Everybody Dupes

by Heavy Mole

Gal Pals

It was after the sun had set by the time Rarity and Sweetie Belle arrived in Ponyville Square, traveling from their parents’ house in a doleful standoff. They had been subjected to the over-care of their mother, Cookie Crumbles, and were each re-filled with dark suspicions regarding the other, as a result of their distinct and inveterate relations with that mare; and had thereby become party to a debate on the meaning of apologies, which now threatened a parting of ways between them.

Sweetie Belle, thanks to the excuse Rarity had invented to facilitate a night talk with Twilight, felt as though she had been ejected, by trickery, onto spooky streets—and hoped that her sister would apprehend the physical danger they were now in the presence of, and thus want to eschew any sort of separation; in other words, that they would go to Applejack’s, as they had promised, for the sake of the well-being of all concerned.

Rarity, for her part, hoped that Sweetie Belle would appreciate her own extenuating psychological frailty, with respect to a clone which now claimed her identity, and which was causing a not inconsiderable portion of havoc in her name—and, so, follow her to see Princess Twilight.

Both were to be disappointed.

And so, in silence they went, avoiding addressing each other with either looks or glances, until they found themselves at the azimuth of the benighted plaza, where they were thus committed to act out their prerogatives.

Sweetie Belle may have been more tempted to adopt the lie of her sister, which she had so detested during their bedroom dispute, had the other been more prepared to carry it out; but as they both soon realized, there were several inns where the Princess of Magic might be staying—who, perhaps because she was gifted in wisdom, preferred to travel discretely. And not just the one that had been mentioned, but all the good hostels and idyllic bed & baths scattered through Ponyville, flashed in Rarity’s mind as she tried to determine in which direction to lead.

“Oh, huff! Let’s see… There’s the Whistling Thistle—the view from the upper suites is absolutely enchanting… And of course always the Palfrey Inn, oh! to die for, the elegance of the mid-millennial woodwork, those dark and wintry tones… No, she would expect ponies to find her in those kinds of accommodations. No, no… perhaps the Autumn Leaf, the charming little hideaway on the lake… That’s where she must be. Nothing spells ‘solitude’ like quiet wind-blown rushes and the tepid eye of still water. Hmm, ‘spells’… Oh! the Manticore’s Den, of course! What ambiance, what untampered appeal to ancestral memory. A perfect place for meditations on royalty… Now, what do you think, Sweetie Belle? Where shall we begin, hmm?”

“You sound like an addict,” Sweetie Belle replied.

Rarity turned a sharp look on her. “An addict? An addict to what, exactly? Happy feelings? The sense that my stomach isn’t going to cramp every time I hear bad news from Ponyville? Yes, Sweetie Belle, you’re right. I am addicted to those things, the same way you love coffee and Dad loves windows. I live for them.”

She hopped up on the ledge of the plaza fountain and made circles in the water with her hoof. The moon was out and made the divots glisten. The stone felt cold underneath her.

Sweetie Belle looked on, and said, “It’s not just for the benefit of Applejack, all that stuff about trauma and confession. If I might say so…”

“Say what? You think you know everything.”

“Rare, you look like you’re fighting something. It’s gotta come out. Not every problem can be wrapped up and put on a shelf to be sold.”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” Rarity said, slumping forward. “It’s a good thing we decided to split up, then, isn’t it? Maybe we’ll both get what we’re after.”

Sweetie Belle sighed and took a seat next to her on the ledge. The water settled and the moon made a spot on the fountain between them. The silhouettes of trees could be made out in the distant, shadowed line on the horizon; they surrounded the town like a pike gate.

There ensued an unhappy caesura in their conversation. Sweetie Belle had no intention of abetting her sister’s neurotic frame of mind by indulging her in unsatisfied wandering, but a compromise did not seem near. She was impelled to turn to a model for handling intractable psychological tension—viz., she thought of Starlight Glimmer, and all the word games from her lavender office that were designed to overcome emotional blockages. And being so often the target of them herself, and with such varying degrees of success, Sweetie Belle supposed herself an expert in emotional blockages, too; and so she decided to try an exercise with her grumpy sister.

“Fine. I can’t go back to the house, anyway. Maybe Yona and I will have fun.”

Rarity made her a wry smirk. “I am filled with good ideas, you see.”

“The best. But I have one condition, otherwise I go back and tell Mom and Winsome everything, and then you’ll be hung out to dry.”

Rarity turned to her, but didn’t say anything.

“I want you to do something for me—let’s get this out. I know this whole trip has added to your stress level. And I doubt whether you really care about Black Box Theater. You and Mom and Dad have all been very polite—wait, wait. Here’s where I’m going with this. You’ve had a rough weekend, thanks to me. It’s true, right? Let’s not deny it—just think about that for a moment. Now, I want you, with perfect sincerity, to look me in the eye and tell me to fuck off.”

Rarity gave her a dirty look; her eyes flashed in the moonlight.

“I don’t have time for this, Sweetie Belle, and neither do you.”

Sweetie Belle stooped over. “I’m dead serious. That’s what I want you to do. I’m not letting this slip. Say it.”

“I will not!” said Rarity.

“Think about all the trouble. When I snapped at you this morning. How I’ve embarrassed you in front of ‘prestigious company’. The stupid poetry, the moping, the useless difficulty. Put it all together, look at me, and tell me to fuck off, and we’ll both be on our way.”

“Why are you doing this to me!?” Rarity cried at her. Her cheeks were flooding with tears; she clutched her chest. Unlike her sister, she sobbed for ponies to see—a warrior’s death. She hadn’t been thinking about bad poetry, as Sweetie Belle had intended, but of used lipsticks found at her old vanity; not of trouble, but of late nights, staying up with boxes of grape juice, in the company of her baby sister’s charmed imagination; not of ‘useless difficulty’, but of the same filly she had known, blindfolded, waving her arms about in a warehouse or a meadow or the city, searching for something, searching for herself. Everything swelled up in the imprecation ‘fuck off’ and crushed her, and she wept quietly and unashamedly under the glow of the moon.

