Princess Celestia
Once upon a time, there lived a noble unicorn. His name doesn't matter.
He hailed from a family who traced their lineage directly to Princess Platinum of old. He was as rich as he was prudish and preferred the company of paintings of long-dead ponies to the company of those who still walked the land. Many mistook his reclusive nature for timidity – perhaps even stoic wisdom – when in fact he was merely disgusted by the world. “Born after his time,” he used to grumble.
When he grew old and his age required him to join the Senate, he would rarely speak – but when he did, the hall would erupt in standing ovation. Not that his views were not controversial; he judged my sister and me, he urged the return of the old Senate without us to guide it, and most of all, he condemned Luna's practice of binding ponies to her soul.
Although his opponents outnumbered his supporters, even they had to admit that his words carried an uncanny charisma, and from his mouth even the most outrageous of claims became reasonable. In his supporters he inspired a fervour the kind of which I have not seen since.
Had they found out that he was not who wrought his own words, their faith may have faltered. He had opinions, to be sure, but his sheltered life had rendered him unable to express himself with the expected eloquence. I knew about it; Luna knew about it; the Night Guard knew about it. We would not reveal his secret, of course, for at the time I did not believe in silencing my opponents.
In his mansion lived several families who had been servants of his for generations. They were respected, educated, and perhaps even cherished. Born to a simple maid, Veiled Quill showcased immense finesse with words. She studied rhetoric on the noble's money, and became the mare to write his speeches. It helped that she shared most of the noble's scathing opinions – and she injected much of her own venom.
The night before a sitting of the Senate, three Night Guards had been dispatched to watch over Veiled Quill while she stayed at the Old Castle. The noble she served never attended without her. Nightsong perched on the balcony outside her room while Silhouette and Crescent Strike remained inside with Veiled Quill. She hated them, but law voted in part by the noble himself required us to protect all important personnel. A private joke, courtesy of my dear sister.
While Crescent Strike stood at the door, Silhouette focused his attention on the mare's bed, searching for any potential traps, magical or otherwise. The squabbling noble lot had been known for their treachery: all part of the reason they needed my sister and me.
Veiled Quill sat patiently, her teeth clenched and gaze fixed on the opposite wall. She knew Crescent Strike was looking, yet she endured without a word. It would have been most improper for a lady of her calibre to lose her temper.
“Nice bracelet,” Crescent Strike remarked.
Veiled Quill flinched and shut her eyes as if something had struck the back of her head. She took a deep breath and paused for a moment to hold it in before turning towards Crescent Strike. “Thank you,” she forced out between her teeth. “It was a gift from my husband.”
“Oh, don't shoot me down like that.” He chuckled, shifting his gaze to the mare's pregnant belly. If he listened just right, his bat ears could make out the faint beating of a tiny heart. “It was a genuine compliment. You'll find we are entirely uninterested in such pleasures.”
“Yes, I know all about Night Guard frigidity.” She looked to the side, grumbling under her nose. “Even Princess Luna doesn't want you to breed.”
“Why do you hate us?”
She ignored him, turning to Silhouette. “Are you quite done? Normal ponies need sleep, in case you've forgotten.”
Silhouette hopped into the bed and shuffled about on his back. “Almost, ma'am. Not feeling anything off.” He rolled off the other side of the bed and bent to feel the underside with a hoof. After a moment, he pulled out a little blue crystal. “And the gem isn't glowing. No curses.” He smoothed out the bedsheets, then took a step back and sent a nod. “Your room is perfectly safe, ma'am.”
“Good.” Veiled Quill stood up and quickly paced to the bed. “You can leave now.”
Silhouette nodded with a smile. He always smiled. “Nightsong will watch the balcony. Crescent Strike and I will stand guard at the door. If you need anything, you need only call.”
“Thank you,” she said, easing into the bed. “I won't. Blow out the candles on the way out.” She pulled the covers over her head and turned away from them.
Silhouette reached for the door handle, but Crescent Strike stood in his way. The younger Night Guard wouldn't budge, his eyes still set on Veiled Quill. “What if your kid turns out to be like us?”
