Obiter Dictaby GhostOfHeraclitusChaptersTable of ContentsAn Afternoon for Dotted LineThe Game the Princesses PlayOn the Inaccuracy of ProverbsThe Nature of WarOn Forensic Accounting & Choral SingingHoofprintsDr. Spinning Top—Specimen Annotated Daily ScheduleLove and Other Acquired TastesAny Other Business?Songs Like SnowCivicsThe Other PrincessTable of ContentsObiter Dicta things said in passing Contains the following short stories and vignettes: An Afternoon for Dotted Line [slice of life] [comedy] -- Takes place just after A Canterlot Carol and shows Dotted that being reminded goes both ways. A fluffy and cheerful story of an afternoon, just for Dotted Line. The Game The Princesses Play [comedy] -- A strange game played by princesses and what it means for Equestria. On The Inaccuracy of Proverbs [slice of life] [sad] [comedy] -- Filly Twilight expresses her concerns about the low standard of scientific accuracy in the proverbs dispensed by adults. Her foalsitter tries to neither laugh nor cry. This proves difficult. The Nature of War [history] -- An edifying account of a celebrated war between the Greater Griffonstan Empire and the Principality of Equestria. On Forensic Accounting & Choral Singing [comedy] — Leafy Salad explores the implications of close harmony singing on white-collar crime. Or, at least, that's how it is getting put down in the report... Hoofprints [sad] [human] — The first man on the Moon sees something, something incredible he never mentions to anyone. Maybe. It's hard to tell. Time is being... difficult. Note: Not a HiE story. Dr. Spinning Top—Specimen Annotated Daily Schedule[Slice of Life]—One day in the life of Spinning Top, press secretary & chief news-wrangler. It's technically a prequel to Bradel's magnificent A Filly's Guide to Not Making Headlines, however, you can read them in whatever order you wish without detracting from the experience one bit. Love and Other Acquired Tastes [comedy][sad]—A little homeless filly is out in the rain, all alone. This is sadder than you think. Also happier. Any Other Business? [comedy]—Twilight Sparkle is now an alicorn. This... is not what Dotted Line promised the Council of Lords. They react with their customary tact and grace. Songs Like Snow [romance]—Dotted Line and Ambassador Mkali share a moment on a snow-covered balcony during a Crystal Empire peace summit. Author's Note Great, nay, infinite thanks to my wonderful pre-readers: Bad Horse (He's bad!) Bradel (He's... actually rather good) The Mysterious Nettlefish (She's magnificent!) PoweredByTea (who is made of awesome and needs to publish Summer Sun already). Also thanks to Bradel for providing me with the cover art, used with his kind permission. An Afternoon for Dotted LineAn Afternoon for Dotted Line If you were visited by royalty, Dotted reflected, you usually had some foreknowledge. You could make sure that the place was clean and presentable. Dust things. Scrub. Polish the silver, should you have any. Not so with dreams. He heard the beating of mighty wings. A familiar sound. A hopeful sound. A frightening sound. Dotted looked around in panic. Rain-soaked rocky beach. Waves crashing against it. Overcast skies above drizzling in a sort of vague, uninterested way. Reassuringly normal, all of it. Well, there was a house floating in the sky—only occasionally it was an orange depending on the angle you looked at it from—but that couldn’t be helped. Still, not embarrassing, not as such. At least unless Her Majesty thought to ask what it was a dream of. He could hear the click of hooves behind him, and he turned, bowing quickly. Dream or not, it didn’t do to forget one’s manners. Luna, the Ruler of the Night, and, perhaps more importantly right now, the Steward of the Dreaming, stood before him. She’d tried for a smile, he saw, but didn’t quite manage. Something of her accustomed stern mien bled through and the smile, paradoxically, made it worse. He replied with a smile of his own, and, by force of habit, reached to tug his chain of office back into place. It wasn’t there and he felt a stab of panic. It was always there. He forced his hoof away from the bare patch through an effort of will, and focused his attention on the princess. If Luna noticed any of this, there was no sign of it. Instead, she spoke, her voice much quieter than normal. “Dotted Line? We are sorry for disturbing th—your sleep, and would normally consider this an unworthy use of ou—mine powers as the steward of the dreaming, but my sister did ask.” “Yes, Your Majesty?” “My sister wishes to see you at your earliest convenience. But, please, don’t wake up right—” The ground quaked, the rocks leaping up into the sky which turned a nasty bruised color before crumpling and burning away. The ashes became birds which faded, leaving behind only the flutter of wings and a faint mournful cry. The house/orange thing burst into dandelion seeds which dispersed on a wind that took with it the sea and the early morning light. Luna was left alone in a formless void with only the rain, falling from nowhere to nowhere, less because of gravity and more out of sheer obstinate habit. After a few moments even that stopped. “—away. I told her this would happen,” she said, sighing, and with a single beat of her powerful wings, departed the dreaming. * * * Dotted awoke, blind, trapped, and struggling to breathe. For most this would be cause for panic, but Dotted, after the initial shock, knew what was going on. He had fallen asleep in a filing cabinet. Again. He sighed in the warm, papery darkness, and kicked out once, hard. The weak hinge of the filing cabinet gave way, as he knew it would, and the drawer slid into his office. He heaved himself out of the drawer and noted with grim satisfaction that he had conscientiously filed himself under ‘L.’ He looked around the office which, chaotic even in the best of times, now appeared a battleground. Behind his desk the piles of paperwork were merging, threatening to one day wash away all of the furnishings in a papery tsunami. The cleaning staff was going to have a fit when they saw the state of it. Still, he had some time to tidy. They never came in on the morning after Hearthwarm—his eye, lazily drifting across the room, caught sight of his clock and he leapt up into the air with a muffled curse. He was late. He always had a brief meeting with Her Majesty first thing in the morning, and it was a quarter past ten. It took him one breathless instant to realize all of this, another to panic, and yet a third to start running. He was late and Celestia had sent Luna herself to wake him. Dotted couldn’t begin to imagine how the princess might react. What she might do. He ran faster. He reached the door to Her Majesty’s study in two minutes and eighteen seconds, breaking several speeding ordinances in the process, the sort usually meant to rein in daredevil pegasi. The guards watched him impassively—as per tradition—but he could swear he read a touch of worry in their posture. He took a precious second to regain some of his breath and then, with considerable trepidation, walked past them wheezing out a “Good, uh, Morning, Sergeant Cloud. Sergeant Winter” as he did. They nodded, and made no move to stop him. Well that was something. At least he still retained his job. He crept in, quieter now than even last night, and bowed deep. He couldn’t quite look at her, not yet. He couldn’t take the look of disappointment, not this soon after waking. He just couldn’t. So his eyes were still firmly fixed on the carpet when he spoke. “Good Morning, Your Majesty. I—I am terribly sorry. I, well, I overslept, and I—” “Mr. Secretary! What are you doing up?” “—didn’t mean to be late, I must have not heard the alarm, the paper does muffle it, but that’s absolutely no excuse and I ought to have—” “Mr. Secretary?” “—just incredibly sorry, I didn’t mean to—” “Dotted Line?” Dotted stopped short, and, with considerable hesitation, lifted his eyes to meet those of his princess. She—she didn’t seem disappointed. Or angry. Just…worried? Heavens. He didn’t worry her, did he? He opened his mouth to speak but his princess raised a hoof and, instantly, the words died on his lips. “The guards I sent to find you didn’t want to disturb you—you had clearly had a very hard night—and I agreed with them. I asked my sister to give you a message in the only way I knew wouldn’t wake you. Clearly that didn’t work. Are you well?” “Yes. Of course. Fine. I’m sorry I was—” “You need not apologize. I am only sorry your sleep was interrupted. You get precious little of it, as I understand.” “I’m so—it is very unfortunate I was so late.” “It is no trouble, I assure you. But now that you are here, I would like to draw your attention to an odd occurrence.” “Yes, Your Majesty?” “Last night I wanted to finish the work regarding the new treaty with Zebrica, but I fell asleep. I find it very hard to stay up after the sun has set, I am afraid. That is the price of being so attuned to it.” “It’s quite alright, Your Majesty.” “Except, this morning, I found the work all completed on my desk.” “Sleepwriting. Very common. Like sleepwalking, but with writing. A bit embarrassing on occasion, but a great boon to students, as I understand it.” Celestia’s worried expression softened into a gentle smile, and Dotted’s heart sang just a little bit because of it. He tried not to let any of that show. That’s not how the game was played, after all. “Except, Mr. Secretary, none of it was in my hoofwriting.” “A Hearthwarming miracle, perhaps?” “It was in your hoofwriting.” “Well, miracles are peculiar things. I’m given to understand that they often choose the most unlikely vessels for their, ah, miraculous purposes.” “I see. I had intended to give a copy of the papers to you, but something tells me the miracle saw fit to leave them on your desk.” “In my desk drawer, Your Majesty. Very neat. Very tidy.” “A very considerate miracle, this.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” There was a brief pause, as both players regarded their performance. Neither was dissatisfied. It was an old game, true, but a cherished one. “Have a very happy Hearthwarming, Dotted Line.” “Likewise, Your Majesty. A Happy Hearthwarming. Will your require anything else?” “One more thing.” “Anything Your Majesty requires.” “Go rest. Miracle-working is tiring work, as I of all ponies should know. You might even regard it as a professional opinion.” “Of course, Your Majesty. As soon as—” “Mr. Secretary?” “Yes?” “I am your princess.