//------------------------------// // 2. Frigidarium // Story: Spa and Order // by Skywriter //------------------------------// Back in the world I intended to live in, I successfully retrieved one more loaf of bread from the gradus before it closed for the evening. Exercising extreme willpower, I managed to hold off on eating it all the way back to the resident minister's manse. Then, feeling a bit guilty about my earlier barbarism, I cut the bread into neat, civilized slices, ate them all, proceeded to assault my senses with an even more dramatic bath than my first of the evening, and finally fell into a fitful sleep. It would have gone down exactly that way, except for one very ill-timed trip over the hem of my concealing cloak combined with one very ill-placed photographer, and a photograph that the public would inevitably see as the first step down a long spiral toward self-destruction. Celestia's haughty and useless niece, the very face of the Hegemony, reduced to waiting in bread-lines? Journalism gold. As little as a week ago, I would still have been high-minded about the pegarazzi. I'd have dithered a little and said that that the whole situation wasn't exclusively their fault. After all, if nopony actually wanted what they were selling they would move on to some other trade, like basket-weaving. But, since prosperous societies are bored societies, there is always a void for drama and scandal; and where there is a void, you'll find a pony willing to fill it. That's what I would have said of the pegarazzi a week ago. Right now, in this moment, they are suddenly, horribly different. It is the difference between studying a book on apiculture and being swarmed by angry bees. In fact, it's a whole lot like bees, like treading on a hive. One little misstep and suddenly the very air around you is alive, hostile, and out for blood. Soon, panic takes over, and you are scrambling pell-mell with no other goal than to get away. And no matter what you do, they just. Keep. Coming. So I run. And run. And run. I run until my normally-tireless earth pony strength is nearly exhausted, until the clouds are strange beneath me and I simply have no idea where I am. I am lost in this city, desperately clinging to a few last tattered shreds of privacy. Still I run. I run until the susurrus of wingbeats begins to fade and I literally cannot run further. My heart thuds as though it is about to burst, my knees are swollen and aching, and there is a stitch in my side that burns like a spear point every time I breathe. With a sharp cry, I duck into an alley of fraying old clouds and collapse against its nebulous walls. I am wound taut like a guitar string and ready to snap. Had the alley been occupied by a photographer, there is a very real possibility that I would have bitten or kicked her in blind animal panic. Thankfully for my reputation, I am alone here. I breathe and sob in equal measures until my heart stops racing and the redness leaves the edges of my vision. When reason returns to me, I haul myself up off the clouds and peek out of the alleyway. I do not recognize the neighborhood I find myself in. The buildings around me are not the clean, white amalgam structures of the Acropolis. These clouds are old, dense things, wing-carved out of the hearts of ancient thunderheads, solid enough to support structures of wood and brick and even marble on their backs. There is a sense of earthiness and solidity here; but only in clumps and chunks. The neighborhood looks like a sheet of small cottony islands stretching out into the peripheral sky, and tiny white werelights gleam from the tops of intricately sculpted bridges connecting cloud to cloud. New Veneighzia, I think to myself. The earth pony quarter. This has to be it. The very act of being able to put a name to the place I'm in fills me with a spark of hope, gives me a rock on which I can start to rebuild my composure. It was strange to me when I first learned of earth-tribe ponies living here during my preparatory research. Cloudsdale isn't all pegasi, of course. Griffons, for instance: not the norm, but still plentiful enough to have an entire neighborhood dedicated to them. But earth ponies? It seemed nothing short of madness, since only a fraction of the clouds that make up the bulk of this city are dense enough to support ground-dwelling ponies. But, live here they do, throwing every scrap of their legendary capacity for balance and coordination into not falling to their deaths on a daily basis. Some come to build and maintain the Weather Corporation's airships. Others come to capitalize on the