Silhouette flared a stern look at Crescent Strike, to which he drooped his ears. He was just about to move out of the way when Veiled Quill sat up, eyes casting flames.
“My child...” She closed her lips to hide her clenched teeth, drawing in a sharp breath through her nose. “My child will be raised to be a productive member of society, unlike you motherless freaks. Should she wish to serve the Crowns, she will join her father in the Royal Guard.” She pointed to the door. “Out. The Princesses will be hearing about this.”
Crescent Strike opened his mouth, ready to lash out with an insulting comeback – but Silhouette spoke first. “Allow me to apologise on behalf of my partner. We shan't bother you any longer.” He blew out the candles on the nearby stand, then opened the door and threw Crescent Strike outside by the scruff of his neck.
As the echoes of the door shutting faded in the cold hallway, the pair of guards took their places on either side of the door. Crescent Strike's slit pupils dilated, quickly adjusting to the darkness. When he turned his head, he saw Silhouette looking down on him with the eyes of a disappointed father.
“No,” was all Silhouette said.
Crescent Strike cast his gaze down, looking for his words between the stone tiles. “Don't you hate them?” he whispered.
“You can't blame them for being afraid of something they don't understand.”
Crescent Strike stayed silent for a while. “We've changed, haven't we? We do so much for them. For everypony.”
Silhouette placed a hoof on his shoulder. “And that is all you need to know. They are not evil, son. Just uninformed.” He put his hoof down. “If you want to change their minds, be an exemplary Night Guard.”
Crescent Strike nodded, turning forward.
Silhouette spoke after a minute of silence. “I fear for Princess Luna.”
Crescent Strike turned, and found Silhouette still looking forward. “You're feeling it too?”
He nodded. “We all are.” He looked up, as though through the ceiling into the starry sky. “Something looms above us, something I can't name. We must be vigilant.” He turned to Crescent Strike. “Make the Princess proud.”
Crescent Strike turned forward. “We will.”
Although Silhouette didn't answer, Crescent Strike's ears picked up the turning of his neck as Silhouette, too, looked forward. The two stallions would sit there all night, still as gargoyles, their senses never faltering. They were good at that, the Night Guards, being invisible. They all had to learn to be.
Still Crescent Strike sat, blissfully ignorant of how fate would have him meet Veiled Quill again.
New Page
I didn't like my apartment very much. I was grateful to have a place to stay, of course, but it was tiny, dark, cluttered, and altogether uncomfortable. The Canterlot Archives were a lot more homely. I hesitated at first with going back there, with how my previous visit ended. Eventually I figured that if they had discovered my identity, I'd have been taken away already – and with a 'small' test coming up on the complete history of the Era of the Three Tribes, I didn't have much of a choice anyway.
I was lost in a book detailing how the Era of Warring Kingdoms ultimately led to Commander Hurricane's rise to power when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I had my front hooves on the table, and in the reflection of my bauble bracelet I made out the dim silhouette of a Royal Guard.
It took a second and the impatient clearing of a throat for me to look up. He stood behind my chair, with a spear over his shoulder and a piercing stare in his eyes. I recognised him as a guard I'd briefly evaded on my way to the Lunar Wing a few nights prior. I felt my blood freeze in my veins.
“Y-yes?” I asked.
“The Archives are closing,” he grumbled. “Time to go home, kid.”
“Oh.” I took a quick look around, finding nopony but myself, a few guards, and the kindly old custodian at her desk by the exit. The Mare in the Moon watched over all of us through the window with her brightly shining glare. “Sorry, I got caught up. Excuse me.” As I got up, I closed the book and lifted it for the guard. “I'll be checking this one out really quickly, if that's okay.”
The guard's only response was flaring his nostrils by exhaling deeply. He stepped aside and cocked his head toward the custodian.
I quickly dropped the half a dozen other books I'd already checked out over the course of the afternoon into my bag, threw the bag over my back, and hurried to the exit with 'Ascending Hurricane' between my teeth.
As I placed the book onto her desk, the receptionist looked up from her own book. She adjusted her glasses, and her lips curled into a benevolent smile, the tips getting lost in the wrinkles of her cheeks. “You're responsible for making me work overtime, Page. You know that, right?”
