Stasis glared at the little filly as she sat there, her long yellow tail held loosely in one hoof. He glared as she bounced it to the other hoof, and then back to the first. Back and forth, back and forth she bounced, his glare increasing with every transition, trying to oppress her through sheer willpower alone.
After a few minutes she turned and looked at him, her white face creasing with a frown.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
He glared harder.
She shook her tail at him. “You better stop looking at me like that, Stasis, or your face’s going to get stuck.”
“Good,” he snapped. “Glaring at you this hard isn’t easy, and if my face gets stuck, it’ll save me a lot of work.”
“What’s the matter, anyway?” she asked. “You look like you gotta go to the bathroom or something.”
Stasis snorted angrily. “Oh, I was just remembering the good old days, when I would wait here at the theater for Major.”
“But…aren’t we waiting for Major right now?” the yellow-maned filly asked inanely.
“Yeah, that’s what we’re doing now. I was remembering a long lost age when I used to wait for him. Blissfully alone. A time when random fillies didn’t violate my personal space.”
“What? Look, I left tons of room!” she claimed, reaching one hoof towards him and waving it back and forth, as if demonstrating the truly immense amount of unviolated personal space between them.
“Maybe that’s enough for normal ponies, but I need lots of personal space. Lots of personal space. Most of the time, I don’t even like to be in the same room as other ponies. Especially fillies. Major was telling me about cooties the other day, you know. It explains so many things. I can practically feel your cooties spreading through the air, seeping into my lungs, hunting down every last scrap of masculinity and self-respect that I have and replacing it with make-up and mindless chatter.”
Goldie reached over and tapped him on one foreleg.
He jerked the appendage back and rubbed it. “Hey! Stop that!”
She turned around and flicked her tail, sending its cootie-infested tendrils swishing back and forth across his strong, chiseled face.
He fell backwards, hacking and coughing and waving his forelegs frantically, trying to clear the air of the potent virus.
“What are you doing? You maniac!” he yelled between coughs.
“Colts are stupid,” stated Goldie matter-of-factly.
“No, you’re stu –“ He stopped abruptly as she snapped her tail at him in warning. He glared at her.
“Don’t think this means that you’ve won, Goldie. If I turn into a girl, there’ll be no social conventions left to save you from my wrath.”
Goldie rolled her eyes. “You’re just a meanie and a bully, Stasis. I’m not scared. I know that nice, good ponies like Major and Pierce will protect me from jerks like you.”
Stasis stood up and brushed himself off, meanwhile inspecting his body closely for outbreaks of femininity. “How dare you,” he said. “How dare you. Using Major like that for your own selfish ends…you should be ashamed of yourself.”
Goldie looked around, her ears perking up as she inspected the area. “Where is Major, anyway? Do you think that he’s okay? Do you think that maybe something happened to him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he got up caught up fighting a monster to protect some little filly too lazy to do her own fighting, and now he’s dead. How does that make you feel, Goldie?”
“Stop it, Stasis,” the weak, defenseless pony child dared command him. “Don’t say stuff like that. Isn’t he normally here by now?”
Stasis gazed at the object of his disaffection out of the corner of his eye as he replied, “He used to be. That was before you jammed yourself into our companionship like a third nostril. In fact, I’m thinking of dividing my life into BG and AG: Before Goldie and After Goldie. The time of food and love for all, and the time when we just want to slather ourselves with lard and wait for something to eat us.”
Whatever response Goldie might have had was cut off as Major walked up and sat down between them. Stasis, an ever-perceptive little changeling, noted Major’s downcast expression and red eyes, and he frowned. He opened his mouth to inquire as to the orange pony’s emotional turbulence.
“What’s wrong, Major?” Goldie asked.
Stasis leaned around Major and tried to slay the little yellow-maned filly with his glare of death.
Major sniffed. “It’s nothing, you guys.”
“You can tell me,” said Goldie.
“She’s a snake. Tell me instead,” said Stasis.
Major shifted, not meeting the eyes of either of his companions. “Well, I saw some of my old friends at the park, and asked if I could play with them for a few minutes before I had to come to rehearsal…but….”
“What happened?” prompted Goldie.
“Did you get hurt?” asked Stasis, having never forgotten the dangers of the little red Frisbee in the wrong hooves. Hooves like his.
“No…the guys at the park…they made fun of me. They said that I was too stupid to play with them anymore. They said that I should go play with all my little kiddie friends instead.”
Goldie gasped. “That’s horrible!”
Stasis stood up and shook one hoof angrily in the direction that he imagined the park to be. “’Little kiddie?’ Why don’t you say that to my face, cowards!”
“You’re not stupid, Major. You’re a really smart pony; you’re just not so good at school. Lots of ponies aren’t good at school.”
Stasis turned back to his morose companion. “There’s only one proper response to this, Major. Only one way to make it all right again.”
Major wiped at one eye. “Huh? What’s that?”
“Vengeance.”
Goldie looked towards the heavens. “Ugh! No! Don’t ever listen to anything that pony says, Major. Never, ever, ever.”
“We shall cleanse your pain with the soothing salve of retribution, Major. You’ll like it, I promise.”
Major shook his head. “No, it’s okay, Stasis. I don’t know why some ponies say mean things like that, but my dad says that I should forgive them and not let myself get angry about the things that they do to me.”
Goldie smiled. “See? You’re much nicer than those ponies at the park. You wouldn’t really want them as friends, anyway.”
Stasis rubbed the back of his neck. “Major, I’m…not sure I really understand where our vengeance fits into your plan.”
Major reached out and put a foreleg around the shoulders of each of his companions. Stasis flinched from the contact.
“I know I really shouldn’t be so upset, though. I’ve still got you two as my very best friends, and I know that that’s two more very best friends than many ponies have.”
“I’m your very best friend?” asked Goldie, looking up into the orange pony’s eyes.
“No, you’re practically a stranger, and could you please, please stop touching me, Major?” Stasis pleaded, his body almost quivering with tension.
“Oh. I’m sorry, Stasis,” Major said, retracting the offending foreleg. “And…um…I kind of already promised Stasis that he was my very best friend, but maybe you can my very second best friend?” he asked Goldie hopefully.
The white-and-yellow filly looked down at the floor and scuffed the planks with her hoof. “Um…sure. Okay. That’s fine.”
“Well, if we’re not going to get to do anything violent anyway, then I guess that forgiveness probably is the best answer,” Stasis admitted. “But that still leaves us with another, far more serious problem.”
“What problem is that, Stasis?” Major asked concernedly.
“My cutie-mark,” Stasis stated.
Goldie blew a raspberry.
“How can we help?” asked Major.
“You can’t,” Stasis admitted. “Your cutie-mark is a suit, and Goldie’s flank is as blank as could be, so I’m pretty sure that any help that you could give would be worthless at best.”
“Not listening,” Goldie chanted. “Not listening to you, Stasis.”
“So…um…why did you bring it up?” Major asked, looking puzzled.
Stasis shrugged. “I was just telling you what our number-one concern should be right now. I didn’t say anything about either of you actually being able to do anything about it.”
“Ugh,” grunted Goldie. “Just…ugh.”
“I’m sure that we can help somehow, Stasis. Maybe we could try going to a really fancy restaurant?” Major suggested.
“No!” Stasis exclaimed. “Never. I would rather die.”
Goldie frowned. “Wait. What’s so bad about fancy restaurants?”
“I want a cutie-mark that’s impressive and distinctive, but doesn’t draw too much attention to itself. Unfortunately, that rules out almost any kind of weapon or emblem of royalty that I can think of,” Stasis mused.
“You don’t get to decide what your cutie-mark is, Stasis. That’s not how it works,” posited Goldie. “Anyway, knowing you, it’ll probably be something stupid and mean and horrible.”
Stasis rolled his eyes. “I’m not like you, Goldie. I’m not going to just wait like a good little girl until destiny gets around to giving me my due.” He narrowed his eyes, picturing fate and the cosmos before him. “No, I’m going to grab it and wring its skinny little neck until it gives me what’s mine!” he growled, reaching out with his hooves and doing just that.
