The Mare in the High Castle

by ponichaeism


Chapter 12

The overture ended with a flourish. The lights dimmed. A quiet came over the crowd, and soon the only sound in the collective hush was the minute shuffling of haunches on seats. In the dark, Twilight gave a brief sidelong glance at the pegasus next to her. The little yellow eyesore, reduced to the barest outline in the dark, had her attention wholly focused on the curtains. Twilight wanted to reach over and throttle her, take her revenge on the pegasus for revealing her weakness to the Shadowbolts, but she was too strong to give in like that.
I am strong, she thought. I know I am.
With a rustle, the curtains parted. The rustic front yard of a plantation was revealed. A dim blue pallor covered the backdrop of a palatial mansion, suggesting early morning. The lights brightened and bathed the stage in a warm, gentle glow. Off in the distance, a crowing sounded. Already, Twilight thought the musical was off to a bad start. Ugh, such a hackneyed opening. Maybe a few ancient sources say roosters 'crowed' at dawn, but there's no evidence it was a real thing, and furthermore, if it was real, nopony even knows what it sounds like nowadays. It's a cliche for 'morning' repeated so often it has no meaning.
Then she wondered why she was expecting historical realism from a big-budget musical. Just shut up and enjoy the show.
In the light, she got a better look at the bizarre mishmash of the manorhouse. It was a colonial-style red brick mansion, the kind she'd seen pictures of out in the settlements, mixed with antiquated Cloudsdale architecture, fronted by ridged columns and a triangular awning over the portico. Neither of them were marble, but they were painted to resemble it from a distance. She wondered what kind of impression she was supposed to get. Familiar yet alien, was her best guess.
Don't guess. You're not supposed to think about this stuff, you're supposed to feel it. Unconsciously. Not analyze it and pick it apart.
I can't help it, she thought in despair. I can't help myself.
Bells tolled from the mysterious reaches of backstage. The doors slowly opened, revealing a darkened passage. A spotlight homed in on it as a mare stepped out of the doorway and into the light, taking a moment to gaze around the idyllic grounds as the bells continued to ring. The lights glittered off her radiant dress, shimmering a watery blue, totally unsullied by manual labor. Her eyes soared out over the audience.
“When I was just a filly in my swaddling clothes,” the mare sang in a plaintive acapella, lifting her dress up to her knees as she descended the portico steps. “Mother told me of the river free....”
Her clear, strong voice carried across the auditorium, amplified by the speakers. When Twilight squinted hard, she saw a microphone against the pony's cheek. Why do you have to do that? she thought, cursing herself. Pick apart the illusion?
I need a drink, was her response. She sighed and sat back to watch, her tongue getting drier by the second.
“It was proud and wild and went where it willed,” the mare sang, “as it carved a path to the sea.” When she reached the bottom of the steps, she bowed her head in mourning. The string section started a faint, mournful keening under her acapella.
“It's all gone now, dried up by the sweltering sun, but when I look around this land....” She raised her head, her features lighting up with hope. “It left its mark as it refused to go quietly, a beacon for our merry band.” Her voice rose as the orchestra swelled, triumphant, behind it. Lending power to her words, making them soar like a bird. Twilight leaned forward on her seat a little. More unicorns trooped out on stage, arraying themselves behind the actress, though they stayed out of the spotlight. As she sang again, the brass section started to blare, sending out major chords that set the audience's heart pumping and ready to kick their way to freedom.
“We work the soil and we till the land,” she sang, “for a faraway mare with delusions of grandeur!”
And as Twilight watched, the raw power of her voice and the harmony of the chords began to work in her. The artificiality of the backdrop and the music, it didn't matter. The mare onstage transmitted a vivid spark of power direct to Twilight, right across the auditorium, so fiercely it struck her down to her core. She's so fearless, Twilight thought, entranced by the actress's determination. So confident of herself. She doesn't let lesser ponies hold her down or push her around.
The mare's bold clear voice rang out, “She scorches our land on a whim and a fancy, but she'll soon learn unicorns are a force majeure....!”
That sustained last syllable shot up into the upper registers, until Twilight half-expected the glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling to shatter. Her lips twitched up in a spontaneous, irresistible smile as the string section fluttered up in arpeggios and a dolorous drum boomed throughout the auditorium. It pounded its way into Twilight Sparkle, making her heart beat inexorably in time with it. It snapped down, Boom-bam....Boom!. Her legs itched and twitched, demanding to join the measured march.
There is magic in live theater, Twilight thought. Just like Starswirl's Storm always said. All these other ponies, sharing the emotion, the moment, the spectacle....and the ponies onstage, reveling in it.
“'River', mother used to say to me,” the mare sang over the drums, “'you must be as the river free. Unburdened and untamed and forever proud of who you're destined to become'.”
Destiny, Twilight thought. Not duty, but destiny.
“'Don't ever let them tell you, what you should think or do. And if they try, just remember you're the river and they're....pond scum'!,” she sneered.
