Delusional
It's someone else's fault.
She keeps thinking about that, as she huddles in the near-darkness of unfair exile. There are ways in which the unicorn mare hates that thought, especially in the formatting of it -- but the repetition is a necessity. She did not mean to commit a crime, and so there was no crime at all. All she did was start a fire, a little fire, and the fact that it spread -- well, she already figured that one out, didn't she? The feather-duster moved the heat. Burned down her own apartment to make the sensible ponies who share the unicorn's beliefs look like criminals.
That's what fanaticism does to Guards. Devote your life to the wrong cause, regard the world through the tiniest possible pinhole of a viewpoint, and all possible sanity collapses into that single gap. The unicorn's also been thinking about that, because thinking is so much of what she gets to do in her exile, trapped in something very much like a prison. A prison for the innocent.
She's been thinking about the nature of fanatics, and it makes her grateful that she isn't one. But when the only view her cell (because it's a cell, she knows it's a cell now and nothing told to her by those who occasionally visit can change that) offers is a vista upon madness...
There were CUNET members who helped to move her out of Canterlot, keeping her ahead of the misinformed search for somepony whose only crime was thinking properly. (She had spent her entire life before that in Canterlot and, after finally realizing just how mentally ill the majority of its residents were, had confined most of that life to a few safe blocks of it.) But they moved her into Ponyville.
She's currently in the upper floor of a rental house, only it hasn't actually been rented because that would apparently create a paper trail and so sneaking her in was just one more way of making it harder for others to track her. At least, they called it a rental house. It is, in her opinion -- no, her knowledge, something which has only been reinforced through the repeated accumulation of facts -- an extension of Tartarus. Because the ramp to the upper level is treacherous and one of the bedroom walls slants harshly inwards, the pipes creak horribly when used and that means she can only risk using them when there's either nopony around or there's so much noise on the street as to cover for her. She can't even have light unless she's so far away from a window as to fully confine all traces of illumination, and that light can't come from her horn because a device might malfunction long enough to activate itself, but those lumens aren't going to have sparkles.
At night, most of what the unicorn gets to do is sit in the dark. (She doesn't sleep when she should, and her waking hours are becoming more irregular by the week.) She can't go to the cinema, not that she did much of that in the first place because the entertainment industry is filled with those who hold pro-Diarchy views and so nearly every production is unsuitable. It's the same reason she didn't read much, not when it came to novels and schoolbooks. In both cases, the stories she told herself were so much better.
She doesn't go out. There's a rear exit from the building (and for some reason, it was the only door that was well-oiled at arrival) and she's been given a disguise of sorts, but... her natural hues are perfect, and she refuses to trap herself in the minimal ventilation of her cell for the hours required for the stink of fur dye to go away. Additionally, she is under strict orders (orders!) not to use her field, her birthright, and to expect her to exist among the freaks while wearing a hat...
Sometimes unicorns sneak in through that back door, deep under Moon. They bring her food, and that's just about all they ever bring. She doesn't understand why they refuse to make her more comfortable. Yes, there isn't supposed to be anypony in the house, but she had an idea! They can just claim to be renovating the property. Surely a furnished home would rent for more bits than one which was empty, right? Especially if decorated by somepony with taste, which she's sure will make it the only desirable residence in the entire so-called town. So they can bring her a bed, and a couch, and --
-- but they say that's too suspicious.
It's almost as if signing over control of her bank account didn't mean anything. (She agreed that it was a good idea, after a while. There are obviously certain expenses in keeping her safe, even if she isn't sure what most of them are.) She would be buying her own furniture, at least if those who should understand the unfairness of her plight didn't donate to her from the pureness of their unicorn hearts. She was waiting for that to happen, and...
...apparently still too suspicious.
They aren't even bringing her newspapers.
Actually, that part doesn't sting so much any more. She used to think she needed the articles. It's a big world, and that means it takes a lot of words to tell you which parts of it have to be excluded. Twice-daily updates on why the majority of 'sapients' aren't allowed her to direct her energy in needed turn: it's certainly possible to hate just about everyone on principle, but doing so all at once is exhausting.
Every edition gave her a target for the day. A schedule of sorts. But now she's on her own, and with no fresh suggestions for targets...
She's been... focusing. That feels more efficient.
At night, she huddles in the dark and suffuses the shadows with the strength of her loathing. Whenever she feels tired, she retreats to the darkest part of her cell and uses her field to charge the precious device which is supposed to protect her nightscape, keeping the public mask of Nightmare out. But during the day, she can find herself feeling the need for reminders on why that loathing is the only sane response, and...
There's a risk. There's always a risk. (On two occasions, that risk almost came right up to the door.) Those who visit tell her that, over and over. They repeat themselves so much that at one point, it almost felt as if they'd decided she wasn't capable of truly understanding. But she's a unicorn, the equal to her fellows (although increasingly, it feels like she's the only one who sees sense) and the superior above all others. She understands risk perfectly, like the fact that there was just about none in starting a fire upon the feather-duster's door. And besides, no CUNET members are ever around during the day, so it's not like they're going to catch her at it, now are they?
There's a window on the upper level at the front of the rental. It's in a small room which shows signs of having had a carpet poorly stripped away, a space which stinks of dust and old yarn. The curtains drawn across it are thick, but they're not so heavy that they can't be nosed (and the base level of that insult!) aside. Just enough to let her peek out.
Under Moon, she hates. Under Sun, she seeks reminders for why that hate is necessary and for that, Ponyville provides.
On the street below, children play. The worst part of that is that they play with each other, possessing no regard for exactly how the group has come together. They haven't even recognized that there shouldn't be a group at all. And then they can't work out just what the rules should be for the newest of games, but that problem is solved through the advice of a passing donkey and they're listening to him, they're listening when she can't share anything brought to her by the elevation of perspective, including her knowledge of just how badly the toupee sits upon the bald head.
There are times when it's worse than that. Mixed-species playgroups can be blamed on improper education, but looking at the street later in the day gives her the chance to spot couples. Associating with proper unicorns meant not having to deal with that, and every sin which trots by has the chance to produce the next generation of corruption.
But it's all she has to watch. So she makes up stories in her head about the ponies she sees on chill autumn days (the cell leaks heat), because at least a suitably painful ending can be arranged in fiction. And every so often, the street provides a moment which could almost pass for drama, if the results just weren't so nauseating.
There's a unicorn family who lives close by. Entirely unicorns, for the very little that's worth when the youngest freely associates with an earth pony. She's watching the two fillies trotting towards that house now, too close together, always too close together, and the unicorn is holding her head a little higher today. The tail is closer to a natural loft and if that's been produced by the proximity of the young clod, that's wrong --
-- but then she sees the familiar.
The familiar comes in from what she thinks of as Stage Left, and she wants to shout. Alert the reporters to her presence even as she takes comfort in their faces, she doesn't know why they're here and advancing on the children, but she understands that it has to mean punishment and she's a direct witness to the righteous at last...