Goldie’s eyes flicked back and forth between Stasis and his metaphysical prey. “…I think maybe your momma dropped you on your head or something when you were a baby,” she hypothesized. “Anyway, you’ve still got to wait for your cutie-mark, just like everypony else. My…my momma told me that you’ve just got to keep trying new things and be patient and –“
“Patient!” Stasis snorted, cutting her off. “I’m tired of being patient; being patient takes too long. No, just you watch, Goldie – I’m going to get my mark, and soon. Very soon. Destiny won’t keep me waiting any longer!”
“You know, Stasis, you might find that destiny would be more willing to help you if you were nicer to it,” Major suggested.
Goldie closed her eyes and shook her head silently.
Stasis scoffed. Destiny. What was his destiny, really? To be back in the forest, learning proper speech, and how to defend himself, and all about the ponies? He knew more now about…well…pretty much everything, than his siblings could ever dream! He had battled ponies and plants alike in mortal combat! He had infiltrated the heck out of these ponies!
He didn’t need to follow his destiny. Destiny was his plaything now.
“Hey! Look!” cried Major. “It’s Abra!”
Sure enough, a certain boring-brown filly was standing on the opposite end of the stage, shooting the little changeling a look that, had he been a mere pony, probably would have peeled away his psyche like a little defenseless potater, bit by bit, sliver by sliver, until all that was left was an irregular white ovoid of despair and abject terror. As it was, he waved back.
“You should go talk to her,” Goldie suggested.
“What? Do you really think so?” Major asked hesitantly.
“No,” Stasis counter-suggested.
“Sure! You can ask her if she’s okay, and say you’re sorry again for Stasis,” Goldie continued.
“She doesn’t look very happy…” Major worried.
“She probably only hates Stasis. Only Stasis deserves to be hated,” claimed Goldie.
“I drink her hate like Mother’s milk!” Stasis proclaimed proudly, feeling delightfully blasphemous.
Goldie’s nose wrinkled. “What? Ew! You’re disgusting!”
“Okay…well, you guys wait for me, alright?” Major said, beginning to make his way around the edge of the stage.
“We will,” Goldie promised.
“I’m not responsible for what happens if you leave me alone with Goldie!” Stasis warned, but the orange pony was already too far away to hear. Stasis sat on his haunches and crossed his forelegs over his chest, pouting. Ponies were worthless. They didn’t care about him at all.
Minutes passed, Stasis glaring at the floor before him, letting his mind wander. Old daydreams, of age and power and Stasisgrad, just didn’t satisfy him right then. He wanted to be doing something more fun than communing with his own imagination, and right now his only fun-multiplier had yet to finish frolicking with the fillies. That foolish, fickle fink.
Of course, he could try to do something productive and try to figure out a good cutie-mark…but just thinking about that made him even more frustrated. He should just stick a fruity flower or a butterfly-shaped cloud or something on his hiney and be done with it. He was never going to think of anything both cool and unsuspicious. It might be impossible. There was probably some law of cutie-markness that stated that one could never possess a mark that was both impressive and did not also scream, ‘Hey, I’m a changeling, feed me to your guards!’ to every passerby.
No, he just wanted to get his stupid mark and be done with it. Then Pierce would realize that Stasis was a pony’s pony, and would get back to minding his own business.
He tapped one hoof against the floor in frustration before finally deigning to glance over at Goldie. She seemed to be zoning out as well. He wondered briefly what it was she thinking about, before reminding himself that he really didn’t care.
She must have seen his look out of the corner of her eye, because she said, “Hey, Stasis?”
“What?”
“Are you really an orphan?”
He stared at her. “Wh-why do you ask? I mean, that’s kind of a strange thing to ask out of the blue, isn’t it?”
She just stared down at the floor in front of her hooves. “I asked Major where you came from. He said that you were an orphan, and I shouldn’t bring it up since you didn’t like to talk about it, but…” she trailed off.
“It’s not that big a deal, the being-orphaned thing,” he protested, really, really not liking the direction that this conversation was going. “That happened months and months ago. I’d practically forgotten all about it.”
“Did the changelings kill them?” she asked softly.
“…I’m sure that it was an accident,” he said. “I’m sure that they weren’t trying to kill anypony….”
She looked at him, her pale pink eyes suddenly looking surprisingly hard for a probably-seven-year-old pony filly. “Just because you’re an orphan doesn’t mean that you get to be a jerk, you know,” she said sternly. “You don’t get to be mean just because bad stuff’s happened to you. Bad stuff happens to lots of ponies, not just you.”
“I…well, who asked you?” he snapped. “Anyway, I was wicked long before I was an orphan. You’re the one who brought up the whole orphan thing, not me!”
“I’m not going to feel sorry for you or be nice to you because you’re an orphan, either. I saw how you’re mean to Abra, and to me, and even to Major. I’m not going to be nice to you, because you’re never nice to anypony else,” she warned.
He looked around himself, as if searching for who she could possibly be talking to. “What are you talking about? I never asked you to be nice to me in the first place!” he protested. “Besides, if you were just nice to me because I was an orphan, that’d probably be pity, and I need your pity even less than I need your niceness. That’s one reason I don’t bring up the whole orphan-thing. The last thing I need is for all of you to feel sorry for me.”
Goldie looked away from him then, and resumed staring at the floor.
He frowned. “Hey, Goldie…are you alright? You’re acting kind of weird…er.”
“I’m fine. I just…I need to go to the bathroom,” she said, standing up and walking off the stage. Stasis watched her go.
…That’s not how she acts every time she has to take a tinkle, is it? Discord’s tooth. This may be worse than I thought.
He waited there silently for a few minutes, but Major still looked to be doing his best to engage Abra in conversation, and Goldie still hadn’t come back. He wondered briefly if she might need help of some kind, and decided that if she did, he hoped she’d get it.
Trying to flush that thought from his mind, he focused on the colts and fillies practicing in the center of the stage. Several princesses seemed to have lost their poise and, crowns in mouths, were bludgeoning a pair of wizards who were somehow tangled up in their own robes and trying to drag themselves away with their forehooves as they shouted apologies at the vengeful royalty.
Something caught the little changeling’s eye. Multiple pieces of scenery had been brought out to the stage, to give the technicians practice setting up the scenes. Partially hidden behind the scenery he noticed a strange, small rack. It was made of a thin, grey metal wire that looked to have been braided into a crude rope and then formed into a stand for two…two….
…Faces? Two faces, each looked to be carved from a dark wood with simple, deft strokes. Though there were holes for the eyes and mouth, the holes were shaped so as to convey strong emotion. One face had slightly narrowed eyes and a mocking smirk, while the other looked pained, its mouth open in a grimace. Stasis noted that both mouths had two little outcrops hanging down from the upper lip that, had he not known any better, he would surely have thought to be fangs.
“A bit of an unusual specimen, isn’t it?”
Stasis would have jumped, but for a creature born and raised in the forest, getting startled by fat city ponies like this so often was getting embarrassing. Instead, he just looked over at Jack questioningly.
“Shouldn’t you be dealing with that?” he asked, pointing at the growing melee in the center of the stage. The wizards had stopped moving, and the black knights were now doing battle with the princesses, who had apparently called upon their maidservants for aid. Stasis was impressed to see one filly trying to strangle a plate armor-clad colt with a garland of petunias.
“Yes,” Jack admitted, chewing his noxious weed a little bit faster. “I picked those up on a peregrination to Quagga, many years ago now.”
It took a moment for Stasis to realize that Jack was talking about the faces, not the petunias, and then he stared at the raggedy oldish pony. “You went to Quagga?”
Jack glanced down at him. “Is that really so surprising?”
“Yes,” Stasis said firmly.
Jack nodded. “I suppose I can see why one might think so. Certainly I’m too old and worn to attempt such an adventure today, and I cannot leave my beloved theater. But when I was a young stallion, I had a deep desire to see the world, almost as deep as my desire to get out from under my father’s heavy-hoofed oppression. I found the modern university’s appreciation for culture too…isolated. Too sterilized. All the dramatists reviewed and produced the same plays, all drew from the same sources of inspiration. What was new was much the same as the old. I was interested in foreign culture, the works produced by minds much different than our own…minotaurs. Crystal ponies. Even gryphons.”