The brass section started downward, a haphazard flurry of horns like water splashing down the rapids, and it swept Twilight along. The chorus raised their voices, booming along to the brass and underscoring River's sharp, clear voice. “The river lives on in your heart,” they sang together, “so let it wash away the lies she has constructed! Let it take you where you want to go, and forget all you've been instructed!”
“River!” she called, and the chorus thundered in response like a bolt of lightning: “River!” As the brass climaxed in frenzy, the chorus and the mare in charge finished: “Let the river run free and you will see....!” A drawn out blare of horns, then: “It knows just which way to go and which way to be!”
'Which way to be', Twilight thought dreamily. If only there was a way we could know that in the real world, life would be so much simpler.
But she stifled those thoughts. She wasn't interested in thinking about the real world right now.


The tumult continued onstage, but to Rarity, sitting in her booth high over the action, the empty bluster of noise faded away until it was like a rumble of distant thunder outside the window. An overwhelming, spirit-puncturing dissatisfaction took hold of her. She sank down into her seat, tuning out the new character strutting around the stage and introducing himself with the second verse. She couldn't find the effort to care. All she could think was, Surely this can't be the new Cynic DeKey? An opening number was supposed to signal the tone of the whole show, and this one was so abominably off-putting. Where was the charm, the wit? Everything was so earnest and melodramatic. Had DeKey – Perish the thought! – aimed at the mainstream for the millennial? It was the only way she could reconcile the great and unique artist with this middle-of-the-road bore.
It's only the first number. Plenty of time to turn this show around.
But somehow, she doubted something so miraculous would occur. All the best DeKey musicals had a sense of intimacy, a closeness of heart and mind, even in the most crowded theater. Little slices of life he offered up, full of foibles and little character moments, relaying by both a keen and incisive eye and a playful sense of humor and empathy. Not this roaring bombast, loud and noisy and hollow and empty.
“When I was just a colt in my father's clothes,” the stallion in the gray double-breasted suit sang, “Looking at myself in the mirror, the spitting image of my father stared back at me, and I saw myself a little clearer.”
She groaned at the on-the-muzzle lyrics, which completely paled in comparison to Lemish, the painter from Sunday in the Park with Georgian Grande, who spent all day every day perfecting his self-portrait, only to notice another imperfection each and every morning, rendering it perpetually half-finished as he struggle to iron out the blemishes. DeKey used such a deft hoof to show the audience Lemish's own inner doubt about his self-worth. Totally unlike a character taking stage and singing about his inner struggle to the audience. It was almost like DeKey was scared they wouldn't understand it if it wasn't painfully obvious and painfully forced.
Rarity rocked back on her haunches, eyes glazing over. Perhaps when the opening number was over, things would improve.
Perhaps.


At the very back of the theater, Fluttershy's eyes swept across the ponies arranged on stage, searching through the red and blue and green coats for Trotten Pullet. Funny old Trotten Pullet, who could make everypony laugh with a single pratfall or one absurdly-worded remark. That capering, cavorting pony of infinite jest, spreading good humor everywhere she went. She needed to appear soon, because the more Fluttershy watched all those unicorns singing about unicorn problems, the more she needed a laugh.
Why did there have to be so many of them on the stage? None of them looked like her, went through what she did. This was all so far beyond her. She felt limited, like the wings of her imagination had been clipped.
The strong-jawed stallion onstage sang out, “We forge our own way across the green earth....”
The lead actress faced the left side of the auditorium and took up the next line: “But we're bound by a mare with delusions of grandeur....”
The stallion sang to the right half, “Who demands with a smile the fruits of our hooves!” Then, they boldly harmonized, “But when will she learn, unicorns are a force majeure?” Their faces were mirrored grimaces of passion that creased their features and signaled they were ready to weather whatever may come. To guide the unicorns towards success.
Always the unicorns, in charge of everything. So in sync with each other. So perfect, always so perfect. And here was Fluttershy, trespassing in their world, as helpless and powerless as she had always been.
The thought startled her. She should've been used to it by now, but seeing it reflected so clearly onstage shook her. It was a moment of pure, crystallizing clarity about her place in the world. The more she watched, the more the reality sank in. Although the story took place in a weird, skewed world where ponies expressed themselves by spontaneously bursting into song, there was a profound truth in it, mirroring the terrible knowledge she held in her aching heart: the unicorns owned her, body and soul. Her wings sagged against her sides. She felt so ashamed of them. Maybe if she had been born a unicorn, she wouldn't feel this way. Even an earth pony would be preferable. At least then she would grow up knowing how little power she had over her own life, as opposed to the subtle shame of not living up to her race.
Anything but a pegasus, with all the pressure the unicorns used to push her around. Tears sprang up in the corners of her eyes. But she mustn't cry, not where all these ponies could see her. Then they'd only consider her so much more worthless than she already was.


“'Ash, let the magic go free and you will see....!” bellowed Blockbuster as the orchestra reached a crescendo that ended the chorus. “It knows just which way to go and which way to be!”
