Twisted
In Cerea's opinion, the other species didn't even wake up properly.
It wasn't just the morning stretch. (Centaurs had a rather unique way of stretching, and many of those who watched it wound up with phantom pains in their own joints.) It had taken some time in the household before she'd realized that the human body had prioritized its wake-up alarm around hearing: the noises created by the desperate group struggle to keep Miia out of the kitchen would alert her beloved long before the near-fatal scents which arose from the group's failure did. And with the lamia... based on Cerea's experience, Miia's initial alert was registered thermally, because that was her body's greatest weakness: sense when the temperature was dropping too low and move towards heat -- something which could become more difficult when the lethargy caused by cold slowed her down.
Admittedly, there were times when it was important to prioritize one sense over another: Rachnera's presence in the household meant the residents were now extremely attuned to the sound of spider legs scuttling across the ceiling. But for centaurs, the most powerful sense was smell and so when Cerea began to wake up in the newest of prisons, those impressions were what registered first.
Cotton, linen, with both added to old feathers. This eventually resolved into the realization that she was on a bed -- no, on multiple beds which had been pressed together: she could feel the little gap under her barrel. Centaurs didn't use beds: in fact, one of Japan's greatest delights was the tatami mat. A little resilience with a touch of give was fine: a downy mattress felt as if it offered no true support at all.
Stone. A lot of it, all around her. Ancient stone, or at least stone which didn't see a lot in the way of cleaning. The same could be said for the paper...
Binding glue.
...books. The wood scents were probably rising off the furniture: she could almost recognize some of the types, the same way some of the trees in the strange forest had almost been oaks. One nearby piece was very nearly mahogany. But there was something else there, added to the faint miasma of varnish.
Age had its own scent, something which never entirely went away. Cerea was intimately familiar with every aspect of it because from the moment of her birth, her little piece of the world had been old. Wherever she was, it had been constructed centuries ago, and most of the intervening time appeared to have passed with very little in the way of dusting.
Stone, wood, cloth, paper, and -- metal.
This is a cell.
Cerea opened her eyes, brushed too much hair away from her face, and so verified she was right. But at the same time...
It was a prison cell: the reinforcements on the door (added to the fact that her side only had the backplate of the lock) proved it. But it was also something out of a story.
She'd read the books. There were times when a knight had to be captured, still more when they broke into a castle to rescue their lady (and it only took a little mental editing to render that image into a lord). And since it was a story, there were dungeons of all sorts, chains mounted into stone and torture devices which the author never quite finished describing, although Cerea sometimes suspected Rachnera had grown up with a few fully illustrated editions. But that wasn't all that was present, because in stories -- and, for that matter, in certain parts of history -- some prisoners would be important. Furthermore, a few of the captors would have a certain dignity within their evil, and so recognized that you really shouldn't imprison nobility the same way you imprisoned everyone else.
Not everyone realized that, of course: in particular, Meroune's mother had a way of rigging cells which brought maximum comfort for anyone who could breathe water: everyone else just suffered a minimum of drowning. But for those who did... some cells would be richly furnished. Beds (for the species which used them) would be elaborate. The furnishings would be expensive, the lighting would be perfect for reading something from the extensive library, and the bathroom would be stocked with the best shampoos. (A species which possessed both fur and hair had a major need for shampoo.) And Cerea had read about such cells, heard that a few survived on Earth in the oldest of the human castles and a few liminal keeps...
This wasn't quite it.
For starters, there was the bed, or the three which had been shoved together to create something which didn't quite add up to one. The musty scent rising from the library shelves indicated that no new volumes had been added in some time, and a deeper breath suggested that the editions present might qualify for a printing earlier than 'first.' And of course all of the proportions on everything were off, because it had all been made for little horses.
There was a flat silver disc, one with a black opal set into the center, sitting on a nightstand. Wire trailed down the edges.
Cerea found herself looking at it for a while.
The -- other horse...
She felt she remembered most of that. The dark mare, the one with wings and horn both. The one who had spoken to her, the one who'd possessed that presence...
Captured. But -- not chained this time. She'd been placed in the sort of cell you offered to a noble --
-- or a knight.
I don't deserve --
Cerea took a deep breath, and felt fabric strain against her skin. That was normal, and would remain so for as long as she fought off any and all attempts to take her shopping. However, some of the locations for that strain were new.
The next examination, out of necessity, was of herself.
The wounds (cuts dressed, a few bruises exposed) were healing, and doing so with the typical efficiency of centaur biology: the degree of recovery indicated she'd been asleep for at least two days. The infection, however -- that had been defeated, and she wasn't entirely sure how. With segregation broken, every liminal species (for those which had participated in the exchange program) had been desperately trying to send medicines and guidebooks to the host cities, just in case their children got into trouble. Centaurs had medicine which would take out infections, and a supply of it had gone with her to Japan -- but she knew she was too far from home for any such thing to be here.
But they have magic.
In some ways, it might have been unfair to say that Cerea believed in magic, in the same way that you wouldn't normally describe a bird as believing in flight. Cerea knew magic was out there: she simply had a few differing opinions about the way it manifested. Cerea knew about the magic which arose from ritual, the little effects which were generated from people doing things the same way over and over while believing in the results, and also felt that those rituals were a little different in each nation because of course everyone wasn't going to believe the exact same thing. And in a very real way, stories were rituals: no matter how many times you read them, it was the same results leading to an identical ending. So if you just read the right things...
Cerea had attempted to study Japan through reading its stories and learning about the magic inherent in its people's rituals, and so had come to the conclusion that the single best way to meet her future beloved was through donning a cross between a schoolgirl's uniform and office worker's formal wear, then charging up and down alleyways as if she was horribly late for something. A lack of initial results had made her wonder if she also needed to place the traditional piece of toast in her mouth.
The local magic could translate speech and heal wounds. However, it didn't seem to be capable of doing much for clothing.