trade opportunities; Cloudsdale spreads weather to every corner of Equestria, and it picks up trade goods everywhere it goes. You can find pretty much anything here if you've got the bits and you know where to look. And when I arrived, I learned of a third source of earth-tribe ponies I'd never even considered. "They're... born here? Earth ponies, to pegasus parents?" "And why not?" said Weather Eye, glaring over his tiny spectacles at the morning Acta while sipping a tiny cup of intensely black coffee. "Correct me if I'm wrong—I've been away from the Mountain for some time—but last I checked, it's not exactly headline news when a unicorn couple has a throwback pegasus foal once in a while, yes?" "Well, yes, but—" "'But' nothing. Same mechanics at work. You won't find any of their kind in the Senate, but they help keep the city running. All part of the great harmony that is Cloudsdale. There are more here than you think." "It's just... I hardly ever see them." "Well, they cluster in neighborhoods of their own kind, of course. For convenience and familiarity. Older, shabbier parts of the city. I'd steer clear, were I you. They can be a bit sketchy." I'd taken Weather Eye's advice, but now, looking out at the delicate and twinkling web of intertwining wood and stone and cloud before me, I am beginning to regret having done so. Perhaps it's my upbringing; I was born in a village of earth ponies and raised by a sisterhood there, and the earth pony aesthetic has always felt like home to me. Or perhaps it is that, as an alicorn, I am literally one-third earth pony, and New Veneighzia speaks to a long-neglected part of my being. Maybe I need to spend a little more time here— —the wingbeats again. The damnable wingbeats. I wilt back into the shadows of the alleyway as a wheeling pair of pegasus photographers spin into view, still obsessed with the thought of humbling and humiliating me. No. Not even that. They are obsessed with the bits they'll earn by humbling and humiliating me. They've actually ceased to think of me as a pony at all. I am suddenly struck by how dull their eyes look; I've seen sharks with a livelier mien. This is life in the public eye, and it turns out that it's absolutely horrible. Aunty Celestia shielded me from so much. Well. Aunty Celestia isn't here, and Little Cadance is resourceful and can feed and take care of herself, thank you very much. I back away from the mouth of the alley and make my way back into the darkness and the shadow, hoping to find something other than a dead end. I find... something similar to a dead end. After a few twists and turns, the alley empties out into a narrow channel of open night sky. Peering down into the channel, I can see Equestria itself stretching out below me, impossibly huge and impossibly distant in the moonlight. Beyond the gap, another alley twists away into darkness. There is a wavering in the air channel, a sort of heat haze that distorts my vision, but I don't feel any heat. If anything, the air in the channel feels a little bit colder than usual. I make a puzzled little "Hm!" sound. I'm not certain what's causing the atmospheric disturbance, but it seems innocuous enough. With just a little hop, skip and a jump to the other side of the channel, I'll earn another street's worth of precious distance between myself and the prowling photographers. The choice seems clear. I gather my hooves beneath my rump, unfurl my bizarrely-canted alicorn wings just in case, and leap across the channel— —I am frozen. Just like that. Not ice; ice would be bad enough. The instant my body touches the odd, gas-like substance filling the channel, I am filled with an aching, metallic numbness. It rushes into my wings and my hooves and my horn like a river of cold lead and I lose all feeling. A brief, panicked cry. I scrabble desperately for the edge of cloud on the far side, but can't find a grip with my dulled hooves. Before I even fully understand what's happening I am falling away from the city, toward the distant ground, my wings flailing uselessly against the air, and— —there is a blur of descending shadow. Something sharp and hornlike seizes me by the pastern and hauls me back to the cloud above, where I collapse, heaving and breathless, onto the cirrus cobbles. Shining Armor, my mind blearily volunteers. Then it adds, Oh, no, no, no. I can't face the lieutenant's crushing disapproval. Not on top of everything— "Do mind the gap," a voice from above me says, in a quick, lilting tenor. "Seriously. Do mind. It seems your life depends on it." "Wha—" I say, blinking up into the shadows, trying to get