Ants, Fortune and Striped Pants

by RanOutOfIdeas

Chapter 1

“I’ve come to conclude that all the fellows here in Canterlot don’t have the time to merely ponder on rigmarole alone. Action trumps long-winded reflection in all but the select few minds that I’ve yet to encounter, for its cost-effective manner of entertaining the observer.

“I don’t propose this as an insurmountable problem. It’s merely a note that I wish to add to my little anecdote. To the point we shall go, in its due time, in its due process. I promise to keep most of my thoughts trimmed down.

“Heh, you have no idea how far one of the Pants lineage can take a mere opinion. My father was infamous for telling his stories in the morning and having nopony remember what the beginning was by the start of the evening!

“Do bear in mind, however, that I am a leisure stallion and this story will be told leisurely. Sit down and have some tea, so you may appreciate the dreadful leisureliness of which I dabbled so much in, to my own chagrin, in every aspect of my dreadful life.

“Not a very noteworthy life, if you were ever curious enough to ask. The crimson curtains drawn in every window of my estate can give off the false impression of grandeur, and that many machinations occur behind my closed doors, carefully crafted and deployed to benefit me and me alone.

“But, in truth, those machinations became a burden a long time ago...”

---

“Why the heavens couldn’t you be a bird?” I quietly muttered as I observed the tiny ant crawling on my windowsill. My observation, I admit, was laced with a little disdain. The insect would circle back and forth, zooming about aimlessly while still pertaining to the sense of a pre-programmed path.

I had gifted it a cube of sugar on one side of the sill, and a drop of sweetener on the other. That made the ant nibble the cube, walk dutifully to the other side and then get distracted by the sweetener.

It would drop the piece of the cube to lick the sweetener, the piece would melt on the warm wood, and the little insect would have to make the trek back to the other side to take yet another piece of the cube for its colony. A never ending cycle of journeys.

Though I, the massive being with a divine aspect to the ant’s eyes, had an easy solution for it to break free.

I curled my magic around the insect’s body and flung it away, out the window. It soared for the most precious couple of seconds of its life, before splattering on the cold, hard cobblestone.

"Fleur, my dear. Would you believe me if I told you I had a nice dream tonight?” I finally interacted with the other occupant of my office, turning around on my swivel chair to gaze at the slender mare. “A whimsical frolic through a small open field, enclosed by a wall of the tallest, most lush trees."

That was a lie, of course. My dream had been much more personal, much more vivid than I could give it credit for, retelling it to Fleur. A dream the likes of which I had every night, true, but its fright never wavered. My subconscious was going wild with the nightmares, or perhaps a certain Princess simply deemed me unworthy of protecting.

What kind of nightmares could a stallion with my life have, anyway?

Alas, I had given up on detailing my journeys in the unconscious to Fleur a long time ago, when she responded to my words with a simple chuckle and redirected the conversation to her modelling work not a second after. I didn’t give up on the first time, mind, but by the twelfth, the patience had run dry.

And if you doubted the characterization of my own wife, a characterization born of ten long years spent together, then carefully listen to her next utterances. Predictable utterances.

“I’m sure it was quite the experience, dear,” she said, picking from one of the many variations of generic pre-written lines she had in her mind for a proper response.

Observe now how quickly, how effortlessly I break my promise of getting into the action of this narrative, of not letting my opinions wander — a recurring theme, of me not sizing up to my own cast shadows.

In my spiel of Fleur, I’m not dabbling in hyperbole for the sake of a point. She really did have a list of phrases to respond to the Canterlot gentry, whenever we were forced to participate in one of their unscrupulous parties. It was at the bedside of our luxurious master bed; the place where she repeated the lines to herself every morning, as if a mantra that kept her sane.

Fleur did it so much, I could barely even tell if her cute Prench accent had survived her self-inflicted onslaught of Equestrian language.

Oh, she insisted with a false smile that never reached her cheeks, ‘It is still there, Fancy’.

What she wasn’t aware of is that I caught the annoyed huff she would give, and that quiet addendum of hers, muttered in Prench: ‘Malgré mes efforts’.

