Anonymous Pegasus; The Doomed Clever Scapegrace

by Hifilly

Part 2, Subchapter 1

Anonymous Pegasus; The Doomed Clever Scapegrace

Part 2

Subchapter 1

You are Anonymous. Through dark and gelid windswept peneplain and snow-dusted fields of wheat and corn, through orchards of apples and oranges and pears sleeping through the winter, through alpine sticks sprouting like ghostly soldiers and swaying rhythmically in the gale, through nigh urman iced over and silent, through the sight of hamlets and sprinkled sulphureous ochres upon buildings which looked more like rocks at this distance, through iceplain hummock and frozen lakes where you could see the moon reflect its watchet glowing, and through the massive curiously ambrosial clouds of niveous and halitous bondage, you are here suspended. You are on route to Canterlot, and you find the ride mighty boring. When there’s a break in the snowfall you open the window, sliding it down, and peer at the distant night’s atrous infinity, little stars filtered through cirrus ice crystals, the moon watching silently. The stallions in armor are still chugging along, expressionless, their mugs like marble golems yet awakened. Their wings flutter slow and rhythmic, in sync, like in a trance. Maybe they communicate telepathically, they must be more bored than you are, at least you have a few books. Some of which you admittedly pilfered, some Twilight authorized you to keep. You decide not to bother the pilots and stick your head back into the car, closing the window. You think of sleeping, but you’d be woken by the drivers when you arrived, you think it better to sleep once you arrive.

Minutes of boredom turns to an hour of boredom, and you drive yourself a little mad with finding an activity in this vacant interior. Though you’ve had time to reflect on your experience here there was one aspect which stood out most significantly. Deceit. It was not to you that these ponies had acted in corruption or that their faults were somehow hidden, their masks were only those essential to living together. Merely a juvenile thought worm. Happy ones are evil or plain stupid, it said to you. This helminth was nearly impossible to exterminate, thoughts and actions passed through it as if an inviscation, coming out wrapped in scars and burns from people's past, personal and impersonal, a nihilist's simular boodle. Everything caked in this pseudo theory. It dripped from every thought. It was pseudo theory and you knew it, happiness is not illusion, it's nuanced, and has no bearing in social analysis. However one regarded such opinion, philosophical optimism or mere anthorism, it was necessary. Passing thoughts through this counter machine was part equipoise, part your only defense against yourself, the construction of which more accurate and complicated than the worm's primitive engine. Sadly, the petcock of your mech seems to get jammed far too often, and needs replacement. Too often do you forget this nuance, and resign yourself to depression and fear. Ponies here seem not to be as infected. Their kindness, their happiness, and also their ignorance are startling. Ponies aren't stupid, just behind. Their psychology is hedge labyrinth to your simple predator ideals. They seem yet touched by true evil. You ought to get smart quick though, the odds that there's more than meets the eye is near certain. If there is, you need to protect yourself, you need more knowledge. That's how you work, learning in the interest of self defense. Planning ahead for apocalyptic suffering which never comes. Action is naturally rife with danger.

It was cold in the wagon and it wobbled about in the turbulence, though you only really felt the sting on your eyes, your jacket and natural coat were plenty against the leaking heat. The stallions outside must be freezing. You open the window again. Peering out you see the lights of a huge complex, a city, a real city this time. In the moonlight sparkles the snowed and rocky face of an enormous mountain, its side speckled in primrose light, like a hilly flowerfield. No matter how hard you thought about it, there was no reasonable geological explanation for its appearance, it didn’t look volcanic, and seemed itself to be alone surrounded by pastoral topography. The city bled out and down the side of the prominence in little concentric venule corridors, which was in certain areas surprisingly level. The ground flattened out into terraces, each with two or three blocks of space, wrapping around the curvature of the mountain, then a number of stairs to the next. Near the foot, houses were more freeformly set apart, lots were wider, and the roads sometimes mere dirt. At the maximum of this complex were enormous platforms, turned over spherical caps, too dark to tell the material composition, looming like the shadows of planets, and upon the highest cap was a castle, walled off and elegant, but still a castle, defensive and lumbering. You can see the divisions between the districts. The upper was certainly that which set on the caps, the lower was everything else, all the way down the mountain and into the plain, and the consolidated area consisted of the fields and fields of agriculture, snowy and desolate. The architecture was curious, towers and spires dotted the city, and many buildings had these towers with cupolas installed, and their roofs were a kind of onion dome. Some buildings were more typical, but most buildings wore bright colors, blue and white, purple, yellow, only varying occasionally. You saw in the distance little lights from farmhouses and exurb dwellings.