the form of my rescuer to resolve. My tongue feels thick in my mouth. Whatever was in that channel hit me like a thunderbolt. The shape above me moves into a shaft of moonlight. It is pale gray of feather and charcoal of fur, with glinting yellow eyes and a strong, hefty-looking beak. I catch my breath. "Y—" I try and say, hardly even managing the letter. "Yes," says the griffon, his eyes darting both skyward and up and down the alley, scanning for, I hope, the pegarazzi. "Believe me, this is even more awkward for me than it is for you. I was waiting to have this meeting at a better time, perhaps over a nice dinner, but reservations are frightfully difficult to come by in this city. You'd think a thousand years worth of contacts in the restaurant business would give you some sort of leverage, but that's the thing about letting your personal life slide, you go away to attend to some personal business for a clawful of decades and when you return, everyone's dead or retired or passed the business on to a son or daughter, and wouldn't you know it they're never as good as the previous generation despite the fact that they're presumably using the same recipes. I mourn for ratatouilles gone by, Your Highness. Countless ratatouilles gone to dust whose like I shall never see again. It tears my very soul apart." "Y—" I try again. "Oh, dear," the griffon continues, in his odd, cultured staccato. "It appears I'll have to do the talking for both of us. Thank Horus I'm up to the task, eh? I'll do your part now." He clears his throat, and adopts a painful falsetto. "Why, you're that devilishly handsome griffon from the airship that my dreadful stallion-at-arms told me about!" I muster through the numbness if for no other reason than to get him to put his voice back down in the normal register. It's hurting my ears. "He told me... told me you said you knew my mother. Said... said that made you really old or really crazy." "He does me too little credit; why can't I be both? But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Auric Turncoat. I'd hold out a claw for you to shake but you appear to be mildly paralyzed at the moment, and I'd say that it's a pleasure to meet you, but I'm experiencing absolutely no pleasure at all. More sort of a mix of panicked rage and frustration." I haul myself up to my hooves, all a-tremble like a newborn foal. I cough once or twice. "W—wanted to talk with you. You vanished on cloudfall. Never saw you again." "Yes. I also wanted to talk with you. Funny how unavoidable circumstances make it so we can't always get what we want, by which I mean it was unavoidable that I would curl into a tiny ball of self-loathing promptly upon arrival and then drown that feeling in an endless stream of Black Cows from a rather nice dairy bar up in the Foreign Quarter. We should visit there someday. I've heard they make an Orange Whip that's completely out of this world." The warmth is gradually seeping back into my jaw and my wingtips. I shake out. "I am so sorry, Mister Turncoat," I say, glaring in puzzlement back at the stream of weird flowing substance that nearly sent me plummeting all the way down to terra firma. "I haven’t even properly thanked you for saving my life. You are absolutely not catching me at my best. What is that stuff?" "That, my dear, is archonium. It's a funny little element with many interesting qualities; chief among them is that it isn't strictly supposed to exist there." "It doesn't... exist?" "Do try and keep up, Your Highness," says the oddball griffon, gesturing with a claw. "Of course it exists. It's right there. It's merely not supposed to be there. Archonium lives in the coronæ of ancient stars, a long, long way off. It's so fantastically inert that it temporarily neutralizes mystical energies that come in contact with it. That includes the magic you channel through those wings of yours to keep you airborne. Did I mention how much I admire pegasus wind-magic? Marvelous stuff. Much fancier than the brute wingpower we griffons rely on. Teensy detail, though: despite the fact that you ponies can make tornadoes and carve clouds into snow with those wings, the one thing you can't do is dive through a river of magic-sapping slurry and remain aloft. Now ask me what a river of magic-sapping slurry is doing here in Cloudsdale." "What... what's a—" "No idea!" he says, throwing his talons wide. "None whatsoever. One of the many puzzles of this city. In the grand scheme of things, I hope you'll be the one to figure it out. It seems like an alicorn-grade problem, and it would restore a smidgen of my long-lost faith in