"Just a few questions," the unicorn without the camera says, field whipping a notepad to the ready position. "For those who risked everything because the palace lied to them about the centaur. Now, when you first entered the ballroom, exactly how close would you say you came to dying?"
The centaur? Somepony really brought children into the presence of that monster?
The filly clod looks at the stallion. Just... looks at him. It's all she does, and so the observer doesn't understand why he pulls back by a half-hoofstep.
"You're very boring," the little clod decides. "I could ask a better question than that. Like this one. Did you have to go to school to be that boring? Is there a class where they just take all of the interesting out of you, and then you're just stuck with the same things everypony else says? You can quote that if you want. You can even change a pronoun if you like. So instead of having the paper say 'You are boring' and just making the readers feel that way, even if it's accurate, you can say 'I am boring.' About yourself. Because my daddy says newspapers should have truth in them, and that's a good place for yours to start."
The field around the reporter's horn is beginning to show spikes. The observer likes that. Spikes means anger, the anger is justified, and both the little clod and giggling traitor need to be taught a lesson.
"Do you have any idea," the reporter says, making sure to step out of any potential picture taken by the mare so that any lunge will make it look like the fillies are attacking nothing at all, "what my publication could write about you? If you don't answer a few simple questions? Because without answers, we have to start thinking about what might have happened. Something so horrible that you can't talk about it. When ponies don't have your words to work with, they can imagine just about anything -- "
"Yes," says a stallion's voice as a middle-aged brown body enters from Stage Right. "So let's try to work with words."
He would be handsome, if he wasn't so old. He would also be handsome if he wasn't bearing the exact fur shade to make his clod status into something very nearly redundant.
"And who are you? Somepony who just follows fillies around town --" the reporter begins to challenge -- then stops, as grey eyes narrow. "I know you. Where do I know you from?"
"You can call me Mr. Rich," the brown clod calmly states. "I would give you my first name, but I'm sure you know it. And that in any resulting articles, it's all you'll use. But right now, we're working with words, aren't we? So here's a few to start with: you're harassing minors."
There are other ponies on the street: the observer is just beginning to focus on that. She lost them in the welcome sight of the familiar, didn't know they'd stopped to watch what was taking place. She also completely missed the first stages of what's continuing to happen now. Something the reporter and photographer have yet to notice.
"They're the subjects of a news story," that reporter declares as the spikes become more intense. "I have every right to interview them."
"As Diamond's father," and the voice is far too calm, the tail utterly still, "I have every right to intervene. As a former guest of the Belles, I also consider my daughter's friend to be under my protection. They're minors. You're harassing them. Once is questioning. Twice is persistence. Three times seems to qualify for harassment. It was bad enough that you came onto school grounds -- and by the way, how is your fellow reporter doing? Ms. Slate is surprisingly quick with her back kicks -- but now your team is making the attempt directly in front of me."
"The public wants answers. Unless the public gets them --"
"-- what portion of the public?"
The reporter seizes on the word in a way which almost requires another flare of field. Something which can surround and crush. "The part which shops at your stores! I know you've got money, Filthy, and I also know where it comes from. Other ponies. Right now, you're purchasing --" and the next part is almost a purr "-- let's call it... anti-advertising. I'm sure there's all sorts of articles which can be written about a chain store with thirteen branches --"
"-- sixteen," is still far too calm. "As of next moon, anyway."
"-- and their poor treatment of customers. Customers who'll be happy to tell us all about their miserable experiences with being overcharged and ripped off and dismissed. One customer with a bad story knocks out ten with a good one, isn't that how retail works, Filthy?" The spikes are starting to fade as self-satisfaction puts little ripples into the field's borders. "Customers who won't be coming back. Enough articles, and everypony will stop shopping at your stores -- and you know it."
The pink and white fillies glance back at the brown stallion, who simply holds his ground.
"So it's a choice between my income -- sorry, my customers -- and my daughter."
"Right --"
The brown stallion moves.
She barely sees it happen. Somepony of his age shouldn't be able to move that fast, especially when he has to jump two adolescents in order to narrow the gap. But he moves so close as to be within hoofwidths of the reporter, a surprisingly broad chest just knocked the notepad out of the field and onto the ground, and he's only hoofwidths away, hoofwidths...
The clods aren't a threat. They're nothing to worry about at all: CUNET teaches that and in all cases, it's just reinforcing the obvious. Nopony at casting range ever has to worry about a clod.
This clod is close enough to make sharp contact against a lit horn, and just happens to possess what might be twice the reporter's physical strength.
"You're right, in a way," that too-calm voice continues, breath blasting into the reporter's nostrils. "I get my money by exchanging goods for it. Some goods. I occasionally need to revise my inventory, because I never want to carry suspect products, or anything which could cause harm. For example, I'm about to drastically cut down on my periodicals section. And you can call that censorship, but... I'm a business owner, the same as your publisher. He chooses which articles to print, and I get to decide whether I'm selling them. Admittedly, sixteen stores isn't much of a dent, but... he'll see it. I have money: that much is true. I get to decide how I'm spending it. And perhaps you're incapable of seeing what you do as harassment -- but I think your employer has his own definition. Something which includes his being dragged into court a few dozen times. Because you made this a choice between customer and daughter, and when you did that, you forgot a few things."
The reporter is pulling back. Shrinking into his own withers. The observing mare is ashamed of the display, the lack of resistance, not to mention the way the photographer hasn't gotten any shots of a mad clod. She knows she would have been stronger than that.
"You have an interesting definition of 'everypony'," the clod peacefully states. "And 'public,' for that matter. You want me to hear it as everypony in the world. But you really mean 'everypony who agrees with you.' And that's not enough. I'll lose business: I accept that. Income. But by offending you, I might just acquire a few new friends, because some of those who don't agree with you might wonder if somepony who's made you this angry is a pony worth buying from. Because in your way, you just declared war. And you also forgot it's a condition in which there are multiple sides. Your idea of a war is one where the other side never fights back. I can fight, you know. With words, and to the very last tenth-bit, if it comes to that. Because you just asked me to choose between my customers and my daughter."
Less than a hoofwidth away now.
"And I can only afford to lose one."
The reporter stares at him. Looks to the photographer for backup, for assistance, for anything --
-- and finally sees the other ponies on the street. The ones who've been using the last minute to come that much closer.
"You..." the reporter stammers. "You..."
The clod pulls back slightly. Looks behind him, to meet his daughter's eyes.
"Apparently he missed the class where they would have taught him a second word."
She laughs. So does the unicorn filly, and a good portion of the crowd. They're laughing at their betters...
"...you don't know what the centaur might have done to your precious daughter. You don't care..."
"I recently saw a rather interesting short film," the clod states. "I don't think it would be to your taste. But because I am a businesspony and you're new to this settled zone, let me just say --"
He smiles, and all of the warmth goes out of the world.
"-- welcome to Ponyville."
The right foreleg is raised. Then it comes down, and chips fly from the stone at the same moment the circle of ponies begins to close.
"Now leave."