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “Being that, on occasion, I do give you orders.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “This, I suggest, is one of those times.” “Your Majesty?” “Go. Rest. At the very least this afternoon. If I must, I will make it an official royal command. And I shall arrange that it be in writing with calligraphy and I shall have town-criers read it out in the square.” “No need, Your Majesty. Besides, I sent the Notary Royal home for the holidays. I’d have to write up the order prohibiting me from doing any work myself. And then, I guess, I’d have to write up a note of censure about me breaking that command and so on. Bit of a vicious circle.” Celestia’s smile grew into a grin. “Go, Mr. Secretary. Rest.” * * * Dotted’s home wasn’t what people expected. The post of Cabinet Secretary had a very generous, some might even say extravagant, salary and involved a lot of rubbing shoulders[1] with nobility. Thus, most Cabinet Secretaries lived as Canterlot lords and ladies, and the majority of ponies expected a mansion. Those who knew Dotted well knew there was no chance of that, but were at a loss to come up with an alternative. Not that they didn’t try for fanciful theories, anyway. Spinning Top once suggested a house-sized teapot, and Balanced Ledger, in the same tipsy conversation, suggested that he had no home, aside from his office, and that there was a bathroom and a kitchen buried somewhere in the papery strata. [1] Or knocking heads. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Or, in the case of Lady Moonflower, Cabinet Secretary 137-158, literally speaking. The truth was, Dotted lived in a comically tiny two-story rowhouse at the outermost part of Canterlot, nestled against the outer walls. A very unfashionable quarter, whose decent view and clean air in no way made up for catching the very worst of the weather. The house was ancient but sturdy, the only signs of age being the extensive network of cracks and faults in the stonework. So extensive, in fact, that it harbored a thriving little ecosystem of its own, with ivy blending into moss, and several different pigeon species warring over choice nesting spots in cracks and faults in the stonework. It was only through the dint of hard work that Dotted managed to keep his home from being classified as a wildlife refuge. Dotted reclined in the ratty old easy-chair in his front room, leafing distractedly through the Journal of Improbable Chemistry, occasionally pausing to take a sip of tea, or to write ‘rubbish!’ in the margins. He never spent much time in his home, which rather explained just how tidy it was. It never had time to get otherwise. Tidy it was, but it was also cold and quiet and empty. He realized he had read the same sentence about charge separation fourteen times in the past five minutes and threw the journal down on the side table in disgust. He took a sip of the tea and made a face. It didn’t taste right. The chair didn’t feel right. It was all wrong. He got up and started wandering around his tiny living room, but there really wasn’t enough room to pace properly. Instead he shuffled along the same patch of threadbare carpet desperate for something to capture his attention. The new trade treaty will need to be ratified in the House, of course. There’s no good reason to be opposed to it, but someone will need to reassure the Whitetail South and Whitetail East MPs that the paper mills in their constituencies will be unaffected. Maybe suggest a preferred-vendor approach to— Dotted jerked away from that thought. He was supposed to rest. Hay, he had orders to that effect. And, besides, how hard could it be not to think about parliamentary politics? He redoubled his pacing. Briefly, he wondered how Leafy, Inky, and the kids were doing in Fillydelphia, but that thought hurt so he gave up on it too. He sat in the chair again, but his thoughts immediately drifted back to the treaty, so he flung himself out of it as if it were on fire. Seeing as there was nowhere else to sit, he sat back down again, feeling foolish, picked up a piece of paper and a quill and set about idly sketching a wildly irresponsible proposal for a high-density rocket fuel[2], the sort that used to give his doctoral thesis adviser apoplectic fits. Happier times. As he sketched and scribbled, he drifted off, and appeared not to notice when what looked unmistakably like a diagram of the seating plan of the House of Commons began to take part on his paper. After a while he began to hum tunelessly. [2] It was chemically highly amusing, but somewhat impractical, considering that actually using it would involve poisoning everything within a mile of the launch site in two separate yet equally horrifying ways, melting whatever remained after that, and then setting the remainder, if any, on fire. On the other hoof, it did launch you heavenward with considerable alacrity. Which was probably a good idea, since ponies would be looking for you. A lot of ponies. Curiously insistent ponies, in fact. With big sticks. * * * The sound of knocking on the door shook Dotted out of his reverie. He glanced guiltily at the parchment, and