Her blouse and skirt (or what had remained of both) were gone, and she tried not to blush too strongly at the thought of having been undressed. Instead, someone had found a rather basic, dull-grey pullover shirt and then pulled it over her. It had enough room for her breasts until the moment she attempted to breathe, and then it pulled against everything except her arms. It had a distinct way of cutting into her armpits, but the sleeves seemed to have been designed for someone with much larger biceps, and the cuffs had been folded back a few times.
When it came to her lower torso... the majority of the little horses had been nude. (She'd seen a few exceptions here and there while being dragged through the town.) But still, someone had made an effort to cover that as well, and the 'effort' took the form of grabbing the nearest large piece of fabric, roughly stitching it to the back of the shirt, getting some degree of draping on the flanks, and calling it a day. Based purely on the crosscut underlayer feel against her fur and the red plaid pattern on top, Cerea was almost completely sure she was wearing a repurposed tablecloth. It looked all the worse against the rich purple velvet of the bed.
It took two attempts to stand up: she was still recovering, and trotting across mattresses wasn't easy: she nearly had a hind leg drop into a gap. But she gained her hooves in time, made it to floor level, trotted across carpeted stone to the other door and ducked to go through.
The bathroom was almost proper. Admittedly, it took some time to figure out the tap arrangement, plus the sink was far too low and naturally, so was the mirror. But it had a trench, and a continual-flow one at that. She'd been stuck with human toilets for...
...the wince was automatic. Centaurs -- well, there were things you could do with the creations of the human world, and there were things a species with buttocks which were wider than the toilet couldn't -- and that was before you got into the rest of the anatomical issues, very much including the fact that for a centaur, crouch-and-squat wasn't really an option. The bathrooms in the shared household were, out of necessity, rather complicated -- but there was only so much room available, and so Cerea had been stuck with a lot of improvising. Not to mention that during her fevered gallop, she had been more or less -- well, yes, you could do it on the run, but it was just so undignified.
Someone had cleaned her. It wasn't just the wounds: her skin had been scrubbed (and she tried not to blush again). A portion of the dirt had been removed from fur and tail. However, no one had washed her hair, and far too much of it was cascading down her body: she'd clearly lost some pins, and she had a very good idea as to which ones they had been.
She took care of herself as best she could. She missed her grooming equipment: the long-handled brushes would have been a comfort. Then she thought about the time her beloved had helped to brush her, the dream she'd had on that same night where she'd been carefully instructing him about when to avoid the sensitive areas near her tail, and then her dream self had told him just when it was right to --
-- she washed her face again, got rid of the tear tracks. Redid her hair with the limited number of metal pins, mourned the state of her tail. Pushed back the sleeves enough to see another little wound, one which had been expertly dressed because it had been expertly inflicted, purely out of necessity.
So they have IVs, or something like them. And more, since she hadn't woken up on a soaked mattress. The little horses had been -- taking care of her, and doing so without nets and chains. But she was still in a cell --
-- which was when someone knocked on the door.
Her first well-taught instinct was to frown at the rudeness: only the youngest children kicked to announce themselves. The follow-up thought reminded her that she was the only being in the area with hands (well, the immediate area: the shirt wasn't new and so suggested there was something around which at least had shoulders and arms) and tapping with hooves was the lone available option.
One of her jailers. And being oddly polite about it, even for a noble's cell (which Cerea didn't strictly deserve), especially when dealing with someone who had already escaped once. But... the sky was wrong, the world was strange, and --
-- I have nowhere to go.
The polite knock repeated itself, and was followed by a soft whinny. Cerea carefully turned, ducked out of the bathroom, and went to the nightstand.
They had left it for her. They meant for her to use it. And so she picked it up, pressed it against her throat and winced as she felt the wire snake its way up to her ear.
"I'm awake," she tried. And hungry. Being fed by IV kept the body going, but the stomach still wanted to know where the real food was.
The pause from the other side of the door felt like a startled one, as if that party hadn't really been expecting a reply.
"...yes," the voice eventually said. Female, and not that old: for a human, Cerea would have been guessing a half-decade past her own years. "So before I open the door..."
This pause, however, felt free to be openly awkward.
"...I need you to understand what's going to happen."
Cerea waited.
"I'm taking you to an upper level," the unseen mare stated. "I mean, it won't just be me. I'm just the one who'll be trotting next to you. And talking to you. In case you have any questions, and I'm pretty sure you do. We're going to get you some food. And after you eat, you're going to speak with the Princesses."
Cerea blinked.
"Princesses?" She spoke with one princess just about every day (which had eventually taken a certain amount of aura off the experience), although it was hard to get the topic away from romantic tragedy --
'-- I'm awake.' I'm being kept in a noble's cell. It doesn't matter if I don't deserve it. I have to act like it.
Her speech had -- been less than acceptable. Admittedly, part of that had come from the difficulty of being formal with those who were fighting you, and she supposed she could blame illness for some of it -- but those were excuses. She had to bring her standards back up, especially since she was about to be taken in front of Princesses.
"They're going to meet you." Another awkward pause. "Well, meet you again. For one. Mine. And... um... talk about what's going to happen next. But that's all that'll happen. Nopony is going to hurt you. Not unless you try to hurt somepony else. And I'd really rather you didn't do that. Because I'm very good with wind. Very good. And in this case, I'd... rather not be. Princess Luna doesn't want me to show you that, not today. She just wants you to -- come up. Okay?"
She was being treated more honorably. She needed to reflect that.
"Very well," Cerea said, and wondered if that had been formal enough.
"I'm opening the door now," the mare said, and Cerea heard the little tremble in the tones. "Right now. I'm --"
-- it opened, and the little winged horse almost instantly jumped backwards.
Some would have insisted that it couldn't have been helped. She had been chosen for her bravery. For her ability to be steadfast in the face of the unknown. To use the fear instead of giving in to it and, in this case, her skills with wind currents were making sure that the scent of her own fear was being utilized to coat the ceiling. But she hadn't been expecting movement, and so Cerea's instinctive change in stance startled her, made wings flare as magic prepared to conduct forward.