I tried playing it off with a shrug, but I couldn't help a little smirk of my own. “A few minutes aren't going to kill you, Miss Mercy, are they?”
“This isn't the first time, Page.” She adjusted her glasses again and gave a patronising glare. “It adds up, you know.”
I sighed. “Sorry. Won't happen again.” That's what I'd said last time.
As Miss Mercy's horn lit up, she pulled the tome closer, and a floating quill dashed off a short line on a parchment that hung from the wall behind the desk. She pulled out a drawer to fish out a little blank, dipped a stamp in ink, then pressed the stamp onto the card. Slipping the card under the front cover, she gave the book back.
“Two weeks,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “Like usual.”
“Great. Can I—”
“Yes, you can extend it,” she chortled. “But only once the two weeks are up and you really, really mean it.”
“Thank you.” I dropped the book into my saddlebag and cast a glance toward the increasingly frustrated-looking guards. “Well, I won't keep you. Gotta get home... to my little rat-hole. ”
Miss Mercy's magic gathered around a disorganised stack of papers, shuffling them together. “See you soon, Page.”
“Good bye!”
So I left, with a heavy stack of books in my bag and the judging stares of Royal Guards on my back. Once I was out of the Archives, I slowed down to enjoy the calm night. A warm breeze swept across the street, gently caressing my mane. I decided not to fly home tonight, and the Mare in the Moon walked with me.
I took out 'Ascending Hurricane' from my bag. I'd left off, I remembered, at the part where the young Hurricane got into a dispute with her father, and he threatened to disown her and cast her to the monsters – all those vile earth ponies – down below. I read on as I walked, hobbling on three legs along the curving slopes of Canterlot. The baubles of Mama's bracelet clattered around my hoof at every little hop.
It was getting late, and although Celestia had abolished curfew a few weeks ago, everypony was still accustomed to getting home before nightfall. Save for a few pegasi – armoured or otherwise – whisking by above, there was hardly anypony in sight. A peaceful stroll and several pages later, I reached the southern district of the city: that inhabited by common ponies, construction workers, merchants, and even a few students like me.
Up above, I could see the myriad doors on the crudely carved mountainside, each leading to a different but similarly cramped apartment. Well, I could have seen those doors, had I looked up. But I didn't, and that's how I managed to bump right into somepony as I rounded a corner. As I recoiled, the book got knocked from my hoof.
“So sorry!” I pleaded without even looking up. My eyes were still on the ground, frantically looking for the dropped book.
Then the tome appeared right in front of me – held by another hoof. “It's alright.”
“Oh, thank you.” I took the book, turning it over in my hoof to check its condition. Oh, Miss Mercy's going to kill me if... Luckily enough, the book appeared unharmed. Giving a sigh of relief, I looked up.
A pair of red eyes greeted me. It was a pegasus, a few years younger than me by the looks of it. For a split second, I took him to be a mare; his mane was unusually long for a stallion, well brushed and lush as it flowed down one side of his head to his chin. His coat was white and the mane only a shade darker, the transition all but lost in the dark.
He looked at me and cocked his head slightly to the side, showing a pleasant smile. “Are you alright?”
I dusted myself off. “Yeah, fine. Sorry again.” I stepped around him and hastened my steps, too embarrassed to look back.
“She vows revenge for the mistreatment,” the young stallion said. I turned to him in confusion. “Years later, she bests her father in a duel, but shows mercy.”
Then it hit me. “Commander Hurricane?”
“I'm quite fascinated by history.” He came closer. “As are you, I take it.”
“Yes, well, I actually study history at the university.” I looked him over, then extended a hoof. “New Page, by the way.”
“Wintermist.” When we shook, his hoof felt unreasonably cold. Fitting, I supposed. “Cramming for a test, I'm guessing.”
“Yeah. On that note...” I took a step back, and pointed a hoof up at the mountainside. “I really should get home. Lots to do, and I still need sleep.”
He chuckled lightly. “Sleep? Are you really a university student? Join me for a drink.” He extended an upturned hoof towards the Pristine Pillars: a homely tavern just down the way.
