Chapter 42
The final thirty awaited, almost all of them adolescents or young adults, with a few older than Gosling himself. The gala had lasted far longer than anticipated and it was now nearing ten o’clock. Moving foals through the line, getting them sorted, getting the line organised when a new line had to form, wrangling foals missing from the line and still on the dance floor—all of this took time. As for Gosling himself, he was still wearing the goofy holiday sweater, and he was a sweaty, dishevelled mess now.
Celestia admired his persistence and looked forward to the necessary shower that would come later. Gosling was quite a sight when he was wet… when he was dripping... when the water ran down his sleek sides in rivulets and left parts highlighting his well-toned features. Gnawing her lip, she thought about pulling the sweater off of him while he was hot, sweaty, and maybe even a little bit stinky.
There was nothing quite like a bit of a roll against the side of a sweaty, stinky, musky stallion, especially one with wings, and then coming away smelling like him. For a moment, time blurred and Celestia was no longer standing in Canterlot castle, but rather taking cover in a copse of trees on the edge of a meadow. A brave band of nomads surrounded her, most of them foals, almost all of them plucky, gritty, and capable. The gala had become something else entirely and the past had become the present.
Among her courageous band of survivors, ponies that were Gosling’s age were the seasoned adults, but sadly, also the ones with more years behind than ahead. Twenty was a hard age to reach and every year was so precious—each year back then held so much value compared to the years of easy living now. Some of these dancers around her now would already be in the twilight of their life, the last and final years where the end of every day was a goodbye and each new dawn was seen as miraculous.
Over a thousand years of progress became blurred and Celestia was stricken with guilt when the claws of the past raked at her mind. Serfs and peasants had been worked to death, never seeing the benefit of their own labour, all part of the price of survival. Dreadful working conditions where even the littlest of foals were expected to contribute somehow, a countless number of lives sacrificed in the name of progress, each of them going to their grave with no reward, no comfort, no sense of satisfaction or meaning.
So many bodies formed the foundations of civilisation of which Celestia had been the architect. She had asked so much of them and gave them little in exchange, but each successive generation had reaped the benefits of her plan, and with each life sacrificed, the lives of others prospered. Soon, her band of nomadic tribals had enough food for learned and educated ponies again. The alphabet was reintroduced, along with literacy. Celestia had been the vessel that had held this knowledge. Protecting those precious students became the highest priority and many gave their lives to keep the newly lit flame from flickering out.
From protecting those students, those learned, precious few, the idea sprang up that some lives were intrinsically more valuable than others, a regrettable necessity. Almost any pony could pull a plow or a wagon, but a pony that could read, that represented a significant investment of time and energy spent. It was an expenditure of resources, an investment—and so those rough and rowdy few that called themselves warriors and soldiers had begun to prioritise which lives to save in a crisis.
And so had begun the cultural shift, the first cracks forming the divide between the commoners and those not so common. It wasn’t fair, but then again, neither was life. Numbers grew and life—though precarious—showed promising signs of continuing. It went without saying that there were setbacks; disasters, plagues, monster attacks, great evils, lesser evils, and of course those who foolishly believed they could do a better job of ruling and had tried to usurp her. For the sake of the future, for the sake of survival, she had been forced to cut them down, to show them her dreadful power, and the path to prosperity was sometimes littered with ashes.
All of that—had lead to all of this.
The gala—this gala—had been the end result of the long march of progress. Lives that had once been so short could now see a century. These foals knew an unbelievable amount of wealth, privilege, and comfort. So much had changed, so much had been accomplished. The first festivals, celebrations, and jamborees, they would barely even be recognisable by modern standards—but back then, having enough extra food to feast had been such a meaningful accomplishment.
Closing her eyes, Celestia lingered in both the past, the present, and future. She was a vessel of history, the protector that insured that a history would continue to be written, and she was all too aware of how precarious the future was. Threats existed now that could put an end to all of this—all of this progress could be expunged in an eyeblink—and she would be back at the beginning again, trying to pull what remained up out of the muck, if anything remained at all.
It was a game suitable for immortals, perhaps the most important and most meaningful game of them all. Keep the lights on and build a civilisation that stands the test of time. To reach or to return to this level of extravagance. A long time ago, this world had known high technology and advanced civilisation; Celestia could remember those distant days, the days before the Great Extinction. Flying machines, mechanised weapons of war, mechanised labour—all things that the most brilliant of minds were only now beginning to rediscover. Technology too, could upset the game and send everything tumbling down. It was a terrifying prospect, one that caused many a sleepless night of fretting, wondering if progress should be held back just a little longer until society was ready.
Failure meant starting over, if there was anything left to start over with.