But then she saw what that stance was. And the centaur had already recognized that some aspects of body language translated directly, made the little horse's physical positions more readable than their expressions. The same applied going the other way.
The little mare had no way of accounting for the forward-swept arms and open hands, presented with their palms up. But she knew what a foreleg dip meant. The little bow of the head. And for whatever might have been lacking in physical language, the word filled in the gap.
"Lady," Cerea softly breathed, and held her curtsy.
Huge silver eyes (which were just slightly brighter than the well-polished armor) blinked. Deep black wings awkwardly rustled.
"Um," the little horse tried. "I'm... um... 'lady'?"
Cerea's eyes came up just enough to look over the armor again.
"You are a knight." There was rapture in the statement. "I am in the presence of a true knight..."
Another blink, followed by a slightly worried glance at the three little horses who were serving as backup. Cerea, who couldn't read their expressions and didn't have the right sight line anyway, could only scent that all of them were afraid. She had no way to see that two of them were grinning, and the third had managed a smirk.
"I'm a Guard," the winged horse tried. "I... guess that's a little like a knight?"
Cerea wasn't buying it. All she'd had to do was feel the little horse's presence, and that had told her that the winged mare was everything like a knight: this apparently included the humility. "As you say, Lady," and she straightened. A knight...
She was standing within the aura of her dream. Wherever she was, it was a place which had knights. Real ones...
There was a moment, standing within her cell, where she almost felt the agony of displacement beginning to fade. But then she thought of her beloved, and simply adjusted her posture to show more respect.
"I'm Nightwatch," the little mare said, staring up at her (and that with some rather awkward angling of the neck). "I'm on the Lunar shift. It's... about two --" and then there was another one of those verbal overlaps "-- durations/periods/hours away from Moon-raising. That's enough time to eat. We're going to take you up to one of the Lunar kitchens, because they aren't quite active yet. You'll eat there. And then you'll meet the Princesses."
Cerea nodded, since she knew that gesture was understood. But the exact linguistics used had just begged a certain question. It wasn't the use of 'somepony': as with the overlap, she assumed the magic had a few potential flaws. It wasn't even the fact that Moon seemed to come with its own audible capital. It was something else.
"The Princesses?"
The little mare nodded back.
"Is the Queen away?" -- and almost froze. She knew she'd just been rude. Not only did she have no way of knowing what the current state of the royal family was, if the Queen was even alive (much less if a King was involved), but there was every chance that the children were being given responsibilities as preparation for rulership. Besides, it wasn't as if Cerea rated a queen, and the last one she'd met hadn't been worth the title --
-- the silver eyes had gone hard.
"There's no queen," Nightwatch harshly stated. "We don't have queens. Any nation which wants a queen is welcome to have one, and to keep us out of it. Our highest ruling rank is Princess. We have two."
Cerea blinked, which did nothing to fight back the growing blush.
"Princess," she tried.
Nightwatch solidly nodded. The black wings arced.
"Then the elder is in charge?"
A subtle wind current was beginning to rustle feathers. "They're both in charge," the little mare said. "They are equal in the co-rulership/consortium/bilateral monarchy. They lead our nation. That's how things are. It's how they should be." This was punctuated by a tiny hoof stomp -- and then, slowly, the wings settled back into a rest position.
More casually, with most of the fear still wind-pressed against the ceiling, "Are you hungry?"
"...yes," Cerea managed.
"Okay," Nightwatch said. "Follow us, then. Me. Mostly me." Started to turn -- paused, glanced back and up. "Um. I'm a pegasus. If that translates. Those of us with wings are pegasi. Except for the Princesses. If that helps."
It did, although Cerea mostly felt embarrassed about having had to be told. A pegasus. The legends said centaurs had originated in Greece: in fact, the original native centaur tongue was a heavily-mutated form of that language. (It was possible for a centaur and Greek native to understand each other somewhat if both parties involved spoke very slowly -- something which, given the nature of both language and speakers, pretty much never happened.) She should have remembered what she'd been taught of that history. Her mother would have been so disappointed --
-- I'm about to meet the leaders of a nation.
For that much alone, it didn't matter that she was lost, or that she was about to speak with little horses. Somewhere within Cerea's mind, a number of story-taught vocabulary switches flipped over to ARMED.
It was a proper castle, which was to say it had been built to survive several sieges, possibly through outlasting them. The amount of food kept in the one kitchen would have gotten most defensive forces through at least a week or, in Cerea's case, the appetizer.
She had her escorts, and they stayed with her: the lone pegasus, two stallions whom she was reminded were called unicorns, and the strongest-looking male was an earth pony. They all seemed to think of themselves as ponies, and Cerea thought about how the term often designated size more than youth, then wondered if there were any real horses about. Their castles were probably larger.
Once they reached the upper (ground) level, walls shifted to marble. There were alcoves, and more artwork: Cerea found a kinetic gryphon sculpture -- still with nothing human in it -- to be rather dubious. (It also triggered a phantom pain in that part of her flank, but the muscles seemed to have almost completely healed.) She had plenty of opportunities to look at her surroundings, largely because that was all there was to look at.
A castle so seemingly large -- one which hosted the leaders of a nation -- should have had a staff to match, and there were times when she could hear them off in the distance: hooves scrambling across marble, fading wingbeats. But that was it. The kitchen had seen food left out for her, the hallways had been cleared for her passage. They were keeping the local population away from her, but for the knights who were meant to stop her if she tried anything, and -- she was lost, weaponless, and determined to at least make an attempt towards true courtesy while in the presence of the Princesses. Even if the sentence was harsh, she could try to meet her fate with dignity. She had to be capable of that much.
But they'd just about emptied the castle for her, or at least the limited portions where she was allowed to tread. There should have been so many more of the ponies, and she'd only seen her escorts. No others would be forced to deal with the monster.