The weaklings do. The knackered, good for nothing except being kicked onto a scrap heap. She just came up with that insult based on a number of truths about the butcher shop in the Heart which nopony of stupidity has ever accepted and as far as she's concerned, they deserve it.
Unlike some of the other natives, the brown clod doesn't give chase. He just shrugs to himself, then accompanies the fillies on their journey until they're all out of her sight. And then there's nothing familiar except for a street which she's just about got memorized, nothing to watch, nothing to do except think.
She isn't keeping track of the days. (There doesn't seem to be much point, especially given how odd her sleep hours have become.) Doing so just reinforces the walls of her cell. But there are times when her Canterlot life begins to feel like a dream, as if she's been unfairly locked in this prison forever --
-- there's a bright color coming in from Stage Right, something moving with joy and confidence, she misses it for a crucial moment as the hated words once again blaze through her mind --
-- it's almost like she lives here --
-- and the bright pink body suddenly stops moving.
The clod mare's head turns, and the curly mane bounces. Blue eyes look up and the unicorn is already pulling back, she has to pull back because this is the third time, the third time the clod has stopped and it's a fat clod, the fattest thing ever, a tenth-bale over the ideal for that build (not that anypony should ever want an earth pony's build) and Mrs. Panderaghast is simply stately, but the clod is fat.
The unicorn must have pulled back in time, there's no way the clod could have seen the curtain drop into place...
She can't see the clod any more. It... it has to be leaving. It has to leave this time.
And then it feels like the house is shaking.
There's a little vibration which comes up through the wood of the front ramp when somepony climbs it. She found that out the hard way, because this is the third time and the clod is clearly just that fat. The first time, it stopped just past the base. The second felt like it came halfway up. And this time, this time the unicorn can hear the hoofsteps making their curious way towards the door, coming all the way up and it has to leave it has to leave it has to leave...
It knocks.
"Hello?"
One forehoof rap exactly.
A proper unicorn would announce themselves by... doing something else. She can't seem to think of what. The same thoughts are going around and around in her head and she doesn't live here she doesn't she lives in Canterlot she's going back to Canterlot not here this isn't her home it's a cell a cell she doesn't live here she doesn't.
The next sound is -- it's like part of a knock. Like the clod found some way of stopping halfway through.
"I..." comes up to her from outside. There's an odd amount of pain in it, as if the clod is fighting off a sudden headache. Good. It's deserved. "I... Hello? Is... anypony home? I just thought..."
Silence.
And then the too-heavy hooves are making their way down the ramp.
The unicorn risks a glance through a new gap, just long enough to see the clod looking at the prison with open confusion. And then she leaves, exiting to what, in the best of all possible worlds, would be Stage Nowhere.
It's the third time, and the clod knocked on the door. It's as if it knows there's somepony inside. But it can't know...
She has to get her out of here, soon.
There must be somewhere they can take her. If Trotter's Falls just hadn't been compromised by the palace...
...there has to be a safe place left. There must be. She knows it, and so it becomes true. She'll make them move her. They can't risk having her found, even when she's done nothing wrong.
She hates this so-called town. There's mixed couples and no standards and the weather is always late. Last week, just before the half-approach up the outer ramp, the bright pink clod was talking to a witch. They have witches and the zebras need to go back where they came from. She's surrounded by mindless fanatics who don't even know how corrupted they are. She thinks about the same things over and over and it makes her smarter, but she still doesn't get her newspapers and so she never gets to find out who she's supposed to be hating now.
But maybe she doesn't need that part.
She could try to hate the foal's family, because they chose to live so close to a deviant. But maybe they didn't know...
...actually, they had to have known...
It's someone else's fault.
Someone. She has to think that word, over and over again, when nopony ever should.
It's the centaur's fault for existing. That's what forced her to act. Anypony of sense would have acted, and she just got there first.
The centaur continues to exist.
All the others are doing is marching and writing, and the centaur is still there.
...somepony has to do something about that.
There are those who, if they knew about what was happening in the palace on this night, would claim that the sisters are putting too much thought into it. Too much effort, too much time, too much of everything which could clearly be devoted to granting what the claiming party wants: something which should obviously be done with no thought at all. Those parties are wrong.
The siblings have been thinking about this for some time, because it's just that important. There was a period of individual consideration, they eventually found a chance to speak with each other, and now they're talking to somepony else. A mare who knew it was coming, and isn't exactly happy about having to deal with the moment when the inevitable called her away.
Guard armor offers many kinds of protection, and one extends into the social. It can be somewhat difficult to read the body language of somepony who has that much of their form covered by metal: it's the central reason why so many Guards often come across as stoic. But for a pegasus Guard to be effective, there must be two limbs which remain eternally exposed. It's a gap in the armor, a necessary weakness built into that protection, and in the presence of the sisters...
The discussion is taking place in one of the palace's larger secret passages, all the better to accommodate the forms involved. The arcing ceiling is more than high enough for the elder, the width allows the siblings to stand at each other's side, and it still isn't enough to fully contain the sheer amount of awkwardness conveyed by a pair of black wings which seem to have every feather wringing against itself.
The Guard, given a choice, would likely wish to be appear stoic as she fulfills the request: to, as the superior officer, speak with utter honesty about a recruit. But she's also talking about her friend, and so hesitations nearly take over every utterance. Syllables wind up having to chase each other into the musty air of the passage, just to clear the logjam of self-loathing in the mare's throat.
If it had been just about anypony else making the request (something she rather accurately sees as an order), she would have refused. But she knows exactly what's at stake here. Nopony is brought into the Guard unless they can fully recognize exactly what might come of their actions.
Their words.
For so many across the centuries, their death.
"It's the last question, Nightwatch," the elder gently offers. "Take your time."
Silence stills the last of the air's natural flow.
"Um," the pegasus finally resumes. "She... she is kind. Or she wants to be. I think... I think when she was in that house, it was... a lot of chaos, most of the time. No one was doing much of anything to stop it, so she thought she had to, and with everything else that was going on... she had a hard time being kind to the other students, because she had to be an authority figure when she really didn't have any power to enforce it. She just..."
They wait for her. Most of the evening has been cleared for this, and they can wait just about all night if necessary. The pegasus knows it, and the endless weight of patience and duty is what forces the rest of it to emerge.
"...she wants to be kind," the Guard softly tells them. "I think it's something she would offer freely, if she ever had the chance. She's... lonely, I know she's lonely here, but sometimes I think it was like that before. That she was lonely in the household a lot, even when she was surrounded by the other girls. That she might have felt alone in her herd, and..."
The twisting of feathers smoothly transmutes into the vibration of rage.
"...no one should ever feel alone in a herd...!"
The dark tail manages one hard lash before its owner brings it back under control. The sisters wait.
"...um. I'm sorry --"
"-- a natural reaction," the younger smoothly cuts in, "expressed in both privacy and secrecy. The remainder, Nightwatch. When you can."
The pegasus manages a slow breath.
