Cygnus

CYGNUS

-The Watchmare-

A warm biscuit with a dash of honey and a touch of butter began the morning. Deep red eyes thoughtfully scanned the morning ticker, news from lands far and away lazily made its way across the dining room table. The Watchmare, hair tied in a tight bun, carefully studied and searched for news from one particular village to the south of the eastern harbors. As she hummed to herself, enjoying the fragrance of fresh coffee beans (though she didn't drink coffee herself), she rapped her hoof on the rich mahogany that was, for the moment, the instrument demanding her rhythmic attention. The sound, though soft, weighed on her mind in a way none but she understood. Each beat was perfectly in time with the tick-tock of her watch, a pacemaker for her own eternal heartbeat.

Though a stiff, precise mare, not one with an especially lighthearted countenance, she often quipped to herself in the bureau mirror that she was older than time itself. As far as the ponies of Paradiso were concerned, she was time. She knew better, of course. Time was the only constant presence in her world. Friends had come and gone as fragile mortals; nations rose and fell as fragile institutions run by fragile mortals, but time, and the Watchmare, never changed.

Neither did the consistency of the morning news, apparently. Not a single burglary, no fires, and a total lack of Anarchist sightings, despite the fact she knew he was out there, biding his time. The Watchmare's jaw clenched for a moment at the thought of the troublemaker still running rather than burning, but she relaxed when her hoof-taps reminded her of the one great constant. And unlike the Anarchist, the Watchmaker had time on her side. If so desired, a wave of her hoof would end him, freeing her of the bother he was. How would she do it? Perhaps a train crash? A dislodged rail is all it would take. Perhaps it would pop up in the wreck and skewer him through the eyes? Or maybe liver poisoning? No, that was not fantastic enough. A nemesis like the Anarchist truly deserved a spectacular death. Of course! A pony specializing in explosives and mayhem deserved to go out in a blaze of glory. Not by his own hoof, anyways. He was much too careful, the ruffian he was. All it would take was a little too much of one ingredient, perhaps a faulty trigger, maybe some poor shelter from the blast?

But he would not make those mistakes. He had long given up being an amateur. Like herself, the Anarchist was about precision. Precision in chaos. He was a disciple of that old serpent, but at least the Old One had sense enough to change. The Anarchist would sooner die than change.

And ultimately, she had come to enjoy his antics. Immortality carried the nasty side effect of boredom, and she couldn't fathom how the mares of the Elder Race had dealt with it, but the Anarchist had become the Watchmare's entertainment for the last half-century. She wasn't sure, but it crossed her mind more than once that her nemesis knew this well. She could end him whether or not he left himself open. But why would he persist, knowing his efforts were an exercise in futility? It was a question she would have to ask him, should the two meet face to face. Then she would kill him, as a thank-you for fifty years of mild excitement to color a few millennia spent in boredom.

To the Watchmare, it was as if time stood still.

That is, until a new strip of ticker tape clicked by, red bands running along the edges of the paper. She leaned forward and read the message it bore.

Moving. – Reuel.

She smirked and reclined in her chair. Of course, she already knew what it meant, but she was glad Reuel was following his instructions and reporting to her.

After all, Paradiso was a big place.