Food. Art. Kitchen equipment, and she'd needed a moment to recognize a vertical ice cream churn. A newspaper...
It had to be a newspaper: the configuration of the folded pages was about right, as was the smell of cheap paper and printer's ink. She got a glimpse of black-and-white photography in the abandoned document which had been sitting at the far end of the kitchen counter -- but then she'd seen the text, and so learned the magic didn't work on anything which had to be read. The symbols stayed just that: symbols, ones where she couldn't even begin to guess at the words behind them.
Not that she had much of a chance, as there had been all of ten seconds to examine the thing from a distance before Nightwatch had looked in the same direction, instantly taken off, snatched up the newspaper in her mouth, and dropped the thing into a trash bin.
Cerea had wondered about that. The need to hide something which she couldn't read, along with how bad the ink had to taste. But then she'd spotted the carrots, and they had been --
-- strange.
She'd found some fruit in the mid-autumn woods, shortly after her arrival. It had been surprisingly good, especially for wild and late in the season. And the carrots were beautiful, they were clearly professionally grown, she had braced herself so as not to drop into open rapture in front of witnesses and -- it had been a carrot. A perfectly-recognizable, normal carrot. But it was if the root had been grown in soil which had one vital mineral missing, something which didn't affect the nutrition or appearance, but -- missing. It was a carrot, it was good, and it wasn't all it should have been.
The bread was wonderful. The pastries went beyond that. But with every vegetable, every piece of fruit -- there was an absent piece, and she couldn't tell what it was.
She thought about that as her personal escort brought her deeper into the castle, and the sunlight which occasionally reached them began to dim.
"We're almost there," Nightwatch said. "They're using the Lunar throne room, even though it's still daylight." Another awkward pause, and feathers rustled again. It was easy to spot: the pegasus' natural hue was outstandingly dark. She couldn't blend into any shadows because she created a patch of deeper shade within them, and standing in the castle's lighting (recessed, and Cerea was having real trouble picking out the source) made every movement exceedingly visible. "Um. Princess Luna's normally awake now, and Princess Celestia wouldn't be sleeping for a while yet. So normally it would be the Solar throne room, since Sun hasn't been lowered yet. But this is Princess Luna's baliwick/category --" the silver wire almost seemed to hiss, and then settled on "-- dominion. That means she's in charge."
"Dominion?" Cerea tried.
"They're... each in charge of different aspects of law," Nightwatch replied. "Princess Celestia can advise, the same way Princess Luna would advise her for another dominion. But the decision is Princess Luna's."
Life. Death. Imprisonment.
She had no weapon. No magic of her own, and she'd already experienced what the dark mare was capable of. A nation full of such powers...
She had tried to run. But now she knew what she'd been running from, and so there was no point to trying again.
They trotted. Hoofsteps echoed in empty halls.
"This is the Moonrise Gate," Nightwatch finally announced, and Cerea looked at the silver-shot marble, the ornamentation around the doors. "They're expecting you. Um. But you knew that. Just -- go in."
She didn't, not immediately. She had to be polite. She had to be at her best. And so she knocked.
There was the brief sound of paper shuffling, and then a rather imperious voice stated "Enter." A familiar voice.
...oh no...
...maybe that's another knight. With her aura, she would have to be a knight, at the very least. She's guarding the Princesses in their throne room.
Or...
Cerea swallowed. Squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, felt the shirt pinch her again.
...well, it would have made the loss slightly easier to justify in front of her mother...
She opened the door and, with head down, trotted inside.
The aura hit her first. The sheer power in that room, the strength and patience and age almost drove her to all four knees, and that wasn't a good posture for a centaur to begin with. Instead, she allowed the pressure of that aura to drive her into the deepest curtsy of her life, and was momentarily grateful to the ugly shirt for keeping everything in place.
The imperious voice wasn't impressed. "A gesture of respect, I believe. However, I prefer the testimony of words and actions. Straighten yourself, centaur."
She did.
The dark mare was seated upon the throne, one so elevated as to have a ramp leading up to it, something which had Cerea craning her neck just to fail at making direct eye contact. (She was almost completely sure she wasn't supposed to look directly into royal eyes without permission.) And standing at the right side of the base was the first true horse she'd seen, at least when gauged by size alone: the wings and horn took something away from that status while adding an extra level of power. A white mare with purple eyes, and different hues in that strange flow of what wasn't quite a mane.
She saw their strength. She could feel their majesty.
Princesses. To be in the presence of this much power rendered 'queen' into a bad joke.
"We have yet to be formally introduced," the dark mare stated, and 'formally' lodged behind Cerea's eyes. "You may address me as Princess Luna, should the occasion arise where such an address is required. And you stand before Princess Celestia as well. The first centaur to be the presence of the full consortium/leadership without attacking or being attacked, in -- some time."
She could feel her shoulders starting to shake.
"This," the white mare said (and that voice had the beauty found in the sharpest of antique blades, sitting patiently on a wall, beautiful and disregarded until the moment someone found the need to cut), "is not a trial. Please don't mistake it for one. We will speak to you, you will speak with us, and there will be a judgment of sorts. But it isn't a criminal matter, especially as there are no charges currently outstanding against you."
The dark mare softly snorted. "In the most absolute sense," she stated, "we could have visited the statutes which cover the inciting of riots. However, such generally imply that the inciting party do more than vault greenery."
"They attacked you," the softer voice reminded them (and it was 'them' now, as the ponies had come in behind Cerea). "On sight. And there is a reason for that, one we will have to explain in time. They had motive for their fear, and..."
The white head dipped.
"...I understand that," the taller Princess went on. "I can justify it. I've been going over it again and again. The exact scenario: a centaur appearing from nowhere, so soon after Tirek, and I can't see any other way they should have acted." The huge rib cage slowly shifted. "I can explain and excuse their actions. We both can."
Tirek. A name from the forest, and Cerea still didn't know who that was.
