If Only He Knew
How does one describe a bar?
Perhaps they would start with the physical appearance of it, or the mood it carried. There wouldn't be anything wrong with that, but you don't think that really gets to the heart of a bar, certainly not one like the Mountain's Crown.
You, as the bartender, would describe it by the regulars.
"I can't believe it," Presti remarks with a displeased upturn of his nose. "A wedding in the castle, and I wasn't invited."
Prestigious Rise, "Presti" for short, is a rather interesting stallion. His goals often seem to far exceed his means, but he never gives up on them. Admittedly, you can't help but respect him for that.
You cross your forelegs together and rest them against the rich mahogany counter, your ears perked with interest. "A wedding?"
He huffs and raises his large glass of red wine with one hoof, its weight made negligible by his take on levitation magic that was just as interesting as he was. Instead of actually levitating, he made the object nigh weightless.
"Yes, a wedding," he repeats with a bit of distaste in his voice. "No matter. It was merely the princess's aide. It wasn't the princess herself."
The gold-coated stallion at his side snickers behind the rim of his mug. "Oh, you certainly sound like it's no matter." He sets his mug down and pushes it toward your side of the counter. "Another!"
Ah, Glitter Gold. You and he go way back. His wife complains that he drank too much; he proclaims that he didn't drink enough. You are inclined to agree—the answer of with whom is something you hide behind a smile as you refill his mug.
While Presti shoots Glitter a sidelong glare, your gaze travels the bar to keep an eye out for any raised hooves calling for your attention. Tonight, all of the social elite that frequent your bar seem to be slow to drink, more interested in the murmuring gossip that drifts between the slow croons of smooth jazz.
"I'm just surprised I didn't receive an invitation." Presti sighs in the way a stallion mourning a lost love might. "While the bride is nopony I know, I am friends with a friend of the groom's."
Presti had a great deal of friends—or, at the least, he had a great deal of ponies he called friends. Whether that was true or not was no business of yours, so long as they didn't draw his attention to another bar. You top off his wine glass to ensure he remains satisfied, and he flashes you a smile.
Your fine-tuned ears catch little snippets of conversations down the row. The grapevine seems overripe with too much information this evening, but you can start to piece together the puzzle.
Somepony near to the princess—her personal chef, aide, or masseuse—had a wedding in the palace today. She married a wealthy stallion, but details of him are entirely clouded by gossip of an ex-lover. The bride had once been entangled with somepony of note; his name is only shared in hushed whispers that you can't make out.
"Bartender, another!" Glitter chuckles and shakes out his mane of bronze and silver. "I'll need you to keep up if I'm to keep up with Presti's bemoaning."
Presti glares at Glitter, but there's no malice in his eyes. Irritation, perhaps, but they had drunk beside one another too many times to let hard feelings rise between them. "I am not bemoaning. I am merely expressing my displeasure at the Wonderbolts race."
You chuckle and refill Glitter's mug, the cider sloshing against the sides as it poured in. Strange as the pair may be, they are your best customers. The nights just wouldn't be the same without them around.
Your attention is called away from your regulars, and they acknowledge your departure without so much as a glance or a nod. Such is the life of a bartender: you drift in and out, there when they need you, not when they don't. Nopony regards you at the grocery store any differently than if you were a complete stranger—and other than knowing their deepest secrets, that's exactly what you are.
On the other hoof, bits flow into your pockets just as steadily as liquor into their mugs, so things more or less even out.
The light that slips in from around the red velvet curtains slowly fades as the evening carries into night. The smooth jazz glides through the air, entangling all of the patrons in relaxation and warmth. You begin to catch more details of the day's prestigious event as tongues become more at ease.
"I heard he left the wedding early," one voice says behind a light guffaw. "How embarrassing to be rebuked by a mare of such lower standing than him."
"Rebuked by her? No, no, that's not quite right at all. He spurned her long ago. He showed up merely to laugh in her face."
The gossip twists and turns over itself, becoming a mess of a knot that you don't have time to suss out. The Mountain's Crown will not run itself, after all.
A hush falls over the bar when the door opens and you look up to see an unexpected sight: Prince Blueblood himself. All eyes are on him as he stands in the doorway, his appearance nowhere near as perfect as anypony would expect a noble of his station to have. With clear contempt on his face, he strides across the room as effortlessly as if he were gliding through a waltz and takes a seat at the end of the bar.
Murmuring follows in his wake, and glances chase after him. Not even the gentle music can soothe the rising curiosity that buzzes in the air.
"The stallion of the hour," Presti comments as you pass by on your way to the prince. "See to it that he's in a good mood for me."