Turning again, Jack gave Stasis a serious look. “Did you know that gryphons have a history of plays and Roscian arts stretching back thousands of years? You wouldn’t know it from a visit to the department of drama at Manehattan University. Oh, of course they have a small division devoted to foreign studies, but it’s horribly anemic. A mere token to pluralism.”
The earth pony shook his head. “I fear that this is a widely-overlooked side-effect of our liberation from the mad god’s rule. In our efforts to protect ourselves militarily, we have developed a monolithic culture that, as my adventures revealed, is little appreciated by many of the world’s denizens. Like an inbred noble house, we grow weaker generation by generation as our ideas moulder…or perhaps a better example would be a hermetic child, perfectly healthy to the eye, but ready to fall at the first sign of infection. What damage has our isolation caused to the metaphysical fabric of our society? What will happen when the bubble that we have erected is pricked?”
“…You were saying something about Quagga?” Stasis queried. He had only the vaguest idea of what Jack was talking about, but as far as he was concerned, any curse on the ponies was a blessing for the changelings.
Jack nodded. “Yes, I was. Discussions with my fellow artists revealed a number that felt as I do, and together we decided to do our part to learn more of the world around us, and all its peoples. My father was a clever businesspony as well as a patron of the arts, and from the proceeds of a successful theater – the less we discuss that particular point, the better – he was able to fund our trip around the world…or at least, around some of Equestria’s immediate neighbors. Even we were not so brave as to risk the…hmm…’wilder’ lands outside of Equestria’s sphere of influence. I would have liked to have seen the minotaurian empire with my own two eyes, but as I am about to explain, we never did make it that far.
“We traversed the gryphons’ eyries to the east first…a surprisingly halcyon species, if you treat them and their ways with respect, and avoid the more traditionalist factions. We learned enough of the local dialects to impress our guides – so hard on the tongue, the gryphon dialects – and never strayed from the areas recommended by the embassy. That being said, we were more than mere tourists, even going so far as to participate in a few local theater productions. I dare say that the local playwrights, to most of whom Equestria is but an estranged and irresistible neighbor, were delighted to collaborate with their equine brothers, and vice-versa. There was a time or two when I thought I might be eaten, but in hindsight I think those merchants and paupers were more interested in the wealth in my purse than the wealth in my belly.
“The Crystal Kingdom to the north was an enjoyable vacation, but that is all it was: a vacation. The lives and fates of the ponies there are so intertwined with our own that they might as well be the last province of Equestria, the Crystal King and Queen its glorified governors. The Fair was an impressive spectacle, as was the Heart, but my friends and I soon agreed to cut short our visit. Mere beauty and grace were not enough; we were looking for new cultures and new ideas, and our northern neighbor has done far too effective a job at aligning its own interests with ours to be of use in that regard.
“It was then to the fabled and feared zebra homeland of Quagga that we turned to next. I must admit, I was trepidatious; despite what my inquiries had revealed, I still couldn’t help but imagine a land of striped ponies, savages dwelling in huts and swimming in sickness and ignorance.
“I am glad to say that I was wrong…quite wrong. The capitol city itself was stunning, not as an example of architecture or engineering, as certain of the minotaurian cities are said to be. It was the size; small palaces for the nobility in the center of the city, with buildings and residences of every caliber sprawled out on both sides of the river Acheron which sustains the city. The wealthy built their grand mansions and servant’s quarters from cypress wood floated down on barges from the vast lumber camps far to the north. The poor used adobe to construct much more modest, but surprisingly comfortable homes. All in all, it was a treat merely visiting the city, seeing the zebra folk dressed in their strange robes as they bustled about in the market places – who would have thought that clothing could help one stay cooler? – while trading and haggling over goods that I often could neither recognize nor pronounce.
“Still, that was not the reason we had come, and it took hardly any time at all for many of the wealthy and nobles to invite us to their homes, serving us delicacies such as watermelon and fruit cordial, chilled with ice brought up in blocks from the far north during winter and packed in sawdust in great underground cellars through the rest of the year.”
“Why didn’t they just use magic?” queried Stasis.
“They’re zebras. They have none…or at least, the ones that I met had very little. That is the strange part of Quagga, its dichotomy…you see, there are actually two very distinct groups of zebras in their homeland. The first is the one I just told you about: the wealthy and the nobility – almost always the same zebras – appeared almost desperate in their desire to impress us, foreigners of hardly any distinction. You see, only a few centuries ago, the zebras were for the most part just as tribal and illiterate as I had imagined them to be. Not to say that they didn’t have their own magics and culture – but those magics and culture were stagnant, and few lived in villages big enough to be considered cities by Equestrian standards. Only the capitol and its sheik were a government of any importance, and it was all he could do to keep the cities and lands along the river under his control. Some ambitious young sheik would be born and try to subdue the plains and grasslands farther out, but then he would die and some lesser son would always lose them again.
“When the princesses came to power, however, that began to change. As their influence spread, they began to give gifts to the zebras, sending ponies to teach them modern technologies and techniques for everything from military discipline to government organization to farming techniques. Of course, on maps in those days, we did not list the multitude of factions and tribes scattered across the whole region; no, there was only ‘Quagga,’ and as any proper nation, it had to have a government, and it was to that government that these gifts were given. In a few generations, the sheik went from being an occasionally deadly nuisance to his neighbors to being the possessor of the first modern military force that that part of the world had seen since the invasions of the minotaurian empire in ancient times, and he had a will to use it. The tribals, meanwhile, received nothing but death and slavery at the point of Equestrian-forged spears.
“That was why those nobles were so eager to impress us – their own sons being the only ones wealthy enough to attend modern universities, they assumed that we were also ponies of high standing. They were also painfully aware that the wealth and power that their families have acquired these last few centuries have all come at the hooves of Equestrian beneficence, leading them to wish to prove that they are our equals. Indeed, many outright asked me to tell other Equestrians of their wealth and prosperity when I returned to Equestria, as if the word of one art student would somehow shape public opinion. Had I not also seen the brands of the slaves in the fields and courts of the rich, I would have been more inclined to at least try.”
“They keep slaves?” Stasis asked, only vaguely familiar with the concept. Changelings came, they took, and they left. Every pony town and village was its own farm, and tended itself. Changelings need only harvest the fruit.
“Indeed, although they seemed anxious to hide the fact, either from having heard of Equestrian disgust with the practice or seeing it etched on our faces. But the brands were there to see, and although a few of the slaves we saw were powerful and important zebras in their own right, there were many more in the fields and mines and lumber camps that were treated as little more than animals. Somehow, the increase in power for the central government has led already-assimilated zebras to view the ‘wild’ tribals with increasing disdain, to the point where there now exists almost a perpetual state of war between the two factions. The sheik possesses modern armies and infrastructure, while the remaining tribals are rumored to possess an almost supernatural bond with their mountain and jungle homes, an often-startling amount of warrior prowess, and full access to those ancient magics that are uniquely zebra. It is even said that they have formed pacts with some of the other denizens of their lands, including a few younger dragons as well as the changelings of which we have been so recently afeared. That is one of the follies of the sheik: in suppressing and disparaging the tribals, he has caused his government and his people to abandon their ties to the land and forget nearly everything their ancestors knew of alchemy, conjuring, divination…a terrible price for their modernity and success.”
Stasis blinked. Changelings, fighting alongside zebras? He had never heard of such a thing – the unspoken philosophy was that changelings must love changelings, since no one else seemed up to the task. Not voluntarily, anyway. But then…perhaps it was not farfetched that other families might form alliances with fellow forest-and-jungle dwelling, technology-apathetic outcasts, like these ‘tribal’ zebras. Anyway, it was not as if his kind had ‘migrations’ or reunions in which to meet and discuss how things were going or what they were doing. Before he came to Trottingham, his understanding of how the rest of the world worked, including his relatives, was vague at best.