My meaningless compliments of her accent always fell on deaf ears. No, she’d rather I comment on her performances at whatever new fashion show she was being presented at, for all the world to gaze.

As if I could comment on such an unoriginal event without being unoriginal myself.

In any case, I had asked Fleur to read the mail for me, as she was wont to do every morning. Letters upon letters that flooded our box dutifully, every morning. I once looked forward to passing the knife on their seals to gaze upon their contents, long ago. Like a giddy foal curious to see his gifts.

Not anymore.

I simply lost myself in them. News and finances and responsibilities and prosperity. I had garnered quite a business empire, through my long years milking the economy — like a cow that the other gentry had ripped from the rural lands, ridden until it had nothing left to give and left nearly dead at the end of the gutter. And then the poor ponies starving at the edges of the street swarmed the bovine, ignoring the pus and worms eating away its flesh, and fed the thing out of desperation, praying it could be milked by them someday.

Then I came back and milked it again before they could.

Twelve businesses hung in my hoof, from tailors to sailors, traders to freighters. One toe dipped in every market. Millions of bits wired to multiple accounts, without even one single drop of sweat. Any triumph had long lost the glint of victory or the tug of satisfaction, seeing how I could just sit back and earn by the second.

Well, apart from the infinite need of having ‘Fancy Pants’ stamped in every letter that these businesses sent me. That was my work. Not one worthy of a pony, no, but one worthy of a machine. Stamp, stamp, stamp. No thought, no rationale, just practiced movement.

My work had reduced the radius of my life to a mere bedroom - now no longer a bedroom but more an ‘everyroom’. The bathroom was but one door away, food could be brought by the butlers and there was a single bed in the back for me to rest alone, as I did most days.

It allowed me to lose myself in the work, as it was demanded. Sometimes one of the letters would come to save me from the boredom, as it asked for input on a matter rather than a simple signature.

One such letter, that Fleur had just finished reading, was complaining about some workers organizing and ceasing their work—in the hopes that I would decide their presence was worth more than the hassle of finding new ponies to replace them.

One thing did stick out to my numb and drooping ears, though.

“Any reason why you're detailing the earth ponies’ adherence to these strikes, Fleur?” I raised a brow at my dear wife.

“They are the majority striking.” Fleur turned the letter and levitated it over to me. “As you can see.”

I lit my own horn and crumpled the letter down without even reading it, throwing it into the bin with a roll of my eyes. “Sure. Great. What do you expect me to do with that information, though? Tailor my response to one tribe in particular, perhaps?”

Fleur readjusted herself on the seat. “I'm just telling you what the letter said, as you asked.”

“I’d like to know what you think.”

She stared at me for some time, mouth struggling to work. Opening to speak, but refraining at the last instant. “I don’t… I’m sure you know best, Fancy.”

A sigh escaped my lips as I swiveled my chair back to the window. “Of course.”

I stand by my first statement. I think it would be much better for the ant, if it was born a bird.

---

Fleur and I remained in that pattern for the next couple days, as we had been for the past couple years. Truly, the weekdays chewed our attention and spat it into our jobs.

Fleur would leave for another photoshoot, walkway, demonstration, or whatever it was she did in that job of hers while I was left to read, write back, and read again. There was no need for emotion on my part, just indorsements of actions to be taken to maximize the profits of the quarter.

I even tried to let my butler—who has no economic background whatsoever and has no idea what half of these letters even mean—decide what to do for a month in my place, with no input from me whatsoever. It was one of the most profitable months I had in years, and I'm almost certain the butler was choosing 'yes' and 'no' answers at random simply to get it over with.

Alas, as all our cycles ended the same way, we left together to the weekly meeting of the Lords and Dames in Canterlot Castle. The one glint of variation in the drag of my every week, a glint that dimmed each morning that it shined.

I was seated in my chair, nearest to the other business entrepreneurs. Fleur was silent by my side, as she liked to be during all our public appearances. She’d respond, if she was called directly, but other than that she never voiced any words.

Never any words.

The door to the chamber opened one last time to allow a bright stallion to pass through. One that wasn’t expected to make an appearance today, but whose presence did tug my lips upwards slightly.