"We can justify," the dark Princess said. "But in time, we must also account. And that time may come. But for now..." A surprisingly small nod, directly to Cerea. "...is there a statement you wish to make before us?"
Several hundred stories, most of which had been written by authors who saw research as something which only got in the way of a good tale, carefully lined up behind Cerea's tongue.
She thought about everything she'd ever read regarding knightly speech. Hoped the silver disc knew terms it could render her words into. Took a deep breath (but not too deep, in case that offended), and let fly.
"Prithee, miladies --" mimares? "-- allowst me the chance to thank thou for any chance at greetings. Zounds, for I hath not expected any opportunity to make amends with thee regarding any disturbance. Thusly and truly, I shalt spake --"
She wasn't quite making eye contact, and so didn't get to see the dark Princess' ears go straight back. She also wasn't looking in quite the right direction to spot the sudden contortion in the white mare's features, and had no way to know what it represented. However, her own ears did rotate at the sound of wings going limp, along with the sudden thud of hindquarters on marble as Nightwatch discovered a rather abrupt need to sit down hard.
Cerea, who didn't have the air current direction to pick up on what was really going on, assumed it was something to do with taking an assigned position and kept right on going. "-- as if under oath, for thou hast no reason to trust me, and only by swearing upon my blade --" more awkwardly "-- or any blade thou mightst happen to have available --"
The white mare made a rather odd choking sound.
"-- Moon's craters!" the dark Princess half-shouted, and powerful legs nearly flung that body fully upright. "Centaur, I realize you have only the most passing acquaintance with me, and so have no means of recognizing any irony regarding the source of what is said next. But regardless, it will be said. Your speech is overly, ridiculously, painfully formal. Please reacquaint yourself with the concept of contractions. Immediately."
The syllables fell apart in her mouth, briefly leaving behind a wounded 'pitchkettled' which she'd never had a proper place for. Her body responded accordingly, with facility and experience.
The white mare sighed. "There's no need to feel embarrassed," she said. "Just -- talk to us. Normally."
"But..." Cerea weakly protested. "You're -- you're royalty..."
"Yes," the dark Princess replied. "We are. But we are not your royalty, and so neither of us can give you an order. Simply regard it as an extremely sincere recommendation."
Her head went down again, leaving her looking at a very familiar, miserably-shifting view.
"...what do you want me to talk about?"
Another sigh from the larger. "You told Princess Luna that you're from a place called unknown/unfamiliar nation/Prance/not Prance," the translation stuttered.
"Yes," Cerea miserably replied. Even her formality had failed... "But... that's where I was born. It wasn't where I was living before I came here. I was in a nation called Japan."
She missed the matching slow nods. "And how did you come to be here?" the dark mare asked.
"It's... hard to explain. I don't know what happened..."
A simple, rather soft statement from the dark Princess. (Cerea, in her misery, completely missed the intonation of request.) "Try."
She runs.
It's something she does every morning, when the weather permits it, and today is no worse than moderately foggy. Sometimes when the weather doesn't permit it, and then she returns to the household chilled or soaked ('soaked' is worse, especially if Suu is dehydrated) and has to groom herself again. She runs because she can. She knows she has to return to her host's residence eventually, she knows she risks questions if anyone finds her too far away from that household -- but she's allowed to run. The poorly-written laws at least pretend to understand that much: a centaur needs to run. But it's not the only reason she takes a morning gallop whenever the conditions allow it.
She runs because she doesn't know every last one of these streets by heart.
She runs because there's a chance to go a little further every day.
She runs because there's a horizon and if she just keeps galloping, she might be able to reach it.
There are still borders, still walls, ways in which those horrible laws imprisoned her and every other liminal who's become part of the great experiment. But she runs because now there's a chance that if she just tries hard enough, there might be a chance to gallop anywhere. To go out into the world as a full part of it, for the rest of her life. To gallop with her beloved astride her back, his knight and steed and lover and...
She allows herself to dream, when she's running. Her body takes care of itself, and it frees the mind for fantasy. There are times when she can almost feel his weight on her back. His hands on her... actually, that's been a frequent problem on those occasions when she has to carry him, but she's not used to carrying a rider and when the jolting threatens to shake him off, he just grabs. It happened the first time and it took her a while to forgive him for that.
She's been wondering about purchasing tack. Something to make it easier for him, and save the other contact for when -- for when they're both ready.
It has to be her. She has to win this time. She can't come in second. Not for this.
I'm no better than second to --
She's also trying to run away from those thoughts, and there are times when she almost gets a lead.
She runs, and she always tries to find new streets to gallop down. Part of that is because she can explore. Some is due to the fact that a few people have complained about being woken up by pounding hooves: she gallops very early, before the rest of the household can rise. And she's also learning which houses host those who hold phones up to their windows and record the sight of a fast-galloping centaur for private review or worse, public upload. She recently became aware that she has something of a fanbase online and has already decided that if she's very lucky, she'll never have to meet any of them. (She made the mistake of reading her own Comments sections.) She's carrying her sword this morning just in case she runs across any of them or, in a world where the laws were a little more just, over.
She runs for the joy of it and today, because she started even earlier than usual, she finds a new street.
It's a quiet-seeming one. She looks down it as her body instinctively shifts into the left turn, and all she sees are three houses, fairly scattered with large lawns between each. All three are on the right: the left holds a light touch of what isn't quite forest. The community has been expanding, and so any woods are simply holding territory until someone decides an estate would be more fitting.
Beyond that, the fog takes over. But it doesn't matter. She runs in rain and wind and cold: the only exception is ice, because hooves have a way of skidding out. It's not that chill, as fog goes, especially not this time of year. And by the time she reaches the place where the fog blocks her sight, she'll be able to see more.
Besides, it's a new street. She has to explore.
