//------------------------------//
// The Last Week 
// Story: Lame Duck 
// by Theblondeknight 
//------------------------------//

One more week. It was hard to believe the last year had gone by so quickly. He could have sworn that Hearth's Warming Eve was only a few weeks ago. It made sense, he supposed, that time had flown past him so swiftly. The longer you lived, the shorter the days seemed to last. 

He removed his monocle with a grip of orange magic and rubbed his temples gently with his worn hooves. He couldn't remember the last time he didn't have a headache. He set his famous accessory down on the old, wooden desk and pulled out a bottle from his desk drawer. One pill and a short massage later left him feeling exactly the same; medicine didn't work like it used to. 

He then remembered what it was he had been doing before he let his mind get sidetracked. The bill. With his last act as Mayor of Canterlot, he hoped to pass a bill that would create jobs, improve the community, and raise the standard of living for all citizens of the fine city where he had spent his adult life. Unfortunately, he needed time to finish it, and it was time that he lacked more than anything. 

The bill was aimed at altering the city infrastructure and creating a new hub for small businesses and investors. A move for a stable, solid future. If only he had the time to make that vision come true. His successor surely wouldn't finish it; no capitalist-minded candidate was running this year. Of course, Princess Celestia had full authority over the city, but she left many public affairs to the office of the Mayor. It was a more important job than ponies seemed to think. 

He had certainly scoffed at the idea of mayor once himself. Back when he was younger, wilder, less attuned to the way a city worked. The things he took for granted...Then his life changed when he ran for, and won, the position on a dare. He owed much of his life's course to a late night with a few too many drinks. 

It was a tough start, especially before his heart got in it. By the end of his first three years, though, he promised himself he'd run again. He was popular, his policies were well received, once he'd begun doing his political homework, and he had the energy and drive to be an excellent politician. 'One more term' he'd find himself saying. One more term. Three more years behind the desk, then'd move on. 

Now the law was forcing him to move on.  

The crackles of the fireplace behind his comfortable but not extravagant chair broke his concentration. The entire office, decorated with old awards and certificates and mementos from better days, was set in a melancholy, orange glow, but the fire behind him wasn't overbearing. In fact, he was a little cold. He used his magic to light another few candles across the office.

He enjoyed the nights at the office, and he'd really miss them when they were gone. For a few hours, he wasn't somepony to adore or seek advice or approval from. He was an honest, hardworking pony. Just a stallion trying to do his public service. All his adult life there was a misconception about him, especially as the younger generations matured. Their parents saw him as an admirable figure, a regular business owner and true, blue Equestrian patriot. 

Not that he wasn't any of those things, but there was depth to him they just didn't see. Maybe some of them didn't look for it in the first place, but even those that did appeared to find it overshadowed by his status and figure. It wasn't such a curse, but it certainly did bother him from time to time. His work was a sacrifice, he told himself, even if it made him out to be a little larger than he was in real life. 

But their children, the next generation of citizens and socialites and heirs to what his generation had done...they really saw him in a different light. To almost anypony over the age of 28 or so, he was a symbol of power. Of something they didn't have. He was sometimes portrayed as a bit selfish. A snobby aristocrat that held no true heart for those not of his kind. 

Some just didn't care about him at all. They were a lot like him in his youth, agnostic to the notions of anything that did not apply to themselves. Sadly, he sensed that they wouldn't turn out quite like him. Times were changing and society moved on. Even those at the top couldn't alter its course too much. Not even the mayor.    

So much bravado, so much emotion for but one hour on the stage. He was certainly glad he learned a few things about himself and the proper conduct of a good citizen, but he did fail to pass on these virtues properly. He blamed himself of course, for he could have reached out to his peers, taught them the values to then influence their inheritors. Evidently, he was just so swept up in acting his part, he never passed it on right. It was too late now.

He chuckled lightly, breaking the somber atmosphere of the lonely office. That was happened to the lame duck. No vision of all the things you did right, only a burning remorse at the things you did wrong-or couldn't do at all. Stuck to drown in your personally produced turmoil, unless you were such a great pony that you had taught yourself better. 

The bill taunted him, egged his spirit on as he firmly accepted that he was not such a great pony. 

The phone rang alive, startling him greatly. He settled back into his chair and levitated it to his face and cleared his throat, "Hello?"

"Oh, good, I'm so glad you're there," the familiar and always heart-warming voice of Rarity answered, "I'm sorry to call so late, but I've been so dreadfully busy. I hope you weren't about to leave."