“You’ve gone through a lot of film tonight, Seville,” Gosling remarked while his friend loaded his camera with motion picture film. It was one of the many hold ups that delayed everything and stretched out the hours. Perhaps next year, they could work out a few kinks in the system and speed things up a bit.
“I have a responsibility to history,” Seville replied and he shut the hatch of his camera with a click. “Princess Celestia wants every face of every ticket buyer to go into the Royal Archives. She is convinced that many of these faces will have a meteoric rise to greatness, and when and if they do, she wants it remembered that they danced with you.”
“Like I inspire greatness in others…” Gosling went quiet from the sheer force of Seville’s deadpan expression and then he stood there, tugging at the collar of his sweater with the knuckle of his right wing. The intensity of Seville’s stare caused Gosling’s mouth to go dry and he wondered if it was time for more punch.
“I was dumb enough to get on a train with you and as a result of that, I became one of the most important journalists of the modern era. No exaggeration. The whole reason I have a career in the first place is because you stuck your neck out for me and you gave me a chance. Certainly nopony else wanted to give an earth pony a chance. For some reason Gosling, you can take a pony that has been crushed by the weight of the world, lift them up, dust them off, and make them believe that anything is possible.”
“I’m told that I have knack for inspiring happiness in others—”
“And happiness begets confidence, confidence begets courage, courage begets all manner of things, such as the idea that you really can do anything. When I’m around you, I don’t feel the depression that holds me back… the idea that nothing will ever change. Whatever mojo you have, Gosling, it rubs off on other ponies.”
“Thanks, Seville… I guess… I don’t know what to say.”
“You’ll think of something. Camera is good to go. We ready?”
Gosling nodded. “Let’s do this.”
The filly that Gosling danced with had to be about his own age, or thereabouts, and she was lively, if not a little clumsy. Gawky, she was at that stage where she was all legs, a phase that Gosling was mortified to remember and recall. To suddenly become clumsy before your peers was awful, but this filly had to have it particularly bad because she had a badminton shuttlecock and racket cutie mark.
Badminton, once known as battledore and shuttlecock, was a game played by the ancient pegasus ponies to prepare them for war. Feathers were stuffed into a wad of cork to form shuttlecocks, and this was batted around with wide, flat paddles. It was a brutal sport that taught aerial combat, hoof-and-eye coordination, and teamwork. Now, it was a gentle, genteel sport played by unicorns with much softer, safer rackets. Full contact was forbidden.
“My mother says you are the best thing that’s happened to the royalty,” the filly said while she looked Gosling in the eye. “She bought my ticket. She wanted me to meet you, because she said it would give me a sense of history.”
“Is that so?” Gosling moved in a gentle circle, standing close but not too close, and allowed himself to gaze into the filly’s curious dark green eyes.
“My mother is one of the equinology professors at Canterlot College.” The filly bowed her head, blushing, her cheeks as red as apples. “She told me that you represent modernity for the royal family, something that was sorely needed. Princess Celestia is a good and wise ruler, but she has blind spots. There are issues that haven’t been addressed. My mother seems to think those issues have a better chance of being corrected now, and that we might be able to do something about the poverty in this great nation of ours once and for all, so that we might all be better—”
The bell dinged and the filly winced with regret, but she was gracious. Bowing her head, she nodded, smiled, stepped back, and then said her final parting words. “I believe in you as my ruler. Do good, for all of us. Thank you.”
And then, before Gosling could think of what to say or how to respond, she was gone.
The very last in line was a colt, a wiry, studious fellow with wireframed eyeglasses, a short cropped mane that stuck out in all directions like a star gone supernova, and visibly chapped lips. Gosling made a gesture with his wing to welcome the colt over, and was relieved that his duties were almost done.
“I’d really rather not dance, as it is counterproductive to my goals,” the colt said to Gosling. “My name is Rauchtänzer, but most ponies mispronounce my name as Roach. I am a juvenile immigrant to this country and I bought my own ticket so that I might speak to you. I wasn’t sure how else to reach you. I would very much like a job—”
“You bought a ticket so you could ask me about a job?” Gosling asked, incredulous.
“It means that much to me,” the colt replied, his voice wavering. “I want to help other immigrants—poor ones, like me. I was lucky, but many are not. Please, hear me out, this means so much to so many.”
“Im listening.” Gosling, sensing opportunity, waved over Beans and Toast.
“I’d like to help you with immigrant affairs… I’ll work as an unpaid intern if necessary, if that can get my hoof in the door.” The colt licked his lips, his tongue lingering in the chapped corner of his mouth, blinked once, and then his nostrils flared. “I came to this country as a stowaway on a coal steamer. I worked hard as a student and I ended up here, in Princess Celestia’s school on a partial scholarship for academic excellence. I do whatever is necessary to earn my keep and I work very hard because I want a job in the government sector, because the bureaucracy needs reformation.”