noted that he had devised the majority of a plan to launch the House of Commons into Low Epona Orbit, lock, stock, and porkbarrel. He heard another knock, got up, considered the paper, made to crumple it, thought better of it, and filed it. He flung the door open, and goggled at his most unexpected caller. “Leafy? But—you are in Fillydelphia.” Leafy grinned and tugged his scarf into place. “I am?” “Yes, you—well, no, obviously you aren’t but—what are you doing—is everything okay?” “Everything’s fine. You are a world-class worrywart, you know that, right?” “Well I’ve a lot to worry about. Want to come in? I’ll put the kettle on?” “No. No. I have errands to run, but I wanted to tell you Inky and the kids would love it if you’d drop by.” “They are here too?” “Yes. We came back early.” “Why?” “Oh, the kids were whining up a storm. Something about it not being a proper Hearthwarming without this ‘Uncle Dotty’ character,” he said with a smile, breath misting in the icy air. Dotted’s face was a battleground between glee, worry, and contrition. Thanks to a cowardly and underhanded ambush, glee was sweeping the field, though pockets of the opposition were still visible here and there. “Oh. Oh! Um. Sorry. You know how kids are sometim—” Dotted stopped. Leafy had reached out and laid a hoof on his shoulder, and kept it there until Dotted met his gaze. For once, Leafy was serious. No smile, no arch wink, no joke. It made him look smaller somehow. And older, too. “Dotty. We, hah, we didn’t really take much convincing.” With a glad yell the last of the enemy pockets were routed, and glee stood proudly victorious. “Um. Thank you. I—Inky’s parents aren’t going to be happy.” “They’ll cope. We’ve promised a vacation together. So you coming?” “Oh, of course I am.” Leafy beamed. In an instant, he sprung back into his old self, and a dozen years seem to slip away from his brow. “I’ll run along now. See you there?” “Sure.” Leafy shook the snow from his wings, stretched, and then took to the air with a few well-practiced wingbeats. Remarkably quickly, he became quite difficult to spot, just another white speck among many. Leafy would have been a pretty good racer. Shame he never got the hang of going around corners. Dotted spent a few minutes blinking after him, and rushed back inside to grab a hat and a a scarf. He’d make that much of a concession to his increasingly creaky bones, but he drew a line at boots. He’d have to renounce his status as a Northisle native if he donned hoofboots for anything less than a raging blizzard. He threw the clothing on, and ran past the hall mirror giving himself one cursory look. As he did, his hoof automatically went for his neck, and he adjusted his chain of office and stopped. He stood unsteadily for a second, hoof touching cold silver. Then, determined, he took the necklace off with his telekinesis. It was amazing how heavy it was. You didn’t even notice, wearing it all the time, until you took it off. He rubbed the suddenly bare patch on his neck absent-mindedly then nodded, and ran off. * * * The Salad residence was even farther from the center of Canterlot Town than Dotted’s. Unlike Dotted, who was out at the outskirts because he’d bought the same house he rented when he was an impecunious researcher, Leafy and his family were all the way outside the city walls because that was the only place you could get a bit of a garden without having a major street named after you, or rather your family. Your exceptionally, indeed, extravagantly pecunious family. And while the house was unremarkable, a rambling two-story built of honey-colored stone, the garden was, in Dotted’s completely biased opinion, the finest in Canterlot[3]. Now, in the dead of winter, it was mostly just an expanse of snow dotted with bare-branched trees. There was also an asymmetrical but enthusiastically built snowpony, and in one corner a defiantly verdant and flowering rhododendron[4]. Luckily, the snow seemed to have tranquilized the migrating herb patch, and it could be seen as a vague mound, shifting slightly under the snow, even though there was no wind. Dotted knocked on the bright green door, and heard a muffled “Come in!” from inside. The Salads didn’t really bother locking their door most of the time. Crime simply didn’t happen to the pony who ran most of Equestria’s police force. And, besides, the houseplants could probably eat any interlopers. [3] Pushed, he might admit that there was such a thing as the Palace Gardens, but he'd defend his stance by pointing out that, by virtue of being accessible to the public, they were really more of a park. And besides, they didn't have a swing, and did use to have the stone prison of the personification of all chaos. Two major black marks right there. [4] This illustrated why it was vitally important not to let a biochemist have unchecked control over any plot of land larger than about a square foot. Some ponies took up gardening to get away from their day jobs. Dr. Inky Salad-Flower, Green Hoof Chair for Inadvisable Botany, never quite managed. He opened the door with care, and slipped in, shaking snow from his thick coat. The house seemed surprisingly quiet. With three exuberant children, their no less exuberant if