//------------------------------// // Part 1 - The Culprit // Story: Guilty as Charged // by The Equestrian Gentlecolt //------------------------------// The wide, open air theater is packed from edge to edge with ponies. Usually reserved for school performances and official ceremonies, it hasn't seen this much activity in many years. There's a tension in the air that contrasts sharply with the temperate weather of the late summer day. The crowd murmurs and rustles, but conversation is muted. There is a sense of anticipation, and underneath that, another emotion pervades the area: anger. It is noon. Celestia, the Princess of the Sun, presides over the event from a raised stage. Beside her are the parents of her prized student, Twilight Sparkle. Next to them is their son, Shining Armor. Shining Armor's wife, the Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, is at the front of the crowd, but her sympathetic eyes never leave her husband. The clink of chains cuts through the air, and the crowd's attention snaps to the source of the sound. Their anger has found its target. A tan, brown-maned unicorn stallion walks down the cobblestone path toward the theater, two armored guards flanking him. He moves with the resigned gait of a condemned pony; his eyes are on the ground, unfocused and gazing into a scene that only he can see. Many of the assembled ponies recognize him as Joe, the owner of the doughnut shop near Princess Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns. All of the assembled ponies recognize him as the stallion who stole a little bit of light from their world. A cool breeze blows through his mane, bringing him back to the present. He looks up. His green eyes have become firm; they hold a quiet determination, belying the resignation in the rest of his demeanor. Those watching shiver as he casts his gaze over them, though each would later claim that it was from the breeze. As the accused passes him, Shining Armor breaks his stoic silence. "Justice will be served today." Princess Celestia stamps her hoof against the stage, calling the attention of the audience. Joe stops before her, and the guards step away. Much of his resolve seems restored in the presence of his princess, and he straightens as she speaks. "Pony Joe, you stand accused of a crime that has no precedent in the past five hundred years of Equestrian law. No judge or jury could possibly be prepared to pass judgment upon such an act; therefore, it will be I and I alone who will decide your fate. Do you--" "I would speak to the assembled." The crowd draws in its breath in shock at his audacity. Even Princess Celestia looks taken aback for a moment before her expression returns to the impassive mask she has worn since she took her place. "Then speak," she says simply. Joe turns away from her, and from the hateful glares of those beside her, and casts his gaze over the crowd again. He speaks. Mares and stallions, I stand before you accused of a terrible crime. But I want you to hear me now not as a criminal, but as a simple stallion, no different from any of you. I could tell you that I'm guilty, or I could tell you that I'm innocent, and that could be that. Either might be true. But neither is the whole truth. Mares and stallions, this is not a plea for mercy. I only ask that, before you judge me, you understand me. No pony is born a criminal. And I didn't just wake up one morning and think to myself, "Today, I will kill Twilight Sparkle." There is an angry rumble from the crowd, and they start to press forward, despite the efforts of the guards who keep them from the stage. Princess Celestia raps her hoof for silence once again, and Joe continues. I'll start from the beginning. I can still remember clearly the first time she came into my shop. She was a tiny little thing, only just gotten her cutie mark that very day, and she was practically bouncing off the walls as her parents tried to herd her through the door and toward the counter. But then she spotted me, and she must've figured she had herself a new audience. She made a beeline straight for me, fixed me with those wide, violet eyes of hers, and gave me the biggest smile you've ever seen a filly wear. "I got my cutie mark!" "Is that so, little lady?" I said with a laugh. "Well, let's see it then." She twisted awkwardly in place, so as not to have to take her eyes off me as she displayed the mark on her flank: a six-pointed star, surrounded by five others. "It's a magic cutie mark," she informed me proudly. Then her expression became serious. "I'm the princess's personal prodigy." "Protegé," her father corrected, smiling as he and her mother joined her at the counter. "And yes, our little Twilight Sparkle has made us very proud today." "Well, it's not every day a personal student of the princess comes into my shop with a new cutie mark to show off. I'd say this calls for a free doughnut. What do you think, Miss Sparkle?" She nodded excitedly, the proper decorum of her new position forgotten at the prospect of the treat. Her attention immediately fixated on a lemon glazed one, so I picked it up and pushed it over to her. She took it in her magic with a deftness I'd never seen in a filly her age--there was no doubt in my mind at that point that she was something special--and began to devour it in dainty bites, striking a delicate balance between childlike glee and the etiquette she knew would be expected of her now. As she ate, she raised her eyes to me again. Remembering the look of gratitude on her face warms my heart to this day. The stallion's gaze has left his audience, straying beyond sight into memory as he recalls the moment, a small smile on his face. The crowd is nervous, uncertain. They came expecting a confession; instead, what they find themselves listening to sounds more like a eulogy. After a moment, Joe's story resumes. She came back soon after, just past the beginning of the first semester at the School, and I think those of you who knew her well will know I'm being literal when I say she'd brought a wagonload of books with her. The little blue wagon behind her was overflowing with school books and references, but her horn was glowing, and her magic dragged it along behind her effortlessly as she trotted inside. Only a few weeks had passed, but she was