Sweetie Belle, who had no idea how precarious Rarity’s feelings about her were—which had not been admitted, like Sweetie Belle’s had while her hair was being dressed—froze in surprise. She perceived that she had only stoked her sister’s anxiety, and quickly moved her seat, crossing the moonlight. She got near and pulled Rarity in close, and pecked her ear with a kiss.

“I’m sorry. I’ll stay with you.”

“No,” Rarity said, pushing her away. “No, you won’t, Sweetie. You need to go. I want to be by myself for this. Go find Yona. Do what you need to do. We will meet each other back at the old house.”

Sweetie Belle let her vision hover on the shadowed street.

“It will be better this way,” Rarity said. She spoke in a low, even manner that Sweetie Belle hadn’t heard before. She had called her ‘Sweetie’.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Sweetie Belle said diffidently, after her. “Do you know how late you will be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, me neither. I guess we’ll see each other later, Rarity. Be careful, okay?”

“You too, of course.”

She left.

Sweetie Belle knew Yona’s address by memory. They had formed a friendship after Rarity had gone to live in Manehattan. They corresponded through letters—not because they were far apart, but because it was Sweetie Belle’s favorite medium.

When they started talking, Sweetie Belle was going through her first depressive bouts and youthful intellectual upheavals. She found that she hated the pressure of being a ‘mare’—her sister’s ken—but yet, rejected the credulous appetition which stallion-hood represented to her. She also began to think less of her parents for caring more about personal property than art—and these things, she had reasoned, were not disconnected. Likewise, she had expressed disdain for the Cutie Mark Crusaders before an assembly; Scootaloo had accused her of conceit.

In spite of all her new mental armaments, however, Sweetie Belle was still at bottom a Ponyvillian. Her heart was too large, and her affection for the ponies in her life too tender, to sustain making critical attacks against them, as well as to endure being called ‘conceited’ without bites of conscience, confusion, self-immolating desires, and fearful loneliness.

She kept everything to herself. She continued to assist the talent workshops that the Cutie Mark Crusaders hosted in the Friendship Academy gymnasium on Friday afternoons. As the program became more well-known, there were many ponies besides the dilettantish, and those blessed with four left rear hooves, who would congregate there; they were singers, actors, mathletes, and buck ball prodigies, sometimes, it seemed, all rolled into one. Sweetie Belle hated them most of all. There was one, a certain Belles Lettres, who could recite poetry from memory, and who had already composed a volume of her own.

“Oh, you have?” Sweetie Belle had said, during their only conversation.

“Yes, well—call it that if you like,” replied Belles Lettres, “though it is just a little concession I had to make. See, I despise the gallop of the iamb with which Ponish is obsessed. If you want something that sings, you might as well turn to the Pony French Alexandrine—but that is hard to use in Ponish, and I wound up rewriting everything in French—but then my editor, he was quite short with me, and insisted that I go back to Ponish, which I could not do based on artistic principle alone—so I re-cast the whole thing, some thirty or so lyrical poems, in Ponish, using the Alexandrine meter—with some poetic license, of course. Just between us, though, I can get you a copy of the original, if you are satisfied to contend with a little chicken scratch, which nonetheless will, I hope, offer you moments of transport to the ancien régime.”

Before Sweetie Belle could answer, Apple Bloom broke in and said, “Well, if you’re looking for a little constructive criticism, Miss Let, you’ve come to the right pony. Sweetie Belle here is all about poetry.” She gave her an elbow. “Hey, didn’t you say you were studying Pony French?”

“Um… Yeah. I can say a few things. I mean, I can order something at a restaurant…”

She trailed off into a dun silence, but Belles Lettres picked up the thread.

“Oh, well! Let’s say my poems will transport you to Bayard’s Café, instead, shall we?”

She laughed, and Apple Bloom joined her, bobbing her head in good cheer—though the joke was not lost upon the one whose expense it had been made.

“Maybe I should start going by Sweetie Bête from now on, eh?” Sweetie Belle said with a stung smile. At that moment, she observed Yona working by herself in the corner. She liked to come to the meetings with stacks of large paper sheets, and hardly spoke to anyone. She’ll never even have a cutie mark, Sweetie Belle thought. She’s so out-of-place, dipping her toes in paint, all big and fat. And here I am feeling sorry for myself… Poor Yona!

“Keep practicing, and you’ll get it,” Belles Lettres reassured her, making Sweetie Belle a little forget-me-not smile. “Let’s see if we can come up with one now… How about, Foreign phrases beset / The list of Sweetie Bête / Who thinking of Boar-doe / An extra horn, did grow!…?”

Sweetie Belle nodded with the others who had gathered around to listen.

“Nice.”

One day she and Scootaloo had another fight. Sweetie Belle left before the meeting was over, with a lump in her throat; she intended never to return; and, in the ensuing weeks, considered leaving Friendship Academy altogether. She thought about what life was like before her sister had stopped living with her. On one desperate occasion she had averted jumping into a pond—and thereafter decided she would have to stay in school, for her mental health. And it was there Yona had found her, lingering by herself in the hall before classes were about to begin.

“Yona no see Punk Pony at workshops, too much time,” Yona said.

“I didn’t know you paid attention.”

“Mhm, mhm. Good for young ponies, Punk Pony be there. Yona’s expert opinion.”

“It’s better off this way,” Sweetie Belle said, turning to leave.

Yona stopped her. “For you, take.”

She unfolded one of the sheets she was carrying and turned it over. Paint on parchment—pink, blue, purple, and yellow, formed into faint swirls with and a few brusque, deliberate strokes; Sweetie Belle could see the marks of the hooves that produced them embedded in the composition. They were her colors. Yona did not explain anything; and Sweetie Belle was too overwhelmed by the warmth and artistic accuracy of the interpretation to ask any questions about it. She saw herself mixed in the hard lines and soft colors. That was enough—the work spoke for itself.

“Ah! Sun comes out,” said Yona, remarking on the weather, and, simultaneously, observing her. “Yona reminded of wise saying of Venerable Grand Poobah—Be careful! When clouds form on Anadoelian steppes, one may drown from a flood of one inch.”

Later that afternoon, for the first time, Sweetie Belle went to talk to Starlight Glimmer.