So she gallops. She's starting to really get the pace now, feeling the heat moving through the muscles. The joy. And she's moving within a mobile window of newness: fresh territory opens up for her as she gallops forward, the fog closes in behind her and hides the recently-familiar. It's like she's been given her own personal portal of discovery, and she wishes she had someone in the household whom she could talk to about it, but... Papi and Suu don't understand, Rachnera would laugh it off, Lala probably has a long morbid talk prepared on the mystical significance of fog, Meroune would find some way of turning it into a metaphor for tragically drowning (although how a mermaid is supposed to manage that remains a mystery), and Miia generally manages to take it personally. She could tell her beloved, but... she still has so much trouble talking to him about the little things.
He holds her hand, when he sees she's having trouble. He holds her hand, and she never wants him to stop. That's how she knows she loves him.
A house flickers by on the right. It's an interesting architectural style. She tends to notice such things, after spending so much of her life looking at the same buildings.
Then another one flickers. It flickers into something with a metal railing in front of it, where a fence should have been. It flickers so that there's no house on the other side. Then it flickers back.
It takes a moment for her to truly notice, with so much of her focused on the run. And then she glances backwards, already beginning to convince herself it was just a trick of the light, and the house is there. But it's made of wood now. Rough-hewn wood, like logs were just cross-stacked on top of each other. Then there's another flicker and it's metal, but the surfaces are too smooth and she looks directly behind her as her heart starts to pound all the faster, as she tries to tell herself that it's a dream and nothing more, she twists flexible joints until she's looking straight back and then she breaks into the fastest gallop of her life.
The fog is still there, defining the limits of her window. A few wisps of it. And behind that is nothing. Sensory vacuum, an absence of sight and sound and matter, a solid wall of obliterated perceptions and it is moving forward. It is moving towards her and where it crosses, there is nothing at all.
She sees it, and she knows that if it flows over her, she will be nothing.
She gallops. It's all she can do. She accelerates, finds her best speed and then surpasses it. Her entire being becomes something which can do no more than run. And beneath her hooves, the road is asphalt for a few seconds before it turns into mud and the change nearly trips her: the recovery takes place on planks. Houses are wood. Plaster. Sod. There's a car next to her on the road, she just barely sees the driver's face and what she mostly sees is that it's orange in the split-second she has before the car is gone.
There are pines on her left and caves on her right. Now it's a pineapple grove and domes made of animal skins. Something hovering and something reaching for her as the vacuum flows faster, she slams her left arm over her chest and tries to run faster still, she whips her tail against her flanks to protect it, the road is dirt and cobblestones and trestles and there's a little fog left behind her and around her, but the vacuum is eating that and she puts on one last burst of speed and nearly runs into a tree.
She barely manages to go around it, and not without contact: the scraping puts the first tear in her skirt, and harsh bark draws a new world's first blood.
There's too many trees. She can't straightline gallop any more: she's losing speed. She has to glance back, see how much safety she has left and when she does so, she finds more forest. True forest, locked in mid-autumn. The fog is gone. The road is gone.
She slows, dismisses the frantic rule of instinct, allows thought to resume control. And it might be a liminal trick. It's possible that she found the lingering defenses around an old gap (although of a kind she's never heard of), or that a prankster species has been having fun with her. Well, that's something where the laws don't stay her hand: if something capable of illusion was playing games with her, it'll find a competitor willing to take revenge. But she's pretty sure such effects are limited in scope. Much more limited than what just happened.
A team, then. She'll just search until she finds them. Until the road returns. And her hand will stay near the hilt, for when she does find them.
And it's possible, looking back, that she had already realized what had happened, at least on some level. That her mind was coming up with excuses, trying to protect her for as long as possible. But her hand stayed near the hilt, and so that was what truly protected her. What kept her alive.
The fog was gone.
The road was gone.
Everything was...
A soft yellow glow floated a mug towards her and when she scented the pure water, she drank.
"Thank you." Small words. Inadequate.
"You're tired," the taller Princess quietly said. "You're still recovering, and that took a lot out of you. Maybe we should stop for the night."
The dark mare briefly closed her eyes. "Simply attempting to explain --" paused "-- a 'handheld movie camera which instantly places its pictures onto distant screens' took some time. But I believe we have the essence of your passage. Two questions, and then we end this session." Looking down at Cerea. "Can you manage two?"
She nodded.
"The place at which you arrived," the dark Princess began. "Did you mark it in any way?"
Cerea blinked. "Yes." Her skirt had already been torn: she'd removed a small strip of fabric and tied it around a low branch. Marking the center of the illusion, making sure she had something she could return to.
"So you could find it again."
She had to be honest (although she was still wishing she could be more formal). "Not without a lot of looking. The first fight --"
"-- we will come to that," her most recent captor said. "If necessary, in time. I will currently assume it left you disoriented." (Cerea nodded.) "But there is a place to be found. Something which we can examine. However, given the estimated time since your arrival, some portion of the corona/field residue signature may have faded..."
The dark mare thought about it. Nodded to herself.
"Return to your quarters." A glance at the escorts. "And take her there. Rest as much as you can, centaur. We may not have time for a second session, not if we wish for there to be anything remaining which can still be used."
Another nod.
"Tonight, we plan," she told Cerea. "Tomorrow, we seek out your arrival point. And we will see what we can do about returning you to your home."
The siblings mutually watched the Moonrise Gate close behind the somewhat-dirty tail, which had been drooped from exhaustion and stun. Listened until the echoes of hooves faded.
"She reminds me of Twilight," the elder finally said.
The younger blinked. "Do tell."
A little sigh, glancing up at the throne. "It's the fear more than anything. That constant terror of saying the wrong thing and having everything fall apart. You didn't know her when she was at her worst with that. You only met her after she started climbing out of that pit. But you've talked to her enough times..."
A slow nod. "Yes. The trepidation. That every verbal hoofstep could be the last. She was afraid of that. But..."
After the pause had stretched out for a while, "But what?"
"Did you notice that it was the only thing she was fearful of?"
The elder frowned. "I don't take your meaning, Luna."