Jack continued, oblivious to the goings-on in the little changeling’s mind. “Of course, as fascinating as their sociology might be, that was not the purpose for which we were there. We studied the zebras’ arts and drama, yes, and it was good – but I had traveled hundreds of leagues to see the ways of the tribals with my own two eyes, and seeing them was what I was going to do. I made inquiries, but was rebuffed at every turn, both by the Equestrian embassy which feared for my safety, and the zebra nobility who seemed intent that I despise their ‘wild’ brethren with as much passion as they did. After all, understanding often breeds empathy, and empathy is often the antidote to hate.
“Well, the more they tried to persuade me to give up my quest, the more determined I was to finish it. Even my friends, worn and homesick after many months of travel, begged me to stay with them and prepare for the return journey, but I would have none of it. Since the zebra government had taken steps to hinder me from using any standard route to the lands of the tribals – how important I felt, to have a foreign sovereignty working against me specifically! – I was forced to use more clandestine methods. With help from my loyal guide, I bribed an officer in the army – amazing, how prevalent and even accepted corruption is in certain societies and governments – into allowing me to travel with his company down to the far south, where the grassland gives way to jungle. A bit of a trek, true, but I was assured that the tribals there were as wild and vivacious as any I would find anywhere. Foolish, naïve me.”
“Did something happen?” asked Stasis.
Jack nodded, giving his weed a few absent chews. “Indeed. What was I thinking, accompanying a military expedition to a veritable warzone when all I wanted was to discuss art and acting and native customs? I had chosen quite possibly the worst possible way to go about achieving my goals, and I was swift to pay for it.
“I had noticed the soldiers growing more and more restless the closer we grew to the jungle’s edge, of course, but I merely took this as assurance that they were doing their jobs. When we entered the jungle, I was sternly warned not to be the cause of any distraction for the company or to leave their protection. Of course, the fact that we were probably headed to burn down some village never crossed my mind; the fact that not all peoples and cultures are as pacifistic as our own had still not imprinted itself upon my psyche, despite all my time with the gryphons. I suppose I had some vague idea that I would be parting from the company at a convenient point so that I could meet with the tribals and discuss their culture.
“Instead, I found myself woken in the middle of our first night in the jungle to the sound of clanging scimitars and soldiers screaming in a foreign tongue. I stumbled out of my tent, having nearly tripped over my guide, his face bloated and a dart buried in his throat. Had I not been so terrified, I think I might have gone into shock. As it were, I saw our attackers, perfectly silent save for the ‘pop’ as blades attached to their hooves punched through metal and bone as easily as flesh, or the ‘crack’ as legs and ribs were snapped with bare hooves as easily as you or I might break a pencil or shatter a thin pane of glass.
“To this day, I’m not sure how I survived. I fled, of course, but it was the middle of the night and I was in the jungle, alone and naked and hundreds of leagues from home. All I remember is running, and running, and running yet more until finally I collapsed from exhaustion and fell unconscious. When I awoke, it was daylight, and I was on the plain some distance from the jungle’s edge. Despite my aching body, I wasted no time putting as much distance from that place as I could. When I finally made it back to the capitol, I did not even bother informing the sheik of what had happened to his expeditionary force; I packed my things, informed my friends that I was beginning my return journey the next morning, and would have left without them had they not been ready. I arrived at the borders of our wonderful, if deeply flawed and culturally isolated, but still wonderful country a few weeks later, and have not set hoof outside its boundaries since.”
After a few moments of silence, once it became clear that Jack’s story was finished, Stasis frowned.
“Wait…wasn’t that story supposed to have something to do with those?” Stasis asked, pointing at the faces.
“Those? Yes, I picked those up in the capitol. I was at the bazaar – a sort of square devoted to the buying and selling of merchandise – and I saw a stall filled with supposedly-authentic tribal artifacts. Even my untrained eye could see that many of the items were cheap imitations, intended to part tourists from other lands from their money, but several of the articles had a certain look of legitimacy to them. Tending the stall was an old slave, his eyes such a milky white that I thought he might be blind, and around his neck a collar of cold iron attached to an iron spike in the ground. He was so still that I thought that he might be dead, so I wandered over to inquire as to his health. My guide tried to stop me, strangely enough; he pointed out the markings and tattoos on the old one’s mangy coat, and warned me against speaking to the tribal. I brushed his concerns off as the rubbish that it was, of course, and ordered him to translate for me.
“I spoke to the slave for some time, and he told me that he had only recently been captured in a raid on one of the few independent villages that survived on the plains. He spoke little beyond that of his life or his people, unfortunately; he did not seem of the talkative sort, and while he was respectful, it was the sort of dismissive respect one might give to an old enemy or rival. Finally, I gave up and was about to vacate the stall when I saw this: these masks, carved from wood in much the same fashion as other ritual masks of the tribal zebras, yet clearly representing a version of the traditional drama masks.”
“Traditional drama masques?” queried Stasis.
Jack looked down at the little changeling curiously. “Yes. I suppose that you’re not familiar with them? The smiling mask is supposed to represent comedy, while the weeping mask represents tragedy. Those are the two traditional genre divisions of drama. There used to be two such masks, quite large, above the marquee in front of this theater, but…I’m afraid that they fell down several years ago, taking the marquee with them. I took it as an omen.”
“I don’t understand,” Stasis admitted. “I thought that only changelings wore masques.”
Jack quirked an eyebrow. “Is that what their disguises are called? It makes sense, I suppose. They both serve a similar purpose. Masks, in this sense, are merely non-magical objects that you wear over your face to change your appearance.”
“Oh. Okay.” Stasis wasn’t surprised that he had never heard of the magic-less things. As far as he was concerned, two-thirds of the entire pony species were cripples, deserving of his pity.
“As I was saying, I saw these hybrids of theater and ancient zebra tradition, and was immediately intrigued. I asked the old slave about them; I was curious as to why they imitated the modern drama masks. He was quiet for a time, but I was patient. I could see it in his milky eyes, that he knew something about the masks, something that he was thinking of telling me. I’m sure he had few chances to speak with others there, being surrounded by zebras who hated him.
“Finally, I grew thirsty, and I sent my guide to fetch all three of us a drink from one of the vendors. As soon as he was gone, the slave began to speak – and in Equestrian, no less. Where he learned the language, he never said. He spoke of an old book, old, old, old, that used to be the pride and joy of his village, back when the sheik was just a distant chieftain and his people put out offerings of cocoa beans and sugarcane at night to placate the mad god, should he come traveling through their lands. The book was eventually lost, the slave said – destroyed by a fire that burned so hot, it swept through their village even as it was deluged by a great thunderstorm. However, his people, being literacy-challenged, had memorized many passages from the ancient text, including one story speaking of two brothers, one laughing, one sad….”
Jack paused then. “…But I fear that I’ve gone on far too long already. I’m sure you’ve heard enough of my ramblings, and it would appear that the archlich is preparing to lead his army of undead magi against the assassin’s guild. Also, several of the fallen have been still for longer than I’d like. Perhaps I should intervene….”
“No, they’re fine,” Stasis said firmly. “You should tell me this story.”
Jack chewed his weed absently a few moments before shrugging and saying, “Very well. You see, according to the legend, drama and theater as we know was actually an invention, not of the ponies or even the zebras, but of the changelings.”
Stasis snorted. “That’s stupid. Changelings don’t build theaters or make wooden masks or anything like that.”
“Perhaps. But according to him, long, long, long ago – three longs, I recall quite clearly from his telling – a queen of their race lay an egg in which two of her children dwelt together.”
Stasis frowned. “You can’t have two changelings come from a single egg!...can you?”
Jack shrugged. “Am I a poultry farmer? I am merely recounting the story as it was told to me. The slave was clear: there were two twins conceived in one egg, brothers, and somehow their mother learnt of their plight. She being a clever mare – or queen, as the case may be – waited until the day and the hour upon which her children were to hatch, and with the greatest care, she opened their egg herself with her own magic. She found within something which she was not expecting: these children looked much like the others, save that they both had bright yellow eyes.”
“Are…you sure? They had yellow eyes?” Stasis asked hesitantly. Perhaps he could believe that two changelings might be born of the same egg; he had never heard of such a thing, but then, if his time amongst the ponies had taught him anything, it was that there were many things in this world of which he’d never heard. And as for the queen knowing of the twins ahead of time, that was easily explained. Mother had always been able to feel her children’s emotions, even in the womb; sometimes he had thought he could her singing to them in the middle of the night, when everyling was supposed to be asleep. And if the child within an egg died, she would take it and bury it someplace that even he didn’t know about, and none of them were to speak of it again.