Fancy Pants couldn't help but smile and turn his chair so that he was facing the wall, specifically, staring at a picture from many years ago, not long after the two unicorns had run into each other for the first time, "No, old politicians don't get to sleep until they retire. Or perhaps I've confused my profession for yours..."

Rarity giggled on the other end, "Always the charmer, huh?"

"Always."

"I'm so sorry to see you go; whatever will you do with yourself when your term expires?"

"Who knows, my dear? The world is full of things to do and see. I'm not so old yet as to spend my life at home. Perhaps you could send me your travel schedule, and I'll come and see you when you come back to Canterlot."

"I'd like that, but my schedule is simply random. We go where the highest bidder wants us without much warning. The world of fashion is dynamic, always changing. The styles and the faces can't last forever, but sometimes you can hardly tell some of them even existed, just because they move on so quickly."

"How very unlike being the mayor."  

"Oh come now," Rarity embellished him, "as much as a travesty of a world without good fashion sense may be, a world without dedicated and good-hearted ponies like yourself is even worse."

Fancy Pants could not hold back the deep chuckle at that remark, "Please, you spoil my ego."

He imagined her rolling her eyes, playfully, on the other end. She put down the phone for a moment, he could tell, as muffled voices on the other end interrupted their brief reminiscence. He grabbed the phone with his hoof and held it in place for when she returned and levitated the picture on the wall towards his face. 

So young, so full of life, but errors too. She always brought a smile to his face, and he relished in thinking of their journeys. Her's was more interesting, more vivid, but he was happy about it. She understood him, from a perspective of business and professionalism, of course, but also from a personal one. If more ponies were like her...there just might not be so much of a need for ponies like him. 

"I'm terribly sorry about that interruption; my demands are many, but that's not an excuse to dismiss you so easily."

"Not at all, I was just recalling your grace and splendor."

"Charming devil," Rarity mockingly scoffed. 

Fancy Pants had closed his eyes, mentally drawing up the night they had danced at one of the last balls he attended on his first year as mayor. He could near perfectly recall the dress she wore, a beautiful pink one with embroidered jewels along the hemlines. Nothing overly extravagant. She didn't need to be, and she knew it.

"As I said, always." 

"Well, anyways, I wanted to call to check up on you and let you know that my company won't be donating to the mayor's office this year, unless you want me to."

"Actually, I would like that. It'd be a wonderful surprise to whatever good natured sap they pull into this office."

"The usual amount?"

"Unless I can convince you to give more."

"Done."

"Quite remarkable of you. I'd expect no less from my favorite mare."

"Anything for my favorite mayor."

His brief laugh was nothing short of genuine and her infectious giggle only empowered it. He inhaled deeply as he set the picture down on his desk and grabbed hold of the phone again with his telekinetic grip. 

"Oh, before I have to go, my younger sister, Sweetie Bell, asked me to ask her a favor."

"One good donation deserves another."

"She'd like you attend her performance in Manehattan; she's in a joint venture with a few other musical artists, and their goal is to bring in as many high-profile faces as possible. More donations, you understand?"

"A philanthropic event? I'll be there."

"Wonderful, I'll mail you the tickets. You still live at the same address, don't you?"

"Indeed."

"Well, it's been a pleasure speaking with you, Fancy Pants. Give my regards to Princess Celestia at the ceremony next week, and do try and enjoy yourself."

"Likewise, hearing your voice has done wonders for me; take care, Rarity, I'll keep in touch."

"All right then, goodbye."

"Good evening, Rarity."

She hung up with vigor, but not any kind of disgust for him. She was busy, busy, busy after all. He put the phone back in place and then gave the picture the same treatment. It was going to stay on that wall, in the corner of his eye, until the day he left office. His life's work, more or less, was in here. Not just the official documents and objects of his work, but his personal life too. His time at charity events and parties and shows and the like. 

At least that wouldn't die with this election. His social life was far from over, and his personal adventures would go, like the road, ever on. Onwards into great things, right? Well, onwards regardless. 

The clock above the door read after midnight. All mayors needed to sleep, even the lame ducks. He cleaned his monocle and put it back over his eye. He stood up, and grabbed the bill on the desk and read over the last few paragraphs again. He frowned slightly, as the words gave way to the shallow, self-induced turmoil once again. His hour had gone by so quickly.  

Fancy Pants threw the bill into the fire with a sigh, then doused the flames behind him so that the office lost most of the orange glow. He levitated the keys up from the desk surface and locked the door behind him on the way out.