destiny and higher purpose were you to do so. Of course, that all needs to come second. First, I've got something I need you to eat." I am absolutely unable to keep up with Auric Turncoat, and am reduced to dumbly parroting his last few words. "Something you need me to—" "Don't worry. It's delicious. It's also a thousand years old, but put that disquieting fact out of your mind. All we need to do is—" Auric's head shoots up in alarm. He cocks his head to the left and right, his pupils expanding and contracting. "What?" I whisper. "It's them again," he murmurs, his voice grave. In a rustle of wings he shoos me out of the alley. I am so bewildered and so numb that I can offer little resistance as he sweeps me into the streets of New Veneighzia, practically carrying me. "Who?" I shout. "Who's—" "The pegarazzi! I swear, you would think there's nothing else going on in this city tonight! I need to get airborne to plot the best course back to your home grounds! Also to put the fear of the ancestors into those feather-brained pests. But we need to find a place to stash you first. Thankfully, I know just the place, and it's not far." "Are there guards there?" "Better. Posey's is defended by the fiercest pre-Mark filly you'll ever meet. Not that you'll meet her, assuming you stay on her good side." "A filly. You're kidding." "By my word, I am not. She has this thing she does with her eyes that sucks the will right out of you if you cross any of her charges." Auric looks slightly uncomfortable as though probing an aching tooth, though this is obviously one malady he will personally never suffer. Asking questions of Auric only leads to more questions. I am borne along with his bustle, unspeaking and offering no resistance. As we cross bridge after ancient bridge, following the canals of open sky and keeping to the shadows at the edges of the broad piazzas, I briefly wonder if it is wise to trust this mad stranger so completely. I soon dismiss the thought. At this point, I would follow Tirek himself back into Tartarus if he were to promise me relief from the photographers. And then, finally, we arrive. Our destination is a long, low building of nut-colored wood abutting a narrow alley. All about are ornamented spires of mixed cloud and earth, fraying a bit at the edges with age and presumed lack of regular pegasus maintenance. This building, by contrast, is humble, unimposing and solid. Where it is worn, it is worn like wood wears, slick and smooth and dark. A small shingle outside the door reads, simply, "Posey's Balineum." Cosmopolitan as it may be, Cloudsdale still has a lot of signage in Pegasopolian only, and because that happens to be my mother tongue, I recognize this as a bathhouse. I am filled with joy at the sight of it. It looks like the buildings back home. Reduit. My first home. "Auric," I say, my voice breathy with relief, "thank you for—" I turn, only to find the griffon gone, vanished as swiftly and silently as a cat's shadow. I shake my head. What a strange, strange creature. Shrugging and mustering my determination, I push my way through the door into the building. The tinkling of a tiny bell heralds my arrival. "Hello?" I call out, glancing around the small reception area, which appears to be decorated with the same dark wood as the exterior of the building. The walls are lined with benches interspersed with empty cubicle racks. Quiet, tasteful curtains of deep red velvet accent the room and dismiss the otherwise-austere feel. From somewhere, there is the noise of trickling water, as of a small fountain. I can't immediately identify where it's coming from. The room is empty, and save for the sound of falling water, intensely quiet. I make my way cautiously in, ducking my head slightly to avoid ceilings optimized for smaller, less-gangly non-alicorns. "Is anypony here?" Just barely audible above the trickle of quiet water, I hear the faintest suspicion of a voice from beyond a curtain that appears to lead deeper into the building. The voice sounds like it is intoning a desperate rattling catechism, as though its owner is trying feverishly to convince herself of something. I squint and prick my elegant pink ears, trying to make out a word or two. "It's okay, Posey," says the voice. "It is just a new customer. New customers are exactly what your business needs. You will walk right out there, and greet her with your best smile. Smiling is for winners, and you're a winner, Posey. You can do this." There is a deep breath, and a single butter-colored hoof sweeps the curtain aside. "Welcome!" says the earth pony standing in the doorway. "Welcome