The idea that two princes could both be born at once, however, was almost unfathomable. One would have more luck searching for seven-leaf clovers and red diamonds than for even a single prince amongst the tens of thousands of changelings that a queen might bear in her lifetime.
“I am absolutely, without-a-doubt convinced that the slave told me that they had yellow eyes; he was quite explicit on that point. In fact, the specific shade he described was much like your own, young thespian.” Jack stopped chewing his weed then and, brow furrowed, looked down into Stasis’ eyes.
The little changeling looked away quickly. After a few moments, Jack continued his narrative.
“…Yes, much like yours. The birth of these two princes was met with great jubilation by all changelings, and the queen was held in great honor by her people. The first child, who upon hatching greeted her with a devilish grin, she named Laughter; the second, who cried with nary a sound, she named Sorrow. They would show themselves as inseparable in life as they had been before birth – or hatching, as the case may be. It became a joke; it was said that one could not give a chuckle without having a little cry afterwards.
“It was expected that both brothers would grow to become great leaders and guardians of their kind, and they were groomed from birth for this role. However, their mother was a proud, hard creature, merciless in the execution of her duties and responsibilities, and it was her duty and responsibility to raise her sons so that they could care for their subjects as she cared for her sons. She determined that two princes together was a waste, and two princes apart would do much better. She took the two brothers, when they were yet young, and she separated them, sending Sorrow to be raised by her sister while she raised Laughter herself.
“Sorrow was lost, torn from his own family and without his brother to guide him. His aunt did not even have a mother’s tenderness, and soon lost all patience with the weak-willed child. She tried to force him to become what he was not, and his life became a misery; he would beg and beg to be allowed to see his brother again, to no avail. The more softness he showed, the less did his aunt.
“Laughter, meanwhile, continued his studies with a grin, and scoffed at all mention of his brother’s name. But it was a lie. In his heart, he began to despise his mother and all that she had taught him. When he saw how loyal her subjects were to her, he began to despise them as well. When it came time for him to be sent to take up the reigns of leadership in a faraway place, he instead escaped by moonlight, searching out his brother. When he found Sorrow, he slew his brother’s guards and together they fled that region, not stopping until they were deep in the territory of their people’s enemies, far outside the reach of their mother and aunt. There they vowed never to be separated again, even if one must follow the other into death.
“Now Sorrow saw that Laughter had become a murderer for his sake, and fearing even this separation between them, he washed his hooves in the same stream, that the blood on his brother’s hooves might wash off onto his own. Declaring himself a murderer as well, he soon felt guilt descend upon his tender conscience, and he wept and begged his brother to take them someplace, someplace where they could remain together forever and never again have to take the life of another.
“Laughter saw all of this and laughed, and called his brother silly and a fool, but when night fell and no one could see, he too wept and prayed to whoever would hear that he would be shown a place to take his brother where none of their people would ever find them again, and they could live in peace.
“With the morning light, he awoke and saw that far, far away, at the boundary of land and sky there floated a glorious city of light and clouds and stone and steel, casting its long shadow over the world. He woke his brother, wiped away Sorrow’s tears, and pointed at the city.
“’There, foolish brother,’ said Laughter. ‘I said that I would watch over you, did I not? I said that I would take care of you, did I not? There: there is where we will go. The city of the gods. There we will be safe, and there we will be kings together, just as we were meant to be.’
“Though they were capable of flight, the journey to the great city was a long one, and fraught with peril; the gods took no care to make the lands beneath and around them easy or kind, for they had little desire for visitors, and many primordial monsters had taken abode where mortals dared not tread.
“Still, the two brothers were powerful creatures in their own right, and they endured. When they finally arrived at the great city amongst the clouds, they found themselves unwelcome, changelings forbidden to walk those hallowed halls. Sorrow wept, and begged his brother to turn back, that they should not anger the gods with their presence. But Laughter grew angry, and rebuked his brother.
“’My ear is against you, foolish brother. Did I not tell you that I would make us a home here? Do you wish to make me a fool too, having come so far, as well as a liar? I may be a murderer, but you have done no wrong, not truly, and I will not let them turn us away.’
“And so it was that Laughter conceived his plan. He took upon himself the form of a beautiful young mare, as beautiful as any mortal has ever been, and had Sorrow take on the form of his maidservant. Together they convinced the immortal guardians of the city to let them in, and took to entertaining the gods at their feasts. Laughter shed the royal gravitas that he had been taught, and he dressed himself in golden silks and silver satins so that he might dance on a stage before them. Sorrow, though terrified, would not leave his brother before the gods alone, and he accompanied the dance with song from a voice like a crystal bell.
“The gods began to take notice of the strange pair, and gave to them many strange and extravagant gifts. Together they were able to purchase a new home in the city in which to live, and for a time they both lived there in peace and happiness.
“However, with success Laughter grew proud and bold, and he began to mingle even more with the gods and goddesses of the city, laughing and joking and flirting with them while wringing from them ever more lavish gifts and allowances. For their part, the gods thought the strange young mare to be quite clever and charming…for a mortal.
“Alas, not all of the gods gave equal worth and respect to their lesser brethren, and one of the gods found himself infatuated with the young maiden. After a particularly long night of merriment and drinking, he demanded that she return with him to his home. When she – when he – refused, the god grew angry, and carried her off, while the other gods stood by and were silent.
“Upon arriving at his home, he….”
Jack paused then, and looked at Stasis for a few moments. He cleared his throat.
“…Well, suffice it to say that the ruse was soon discovered. The god was no longer angry; he was furious, and he dragged the now-naked and unmasqued Laughter before all the gods and their king for judgment. He cursed the changeling race, and demanded he be allowed vengeance upon them for their cruel deception. Laughter, for his part, thought himself soon to die, and he laughed at and mocked them, and cursed each of the gods and their king by name, each one of those who stood by and did nothing to help him or his brother when they were separated, who had done nothing to protect him from his kidnapper, and who did nothing to help him now. He laughed and cursed them as cowards and liars and murderers too, as beautiful on the outside as they were base and hollow on the inside, and he swore all manner of blasphemous oaths against them.
“The god-king was a hard and awesome creature. He had wrestled gods and Ancients alike, and thrown them both down. He had raised speaking races up from mere beasts, and destroyed others completely. He had nearly desolated continents in his fury. Even the gods feared him, and tread lightly in his presence.
“And now he found himself mocked and cursed in his own court, before his own throne, by a petty prince who had snuck into his city disguised as a mare. He was enraged; his eyes burned like the sun as he prepared to deliver his terrible judgment. However, before his throne fell another supplicant: the prince’s maidservant.
“Trembling with fright, Sorrow let his disguise fall away and fell on his belly, weeping, and begged for mercy upon himself, his brother, and his people. He apologized to each of the gods in turn, even to his brother’s accuser, and to the king. He offered the king all that he had, even himself, if only he would spare his brother’s life.
“But the king had already decided to destroy the pair, and would not be swayed by tears, even the tears of a prince. He readied his power, determined to render them both to ash there before him, but his queen whispered in his ear before he could release the spell. She reminded him of his duties to all the peoples of his world, not merely the gods. She reminded him of his duty to the changeling race, who were the most hated of all the speaking creatures of the world, and against whom he had committed grievous sins in the past. She reminded him that he was a good king, not some petty tyrant, and that he governed with mercy as well as justice.
“Though he would not soon forget what the twins had done, the king loved his wife, and did not easily dismiss her counsel. He swallowed his anger, as bitter as it was, and gave his new judgment against the two. He cursed them to remain forever in that city, his servants, and to ever do as they had done before, to entertain his subjects with dance and song and other things.
“Laughter would not so easily forgive the gods for their callousness, and thought to again curse the king and his mercy. But he remembered his brother, and did not wish to leave Sorrow alone in the world. So he, too, swallowed his anger, bowed before the king, and accepted his sentence.