There is a certain taste to the air that invades your senses as you draw near to Prince Blueblood. You can feel uninhibited ire radiating from him, turning the whole room sour and giving you pause. Before you can make a decision whether to press forward or withdraw, however, he lifts his head to acknowledge your presence.
"Whiskey," he says, the word rolling off his tongue with a hint of desperation.
You merely nod and take a step back to retrieve a glass and the bottle, then bring both over to him. "Here you are, sir."
His magic grips the glass from you, his head tilts back, and the whiskey is gone. He sets the glass down a little harder than necessary and doesn't regard you as he says, "Another."
As you pour the dark golden liquor into the glass, you can already tell: this is going to be a long night.
Prince Blueblood dismisses you with a wave of his hoof after the third refill, and you have no choice but to oblige him, even if the hoof-waving is a little rude. You're not a servant of his, after all.
But he is a prince, so what else can you do?
"So?" Glitter leans in, his ears perked and alert. "What did he say?"
You just smile pleasantly. "Another cider, sir?"
His nose scrunches up and he shakes his empty mug at you. "Don't play coy. You spoke with Prince Blueblood himself! Gossip that juicy can't be kept all to yourself."
"Another cider it is," you say as you exchange his mug with another. If there's one thing that the Canterlot elite love, it's gossip. However, ponies would stop talking to you if you started talking back more than necessary, and that isn't good for business.
Presti turns his head to look down the bar. "Perhaps he requires the camaraderie of a pony more of his station." He starts to rise from his seat when Glitter bursts into laughter, and he glares. "And what, pray tell, strikes you so amusing?"
"No, no, nothing at all." Glitter grins. "I would love to see you endear yourself to the prince."
Presti's ears fold back and, slowly, he lowers himself. "Perhaps I shall wait until there is less of an audience."
The prince is taking his time with this glass of whiskey. You watch from afar as he only takes an occasional sip, otherwise sitting still and not looking at anypony. Whatever is bothering him must be deeply personal. You can't lie—of course you're curious! But he's not exactly the sort of pony you pry information from.
And that's why you find yourself a little excited when, as the crowd starts to clear out, Prince Blueblood beckons you over.
"Do you have anything stronger than this?" he asks, still not looking at you.
"Certainly," you reply. "I have just the thing."
From the many bottles that line the wall behind the counter, you retrieve one of a bright, almost acidic green.
He doesn't look at you, instead eyeing the bottle. "What is that?"
"Our best absinthe." You pour him a small shot glass, and slide it to him.
His magic caresses the glass and raises it to his eye level. "Hmm." He swirls it as if it were red wine and inhales its scent. After a derisive snort, he tosses it back, sets the glass down, and crosses his forelegs on the counter. "It will do."
You haven't been dismissed... yet. You take his whiskey glass and remove the chilled soapstones. He doesn't seem ready to talk, and you aren't going to press him for details.
There is a clear weight bearing down on him, though. His bow tie is undone and hangs from his hunched shoulders. The artery on the side of his neck pulses from a heavy heartbeat. Most of all, however, are his eyes: the whites of them are almost entirely red, and the lids are swollen.
Is he angry, or has he been crying? He doesn't strike you as the type of stallion to cry. Anger seems to suit him better.
Presti's hoof raises to call your attention, and you excuse yourself. Prince Blueblood probably doesn't hear you—or if he does, he doesn't care.
"His mood?" Presti asks when you're close. "How is it?"
You offer a wry smile. "Perhaps another night would be better."
Presti glances down the bar and frowns. "But when will I find such an opportunity to speak with him alone?"
"Perhaps another night," you repeat, inclining your head to look at the selection of alcohol behind you. "Tonight, might I suggest trying a new drink? On the house."
This serves enough distraction to draw Presti's attention back to you. "Who can say no to such an offer?"
"Certainly not you," Glitter teases and laughs at Presti's indignant glare. "I, however, shall call it a night, lest the wife berate me again. See you tomorrow, Presti."
Presti snorts, but he does nod to bid his companion farewell.
You smile and look out into the bar—your smile falters. All eyes are on you. Hooves begin to beckon you over, and you allow a sigh.
Everypony wants to know what you know, to find out what he's been drinking, to hear anything they can sink their teeth into. Just as with any patron of your bar, however, you aren't one to betray their trust. Even if Prince Blueblood hasn't trusted you with anything yet, you are still his bartender.
Given no gossip and stuck only with dwindling hours that threaten to become morning, it isn't long before even Presti gives up on the chance encounter. Now, it's only you and and the prince.
"Sir?" you prompt as you approach. "I'm afraid it's closing time."