The flickering streets imbued Sweetie Belle with conviction as she tormented herself over the exchange which had just passed between her and Rarity. Every seedy alley and muffled shout she passed by turned up minor evidence that her mother’s intuition had been correct—that some violent crook, waiting in the shadows, was behind the robbery at Sugar Cube Corner; and that the Mirror Pool gremlin was just her sister’s Will o’ the Wisp. She was therefore justified, even if Rarity had gotten a little upset, in insisting on applying her own home-grown wisdom in the resolution of the affair; perhaps, she even respected it.

Sweetie.

She spotted something on the corner of Cuirass Street and Tack, and crossed Bayard’s Café in pursuit. Outside was a low-hanging lantern which projected her shadow against the timbered buildings across the street, her ghoulish long legs tessellating under boarded windows.

Ponies can be dangerous, too.

She strode up to the stand and clacked a bit down on its aluminum counter.

“One hotdish, please.”

“Yes Ma’am,” replied the vendor, facing a smoking outdoor oven.

The waft of slow-cooked hay padded her senses. ‘Hotdish’ was Rarity’s favorite—though, at some point when they were young, for some reason, she had begun to refer to it as ‘spiced hay-cake’. But tonight—she decided—it would be hotdish again.

Sweetie Belle continued observing the dancing shadows of the jay hooks and wagon posts that cleaved the lamp light on Cuirass Street, when another two, moving and more voluminous, appeared beside her, belonging to a couple which either did not notice her or care to make short pleasantries.

“Order up!” cried the vendor. His voice echoed a friendly note into the black abyss. The tray he brought out carried two fuming plates.

“That didn’t take too long, I suppose,” said his patron, a frumpy stallion looking past Sweetie Belle. “Usually the wife and I are ready to eat the napkins.”

“A pile of napkins would be better for you anyway, Spruce,” said a bespectacled mare.

“Whatever.” He looked up at the vendor. “Probably would taste about the same, anyway, eh Pewter?”

“I bet you’ve gained three pounds in the last two weeks,” his wife persisted.

Their voices pocked the air; the couple ate their hotdish with plastic utensils that scraped softly on imitation ceramic bowls, their rhythm mingling with the shadows.

Spruce looked up from his dish again. “Well, have you heard the news?”

“Nothing to do with the bakery, I hope.”

Spruce let out a dry laugh. “Well, you know hopes are like complaints. You can tell ‘em to folks, like anyone might, but it won’t do you much good.”

“You bet,” said the vendor.

The mare jumped in before Spruce could continue. “It was bad. We’ve been hearing news of the police report. Apparently a goblin got in the store.”

“No use trying to hide things from a small-town mare,” said Spruce.

“No use, and no good. Heaven knows what you knuckleheads would come up with if we left you to your own wits.”

“Well, what else did it say?” asked Spruce.

“For one, the Cakes have been ordered by the municipal authority to take up tennis."

“That’s different. Now what does tennis have to do with goblins?”

“It makes perfect sense to me," said his wife. "They dwell in ruts, you know. Get them out of the house.”

“Uffda! And what are you supposed to do if you already play tennis and you’re in a rut, hun?”

“I have a sister in Whinnypeg who likes coloring books,” said the vendor.

“Now Pewt,” said Spruce, with the authority that comes from turning on a favored subject, “you know it’s that kind of mentality that makes it impossible to deal with thugs in this town. Now, when we were kids, everyone in Ponyville kept their doors unlocked. The worst you had to worry about was some colt tracking muck in the kitchen, but these days, bigger things are waiting to surprise you than a little mud.”

“Oh Spruce, calm down,” said his wife. “There have always been goblins in Ponyville. Just let the police handle it.”

“Listen to me, darling. Here’s what we do. Do you remember Warm Snow, Crystal and Tyvek? Bad actors from the next town over, probably. They were caught drawin’ pictures of a stallion’s hoo-haw all over the walls of the school, and got into a fight with the superintendent. They turned them into stone ornaments and we haven’t seen anything like that, since. Call me crazy, but I don’t see what’s so wrong with makin’ stone out of a creature for a while. That’s the kind of criminal reform we need.”

Sweetie Belle felt her heart leap inside of her chest. She pictured Rarity turned to stone, as Cozy Glow, Chrysalis, and Tirek had been, some few short years ago—suspended, perhaps, above the colorful, busily-occupied plaza of Ponyville; the expression of horror she would cast down on the townsfolk, taken from the moment of the realization of the imminent and total imprisonment of her thoughts and senses, for even one hour; her rigid form teetering at the mercy of that heedless throng, the wretched, bumbling burghers of a tucked-away town.

Then—she let it all disperse with a breath. The High Council in Canterlot would have no grounds for such prosecution, if in fact such a case were to come to a head.

But what if it did?

They would need to prove that the offense warranted such severe punishment. Rarity knew that the Mirror Pool was forbidden—but maybe, Sweetie Belle hadn’t. And since it had been her idea to bring a theater troupe to town, anyway, why wouldn’t she also be the type to compel her sister to spend a while prinking in a magical hollow?

It needed work. But then she remembered, with the relief of starting out of a half-dream, that there was no clone to begin with. She made a quick review of the evidence, and concluded once more that the whole thing was her sister’s burdensome projection.

She started tapping the counter.

“Hello, um… Can I get this to-go, please?”

The others glanced up.

“We’re outdoors, Ma’am,” said the vendor. “You may have noticed there are no ceilings. Everything’s to-go. We won’t tackle you, I promise.”

“You got that right,” chuckled Spruce.

Sweetie Belle smiled back. “Oh. Yes, of course… I think I’ve got to be on my way, now, is all.”

“You just got here,” said Pewter. “It’ll be another few minutes on that hotdish. Stick around.”

“I can’t.”

Sweetie Belle put another bit on the counter.

“Keep it. For your trouble.”

“For my trouble… Are you sure?”

She hastened around the corner onto Tack Street, where, stepping under a balcony, she was stopped as she overheard another conversation.