to Posey's Baline—" The young mare's eyes lock on my horn, then on my wings, then on my stature in general. Her eyes go wide as tea-saucers, she makes a little noise that sounds suspiciously like the word "eep," and she promptly vanishes behind the curtain again. I blink. "Hello?" I try again. "Are you open?" A squeak. "I'm sorry," I say, with what I hope is gentle encouragement, "I didn't quite catch that." Squeak. "One more time." I give the words my brightest and most photogenic grin. "Yes," comes a tiny voice from the curtain. "Good!" I say, cheerfully. "I read on your sign outside that this is a bathhouse?" "Yes," says the voice again, a little more measured. After what I can only assume is a considerable struggle, the hoof pulls aside the curtain again. Barely seen before but now in plain view is a little yellow earth pony with a long, pink-hued mane. Her flank bears a mark of three pink and white flowers, presumably her eponymous posies. "Hello. I'm... I'm sorry about that. It was just... I'm not used to waiting on royalty. You're the new Princess of Equestria in town, right? I mean, you have to be." "That's right!" I say, fluffing my wings and continuing to show friendly teeth. "I'm sorry. I always read such awful stories about you in the news." The pony glances off to the right and down, failing to meet my gaze. You'll be reading yet another tomorrow morning, I think to myself, but do not say. "Not half of them true, I'm afraid," I say, trying for "easygoing and encouraging." "Oh, no," says Posey. "Oh no, oh no, oh dear. I didn't mean that you're awful. The stories are awful. Like the one where they laughed at you for not trimming your fetlocks. I thought that was particularly mean." My perfect princess smile falters. "I have to admit that one was at least true. I actually hadn't shaved my fetlocks for a few days. I thought with the Equuish bell boots, nopony could see them anyway, but then I made the mistake of trying on a set of hipposandals. In their defense—" "There's no defense," Posey repeats firmly. "They were being mean. They made it sound like you don't have the right to appear in public like that. Just because you're a princess. As though they own your appearance." "As though they're entitled to a certain version of me," I say, blinking. "Yes," says Posey, firmly. Then her face falls. "I mean... maybe. It's probably really presumptuous of me even talking to you like this." "No!" I exclaim. "No, it's... it's really nice, Posey. Thank you." "Okay," she says, abashedly scratching one of her cannons with the opposing hoof. We stand for a moment in an awkward silence. "So!" I say, eventually. "Auric Turncoat showed me here and told me you run a trustworthy shop." "I'm sorry," says Posey, "who?" Good gravy, I think to myself. Is that griffon a ghost? A self-defense hallucination? "Auric Turncoat. Big gray griffon. Tremendous beak." "Oh, yes," says Posey, brightening visibly. "You must mean Gustave." I raise an eyebrow. "'Gustave'?" "Yes. He used to come here to New Veneighzia so I could practice grooming griffon wings! They're quite different than the wings of pegasus ponies. I haven't seen him in months. My daughter didn't much care for him, but once you get past his scary appearance he is a perfect gentlecolt. Gentlecock. Whichever's right." "He appears to be a creature of many layers," I say. "I don't think your daughter has anything to be afraid of, though. He says that he's afraid of her, if you'll believe that." "She can be intimidating," says Posey, nodding, her gaze firmly on the floor. "Like her father." "I'm sure she's delightful. I'd like to meet her someday." "Oh, she's here." "Here... in this room?" I glance to the left and right. "Yes," says Posey, her voice barely above a whisper. "She's hiding. She can be intimidating, but she's also terribly shy." I look around again, just to see if I was wrong the first time, but no. I cannot see a single place in this room that could conceal an entire filly. The unseen filly has transcended mere shyness. She has elevated it to an art form. "Well, there's no need to bother her," I say, still profoundly puzzled. "Listen, I'm sorry for the imposition. My only intention here was to get behind closed doors until Auric, or Gustave, tells me that the coast is clear." "Oh," says Posey, her expression unreadable. "All right." We spend a few moments looking awkwardly at one another. We both breathe in. "I don't suppose—" I begin. "You wouldn't happen to want—" says Posey, simultaneously. We clap our mouths shut, and then giggle despite ourselves. "You go first," I say. "Well. This