Blockbuster was the most brutally handsome star of the stage, and Trixie Lulamoon's head was filled to the brim with dreams and schemes of how she would 'accidentally' bump into him. She, the fabulous socialite would approach him at some afterparty and compliment him on his performance. He, in turn, would compliment her on her dress and ask if he had seen her at some other high society gathering, because a mare with her beauty and grace wasn't easily forgotten. Giggling, she would accept the compliment coyly and recommend they go out on the balcony for some fresh air. Soon enough they would be blissfully married, and all the most fabulous and influential ponies in the city would attend the ceremony and gape in awe at how much more sophisticated she was.
And then....happily ever after for Trixie Lulamoon!
But first, she had to become the most fabulous and famous socialite in the city. As the orchestra warmed up for another verse, she snuck a peek over her shoulder at the rows of private booths ringing the theater. Intermission. That was her chance. She would mingle with the rich and famous, wiggle her way into their good graces until it seemed like she had always been there, and make it so they couldn't imagine life without her ever again. Just like an episode of The Galloping Gossips. But instead of another verse, the orchestra hit a nerve-wracking dissonant note, sending shudders through Trixie's nerves. She whipped her head around and saw the two unicorns onstage bowing their heads in agony. The soundscape they were in the middle of twisted and distorted. The lights dimmed until two spotlights illuminated only them, forcing everypony to look at their plight.
“In this world, sad to say,” they sang in a minor-key harmony, “your birthright is not assured. Stolen by thieves in the sunlight, like a ship unmoored.”
The brass section quieted until it was like a heartbeat, a little muffled thump-thump, thump-thump, while the strings continued their harsh and dissonant squeal. Trixie's chest tightened, squeezing air from her lungs. No, it can't be. Ev-everypony has to get what they deserve! That's how societies are supposed to work!
The Blockbuster and the actress raised their faces into the spotlights. The music intensified behind their rising voices, a pounding heartbeat that made Trixie want to run, because the walls were closing in on her, confining her to the tiny, insignificent little corner of existence she lived in.
“When will the sun set on this world and the mare who rules it?” they sang. “When will the fire burn itself out on the mare who fuels it?”
This all happened in the past, she told herself. This doesn't describe our world at all! Not one little bit.
The music resolved itself into the familiar chords of the verse, the third so far. And if it was the third, then most likely it was the last, because musical numbers, like life, had certain patterns ponies could depend on. The rest of the unicorns on stage, still shrouded in darkness, joined Blockbuster and the other mare as they all raised their voices in unison:
“When we were colts and fillies sweating in the sun, our parents told us how things are. There's a rhyme and a reason to the changing season, a natural way that's turned bizarre.”
Yes, Trixie thought. The natural order. Unicorns who are destined to become socialites will become socialites, just as surely as the sun is the source of all evil.
The lights dimmed and plunged the stately homestead into darkness. A glowing orb descended from the rafters, spewing out sizzling smoke that spilled out over the stage. It pooled at the hooves of the actors and actresses and fell over the edge like a waterfall. Her dear Blockbuster strode forward, walking on the surface of the sea of mist, until he stood at the end of the stage and looked out into the audience. Her heart leapt when she noticed he was looking directly at her. His proud, strong voice carried to the roof.
“The sun burns too bright in the sky for us to see, and she thinks that'll cow us!”
Trixie grinned, delighted. But then that mare her husband-to-be was forced to share the stage with also stepped forward, angling herself in front of Blockbuster. Truthfully, the mare had been hogging entirely too much of the stage already.
“She can burn us and blister us, but we won't stop,” she sang, “and we won't bow to her excess!”
Trixie could only lament that Blockbuster would have lent that line so much more gravitas. Oh, well. At least she had her imagination, in which the lights shone on Blockbuster and Blockbuster alone. Suddenly the brass thundered and plunged down into a sinister register. The lights went wild, flickering and strobing, making the audience jump with fright. A silhouette inside the orb raised its wings, and its shadow fell over the audience.
Over those dissonant chords, Blockbuster – and, woe be to Trixie, everypony else was horning in on her stallion's ravishing tones – sang, “We water the land with our blood, sweat, tears, for a faraway mare with delusions of grandeur, who tries to keep us in the dirt with our fears. But she has yet to learn ponykind is a force majeure!”
The brass section blew out a powerful blast. The silhouette inside the sun recoiled in pain at the sword-like truth of the lyrics. Trixie gave a curt, triumphal nod in approval, but it quickly gave way to confusion and awe as Blockbuster rose into the sky.
How did he do that?! she asked herself. He's not a pegasus!
Then she saw the platform, hauled skyward by cables, that raised him up from the mist. It resembled a chunk of crystal. The lights flickered, revealing the plantation had been wholly replaced by crystal formations, like the legends of the long-lost crystal city far to the frozen north. A land rich in myth and mystery, where some of the Histories said the princess gained the knowledge and magic she needed to overthrow the tyrant Solara Victa's rule.
But however high Blockbuster rose, he couldn't get above the others. The chorus and that other mare rose up on their own crystal platforms until they were level with the orb, and with Blockbuster. As the orchestra busily built up to the final chorus, Trixie settled into her seat, an enormous grin splitting her face, able to tell from the mounting power behind the fluttering horns that this would be a good one.