The signboard which displayed a gold coloured image of a pair of pillars swayed softly on its chains blown by the light wind. Through the tavern's windows a warm, yellowish light flooded into the dark street.
“Spare a few minutes for me,” said Wintermist.
Come on, really? “I think you're a little young for me, boyo.”
He kept his hoof up, flaring his eyes once, as if in a dare. Looking him over, I had to admit... he certainly was something. He was more pretty than handsome, really – and the fact that he stood about half a head shorter than me made him all the cuter. Even his voice was soft – not particularly deep – and it carried a strangely alluring cadence. Plus, he did seem to know a thing or two about history; I didn't often get to talk to ponies like that. Not ones who weren't professors, anyway.
I tried to force it down, but my lips curled into a smile. He bared his teeth in a sly grin, knowing he'd won.
“Alright, Winters,” I said, “but you're paying. And I'm calling you Winters.”
The Pristine Pillars was at once grandiose and rustic. The tavern's namesake pillars, engraved with floral vines and elaborate branches, stood worn and scratched from one too many drunks finding themselves thrown against them in brawls. The tables, made from rich woods, fared no better: spilt drinks had long eaten between the cracks where even the most determined rag couldn't get them out.
Something told me this place had been intended for visitors of, let's say, higher calibre clientèle than who actually frequented it. The architects must not have realised that this district would become the one for the city's lower classes – or indeed, perhaps it had slipped their mind that there would ever be a lower class in Canterlot. Even in the city for the noblest and greatest, however, somepony had to scrub the dirt from outhouse walls.
The owner had long since resigned to the fact, though, as evidenced by the run-down look of the place. Bits don't stink, as they say.
The barkeep – a middle-aged stallion who lived right up there in the caves with the rest of us – washed a mug, the washcloth's wet swishes barely audible above the constant chatter and clinking of glass. The Pristine Pillars was open all night, ready to welcome anypony who might wander in – and wander in so many ponies did.
They burped and talked loudly and sang even louder, flinging insults and laughter every which way. More prudish ponies might have thought this place unworthy of themselves, but me, well, I found it surprisingly easy to get swept up in the atmosphere.
“Then he goes...” I banged a hoof on the table, trying to catch my breath between fits of laughter. “And then Storming Falls goes, 'but I thought Hurricane was inside the phalanx!'”
Wintermist put a hoof over his tightly shut eyes and turned slightly to the side. He bit his lips as his chest heaved with barely contained laughter. “Are you sure this guy is a pegasus?” he chortled.
“That's the best part.” I propped myself with two hooves, reeling from the laughter. “He's actually related to Hurricane. By blood, really!”
“No way.”
“Yes way. He took me to see the family, once, he's the real deal.”
“Oh?” He raised a brow. “Do I have competition?”
I shook my head. “Like I said. Once. And you'd have to be in the race to have any competition.”
He put a hoof on his heart. “You're killing me, Page.”
“Maybe next time, Winters.”
“Oh, I'd be all for a next time.”
I pursed my lips. I suppose I walked into that one. Looking to change the subject, my gaze wandered to the bottle of wine between us – still unopened. “You bought that, then you're not even going to drink?”
He reached a hoof across the table and prodded the teacup before me. “As a rule, I don't drink alone, Miss-I-Only-Drink-Tea. I thought you said you wanted to sleep.”
I lifted the cup and took a sip. “This is weak stuff. If I want to crash into slumber tonight, I damn sure will. Never needed much sleep, anyway.”
“Is that so?” He leaned forward, resting his chin on the backs of his hooves. “Then we have another thing in common.”
“I'm flattered by the effort, I really am, but you're trying way too hard.”
“What? It's true.” He chuckled, which slowly turned into a long sigh as he leaned back in his chair. “In all seriousness, I like talking to ponies, be they attractive young ladies or not.”
I pushed my seat out. “Okay, I think that's my cue to leave.”
“I don't think this was time wasted. Do you? Be honest.”
Furrowing my brows, I pulled my chair back to the table. “Let me ask you something first. How often do you do this, just talk to random ponies on the street?”
