at which Captain Armour began emptying the bottle suggested anything to the bicce, it was that her answer had been less than appreciated. “Just… just go, Twilight. Kibitz was informed as soon as the complaints from Canterlot came in. He'll be waiting for you in the tea room.” Feeling that frequent and uncomfortable sensation of being woefully out of her depth in all matters social, she wrestled between what seemed logical versus what appeared pleasant. In all honesty, it still puzzled her late in the night. She was a genius, there was no arguing about that fact. Despite this, though, the merest suggestion of interpersonal etiquette seemed to entrap her. Yes, there had been a period when she had scoffed at it all, but the Summer Sun celebration changed that, more than she could have ever imagined. Friendship and its associated elements were new and fascinating, yet they eluded her beyond anything she’d encountered in her storied academic career. “Thank you, Captain Armour," she fidgeted, paws interlacing and de-lacing slowly. "If you- that is, if you need anything, I’d be happy to help to… well, to the best of my ability... ?” She tested, her hesitant smile on show despite the deep reservations within. A snort, distorted and scratchy, punctuated the moment he abandoned his tumbler altogether.  “If you want to do some good, convince that witch of mine to sign the divorce papers.” Yes. Friendship was a confusing thing indeed. Like most her age, Twilight Sparkle considered herself a mature, independent, young creature. She could stand on her own two feet, stare into the harsh world’s piercing gaze, and utter those most terrifying of words for a parent of any teenager: "I'm an adult".  This fully explains why, upon entering the plush drawing room, she dropped her suitcase and flung herself at the silent statue that was Princess Celestia's scheduling advisor. Despite their rather significant size difference, her embrace held a degree of tenderness in its awkwardness. More than anything, it was an attempt at restraint from squeezing out whatever life the wizened old pony had left in his body. "Uncle Kibby!" "Lady…Sparkle…I can't-" The octogenarian unicorn wheezed, eyes bulging as his ribs began to make an ominous creaking sound. It was an accident. She knew it was an accident. It was always an accident. Accidents happened. A lot. Especially around her.  Following the routine apologies, he brushed himself off, taking familiar care with his jacket cuffs –“They’re the first things to go on a gentle-creature’s coat Lady Sparkle,” she remembered him lecturing one night many years ago – tied the thinning mane – that she knew he was secretly proud of retaining in his advanced years – back into its customary ponytail her excited hug had somehow loosened, and shot the teenager a reserved, expectant look. “How does a lady introduce herself?” Kibitz said, eyes narrowing above his pince-nez. Twilight withered under the sharp gaze, her shoulders slumping. “Do we have to Uncle Kibby? It was a long train ride and-” “How does a lady introduce herself?” He repeated, his tone firm, even, and steady.  Huffing, she extended her arms to either side, paws scraping against the surrounding furniture. It was a recurring problem in rooms designed more for your average pony rather than a creature as large as herself. Even here in the more multicultural tea room, host to every diplomat able to squeeze inside, she felt like an oversized fool.  “A lady is met with quiet and grace,” the rhyme began, her legs slowly lowering in time with the rhythm. Within seconds though her thighs began protesting, each moment threatening a cramp, until slowly… slowly… one knee touched the Saddle Arabian carpet. “With back exposed and floor to face,” squeaked Twilight after a few awkward seconds, head bowed until an ear flopped lazily into the leather concertina that her skirt had bunched into. “Good! Good!” The elderly stallion cheered, stomping his approval with a genteel tap of hooves on the floor. “We feared your time away from Canterlot would erode the good manners we spent many long hours teaching you Lady Sparkle; I’ll inform Rigid Poise as soon as possible. I’m sure it will improve her less-than-stellar day.” ‘Rigid Poise’ raised a particularly uncomfortable set of memories from the sea of her mindscape. A grey mare loomed large, whipcord thin, with a distressing way of pronouncing her name that haunted more puppyhood nightmares than she cared to admit. The mare hadn’t been cruel, cruelty would have ended in a one-way trip to any stellar object of Twilight's choice. No, she was focused. Nothing got in her way when etiquette was involved, not age, species, or injury. She suspected if motivated enough the old bag would force a corpse to curtsey. "Yes, this will certainly cheer up Miss Poise," Kibitz continued, his face curling into the look of those who knew a little bit too much yet desperately wanted to tell all. "Between you and I Lady Sparkle," he whispered, despite the room being empty, "I fear the poor mare's current assignment may be beyond even her prodigious skills." Pausing for dramatic effect within a conversation was something Twilight had great familiarity with. She didn’t like it, but was most definitely familiar with it. So when Kibitz indulged it didn’t engender her attention, rather the opposite. Rarity already drained her tolerance for theatrics daily; she didn't need gossipy old stallions adding to the problem. "It's Princess Luna you see-" Her mind blanked out Kibitz's voice, it blanked out everything in fact but the increasing ache within her lower body and a vision of this oncoming disaster. Aunt Luna. Rigid Poise was going to teach Aunt Luna modern etiquette. The pony who still called her subjects 'serfs', who thought pepper was a 'wild and exotic spice', and who once offered to personally execute the loser in a mild defamation suit.  