His head lifts and, for the first time, he acknowledges you as a pony and not just a supplier of alcohol. His eyes search you for something and though he doesn't seem to find anything, he mutters, "It should have been me."
Your ears perk, but you try to keep an even expression and say nothing. A little extra time at work won't be the end of you if it meant hearing his story.
"But it couldn't have been." His normally radiant blond mane hangs around his face in darkened, tussled strands. "We could never be together."
After a moment of consideration, you ask the obvious question: "Why?"
His eyes widen, as if surprised you are capable of responding—or that you're brave enough to respond to him. "Why?" he repeats with a slow, tired chuckle. "You couldn't possibly understand."
A smile tugs at your lips even though you do your best to stifle it. "Try me."
There is a pause that drags on just long enough to seem like the opportunity is going to pass, but his nostrils flare as he snorts. "I—I fail to see why not. It's not as if I have anything left to lose."
You pull the stool that sits behind the counter over and take a seat, crossing your forelegs and hooking your hooves. "I'm listening."
Prince Blueblood draws in a breath. His head tilts back, his eyes gloss over, and his voice falls in low, almost lilting waves. "Her name is Raven, and she is—she's the love I can never have."
A glow erupts around his horn and you hear the sound of something moving behind you. Just as you turn to look, you watch as liquor lifts out of a bottle on the wall and slips through the air in several shimmering streams.
"Hey, what—"
You're silenced when the liquids join together and, slowly, become the form of a mare that hovers above the counter to your right. She seems rather ordinary, if you had to be honest, but what is extraordinary has to be the prince's exceptional grasp on levitation magic. You can not only make out the curves of her cheeks and jawline, but each individual lash that frame her big eyes.
Her glasses far exceed what seems necessary, carefully perched on a perky snout, and her mane and tail are both wrapped in tight buns. She has a shy expression on her face, and if there were color beyond whiskey to her, you imagine she would be blushing.
Prince Blueblood's gaze is fixated on her, the clearest his expression has seemed to you all night. "I am called a prince, but I have no more power or responsibility than a—than a mere duke."
Considering a duke is an extremely high rank in the noble world, you aren't quite sure what the problem is, but he doesn't seem to be looking for your opinion on the matter—or any matter, really.
Though he largely seems to be holding his liquor better than the average pony, the whiskey and absinthe are clearly working their way through him. Raven's form starts to lose its shape as his head bobs and eyelids droop, but he jerks himself upright and she snaps back into place.
"But," he growls out, "because I am the firstborn stallion in the direct line of the ancient Princess Platinum, they gave me the false title of prince. Pitiful. Meaningless." His unsteady hoof raises and traces the outline of the watery mare's cheek, which ripples at his touch.
She gazes back at him with a soft smile. He returns it with a suddenly sober scowl and the magic surrounding his horn vanishes. The alcohol loses its shape, falling onto the counter and the floor. You pull back as it splatters against your chest and face, the scent of it filling your nostrils.
"Excuse me, I—"
He looks at you, gaze unsteady. "If you wish me to leave, I shall."
If he's going to make a mess of your place, then perhaps you should kick him out! But you'd be lying if you said you don't still have unanswered questions. And, after all, he's a prince. Meaningless or not, he certainly has the bits to cover the expenses.
Begrudgingly, you settle back onto the stool and gesture for him to continue.
Prince Blueblood raises a hoof to try to push his mane into some semblance of order. "Very well." He turns in his stool and looks out into the empty bar. His magic alights and from behind you, streams of rum, vodka, and tequila slither through the air into two forms this time: a young filly and colt. Their bodies glow from the dim light that is refracted within them, but you can still make out their details clearly.
The colt is, without a doubt, the prince's young self; you can only assume, then, that the filly is Raven. Her mane and tail are down, her glasses are absent, and her appearance is still plain.
"We met as foals, both trapped in a path with—with no bends, no forks, nothing but forward." A bitterness seeps into his words as he continues. "I, the beloved descendent of Princess Platinum, was destined to be a prince. A token of rarity."
His ears flatten to the sides. "Had she had sons, and those sons had sons, and those sons more sons, and—and then I would be nothing more than another stallion. It is by mere chance that I am special, but I am special nonetheless."
The colt gallops silently through the air toward the filly, the liquid that gives him shape rippling and waving as Blueblood's focus drifts in and out. He comes to a stop and looks at Raven, who pays him no mind. You watch as his expression becomes confused, then dejected, then determined with each attempt for her attention. It's almost endearing, really.
"And what about her?" you ask.
His voice softens, a small lull in the storm. "She? Raven, the only daughter of Inkwell. She served as Princess Celestia's aide, as did her mother, and her mother before her. If she did not succeed her mother, then—then the disappointment would have surely suffocated her. So, of course, she followed in her mother's hoofsteps. I thought we might be kindred spirits, but she? She would have none of me."