“More often than you'd think. It's an excellent way to learn. As you might've noticed, I quite like learning.”
“If you like learning,” I replied, “apply to the university. Goodness knows you're already more educated than half that lot.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “But I said I like learning, not studying. Different things. Talking to ponies is great. If you have an eye for the right kind of pony, I can only recommend it.” He leaned forward again. “You still haven't answered my question.”
I pursed my lips. “What was the name of Clover the Clever's third son?”
“Trick question. She vowed celibacy after the second.”
Again, I couldn't help a smile. “Not wasted at all.”
“Well then,” he said, offering a hoof again, “if you really want to go, I shan't keep you any longer. I'm glad we had this chance to talk.”
He smiled at me, and I had to smile back. “You know what? So am I.” I shook his cold hoof again. “But don't get any ideas. Say, you live nearby?”
“Oh, I'm not from Canterlot. Just visiting some friends.” He turned toward the nearest window. Outside, between the shadows cast by walls and jagged cliffs, you could just make out the Moon silhouetting an unfinished spire of the Palace. “It's quite amazing, really. I think Celestia's doing the right thing, building this city. Equestria needs hope.”
“How old are you, again? Sixteen, seventeen?”
He rubbed his chin for a moment, then turned to me. “Seventeen sounds about right.”
“You're a really odd sort, anypony ever tell you that?”
He chuckled. “Oh, absolutely everypony.”
I slurped the last drops of tea from my cup, then stood up. “Alright, you crazy pony you. I really should get going.”
He stood up as well. “You go on home then, don't let me hold you. I'll handle payment.”
I turned towards the barkeep. “You hear that? Guy's paying!” Wintermist waved at him, and the barkeep waved back in agreement. “Okay then, Winters. See you around.”
He smiled. “I'm sure we'll bump into each other again.”
A stiff, suffocating mist enveloped me and made me shiver. I could feel my hairs stand on end as tiny droplets condensed on every strand. The moisture ate into my coat and beads of it clung to my skin. My hooves carved the ground: white, rough, and chilling to the touch. Nothing to be seen around me except the desolate, rocky landscape that stretched out into the mist. A dim light poured from above, bouncing and refracting in the misty air.
I walked, slowly at first, through the mist. There seemed no end to these wastes. I quickened my steps, and then I galloped as fast as I could. When I tried to fly, the sky weighed down on me, pushing me back to the ground.
The mist seemed to go on forever.
“Hello?” I called, looking this way and that. “Is there anypony here?”
In the distance, behind the curtain of mist, I heard something. Like a mare's voice, but I could make out no words. She hummed a calming melody, and her voice resonated gently with the earth, tingling my hooves. The air brushed the hairs on the tips of my ears.
“Can you hear me?” I asked, following the sound.
The humming grew more distinct, louder but not obtrusive, until I finally saw the silhouette of a mare materialise beyond the mist. She sat still, back straight and chin high.
“Are you lost?” I asked.
As I approached, I came to realise that the mare was enormous, larger even than me, larger than any pony I'd ever seen. Condensed water softly filmed her armour, collecting in tiny drops on the underside of her chestplate. A helmet crowned her head, a hole cut at her forehead to allow for her horn. She kept her eyes on the ground, and tears of irritation collected under her unblinking, slit pupils.
She hummed on through a content smile, a serene tone to echo across the endless, barren plains. Every breath sent vapour swirling in the mist.
I sat down in front of her, craning my head to look into her eyes. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes turned in their sockets, but her body didn't move. She looked at me and blinked her tears away. She leaned her long, swan-like neck forward just an inch – only to be yanked violently back into place by some unseen force. The sound of chains resonated across the land.
A halo of light lit up around her neck – then the light quickly subsided, burning away like a parchment cast into a fire, and in its place appeared a thick collar of shining metal. The light burned on as though at the end of a candle's wick, whisking swiftly into the air to reveal a rattling chain in its wake. The end of the chain, somewhere up above, quickly got lost in the mist.
Her hooves began to glow. The quickly disappearing light left behind heavy shackles that bound her legs. The mare began to shine, and soon fetters and cuffs covered her entire body. Straps of metal and black leather bound her wings in a corset-like embrace, nails pinned her tail to the ground, and weights pulled on her armour.