The carriage slowed and descended. You saw what you believed to be the house, the Imperial Palace of Equestria. It was situated in the lower district nearing the foot of the mountain, and gated around over a couple acres. There was a driveway, it seemed to be concrete, and it curved into a car court, or carriage court more likely, and in the center a large plain fountain. The residence itself is Hellenic in style, the facade like an equine Parthenon or white house, Ionic pillars support a huge pediment, atop which are statues of ponies in various terpsichorean poses. Raised terraces of hedging surround the court, there are dirt hoofpaths leading to unknown features. There are lit streetlamps just for illuminating the court, all spaced equidistant along the rim of the pavement. You can see a few ponies, three you think, standing in front of the fountain waiting. The carriage lands and rolls and turns into the court. A mare in the same armored regalia as the drivers opens the trunk, you open the door and step out, stretching your legs. She uses her magic to levitate the bag after trying to lift it barehoofed and runs it inside ahead of you. The other two ponies, both mares, stand in befuddlement, then one approaches. They both hold halberds which holster onto their right sides. The armor is brass and clinky. The fountain is iced over, the frozen platform like pewter, and the basin reflects amber lamplight onto your green coat. The carriage drivers made indications to the guardmares and turned and started a trot, the wagon's wheels spinning on the smooth icy drive and then lifted as they flew away like reindeer. Not a word said from any of you, you begin to walk towards the house, passing the guard who had walked up.

At the door stood a rather managerial looking equine. She’s a white unicorn with brown hair, bundled in the back forming a bun, her securing band tied lose, her bangs splitting at her horn, resting above her eyebrows like stage curtains. She wears thick frames which sit below her ears and accentuate her chocolate eyes, and a collar much like the kind Rarity gifted you, with a little velvet cravat. She even ties her tail, how cute. She speaks to you in a neutral voice.

“Good evening Anonymous, my name is Raven Inkwell, I am Princess Celestia’s personal assistant and advisor. I have been tasked by the princess to assist in your settlement here as well as supervising your stay. The princess expects only a general attitude of respect and that you make the most of what she’s offered.”

“Where is the princess now?” you ask.

“She is at Canterlot Castle, most likely asleep. Come, it’s warmer inside,” she beckons you.

The foyer of the palace is as humble as a palace foyer can be, it merely being a square with three hallways extending from it, the area highlighted by pilasters, double high ceiling, windows peering into the foyer from above, chandelier bright on the white walls and marble floor. Immediately ahead is the living room, which you and the white unicorn venture and sit. The couches are white and floral, you take the wingback and she takes a love seat. She speaks softly.

“We have a lot on the itinerary for you in the next week. Please understand that the princess believes that you are the best pony for a political apprenticeship. Tomorrow you attend a preliminary examination at Celestia’s school for gifted unicorns, then…”

“Why would the princess think that?” you cut her off. She looks at you then procures a roll of parchment which was sitting on the coffee table with her magic. She squints at the writing.

“From what the princesses have surmised from the content of Twilight Sparkle’s extensive reports on your behavior, you seem to have a few remarkable abilities which make you an ideal candidate. You seem to be entirely immune to any and all psychological magic. It says that when you were admitted to Ponyville hospital, a neuronal repair crystal was activated and repaired your brain to an earlier state in the past, but you seemed not to lose any memory of the events between the state it repaired it to and the moment of treatment. Ponies never remember seeing the repair crystal and usually wake in confusion. Twilight performed a number of magical tests on you while slumbering and only found that you are a heavy sleeper. She of course listed a few things you said, and thought it prudent to inform Princess Luna of these, to which not even the princess of the night could enter your dreams,” she magics over a single ring ream of parchment and adjusts her chunky frames, “She wrote that you were incisive and considerably more mature than other foals your age, although a bit suspicious, and that you would be ideal for Celestia’s most intense curriculum. She wrote that your ability to work with others was well established, and that you took to cooperation. Your ability to detect lies and withheld information was also remarkable to Twilight, which she included here in her report. However, she writes that your thoughts are easily readable in your face,” she flipped the pages, “Beyond this, Twilight gave an extensive anatomical report on your wings, and cross referenced their size to samples in medical journals and wrote here that your wings were some four standard deviations above the mean for your age group. Here it’s written that in a little over an hour you went from completely incapable of moving your wings to flying with relative ease, all of these things without a cutie mark,” she taps the parchment.