There was a knot in River's chest, and for a long while it had pulled tighter with every day. Trapped her and choked her. Drove the breath out of her lungs. Made her feel like a cage had been closed around her every waking moment of every day, getting tighter and tighter, until she was at the breaking point. But now, with the music and the chorus of ponies at her tail lending their voices to hers, the knot was cut in two and fell away. It couldn't bind her any longer. It absolved her misery and gave her the strength to stand up tall. Solara tried to turn the unicorn race against each other, so they would suffer in loneliness, but it hadn't worked. River had the collective strength of the unicorn race at her side, a mighty tempest that cut through the evil thoughts in her head like a transmission emerging from the tortured static of dead air. If 'I'm a unicorn and was born to lead' was her life statement, this was the exclamation point it surely needed.
“Oh, when the river runs free....” she sang, one hoof raised to the sky. Her voice harmonized with the steamroll of the brass section until that last drawn-out syllable, “free” filled everywhere and everything. And what a sweet sound it was. All she ever wanted was to be free.
The splendid stallion Ash lent his voice to hers, singing over her final syllable: “And when the magic shines brightly....”
And then, as one, in a quick cadence over the booming beating of the drums and brass, they declared, “We can change the face of the world that she would keep for her plaything.”
Solara could ruin their bodies and cloud their minds, but she couldn't get rid of the self-sufficient truths underpinning reality: freedom; happiness; the hierarchy of society. Those she could never destroy, try as she might, because they were always there for ponies to see them, if only they opened their eyes. The tyrant could only abuse those ponies to the point they couldn't see what was right and true, until they accepted her degrading illusion as something real. She had to warp their view of reality, because she was powerless to warp reality itself. She, River, had the power to change the world back, to tear off her veil and reveal the truth.
Not just the power, but also the duty to her race.
From her crystal platform, River reached a foreleg out to Ash, willing her soul to bridge the divide. “We won't let her tell us....”
Face creased with agony, he sang back, “We should live in service....”
River reared back and pressed her forehooves to her chest, while Ash stomped angrily. They turned to the watchers and sang along with the chorus, “She can beat one lone pony down but when we stand as one uprising—!”
Inspiration kindled a fire in her soul. In a fit of passion, she wailed over the tremendous wall of sound: “Oh, yeah, she will find....!”
The chorus crashed down around them like some ancient thunder spirit, filling the room with the shockwave of stuttering brass and fluttering string. The music exploded in a torrent of uplifting chords. The sun orb blew apart in a spectacular pryotechnic display. Only the unicorns remained, lifted high over everything on their crystal platforms.
Their voices called: “Let the way of nature be free as it breaks through the lies she constructed--”
BOOOOOM!
A tremendous explosion tore through the auditorium. The illusion collapsed around Twilight Sparkle. She scrambled out of River's skin just as quick as she scrambled out of her seat. She tried to jump to her hooves but got tangled up and twisted her fetlock painfully. The ponies in front of her, all the way to the stage, likewise screamed and shouted at the sight of the broken sun orb and the lighting rig that had held it up crashing down. Darkness and smoke enveloped them, except for the sparks shooting across the stage like a storm of lightning and rain. The pegasus sitting next to her flared a wing open right in Twilight's face, slapping her in the cheek. Twilight shoved it roughly aside as she dislodged her leg and stood up in the aisle.
But something gave her pause. It was odd; the chorus, although much closer to the explosion, still worked at sustaining their last note. And the ponies in the orchestra pit weren't moving at all. They just sat in their seats, like they were waiting for something....
And then the spotted face of the moon descended down from the sky, where the sun orb had been, shining a pale light that revealed the unicorns right where they had been, floating on their crystals in the sky. Sure enough, the orchestra and the chorus let out a heavenly major chord as the moon took the sun's place. Everything became clear to Twilight: it was only special effects. Stagecraft, that was all. That old breezy magic. The falling light rig must've been guided down by wires. An illusion, a fake, designed to give the audience a thrill.
The audience breathed a collective sigh and settled back into their seats. Twilight sat back on her haunches, a wave of relief coursing through her. Scattered memories of Wizzley World, out in Los Pegasus, came to her. Going there with her family as a little filly, wandering through the colorful castles and the quaint Mane Street of Equestriatown. The whole musical reminded her of Wizzley World, in fact: a perfect, magical world where things were always perfect and beautiful. Sure, a pony had to pay a little bit for the privilege of delighting in a worldly paradise, but nothing was free. Only Griffons and Solara Victa thought otherwise. Everypony had to pull their fair share. She remembered riding the roller coasters, her little heart hammering in her chest as the little metal car climbed to the top of that first, big hill. Soon it would plunge groundward, giving her a mighty thrill her regular life could never provide. They were fake thrills, because the car stayed on its rails, but they were convincing fakes, and they broke her out of her boring life well enough.
The agonizing wait, though, it was very nearly too much....until Shining Armor's hoof closed over her fetlock as she tightly wrapped it around the safety bar. He gave her a wink and a smile as the wind streamed through his mane, letting her know he was there for her. That her parents were waiting at the end of the ride.