“I don’t usually go out,” a pearl-colored old mare was saying to a counterpart, “you know, not after that ursa major found its way into town. I still remember it. I was putting my silverware away like I do every day and all of a sudden my forks began to rattle with a roar coming from the center of town. Now, do you think I’m going to go outside to see what made my house shake? No siree!”

Sweetie Belle remembered hearing the ursa major, too, though she had almost completely forgotten about it until present.

It was an ursa minor that scared you last night, Sweetie Belle. Twilight said so and she knows about these sorts of things.

Sweetie.

The pearly mare wiped her hooves clean of the matter. “I said to myself, ‘That’s it! I’ve heard enough! Pearl is staying home from now on!’ And I’ve been just fine since, thank you. I have everything I need right here.”

Sweetie Belle went up Martingale Lane and passed the Toothing Cockatrice. Twilight could be in there, she thought, waiting for us in an old bedroom—completely turned to stone. The cockatrice spread its wings for her in the glare of old paint as she nearly bumped her head gaping at the rusty strap hinges of the inn’s front door.

It had surprised her in the woods that day.

And yet, Twilight’s error had merely been one of ignorance and misdirection, just getting lost—after so many years an older pony would have no excuse.

Sweetie.

There were no lamps on Brass Halter Road. The shadows were gone, too. The moon cast a pale sheet on the ground, where she could make out the edging on tiny front yards. Little yellow windows glowed from apartment kitchens and bedrooms, through which plants and picture frames and cookware could be discerned. All the houses seemed to contain their own little sun where everything could grow. Sweetie Belle couldn’t see the numbers on them—the cottages ran in a long, faceless rampart, which seemed to oppose her like a sabotaging presence.

She tried to orient herself by looking in the yards. Most of them had square, now gray-scaled flower beds and lawn decorations, intended for appreciation from the street. Only one appeared to have been deliberately stylized to convey an invitation—it had a pair of fig tress whose leaves spanned over a bistro with two small circular chairs and a floral mosaic table.

She knocked on the door of the little house and was surprised by the decorum of the mare who answered her. She was tall, for someone of her years—taller than Sweetie Belle by a nose, who was taller than Rarity by a nose—with tarnished, red marble eyes that gleamed down at her in the moonlight. She wore blue and gold earrings which dangled over a freshly laundered polka-dot blouse that looked especially thin over the lady’s broad shoulders.

They stared at each other a moment. Then the mare, noticing her visitor’s befuddlement, cleared her throat, and in the deliberately exaggerated, sing-song way of an old lady, said, “Hello…oo? What may I do for you, dear?”

Sweetie Belle couldn’t hold back a shy smile.

“Uh… hi.”

“Well, good evening!” said the mare, smiling in return.

Sweetie Belle let out a breath. “I… um… this is going to be a really weird question… Sorry to bother you, if it’s too late—”

“What’s your name?” asked the mare.

“Sweetie Be— er, Sweetie.”

“Sweetie. Are you lost?”

“No, Ma’am. I don’t think so.”

“Then come in, dear. No use standing out here in the dark. I have some lemon grass tea that you’ll love, Sweetie. And when you’re good and ready, I suppose, if you so desire, you can deign to tell me your business,” said the old lady, throwing her a wink.

Sweetie Belle laughed and followed her in. “Oh, I don’t want to make you wait that long, Ma’am—”

“Gray,” said the mare.

“Hmm?”

“Call me Gray, Sweetie. For cripes. Are you selling girl scout cookies?”

Gray’s house was even smaller inside than Sweetie Belle had imagined it from the street. The living room was quaint and had carpeting and a low ceiling; on one of the side tables she spotted figurines of angels in prayer posture and some pictures of family, both in color and black and white. The room smelled of stuffy incense, and was made warm and slightly inscrutable by tapestry sheets which were strung along the wall.

“Those are beautiful,” Sweetie Belle said. She felt drawn to Gray’s friendliness, rather than put off by it, as she was with Starlight and her scrubbed spaces. But she couldn’t shake that the grand lady was keeping something under wraps. It was as though she had traded her wealth for scents and heat. She noticed that Gray had two coins for a cutie mark.

“What do you do, Gray?” she asked.

“Retired,” Gray replied. “I worked in Ponyville all of my life. Most of it, anyway.”

“Oh… So you were an accountant?”

This time Gray thought about her reply. “Well, Sweetie… I am most proud to have been a mother.”

She didn’t say any more, but something hung in the air. Sweetie Belle believed she understood what it was, and maintained a respectful silence; saying ‘I’m sorry’ would have been silly and unnecessary.

“I’m looking for Yona,” she said. “Is this the right house?”

Gray nodded. “It is.” She motioned to allow Sweetie Belle to inquire for herself.

“PUNK PONY SURE HOPE YONA SAY POSITIVE THINGS ONLY ABOUT HER!!!” she hollered, getting red-faced and stomping up and down on the carpet. “OTHERWISE PUNK PONY NEED SKULLS TO BREAK!!!”

“Heavens!” said Gray, catching her breath. “I’m on heart medication, Sweetie. Is that a way to address a yak?”

There was a beat; then, they heard a voice from a back room.

“AH… SOMEONE HERE?”

Gray and Sweetie Belle broke into laughter at Yona’s good-natured alacrity; Gray taking care to remind herself, through their fits, never to doubt the exquisiteness of yak manners.

They met in the kitchen. Yona entered and curtsied dutifully, as low as the space allowed her to go, her wide frame elbowing the cabinets. She wore a headband with a frayed, multicolored pattern about her brow; Sweetie Belle noticed a thread sticking out of it. She bowed in return, more with marvel than certainty, resting her head on the knobs of her knees.

“Hmm. You had it right the first time, I think,” said Gray, poking her in the rib.

“Had what right?”

“Your tone. Yona is Yona. You are you.”

“Oh… Sorry!”

Yona shifted herself up. “Eh…! Yona just now think of wise yak aphorism, namely, that guest in house should not be made ‘sorry’ like arctic fox caught spying in Mr. Rooster’s hut… Or, in the favorite formulation of ponies everywhere—practically characteristic of them, Grand Poobah tells us, as their ‘little horns and wings’—‘no worries’. Come. Give hug, Punk Pony!”