“I see,” you rub your hooves together idly by your stomach like a defibrillator. You should’ve known that purple unicorn was nosy. Twilight’s silent observations were purposeful after all. You wonder when she decided to purposely advertise you to the princess, it must have been really early. These reasons were a bit strange, but you thought them logical. You can’t help but feel undeserving of this, all you really ever wanted was to live peacefully, ambitions like these were stressful and harmed the soul, so you thought.You feel without autonomy, but even if you did have freedom of choice that might not make a difference. You’ve yet to ask yourself the question: What do you want to do? You didn’t feel like you were living, and there is much to be done here, but you felt a paucity of meaning in that. This candied world seemed to swallow you more thoroughly than any ghetto or warzone could. You feel unnecessary, that your existence here is some almighty parapraxis, that you don’t deserve a second chance, whatever that may mean. You feel as an android with false memories of a false life. You look down and the white unicorn regards you. Detestable thought worms wriggle and putrefy. You ask yourself: What would be even the point?Are you not enjoying yourself? Is this not the peace you wanted? Where had your human spirit flown off to? Do you think the world not real? Do you think yourself more real than them? Who is real and who is pretend here? You, the liar and contrivance, or the fantasy? Why do you lie to others? Are you ashamed? Are you not touched by the kindness of others? Are you a coldhearted snake? Are you the mistake? Do you think yourself better? Do you fancy yourself a genius? Do you watch from the sidelines? Are you content to mere breathing? Are you discontent to live vivacious? Are you content to flagellation? Are you content to yourself? Do you think yourself a child or a man? Why do you utterly fail at living? What right have you to begin life?You slouch into the pillow of the wingback, your spirit all vulnerose.The white unicorn uses her hoof to wipe tears you didn’t notice dripping from your face.

“I understand that this is a lot, but I will be here to help you all the way,” she said with a motherly voice. She misunderstands, but at least she’s trying.

“Thanks,” you snuffle.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Maybe,” more tears stream from your ducts. You ask yourself: Will you live this life? At least this once? For me? The white unicorn seems to think for a moment, then regards you again.

“If you are afraid of disappointing the princess, just know that your residence here is secure. No one is going to throw you out. No one is going to do anything to hurt you.”

“I just don’t understand why this is happening,” you say despondent. Ms. Inkwell turns the initial roll and thinks. She smiles and sets the roll on her lap.

“Princess Celestia is specifically looking for orphaned foals with some resistance to magic, be it psychological or physical. There are other foals peppered around Canterlot in the orphanages who have similar abilities. Nearly a hundred and fifty of them! You have something very special that the princess needs.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what I was beginning to talk about before you cut me off. You will be going to the school for gifted unicorns tomorrow to take a preliminary exam with the other orphans.”

“So why am I here living in a palace?”

“Probably because you were the only foal Twilight Sparkle referred to the princess” she says with a nod.

“That seems like a stupid reason,” you say dismissively.

“Call it luck then. Either way, the princess decided to house you here. Are you dissatisfied?”

“Not really,” you wipe your nose, “I feel as if I don’t deserve any of this.” She puts a foreleg on your shoulder and you look up to meet her eyes, huge brown saucers.

“Then prove that you do deserve this,” she says, patting your shoulder. You sniff the dripping slime back into your nose and daub your eyes with your legs.

“Okay,” you say with despondent reluctance, “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, just do your best, I believe in you.”

After a few minutes of ponderous silence a pony shows up at the front door, another guardmare, this one lavishly decorated and stoneface. She has pins and badges fastened to her armor and a bright blue sash, and her helmet is worked intricately with scrollwork and natural symbols. They seem to like that aesthetic here. You stumble up from the chair and stand as straight as a plumbob before her. Her coat the color of dry butter with big icy blue eyes and a prominent horn, but you can’t see her mane. Her face weary but iron. She bows suddenly and speaks, her voice the gravel of a million sucked cigarettes.

