The Beast
Days passed, like some sort of gentle breeze. The regularity of them made one day blend into another, night and day folding like butter into dough. That was how Vanilla was coming to see the passing time. He was prisoner in his own home, shackled to the will of a cold and dismissive society mare that lied with her silence. He was expected to be there, to move her to the facilities to take care of her essential functions and occasionally scrub her, being careful of her cast. He was also expected to feed her. Each day, each meal, something new and suitable for the refined tastes of a Canterlot mare. Not that he had trouble, there were an endless stream of recipes available for that. But the principle of it was galling.
Thick, heavy thuds rang around the room, the sound of furious impacts. Thump. Thump. Thump. Regular, repeated, and very hard. Vanilla was pouring out his frustration into his battery. He had the right. There was no pony that would deny him his feelings and this cathartic exercise.
“Ice-cold Canterlot witch!” His hoof hammered down upon the large pile of dough, sending out a puff of flour as the pile flattened. “You can't be civil even once, can you?” He smashed the dough together from both sides, back into a full lump. “You can never turn it off, can you?” He brought both hooves down on the dough. “And you can't!” A punch. “Stop!” Another. “Lying!” A flurry of blows.
He made his way over to the sink, softly panting as he washed and dried his hooves thoroughly. He could have just used his magic on the dough. He had before. Making rolls was one of his many duties, and it had always been a clinical, hooves-off endeavor, for sanitary reasons and because of training and propriety. However, he had his reasons. It had been wonderfully appropriate and very useful. He felt so much better after the outburst.
His horn glowed, levitating the well-pounded dough, into a bowl, a moist towel levitated over the top to cover it up. He set it aside into a corner to rise once more. A smile spread across his face as he used a damp towel to wipe up the flour. It was quiet. Dee Dee did not require his presence, and was not stupidly trying to learn to walk on her own. It was not impossible, of course. But she was simply too uncoordinated. Being a prissy and pampered mare was a distinct disadvantage.
His kitchen clean, lunch dishes soaking, and nothing else pressing on his mind, he was stricken by a moment of uncertainty. What could he do? Dinner would be another simple affair, the rolls notwithstanding, so there was no need for preparation aside from dough rising. He could read. Or... check the garden again. Or wipe down the fireplace mantle. He could try talking to Dee Dee... He shook his head quickly. Because the option existed was no reason to consider it a valid or advisable one.
He was just going to fall into his den and continue his reading. He could see the ending coming from a mile away. But he had wanted it to happen. The author was rather daring for bucking the trend of what had been asked for. Herpy was going to win. That was something to warm the cockles of the heart. And then would come a soft, romantic moment when stallion and mare could...
He was out in the garden, checking the soil around the plants for weeds; checking his mushroom spots for new growth, including a magnificent new sulfur shelf; and making sure the previously-cut leaves were recovering properly from the trim and were back on track towards fullness.
“It was a stupid book anyhow. Pony-eating seaponies. Ridiculous. Like something out of a bad novel set in Umbratarra. And all that for a kiss. Herpy is a fool. Those Canterlot ponies surely wouldn't go that far for a kiss. They had it easy.” He muttered darkly to himself, even more quietly when he was beneath the window outside of Dee Dee's room, even though she was napping once again.
He stopped a bit when he caught himself being so silent, just because he was outside of the mare's window. It was his house! If he woke her up that was just... no. That would be wrong. And that wasn't even why he had silenced himself outside of her window. It was his comment about the Canterlot elite. He might have hurt her feelings. A complete, interloping stranger warranted his discretion.
That sent his mind off in a wholly different direction. Even if the vast majority of the Canterlot highborn were insufferable boors, at best, and backbiting decadent wretches at worst, that was no reason to wholly judge anypony. Fancy Pants, after all, stood as a very clear exception to what seemed to be a rule.
“But she's no Fancy Pants...” he whispered to himself. And it was true. While the stallion could be aloof and very stylishly proper, he was also a jovial, approachable sort. He had been open and accepting of like likes of the Element bearers, without any shame or hesitation. He was honest, and truthful. His openness was refreshing. Candor was lacking in Canterlot.
That was not Dee Dee. Not in the slightest. She was a deceiver. It was an amorphous thing. He could not be certain just what it was. Her story simply made nothing close to sense. Simply dropping from an airship during a fireworks display. The airship did not follow behind her. None of her crew fell anywhere near her. Nopony had come to find her, or even circulated some kind of flier. And the rain... such a thing would hardly be unscheduled. And such weather would hardly be conducive to flying an airship. It was not uncommon, or overly unusual. But it was a very strange thing.