They enjoyed a happy reunion. Gray and Yona then began to sort things around the kitchen; they worked without speaking, as Sweetie Belle waited quietly at the table.

“This feels like… spa treatment,” Sweetie Belle mused aloud.

“Oh, yes, yes… Punk Pony need famous hoof massage from Yona?” she joked as she continued cleaning. Yona negotiated the small space with surprising gracefulness, with movements like a baby testing what it could do with its new, bulky apparatus. Her hair fell down in straight locks which nearly touched the linoleum—hovered over it ghostly as she went about her menial tasks.

Sweetie Belle couldn’t take her mind off the headband—what it must have signified to large, russet creatures who lived on an endless plain. Ponies had no use for such accoutrements.

Gray was bent over at a tea kettle set on the other side of the room. She measured leaves from several uncorked jars, inspecting their composition carefully before she added them to a small stone mortar. Then she sifted the blend, smelled it, closing her eyes as though she were listening to it. She opened a drawer and removed a pestle which had been set on a red cloth liner. She felt it in her hoof, like it was an extension of her, and she was exploring a delicate muscle. Her spunky demeanor had given way to peculiar, intense thoughtfulness—for a guest? For Yona? She grounded the leaves, careful not to clink the pestle against the edge of the container.

After a few minutes she returned to the table with spoons, a bottle of honey, and three golden-yellow cups of tea, and seated herself. Yona thanked her and took a sip.

“Wow,” said Sweetie Belle.

Gray looked at her. “What’s ‘wow’?”

“You were, like… praying. I feel strange drinking your prayer, Gray.”

Gray was made a bit sad by her observation. “Why?”

“Because… prayer is supposed to come from the most sacred place inside you. Right? And here I am adding honey to it and getting my mouth all over it.”

“And?”

“And… It’s like I’ve been given this amazing gift, something I don’t even deserve. Look—if you gave me a golden egg, or a precious ruby, I couldn’t just take it from you—‘okay, see you later!’. It would come with responsibility, and—you know what, I’m just going to drink it.”

She brought the cup to her lips and Gray burst out laughing.

“It’s good!” Sweetie Belle said, setting it down.

“I’m glad you think so, Sweetie,” Gray replied. She looked over at Yona. “You have the best taste in friends, dear.”

“Punk Pony Gray’s friend too, now," Yona said. "It’s ‘a fish’, as ponies say. So, Gray have good taste, too.”

By now Sweetie Belle’s face had become nearly as pink as the side of her mane; she was desperate to turn the conversation away from herself. “Are those your tapestries in the living room?”

Yona reflected a moment. “Yes, yes. Yona’s drapes.”

“I really like them.”

“Ah, thank you, Punk Pony.”

“Did you learn how to do that in Yakyakistan?”

Yona shrugged, and took another sip of tea. “Of course. Every girl knows how before being knee-high to ragamuffin. Need one for new dormitory?”

“How fast could you do it?”

Yona scratched her big chin. “Hmm… one week?”

“Yona, I could totally put in a word for you with Rarity,” Sweetie Belle said. “She runs a few clothing boutiques and could really use some help. You’re so patient, and talented… You’d be perfect—no, no, I insist. I bet you’d even be able to find an apartment with a little more space.”

“Hey!” Gray stopped her. “You’re not trying to steal Yona away from me, are you?”

Sweetie Belle grinned. “And where exactly am I going to stuff a yak? …I’m kidding. It’s up to you, Yona. The offer is there.”

“We’ll see, Punk Pony. Yona happy here. Yona take care of Gray’s garden—important work, more important than become latest-and-greatest fashionista, maybe. By the way… Punk Pony expert in fashionistas, yes?”

A pain prickled the back of Sweetie Belle’s neck as she recalled the last time she was with Rarity. “It’s complicated.”

Yona took the cue. She loosened her jaw and relaxed her gaze down into her teacup, eyes half closed.

Sweetie Belle began, “So, like… I pulled some strings and got Twilight and Cadence to come to my show. Sergeant Spitfire came too, actually—”

“Your show?” asked Gray. She leaned back in her seat and folded her arms.

“Oh, right. I joined a theater troupe over the summer. We held a performance in Ponyville last night. Big deal, right?”

“I think that’s lovely,” said Gray. “You have the air of an actress, Sweetie.”

“It’s not that kind of acting.”

“Did you know about this, Yona?” Gray asked, looking over.

She nodded. “Punk Pony mention to Yona. Perform at Ponyville Gravitationist.”

“Isn’t that a shame,” said Gray. “I belong to that church—married it when I married my late husband. I saw there was a group from Rolling Oats putting on an exhibit, or some such thing. Yona, why didn’t you go?”

“I discouraged her from going,” Sweetie Belle answered on the other’s behalf. “But I think we’re getting a little off topic—”

“Girl, I’m going to kick your butt,” said Gray.

“There’s more to it than that. I had the princesses on my side, and I wanted Rarity to be there especially. Once that was in place, it was all about her. I wanted to prove something. If Yona was there, I would have been the empress with no clothes. That’s how I felt.”

“So what happened with your sister?”

Sweetie Belle took a breath. She summarized the events leading up to their trip to the Mirror Pool, with its baleful consequences. “I had her right where I wanted her. A theater show, where she could see me. A picnic, where she could see me. I changed so much after she left that she became a kind of monster to me, the last part of my past to be overcome. I wanted to show that I could, like… do it without her.”

“That must have been hard to go through,” Gray observed. “I’m sure you have a very deep love for one another.”

Sweetie Belle began to tear up. Gray went away and returned with a box of tissues which she set down on the table between them. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sweetie,” she said.

Sweetie Belle shook her head. “I feel… sinful.”

“…That counts as being too hard on yourself.”

“Eh… What Punk Pony mean ‘sin’?” asked Yona, breaking her strain of silence. “Punk Pony find church?”

“No church,” Sweetie Belle replied. “But that’s the best word to express myself. What I mean by ‘sin’ is that I might be doing something very bad, continuously, even though I get signs that I am not supposed to do it—and I am helpless to stop.”