already the picture of an independent young lady. She walked up to the counter and set a few bits down on it, and I retrieved another lemon glazed doughnut. She gave me a shy smile, her eyes partly hidden behind her bangs, then retreated to one of the more private corner tables and pulled her books up beside it. If you never saw that filly study, let me tell you, it was a sight to behold. I'd been watching the other customers for maybe three minutes when I noticed that all their attention had begun to focus on one corner of the room. I followed their gazes and saw little Twilight, no less than five books floating in front of her, scribbling furiously in a notepad, only pausing occasionally to nibble at her doughnut. Then her ears twitched, like she could feel the eyes on her. She looked up and saw the others staring. Her ears flattened back against her head nervously, and she hunched down over her notepad, shrinking into herself and trying to ignore them. Now like I said, it was quite a sight. But that was no excuse for making the poor thing uncomfortable, so I filled a mug with coffee and went over to her. As soon as I came between her and the others, I shot them a stern look. They got the point, and went back to their own business. I set the coffee down on the table, giving her a smile when she looked up. "You looked thirsty," I offered. It didn't fool her for a moment, of course; she knew exactly what I'd done. She got that shy smile again and mumbled a thank you, then grabbed her bit purse. I waved it off. "This one's on the house." She mumbled another thank you, and took the mug between her hooves. I went back to the counter to let her enjoy her coffee in peace, but I kept my eye on her. I think it was her first time trying coffee, because she just stared at it for a while, then sniffed it a few times before she took a sip. I had to keep myself from laughing at the face she made, but she soldiered on, and pretty soon she'd finished off a fair bit of it. Then she set it down, and pretty soon she was back to her studying, alternating between her doughnut and her coffee as she went. The last of the other customers had filtered out before she finally put her quill down again, floating the final book back into her wagon. She stood up, but instead of leaving immediately, she took a napkin and meticulously wiped up every last crumb. Then she lifted up her mug and carried it back over to the counter. She was just such a proper young lady, I couldn't help but laugh. She started to look embarrassed, so I hurried to reassure her as I took the mug from her. "Thank you, little lady. Most ponies don't bother to clean up after themselves." She studied her hooves for a moment, scuffing one against the floor, before she looked up at me with a serious expression. "No," she said, "thank you." Then she turned and took off for the door at a canter, disappearing into the evening. It quickly became a ritual for us. She'd come in with a wagonload of books, get her doughnut and her coffee, then take the table in the corner. I'm sure she had a private room at the castle where she could have done her studying, but it wasn't the privacy that kept her coming back. I didn't realize it at first, but without her brother there with her, I was the closest thing she had to a friend in those days. If you listen to the stories about her, you might think Twilight was antisocial growing up. But that's not exactly it. She loved other ponies, even cared deeply for them. If she'd just wanted to stay away from them all, she could have spent the evenings in her room. She didn't. Every day, she came to my shop and sat in the corner, near other ponies, yet distant. She wanted so badly to make friends. She just didn't know how to start. The stallion sighs heavily, and looks up into the blue sky. He remains silent for a moment before he speaks again. Then, on the eve of one fateful Summer Sun Celebration, Twilight didn't show up at my shop.  I just chalked it up to her getting busy with the Princess preparing for the celebration, but when the sun didn't rise the next morning... But only a few hours later, the sun returned to us. Soon the news started coming in. Nightmare Moon had returned, but she was laid low by six friends: five Ponyville fillies, and a certain young unicorn from Canterlot. The little purple filly with the star cutie mark who had entered my shop all those years ago had grown into a hero. And she had finally made friends! I was so proud of her. I didn't realize until she left, though, how much she had become part of my life. Even on the busiest evenings, there was a unicorn-shaped hole in the room, and I found myself constantly looking over at her table, expecting to see her there with her books and her coffee and her lemon frosted doughnut. I only saw her a few times in the intervening years, but every time, she was with her friends. I honestly wonder if they ever left each other's sides. And she was so happy. You could see it in her eyes; she'd found her place in life, there among them. And each one of them was a wonderful young mare in her own right. You all know them: Applejack, Rarity, Pinkie Pie, Rainbow Dash, Fluttershy. And of course, always faithfully at her side was Spike. He looks out over the crowd, seeking the eyes of each in turn as he names them. Applejack remains stoic, but her gaze is accusing. Rarity's eyes are filled with tears, and she looks at Joe almost pleadingly, as if he could change the end of the story in its telling. Pinkie Pie won't meet his eyes at all, staring fixedly at the ground. Rainbow Dash glares at him challengingly, standing protectively in front of Fluttershy, who hides from his gaze. It isn't until he reaches Spike that he must look away, unable to endure the burning hatred he sees in the young dragon's eyes. He swallows before continuing. It was just under a year ago when she appeared in my shop again, late one Friday evening, and I could see clearly that something was wrong. Her head was hung low. Her hair was matted and unkempt. Her eyes were unfocused, and she hardly blinked. Her motions were stiff, like she was moving automatically. I think it was instinct and muscle memory alone that brought her to my shop. But the biggest difference about her was that, on that night, she was alone.