The filly turns her head away from the colt. No matter how he moves or what he does, she is stalwart in ignoring him. Light shimmers off their bodies like rays of sunlight playing with the waves, some of it reflecting onto the chairs and tables around them. It's almost a dance between them—he hops up, she looks down; he ducks low, she looks high; he jumps around, she turns away. All of this plays out with only a quiet sloshing from the liquid that makes up their forms.
"She was the only pony who had no interest in responding to my demands. It infuriated me." His eyes closed for a moment. "I sought to have her removed, but Celestia was fond of her. My cries for her dismissal fell upon deaf ears."
Droplets of liquor fall away from the filly and colt as they become distorted in the air, their movements growing erratic. They swirl and stretch and contract until they are one as the Raven from before.
Prince Blueblood sighs as he gazes upon her. "And so I grew to hate her, and she me. I spent my idle days seeking nothing but new ways to make her miserable until I gathered the idea to court her."
"Court her?" Your nose scrunches up, but you can't tear your eyes away from Raven's watery doppelgänger as she glides in a slow circle around the prince, a ghostly visage of his heartache. "I don't follow."
"How could you?" He chuckles and leans back as Raven brushes against him, leaving his coat wet with liquor where they touch. "Your thinking must be abominin—abominan—"
His tongue clicks as it stumbles over itself and he momentarily scowls. "It must be terribly simple. What a pity. Let me explain it to you in terms you will understand: I would court her, woo her, pin her beneath me, and then shame her in front of Celestia. That would get rid of her for good."
Raven settles beside him and runs a rippling hoof over his mane to push it behind his ear. He closes his eyes, savoring the touch. "As you are hopefully capable of surmising, my plan backfired. I fell for her. She opened her heart to me and I fell in, drowning in her love."
You watch him as his expression flickers between delight and pain. The conjuration of her seems more of a torture than a comfort, but he hasn't dismissed her like the first one yet. "Then why did she marry somepony else?"
Prince Blueblood's eyes snap open and the withering look he gives you sends a chill down your spine. The alcohol seems to burn from his blood under the seething anger in his gaze. "Why? Because I let her go. Do you think a simple, common mare—no matter her station as the princess's aide—could find joy in the life I lead?"
He shifts his attention back to Raven and she wraps her liquid forelegs around his neck. As she does, the tension leaves his muscles, his voice falling low and quiet, but clearer now. "I am lavished in praise for being, by chance, born a stallion. I am haunted by an ancestry of noble blood that I must uphold. I am watched at every step, every turn, every success, every mistake. She stands beside Celestia, but Canterlot hardly knows or cares for her. She can live in peace and do as she pleases, while I will no doubt be endlessly reprimanded for the rumors that shall spread regarding tonight's visit to your establishment."
You open your mouth, but he doesn't let you speak.
"That is my gift to her. My parting gift. My last act of love, though she will never see it that way. And that is as it should be. The stallion she has found is common-born and will bring her the common-born happiness that she deserves."
Raven's form begins to waver and her features become muddled, but his focus doesn't seem any lessened. She loses her shape and merely becomes a wave of mixed drinks that engulfs him before crashing to the ground. Soaked to the bone in liquor, he heaves a sigh. "And there you have it. Are you satisfied?"
"Satisfied?" You blink. Satisfied with what? The story? Or the fact that the place reeks of alcohol more than normal and looks like a bath house instead of a bar? A frown crosses your lips and you reply, "Not really. If you love her so much, why didn't you fight for her? If she loved you, then couldn't you have made it work?"
Prince Blueblood returns your frown with a wry smirk while liquor drips from his muzzle. "Because this isn't a foal's tale," he says in a condescending tone. "Welcome to the real world. Hearts break and that's the end of it. I have many mares to choose from, all of whose ancestry hearken to some ancient noble. That is the path I have always had in front of me, and love is hardly enough to change that. Now that she is wed, I can forget her. We have nothing more to do with one another."
You watch as he rises from his stool and turns away. "Wait—"
"I believe you have heard more than you deserve. Goodbye, bartender."
You start to stand. "No, you—"
His horn lights up to open the door.
"Prince Blue—"
A trail of liquored hoofprints follow him outside.
"—blood, you—"
The door closes behind him. You stand in stunned silence for a long while before your gaze falls to the slick, shining floor.
He hadn't paid for a single one of his drinks, much less the alcohol he wasted in his needlessly showy display of liquor levitation, and now you are stuck with the decision of sending him a bill or letting him have something go his way.
What a long night it is going to be, indeed.