A well formed stallion, with a coiffed blond mane and a tuxedo you’d never see him without - except if you truly got to know him. Astron Blueblood.

Whatever image you have of him, born from reading some irreputable tabloid or the little shows he liked to put up, is wrong.

But he likes it that way. And I can respect a stallion that laughs and thrives off of the neat little circle that society drew around him, seeing as I never quite managed the same feat.

He had entered the room and sat right across from me, next to the other nobles whose characters were so barren I won’t even bother naming or detailing. Stallions and mares that seemed perfectly composed to an outside observer, but I knew them better. Fitting into another stereotypical slot just as neatly as the facade Blueblood liked to put up — except these ones thought they were above the game, while Blueblood knew damn well we all had our little strings.

You know the ones. The obnoxiously smart and proud.

Couldn’t be me.

Indeed, I couldn't see myself conglomerating with them outside of business and social demands. Mine is not obnoxiousness, but wittiness born of too much free time and a lack of direction, spilling over my vocabulary.

And pride… that was a devil I wish could hug me every morning. Alas, it’s quite difficult to be proud of a prize that only serves to sink its hooks into your back and drag your bleeding carcass up.

Maybe that was why Blueblood kept the leeches around. To remind him, to singe his taste buds with the sour flavor. A chef tasting the food of his peers, so as to not make the mistakes they made... or replicate them so well he can’t ever go back to his trusty recipe.

“And these strikes…” the voice of Raven Inkwell — replacing Her Highness for today — piped up to catch my attention. “Fancy, your industries seem to be the center of most. Any thoughts for the Lords and Dames?”

An idea struck me then, to at least inject something more lively to this bore. “I will see them handled personally, dear Raven.”

Raven slightly turned her head, an eyebrow raised. “Why not just instruct your factory managers over-”

“Fleur and I could do with the fresh air,” I said, turning my head to face my wife. “Well, I certainly could. What about you, Fleur?”

“Mhm,” she sounded with a slight nod and timid smile.

The seventh ‘Mhm’ she had uttered just this morning. Her quick and mechanical responses had been grinding my patience for years, true. Yet, to this day, I can’t articulate why I said what I did in the tone that I did. The explanation danced above my head every time I searched for it.

“Can you respond with anything other than that dreadful, guttural noise? Any opinions on the strikers?”

Fleur looked at me surprised, her eyes widening and switching between me and the other occupants—lingering on the gentry of the fashion and modelling sector, especifically. “Fancy, is this the time...”

“A response pertaining to my question, dear,” I interrupted her, “not a tangent to wiggle away from it.”

“I…” Fleur’s ears hid on her pink-and-white mane. “I could do with some fresh air. Indeed, yes.”

There it was. The little accent breaking through the waters, making her struggle with her words just as much as she struggled to drown it.

It is curious how one could shift the attention of a whole room with but a single direct phrase and a forceful tone. But overall predictable. My audience was a bunch of fools that tried their best to be formulaic, so of course they were easily swayed by the tune.

Raven noticed the mood of the room, and expertly decided that it was time for our fast to be broken. She directed every noble in the chamber to the tables set aside, with unnecessary mountains of food on them.

I followed along out of respect, not feeling the slightest desire to eat despite not having had any lunch. Or breakfast... Or dinner, the night before.

Truthfully, I hadn’t eaten well for the past months. I didn’t feel hungry, and the beautiful arrangements of food didn’t spark any desire to eat. Even when I wished to, a mere glance at a hors d’oeuvre would rip my appetite away moments before I actually bit into it.

Fleur had quietly trotted to the table furthest away, giving glances to the fashion elite gathered on the front, and got herself a simple slice of common bread. Straying well away from the croissants.

Never the croissants.

Sometimes I wondered where her disdain for anything native to her homeland came from. She’d never talk about it when I questioned. Rather, she’d never talk about anything I questioned, bar asking for appraisal of her own work.

During my quiet observations, Blueblood approached me with a smile on his lips. A smile that betrayed the deeper intent of its wearer.