A chill came over her.
All three were waiting for her. At the very end.
She wiped the tears away and tried to bury herself in the musical once again. But the memory haunted her still. That old memory, dredged up from the past. She told herself, Stop thinking about it. Just focus on the musical. But how could she? The separation between audience and actors had been shattered and trampled over by that last stunt. She would always be wary about it happening again. She was forced to watch the musical as a musical, not a self-contained world. In fact, it was coming apart at the scenes, revealing its fictitious nature. The orchestra lost cohesion as individual instruments played arpeggios and countermelodies, forming an untamed and feral, freeform stampede of music that barreled over the audience. And through it all, the moon shone over the world of the stage, bathing everypony in its pale, cool light.
“When I was a foal, my mother said,” River sang in tandem with Ash, who sang the same line with 'father' in place of 'mother'. Then they sang, “'Ash, let the magic shine brightly!'” and, “'River, let the river flow free!'” before both finishing in unison, “And you will see so clearly the way things ought to be!”
These harmonies are spectacular, Twilight thought, though her feelings were detached, intellectual, and passionless. They really sell the idea of these two ponies being of like minds.
As the music rampaged into a climax, the two leads ad-libbed over its churning, frothing aural tempest, crying out many an “Oh, yeah!” and “You will see!” and riffing on previous lines. Then, from the chaos, the orchestra swelled into a cohesive whole again as they powered into the final, harmonious chord. The chorus sang:
“Let the river....
“Let the river....
“Let the river....flow....freeeeeeee!”
Like a tempest, the music climaxed and the stage lights strobed. Then they went out and plunged the hall into darkness as the red curtain dropped over the stage. In front of Twilight, the audience went wild, leaping out of their seats, whistling, pounding their hooves against the carpeted floor. As the stage crews busied themselves reassembling the scenery for the next scene, a mare with light green hair and a bright golden coat stepped between the curtains. The remnants of the curling mist licked at her hooves. When she turned her face up to the audience, her expression was grave and foreboding. The prologue, Twilight assumed. There to set the stage for the rest of the musical.
“'Who is Lily Gild'?” she asked.


The burning stage lights beat down on Trotten Pullet. She crouched on her mark, hidden from the audience by bales of fabricated hay. A bright and poppy tune, driven by a twinkling piano and staccato brass bleats that bounced raucously between octaves, arose from the orchestra pit. The strings and woodwinds tweeted airily to the seesawing beat, cutting between chords just a touch too quickly, threatening to sweep her away in the swagger. But she had to resist; her cue was barreling towards her like a rocket plane, and half of successful comedy rested in absolute control of body language.
“Somepony tell me what I should do,” Fresnel Glow sang over the rollicking beat, “All these earth ponies are driving me crazy! Lounging around while on the clock, sowing their seeds so haphazard and lazy.”
Ha, Trot thought. I've never slacked off a day in my life.
“Almost like they've no recognition of the headache they give me,” Fresnel sang, “as I try and get this farmstead in the market competitively.”
But Trot was enslaved to the demands of the audience. They wanted her to be Trotten Pullet, and their wallets paid her salary, meager as it was. So Pullet she would be, capering and cavorting like they wanted her to. You have it good here, she told herself. Cynic wrote a whole song, just for you! So stop being Trotten Pullet and become Brownie. She'd never think something like that. She would be thinking of food. She briefly mused at the irony that she had to work so hard to put on the act that she didn't work hard at all.
The chorus drew to a close and her cue drew close. Out on the stage, another verse began, this one structured like a conversation. In a rapid, clipped delivery timed to the music, Fresnel asked, “Where, oh where can that lazy pony be? I do declare that it's a quarter to three!”
She heard the sound of Knight Errol's hooves as he stepped forward. His wings fluttered as he ruffled them nervously, just like she'd seen countless times during blocking. Except he wasn't Knight Errol anymore; now he was Fayton, the chief pegasus overseer to River Wilde. “Have no fear, miss,” he declared, “I'll find her and quick!”
“Don't be afraid to show her the stick!” River Wilde finished.
This is it, Trot thought, tensing as she slipped into character, throwing Brownie over her own self like a cloak. Behind her, she heard Fayton slink in her direction. To him she was perfectly visible behind all the bales of hay, but the audience didn't know that, and this was all for their benefit. All part of the act, the theatrical illusion. The machinery behind the scenes, keeping everything running, wasn't for them to know. Only what their eyes told them mattered.
“Hey there, Brownie, now tell me where you're at?” Fayton called out. The orchestra played short, sharp string plucks in sync with his comically exaggerated hoofsteps. This was a funny scene, after all. So very funny. “You know how Miss River gets when she's upset! So come on out and let's get ourselves to work, and hurry please, Brownie, before she goes berserk!” he yelped.
