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// The Mirror's Image 
// Story: A Morning Ritual 
// by Honey Mead 
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Fleur de Lis’ breath left her body at a calm, steady rate. Her eyes were closed, and she stirred not an inch. Even her ears remained motionless in her state of repose under her rich silk sheets, or so it would seem to anypony who may have taken the time to notice.

They would be wrong. In truth, Fleur de Lis was waiting. She had been waiting for the better part of the past hour. It was all part of her morning ritual, a ritual that had started some three years prior.

At the appointed time—the same time it occurred every morning—the pony beside her rolled out of the bed to land softly on his four un-slippered hooves. The almost imperceptible sound cut through her ears like a hoof scrapping a chalkboard. Still, her breathing did not falter, nor did her ears twitch or her eyelids flicker. The pain that simple sound caused had scarred years ago, and she had grown used to it, fearing its absence almost as much as she feared its continued recurrence.

The quartet of hooves moved cautiously away from the shared bed to the bathroom located on his side of the room. Only after she was sure the door had closed did she break from her self-imposed paralysis, sliding out from under the sheets to stand at her side of the bed. With practiced, unconscious accuracy, her magic found and pulled the bell cord to summon Seline, her lady's maid.

Three years... almost to the day. It had started out so innocently. A simple gift, something so small and innocuous that she’d never really given it any thought. He’d smiled at the slippers. The soft blue matched his eyes perfectly; it was why she’d bought them in the first place. The next morning she’d woken up early and, upon noticing the time, decided to wait it out, to reclaim the hour of sleep her body had tried to deny her. Lying there, eyes closed, she heard him. A quartet of hooves clicking on the hard floor. It was so small, so unimportant, and yet... yet nothing had hurt quite so much as that quiet sound.

Fleur had never held any illusions regarding their marriage. Love had never been a factor in the decision; it was the furthest thing from their minds at the time. The both of them agreed; their union was nothing but a political and social move. It had worked spectacularly too. Overnight, they went from being two popular and well-liked ponies to a powerhouse couple that rivaled even the princess, now princesses.

And yet... and yet some small part of her had held onto a hope. A small spark of possibility that, maybe, just maybe, they would grow to love each other. It wasn’t so much to ask, to find joy in the pony with whom she now shared her life. To be the cause of his smiles as he was the cause of hers.

In the same motion that rang the bell, she retrieved the bathrobe Fancypants had bought her that same year. The plush, almost white, pink robe was more comfortable than any clothing had a right to be; or it would be if it didn't make her itch furiously. She wore it every day. Winter or summer, it made no difference. Without fail, the sleeves encased her forelegs, and the belt cinched across her barrel. The ritual was so ingrained in her that she may as well have been asleep.

Moving to her own bathroom, she couldn’t deny the appeal of that thought. Perhaps this was just one, long, extended nightmare that refused to end. Some part of her psyche holding her mind captive as her real self slept fitfully beside a husband who could love her.

Seline stepped into the bathroom a moment later with a casual greeting, one Fleur returned without thought. So their mutual ritual began. Pointless words spoken and returned while a bath was drawn and makeup set aside. Ten minutes later, Fleur was neck deep in the brass tub, the smell of roses filling the air from the oils and lotions added to the heated water.

Seline grew quiet as she worked the brush over Fleur’s coat, forcing out what little grit and dirt there was to be found.

Were it a dream, it would be the most real dream she’d ever experienced, lasting three long years with only a single instance of surrealism to mark it as such.

That first morning had opened her eyes, and, try as she might, they would not close. She began to see the small things, things that she had passed off as little nothings without meaning. They held meaning though, so much meaning. Each one a betrayal, each one a twist of the knife that had pierced her heart that first morning. How she failed to notice it previously, she did not know. Willful blindness perhaps, though she didn’t believe that was right. It had simply never crossed her mind as a possibility. She wondered if any other pony ever noticed.