“Ah, yes, yes, Yona see. Punk Pony worried about order-of-things.”

“Order of things?”

“Order very important to ponies,” Yona said, waving a huge foreleg over the table. “Natural, good. Like to have ‘cutie marks’, yes? Sin—negative aspect of order. Understand? Now Punk Pony have taste of freedom. Freedom big thought, but Punk Pony little creature.”

Sweetie Belle pondered a moment. “Are you saying that it’s all an illusion?”

“What mean ‘illusion’?”

She hesitated again, searching for the words. “My need to put myself in the ‘order of things’.”

“Problem existing in Punk Pony’s mind only?”

Sweetie Belle nodded ‘yes’.

The lamplight flickered above the table; Gray asked if anyone would like some more tea, and took Yona and Sweetie Belle’s cups back to the tea station.

“Well, Punk Pony!” began Yona, “must know first of all that Yona not only, as ponies say, ‘lacking expertise’ concerning braagdurf—or, what all-wise teachers of Friendship Academy call ‘theological speculation’—but also that Yona herself considers such matters entirely outside Yona’s business, quite like apple in hay dog eating competition.

“Nonetheless, in connection with ‘kernel’ of your question, which moves Yona’s feeling-center, if not other ‘centers’ of Yona, Yona once again reminded of wise counsel of Grand Poobah, who says in such cases, ‘a tale is better than a hook for pulling out skein in tattered robes.’”

“I’ve always meant to ask you,” said Sweetie Belle, “who is ‘Grand Poobah’?”

A reverent smile sparkled Yona’s face. “Ah! Grand Poobah most important elder in yak community, corresponding to Celestia or Twilight in Ponyville. Life of Grand Poobah filled with, so to say, ‘reflective wisdom’, and stories of Grand Poobah always replete with materials good for edification of yak youth, as well as yaks of responsible age. Even now, Yona remembers when Grand Poobah would gather us ‘little ankle-munchers’ to regale with stories of good, bad, and what ponies call ‘exciting derring-do’ of life on wild ranges of Yakyakistan.

“And story that comes to mind in connection with Punk Pony’s feeling of ‘sinning’ was told to Yona, on cloudy night conducive to mosquitos, as follows.

“In remote foothills of mountains from which river Oxus has source, which flows one-hundred miles to old city of Buckhara, there grows special fiber whose thickness and consistency is used for preservation of houses and even in most sacred ceremonies in Yakyakistan, which fiber ponies here would call ‘mud sedge’.

“Each year, in those days, was responsibility of Unflappable Bugscar to select ‘entourage’ of hardiest yaks and lead them to said remote region, for purpose of gathering these ‘special reeds’ in preparation for harsh Yakyakistan winter. These yaks taken from ordinary village duties for trek across badlands, sometimes to be gone more than two weeks.

“This ‘Bugscar’, by the way, also famous ‘personage’ of yaks, from time of grogdilduggr—which translation would be in Ponish, ‘before there was a postbox for secret admirers on every corner’.”

Sweetie Belle fidgeted—she realized she had been tracing out the interlinked patterns in Yona’s headband, intently watching it bob while she spoke—she turned her gaze down onto her own belly.

Secret admirers.

Twilight said so and she knows about these sorts of things.

Rarity looking for Twilight. Secret admiration is everything to a pony. Like wearing a colored headband to survive the russet and the sweat.

Gray returned and took a seat next to her with two more golden cups of tea. Sweetie Belle took it to her lips, and returned her hostess a grateful smile.

Yona continued, “One year winter come early, while reed gathering yaks remain in badlands. Here worth mentioning that difficult period of absence of hoof-selected yaks anticipated by village and its conclusion even turned into holiday for children, similar to your ‘Hearthswarming Eve’ or even the visit of magic fairy for lucky molar under pillow. But that year, much to fear and sorrow of everyone, yaks no return home.

“Whole countryside covered by blizzard, making return to Yakyakistan arduous, even for yaks of exceptional wooliness like Unflappable Bugscar. Yaks only stopped where find brush for fires. Next yaks burned special reeds. Then, after one week more, food prepared for special reed gathering excursion ran low, and yaks became—you guessed it—‘trapped like rats’.

“One night, big storm came. Yaks began to think of wives and children waiting in Yakyakistan. There was even heard several counts of wendenrdragl, or as we might say in streets here in Ponyville, ‘a whimper indicating the loss of hope’.

“Then, just happened that one of these unfortunate hardy yaks, while considering the possibility of his own untimely personal sacrifice to Great Nature, espied in haze a pillar of smoke. Yaks discovered that smoke came from spacious cabin, sent down by Providence—who else?—in the middle of ‘nowhere, squared’.

“Upon arriving at said cabin, yaks discover also that door not locked and in fact belonged to ‘special store’ of uncertain wares, owned and operated by an ocelot who has come down in yak history under appellate ‘Binky’.

“This ‘Binky’—though now of legendary status amongst yaks and yak ‘aficionados’—into the likes of which, by the way, it is partial wish of Yona’s to convert you, Punk Pony—this ‘Binky’ must have fallen back on haunches to have such ‘striking figure’ as Unflappable Bugscar walk into ‘special store’, with fart and itch, as though it were his very own feasting room.

“But was not just Bugscar’s famous ‘war face’ which set ocelot eyebrows a-juggling with fear of God, as they say, but very fact that ‘special store’ was nothing other than what you ponies term a ‘depot of paraphernalia’, or what in certain neighborhoods here is called ‘tribute hut to the ways and pleasures of the flesh’.”

“A sex shop,” said Gray.

Yona nodded. “The success of which, Grand Poobah left us to understand, owed to its possessing a monopoly in badlands, or in his words, ‘like watch which is right two times a day, and therefore never needs resetting’.”

I don’t usually go out.

“Where do you keep your silverware, Gray?” Sweetie Belle asked.

She indicated a drawer by the sink. Sweetie Belle went over and opened it—she noticed that the plastic utensil compartment was dirty.

Yona, waiting for the right moment, proceeded, “Ocelot went about business, making yaks comfortable, all the while making the face of one who has passed gas but cannot conceal blame.