“Fancy! You…” - and his smile slipped to concern - “oh dear, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

The makeup I put on every day was supposed to blend the marks of my restlessness with my coat, but clearly I wasn’t an expert enough with the craft to hide it from Blueblood’s narrowed eyes.

The notion of asking Fleur to apply it for me every morning passed my mind, but… better not.

“I closed my eyes for eight hours, Blue.” I tried to play it off with a disarming expression and a chuckle. “Isn’t that how we all do it?”

Blueblood wasn’t buying it. “You worry me sometimes, old fellow.”

I rolled my eyes, readjusting my monocle with a quick flow of magic. “I’d like to believe you didn’t approach me to disrespect my appearance only.”

“Well, not originally, no... I wanted to discuss something with you.”

Blueblood brought out a parchment and cleared his throat. His recital involved a plan he had conjured in the middle of the night, alongside some of his more sober drinking buddies. A ‘Grand Tour’ to the seas unknown, in a ship marked for state business.

Him and his buddies would help ‘commission’ it and sail to beyond the charters, into foreign waters. His position would be a simple topman, and he hoped Princess Celestia would endorse this endeavour. Because if she didn’t… well, he never finished that thought.

‘A topman?’ I thought, ‘Tartarus, Bluey. Sunset really did a number on your confidence.’

His telling of the plan was quiet. Every so often he’d quickly glance at another pony standing close, nibbling on some candy or sipping some tea, as if uttering a secret for my ears only. Once done, he looked at me expectantly and asked if I thought it was a good idea.

“It is,” I answered.

“This might be considered theft of a vessel by some,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Most, actually. Golden Gavel wouldn’t think twice about suggesting an Erebus sentence after that... eh, issue with his daughter and I.”

No, I shall not name what the issue was. I can respect another stallion’s privacy. Go to those tabloids I mentioned if you want inane gossip. I recommend The Gallivant Galloper; it has a very good, inflaming article on us nobles.

“Oh, but my desire to sail freely is simply too much… and I can't stand another Gala,” Blueblood continued with a sigh. “Although, indeed, this could cost more than what my coffers and I can afford...”

“Not in my opinion. I think you’re perfectly capable of affording these costs, monetary and otherwise.”

“Indeed, indeed, I suppose when you consider… oh but they would never allow a noble...”

“A noble that is also a sailor. Endorsement or not.”

He looked at me curiously, looked at his parchment and retreaded his plans once again, this time with more fervor and confidence, without a single quiver or tremble. He put much more emphasis where he was involved, and mandated himself captain instead of a mere topman.

There he was. A true Blueblood. Not a lineage of perfect plans, but on-the-fly changes.

Once finished, he declared it perfect, shook my hoof while reminding me to appear at the party he was planning for the week’s end, and trotted away with a spring in his step.

I hope Blueblood found whatever he was looking for in his trip. I tried sailing the seas once, in my own desperate attempts of finding that... something myself, but it was never enough.

The ship always returned, and the dreaded everyroom would be awaiting its letter-stamping servant.

---

“Why did you do that?”

Of course Fleur decided to pipe up during our commute back to the Estate to prepare for the trip. Thankfully, the streets of Canterlot were quieter than usual.

“Do what, dear?”

“You know what.” She cringed a bit when the accent bled through. “Singling me out in front of the Lords and Dames, the juggernauts of the fashion industry. Do you have any idea how Prim Hemline is about ‘strict code for a model’s behaviour’?”

Well, wasn’t someone chatty now? Good. Better than the silence.

“I merely wished for some decent interaction with my own wife. Not just another one of your nods and waves, but an opinion.”

“A model doesn’t express opinions, Fancy. We put on the clothes and model.”

“I am not the crowd you’re posing for on the runway.”

It always came down to clothing and standards. Such an interesting phenomena.

Not in Equestria as a whole, no: most ponies in the rural lands saw their clothes as practical, with a simple objective that beget no further explanation other than the physical.

Straightforwardness wasn’t as interesting as the alternative.

In Canterlot and the bigger cities, clothing became a statement. And statements came with rules and reasons, content and intent, subtext and context. Nopony knew who started it, all they knew is that it was necessary. And profitable.