“So it was that the two brothers remained in that the city for as long as they lived, protected servants of the king, entertaining his subjects through song and dance and other things. With time, Laughter overcame his bitterness and pride and became a trusted friend and confidante of many gods, regaling them with tales and lore of the world below. With time, Sorrow overcame his fear and timidity and earned the ear of the king himself, in which he whispered of the woes and sorrows of his people and their needs. Together, they began using their changeling powers to disguise themselves as many different creatures and enacted stories of their people upon the stage, for all to see. They even enlisted the help of brave and entrepreneurial deities who were not afraid to go up before their brethren dressed as mortals, changelings, members of the opposite sex, or even all three. Together they wrote the first plays and, when combined with the singing for which the changelings were renowned, operas. Together, and with the help of the gods themselves, they birthed theater, and drama as we would recognize it.”
He paused. “…And, apparently, cross-dressing as well.”
Stasis stared at the oldish earth pony for a few moments. “…Huh.”
“Yes. Quite the story, isn’t it? I hope I have recounted it accurately; I will be honest, I found it such a wonderfully strange and unique tale the first time that I asked the slave to recount it a second time so that I could write it down and, eventually, memorize it myself. My poor guide…I had him going back and forth across the bazaar the whole time, fetching everything from imported honey-glazed apricots to hoof-mounted hog-bristle toothbrushes.
“Unfortunately, the slave was unwilling to tell me any other story of his people. Perhaps it was the only one he knew; it would make sense, to spread the memorization of the book across the whole tribe. As it were, I had half a mind to give my copy of the story to some historian or equinologist, save that I couldn’t think of one who would give it more than cursory attention. Perhaps it was petty of me, but I felt that if it wasn’t treated as the gem that it was, I would keep it for myself. And so I have, save with my friends…and now you.” Jack gave something that almost amounted to a smile.
“Silly of me, perhaps, but for some reason I thought that you might appreciate this story, even as young as you are. Perhaps it was your eyes; they remind me of the brave young changelings in the story, who risked their lives for each other and, eventually, found a way to serve their people, even if it was not the way that had been expected.” He leaned down slightly towards the little changeling.
“Tell me, young thespian: who would you give your life for?”
Stasis leaned away. “Um…nopony?” he answered. Perhaps Mother…but no, he didn’t want to think about that. It was a stupid question anyway; Stasis’ life was worth more than thousands of underlings. A self-sacrificial prince might be considered a hero by the ponies, but not by his own people.
Jack leaned back, and his almost-smile turned bitter. “Not a pleasant place to find yourself in, is it?” he asked, turning back to look at the stage before him. “At least you are young. There is still time. Time to forge those relationships which are worth more than life itself.” The raggedy old pony took a deep breath, and then let it out before resuming chewing his weed. Stasis hadn’t noticed that he’d stopped.
A thought occurred to Stasis, and he gave Jack a suspicious look. “Did Star Swirl ask you to say that?” he asked. He wouldn’t put it past the old wizard to connive with other old ponies to bring the little changeling in line.
Jack raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Why would The Bearded One tell me to say anything? Do you know him?” he asked.
“…Never mind,” Stasis mumbled.
Jack looked back towards the stage. “Thank you for allowing me to reminisce, young thespian, but it appears that the charming thief, the drunken bard, and the bitter ex-soldier have reigned victorious. I think the children may be more amenable to rehearsal now that they’ve had the chance to excise their frustrations through mortal combat. Please excuse me.”
Stasis watched Jack walk off before turning his attention back to the masks. He was happy that the princes had succeeded in their quest, but the story had still left him feeling…strange. Melancholy. He didn’t have a brother like the one in the story. His brothers were afraid of him, like Nit, or disliked him, like Thor, or both, like Coxa. He didn’t even know what the older underlings, the graylings and Killings and whatnot, thought of him. They only ever spoke to him as teachers or watchers or whatnot, never as a brother…well, except for Vertex, but Vertex was…kind of scary, even for a Killing.
In fact, of his entire family of hundreds of changelings, the only one that he could think of who really seemed to like him for who he was was tiny baby Pupa, who was always stumbling along after him, his little wings buzzing eagerly as he chewed on Stasis’ leg. Baby Pupa would gnaw on other legs too, of course, even his own, but they were apparently all poor substitutes for Stasis’ ambrosial appendages. Baby Pupa had been the reason Stasis learned to fly as early as he did.
Sometimes, baby Pupa would even sneak by the hatchling caretakers at night and hunt down Stasis’ sleeping place, no matter how cleverly hidden it might have been, just so that he could chew on his leg. Stasis had complained loudly and bitterly, of course, but secretly he had always had a grudging respect for the sneaky little hatchling. Now, he didn’t even know if baby Pupa was still alive. He kind of wished that he had been nicer to the little hatchling when he had the chance….
“Is something wrong, Stasis? You look sad,” asked Major, appearing by his side.
Stasis inhaled, a vigorous denial forming on the tip of his tongue. After a few moments, he let out the breath with a sigh and shrugged.
“I guess I was just thinking of my family,” he admitted, though he wasn’t sure why.
“Oh.” Major was quiet for a moment, and then he slowly stretched one foreleg around Stasis’ back, keeping a little space between them so as to hug him without actually touching the little changeling’s sensitive flesh.
A few minutes passed silently before Stasis sighed again and looked over at where Jack was walking a few ponies through their scene. His brow furrowed in thought.
“You know…if you want to help me feel better, I think I might have an idea,” he admitted, his innate slyness returning and vigorously kicking and beating the melancholy. Slyness felt good…oh, yes it did….
“Huh? What idea’s that?” queried Major.
“I think our scene’s coming up. Quick; go get into your costume. And make sure Goldie doesn’t see you! Knowing her, she’ll probably have us running all over town again, picking up trash and ladling out soup to the poor or something. We have to be discreet….”
“Okay, Stasis. I’ll go get ready!” Major exclaimed happily, dashing off backstage.
Meanwhile, Stasis gazed at the masks of his uncles, a plan forming in his mind.
* * *
The sorcerer walked with a slow, easy gait across the stone floor of the tower, bright eyes shining beneath his cowl as they roamed across the room, searching out the slightest flaw. He swept back his filthy mane with one hoof and adjusted his tattered cape, its scent of rotten hide having long since set into his nostrils.
“Are you ready, my minion?” he asked, his voice deep and dark and echoing in the cold chamber.
His minion, draped in stained grey rags and sporting a hideous hunched back and one patched eye, looked around the tower, searching.
“Wait…that’s me, right?”
Lord Stasis frowned. “What, do you think I’m speaking to my other minion? Of course it’s you!”
Minion nodded. “Okay, Stasis. Sorry.”
Lord Stasis scoffed. “Stasis? Stasis? Stasis is dead! And from his grave rises the dread necromancer, Lord Stasis the Great and Terrible!…But I guess that you can just call me Lord Stasis, since that’s easier to say.”
“Oh…okay. Sorry, Lord Stasis.”
Lord Stasis nodded. “That’s better. Now, Minion….” His eyes narrowed.
“Bring forth my crystal ball!”
Suddenly, as if the grimy walls themselves had taken voice, a whisper floated across the room. It spoke of strange, impossible things that would have shattered lesser minds like paladin’s armor under a dragon’s claw. It spoke of ‘lines’ and their many violations, and of the dire consequences should they remain sullied so.
Lord Stasis cocked his head curiously. “Hark! Is that a spirit I hear, or merely the wind whistling through the bones of my dungeon?”
Minion shook his head. “No, that was Jack asking why we’re not saying our lines from the play like we’re supposed to.”
Lord Stasis sneered. “Oh? Well, please inform this ‘Jack’ that if he intends to voyeur, he should not blame me if I were to, say, accidently seal his soul into my cursed toilet plunger. You know, the one made of sea serpent’s tongue and the horn of an alicorn and soaked in the tears of a windigo.”
Now it was Minion’s turn to cock his head. “Now Abra’s asking why you’re being such a little freak, and Goldie just wants you to know that you’re stupid.”
“Bah! Enough!” Lord Stasis roared. “You can commune with the spirits on your own time. Now…where is my crystal ball?”
