Sweet Dreams, LLP

by AnchorsAway

Perspective

Tell me, what is the most valuable thing you can think of?

It might seem like an odd question, but it is a rather simple one. What is the most prized resource in Equestria? Is it bits, the coins we spend on necessities, or throw at dancers on poles for enjoyment.

All the bits in the world couldn't buy the answer I am thinking of.

Is it a pile of jewels, the horde of a fearsome dragon?

Nay, for not even a mountain of precious stones can compare to the most valuable item.

Perhaps it is not a physical commodity. What if it were power? Power to rule, or power to command.

My clueless reader, power is powerless against what ponies would give for the most sought after commodity.

Is it love, the magical feeling we get when we see our significant other or a five-layer burrito drenched in cheese queso.

You see, the beauty of such a question is that to answer it requires perspective.

'Ah, here we go again with the big words,' I can already hear you moaning as you read this. 'But what is perspective, you sexy sea dog?'

Well, let me enlighten you, my doleful audience.

The Royal Equestrian Literary Dictionary defines perspective as: a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; a point of view.

If you don't like the egghead explanation, here is perspective as defined by your’s truly.

Perspective is noticing the smoking hot mare across the room as you sit drinking, alone (of course), in the corner of some dark bar in the port of Trottingham. It's Hearths Warming Eve, and the patrons are full of cheer, downing their drinks like fish and singing their merry tunes. The wind is howling fiercely outside as the temperature plummets, and snow softly patters against the windows.

The mare is wearing a thick, red-tinseled sweater, seated alone at the bar beneath the dim and smoky lights. So you, being the smooth, confidant stallion you are, casually slide over. Maybe you straighten up, brush the crumbs from your coat, scrape the mud from your filthy hooves before you order her a tall glass of cider.

And sweet stars, what a piece this mare is. She gazes over you with those soft, blue eyes as you casually introduce yourself. You just sailed into port; you need somepony to show you around.

You slide her the cider, your own eyes wandering to her luxurious long mane, the way it’s pinned back, how it flows like a waterfall down her slender neck all the way to her toned flanks. She smiles sweetly, taking a tentative sip of the cider, her tender lips glistening with the amber liquid. And your heart, how it flutters as you muster the courage to find the words.

"It sure is cold outside,” you mention with a sly smile. “What do you say we ditch this place and spend Hearth's Warming wrapped in each other's hooves, sharing our body heat in your bed?"

You initially fear you came off too direct. But she flutters those long eyelashes of hers at you, leaning close and rubbing your foreleg with a hoof. The blood rushes from your head. Her hooves are as soft as butter.

She leans in close, her lips mere inches from your ear that it tickles. And she whispers to you.

"You can help me warm my bed any day, baby."

Only the voice that comes out that beautiful mare is deeper than the ocean's waters. It has a baritone that would make a buffalo blush. And it's then you notice several attributes of this "mare": the Adam's apple peeking from her sweater, the prominent jawline, the elongated brow ridge.

That is the laypony's definition of perspective. Perspective is that beautiful mare watching you from across the bar, waiting to reveal a voice that might as well have been the result of exposure to poison joke.

Perspective is you still taking that hot pony back to their place because you're a gentlepony. You're no quitter.

Where was I going with this?

Perspective? Perspective, right.

The most precious commodity known to ponykind requires perspective.

Because I will tell you the most valuable thing in life isn't gold or bits, not jewels, power, books, or that “mare” in the bar. No, the most sought after resource is silence.

“Silence?” you scoff. You wonder how something as simple as quiet peace of mind could be considered a quality of value.

So we come back to perspective. If you were, for instance, completing a challenging exam, a quiet test area would be quite beneficial toward scoring high marks. You need to concentrate after all.

Or if you were hiding from a ponycidal maniac in the back of a closet, you would hope those sharing your hiding space would have the common sense to stifle the errant sneeze.

Or maybe you just happen to be the new ship cadet who doesn’t know when to shut his beak before the Captain tosses his tail feathers in the briny harbor.

My point (yes, there is a point to all this) is that silence is invaluable.

Silence is golden.

Silence is sometimes all we have.

And the calm, serene silence of Bright Shine’s dreamless sleep evaporated with a loud banging.

“Bright Shine!” he heard a voice somewhere above him as an eye split open.

Luna.

There were several more heavy thumps on the hatch to the employee quarters. The hatch rattled on its hinges.

“Bright Shine, are you up yet? We have a busy day ahead of us. No time to sleep when there is dreaming to be done,” Luna called down before presumably trotting off.

Bright Shine rubbed his tired eyes, untangling himself from a knot of bedsheets. The room was still pitch black, and he couldn’t see a thing. What time was it?

“Gilbert?” he murmured, feeling the empty space around the bunk bed. “Gilbert, are you up? Where is the light? I can't see a bloody thing.”

As if on command, the light came on. Bright Shine sat up in his bed, blinking the sleep out of his eyes before he noticed the shrouded bundle of dark, leathery wings hanging from the top bed rail. Two intensely, bright orange eyes peered at Bright Shine from the fold of battish wings. They looked hungry.

Bright Shine froze in his bed, his hooves clutched around his blanket.

For a moment, both ponies regarded each other, Broodly, hanging upside down from the bunk, and Bright Shine huddled beneath his sheets.

Slowly, the folds of the hooked wings drew back, Broodly poking his fanged muzzle out.

“I do not knows why you are here,” he hissed in his low, gravely voice. “But I must warns you that it is unwise to sleeps on that bed. Things have happened on thats bed."

The thestral shivered in the gloomy confines of the basement, wrapping his wings tight around him. "Unspeakable things. Why do you thinks I sleep from the ceiling."