Gosling knew this speech had to have been rehearsed in the mirror many, many times. “Indeed it does, Rauchtänzer, indeed it does. So you bought a ticket just to score a job interview. You waited in line all this time… and something tells me that you probably didn’t have the bits to spare to buy a ticket.”
“It was pretty much all of my emergency savings, but I saw an opportunity.”
The last bell of the evening dinged and Rauchtänzer’s gaze became a pleading stare. Gosling eyeballed Beans for a moment, then Toast, and then he wondered how much more of this he might have to deal with in the future if he said yes to this now. Everypony would try to arrange some meeting with him to secure a job…
Which didn’t seem so bad. Those who found a way to reach him would probably be clever enough and deserving enough to hold a position. Perhaps this could work out. Pleased with this idea, Gosling nodded, extended his wing, and wrapped it around Rauchtänzer’s neck while he said, “Have a good long talk with Beans and Toast. Let us see what we can work out. Good luck, Rauchtänzer, you did good tonight.”
“Thank you so much, sir!”
“Now, if you will excuse me, there is one final thing I must do.”
With his most disarming grin, Gosling approached the chaperone, whom he caught off guard. When tapped by him, she let out a shrill squeak, and then stood there, trembling and afraid. She was quite frazzled after a long evening, every bit as dishevelled as he was, and her gown was now rumpled.
“Would you care to dance with me?” Gosling asked and he did his best to hide the exhaustion in his voice.
“Oh gosh, why?” the chaperone replied while backing away.
“Because, you volunteered to do this thankless job and are in need of a reward.” Gosling did his best to look inviting and when he heard the click of a camera being primed, he turned on the suave. “So, how about it, care for a dance?”
Tittering, the chaperone ducked her head, smiled for but a moment, and then hid her smile away to hide her awful braces. “I would really like that, it would make tonight special. It’s been rough.”
“Indeed it has,” Gosling replied and he made a gesture with his wing. “Come with me, and let’s make this last dance memorable.”
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First!
Awwww
German is weird, his name would be two letters longer if the translation were singular.
8702554
It works as both singular and a plural, according to my German translator. (Miss Appolonia)
8702561
I see. I'm just going by Google translate, where it adds 'in' to the end for singular.
8702567
Rauchtänzer is male singular and also general plural. Der/Die Tänzer / The Dancer/The Dancers.
Rauchtänzerin would have been female form. Female plural would have been Rauchtänzerinnen.
8702561
At least you have a proper german translator.
It really really irks me when there is not only Gratuitous German, but also wrong gratuitous german. <.<
Nice
ironic considering your name literally means "Smoke Dancer".
Great chapter! Only thing left is finally have a nice long tango with Celestia. Both vertical and horizontal.
8702645
I was really, really hoping that somebody would notice this. The character gives up what he does best to do what he has high hopes for.
This Rauchtänzer kid is interesting.
A nice bit of fun at the end for the chaperone, good idea Gosling.
8702653
Smoke Dancer, eh? Are we going to see more of him in the future? His name is really interesting and I'm really curious what may have inspired it. (or let me rephrase, what inspired you to make this character)
8702875
We shall see.
Man, i just love Gosling!
i really felt for this colt here. Well, i felt what i imagined he's feeling here. I'm glad Gosling is giving him a chance.
Where's my ticket, i need a dance with him now
And Kudz manages to cram a game of Civilization in this chapter!
Did we see this young lad in another story or was that sibling pair another set of immigrants??
Let's go~
Niice, A NEW ONE (OR 2) TO WATCH.
8703386
I bet Celestia is killer at Civ. She gets Written Language for free and her Pegasus troops are essentially Ancient era bombers.
8703594
Unicorns are ancient era artillery. And earth ponies increase bonuses of food on all tiles.
8702653
Going into politics/government/bureaucracy?
Eh . . much smoke and dancing around subjects needed there . .
Ugh, spam mail even at a gala.
Celestia may not have the ink, but she does have a greater comprehension of possibilities than others. Given what they're up against, if they fail, it's hard to imagine there could be anything better than what was described in the Last Light scenario.
This represents one of my few nit picks with your writing style. All the children seem to talk like adults most of the time.
8704700
She is a young adult, so she speaks like a young adult.
Edit: she also comes from one of the finest schools in the nation.
It's always curious to see how many layers Celestia works with.
Again, there's a lot to love about this chapter. You can really see the quality put into each individual who dances with Gosling