"A suitor -- they would have to impress her," the Guard finally says. "But that's..." and silver eyes slowly close. "...not going to happen now. But she doesn't need that to happen, just to be kind. I think there's something in her which just wants to be kind, to be gentle, and... not scare anypony. That if things had been different in her life, maybe she would just want to sing or read stories. But someone told her to be hard. To fight. And..."
The pegasus' head tilts down, and closed eyes regard the dusty floor.
"...nopony has to earn her kindness. Her respect -- but not kindness." It's almost a whisper. "I... think she feels she has to earn it from everyone else. That she can't ever do enough to keep it. She has to earn it every day of her life..."
Gradually, the wings refold against the mare's sides, until the only movements are those necessary to maintain life.
"Thank you, Nightwatch," the elder gently offers. "We know it isn't easy."
"You have provided the answers we sought," the younger states. "That is all we had asked."
The mare's head comes up a little.
"Is she --"
"-- we have yet to decide," the younger tells her. "But that decision will be made tonight. So there is one additional request: bring her into the gardens for a time. At least two hours."
"We're going to be wandering a little," the elder adds. "Some of that will be on the lower levels. We've already cleared everypony else out of the area. All we're asking is that we know we won't be running into her for a while."
The Guard nods. Begins to turn --
-- stops.
"Um."
The sisters wait.
"...is it all right if I start my shift a little late tomorrow? Um. I know I don't have a commute right now, but I sort of have to go out and do some things before my shift starts, and I'm not sure I can wrap them up in time. It's out in the city, and... um. Maybe thirty minutes late if things don't go all that fast, and they probably won't. So... um..."
"Where in the city?" the younger inquires, and perhaps not as casually as she might have liked.
The black wings begin to rustle again.
"Saratoga Way."
"The theater district?" A dark eyebrow goes up. "Very well. I would hardly deny you the chance to purchase the use of a desirable bench. For which show had you been contemplating attendance?"
"...it's not that," the mare awkwardly replies. "I just need to see some ponies there. Um. Try to see them. Is it still okay?"
The siblings glance at each other.
"Yes," the younger finally says. "Thirty minutes leeway, if need be. Good night to you."
The pegasus offers thanks, turns, departs from the passage. The sisters wait until they hear the last lock click into place before speaking again.
"Saratoga Way?" the elder repeats. "Without looking for a ticket?"
The younger demonstrates a rather elegant shrug. "At a guess? She is attempting to gain an autograph. Easy enough to allow her that time, sister. She has lost too much: granting half an hour to gain anything back is very nearly the least we could do for her." Stars slowly shift in the twisting mane. "And very nearly the most she will allow us to do."
"So we wait," the white mare quietly says. "Until they're both clear."
It's something they do together, because time spent in the passage is still time in each other's company. And when they're sure the pegasus has managed to get what's probably a rather confused centaur out of the area, they begin their trot.
The younger has no duties scheduled: the elder will postpone sleep for as long as necessary. Hours pressed into service, in which they can do nothing more than think about the decision.
They have waited until the only voices will be their own. It makes it all the easier to listen to the echoes of the world.
Out of the passage, moving through the ancient halls. One of the oldest structures still standing -- but they seldom feel the weight of that age. Others do, but... for the sisters, there is a greater mass of years forever trying to press itself against their spines.
They cannot win any race against the clock. But if they run fast enough, manage to keep up -- it prevents stagnation. They will only be old at the moment they pick a point on the dead calendar as the ideal and fasten their views to it, never to move again. Both have told themselves that as the centuries stretched out ahead of them and as philosophies for preventing internal death go, it seems to be working so far.
But it means they have to keep moving, and doing so when their nation so often prefers the comfort of stability. That tomorrow will be very much the same as today, with Sun and Moon existing as eternal constant.
Both sisters fight for change, whenever they can -- if change is what's needed. But when it comes to the second part of their nation's collective desire, the wish of a world... there is a price to pay for that gift. There always has been, almost from the first moment when they seized control of the cycle.
There is a price, and they are about to decide who might have to pay it.
Nopony is present to hear their hooffalls echo in the halls. Nor are there any to eavesdrop on the words, and so they speak freely.
"She hated doing that," the elder quietly observes. "She wasn't making any attempt to hide it."
"Verbal concealment has never been her strong suit," the younger states. "But... yes. It was difficult for her. And yet she fulfills her duties, Tia. Whatever we have asked, whatever she could provide."
The white head slowly nods.
"There's times when it's a lot to ask."
Quietly, "There are times when we ask for everything."
Proceeding at their own pace, until they reach the barracks doors.
They're open. The residents are out, but... nopony who works in the palace would commit theft, they're both sure Wordia has no idea how to reach this level (but might manage the feat by accident while trying for something more classified, and so both internally vow to commission new locks), and the presence of one resident creates a protective effect: one born not of magic, but from fear. Few wish to intrude upon a centaur's vacant lair, lest the normal occupant return unexpectedly.
Neither sibling is afraid, and so they simply look into the room. Somehow, it feels a little smaller than before, and that's with all the space which had been opened up by the cleaning --
-- no. Not smaller. More... homey, to use a word which is only likely to pass the lips of the elder. It's obvious that someone's living there now. That quality is visible in the set of one bunk, added to the scant possessions arranged around it. And close by, almost within reach of outstretched wing...
They both look at the little nest of half-compressed blankets on the floor. Seeing how thin it is. There's barely any protection against the chill of the floor.
"It was a mat of some sort," the younger quietly offers.
The elder immediately looks at her sibling.
"In her last residence," the dark mare adds. "Something resilient, which covered most of the floor. A far warmer surface than stone..." Which is when she feels the weight of that gaze, and wryly meets it. "My code is not violated, sister. There are things we must discuss on this evening, and that means granting some of the information I have gathered. Doing so for... the usual reason. Given that, revealing the nature of her prior bed hardly feels like a breach of her privacy."
"Blankets?" The word serves as a probe of sorts. Testing to see where the line is.
"Across her back on cold nights. Not on the floor itself." The dark eyes continue to survey the barracks. "When it comes to sleep, comfort for the sake of comfort alone is the dominion of her roommate. I would hope for one to learn from the other --"
-- stops, as dark eyes widen. Narrow again, focusing...
It only takes a moment for the elder to track her sibling's gaze.
"It's not the first time," the taller mare says. "She keeps leaving it open. I've come by a few times, and it's always at the same page."
The younger is now openly squinting at the first page of the sketchbook.
"There is..." It's rare for her words to fade out, almost unknown to catch her struggling for another -- and yet there's a moment where she can be caught trying to find the next. "...something missing."
"Still," the elder quietly states. "It's the first thing she tried to draw. Something which suggests it was the most important. It's been over a moon now, and... there's still something missing."
The younger is still squinting, and the expression has acquired half-tones of something very much like recognition. It makes the older sibling take a chance.