Leaving the now lukewarm water, Fleur allowed the slight chill of the air to banish any lingering drowsiness. Seline responded quickly and wrapped her in a series of towels until she was fully encased in the absorbent cloth. They let the towels do their work of wicking away the moisture and turned their attention instead to the makeup arrayed before them.

There was not much as Fleur had no intentions of leaving the mansion and so felt no need to put great effort into her appearance. A light pink eyeshadow and a reserved application of powder to disguise any blemishes on her cheeks.

A lullaby flowed from Fleur’s lips while Seline turned her attention to the mess of pink that made up her mistress’ mane and tail. Seline persisted against tangles as Fleur sang, both wielding the only weapon available to fight their private battle. The former eventually hers aside in triumph.

Her role in their ritual finished, Seline was dismissed with a nod, sent off to see to breakfast, leaving Fleur with only her reflection and song.

The mare looking back at her was a beauty. There was nothing boastful about the statement. It was a simple fact agreed upon by all. Even Celestia herself had complimented her on her form. Of all her memories, there was none brighter than that moment. The words had been simple, a small comparison that had been made by a great many before her. Coming from the Princess, however, they held a whole new meaning.

For the first time that morning, a genuine smile found its way to her lips as she imagined her mane as a flowing spectrum of color waving gracefully behind her. The lullaby began to shift in kind, the tones lifting from their melancholic notes to something approaching a soothing meter.

The bedroom door closed, marking Fancypants’ exit. Fleur’s voice faltered, and the moment was lost.

Towels rose from her flanks and withers, folding in midair and falling into the laundry basket. The bathrobe returned to her, slipping easily back into place. The morning was chilly enough to justify its use even if that was not why she chose to wear it.

Not for the first time, she felt the tears fighting for release. She didn’t know what she was doing. The robe itched terribly, or rather, her mind made it itch. It carried with it nothing but painful memories of all the poor choices she’d made to reach her dreams. Every morning she tortured herself with those reminders, and for what? Fancy never noticed, whether from ignorance or malice she did not know, but she could not stop herself. Did she really want to see him realize just what he was doing to her? He wasn’t a bad pony. Indeed, he was far nicer than any stallion she had met before or since. Yet, here she was, hoping that he’d take notice of this small thing, realize that she knew and see her pain reflected in his eyes. When had she become so cruel?

Turning from the mirror and the devil it reflected, Fleur finally left, forcing thoughts of her morning repast to take precedence.

Those thoughts died as she entered the sunroom. The smell of coffee permeated the air, overpowering her more subtle perfumes. Fancypants lounged in his usual seat, a lone mug of coffee on the table before him. Oddly, the newspaper which would normally hid the stallion's face sat discarded in the middle of the table. 

Fleur barely noticed, too distracted by the false, empty smile with which her husband greeted her. She returned it with no more sincerity, managing to conceal her mixture of relief and anger at his continued lack of recognition.

Seline entered a moment later with a breakfast tray balanced on her back. Setting the dishes neatly about Fleur, Seline bowed and left the couple to their chosen breakfasts.

Fleur began her meal more out of rote than hunger, taking a few bites before chancing a glance across the table to witness Fancypants' face. She knew at once that something was off. He’d not taken a single sip of his beloved beverage, and his eyes had barely left the discarded stack of papers between them. In a fit of curiosity, Fleur claimed the folded paper to quickly scan the articles.

Her emotions raged between such opposites of joy and anguish that she felt she must surely be laughing and crying in equal measure. The next words to fill the air could not have possibly come from her. They were far too cold and steady, almost detached in their complete lack of emotion.

And there it was, the one thing she had wanted and feared more than anything else in the world. She hadn’t known what to expect in that moment, would she feel pain or relief, the freedom of vindication or the weight of guilt. There were none of these. Instead, she felt naught but hollow, like her heart had beat its last. 

In his eyes, those eyes she had both wished to love and struggled to hate, she saw what she had never expected:

Herself.