This time, the younger sighed. "Perhaps I was perceiving the wrong aspect. Or... I am simply more attuned to such things. Too much so."
"I didn't really notice," the elder admitted -- followed by, with a light smirk, "Maybe I was too distracted by the sound of your being out-Lunaed."
"Oh, do shut up," the younger grumbled.
There was a brief period of compliance.
"So you're sending her home," the elder finally tried.
"If we can." Dryly, "Immigration is my dominion, sister. Therefore, the same can be said for deportation. I barely understood so much of what she said, even with the device doing what I presume was its best. Even some of the memories I encouraged to emerge from dream were difficult to interpret. But I recognize that she comes from far away. Somewhere we could gallop towards for all of the cycles to come and still never reach. She does not belong here, and there are those who miss her. She needs to go home." More softly, "At the very least, let those who retain their parents not lose their remaining time with them."
Starkly, "And if we can't send her back?"
"We must," the younger simply stated as her horn ignited, and dark energy brought the newspaper out from behind the throne. Floated it down to the elder, displayed the front page as a simple reminder.
It wasn't a particularly good picture: most of the facial features were obscured by the net, although that might have been a mercy for the more fragile readers. But it was clear enough for a limb count. And of course, there was no way to miss the Canterlot Tattler's triple-layered headline.
CENTAUR SPOTTED IN PALIMYNO!
The Monster Escapes!
WHAT IS THE PALACE HIDING?
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Will she meet Twilight? That would be interesting.
Ugh, gossip rags.
Now that's progress! A good meeting at that. I thought Discord might have been behind this but it doesn't feel like him. He might also be the only one with the power to send her back. If he accept.
I wonder what Centorea reaction to Discord would be?
And that was a minotaur shirt that they gave her wasn't it? Surprised they had one around. She might need to shop in a store that cater to Minotaurs for shirts at least.
So Nightwatch said there's only two princesses, yet Twilight is referenced. Is this before she became an alicorn? Or merely before she formally gained the title? Or perhaps long past either, and Twilight and Cadance simply weren't immortal. Anyway, excellent chapter!
Man, I hate it when I take the wrong turn on my morning jog and accidentally fall through the multiverse.
9501163
Well, Celestia and Luna are princesses, and Twilight and Cadence are princesses. Not the same thing.
9501173
I uhh... what?
I love stories that take cracky premises and turn them into something really interesting.
Wouldn't this just be "diarchy"?
9501188
I think the idea is that the artifact being used for translation is more than a little clunky. It's getting the gist of the conversation, but not perfectly.
Really..? All the money spent on remodeling and...
9501197
Oh, I was thinking it was stumbling over things that didn't have "real" translations because the concepts didn't exist in the applicable world, as with the period of time/duration/hours bit earlier, since they probably don't use the same time units.
There we go, that's the stuff that's starting to get good. I just remembered that this story started 'in media res,' so we hadn't actually seen how Cerea got here. A rather good scene, kinda captures the feel of primal terror.
The bit with LUNA of all people asking to Cerea to talk less formally was a brilliantly funny bit. Though... I do believe that technically some of the words Cerea used were a bit to casual, if we're thinking actual formal talk. Like 'Zounds' isn't exactly a good opener for addressing royalty, no matter the syntax. Not a big issue though.
BUT, still, I loved it. I can't wait to see what happens next, as the whole it seems that Cerea is going to be in/famous.
Has she apologized?, Luna I mean?
I skipped a bit since I only wanted to take a quick look because there where to rather big chapters and I was already not sure if I'm the biggest fan of the story.
Well I like the character and it was a decent start I suppose, but I don't think that I like the style the story has.
Another minor thing is that the "the aura "of power" hit her as soon as she entered the room" thing is similar to what I already hated to read when I started on this site.
To be honest back then it was that Celestia had some calming effect with her magic flowing out of her body or whatever and it was done so often that I got annoyed and hoped for the first char that didn't let themself get enchanted by her calming aura.
Then it looked like depending on who you asked Lunas way to confront her was let's say rather odd and if I found the right moment the talk started, then there probably wasn't even a real apology. Just little things that I prefer differently and have already seen it being done once.
No offence, I'm just saying that to prevent the usual try to convince me with "the one and only" theory why it can only happen this way.
Good luck with the story.
9501188
The translator probably doesn't have it in its vocabulary.
...Interesting reaction to the subject of a queen. I wonder if I'm forgetting something?
"largely because there was all there was"
"largely because that was all there was"?
"body takes her of itself"
"body takes care of itself"?
Ah, "good" old Continuum journalism...
I continue to find this enjoyable. :)
If the Princesses can send Cera home, all is well and good (and they don't have to elaborate to Cera on why outright attacking [and nearly murdering] her was something they "can explain and excuse"), if they can't ... then that damn tabloid is only going to make things harder on our poor centaur
Hmm it seems that there is something missing here
9501163
As it is after Tirek most recent attack Twilight is already an Alicorn and has her crystal palace in Ponyville. Not exactly clear how long after that it is.
Ohh... oh no. Tabloids...
Idjiits
Cheating comes with consequences.
Oh wow. Somehow I never considered how Luna would react to Ye Olde Butcherede Frenche. Also, now we know what Luna swears by.
Oh dear, she turned ninety degrees from everything she ever knew, then galloped. Fixing this is going to be complicated, and that's before taking the tabloids into account. Still, amazing imagery for the motion through probability space. Looking forward to more.
9501163
It's the difference between being called a princess because you have wings and a horn and being called a princess because you're actually part of the two-pony team dragging the country forward despite its best efforts. (And depending on the point in the timeline, Cadence might have already stepped down to a temporary advisory position in the Empire, thus putting her official regal status in question.)
That ending has grave implications
9501214
Actually that shouldn't be a problem. Diarchy's are a real thing and depending on exactly where in France she's from Cera may not be too far from the most explicit one that's still around Andorra (leaving aside the oddities of neither of the two Princes being Andorran any more... or hereditary nobles for that matter. One being a Spanish bishop and the other having being taken over by the President of France after the Revolution).