Hooks tore into her immortal, bloodless flesh down the back of her neck and her spine, pulling her skin away from bone. Their chains stretched infinitely in every direction.
The last binding to form was a strap around her muzzle, muffling her hums. I had to take a step back to look over the scene, my jaw hanging.
The humming stopped. She drew a sharp breath, and as her chest expanded, I saw her hooks and straps stiffen chokingly around her. The mare blew cold air into my face, as if asking me to pay attention. She turned her eyes upwards.
My gaze followed hers, crawling up the long chain that bound her collar. High above, just before the metal disappeared entirely behind the curtain of mist, I saw a dark spot: one tiny speck of rust on the pristine chain.
Time would triumph. All she had to do was wait and endure patiently; far worse than mere physical suffering, she had to bear the slowly burning agony of hypocrisy and injustice.
Her gaze slowly descended, and so did mine. When our eyes met, her lips parted beneath the strap and she grinned at me with a mouth full of fangs.
The scene dissolved before my eyes. The mare faded into the mist, the ground disappeared under my hooves, and even the mist itself dissipated into nothingness. I awoke with my eyes on the ceiling and 'Ascending Hurricane' lying on my chest.
Another one of those dreams.
Cold air brushed one of my hooves that hung off the bed. I got up with a yawn and a stretch, then stumbled half-asleep towards the window. I bumped into my desk and cursed under my breath as a stack of books fell to the floor in a miniature avalanche. I didn't care to pick them up.
I cranked the window's handle with a frustrated sigh, pulling it open for a second before slamming the damn thing shut. Up in the mountains, it got cold in the mornings, and the window never sealed properly. I took a second to appreciate that I had no classes that morning. No rush for me today.
As I rubbed my eyes, I turned around and carefully stepped over the fallen pile of books. I took a right out of my room and wobbled into the bathroom. Leaning over the tub, I turned the blue crank. The rusty iron tube above spat and sputtered before it finally spewed a cascade of ice-cold water. I stuck my head in, letting it soak my mane completely.
When the cold became too much to bear, I turned the crank back and whipped my head back. With a satisfied shudder, I looked at all the water my mane had splashed across the other wall. I usually let time clean that up. As I dried myself up and brushed my mane, I couldn't help but let my mind wander.
Mama always told me ponies had recurring nightmares. It was normal, she said, and I shouldn't think much of it. It was all in my head, she'd calm me, the bad mare in chains could never hurt me. I was a little worried about the spot of rust on her chain, though; I couldn't remember seeing that before.
It was strange, though. I never felt threatened by the mare in chains. These weren't nightmares, not really. In fact, whenever I saw her in a dream, I felt a sort of longing. In my dreams, I never cared how terrifying she was – or who she was. She felt like a friend long lost, and meeting her again always warmed my heart.
Only after waking up did I realise, time and time again. And then I pondered.
A mere twenty years after her banishment, Princess Luna had already become more the stuff of legend than a figure of history. Those few who had ever seen her only did for a few stolen moments here and there. In the years just before her banishment, she'd supposedly become increasingly secluded from the world.
The only ponies who might have had a deeper understanding of Luna were the Night Guards, and of course Celestia herself – but Celestia never spoke about her sister, and the Night Guards were long gone, banished by the Elements of Harmony along with their mistress.
I couldn't recall when the dreams started. But I think I'd been having them even before I knew about Nightmare Moon, or even the Longest Night at all. That wasn't right, of course. I couldn't have dreamed about her before I knew who she was. I just supposed I must've remembered wrong.
Maybe it was these dreams that had made me so interested in history. That's why I studied as hard as I did, and why I could secure a scholarship in Canterlot University. It's how I had my own apartment in our nation's capital, and enough money to send home to Mama.
In a way, Nightmare Moon shaped my life, though I was born mere weeks before her banishment. I could never shake this strange, sentimental affection to the Mare in the Moon.
But I couldn't spend time reminiscing on dreams. I had a few spare hours that morning, and with Mama coming to visit for the Summer Sun Celebration soon, I had something important to attend to.