“Indeed, Unflappable Bugscar, resting in flowing warmth of hearth, already began to think of difficulties to come for travel back to Yakyakistan, and likewise began to ‘sniff’ for solutions to these same difficulties.

“And he could not suppress grimace of confusion as he surveyed more closely the ‘products’ of this nerve-tattered ocelot. These were kept under glass or otherwise behind curtains or bars, from which condition Bugscar deduced that ‘dandy’ host was purveyor of means of warfare—even, of ruthless torture.

“He noticed, for example, ‘sable leather swing’, used to render a captive vulnerable to lashings of belly and chest; which contents included, as part of ‘today’s special offer’, a gag for muffling screams of tormented, so as to conduct information gathering operations without inconvenience to the discretion of inquirer.

“’What an odd fellow!’ muttered Unflappable Bugscar under his breath. ‘I would not wage an obol as to why ocelot warriors would have interest in limply-shaped mortars. Portable, perhaps. But one would easily set one’s own camp ablaze with curved shaft. Mmm… Better as blunt object.’

“But Bugscar, being yak of high honor, and grateful for ‘succor’ which Binky had given him, did not raise his pointed criticism directly.

“’Ah! Now, here is something useful,’ Bugscar said, eyeing certain article arranged next to dark room behind curtain. To be sure, was garment of cloth manufacture, but which, by science or magic—only great yak prophets know—its advertisement claimed, had that property which ponies distinguish by the word ‘edible’.

“Unflappable Bugscar, wasting no time, asked ocelot its price.

“In receipt of this request from most esteemed yak chieftain, Binky, as is said, ‘folded himself over three times’; and was with utmost inner effort, worthy of our admiration as one who ‘wriggles under the Bo Tree’, that humble sales-cat and keeper of ‘secrets of the fruits of Earth’ maintained composure; and, not without wiping away a bead of sweat, answered as calmly as fully-credible Canterlot gentlecolt, ‘Ah yes, my dear fellow! I see that your eye for undergarments is as sharp as not only your right horn, but your left horn, too. But these are no ordinary inner layers. They are for… eating, you see.’

“Unflappable Bugscar stroked his chin and made ‘groan of contemplation’—almost always positive sign when haggling with yaks.

“He remained still, so that what is called the ‘gravitas of his thoughts’ began to weigh on Binky, who, if he were lesser ocelot, no doubt would have begun to titter like mad hatter.

“Then, upon proper consideration, Bugscar started up as though bitten by Anadoelean gadfly.

“’Ah! Eating! Like for surviving harsh Yakyakistan steppes, yes?’

“Binky, by now almost delirious from his own apprehensiveness of scorn of Bugscar, replied with suave of cool-guy Manehattan buck, ‘Yes, of course, old chap! You’ve hit it right on the nose, as usual, Your Royalness. These edible undergarments are best sellers amongst our most intrepid soldiers’.

“Bugscar then inspected underwears carefully.

“’Hmm… But why made from such delicate fabric? Will garments not be torn by sand winds of Babylmanian deserts?’

“’You would be correct to assume so,’ replied ocelot, gamboling inwardly like fish caught in Ponyville cider barrel, ‘only if the piece were intended to be worn as a singlet. But the designers of the consumable garments had a special intention in making them, namely, that they be worn in many layers—five, six, even seven! The purpose, Your Highness, is to protect yaks from the elements, and at the same time provide them viands for a week’.

“‘But why little red bow on girder? Why great warriors of badlands adorn themselves with such vain frivolities?’

“’I was hoping with all of my heart’s desire that you would ask me such a question!’ said ocelot. ‘It is yet another innovation that factored into the final design of this underwear. Suppose, good sir, that you are in a skirmish with those rival trans-Carpathian yaks from across the isthmus—how then, in such a frenzy of heads knocking against one another, could your fighters avoid giving a rrrrap! to the noggin of one of their fellow countrymen, hmm?’

“Ack! It would be nearly impossible,’ answered Unflappable Bugscar, with ‘sagacious nod’. ‘But what do’?

“’Why, this… What you’re calling a bow,’ Binky explained, trying one of underwears on for demonstration, ‘is displayed on the backside, as you can see. That way, your regiment will be the only one on the battlefield with identifying livery. You will thus always be able to discern friend from foe in the fight.’

“…Well, Punk Pony!

“Great Uncle Bugscar so impressed by these ‘special articles for war’, which included so many designs which made him blush with shame for not having thought of them himself, that he haggled price for the amount of two crates.

“Yaks departed following morning, all of them wearing not seven but ten layers of underwears for eating. And, thanks to these unexpected provisions, although great snowfall persisted, yak entourage arrive safely back to Yakyakistan—some of them, perhaps, looking a bit pale around the cheeks, but not single one having dropped, as bored Ponyville hat maker would have it, ‘like fly from windowpane’.

“As to your question about sinfulness,” said Yona, remarking Sweetie Belle’s meditative expression, “it is, we might say, one big Ponyville salad with four or five vegetables, plus dumpling on side and honey-cake for dessert.

“Perhaps upon subsequent ‘deep reflections’ or even sufficient ‘lapse of years’ Punk Pony will see that order-of-things like visit from Unflappable Bugscar, most highly-esteemed guest, and creatures of Equestria like ocelot-store-keeper, each with their own ‘keys to life and happiness’.

“That is to say, with regard to question whether there is place for Punk Pony under ‘Celestia’s Sun’, camping out in ‘snowy barrens’, we ought to have recourse again to that favorite phrase and fully-crystalized feeling of ponies; namely, that Punk Pony should have ‘no worries’ about all of that.

“At same time, Punk Pony see that although Mr. Binky great hero of yaks, equal of Jargal the Magnificent, that if for one moment he were to ‘twitch’ or ‘dither’ in his external manifestations toward Bugscar, as in accordance with his ‘internal rumblings’, perhaps he and many brave yaks perish.

“Ah! Look at time! Ponies should not sit quietly if Yona tempted to engage in bad habit, especially malficient for Yona, of rambling without periods or commas,” she concluded, tugging at one of her ears.