"Do you know wh --"
"-- a theory only," the dark mare replies. "One which has no place in tonight's proceedings." The gaze shifts targets with what certainly isn't indecent haste. "Is that a Guard application? It looks rather old. And the writing --"
"-- it's Blitzschritt's." There's something new in the elder's voice, and a hundred and forty-eight years haven't been enough to let it heal. "The Archives must have sent it over. Even from here, I can spot ibex writing. Every letter almost exactly the same. And it's 'almost' only because it was Blitzschritt. A little hint of curve at the bottom of a character was just about an open act of rebellion."
They're both looking now. One is doing so through a thin layer of moisture.
"A great among the Guards," the younger says.
"A good person."
Silence for a moment.
"I wish I had known her," the younger offers. "I regret --"
"-- something you have no reason to regret," the elder stops her. "This time, Luna... this time, all the regrets are mine."
Two minutes pass, in which they do nothing more than stand together. And then, if only in location, they move on.
The armor is finished.
That's what the girl has been doing for the last few days. Training is over and with the results yet to be determined, there was time to complete the project. Every piece has been rendered by hand-wielded tools and, once they managed to get her something which fit, the occasional kick.
It's finished -- but it isn't assembled. Guard armor can be put together on small statues which exist for nothing else. No such thing was made for a centaur, and so the finished pieces are mostly scattered across the smithy floor. All of them are the same mottled blue-black in hue: a blend which seems to weep steel's frozen tears. Something which didn't exist in the world before the girl entered it. There's an argument to be made that it shouldn't exist at all. You can use chemicals to color it, make it match in that alone, and all of the distortions will still lurk beneath.
The younger's horn ignites, and the dark field surrounds the helmet. Lifts it, carefully rotates the creation along multiple axes.
"Such a strange shape," she mulls. "And this visor. It will cost her range of vision so much of the time. Eye protection, but at a price..."
The elder is looking at the lower fringe of the half-familiar sections.
"That's a Griffonant symbol. One of the oldest ones. Why would she --"
"Coincidence," the younger decides, flipping the visor back and forth as a means of testing the hinges. "There are only so many basic shapes in the world, Tia. Something which might now apply to the plural. I have seen that shape in her dreams, here and there. Simply not with sufficient context to say what it means. However, given the Guard custom, the usual indication would be a symbol associated with her homeland."
"Even so -- acies," the elder pronounces. "Somepony should tell her."
"Agreed," the younger decides. "But not in the name of having her change it. Hardly anypony in our nation would know the symbol --"
With the smallest, briefest of smiles, "I can think of one..."
"-- and," the younger presses on, "even if they should know it, there would be no harm in having her trot about bearing the shorthoof for insight upon her armor."
"Quicktalon," the elder absently corrects.
"As you say." The younger's eyes briefly close, open again, find a new target as the elder shifts to match...
...they have to call this piece what it is, although it takes a moment for each to dredge up a term which generally doesn't get used in this context or rather, in this configuration. As a certain author in the girl's world might have said, you take a piece of metal and beat it out really well there and there and in the case of the centaur's breastplate, you would have to keep on beating for a very long time.
There's also an extra off to the side, rendered with a number of additional beats. (The pegasus had already told them about sending off a request to Ms. Garter upon seeing how tightening straps were cruelly cutting into the bare skin of the girl's upper back and shoulders, and had sealed it with the desperate passed-along hope that replacements could be made without new measurements.)
Attention is paid to the armored gloves (or gauntlets: a word which barely has a local reason to exist). They examine the upscaling of the lower body protection. Each estimates a time for donning, added to another for removal.
The armor, like the girl, is both something new in the world and a distortion of the familiar. But they can see how it would work. They know it will work. There was skill in the creation: perhaps not on the level granted by extra years of experience added to a mark, but the crafting party knew what she was doing.
The crafting party also spent most of the previous day before this trot in the smithy, desperately trying to fix everything which wasn't actually wrong. Right up until the moment when Barding finally shoved her out or rather, shoved as much of her as he could reach. Actually getting her to move had apparently come as something of a surprise -- but Barding is the authority figure in the smithy, and when it comes to dealing with authority figures...
They look at the armor for a little longer. Regarding something which should not exist, while trying to reconcile how it might change the world.
A brief stop is made at one particular cell. The most recent occupant tried to clean it before she left.
A mutual teleport brings them to the outskirts of Palimyno, where a resting town pays them no heed. They stand next to the tall bush which the girl vaulted as a means of first introduction. The last thing she did before the attack began.
Back to the palace.
In time, they come to the balcony of Apex Tower again, and look down upon emptiness: the protestors have gone home, and the staff is always quick to clear the debris. There is almost no sign that anypony had been there under Sun at all, not which would be visible under watchful Moon.
But the younger can see perfectly in the dark, and so she tells her sibling about the little deliberate discoloration to one patch of cobblestone. Something created as a means of telling those who occupy it on a daily basis about just where they should stand.
It's also a symbol.
Most of the capital lies dark. So much of their nation is sleeping. Some of their citizens are about to begin reliving the terror which has haunted their nightscapes for moons.
There's an aspect of peace upon the land, and the sisters recognize it as a falsehood. No matter what they decide tonight, the fear will continue. All of the myriad disguises for that emotion will maintain their focus.
The sisters have been giving this a lot of thought. Some would say too much, that they're taking it far too seriously, that the conclusion is obvious.
They are giving the decision no less than what is required. What it deserves.
"It would have been nice to use the Twilight solution again," the elder finally begins.
The younger favors that with a small snort.
"There is a certain degree of irony present."
"There's a certain lack of five other centaurs --"
"-- not my meaning, Tia." Another, slightly louder snort. "In the case of Twilight Sparkle, each of the five made the choice to initially reach out towards her, for she lacked the ability to do the same -- and the capacity to recognize that such was necessary. In terms of base starting position alone, our current problem is actually more socially advanced. She longs for companionship, for connection, for... friends. But for others to stretch a foreleg in her direction, when four to six limbs have been directed to flee..."
"The --" and the elder stops herself. Shakes her head a little too quickly as the younger watches, and goes back to looking out over the cold city. "I almost said 'the worst part.' There's a choice for 'worst part' stretching out to the horizon."
"And the choice of the moment?"
"If you'll allow me a little more irony," the elder mock-requests, adding just a touch of fully unnecessary foreleg bend. (The younger's answer comes across as 90% smirk.) "The 'worst part' is that she makes friends so easily --" and before the dark mare can say anything "-- once you consider just how much is in the way. If anypony manages to clear those hurdles, then... it's just like Twilight. They want to help her, because they can see how much trouble she's in. How much..." Hesitates. "...pain. Only this time, there is someone reaching back. She connected with Barding, Luna. Barding. No one's ever gotten that far. He's fallen, and she's guiding him out..."
"Nightwatch protects her," the younger observes. "Recently, Acrolith has been watching out for her during the training exercises. The Sergeant did his best. And now a child wishes to be her correspondent, simply so somepony might be listening to one who is so far from home. Who lost her..."
She stops, and the first wisp of fog rises from chilling fur.
"Luna?"
"I am -- trying to decide what I am permitted to say." The words are tight. "This is about our nation, sister, and so much more. That is why I can speak at all, as I did for previous nights when the enemy was at the gate and I alone had gleaned a suggestion of their plans from dream. But for this..."