It did not add up at all. She was not an innocent victim of circumstances, she could not have been. There was some reason that she was there, by herself, being wholly aloof and trying to recover. She had judged that it was preferable to leap into the air and potentially injure herself horribly rather that remain in whatever situation she was in.
There were a number of reasons to want to escape from the highest reaches of Canterlot, for mares and stallions alike. Political gamesponyship, land disputes, noble pressure, and any number of relationship-related woes. Perhaps that was the reason. Feelings often produced strong reactions. And if they could bring about great love and strength when done right, as Daring showed, then misdirected or put in another form they could bring the desperation and will to live needed to hit the ground and not give up.
“Marriage...” He muttered, while checking his rosemary. The scent was very reminiscent of the weddings he had catered, a popular incense for filly foolers and populators alike. And not all of those marriages were happy ones. He could tell bride and groom both had their loins directed elsewhere, from the way their eyes burned across the attending ponies. And from the several propositions he had received.
That may well have been what happened. It made perfect sense, all told. If there was a marriage she did not want, it was probably a good idea to run away from it. Richer and more powerful ponies would require more extreme means to escape. It still did not explain why nopony had sent out word or gone looking for her. An open marriage between the wealthy or peers would not be anything to hide or disguise.
It might not have been a pony. Perhaps a richer and more well-connected griffin was arranging some kind of marriage. Being part of the collection of females of a griffin was still very... questionable in pony society. It was certainly not well-received by most ordinary ponies; even the peers, the status-obsessed and money-loving folk that they were, mostly balked at such a prospect, despite any advantage gained in the transaction. If that was being arranged secretly, there would be more covert attempts to find the missing bride. That made some of the evidence fit.
But the attitude... the lies and deception. The coldness may have been natural for her station, but it felt off in a pony escaping an unwanted marriage in a very unwanted situation. Her change in features and figure, however it was accomplished, may have been another layer of hiding from her pursuers. But to show no honest appreciation, or even to beg for help in escaping...
“Money speaks all languages.” Vanilla laughed to himself as he recalled the old adage and carefully prodded the ground around his shallots. Any kind soul, no matter what, could potentially turn traitor if the money was right. Asking for help with no promise of reward was unlikely to match the ability to pour out a bottomless bit pouch and ask about a location. He was not to be trusted.
In the end, however, the logical chain of explanations vanished like dew with one more consideration. Even if she was just going to lie about her past, she did not have to lie about. Being such an insufferable, false-smiling pain was not the way to assure helpers would remain helpful. They would bend and break for even fewer bits than a caring and sympathetic pony working out of the kindness of their heart.
No matter the logical considerations, it all failed and fell apart when all he knew, however little that was, was gathered together and examined. She was a true enigma. Perhaps even a bit intriguing, behind that cold shell of propriety and manners...
His teeth ground together, hoof dangerously close to pressing down upon one of the spikes of his prickly pear cactus. Just because the possibility existed... just because he found the mystery and the confusion and frustration intriguing did not mean he had to indulge the idea. At the end of it all, he still had his initial feeling. The caring, smothered out by the disgust with the lies and the facade set up by Dee Dee.
Heaving a sigh, Vanilla let his magic's grip reach out for his produce basket. He still needed his produce for dinner. And all his contemplating at eaten up far more time than he had intended. That mare... that mare could just do things to him without his consent. Even without her having to say a word. It was no wonder he had vented his spleen on the dough. It had to come out somewhere.
His blade slides smoothly and quickly through the base of a tall, fresh head of nappa cabbage. He also pulled a kohlrabi, cutting a piece of it off and planting it back in the ground, with a good dash of the concentrated liquid fertilizer to ensure rapid regrowth to a usable state. Greens AND a bulbous root segment. A two-for-one vegetable. Always excellent. He also plucked a few of the snow peas, a large red bell pepper and as an afterthought, popped off a couple of the prickly pear fruits, giving their surfaces a quick flame bath before they were settled, cooling, in the basket.
Back inside the house, he fired up his oven and got it prepared for the rolls. Then out came the knives. A large santoku and a smaller peeler. The peeler slid smoothly through the scorched flesh of the prickly pear fruits, slicing away the flesh to a depth that would ensure no tiny bits of spine would remain. The peeler then cut into the kohlrabi's woody external flesh, cutting away the tough exterior to reveal the more tender heart of the vegetable.
The other knife was in motion to take care of its own business. First the bell pepper was sliced in half, the center of it deftly cut and pulled out. The tender flesh of it was then deftly cut into thin strips. The knife then chopped at the nappa, cutting it into rough strips and tossing it with the pepper strips. When the kohlrabi had been stripped the leaves were put on the pile, while the heart of it was cut into long, thin pieces. At last, the snow peas were put together with it all.