Can't wait to read more of this story! Don't think I've been this interested in a story in a while
I'd really appreciate if they started calling her by name instead of just "centaur"
9501552
I wonder if that's an artifact of everything having to be translated. It might translate everything it doesn't recognize as a name, and her name basically is "centaur". (Actually, given that most pony names -- speaking as if this weren't all fiction -- are rendered to us as English words, and the "reality" might be whinnies, nickers, and other horse communications, maybe it doesn't generally see the need to treat names as anything special. Remember when Applejack felt the need to clarify that she actually meant the foodstuff rather than her aunt?) It's like if it were used to communicate with a human named Adam. It would give them the concept of "man", and so "Man" is what he'd hear them call him.
One can only imagine if the hypothetical human had no idea what his name meant. ("...Did you just call me 'little shining multicolored hillside'?")
9501177
Not all Princesses are Princesses, but some Princesses are also Princesses.
(it's a joke)
yay Cerea is on good terms with Celestia and Luna even if they are sorta cautious atm.
if Luna dont manage to help Cerea home when they look around where she appeared then i hope Twilight and the gang will be called to help Cerea have a good time in Equestria as possible and maybe teach Cerea the language or get a better translator so communication is easier while Celestia & Luna trying to find a way for Cerea to return home.
lets hope Discord dont mess things up.
Where will this go from here? Paparazzi stealth mission time? More character building (which I'd never complain about)? The power emanating from the princesses is really interesting to read about from the perspective of a character who doesn't already know them.
Turns out, yes.
This was a good chapter. Bravo. It seems like they could get out in front of this 'scandal' pretty easily, though. "Yes, we have a centaur, though she is of a different subspecies than Tirek. We believe she is peaceful, but she is safely contained and will remain so until we can send her home. Trust us, we are your loving tyrants. Yrs, Princess Sunbutt and Shouty McMoonface."
9501895
That would be the sensible option, yes. Unfortunately, the sensible ponies are far outnumbered by the ones who were too busy screaming to hear anything after "centaur", and the ones who saw an opportunity for a PRINCESSES IN NEGOTIATION TO SELL OUR SOULS headline.
9501198
This makes me wonder what the hell mermaid bathrooms look like. Think about it.
9500875
It's not insulting, because it's actually true. The portrayal of centaur males in this story is very close to the original source. In the manga it's explained that centaur males are actually brutish and violent creatures that only value strength due to a selective evolution that favors only the strongest individuals. The story is actually quite tame, in the manga we see that due to centaur women preferring more gentle and caring mates, the only way for them to mate with a male of their species is to have a human man (a 'teaser', like in horse breeding) with such attributes being shown to them in order to get them in the right mood. Spoiler: Cerea's father was actually a human teaser.
9502084
Ewww! 
Ewwww! 
EWWWWW! Oh God, I'll never swim in the ocean ever again!
Wait...
static.hitek.fr/img/actualite/2016/08/24/tumblr-n9nk9evcsl1tulm44o1-500.gif
I know I'm repeating myself but...
Ah yes, the existential horror of dealing with one note characters.
Or rather, the contrast of an author developing a fanservice icon. And doing it well of course.
9502084
Thats disgusting. Nice work!
9501230
The local version of Luna isn't the sort of person who apologizes by choice. The only time I can recall is when she was trying to make ice cream and created an explosion that destroyed the lunar kitchens.
I am liking her a lot more now that she's actually helping. Her social skills are equateble to Batman's parenting, but she's doing her best and we're going to get to see her do cool things later
9502124
Then my work here is done. Go in peace.
9501072
I don't think so. I've only read a few stories in Estee's verse and it seemed easy enough to understand although there is a major revelation about the 'verse in the latter part of the story.
9502405
Your definition of peace leaves something to be desired.
9501072
The only stories that require familiarity with the setting are Mah-eator (the one-hundredth story) and A Duet for Land and Sky (the first story set after a noticeable break from cannon.)
Reading this story is a wonderful experience. the whole thing has been brimful of... I'm not sure exactly what, but I'm enjoying it muchly.
A particular favourite is the sentence:
Because it suggests that Cerea has tried this in the past.
And not just once, since it specifies 'initial' results.
So at one point in time Cerea's been charging up and down alleyways in the hopes of meeting her beloved, completely naive to the fact that if she ever did crash into them, she'd likely be the only survivor.
Also, is the plastic negating magic thing something new, or has the idea been around elsewhere? I don't recall seeing it before.
9502511
Go in a slightly disturbed state that looks like peace if you squint a little?
Trust me, there are far more disturbing biological factors inherent in monster girls that none of the mangas ever go into.
Damn it woman, THIS is why you don't skip the toast! You could have found yourself a husbando who WASN'T surrounded by other monstergirls.
9501634
Well, that meeting went better than expected. Hope she got enough food from the kitchen, and the head butler isnt having a panic attack due to the loss of supplies.
As for names, that translation disc might end up calling me Advanced Weapons In a Hidden Laboratory Buried On A Secret Island.
Everyone at University just called me Dexter.
Rarity is going to have an absolute fit when she sees that outfit.
Well I am most definitely enjoying this
This is a style of writing I have not encountered before and it intrigues me
9502988
Like for instance, dealing with them using the bathroom? I mean, consider Centorea's size, and how much IRL horses shit....
9505045
Bathroom habits are the least of the squicky things that would come up.
Besides, horse butts are self-wiping in that the anus turns inside-out and rings of muscle extrude and pinch off the turd before the whole thing retracts back in.
So centaurs, (and probably MLP ponies too) wouldn't have to concern themselves with wiping. Otherwise, being an earth pony would really, reeeeeeally suck unless you have a super-duper best friend who owes you a huuuuge favor...
Anyhow, the weird stuff is when you get to wombats, that have some sort of butthole magic that lets them poop in cubes.