Lo,

by Botched Lobotomy

Paired

“Behold the heretic! Behold, the great destroyer! Behold, thy dreadfull King!” I lowered the torch to the thatch roof solemnly, and all the world was red smoke and light.

Huddled afterwards in wings, I shared a grin with Cloudy. Our accents might predispose casting directors towards certain roles, but damnit if we weren’t going to play them to the hilt. Angry Peasants #3 and #4 were going places.

In the small apartment we shared above Mama Berry’s Hooficure Salon, 335 Maine Street, Baltimare, we cracked a cheap wine to celebrate. “Forget him,” I told Cloudy, “forget his name. As he has surely forgotten yours.”

“Igneous!”

“Sorry! Sorry, you’re aware I never liked him.”

“Well, I rather do.”

“Did,” I gently corrected her. “He’s a shit-stain now, remember.”

“There are faster ways to say ‘I told you so’, you know.”

“Never! You are my dearest friend, and anything that hurts you must by extension wound me also.” I paused. “But I did tell you so.”

“Urghhh.” She took a drink. “Perhaps the Pairing Stone was right―”

“Celestia be good!”

“...No?”

“No,” I said, firmly. “Your destiny is out there somewhere, Cloudy. I can feel it! Somewhere some stallion is looking at these same stars and wondering where his perfect marefriend is.”

“Please. I’m far too drunk for such theatrics. Besides, even if our paths did cross, he’d probably say no.”

“To Angry Peasant #3? He would not dare!”

“Stab him with my pitchfork for waiting so long,” she grumbled.

“That’s the spirit!”

And later that night, as we were curled up on the sofa, in the glow of wine and the scratching of the record-player, she murmured that she wished she could be more like me, more free, and easy, and never worry when a stallion left her for another mare. Yes, I murmured back to her. Yes, it was easier. Free to leave whenever you wished. Not tied down by anypony. The world as your oyster. Free.

The Tragical Historie of King Sombra the Wise ran for twelve weeks, and kept us fed for ten. After that came King Deer, and Song of the Sirens, and Frankenstag: The Musical, with a brief flutter of life in Waiting for Griffot before ultimate collapse in Angels in Equestria: A Pegasus Play for 6-8 year-olds. Peasants #3 and #4 were joined by #6 and #7, Costumed Dancers #1 and #3, and Grieving Mourners. Bit parts, background details, parents to the real protagonist. Sparkling destiny turned to sparkling sherry in the streets.

Cloudy was sliding a tray of bread rolls into the oven. Stress-baking. Helped take her mind off things, she liked to say, with a darkly shaded emphasis on things.

“Good morning.”

“Is it?”

“You never know, it might yet turn around.”

I snorted. “The stone might plant itself.”

“Are you all right? I saw Berry―”

“Tired. Tired, only.”

“All right.”

I found the coffee, sat down at the table to the warm smell of rising bread. Beneath the rough shape of a paperweight peeked a grainy brown envelope. I winced. Letter from Rockville meant letter from my parents, as both of us were painfully aware―this happened about once every two months or so, and usually I tried to hide them, take them from the mailmare before Cloudy got a chance to see. My parents―usually my mother―liked to write long, formal letters full of updates on the farm and other dull minutiae of their life. I never knew what to write in response: my letters were short, vague, and left as much to the imagination as I could safely manage. They were late, too. Always, always late. Cloudy’s parents had never sent her anything.

“What are they saying?” called Cloudy, from the counter. “Any occurrences of note?”

“I have not read it yet.”

“Get on with it, then.”

“Calm yourself. It’s waited this long, it can wait a little longer.”

“You have until these rolls are done. Otherwise, you aren’t getting any.”

I rolled my eyes, she stuck her tongue out, and with a sigh I bent to read the letter. A decent crop on Chalk-tree Field. Wobble in the 4-5 mineshaft, now holding steady. Another Choosing Ceremony come and gone. Alfalfa’s cow was feeling sickly. Nettles had been married, now to take the name of Nettles Stone. An old stallion called Bluebell I didn’t think I’d ever met had had to sell his bat. Hat. It would be nice to have you home for dinner.

“Nothing of importance.”