“Ms. Anonymous, I am captain Sweet Quince of the royal guard. Due to increasing threats and changeling sightings and arrests across Equestria, and the fact that you are a commoner on royal ground, we have decided to increase the security of the palace. Bad actors may attempt to drive you out or control you given your connection to the princess. I have taken the liberty of procuring some of the best night guards in the country to keep watch of you,” she says, bold as brass. You are a little stunned by this.

“Where are they captain Sweet Quince?” Ms. Inkwell asks.

“They’re just outside, would you like me to bring them in?”

“That would be best, yes, and how many?”

“Oh, just sixteen,” she says. What?! How many guards were usually on this property?

“Sixteen?! My dear captain, that’s not necessary, especially for night guards.She only needs a few. Leave the best three and send the other thirteen back,” she commands.

“As you wish, ma’am.” She turns on a heel—Do ponies have heels? You think so—and trots out the door.

Outside you can hear a kind of bantering and chatting, and through the stained glass see the outlines of equines coming upon the entrance. The door swings open and enters swaggering three ponies, at least you think they are ponies, mares at least, armored in azure and onyx, all heat colored. They have cotton tipped ears, the fluff blowing in the entrance breeze, and membranous wings, leathery and mauve, venous and pointed, boney lumps indicate their joinery. Their eyes feline or reptilian, little coin slots for pupils, and their coats the duller shades of blue and gray and black. Their manes hidden in their spartan helmets. The black one speaks.

“So this is the one?”

“She’s so cute!” says the blue one.

“Stop messing around, act appropriately in front of the princess’s guest!” declares the gray mare. The door shuts and they straighten up, then bow.

“You really don’t have to do that, you know I’m only a commoner,” you say with awkward gesturing. They snap back up to attention.

“Where would you like us posted, Anonymous,” says the black one, completely monotonous and robotic. What is wrong with these creatures?

“Firstly, I want you to stop doing whatever it is that you are doing, it’s weird, act how you would naturally” you say stern as iron, at least as iron as a little girl’s voice could be. They seem to relax and then look at each other, then back to you.

“She’s adorable!” they say in unison. They approach and pet you all over, cold armored hooves touch your wings and hair, tussle your tail and smoosh your cheeks. Blasted freezing those metal gauntlets are!

“Look at her tail!”

“Look at her ears!”

“Look at these huge wings!”

“Enough!” you hear Ms. Inkwell yell. She censures them and sends them off to prepare for the night shift. Ms. Inkwell shows you to your room.

“They were interesting,” you comment, trying to fill the awkward silence.

“They are eccentric even for thestrals, but they are the best of the best. Princess Luna sends her regards. She sent the sixteen.”

“Tell her I said thanks, I suppose,” you say. Your room is rather plain, all white plaster and candled, a little wood desk, a little white bed, a little white dresser, a tea table, everything rococo and clean. The moonshine suffused the canvas surfaces with ice, and the candles battled with fire and blended in combatant illumination. Little falcate bands of blue and orange wrapped the molds of the stucco ceiling and wainscoting and meandered through the ridged and swirling carvings of the marquetry, and the flaked marble floor glowed.

That night the threstral guards stood right outside your door, and you could hear snickering and whispered gossip as you tried to sleep. You drift into dreams, the plush bed conforms to your silhouette.

Author's Note:

I've decided to publish the subchapters individually instead of in one huge part. Apologies again.

Comments

[Cold Philosophy]

I like where this is going, please continue!

[Scootaboom1]

Neat

[Chrome Masquerade]

That title makes me think of a book i read once.

[Professor Litmus]

this is feeling really chatgpt given the rather extensive use of multiple high intellect words that never end up being used with this level of frequency and scope in a normal story.

[Asylum]

Someone’s been eating their thesaurus flakes.

[Luckyfanisaac]

so you thought. (——You feel without autonomy, but even if you did have freedom of choice that might not make a difference.

You ask yourself: What would be even the point? (——Are you not enjoying yourself?

Do you think the world is not real?

You slouch into the pillow of the wingback, your spirit all vulnerose. (——The white unicorn uses her hoof to wipe tears you didn’t notice dripping from your face.

“Sixteen?! My dear captain, that’s not necessary, especially for night guards. (——She only needs a few. Leave the best three and send the other thirteen back,” she commands.