“Here it is, Stasis. I mean, Lord Stasis,” Minion said, placing the sphere onto a petite purple pillow perched atop a pedestal in the precise center of the room.
Lord Stasis immediately leapt towards it and, raising his forehooves high, began weaving impossible shapes above the crystal sphere, the air seeming to chill and thicken around him as he forced his will upon the unholy sphere.
“Oh, crystal ball, stolen from the black aether beyond the damned gates of Tartarus itself…bend thyself to my command! Show me mine enemies in all their bedraggled heroicness, that I may smite them safely from afar!” he shouted, pushing his snout firmly against the sphere and losing himself in its wondrously wicked depths. He summoned his magic, using incalculable skill and might of mind to force it into the ball, much as one would squeeze blood into a stone. After a few moments, a vision of a ragtag party appeared. An eclectic band of adventurers, sporting members of many races and professions and with a leader who was obviously a prince or demigod, raised from birth by a noble-yet-ignorant-now-tragically-dead swineherd, his true identity to be revealed by his wicked father at an inauspicious time. Clearly, these were heroes.
“Look at them, Minion,” Lord Stasis commanded. “Look at them, blithely prancing about, performing random acts of kindness and charity while forging the bonds of friendship and brotherhood. Gah! I should smite them on principal.”
Minion tapped his chin thoughtfully. “But…what if we helped them instead of trying to killing them, Lord Stasis? Then everypony would like us and we wouldn’t have to die at the end.”
“Some things are more important than mere survival,” Lord Stasis elucidated. “Like, say, being wicked. Or owning your own black tower. How many heroes do you know who own their own black towers, Minion? It’s a quality of life issue. Now, bring me….” He turned suddenly and leered at Minion.
“…The black book….” He finished in a hoarse whisper.
Minion turned and looked at the bookshelf behind him. “Which black book, Lord Stasis? They’re all black.”
“The blackest!” Lord Stasis shouted with glee. “The blackest that we have!”
“Well…if you’re sure…” Minion agreed hesitantly, pulling an incredibly, impossibly, mind-bogglingly black book from the shelf with his mouth and depositing it on a second pedestal beside the first.
“Bwahahahahahaha!” Lord Stasis cackled, lifting the book high into the air with his magic. “Behold! The black book! It’s just… so…black!”
Still cackling madly to himself, Lord Stasis set the book down upon the pedestal with a mother’s tenderness. He didn’t want to scratch the evil.
“I’m trying to decide upon the doom we shall bring down upon our enemies, but…the blackness! It’s too much! I can’t focus.” He shivered.
“Truly, this is the black book’s curse.”
“Um…well, we could give them so much cake that they get sick. That always works with me.”
“What about this: we could bind and barter our enemies for black swords, black cowls, and black boots. We could summon black knights, black wraiths, and black angels to slay them. We could sacrifice them to the Ancient Evils in exchange for black powers, black knowledge, and black fur! No longer shall I be an unexciting shade of grey! Bwahahahaha!”
“We could sing a song instead. ‘Heroes, heroes, go away, come again some other day….’”
“No, no, I’ve got it! We could hire a group of changelings – black ones! – to impersonate the heroes and travel across the land, sowing black seeds of destruction and reaping black crops of despair. Let’s see how heroic they are when the peasantry pelts them with rotten blackberries, blackcurrant, even black-eyed peas! Bwahahahaha!”
“Maybe we can ask the king to pretty-please protect us from the heroes? Wait…he was killed already, wasn’t he? Did we do that? I can’t remember….”
“No! We must be bold! With such an obsidian opus, I could strike the sun and the stars themselves sable! The sky itself shall be slate, wrapping about the world like a picious pod of melanoid metamorphosis! From it I shall burst forth, a Stygian spider sulking in the shadows, weaving dusky dreams as they doze and sullying their somber sanguine with pitch-dark poison until their blood bleeds black as –“
A whisper cut across the chamber like a black wind, and Lord Stasis scowled. He’d been on the threshold of true thesaural transcendence!
“Jack says that we should probably just give Abra a call instead. Also, that book is actually his diary from back when he used to care, so he wants us to be careful.”
Lord Stasis gave Minion a sharp look, his lips peeling back from his teeth as he snarled, “He’ll have to pry it from my cold, undead hooves!”
He paused. “Oh, and Abra is far too brown to be of any use to me.”
“He says, ‘Very well, but could you please strike a match and set the theater ablaze on your way out? My hopes and dreams should provide adequate tinder, dry and emaciated as they are. Just be sure to dispose of the ashes somewhere safe, lest they should fertilize some farmer’s crops and prove as bitter a taste in the mouths of the next generation as they were in mine.”
Lord Stasis threw up his hooves. “Fine! Whatever. I mean, you might as well be using a morally-grey book for all the evil we’ll be getting out of it this way, but fine. Let’s just be done with it.”
Moving back to the crystal ball, he waved his hooves above it more perfunctorily this time before suffusing it with his magic and, with a voice like black silk, cooing, “Crystal ball, crystal ball, here on my little pedest-al…show me, who is the lamest one of all?”
Instantly, the heroes began to fade from view, and in center of the sphere an image of a boring-brown filly appeared, her face painted with strange glyphs and symbols, giving her the look of a zebra tribal. She glared back at him.
“Eureka! It speaks the truth!” shouted Lord Stasis. “Surely this is the unlovable witch of which the spirit spoke!”
“I hate you so much,” seethed the witch.
“Hey, Abra!” said Minion, waving.
“I have heard of your plight, foulest witch, and I am here to help,” Lord Stasis said magnanimously. “I will use my blackest of books to give you the recipe for a love poison, and in exchange you will use it and all manner of depraved and sultry means to steal the heart of the protagonist. Meanwhile, Minion and I will watch on in amusement.” He paused, looking her over critically. “…You may want to double the recommended dose, just to be safe.”
The witch facehoofed. “Ugh, Stasis, you little idiot! I’m a zebra witch! I already know how to make a love poison! You’re supposed to ask me to deliver the heroes into your hooves, and then in exchange I make you swear to make me your queen when you take the throne. You’re supposed to use the crystal ball to tell me where the heroes are located. And the books…the books are just props, Stasis! Where’d you even get that second pedestal? Are you trying to ruin the play? Did you pay any attention to the script?”
Lord Stasis wiped the drool from his mouth; were he not already quite mad, the witch’s ramblings would surely have driven him so. “Sorry, dearest hag,” he said politely. “I’m afraid that I only made it as far as ‘make you my queen’ before vomit obscured the rest.”
“No wonder I’m supposed to fall in love with Pierce. Not even a witch could love somepony like you,” Abra growled before she cut the connection.
Lord Stasis rolled his eyes before returning to the black book and stroking its cover affectionately. “Don’t listen to her, my little Blackie. How could I have room in my heart for another when I have you? My black soul rises in your presence, my black heart sings at your name, my black – aaak!” He jumped as a stallion reeking of some foul weed appeared suddenly in the secret, impregnable tower chamber.
“How did….” Lord Stasis pointed at the stallion. “Minion! Sic it!”
“I fear that the scene is now over, young thespian,” said the mysterious interloper. “It’s time to give your imagination a rest.”
“That’s Lord thespian to you,” Lord Stasis muttered angrily as a whole host of ponies descended upon his secret lair, tearing it apart piece-by-piece and whisking its contents into the abyss. Realizing his peril, he tried to seize the black book, but with a flying leap a little pegasus filly snapped it up in her mouth and fled with all the unnatural celerity of a winged bunny.
Accursed pegabunny! Lord Stasis thought angrily, shaking his hoof at the retreating lagomorph and swearing vengeance.
“That was an…extremely loose interpretation of that scene, ‘Lord Stasis.’ However, given the source material, I’m inclined to consider it an improvement,” the mysterious stallion said, reaching around Lord Stasis’ neck and unclasping his black cloak. All at once, Stasis found himself a mere prince-cum-pony-child again, with no more necromantic ability than any other child. He pouted.
Jack stood back and, looking down at Stasis, he frowned.
“You didn’t have…that, before…did you?” asked Jack, pointing at Stasis’ rump.