Vanilla dabbed at his brow with a cloth; he rather missed his old toque at times like that. But such things had been put away when he ceased to be what he had been. He just moved on to cutting the inner flesh of the prickly pear fruit, making evenly-sized pieces of the flesh. He looked through the pieces, just to make certain the cultivar he had was still producing seedless fruit.
The bowl of dough was levitated out and uncovered. He laid out a metal baking sheet and ran a small film of oil across the bottom. Then another knife came out, while the dough was brought over and stretched slightly. Each motion of the knife was quick and precise, cutting the dough into even blobs. Several pieces of prickly pear fruit were wrapped by the dough, which was settled onto the sheet with some space between each, creating several rows of medium-sized fruit-filled rolls.
With the bread in the oven he could concentrate on the vegetables. He lit the fire on the stove and took out a wok, hitting the bottom with a dash of oil then sending a large flare over the cooking tool, to get it up to the right heat. He could tell just the moment to lift the pile and drop it in, a satisfying sizzle answering the motion. His horn's magic was again moving almost on its own, flipping the sizzling vegetables with one grip, while another reached into his refrigerator for a container of orange liquid.
The orange sauce let off a pleasing aroma as it hit the hot pan and ran in carefully-controlled rivulets over the cooking greens. Through it all he never stopped swirling and tossing, making certain nothing burned and that it was well-coated. He replaced the container in the refrigerator and concentrated on tossing the stir fry, while also minding the time as the rolls in the oven started to add their own subtle hint of scent to the kitchen. He could almost just close his eyes and let it all happen, to do it all by feel, an automatic thing.
“I am not a machine.” He grunted out the words with a subtle hate, eyes remaining firmly open, and watching the cooking carefully. He would decide when it was done. It would be a clear and obvious choice, not a feeling or an automated stoppage. It would be him, and him alone.
- - -
“Something a little more... substantial, I suppose. You're not getting hospital food here, that's for sure.” Vanilla was in rare form that night. Though undressed as usual he had all the air of a fully-uniformed head waiter, standing poudly and imperiously beside Dee Dee's bed, holding the covered tray in his magical grip.
The black unicorn lounging in bed sniffed lightly and nodded with her seemingly frozen-on fake smile. “Indeed. I could smell it in progress. Neighponese?”
“Bit of a variation I picked up in my career. I use non-standard ingredients together with a traditional sauce.” He uncovered the tray and set it down with a small magical flourish. “In addition, two rolls, cooked surrounding slices of prickly pear fruit. Dessert or not is your choice. If you will excuse me, I have my own waiting for me.”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” Vanilla left Dee Dee with her food, noting she took a bite of one roll first, her eyes growing just a little wider for just a split second. A smile spread across his face.
'Take that, Lady Uptight. You can't always deceive.' With that thought the door closed with a soft sound.
Later on, after Vanilla had retired to bed but before he was asleep, he heard Dee Dee on her hooves again, thumping and scraping along as she had done for several days. She was getting better at it, but she seemed generally disinterested in pushing things. However, she had clearly left her room, and was on her way down the hall. 'Perhaps,' he thought, 'she can finally take care of her own transport to the facilities.'
Dee Dee came up short on her trip, however, stopping right outside the door to Vanilla's room. Any hope that it was merely a stop for rest was destroyed by the slight shimmer of magic and the opening of the door. She stood there, silhouetted in the low hall light. “I hope I am not bothering you.”
“I WAS attempting to sleep.” Some of the simmering frustration finally worked its way into Vanilla's voice, despite his best efforts to smother the inclination. He had to be a bigger pony.
“Yes, I see. And I understand. But perhaps... I realize, after much time and reflection I have never REALLY thanked you for this. All of this. Allowing me to share your fine home and allowing me to enjoy your cooking. It is more than I expected of this sort of situation.” She awkwardly shuffled further into the room, horn lighting a bit to improve visibility. “I thought, maybe...”
“Maybe... what?” Vanilla turned in bed, to look Dee Dee in the face. Her traced his eyes over her features. Soft eyes, cast slightly downward, head bowed just a touch, body lowered as much as possible while still allowing for the awkward mode of walking, bottom lips pushed out just the barest hint, teeth lightly scraping against the inside.
“Perhaps... you don't need to go to bed quite yet. Or quite so alone.” She stepped closer, finally leaning against the bed itself, looking capable of hopping onto it with one quick motion.
He looked more closely at the contrite mare before him. Everything expected in a mare trying to seep apologetic for a minor offense and also offer friendly company. Down to the smallest detail. It wasn't an expression; it was a mask. A fraud. With a snort he turned over again. “No.”