frequently tired mother, and Leafy Salad one of only three ponies in Equestria who could sleep exuberantly, the house was never quiet. Never, the thought came to him, unless— “FOALPILE ON UNCLE DOTTY!” —it was deliberate, he thought in the fuzzy, uncertain manner of someone who had just been stunned by a foalvalanche. “HAPPY HEARTHWARMING!” “Tffrf yff. Hffy hffwffinf fy yff tff.” “Lio, what did uncle Dotty say?” Filly’s voice. That would be Daisy. Dotted thought he could feel her hooves somewhere on his withers. “Stop sitting on his head and maybe we’ll hear it properly.” That was a colt. So Dandelion. Probably the crushing weight on his back, then. There was a sudden light, blessed blessed air, and the freedom to get up. Dotted stood in the archway that led into the parlor and blocking his way were Daisy and Dandelion Salad, all but vibrating with excitement. Dandelion kept fluffing and re-fluffing his wings, while Daisy hopped in place, suspending herself in the air with frantic flapping from her stubby little wings. She was getting, Dotted noted, some pretty good air. Time for flight camp? He put those thoughts aside and tried not to grin. He might have tried to leap over the sun, for all the good it did him. “I said ‘Thank you. Happy Hearthwarming to you too.’ How was Fillydelphia?” “Boring! They wouldn’t let me use the chemistry set you got me!” Dandelion’s adopted an attitude of aggrieved dignity so fierce that Dotted had to suppress a sudden mad impulse to giggle. “Well, they might have been worried about, um, stains. And perhaps your mother—” “—wants to have a word with you, Dotted.” Inky Salad-Flower was an earth pony mare, about three inches taller than Dotted, and with a caramel coat, chocolate colored mane, and a cutie mark of a dark tulip ending in a nib. This was all quite agreeable. She was quite pretty, and had a pleasant, soothing voice[5]. Likewise agreeable. Despite all this agreeableness she looked like a dragon might, if you woke one up by, say, hitting it over the head with its largest diamond. Which you then ate. [5] Just ask her students, who could generally go from wide awake to blissful slumber after only three minutes of her lecturing. Over the years she graduated from tossing bits of chalk at the more flagrant snoozers and snorers to a custom-built squirtgun. “Happy Hearthwarming, um, Inky,” Dotted squeaked. Inky’s countenance reverted instantly to a heartfelt smile. “And a happy Hearthwarming to you, too, Dotty.” Having said this, she quickly returned to the distinctive look of somepony who’s already decided where to hide your body, though now there was the barest trace of a suppressed grin. “Now. Dotty. About that chemistry set.” “Moooom. I told you it was safe,” said Dandelion, who traded in injured dignity for expert wheedling. Might make a good actor, thought Dotted, or if Inky and Leafy fail utterly as parents, a good politician. Now there was a shuddersome thought. “I know it’s safe, Lio. I know Dotted. That’s not the issue. Dotted? Are you teaching my children chemistry?” Dotted grinned. It was hard not to. This was an old, old game, but neither of them tired of it. “Only a bit. Some redox. Some stoichiometry. Perfectl—mostly harmless.” “You are a corrupter of youth, you are.” “I shall await my hemlock smoothie with stoicism, then,” said Dotted, and smiled and waved as he saw Leafy come downstairs. “Wrong philosophical school, Dotty, wrong philosophical school,” Inky replied. “Daaaad!” said Dandelion, “Mom and uncle Dotty aren’t making sense. Again.” “You get used to it, squirt. Hi, Dotty,” Leafy replied, ruffling his son’s mane. “Hi! Everypony’s here, I see. Except Rose? Where…?” “She’s upstairs,” said Inky with an odd smile. “She wouldn’t do the foalpile with us ‘cuz she said she was too big. She’s not too big, is she uncle Dotty?” asked Daisy. “Well—” “An’ an’ I think she’s only sayin’ that ‘cuz she’s up there tuning her—” Daisy’s eyes got very, very wide and she clamped one hoof over her traitorous mouth, then she looked, panic-stricken, to her mother, father, brother, and finally sort-of-honorary-uncle and managed to squeak out, “—room?” Dotted’s eyebrows rose. “Do you, uh, tune rooms?” Leafy gave a rueful smile. “Not generally, no. You better go upstairs. She’d set us on fire if we told you anything. We’ll be waiting for you downstairs. You are staying for dinner.” “Well I wouldn’t want to—” “—wasn’t a question, mate. Statement of fact. Now go on. She’s in her room. Tuning it, apparently,” Leafy said winking at a mortified Daisy. * * * Dotted reached the door of Rose’s room, which was a sober brown decorated only by a plaque with Rose’s cutie mark—a sixteenth note—quite unlike Dandelion’s door which was positively festooned with labels, and dire warnings. Were they serious rather than fanciful and, arguably[6], decorative, the only pony allowed to open the door would be the Surgeon-General of Equestria, and even she would have to get special dispensation from Celestia and Luna both. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, and his hoof went to adjust his chain of office and stopped, inches away from his coat. With some effort he lowered it, straightened his posture, and knocked. [6] And, boy, were they some arguments. “Come in?” Rose sounded…apprehensive? He pushed on the door and entered. Rose was sitting in her favorite chair fussing over her violin almost like one would over a newborn. She glanced up, saw Dotted, and started a little bit. With great care, and considerable dexterity for an earth-pony, she laid the instrument on its little stand, and got to her hooves, smiling nervously. “Uncle Dotty! I wasn’t—I mean you—I mean happy Hearthwarming! Um. Oh! Thank you so much for the tickets! I thought they were sold out instantly! How did—I mean they are wonderful and I always wanted to hear Octavia Van Clef perform the—” Rose started to ramble. Dotted, who had spent most of her foalhood with her in his capacity as foalsitter-in-chief, knew this was a sign of almost terminal nervousness. Still, he let her talk and let his eyes flit across the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Upright piano, with enough sheet music piled on to nearly obscure it; writing desk, untidy; closet, surprisingly tidy; a corkboard covered to an inch’s depth with notes, music scores, and concert posters. Everything was reassuringly normal. “—they say that she ends that phrase with an appoggiatura which is really tricky because—oh, but I’m rambling.” “It’s fine, Rose. Please, tell me, are you okay?” “Well—uh—I do have news.” She sounded apprehensive. Dotted carefully kept how worried he was off his face. “Yes?” “You—you know how I wanted to go to the Canterlot Conservatory?” Dotted’s heart sank, and his hooves grew cold. He was sure she would get in. Sure of it. But if it were good news she wouldn’t be this apprehensive. Hay. If she had gotten in, there’d be a party on already. Leafy would see to it. That must mean she didn’t—that they hadn’t— that she was— Dotted couldn’t even think it. He tried to marshal some comforting words, but could find none—none seemed adequate, not for this level of disappointment. He would probably never have children, and Rose… Well, he loved the rest of the kids as if they were his own, honestly, but Rose—he suspected she was as close to a daughter as anything he’d ever have. And to have this happen to her! He remembered how she would ramble on about her dreams and about music and—all of it, gone. It’s those stuck-up prejudiced tribalist bastards in the admission board, he was sure of it. Not good enough because she’s not a unicorn, was she? Rejected without an entrance exam, was she? Well now. His hoof flew to his neck to wrench the chain into place and he suppressed a stab of irritation that it wasn’t there. We’ll see about— he caught himself short. It wasn’t time for anger. Not now. He took a deep shuddering breath and managed, with some difficulty, to speak. “Y—Yes?” “Well, I, uh, I got in.” “Oh, my dear, dear Rose I am so very sorr—wait… did you say you got in?” “Yes.” It would be an exaggeration to say that Dotted’s whoop could be heard all the way to the palace, but only just. “That’s marvel—no, that’s the best news ever! Why aren’t we celebrating right now? When did you learn—when was your entrance exam?” “A week ago.” “A week? Then why… Why didn’t you tell me? I would have attended! I would have made time.” “Yeah. But—but you are you. You sitting there would have influenced the judges. I… I wanted to do this for myself. Because later, well, I’d always wonder, wouldn’t I?” “Oh, come on, Rose. Hardly anypony knows who I am. They wouldn’t even notice me sitting in the back.” Rose gave him a Look that made Dotted instantly think of Celestia. It’s the sort of look that suggest that you are not only an open book, but the large print edition, too. “Maybe they wouldn’t know who you are, and maybe they would, but you’d make sure of it, wouldn’t you? Oh, not in person, no, but you’d make an indiscreet remark to just the wrong pony, who’d blab to just the right pony, and your reputation would precede you. Accidentally on purpose,” Rose said, maintaining the Look. “Nons—well. Um,” Dotted said, sighing, “have you been talking to the princess?” “Which one?” “Take your pick. You sound like all of them. Okay. Yes. I might have—but I just want you to do well and I would never tell them to do anything—but you know how snobbish some of these—” “Yes. Yes. I know why you’d do it, but—I had to do it alone. And so you couldn’t know. Are… are you angry with me?” “Oh, Rose,” Dotted sighed, and rushed in to hug her, “of course I’m not. I’m proud. I’m happy. But I’m not even a little bit angry. You were nervous about that?” “Well, um, a little bit. But there’s another reason. You know how the entrance exam requires that you play your own composition?” “Yes. I was there when you read the exam rules.” “Yes. Yes. Well,” the nervousness returned to Rose. She cast around for something to say, gave up, grabbed a sheaf of papers and thrust them at Dotted. Dotted scanned the score. Foalsitting Rose for all those years had required a surprising facility with music theory, and Dotted had a very good memory. So he could, with some difficulty, make some sense of the score. A solo violin piece, very difficult, lots of ornamentation and trickery that made it seem like the violin was playing more than one melody at a time. A lot of it played in pizzicato, too. He