Once my mane was properly dry and didn't look like I'd just escaped a thunderstorm, I grabbed a few spare bits and headed out. The streets below the apartments were lined with all manner of shops and stalls. Not far from the Pristine Pillars, there was one particular stall I frequented – not just for business' sake, but also for company.
Mrs Pinegreens was an absolute gem of a mare of utmost kindness, who made bits by selling flowers cultivated in her garden somewhere in the lower parts of Canterlot Mountain. She'd always be up before the Sun itself to pick and carry up the freshest batch each morning. And she lived just next door from me, too. Since I'd always have to pass by her stall on my way to the university, it wasn't long before our casual morning greetings grew into a little friendship. Trust was a rare commodity in Celestia's beautiful Equestria, and we cherished every precious drop.
I didn't like flowers, myself. Made me sneeze something bad. But I knew Mrs Pinegreens' family needed the money, and I had some to spare, so I'd often buy one or two of the shorter-lived ones. This time, however, I'd actually buy something I'd use.
You could always smell the stall around the bend before seeing it. Coming around, I found Mrs Pinegreens tending to her flowers, just hanging a bunch from the top of the stall. “Good morning, Mrs Pinegreens.”
She froze for a moment before turning to me. “Good morning, Page.”
“Bit chilly this morning. How are you feeling today?”
“Bit cold, bit cold.” She turned her gaze towards a vase on the stall, and reached with both hooves to adjust it. I thought it was fine before. “I'm fine,” she muttered. “We're fine. Anything catch your eye today?”
“Well, I'm not looking for something for me, actually.” I shifted my weight to my hind hooves. “I'm visiting Papa.”
It took a second for the realisation to reach her. She cast her gaze down for a second. “Oh, I see. Well, I can... put something together for you.”
“I'd appreciate it,” I said, but she turned away before I finished.
Mrs Pinegreens seemed to avoid my eyes as she prepared a small batch of flowers. She picked one from below the stall, another that hung from above, and a few others from here or there, all without saying a word.
I knew practically every obscure factoid about history a pony was allowed to know – and some we weren't – but this was Pinegreens' territory, not mine. In the world of flowers, I was entirely lost. So for the most part, I trusted her judgement. I did notice a few black ones, though, so that probably meant something.
Still, I worried. Not about the flowers, but about Mrs Pinegreens herself; this morning she wasn't the chipper mare I remembered. Usually, whenever I bought something, she'd tell me all about the several names and meanings of each flower, or how best to arrange them for whatever purpose I desired. Now she prepared the bouquet in complete silence and hasty movements.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
A flower slipped from her grasp; she didn't think long before kicking it aside and picking out a replacement. I knew her to respect flowers more than that.
“I'm fine,” she said. “Just... a little bit tired.”
I leaned forward, placing a hoof on the stall. “Please, if there's anything I can help with... maybe I need something for my room too?”
She didn't respond. She didn't even look at me, but her hooves started working faster. She quickly wrapped the bouquet with a bright ribbon, tying it all to an evergreen wreath before stuffing it into my hooves.
“Here,” she said. “Fifteen bits and no more, Page.”
I decided it was best not to push the matter. I counted the coins before her so she could see I didn't smuggle in any more than she asked. “Thank you. I'm sure Papa would love this.”
“Yes,” she said, turning again to fiddle with that one vase.
I took a step back. “Well, I'll be going then. Until later, Mrs Pinegreens.”
“Mm-hm,” she mumbled, turning the vase this way and that. It was only after I began walking the other way that I heard her call out. “Page?”
I looked over my shoulder. “Yes, Mrs Pinegreens?”
“Y-you stay out of trouble, okay, sweetie?”
I smirked. “I'm good at avoiding trouble.” And lying, apparently.
I stopped to buy a few tealights on the way to the cemetery. The stallion at the shop lit one of them for me; I'd have to carry it carefully so I could use it to light the rest.
The cemetery spread out across a vast area of the mountain, below and on the other side from the city where the cliffs were less steep and the ground was softer. The grandiose familial tombs of the nobles needed space, after all.