Gray offered up a conciliatory laugh. “Oh, stop. You know I love to listen to you. We have plenty of time for another one of Grand Poobah’s tales… What do you think, Sweetie? Did you have somewhere else you needed to be…?”

The old lady turned and began coughing from some tea which she had swallowed improperly.

“Are you okay?” asked Sweetie Belle.

Gray rubbed her throat and nodded with tears streaming the corners of her eyes; her face had become ruddy, and her makeup showed. Sweetie Belle stood up and began to massage between her shoulder blades as she got it out. She could feel her old, big bones poking up beneath her blouse, and her activating muscles.

“Are you okay?” Sweetie Belle asked one more time. “Gray.”

Gray looked up at her. “Yes, Sweetie, thank you.”

Sweetie Belle left her and began to help Yona remove cups and plates from the table. She wiped the honey bottle cap with a cloth and carried it over to the tea station. There, she noticed a spoon resting on the brown spot of a napkin and a shimmering trace of tea left in the kettle. She thought of the utensil holder by the sink.

“Gray,” she said, being careful with the little kettle, “would you like me to clean this for you?”

“That would be wonderful,” the old mare said. “No soap though.”

Sweetie Belle tucked a tuft of her coiffeur behind her ear and maneuvered over to the sink.

“Punk Pony have good taste in friends, too,” said Yona, greeting with her eyes.

“She brewed me a prayer,” replied Sweetie Belle. “It’s the least I could do.”

Yona laughed. “Yes… Pray in own language, important for ponies.”

Sweetie Belle nodded. The words, delivered so festively as they rinsed dishes, penetrated her heart like a mountain appearing behind the clouds of dawn. The story of the ocelot began to work inside her as she moved seamlessly, drying plates as Yona handed them to her, and finding a place for them on a small drying rack as the old lady looked on. Sweetie Belle tipped the tea kettle to make it fit the arrangement of drying dishes, and turned to Yona with tears running down her cheeks. She felt a connection to her, and to Gray, which did not arise from being the same kind of creature as them. Through that perception, she realized that had even grown apart from her sister, painfully, with whom she believed she would share all things. Standing in the quiet of the closed kitchen tap, a patient silence prevailed between the three friends; and in that silence Sweetie Belle understood that she and Rarity could love each other in a new way, on grounds more sober, more exacting, and more joyful than what they had known as fillies.

After a time, Yona asked if Sweetie Belle wanted an escort home, and if she was still afraid of the possibility of a violent criminal at-large.

“It’s just gossip,” Sweetie Belle said, shaking her head, “and that’s not what was bothering me about the trip out, anyway. I’m afraid of the dark.”

Yona raised an eyebrow at her. “Really? Time for ‘real talk’?”

Sweetie Belle laughed. “It’s too bad, because I really love the dark, too. You get close to ponies that way. It’s real blood and guts stuff.”

“Where is your sister, now?” asked Gray.

“Probably still running around town, trying to find where Princess Twilight is staying. I really wish I could go be with her.”

“Oh, dear, that’s easy,” said Gray. “Don’t you worry about me, Sweetie. I get all the tittle tattle that goes on in this town. She’s at the Palfrey Inn.”

Sweetie Belle was so delighted by Gray’s information that she sashayed over and took her by the arm. “Well, would you care to accompany me there, Madame?”

She smiled. Gray gave her a sidelong eye.

“Trying to get me out of the house, eh?”

“Rarity needs me there. And there’s strength in numbers,” she said, turning to Yona.

“Eh… Old building, made for ponies who live in nooks and crevices, not for big strong yaks,” she replied, dropping a folded towel on the counter. “Go with Gray—good at protecting Punk Pony from dark, yes?”

“That reminds me,” Sweetie Belle said, switching to her new companion. “I want to come back and cook for you some time. As a way of saying ‘thanks’.” They said goodbye to Yona and started to go out.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Gray said at the door.

“Oh, yes. Mostly breakfast…”

Comments

[Hoofprintz]

I finally realized what style I thought this was. Ever seen the series Monogatari?

“You sound like an addict,” Sweetie Belle replied.

Agreed Sweetie.

“It’s a good thing we decided to split up, then, isn’t it? Maybe we’ll both get what we’re after.”

So sad.

and she wept quietly and unashamedly under the glow of the moon.

Coming hard with this chapter.

Likewise, she had expressed disdain for the Cutie Mark Crusaders before an assembly; Scootaloo had accused her of conceit.

Bold.

Sweetie Belle shook her head. “I feel… sinful.”

GEEZ.

“Ah! Grand Poobah most important elder in yak community, corresponding to Celestia or Twilight in Ponyville."

Womp womp.

So the Yaks were just a bunch of dorks. Checks out.

“Oh, yes. Mostly breakfast…”

Run Gray.

Fun chapter. Here's a question, why Yona?

[Heavy Mole]

11766376

Ever seen the series Monogatari?

I haven't. They stole my idea!

Here's a question, why Yona?

It was vaguely in my head when I was thinking about the kinds of intellectual skirmishes that seemed to be coming out of my version of Sweetie and Rarity (what you say has convinced you that I'm "Bedman"). Sweetie's problem in this story is, in my feeling, a spiritual one; and so with all this philosophical talk going back in forth I felt as though the sisters, after my own habit, were building a Tower of Babel--trying to reach God (whatever that means to you) by bricks, walking forward instead of looking up.

I wanted Yona to come in as a kind of "wise fool" character that could unravel those types of mental knots with gifted common sense.

It also worked out in the show canon that she would become the successor to Rarity at Carousel Boutique.

And as well, she was just the kind of friend it seemed someone like Sweetie Belle would have.

[Hoofprintz]

11766531
Yep, the style of Monogatari definitely fits.

It's an insanely good series.

Fair points all around. I still haven't finished the show so I didn't know they set up Yona like that.

That freaking clip. God darn it.

[Forcalor]

Be weird! Be daring! \o/
The weirdness in us is the force that rotates this planet! You'd think the actual culprit is some scienc-y momentum or gravitation, ahaha... well, yes, but also no!

Love the poetic flair in your writing, as always.

[Heavy Mole]

11766851
See, I told you guys.