is a bathhouse." "Yes." "And you do look as though you're in a state. No offense." "None taken." "And I don't have any other clients right now..." "Posey," I say, "I would love to." "On the house, of course." "I have to pay you," I say, withering slightly at the prospect of breaking my promise to myself. "I wouldn't dream of it." She adopts an adorably stern mien. "Your money is no good here, Your Highness." Then she folds again. "If that's okay." "You honor me with your generosity," I say, bowing my head. She pushes aside the curtain and gestures me into the back. * * * "So," Posey says, "how long has it been since your last trip to the baths?" I frown. I hadn't realized I'd been sweating that much. "I showered earlier tonight, actually." "No, no, no. Not when you last bathed. How long has it been since you've been to the baths?" "Oh, right! Yes, social bathing. That's a traditional thing for pegasi." "Most definitely!" I hedge. "Well, you see... I'm still pretty new to the city, and..." I frown and come clean. "Never, actually." "Oh, dear," says Posey, dithering. "There are some very fine bathhouses in this city. It's a shame your first time will be at so humble an establishment." "I'm sure it'll be just perfect, Posey." She smiles back. Her expression is bashful, but filled with quiet pride. It feels wonderful to be spreading light and love, even in this most trivial and non-arcane way. "So. How do we begin?" "Well," she says, earnestly. "First, we need you completely bare." I tug absently at my ceremonial peytral, feeling sudden butterflies. Totally ridiculous, of course. Here was the mare who recently chucked one of the Equestrian Crown Jewels off of Point Cumulus in a fit of anti-princess pique, hesitating to shed a different status symbol in front of a common bath attendant. It's been a terrible few weeks. I am a different mare now, a hurt creature leaning more and more heavily on badges of authority to convince herself she is a lovable and capable being. Putting a name to my anxieties helps me digest them, and I slip out of what remains of my princess regalia. It is not so bad. Alicornhood carries a certain indwelling biological regalia all its own, what with our theatrical manes and extra sticky-out bits. Soon, I am bare before Posey. I give the little earth pony a sheepish smile. "Now?" "Now," she says. "There is a very specific order to a proper Pegasopolian bath. We have been doing this for thousands of moons, and I would very much like you to trust me with what I am about to say. May I, um, have your trust? Please?" "I trust you." "Good," says Posey. "Because we need to start by making you cold." I quiver, but then gather my nerve. "Okay. I meant what I said. You're the expert, and you don't have to explain." "Oh, but I want to explain. No matter if they're flying or running, pegasus ponies' joints can become very irritated and swollen whenever they overexert themselves, and a quick plunge bath can be just the thing. It looks as though your knees are a little sore tonight?" "They are," I admit, wincing a little and shifting my weight. "Just as I thought. But, don't you worry, ma'am. The frigidarium will fix you right up. You can leave your jewelry and boots right here. My daughter won't let anything happen to them." The dandelion-colored pony leads me through another archway, to a round room lined all around in stone of midnight blue. My hooves click against tile and my breath steams the air before my muzzle. In front of me is the cold plunge bath, lined in the same deep blue stone tiles of the surrounding room. The lip of the bath is decorated by simple mosaics of white-and-blue waves, but the pool itself is absolutely still. It steams much as I do, and somehow seems to lurk menacingly in the dim half-light of the frigidarium. "Cold brine therapy," says Posey, gently. "The pool's salt content allows us to keep it at a much chillier temperature than everyday water." "This is a selling point?" "Don't worry, ma'am. It won't take long. Just enough to bring down the swelling a bit. It will feel so very good." "Okay," I say, lowering a hesitant hoof toward the water. "Um, all right," says Posey. "If that's how you want to do it, that's, um, fine." I glance back. Posey does not meet my eyes. "Is there a better way?" I ask. She thinks a moment, clearly at war with herself. "If it is worth jumping into," she says, "it is worth jumping into with all four hooves." I smile at her. "Posey," I say, "you're absolutely right. That's the best thing anypony's said to me all day." She beams. I take a deep breath, splay my wings, and jump.