They stood largely vacant for the time being, of course; Canterlot was a new city. Most of the ponies buried here for the time being were victims of construction accidents and the occasional old noble who happened to bite it around these times. Below the entrances to the great tombs lay all the smaller graves for commoners like us, only a few for now.
The lowest level of the Canterlot Cemetery was by far the most populated: it was an area dedicated to those lost in the Longest Night. Cenotaphs told of those who have never been found, and cheap headstones marked the resting sites of unidentified victims.
Below the many graves to which nopony attended were the graves of ponies whose bodies were found and whose names were known. Celestia ordered them to be brought here so that they'd never have to rest in the accursed soil of the Old City.
I didn't visit Papa much. Somewhere inside of me, I always felt I should, but I never had a connection with him. I was far too young when he died to remember him. Silver Spearhead, his headstone read. I only had a rough idea of what he even looked like, from a sketch Mama and Papa had bought from a street vendor early in their relationship.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't muster any sort of attachment to this dead stallion, though I knew I should have. If it hadn't been for him, Mama and I wouldn't have been alive today.
But to me, that was all just history.
Mama would surely come visit his grave when she arrived. I figured I should at least make it look like I cared. After pulling out a few unruly weeds, I placed the tealights down before the grave. Placing the flame of the one burning light against the wicks of the rest, I lit them all. In a safe distance from the tiny flames, I placed the wreath and bouquet against the gravestone.
I spent a moment looking at the scene. The corners of my lips curled up. “Thank you, Papa,” I whispered, then turned my head to the sky. “And I'm sorry.”
As I eyed the sky, I noticed an older pegasus stallion a few rows up the cemetery. He stood solemnly by a headstone among the ones dedicated to ponies whose bodies were not found or wholly recovered.
When you study history, it's easy to fall into the trap of focusing only on the biggest, quote-unquote 'most important' aspects and events. It pays, I've found, not to forget that history is more than that. History is the little things; it is the little pony and her little tragedies. I wondered what this stallion's story was. Did he also lose a spouse, or a comrade in arms? What did he see?
I was going to leave – take wing and go home to rest for a few minutes before heading off to the Archives. Then I remembered Wintermist's advice. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to talk to strangers every once in a while. If Mrs Pinegreens was any indication, I had a face that the older generation liked. It's worth a shot, I thought.
Unfurling my wings, I flew up the rows as silently as I could. The stallion didn't seem to bat an ear. I alighted softly behind him and peeked over his shoulder at the headstone. There was nothing on it but a name – 'Black Spot' – and a date marking the Longest Night. The grave itself was also plain: no candles or tealights, not a single flower to be found.
The stallion stood still as a statue before it. With his plain grey coat and darker mane, he certainly could've passed as one. The only colour on the entire pony was in his cutie mark: a paintbrush with a touch of red at the tip.
Worst case scenario, I figured, he'll tell me to buzz off. I straightened my back and cleared my throat. “Excuse me, sir.”
One of his ears perked and turned towards me. After a second, it turned forward again.
“My name is New Page,” I continued, waiting a few seconds. No reaction. Well, I already started... “I study history at the university. Forgive me, I do not mean to intrude, but I couldn't help but notice the date on the headstone. I was wondering if... if you'd like to share your story.” That sounded a lot better in my head.
The stallion sat still for a short while. Then, closing his eyes for a moment, he sighed deeply. Finally, he turned his head towards me. Though his body had seemed surprisingly fit for his age, his face was marred by rugged wrinkles that made him look older than his eyes let on. A thick, hairless scar ornamented his right cheek: a sign of a heroic battle, or a bar brawl, perhaps?
As he stared, his sunken, golden eyes held no emotion. He looked me over before finally speaking.
“Leave me alone, lady,” was all he said before turning back to the headstone. His voice was deep and inherently intimidating, though I heard no anger in it.
I nodded, fully knowing he wouldn't see. “I meant no disrespect.” I waited for a response, but received none. “I apologise.” Again, nothing. It would be best to leave quickly, I figured. Spreading my wings and kicking the ground away, I mentally patted myself on the shoulder.
At least I tried.