She knew from rehearsal what came next: Fayton, by some divine intuition (in truth, he'd read the script), turned and trained his eye on the stacked hay bales, an expression of suspicion and understanding flaring to life in his eyes and on his face. His hooves were light and quiet on the stage. The music dipped down to a light patter in sympathy with Fayton as he crept towards her. She felt a painful pull on her tail as Fayton dragged her roughly away from her hiding spot, but she expected that. An earth pony didn't get very far in the theater if they didn't acquiesce to some slapstick. Become, she thought, filling her mind with the character she had rigorously constucted while pouring over the show's book. She commanded the machine of her body to shut off the instinct to free herself or flinch in pain. Pretending to snore very loudly, she used her imagination and simulated a dream. When Fayton let go, she let herself go limp and thump to the floor. The first inklings of laughter came from the audience. They sprang up again, louder, when she let a thin dribble of drool spill out of her mouth.
“You lazy little pony, it's time to get working,” Fayton sang. He stood over her, trying to sound firm and bold and failing completely. She knew his practiced expression would be one of barely-concealed panic. “As your overseer you know I despise all this shirking. What about all the seeds you're being paid to sow? These fields won't till themselves, just so you know!”
“Fayton,” River called from across the stage, “have you found that good-for-nothing pony?”
“Yes, River, but I'm afraid that she's, you see....not very willing for me to get up and rouse.”
Like a banshee, River's voice cut through the air: “Are you a pegasus or are you a mouse?!”
Fayton's voice became louder as he turned back to Brownie. He raised his volume and put on the act of acting tough to conceal his meek, yet earnest, core. “Brownie, now I'm afraid I really must insist, you get yourself together and in the midst, of your fellow earth ponies working the fields, oh so nice!”
Trot let her mouth loll open, and the drool dribble out. She murmured sleepily, “Jus lemme finish dis here....big ol' bowl of rice.”
“Brownie!” he shouted over the peals of laughter.
Like a marionette, she leaped to her hooves. The orchestra played a sprightly, uplifting hit. She feigned panic and shouted, “Boy howdy!” in surprise. She spun around, making her eyes go wide and confused, controlling the well-oiled machinery of her body expertly. She made her legs collide with each other and fell, face-first, to the floor. The orchestra played a downward counterpart to its upward hit as she took her pratfall. The laughter rolled over the stage, a wall of sound that washed over her like a wave and warmed her heart. They loved Trotten Pullet so, so much. And she, for her part, loved them too, for giving her this life. All it took was just a little bit of laughter. Just a bit.
“Good mornin', Miss Rivvah,” she sang along to the music as she got up off the stage.
As River stomped over to her, she called out, “Wipe that grin off your face!”
Brownie turned to the audience, her eyes still wide in surprise, and lifted her forelegs up in a sweeping shrug. She moved with exaggerated slowness, communicating her sluggishness with each and every motion. “Is dere sumtin' wrong?”
“You're slacking in the race!” River shouted, incredulous.
With a shrug, Brownie sang, “Wat race is dis? Ah didn't know!” Her two great passions in life were sleeping and eating, and if there was some kind of race going on, she wanted no part of it.
River twisted away from Brownie and pressed her hooves to her temples. Agony twisted her face into stark horror. “The race to keep pace! To keep up with demand. It's that old eternal chase. Staying profitable--”
“Golly Miss Rivvah, about dat, I ain't know a ting, and in races Ah always fall flat. So excuse me if Ah....” Brownie gave a wide, eager to please grin, trying to placate this mare who was fussing herself into a headache. “....jes sit dis one out.”
River's aimed a look of pure contempt and loathing at Brownie. Fuming, she sang, “You'll do what I say, you lazy lout!”
Then River turned back to the audience. The orchestra went into the second part of the number, a more frentic riff on the first half, with sharp stabs of dissonance to punctuate River's mounting frenzy. Brownie, unperturbed, relaxed against the hay bales. For her, life was always good. As she watched her employer run herself ragged with stress and worry, she wished River would see that too.
“I've got piles of taxes and they don't come cheap,” River sang to the audience, her voice effortlessly gliding into full-on singing. She trotted all across the confines of the stage, turning sharply and twisting around as she came up to the edges. “Solara's parasites will throw me into the ditch in a heap! Evicted from the land I was born on, a laughingstock they'll cast scorn on.”
Meanwhile, behind the facade of Brownie, Trot took a moment to go over her next few lines, while the spotlight was firmly fixed on Fresnel Glow. On the stage in her mind, she went through the motions her body would soon perform. The intricate rhythms and cadences needed to go off exactly, or else she'd pull the whole show down.
“....all parasites, each and every one,” Fresnel sang, “bowing to the mare behind the sun.”
My cue, Trotten Pullet thought.
“But de sun makes de plants go blossom and bloom!” Brownie sang, waving a dismissive hoof at River. On the street, talking back to a unicorn like that would get her locked up by the Civil Force or the Midnight Guard. But this was the stage, where such a contemptible act was tolerated, even encouraged. It was all part of the show, after all.
“Lies she spreads so she can weave her loom,” River countered, snarling with condescension, “creating her tapestry of mighty lies, snaring us all tight like helpless flies.”
The music quickened its tempo, shaving off some of the extra notes that gave flavor to the chord progression, until there was just a smooth flowing waterfall of chords that went in lockstep with the tighter banter between Brownie and River in this musical passage.