She shook her head, dusted off her hooves, and took the letter off me. I finished off my coffee with the newspaper. Somehow, even less of note. To my disgust, I had recently taken up small rock carving, putting the pickaxe on my flank to use with a tiny pickaxe in my hoof, covering the days I wasn’t working by selling stone chess sets and miniature statues, sitting on the bus and in audition waiting rooms chipping away at some foal’s stocking-filler. I had imagined placing an advert for it in the newspaper: just there, beside the pages for acting lessons and a litter of kittens for sale. I looked up.

“...Cloudy?”

“The rolls are almost done.”

“Are you all right?” Her eyes were just a little red.

“I’m fine. Quite fine.” She blinked, and put the letter back beneath the paperweight. “You should send your parents one of these,” she said, suddenly.

I admitted I’d considered it, but wanted to avoid giving them the satisfaction. She laughed, with a look that said really? and then the oven was open in a cloud of steam and the letter was all forgotten.

“What art thou?” I asked, in my most gravedigger voice, trembling as I beheld...

“What are thou,” Cloudy corrected.

“No! Surely―?”

“Apparently not.”

“That is simply...unnatural.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself. That’s the next line.”

“All right, fine. Are thou. Art thou. Are thou.”

“‘That is simply...’”

“Yes, yes. I have it.”

“Good,” she said, “because we still have my five lines to go over, too.”

So I crept onstage to elderly piano music, and said my part, and leapt back in horror as the zomponies were born, and trotted outside for a breath of fresh air.

“Hey,” said Berry Munch.

“Oh,” I said, “hello.”

“You look...well.”

“Yes.” I stared, remembering how she had held me, the last time we had met. Under rather warmer circumstances. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“I’m actually here for Quartz, you know...”

“Oh. Thank Celestia. I mean, good for you.” I tried to salvage it. “I was worried you were here out of love for Zomponies and Vampires 2.”

She smiled. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“I’ll be back on in five minutes, but as long as you keep it short―”

Leaning in, she said to me, “I used to think you used people. That that was what you did, used them all up and tossed them aside, like one of your little stone ponies. But I’ve realised that isn’t true at all, is it? You don’t use ponies, you just...collect them. Like some kind of alien creature, just so we can fill some empty shelf-space. You don’t need anything. You don’t want anything. You’re empty! I feel sorry for you.”

I processed this. “Thank you for the feedback,” I told her. Opened the door, turned back, black silhouette. “See you next month, Ber.”

I played my part, and bowed, and went home, got reasonably drunk, and everything was fine.

“It’s strange though, don’t you think,” Cloudy was saying. “I always assumed―I mean, I always thought I would be married before Nettles.”

I blinked, slowly. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It just always felt that way. Like that was destiny. And then the stone―”

“Mercy! Please! Not the Celestia-damned stone again!”

She narrowed her eyes across the couch. “You do not think there was something to it? Even after the last ten years, and I still have not found a partner?”

“I think that stone was enchanted to show if anypony at it was compatible enough with anypony else nearby. Destiny? We have our destiny right here!” I spread my hooves, encompassing the whole of our tiny apartment, then spread them further, to fit our whole lives inside, as well.

“Destiny,” she snorted. “If this is truly destiny, I want a refund.”

“What? Do you not enjoy our little adventure, here?”

“Adventure! It’s been ten years, Igneous.”

“Ten glorious years.”

“Some of them were somewhat glorious,” she admitted. “But don’t you want...I do not know. More?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps.” At her look, I couldn’t help but grin. “All right, all right, I want...more. I want things to be good out here! I want everything we ever dreamed of! I want my name to be remembered!”

Cloudy looked away. “I want to see my parents,” she said, eventually. I knew not what to say to that.

In the end, she left, of course. With a sweet farewell and a promise of tomorrow―I did not reach out. She was back in Rockville, and I had left that place behind. I was a blazing star, I was a meteor, I was a phoenix, soon to hatch―

One night I woke up well before the break of dawn, as if somepony had tapped me on the shoulder to awaken me. I looked around: moon-dusted surfaces, and darkness. A pile of playscripts on the desk. Sliver of orange from beneath the door. Rows of raw, unpolished pony statues staring eyeless from the shelf. I slipped one in a letter for my parents. Behold thy dreadfull King.

Soon enough the brown response came, neatly folded, ordinary. Over coffee in the morning I opened it to read:

Igneous.

I am sorry to be the one to have to tell you this,

Comments

[Venerable Ro]

He is a passionate one no? Much sound and fury.

[Botched Lobotomy]

11396299
He is a dramatic boi