The sound of shuffling hooves showed Dee Dee had been quite taken aback by the rather blunt denial. “Wh-what? 'No'? What do you mean? Why not? I'm trying to be polite, and kind to you.”
“That's the problem. Part of the problem. 'Polite'? 'Kind'? That's how you show it?”
“What's the problem with that? I thought you would be happy about that. It would be a fitting reward for all you've done.”
Vanilla turned suddenly, sending Dee Dee back another few shuffling steps. His face was a mix of restrained frustration and some trace of sadness. “You think... I know your kind. Know them too well. You think I'm just another cook. A fancy, overly trained food-preparer there to make your dinner parties more trendy and occasionally delicious. That's true. I have that skill. But I have another skill, polished and perfected from all my days in Canterlot. I SEE ponies. I see through them. I see their poison smiles and lying eyes. I can't stop seeing mendacity, manipulation and malice. I quietly see it all. I can see your lies. And it hurts to do it.”
“Hurts... you?” Dee Dee was looking on at Vanilla with a pitiful expression, lower lip quivering a touch.
He turned away, with a shake of his head. “I can tell the acting and masquerade. Tricks to get things you want. It's the upper reaches all over again. Games. Games of applying the right face and right posture to do the job. It just... makes me pity you, because I see it so clearly it looks desperate and cheap. Go away. Get some rest. You'll heal faster.”
He didn't pay attention to her slinking away, the shuffle of limbs and some muttering. Whatever she said to herself was her own business. He only needed to concern himself with one matter.
She was becoming bolder about her Canterlot ways. He would have to be on his guard. If he got weak... or considered it was somewhat good to no longer be alone...
“Accursed Daring Do...” were his last words before he fell off into a quiet, dreamless sleep.
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I'm quite glad this didn't end in a cliffhanger, though no less eager for the next chapter :c
Why must you be so awesome at writing these things D:
1225722
I just glad someone thinks I'm good at this.
It's not necessarily a cliffhanger, no, because it's not that kind of story. It is very much a slice of life. It wanders and drifts and I just stop writing when I get to the end of a particular meander.
I gotta say, this is pretty damn good. I really enjoy reading this, and I look forward to seeing what you write next.
1226548
Thank you, thank you. This was an experiment for me. Not a long story crammed with details and action but rather short, punchy chapters concerned with deep thought.
If you want to know where my focus is, check out "The Hero's Journey."
1226574 Well if I may be so bold, take a look at some of my pieces. I've heard mostly good things about them, and I'd be interested to hear what you have to say. Now then, on to The Hero's Journey!
groom both hand. Had
You don't use a peeler on a root like that, it's way too tough. For that, you'd use a knife.
I can understand how he feels about the ending not being what he expected, though I wouldn't know anyone around here who would do such a thing.
1226016
What am I, chopped liver?
My my my! If I had to choose one word to describe this story thus far, it would be: Deep
The characters have a lot of complection. And all the details of everything make it seem real.
As for the story so far, it's good. It's a typical misunderstanding that we often see and read in romance. But I think it's done better here because some of it leads to more of the character's motives and past.
If I had to nitpick, I would say that some of the descriptions drag on a little too much. But it's not a major problem, and it's probably just my opinion.
Keep on going!
Deep thought causes me pain
. And as such you have given me several migraines worth of it in this story. I don't see how you do it, but you do it well. Please, by all means go on.
Is this changeling/romance fic or a cookbook?
Alright, um, how do I say this? I haven't read this all the way through yet, just finished chapter six. The story is great, btw! Loving it! But I find Vanilla thoroughly unlikable. I mean, tell me if I'm being rude but he goes on and on about hating how fake and cold the Canterlot ponies are when he acts very similar. He feels that he is good for doing 'what is right' but he is obviously not happy about it and makes it fairly obvious to her, and then feels angry towards her for lying and being cold when that's all he's done to her.
Even if she was a pony I couldn't blame her for actinng unfeeling because he has given her no reason to be anything else. If I were a guest there I'd have to put on a fake smile just not to punch him in the face!
This rant is nothing against you, in fact, you're shaping up to be one of my new favorite authors, or against this story, I really like Double and find her thoughts intriguing, but this character makes me want to scream.
>And if they could being about great love and strength when done right
wat
>standing poudly and imperiously
Poudly?
This step is in twain.
She must truly consider his words if she is to exists on.
Gain a true heart, leech who was cursed.
I shall read on.
mmmm
had
Let me know if you don't want me to point out what i perceive as spelling errors. I only do it on stories I like.
Should be had.
Should be He.
More food descriptions than Fifty Shades of Gray!