The elder gives her a moment. As many moments as the younger needs.
Finally, "You once asked me if she was beautiful."
It's not what the taller mare was expecting, and shocked purple eyes slowly focus on the dark face.
"I have seen her mother," the younger continues, with nearly all of her attention directed towards the sleeping city. "Easy enough to describe her, for the daughter nearly is the mother. Simply somewhat smaller, a gap which will naturally close over time. Smaller, and... softer. For to picture the mother, increase height, add to dimensions, and -- grant severity, Tia. Take every gentle line of the daughter's face and etch it with the contours of demand. Frustration when those demands are not met to the expected level, anger in the face of a filly's failure, and..."
The stars in the mane begin to dim.
"...something else. It has been easy to learn more of their expressions, when I see them in the nightscape. The mother is demanding, angry so much of the time, never satisfied -- or so the daughter perceives her. But there is something else there in the harshness of those lines. Something which the daughter has yet to recognize, and so it is also something which I cannot identify. Something almost constant, forever lurking..."
A few subtle shifts of the elder's wings alter the breeze, trying to carry the chill away. More arrives right behind it.
"Strange, for the daughter to resemble the mother so," the younger softly considers. "From what I have seen of their herd, all the stranger. Something... odd. But this is my point, Tia. In appearance, the daughter nearly is the mother. May very well become, given enough time. And the daughter sees her mother as fiercely beautiful. Not just the most beautiful of mares: something perfect. The ideal. A height which she can only aspire to. The daughter nearly is the mother -- and the daughter thinks of herself as ugly."
There's a moment when the elder's forehooves are cantering against the stone.
"...what?"
The younger simply sighs.
"Perhaps not the ideal term," she decides. "But it is in her nightscape, Tia, at any moment when she allows herself to exist in a dream's offering of now. Her form distorts. She continually takes on new fragilities, fresh flaws. There is always something wrong with her, something which she feels renders her unappealing. When it comes to making friends... she might see a mass outreaching towards her as pity: something which might drive her off. I believe she perceives aspects of that in her current relationships, and clings to them simply because they are all she has. And yet, she makes friends easily... for someone who seems to see herself as being unworthy of so much. Of friendship, because she feels she has cost Nightwatch too much simply for knowing her. Of love. In the worst case, it is as the Sergeant suggested: forever chasing a goal which she will never allow herself to reach. And yet, the solution applied to Twilight Sparkle could work -- but how many would be willing to know her? To see her? Even with everything which holds her back from within, she could make friends so easily..."
She stops. Shakes her wings, and tiny pellets of ice fall away.
"...if only she were not a centaur. And that is simply here. I have seen no friends among her herd. No connections at all until the moment she entered her household."
The elder takes a moment for simply breathing, until the increasing warmth from white fur removes all touches of sleet.
"Why didn't anyone reach out to her before?"
Starkly, "I have yet to identify the full reasons. And the partial image I have assembled shall remain within a private gallery. But something happened, Tia. Something crucial, something I have yet to reach. I have delved deeper in the nights before this meeting, and I have not come to it. All I can tell you is that she never truly felt like part of her herd, and... something happened. Something which may have led to the distortions she places upon herself in dream."
Three of the tail-streaming stars go out.
"All distort reality around themselves in their nightscapes, Tia. In their waking minds, for that matter." The mane is beginning to lose its inner glow. "They change reality to make their lives into the focus of it. The hero of their own tale, and that process is often described as 'living'. But with her..."
A slower head shake, and the dark mare looks up at a passing cloud. It gains mass from the weight of her stare, becomes almost invisible against the night sky.
"I speak of this because the risk is that great," the younger finishes. "As it has always been."
"We could just leave her in the smithy." It's not quite a proposition. The elder is listing the option simply because the time has come for that possibility to arise, just as surely as the next few seconds will see it rejected. "Expand the area, give her more room to move and Barding space to move around her. There's enough steel work available."
"Isolation," is the counter. "The monster in the basement, pounding out its weapons. Seldom seen, forever discussed, as rumors fly as to why it does not emerge. What it is planning. She can spend time there -- but not a lifetime."
"Diamond talked about the other nations," is the next stage of the inevitable. "Tirek didn't reach everyone. If Torque intervened, Mazein might --"
"-- even with our rather dismal numbers for outgoing tourism," the younger cuts in, "there will always be Equestrians passing through. Always a chance for the stampede, if the local ponies are about. I am not arguing that it would fail to improve her situation, Tia, at least in the short term. But stories travel, even when so few of ours follow. All it takes is one wrong word in the right place."
"Probably spoken by Wordia." It's getting a little too hot on the balcony. "Chase the story as long as it's selling papers, and fear always sells. A riot set off in a new nation..."
"Then perhaps what she needs is the opportunity to create a new tale."
They both think about that for a while.
"There's no guarantees."
"The second Bearer age," the younger points out, "has been, put somewhat too charitably, an active one. She might gain her chance."
"Which is part of the problem."
The shift in a mane gone almost completely dark is just barely visible with the nod. "Yes."
There are those who would say they're treating it too seriously. The decision is obvious, and can be made in an instant. But they need to talk about it, because they know what they're really discussing.
The hiring of a new Guard is a matter of national security, and so the younger can discuss aspects of dream. It's a potential turning point in history, something which makes the elder reflect on every fulcrum moment which came before. Decisions which ended with a white body rising towards Sun on one end of the lever, and a pool of blood spreading out from under the section which had just rammed into ground and grave.
"She's a risk."
"In every aspect. Yes."
Almost a whisper, "We may not be able to help her. It's possible that nopony ever could."
And just as soft, "There are two sides to the vow, Tia. She swore hers. As did we."
"If she hesitates -- if she second-guesses herself at the wrong moment..."
"If her issues cause her to choose the wrong spell, casting a working which fails to meet the needs of the moment, allowing the menace to win..."
"...what?"
"My apologies. Were we still talking about Twilight Sparkle?"
The hiring of a new Guard requires this level of consideration, because the wrong decision will end the world. And they stand under the vault of the sky, each waiting for the other to voice it.
"...Solar or Lunar?"
A tiny star twinkles near the tip of the dark mare's tail.
"Ah. Does this represent my actually being granted a choice? Or do you simply wish to see what I feel is proper before you make any attempt to filch --"
The sigh dissipates one of the clouds. "-- Luna..."
"With me, then," the younger decides. "To keep her alongside Nightwatch. To place her within the public eye, but at an hour when less ponies will actively observe." Gradually, the temperature begins to even out. "And at this point in her life, Tia, with everything which has happened here and in her home, with all that I know of her and have yet to discover..."
Looking at the sky now. At the scant stars visible through the gaps in carefully-arranged clouds, and a bright Moon so close to full.
"...I feel she is one of mine."
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as always, thank you for the excellent chapter.
WHERE IS MY FANSERVICE
Dammit. Got dust in my eye.
Huh. Luna hasn't found the identity of Cerea's father yet? Interesting.