With an exaggerated shrug, Brownie sang, “Ah dunno if Ah believe all dat.”
“You? You're an earth pony, with the intellect of a gnat, in no way fit for philosophy!”
“Ah'm so hurt Ah could sho'ly weep.”
“But in spite of your lapses, you're lucky you're cheap, much cheaper than my taxes. So if you'd like to get gabby, you just won't get paid!”
Trotten visualized the mechanism of her body from the outside, concentrating on making her eyes go full circle. They stared on River, went to the ground, then to the upper reaches of her mind, finally turned to the sky, until they finally returned to River. The audience roared with laughter at Trot's pitch-perfect comedic timing. “Golly, when ya put it dat way,” she sang, breaking out into a smile, “Ahm happy ta do what you said!”


Look at her, Twilight thought in disgust. Little knives pricked her skull as the cider left her system. Look at Trotten Pullet rolling around on the grass when she should be working. It's their fault the dream of Canterlot isn't coming true. The degenerates. All of them. Her head was aching now. If it hadn't been for that little earth pony in the supermarket tripping me up, I never would've taken that bottle. She made me do it. They smile to your face, but they're always plotting away behind those eyes.
As the useless pegasus tried and failed to catch Trotten Pullet on the stage, Twilight thought, If it weren't for the earth ponies, Shining Armor would still be alive. Their little Winter Rising was what created this security crackdown. They gave the pegasi all the power. It's their fault my brother is....
Dead.
Tears streaming down her muzzle, she watched the degenerate earth pony stab River Wilde in the back and turn the unicorn's best laid plans to so much worthless dirt. Just how the earth ponies liked it. Oh, but every time they do, there are the pegasi, pretending to do something about it.... she thought. I hate them all. The earth ponies and the pegasi, they're in this together, I know they are.
Twilight's eyes flicked to the pegasus behind her. Look at her. I bet she's thinking about the best way to destroy me.


From the moment Fluttershy's eyes had first rested on Fayton, the pegasus overseer of River Wilde's plantation had captured her attention and captivated her so much that it seemed like nothing else in the world existed. At last, here was somepony like her that she could relate to. A giddy thrill shot through her when she saw the all-too-familiar expression on his face and in his body language: he was a reluctant pegasus who put his bravest face on every morning and tried to do his duty the best he could. A huge grin stretched across her muzzle as Fayton crashed around trying to catch Trotten Pullet, who hopped around utterly oblivious and in constant danger of getting into an accident. A zippy xylophone melody underscored her capering.
As Trotten took a hop, a skip, and a jump over a stack of barrels, Fayton took to wing and raced forward to push the rack of rusty pitchforks away before she fell onto them. He succeeded, but crashed to the ground hard. He had just pushed himself up when the blissfully unaware Trot land on his head, and then she skipped off and finally left the stage. The curtains dropped on the farmstead, leaving Fayton sprawled out on the stage. A hoofful of pegasi, all buff and agile, strolled across the stage and sang a boisterous work song that sounded almost like a military march. As they passed Fayton they casually gazed down at him, contempt and sadistic glee on their faces.
Fluttershy, though, cringed in sympathy for that downtrodden pegasus. Her heart crossing the auditorium to him. She wanted to fly right down there beside him and give him a nuzzle. And....maybe a kiss, too. Her heart beat faster and faster as she gazed at the way his sandy mane artfully fell across his brow. He pushed himself up off the ground, and there was something so effortlessly noble about his failure. And moreso, his determination to keep trying to please River, even though earlier she told him to his face that she only hired him because she was too broke to afford somepony better.
Fayton tried to keep pace with the other pegasi as they marched across stage, and he tried to join in their song, but he constantly lagged behind them all. He stayed that way until they left the stage, trailing after them.
Poor Fayton, she thought, doing his best with all the other pegasus ponies silently criticizing him all the time, telling him he's worthless with their stares. And poor Trot, who's just a little scatterbrained. All earth ponies are. They need us to watch out for them, and that's all Fayton is doing: watching out for her. Letting her be the best earth pony she can possibly be, stopping her from hurting herself or others. And no matter how hard it gets, he never, ever stops trying.
The curtains rose on the next song, and the plantation's yard had been transformed into a busy marketplace. Sadly, Fayton was nowhere to be seen, and instead it was River Wilde who made her way through the bustle, singing a song about how wonderful it was when ponies came together in the spirit of commerce. Fluttershy couldn't join in her optimism; she was too busy wondering when they would get back to Fayton.


As the toneless and tuneless parade of forced humor and shallow sentiment marched on, Rarity found her attention wandering. She wondered if the others socialites in the booth could see how bored she was, and what they would think about it. What sort of gossip would they come up with?
But this show. How could she keep focused on it?
Cynic aimed for a crowdpleaser and he missed. He completely and totally missed, she thought, mourning over the stallion who'd sprouted all her favorite musicals from the garden of genius that was his mind. This is so bad, I'd dare to call it satire. But it's so earnest. Is that part of the satire, or is he truly being earnest? He's always been rather, well, cynical, which is what makes the moments of restrained sentiment in his other works that much more powerful. But here, he's laying everything all out. There's no art. It's just a forced, artificial musical. He obviously didn't write this to please himself.