She almost felt bad for the old mare.  Almost. “I still think this is silly, Uncle Kibitz,” the undignified heap that was Twilight Sparkle muttered as she came back to reality. Her screaming muscles relenting moments after his back was turned, “Why can’t I just bow like the Minotaurs?” Unlike the majority of females she interacted with, weight was never much of a concern in the bicce's life. While losing a few pounds for vague aesthetic reasons was certainly possible, the little podge on her frame did no real harm. Attaching a number was different, however, that brought to reality certain comparisons she’d rather ignore. So Twilight settled for “Three-hundred pounds… ish” when pressed. All bone and muscle of course.  Understandably then, it was quite shocking to feel her elderly caretaker heave her upright, not by corona, but by hoof. His grey eyes, soft and tender normally, had a flinty quality to them now.   “You are a member of the royal family, Twilight Sparkle,” he declared, his voice crisp and clear as freshly cut glass. “Yes, the guttersnipes in Solar Court may deem you a poor fit, but words on ink mean little to those with true breeding such as myself, which, may I remind you, comes from one's actions, not blood.” He pointed a gamboge hoof at her. “Good etiquette is part of that.” The tears weren’t unfamiliar, she’d been crying a lot lately. The events surrounding him had punched a hole through her emotional core that was only just starting to scab over. If the young celestite from Canterlot train station had been a filly she’d probably have broken down then and there. Yet these tears? These felt… nice?  Her thoughts tumbled over and over like a great, monstrous whirlpool, intense enough that she didn’t register the older stallion, a figure of soft yet stern authority throughout Twilight’s life, fussing about like a mother hen. His silken handkerchief, wrapped in a flickering green aura, dabbed lightly at her eyes as he weakly escorted Twilight to the oversized chairs reserved for foreign dignitaries. All the while he continued to mumble out those words of sympathy used by stallions awkwardly inexperienced when it came to comforting the deeply distressed. "T-Thank you, thank you Uncle Kibi-" she sputtered, only to be cut off by a square of silk pressing firmly on her snout.  "Blow." It was a command, with the telltale look of a parent who would not relent until their child had acquiesced. Rigid Poise had taught Twilight many things. How to move gracefully, nigh perfect elocution, and even the elusive purpose of that fork with two prongs omnipresent at every upper-class dining event. What she couldn't teach, however, was to blow one's snout and not make a scene. "Feel better now?" Kibitz said moments later, eyeing his soaked and dripping rag with the curious horror one has when seeing a particularly bizarre accident. "Much." As he settled himself into a more equine-friendly chair, she pretended to ignore his less-than-discrete shudder when the soiled kerchief was hesitantly placed back within its usual pocket. The stain would thankfully be an easy clean, yet she knew it hurt the old stallion deeply. Protocol was worth the pain in his mind, she knew, and it often crossed her mind how far he’d ever taken such an ideology.  Such macabre notions were banished the moment Kibitz clapped his hooves together. It was a routine Twilight was familiar with, one that indicated refreshments were incoming, hot, fresh and presumably caffeinated.  "Let's have some tea, eh? A spot of char never hurts the spirit as far as I'm concerned." With eyes now dry, a tiny smile crept onto her face. Uncle Kibitz was much like her mother in a way, the rock that weathered any storm, unchanging in the face of time and tide. Even if he seemed much smaller now, so…thin. Despite this, as the old retainer fussed with a copper speaking tube installed in the room's wall, Twilight just couldn't help herself. "Uncle Kibby?" "- four sugars, yes, I said four! Her highness's daughter is visiting," Kibitz blustered; a harried pony on the tube's other end presumably cringing at their verbal drubbing.  Awaiting the routine, if delayed, response, she noticed his full attention was on her now. Considering the ‘unseemly’ lounging she’d decided to partake in, it was obvious to the bicce her future consisted of words being spoken, but not quite yet. Tea was still on offer, and good etiquette always ensured tea came before trouble. “Yes, Lady Sparkle?” "Why is it called 'good breeding' if it's unrelated to bloodlines? Surely that defeats the point of the phrase?" she asked, the never-ending curiosity that had begun their relationship still burning to this day. Blinking, he slowly returned to the tube, a barely perceptible sigh escaping his lips, "Excuse me fellows, could you add a few biscuits to the tray? I suspect we'll need them…"