The price of cantering through the ivory streets of Canterlot went further than a mere train ticket. One must have bought alongside it a whole outfit. Pretty and prim.

Because if one dared challenge that status quo, they would soon find themselves at the end of the ostracizing eyes of those that didn’t find troublesome the mindless social norms they helped reinforce.

Despite my name dooming me, I was quite proud I never gave into the jabs at my refusal to wear pants.

Now imagine the surprise I felt at the clothless filly suddenly turning the corner Fleur and I were about to pass. Because of the argument I was having, I didn’t even register the pony until it was too late.

She impacted me with a grunt and fell to the ground, the papers she was carrying fluttering all over as the wind scattered them around like snowflakes falling in winter. I was a bit dazed and surprised, but overall fine.

“Oh! My apologies, young filly,” I said, stretching my hoof down to help her.

“I’m a grown mare, you—” She sneered at my offending hoof, batting it aside.

That expression quickly slid off her face once she looked up.

“Ah, I take it you recognize this ugly mug of mine,” I said with a cheeky grin.

She was a minute Earth pony that barely reached my chest, with warm summer colors to call her own — classics such as a faded yellow coat and brownish mane. From the force she slammed into me with, it was quite obvious she was in a hurry.

She scrambled up, a tinge of red on her cheeks. “Uh… e-excuse my manners, Lord Pants.” The mare snapped a quick salute, her face becoming serious. “Summer Cherrywood, lieutenant for the Guard.”

“No worries at all… Oh, am I troubling you in your time off-duty?” At her questioning look, I added, “You’re not in uniform.”

“Oh, that. No, it’s just... my father’s barding doesn’t fit me, and the blockheaded blacksmiths refuse to custom-make anything for a working mare.” Cherrywood bent down to busy herself picking up the strewn papers, while also raising her voice to a mocking pitch. “Oh no, just the Lords get to have that. A plebeian couldn’t possibly make use—”

Cherrywood stopped, mouth snapping shut. Perhaps she had remembered the pony right in front of her happened to be one of those Lords.

“Er… nevermind. Just running my stupid mouth,” she finished lamely, abusing the low position of her head to hide her muzzle.

“Bravo. An almost perfect recreation.” I put forward a winning smile as I looked to my companion with the corner of my eye. “Wouldn’t you agree, Fleur?”

“Mhm,” she responded with the thrice-damned guttural noise again.

“And let your mouth run free, dear Cherrywood. I, for one, would never suggest one refrain from voicing opinions. I encourage it, even!” I kept the warm expression even as I noted Fleur’s mouth twitching slightly, from the corner of my eye.

“I mean…” Cherrywood chewed her cheek, but ended up shaking her head. “Some of these things are so unbelievably obtuse, and they have a knack of biting me in the flank. Almost makes me think it’s on purpose.”

“You’re might be more correct than you realize,” I said, deciding to help her by mindlessly collecting the furthest papers with my magic.

The seal in one of her pages caught my attention, however. The Royal Court seal, indicating it to be a copy of a legal intimation against one ‘S. Cherrywood’.

I’m aware of the moral wrong and the breach of privacy and the dozens of other reasons conjured up to make a nosy pony feel bad — I read the paper anyway.

A quick glance, really.

It was signed by Chief Justice Golden Gavel — him again — demanding Cherrywood be declared ‘unfit for duty’. In one of the observation columns was written:

‘The Royal Guard are symbols of Equestrian strength and grandeur, the position of Warden of Canterlot even more so. A mare of the defendant’s stature transmits that message poorly, if at all.’

Gavel wasn’t a very pleasant stallion to be around, and he frequently tried to overextend his duties as Judge to that of Jury and Executioner. Seemed Cherrywood agreed, based on the curses scribbled in ink over his name. Her copy of the document, then.

I collected all papers and shuffled them on a neat stack, promptly offering them back. “Here. Don’t let me keep you any longer.”

“Thank you, Lord Pants. And my apologies.” She took them and left in a hurried trot.

A curious mare. My mind strayed even as Fleur and I continued on.