It's vulgar, she thought, finally wrapping her mind around the core of the issue. His other works are so artistic, and my own artistic sensibilities respond to that, despite us working in different mediums. We enjoy the challenge of creation, and using our creations to surprise and delight others. There's no artistry to this, no challenge. Not when every character just thunders out what they're feeling. It's "for the masses", crude and artless and meant to be consumed as smoothly and easily as possible.
Is that what Cynic is trying to say? Is he trying to make us, his true fans, dig deeper into the alienating effect of the musical by the very nature of its forced emotion?
....or maybe it's just unintentionally awful. Happens to the best of us, I suppose.
Wait, something's happening.
She returned her eyes to the stage as the orchestra suddenly stopped playing, bringing the song to an abrupt halt. River Wilde looked around the market as two ponies detached themselves from the crowd and nimbly shuffled towards her.
“Hey, have ya heard?” a mare asked, in a singsong voice.
“Heard what?” River responded in confusion.
“The word!” the mare said instantly, to keep the beat going.
The other pony, a stallion, said, “She hasn't heard? Absurd!”
“Become part of the herd,” the mare said, grinning at River.
The drums began to snap a slinky rhythm, with plenty of hissing hi-hat. A low, thrumming beat descended from the horn section, which the two ponies circling River moved to.
“Have ya heard the word of a mare most intelligent?” the stallion whispered.
'Most intelligent'? Rarity thought, rolling her eyes. In this play? Fat chance!
When River turned to look at him, the mare jumped behind her and whispered into her ear, “She won't talk down to ya or make ya wanna lament!”
As the two ponies continued circling around River Wilde, they turned to the assembled crowd and began to include them in the song.
“She's a ponyist with a knack for saying what's what,” the stallion said, pointing to them.
“On yer face she'll put a smile, in your gait a strut,” the mare finished, with a strut to demonstrate.
“She won't drag ya through the mud like Solara wants....”
“....Or make ya feel like a dirt-eater down in the ruts.”
Rarity's brow drew together in confusion. This is just distasteful now. I don't remember Cynic ever being especially harsh towards earth ponies before. In fact, nopony writing musicals today has ever captured the foibles and flaws of the upper echelons of unicorn society half as well as he does. But this racial snobbery doesn't suit him at all. Some of the hardest workers I know are earth ponies! Where does he get off casually slandering them like this?
The stallion continued, holding his forelegs out in a sweeping, graceful gesture of inclusion, “Hers is the highest celebration of unicorns around....”
“....And it's got none of that 'love lowly ponies' sound,” the mare sang, shaking her head as she brushed past the rim of the crowd.
“It's a kind of word that makes ya proud to be horned,” the stallion said, traipsing back to River and slinging a foreleg over her back.
“In this crazy world where your horn gets ya scorned,” the mare sang as she embraced River's other side, gently flicking her horn.
The stallion swept a forehoof out towards the audience, his eyes alighted with the distant horizon. “She writes the kind of tales about minds most superior....”
The mare mirrored his movement, and between them both River looked very confused. “All mares and stallions who are proud to stand up for....”
The stallion stared at the side of River's head. “The right to be free of the jealousy of lesser minds....”
The mare did the same, making River look nervously from one to the other.
“The right to be free of the jealousy of lesser kinds....”
Together, the two ponies gave River a sudden spin and sent her twirling towards the front of the stage.
The stallion declared, “And this brilliance springs from the mind most skilled....”
The music cut out suddenly as the mare finished, “....of a certain great mare by the name of Miss Lily Gild!”
Once River stopped wobbling and regained her balance, she shook her head and faced the audience. “Well, uh, that sounds terrific,” she said nervously. “But....who is this Lily Gild?”
Behind her, the two ponies shared a grin. Then they faced her and the audience, nodded, and said in unison: “We're glad you asked.” They began to strut again, creeping up behind River. “Who.... is....Lily Gild?” they chanted. “Who....is....Lily Gild? In a world so unfulfilled, we ask 'who....is....Lily Gild?'”
The drums came back in, with much more bite this time. The thrumming brass became more intense as well, and had more swing to it. The circle of ponies in the marketplace turned to each other and started to chatter to one another excitedly. Some looked at the two ponies and joined them in a chorus that rose over the babble.
“That's the question we've all heard sweeping the land,” the two ponies sang. “Everypony asks just who is this reclusive firebrand? She's a mare who knows the way to live in civility, so unapologetic about her success and ability. Her books fill unicorns with a righteous sense of ethics, with each new philosophy from her bag of tricks. All Solara's hack writers and mouthpieces unskilled, could learn a thing or two of truth from Miss Lily Gild!”
Pity she's not here to write a better musical, Rarity thought, supremely bored.


Trixie slumped down in her seat listlessly, waiting for her beautiful Blockbuster to come out again and upstage all these wastes of space.