How much does she know about liminals and how they relate to humans??
Hehe, the equinoids have technically less physical variation than the humanoids of Monster Girl World?
----
Pinkie Pie!
----
At points, talking about what an observer might think of Celestia and Luna's conversations... I'm thinking that third person might be Discord...
Hmm. Without a body, is he wandering the everywhere? Unlikely...
----
That sneaky mare with the bad sleep... How long until it takes its toll and she forgets to charge the thing??
----
Slower human knowledge transfer by dreams. Huh.
----
Cerea looks like her mom. WOW.
----
Fleur-de-lis meaning reveal! Wowee! So good!
...Centaur Steel is going to end up being associated more with Luna's guard than that of her sister, isn't it? That is not going to do any favours for the reputation of the former Nightmare Moon; a point that certain unicorn supremacy groups are likely to be quick to capitalise on. Though... having just lost all sales through Barnyard Bargains might limit the damage just a hint...
Arthur Rackham was dying when he drew the original illustrations for "Wind In The Willows"
Indeed, the book was published after his death.
IMO, you're a contender in a tough league.
Go Mr. Rich! Honestly, it was nice seeing him stand up to that crazy unicorn paparazzo. And also nice to see that Cerea is being given this desperately needed chance at purpose and happiness. I was honestly expecting the sisters to deem it too dangerous for her, given ponies reactions and her delicate mental state. Sadly I’m still pretty sure a bucket of shit is bound for the fan anyway further down the line, but Cerea still deserves this opportunity. Excellent chapter!
Reporting is a dangerous profession Ponyville. Though I wonder what would happen if a food reporter ever showed up...
The house from "Unnoticed" is still vacant.
portion
Crisco
Fat in a can
I know you’ve been going through hard times recently. Thanks for taking the time to crank out some really top tier work too.
Hey! Um... Hats aren't all that bad. Sometimes, they're quite useful. And stylish.
The plan is set but seldom does it work at any point of the "Herd" eh
I loved that first section. It was as though you took The Tell-Tale Heart, and spliced in Mr Rich being awesome.
Should I recognize what's being described?
I am glad you managed to publish a chapter Estee. You need the money and I you don't write anymore, I will donate the rest of my usual pledge on Patreon on Kofi instead.
Mr Rich is dad of the year.
Diamond don't take shit from no reporter.
The arsonist is close-by and is causing blib on the Pinkie sense radar.
The Arsonist is becoming even more Loco.
And the Sisters are finally reaching a conclusion.
I hope Cerea introduction into the Guards will have an impact on recruitment and have many, many other species apply.
Oh and the last two chapters of Monster Musume had Centaurs in them. The last one had one of Centaur variant, the heavy Centaur, the body look like was inspired by Percheron horse. Fierce warrior who converted into becoming a farmer.
And the previous one we had a brand new monster girl, a Nightmares. Of course since this is Monster Musume, they had to stick the body of a girl somewhere in the design so they made Nightmares into a variant of the Centaurs species. They can cause actual nightmares to people and need to do so in order to "feed". Now... try to have Cerea explain that one to the Sisters.
10592521
Sounds like a guard sacrificing their life so Celestia can live.
That first part was interesting. Go Mr. Rich! Go Diamond! I think the arsonist thinking of Pinkie as fat or extremely fat, but Panderaghast as “Stately,” speaks for itself in irony.
The parallels between her and Twilight are pretty noticeable when put like that. Wonder when they’ll meet.
I'm really looking forward to her meeting Spike. She's gonna love the little guy.
It seems ponyville likes our friend, the blond, big tiddie horse girl. And hoe lee fuck, her mom's terrible parenting just keeps coming into sharper and sharper light.
10592521
It's probably a scale with the weights of the lives given for sunbutt
You know, I am now wondering about the conspiracy periodicals the flower trio read. I wonder about the completely mind-bending conspiracies they are publishing about Murdock.
I wonder if Mr. Rich is going to put them on his shelves instead of Murdock’s publication. It’s a question of crazy versus dangerous.
Murdock might just see a dip in his advertising revenue too.
An interesting look into a mind afflicted with a certain type of madness, and a little more insight into the royal sisters' thought processes.
Filthy Rich is indeed a hero. That said, Murdocks must be worried, because these "reporters" seem significantly worse than usual.
I think that should be "at an hour when fewer ponies will actively watch."
10592569
I think of stately as "Her butt has it's own zip code"
10592591
Yeah, that works.
I am seized by the idea of Pinkie Pie just... forcing her way in because her Pinkie Sense is screaming that Someone In This Building Needs Laughter, then just dragging The Arsonist out of the literal dark before absolutely paving over The Arsonist's CUNET
indoctrinationtraining with bale-weights and bale-weights of pure, unadulterated Pinkening to guide her out of the figurative darkness of Fear to the light of Friendship.But that would require me to actually have the wherewithal to write such a story.
>Pinkie section
Jaws theme (kazoo version)
10592663
It will be called...
The Pinkening.
10592593
You know I had a thought about the Trio. I think their paranoia is a direct consequence of the Secret. In one of two equally interesting but very different ways.
Option one, they know about the Secret, as all earth ponies do. This serves as ultimate justification, as the existence of one all-consuming conspiracy opens the possibility of more. If earth ponies can keep their magic secret, then who knows what the unicorns, or the pegasai, or the princesses, or the breezies or the rabbits are hiding.
Option two, they somehow don't know about the Secret or their magic. Orphans, perhaps daughters of mixed heritage such as Dr. Gentle feared. Thus they know that there's something out there, they can hear it, but they don't know what it is.
10592871
I’ve always thought that unicorns tend to be OCD. Pegasus are usually egotistical. I’ll buy earth ponies as paranoid. Does participation in one conspiracy make you more prone to believe others?
10592663
Specially since her CUNET "friends" have already emptied her bank account and are just trying to find a way to get rid of the mare in a sort-of clean way.
I was just thinking what ponies would think of the human world: no magic at all, billions of gangly hairless apes as the master race, pollution, weapons and armed conflicts which would make every Gryphon-Pony War a picnic... and worst of all, plastic everwhere!
The mad cannot recognize their own madness, for the same reason that anyone who isn't a Saturday morning cartoon villain doesn't think of themselves as evil.
Oh, it does. Just not what she thinks it does.
A teacher's school is her kingdom. The "loyal" opposition really does need to remember that princesses are due a certain level of respect in their domains.
Fascinating bit with Pinkie. A new resident in Ponyville carries certain consequences... but "resident" has a specific definition, and that includes mindset. Indeed, for Pinkie's magic, mindset may be the most important part.
But yeah, turns out prolonged isolation doesn't do a member of a herd species any favors in the sanity department, especially when she was already somewhat removed from reality.
Oof. Yeah, that debriefing—can't really call it an interview; this is the sisters exercising their roles as generals—had to have been rough for everypony involved.
The local meanings of the fleur de lis explain a lot, and reveal many layers of interpretation for Fleur's mark in both translations.