Stasis glanced back. Having changed his masque after donning his cloak, he had had no way of telling if the mark looked perfect or not. He was glad to see that it did – two faces, one laughing and the other weeping, though he’d taken the liberty of accentuating the fangs.
Originally, he’d planned on making a big fuss about the whole thing, but now he was feeling too grumpy to give the ponies the pleasure. “Oh, look. I got my cutie-mark. Whoopee,” he grumbled. “Now just give me back my cape, my ball, and my book, and we’ll call it a day.”
Jack looked about at the bustling ponies. “Ch-children? Please, wait a moment, children. It seems that our young thespian here has earned his cutie-mark. And it would appear to be in theater, no less…or else something closely related.”
The ponies paused as one, turning their gazes towards him. Stasis did not consider himself a shy little changeling, but the weight of all those stares, turned silently towards him, made him start to feel nervous. For several moments, nopony said a word.
Stasis looked at his rump. I did do it right, didn’t I? There’s nothing abnormal about it? Maybe when I got the mark, it was supposed to sparkle? I was wearing a cape, but it was probably supposed to sparkle anyway. Everything around here sparkles. Should I do it again? Maybe if I make it sparkle now, I can call it a delayed reaction, and say that I have a condition –“
A roar cut across the stage.
“Stasis!” it thundered, orange lightning streaking across the stage as ponies shrieked and stumbled out of its path.
“Aaaaaaaaaak!” was all Stasis had time to scream before Major was upon him, lifting the little changeling clear off his hooves in a hug that would have squeezed a bear out of its pelt.
“Stasis!” Major yelled in his ear. “You got your cutie-mark! Aaaaaaaaaaah!”
“Mercy! Mercy!” he coughed over Major’s shoulder, beating his forelegs against the orange pony’s back fruitlessly.
“I am so happy right now! So! Happy!” Major exclaimed, punctuating each word with a squeeze.
“Too happy…too happy….” Stasis wheezed.
“I’m really sorry, Stasis, but I can’t stop hugging you right now! This is just too exciting!” Major exclaimed. He did loosen up enough so that Stasis could breathe again, though.
As color returned to the edges of his vision, Stasis could see over Major’s shoulder. The ponies had all drawn much closer, surrounding him. He could hear whispering behind him as ponies inspected his hindquarters. He jerked as one intrepid pony even touched his mark softly, as if to see if it was real.
Which, of course, it wasn’t.
His gaze was soon drawn to Pierce, who stood a few paces away, his stare as unwavering and implacable as ever. Normally, Stasis was utterly unafraid of this foolish blue earth pony who had tried to best him with the Frisbee; indeed, Stasis would go so far as to say that he was anti-afraid of Pierce. But now, with his hind hooves dangling off the floor and ponies surrounding him, watching him, and touching his hindquarters, he broke away from Pierce’s eyes and looked down at the floor, feeling somehow embarrassed, and hating that feeling.
Without taking his eyes off of the little changeling, Pierce spoke, his voice cutting coolly across the stage. “Congratulations, Stasis. This is a very special day.”
Somehow, Pierce’s words seemed to galvanize the other ponies, and Stasis found a multitude of smiles flashed his way, some perfectly sincere, the rest imperfectly.
“Yeah, congratulations, Stasis.”
“Good job, Stasis.”
“Hey! You finally got your cutie-mark! That’s great!”
“You creep me out, but I’m still glad that you got your cutie-mark, Stasis.”
Major finally put Stasis down and took a step back, and the other ponies closed in on the little changeling, congratulating him, many patting him on the back or, occasionally, on the rump. He tried to smile, though given the reactions of the ponies in front of him, it was a less than perfect attempt.
He’d expected a reaction to getting his mark, of course, but he hadn’t expected…this. Most of these ponies didn’t even like him! And he certainly didn’t like any of them. What was going on? He’d have given himself his mark in some dark alley somewhere if he’d known they’d just turn rabid like this.
After a few more minutes, Jack announced that the rest of rehearsal was cancelled for the day in celebration, and ponies began to filter out. Soon, it was just Stasis, Major, and a few others scattered about the stage.
When the last congratulator had walked off, promising to attend Stasis’ cute-ceanara wherever and whenever it might be held, Stasis turned to his orange companion.
Before he could say anything, however, Major sniffled and said, “I just want you to know, Stasis, that I’m really, really happy that I got to be here when you finally got your cutie-mark. Whenever you tell ponies your own cutie-mark story, don’t forget to tell them that your best friend Major was here too!”
It’s just a stupid mark. It doesn’t mean anything! But, apparently, it did mean something to these ponies, even more so than Star Swirl and Major’s stories would have led him to believe; having all his schoolmates surrounding and trying to be nice to him was freaky. He was just glad that it was over.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh…sure, Major, I…wait? Are you crying? Please tell me that you’re not crying. You can lie if you need to.”
Major rubbed at one eye. “I’m sorry, Stasis. I was just so happy, I couldn’t help it.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Stasis protested. “Anyway…I’m still mad at you for hugging me, you know. And the next hoof that touches my rear, gets bitten. That’s the only warning that I’m going to give.”
A hoof touched his rear.
Stasis let out a most un-fearsome hiss and jumped away from the rump-rubber. “Will you guys stop that!” he yelled.
“What is it?” Goldie asked, her expression one of intense puzzlement. “I mean…I know they’re faces, but why do they look funny? And is the first one making fun of the other? Is that why the second one is crying so much? Is that first one supposed to be you? Is your special talent making other ponies cry?”
“Of course not!…Okay, well, probably,” Stasis admitted. “But that’s not all that the mark means. It’s…you know, acting. I’m a great actor. It means other stuff, too. But I’ve got my mark now, so we’re done with it. It’s not that big a deal.”
“I disagree,” Pierce said from behind the little changeling, startling him. “What could be more important to a pony than his cutie-mark? It’s not like an eye or ear – it’s not a physical part of their body that can be injured or taken away. It’s spiritual; it shows who you are.”
“Wow!” Major exclaimed. “You’re really smart, Pierce!”
The azure earth pony ignored Major, not looking away from Stasis.
“For most ponies, at least, it answers the question of who they are,” Pierce continued. “So tell me: who are you, Stasis?”
“I…I’m Stasis, of course,” he answered, turning and showing off his rump. “See? I’ve got my own mark and everything. There’s nopony else like me in the world.”
“Yeah! My dad says that whoever made Stasis must have broken the mold,” Major posited.
“Probably over his own head,” Goldie agreed.
Pierce glanced down at the cutie-mark, and then back into Stasis’ eyes.
“Isn’t that an image of the same masks that I saw you speaking with Jack about just a few minutes ago?” Pierce asked.
“Yeah? So?” Stasis challenged, showing more bravado than he felt.
Pierce was quiet for a moments, then shrugged. “Nothing. I just thought it was odd, is all. I hope that you’re happy with your mark, Stasis.” Nodding to Major and Goldie, the blue pony walked off.
“Pierce is such a nice guy,” Major mused fondly.
Stasis wiped the sweat from his brow, and then noticed that Goldie was still staring at his mark with the same intensity as before. He frowned.
“What?” he asked. “Is something wrong with it?”
Goldie looked away. “No…nothing’s wrong….” She turned around and started walking away.
“Hey, Goldie!” Major said quickly. “Don’t you want to celebrate with me and Stasis?”
“Celebrate?” Stasis asked, brow furrowed.
“No, you guys go ahead,” Goldie called over her shoulder. “I’m not feeling so good…I think that I’m going to go home and lay down for a while.”
“Oh…okay! Have fun at home, Goldie! I hope you feel better!” Major called out after her. Turning back to Stasis, he said, “I hope she feels better. Maybe we can go visit her when we’re done celebrating.”
“Celebrating?” Stasis asked hesitantly. “What do you mean, celebrating? Are we going to go to the pastry shop? Or make Star Swirl fix us potaters?”
“No!” Major exclaimed, smiled beatifically. “We don’t have money for doughnuts, anyway. No, now that you’ve got your cutie-mark, we’ve got to show it off! We should show everypony in Trottingham!” he finished, swinging his forelegs wide, as if to encompass the whole world.
Stasis turned, and began to flee.