Another sunrise washed the streets and homes of Canterlot in its warm embrace. For most, it was the beginning of another happy day to spend in the pursuit of their dreams and passions. For some, it was the end of the same. There was at least one, however, who could not say the same with integrity.
The alarm clock beside his head ticked by as he waited. There was no hurry, no reason to rise from the empty comfort of the silk sheets that kept the cool of the night at bay. And so he waited, awake, but not alone.
Lost on the other side of the massive four-post bed, his wife still slept, dreaming what she willed. Two ponies could easily fit within the empty space between them. A cruel smile twisted his lips at the thought.
In the microseconds before the alarm sounded, his hoof found the switch and flipped it, preventing the migraine-inducing bells from breaking the silence of his chambers.
His repose finally at its end, the white stallion rolled from the foam-based mattress with care to make as little disruption as possible. The mare on the other side would not have noticed had he jumped upon it like a foal, but it was the principle of the thing.
He shivered the moment his hooves touched the cold stone floor. With bleary eyes, he looked down and realized he’d, once again, failed to put to use the slippers his wife had given him for their anniversary three years past. He smiled. It had become his own private little joke, almost a thousand chances and he had never set hoof in a single one.
Without any conscious thought, he glanced back at the mare to whom he’d promised his life. Only a puff of soft pink mane could be seen of the mare in the sea of deep blue sheets. He could just barely make out her lithe form, her slender legs gripping the silk to draw it tight about her.
There had been happy times... well, better times. When they’d first met while floating through similar social circles. There were a few shared interests and many agreed upon philosophies. From that first day, everypony talked about them being so perfect for each other—many still believed it too.
That was what had forced them together: social pressure. They’d both been young and on their way up, looking for any way to become more accepted and important in the eyes of the ponies they called friends and equals. Society had tied them together with manacle and chain, and to even attempt an escape would destroy everything they had worked for.
Suppressing a sigh, he finally left the bedside. His hooves clicked softly against the hard floor as he made his way to the bathroom.
The oak door closed behind him in a soft blue aura in the same moment that the knobs for the shower twisted.
Cold water poured forth from the brass fixture for a solid twenty seconds before the pipes finished flushing and the hot water from the boiler finally made its way to the third-story bathroom. Steam filled the enclosed space, driving out the morning chill.
Without further ado, he stepped into the shower, flinching slightly at the scalding water soaking through his fur. It took a scant few seconds for the stallion to be completely waterlogged, strands of blue mane hanging listlessly over his face and neck.
Blinded by the joint efforts of the steam, water, and his mane, he was forced to rely on practiced precision to bring his shampoo to bear. With the use of a coarse brush, he worked the soap into his coat and mane. A grimace took shape under his mustache as he applied more and more force to the brush, scraping through the hairs of his coat in the vain attempt to scour away the years of regret built up beneath his skin. It didn’t work... It never did.
By the time he finished and stepped out of the shower, he could hear the sounds of his wife in her bathroom on the other side of their shared bedchamber. She was singing, as she always did in the mornings, a soft tune in her native tongue. It would not be called a joyful song, more happily content, and completely at odds with his own mood.
He did not understand how she could maintain such a state, given their situation. Oh, he could wear the facade before the world, his mask a perfect replica of a pony filled with a joy for life. Indeed, it was only during this time, the early mornings, when he let the mask slip. It was a necessary thing, else the pressure would build to the breaking point. But Fleur... she never took it off. He could see through it—after living together for so long, he couldn’t help but to pick up on such things—but he had never once seen her slip.
A towel rose from the pile next to the sink and began its work, drawing out the moisture still trapped in his coat. It took three before he was dry and another two for his mane and tail. With the last bit of unsodden cloth, he wiped the moisture from the mirror.
Fancypants watched his reflection. For a short time, he tried to imagine what things would be like if they had gone his way. If he had never met Fleur or simply refused to succumb to pressures of society. Shaking his head, he cast out the false memories. He would have been no happier there.
He held no ill will toward the mare preparing herself on the other side of the bedchamber. It was no more her fault than his, less so by any real measure. He envied her ability to cope; that was all. He did not truly blame society either; they simply provided the convenient scapegoat. No, there were only two ponies to blame for his ennui, and one was busy glaring at himself in a bathroom mirror.
It took fully as long as his shower to bring his mane and mustache to heel before he exited the solitude of his bath. Stepping back into the bedroom, he was forced to put aside his dour mood. His valet stood ready, and they immediately began their morning dance and parlay as they sorted through his choices for clothing and accessories for the day. It was a solid twenty minutes before he sat down at the breakfast table for his morning paper and coffee.
Fancypants allowed himself his first genuine smile of the day as he took in the delicate aroma steaming just below his muzzle. For all his wealth and connections, his choice in coffee was simple. He did not believe in lattes and cappuccinos. To his taste, coffee was perfect in its purest form. Simple, black, strong.
That was not to say he was without variety. He enjoyed every style of coffee bean from every country fortunate enough to be able to produce it. From the smell alone, he could deduce the origin of the bean. This particular brew was grown in the northern reaches of Zebrica; the climate there produced a bean with a distinct hazelnut flavor that he rather enjoyed.
Smiling again, he brought the porcelain cup up to his lips to take the first sip as he opened to the morning edition of Canterlot Times.
The cup stopped mere inches from his frowning lips. He barely noticed the smells that he had been savoring only moments ago, too distracted by the image printed upon the front of the newspaper. Scanning the article confirmed the topic of the picture and the roles of the ponies therein. The delicate cup found its way back to the table as a sour twist in his stomach left him feeling ill and without a taste for the drink.
It wasn’t fair for him to feel betrayed; he had no right to be. He could place no claim upon the pony the article featured. That bridge had been crossed long ago and by all rights should have been forgotten by now. He was a married stallion and faithful if not loving. His path had been set, and, by Celestia, he would walk it with a clean conscience.
With a heavy sigh, he set the paper aside, and, staring into the dark surface of his coffee, allowed himself to brood.
He remained there for a time, unmoving, until the sound of hooves and an opening door brought him back to the present. Fleur, finally finished with her own preparations, stepped briskly into the sunroom. They shared a pleasant enough smile with each other as she took her seat across from him, though neither said a word. Moments later her lady’s maid entered carrying Fleur’s meal on her back, and, placing it upon the table, she left as quickly as she had arrived, leaving her employers to their meals.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of Fleur’s silverware clicking softly against itself and the dishes.
Pausing long enough to take a sip of her tea, Fleur took up the morning paper to glance at the headlines. Her tongue clicked loudly, almost echoing around the small room with its disapproval.
“Will the princess never manage to rein in her nephew?”