There's a mental image. I don't think anyone's ready for Princess Centorea, least of all her.
A much needed bit of levity in that scene. Nice touch.
Excellent work, all the more so given your current circumstances. Thank you as always.
Wonderful as always Estee. Thank you for the early Christmas present! Happy Holidays everyone!
Curious about the mother's hidden emotion. I'd think that if it was something like affection that Luna would recognize it (plus that's a little cliche). Maybe it has something to do with how similar her daughter looks...
10592938
Luna can only recognize that Cerea does. Subconsciously she knows there was more to her mother, but to recognize that would be to accept there's more to her, to accept her entire world view that she's worthless is wrong - and she's all to human enough for that to be among the hardest things to do.
It's likely pride or true, genuine affection in the only way get mother knew how, likely from having to be just that hard to be the leader the centaurs needed. Probably had just as fucked up a upbringing as she gave Cerea too.
Make no mistake, still a horrible way to do it, but people never put that much effort in anything they don't care about.
Every time you present us with Celestia and Luna conversing, I always feel like I'm only getting half of the conversation. It's perfectly understandable from a certain perspective; the sisters have had untold years to understand each other, so there's much that's known without needing to be expressed. And in a way I'm very impressed that you can represent this so well.
But I always come away wondering what I missed.
"just about none in starting on a fire upon the"
"just about none in starting a fire upon the"?
"the subjects of an news story"
"the subjects of a news story"?
"open again, finds a new target as the"
"open again, find a new target as the"?
"A mutual teleport brings to the outskirts"
"A mutual teleport brings them to the outskirts"?
I'm still amazed you can write this well in your current circumstances, but thank you for another excellent chapter.
10593344
There are elements of body language here and there and those are unspoken words. I actually impressed how they done (not just this chaper, the whole story). Little things like temperature chane... because Tia is angry at certain pony, but it needs not to be told.
Working with words? That poor sod of journalist uses words like lego and he'd lost all the tiles and minifigs. Here words are used as a paint, but one have to be able, to wish to see it.
You cannot hide from Pinkie Pie in Ponyville! Especially when you’re unhappy. Even if you are a meanie.
Some good perspectives here. I admit, the view from the window in Ponyville made me want to buy a place there with a balcony overlooking the street so I could ponywatch. Horrible racist unicorns don’t know what they’ve got going for them.
I’m glad to see the sisters come to decide to give Cerea a chance on the watch. And of course she’s one of Luna’s... Celestia already has her own neurotic mess (provided she hasn’t permanently chased her away in the main Continuum.)
10592370
Given that all she has to go on is Cerea's mind and Cerea doesn't know her own father that's not all that surprising unless Cerea unconsciously suspects.
10592399
OOH! Pinkie thinks she's found a ghost!!!
10592871
We know that one of them has a lawyer dad.
https://www.fimfiction.net/story/468736/1/pandumbic/one-flu-over-the-cuckoos-nest
10593035
Now I'm thinking of Luna putting Cerea and an illusion of Cerea's mom in front of a big mirror and having Cerea look.
10593731
She knows he's French?
I almost wonder if the author of Monster Musume reads this. The last few issues of the manga have been heavily focused on developing Cerea's character, and it feels like they were inspired by this story.
10593368
That's certainly how Celestia sees it, but Wordia doesn't really come across that way to me, at least based on this one story. (I haven't read many of the stories in the Triptych Continuum, so maybe there's more serious wrongdoing in one I haven't read). Celestia claims that Wordia is trying to cause deaths, but we don't really see any evidence of that, and it's quite clear to me that Celestia is not an objective source when it comes to Wordia. When it comes to the actions we can judge for ourselves, well....
In several of the conflicts between Wordia and Celestia, I think Wordia has the right of it. For instance: Celestia notes Wordia's use of slanted language, which would be a legitimate criticism... except that the piece in question is an opinion piece. Opinion pieces are allowed to do that, in fact it's very difficult to not use loaded terms when expressing opinions. Then there's the price -- when the Tattler tries to overcharge the Palace then sure, the Tattler's in the wrong. But Celestia doesn't stop there -- she's annoyed that the Tattler charges the Palace at all. Requiring that the Princesses pay the same price seems totally reasonable to me, and in fact Celestia's annoyance at this makes her seem a bit entitled.
Don't get me wrong, Wordia does do some genuinely bad things too, like when she starts questioning whether Cerea is intelligent enough to speak. But she doesn't seem nearly as bad to me as Celestia seems to consider her.
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It's not just that Wordia's opininated, it's more that she's deliberately stoking the fires of Loyalist / Opposition civil war?
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And she's opposing the Princesses, which, given their track record, and that they're basically all that stand between everyone and the Chaos and other things outside, places them against safety and stuff.
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And she doesn't like Celestia either:
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The guards probably do have to fight ponies sometimes, just like the Secret Service in the US sometimes has to defend the President against American assassins.
I really, really dislike the idea that opposing the Princesses is necessarily evil. Trying to threaten the stability of Sun and Moon, sure, but opposing their political initiatives? Hell, even in the extremely unlikely event that they were entirely deposed they could keep guiding their respective celestial bodies so long as they weren't killed. And the idea that it's immoral for newspapers to oppose the government is, quite frankly, repugnant. I tend to side with Twain on this one: "the citizen who thinks he sees that the commonwealth’s political clothes are worn out, and yet holds his peace and does not agitate for a new suit, is disloyal; he is a traitor. That he may be the only one who thinks he sees this decay, does not excuse him; it is his duty to agitate anyway, and it is the duty of the others to vote him down if they do not see the matter as he does."
Edit: also, remember that Wordia doesn't know how necessary the Princesses are; the official story has it that a council of unicorns was able to guide Sun and Moon before the princesses arrived.
Further edit: which does not mean that agitating for civil war is justified, of course; you need to overcome a very high burden before war is a justifiable action, and that burden has not been met.
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Wordia has self-described her job as "adding more and more pressure on a boiler, and being far away when it finally goes boom". She really doesn't care who gets hurt as long as it sells and can avoid legal responsability.
She is no different from those preachers and demagoges giving hate speechs to their followers. When the eventual lynching or massacre happens they just declare to the authorities "I never told my people to do that".
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I didn't think about it, but among all Bearers Pinkie should be the one with the highest chances to bound with Cerea, precisely for that motive.
I wish the Princesses figure this out after the arsonist is arrested and interrogated.
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I'm not saying she isn't bad; I'm saying she isn't as bad as Celestia thinks she is, and that some of Celestia's specific criticisms are invalid.
I love how much the Sisters care for Cerea. That's so heartwarming. It really adds to the tragedy of everything about their situation.
Funny how first the symbol came up when Cerea put it on her armor, now we get the cultist living in Fleur's place in this timeline. And talk about the symbol and what it means... I'm excited to find out more.
Thank you for this and the previous chapter. I've really enjoyed them despite being too busy to get to them right away like I usually would.
Acies. Which means Fleur's trotting around with a cutie mark that screams "I am a Gryphon with hooves."