was just about to start sounding out the main theme when he noticed the title. ‘An Afternoon for Dotted Line’ Dotted lifted his eyes, wide with surprise, to regard Rose who was… yes, she was blushing. It was hard to tell, what with her honey-brown coat, but it was there. “Rose—I… I don’t know what to say…” “I thought I could maybe play it to, um, to you, if—if you want to—” Rose was stuttering now, uncertain, but the bow was attached to her hoof and she held the violin gently. Dotted smiled, motioned with a hoof, and sat down, the picture of attentiveness. Rose got to her hind hooves in one smooth motion, and began, one long note held steady, fading at the end into a sort of practiced discord. It was always a wonder, seeing her play. No matter how nervous, listless, sad, angry, or anything she was before, the moment the bow touched the strings a profound peace settled on her. She’d half-close her eyes and just drift off, almost seeming asleep, while her hooves danced and blurred. The music started slowly. A simple theme played once, serious and solemn, with no ornament and in it, woven throughout, the rhythm of crashing waves. Then a counterpoint, plucked and cheerful, seeming to laugh and caper. At the final note, Rose seemed to accelerate and the two melodies intertwined and danced one ‘round the other. It hardly seemed possible that one violin was making all of these sounds, but no matter how carefully Dotted looked, an orchestra refused to materialize. The music grew yet more complex, introducing another theme to the dance, a variation on the Equestrian March, bold and official. The swirling complexity of it all continued, with three themes weaving and melding in a dance that was becoming more furious with each passing measure. After a while, Rose somehow found some new reserve of energy and a fourth theme was added, a soft elusive variation on the Solar Hymn. The four themes fought. They had to, there wasn’t room on the violin’s strings for velvet dances, or considerations anymore, and the noise of battle quickly grew cacophonous. Of course, this was still a single violin and the cacophony was… restrained, seen more in the chromatic nature of the notes, rather than sheer volume. Still, there was no mistaking it, where once there was harmony, now there was war. After a climax where the violin was made to shudder and weep, there was a full semibreve rest, and the piece seemed to start anew, but now it was the second theme, the laughing one, that was played first and all the other ones followed, laughing along with it. The piece ended, and Dotted reminded himself to breathe. Rose opened her eyes, at last, going from beatific calm to nervous in one move. “Did—did you like it, I wrote it so—are you crying?” “No. No. I—I just have something in my eyes, is all.” “Oh,” Rose said, eyes narrowing, “what’s that?” “Tears.” “Oh. Did you—” “—I loved it. It was… beautiful.” Rose rushed and threw her hooves around Dotted’s neck, nearly clipping him alongside the muzzle with her bow. “Thank you,” said Dotted, his voice rough. “What for?” “Best Hearthwarming present ever.” Rose smiled, and let go, walking back to put the bow and the violin on their little stand. While she was busy tidying up, Dotted spoke. “The judges—did they ask who this ‘Dotted Line’ was?” Rose turned, and grinned. “They did! After they told me I passed.” “And what did you say?” “The pony who makes sure your budget passes every year.” “Attagirl.” Author's Note This story dedicated to Kobalstromo, who is made of win, whom I promised I'd write this a very, very long time ago. Sorry it took so long, mate. The Game the Princesses PlayThe Game the Princesses Play a My Little Pony koan “I’ll buy two hedgehogs, and then I’ll spin for two-fifty.” There was a game the princesses played. “You can’t do that! It’s Tuesday! We get to interrupt your turn and spin for four-fifty now!” Every morning, just before Luna retired, they’d meet in the Entirely Unnecessary Hall[1] and play, with every possible sign of enjoyment. “It’s ‘I get to interrupt,’ Luna. And if you spin four-fifty I invoke my Lettuce/Snail card and ask for an extra half-round, but since it’s an alternate Tuesday, I get an eight of a round over that. Point to me I think.” [1] If you should happen to have a princess, and if she happens to have a...robust sense of humor, don't ask her to name things. An architect, long dead, didn't heed that piece of advice, sadly, and as a result his very finest work was forever called the Salon of Suspiciously Smug Statues. The thing was… “Nuh-uh! Vegetable exception! Half a point!” The thing was, nopony in all of Equestria seemed to have the faintest idea what they were playing. “Are you sticking your tongue out at me? Really. Anyway. I’ll begin. Remember, no northern approach. My first move is Finchley Central.” Nopony in Equestria, or, indeed, outside of Equestria. Inquires were made—discrete ones, of course—with the ambassadorial staff of many proud nations of Epona. The Zebras were puzzled, Griffons confused, Qilin taken aback, and the Diamond Dog Imperial Remnant delegation may have entirely failed to grasp the question in the first place. “We can stick our—my tongue at whomever I wish. ‘Tis a perfectly fine tongue. And you always play the same. Burnt Oak.” Oh, there were theories. Protocol demanded that the princesses be always attended, and quickly the word spread and game had its first connoisseurs, every one of which was certain they had the firmest grasp of the rules. Many a learned debate was had over the advisability of playing with green cards[2], or just how many ‘clumps’ there were in a ‘boot.’ “It is a fine tongue, but it’s a bit foalish, isn’t it? Embarkment.” [2] Apparently that was bad unless it was a Wednesday with an 'r' in the name, whatever that meant. Some—and there were quite a few, for the game had built up quite the audience—claimed it wasn’t a game at all. There was a strong school of belief which maintained that it was a religious ceremony, meant to avert the end of the world. Though as to how, the details varied wildly. “Foalish? We? Foalish? We aren’t the ones who balance buckets on doors! Chalk Farm!” One particularly innovative theology claimed it was to calm a chaos spirit, parent to Discord, and keep him—or possibly her, hard to know with chaos spirits—from destroying the world. The game, this theology said, didn’t have rules, just pure chaos that fed the spirit and kept it safely sleeping. “That one’s a classic prank, Luna. Classic. Morningto—” Another theory claimed that this was the way the secretive, covert activities of the realm were discussed: in a code so intricate, so ingenious, so devious, that entire lifetimes went into its devising. This school of thought had little traction, however, mostly because its proponents were fidgety ponies, with intent expressions, and the unnerving habit of looking just up and to the left of the person they were talking to. “—ah-hah! You can’t! The Euston Exception is in play, with the Brent Cross modifier. Foul! We get to draw two cards!” On one celebrated occasion, one of these conspiracy-minded ponies heard Luna confidently state that the green cat was in play on the board of becoming. He went very pale and very, very still, pausing his frantic scribbling in a notebook. Then, after a moment, he rushed out, never to be seen again. “Fine. Fine. You don’t have to gloat over it.” It was later rumored that he started enlarging the basement of his house and stockpiling water, canned goods, musical instruments, and twine. Nopony knew why, though, of course, a great many ventured a guess. “We aren’t gloating. We never gloat. A prince and a deuce! Fizzbin! Huzzah! In your forehead!” Yet a third group of ponies thought that it was all a devious test. Whoever understood the rules well enough to sit down with the princesses one day and play with competence, they said, would be granted some sort of grand prize. Current favorites were ascension to royalty, immortality, and immorality[3], in that order. [3] This last one said with a lot of eyebrow-waggling and suggestive elbows to the barrel. “Face, Luna. In your face. And I’m so glad you never gloat. You can’t imagine. Okay. Fizzbin it is. Let’s rotate the board.” Two big problems for everypony’s theories were the board and the pieces, of course. “Shall I get the time-fracture wickets?” There were so many. Most of them were in the Royal Museum where they’d been variously classified as farming equipment, early examples of abstract art, marital aids, and votive objects[4]. They made a staggering mess, arrayed across the main table and the many side-tables either randomly or through a system too intricate for even the most dedicated furtive notebook-scribbler to grasp. Some were fairly ordinary, like the cards from half-a-dozen mutually incompatible decks; some less so like the dice with an entirely unreasonable number of sides; and some made no sense whatsoever, like the magnetized spoon half-filled with salt, and the yarrow sticks. “No, let’s play the counter-epistemological variant today.” [4] Archeologist for 'we have no idea what this is for.' Other synonyms include 'probably ritual,' and 'of religious significance.' Many a scientist has remarked in the past about the curious fact that archeology had so many ways of saying 'no idea,' though it's prudent to make this sort of remark outside the earshots of archeologists, to better avoid a fusillade of exquisite antique potsherds. And the board? Up until six months ago, it was proudly displayed in the Royal Gallery. Six doctoral theses, two books, and countless papers discussed its swirling, almost fractal patterns, and their significance: artistic, philosophical, and sociological. Pony academia was still reeling at the realization that it was not, in fact, a metaphor for the Pegasi struggle for identity in the post-reconstruction period, nor a study in oppressive social dynamics. “Very well! I shall play as the solipsist premise.” Though some outré academics were starting to suggest that using the picture as a games-board was actually an act of deconstruction and subversion that added fresh layers of meaning to an already meaning-laden artwork. “Oh come now, Luna, you always pick—never mind, never mind, have it your way. I’ll play as the empiricist premise.” Even stranger, were the instruments that surrounded the board. They weren’t anything out of the ordinary in and of themselves— “Double sixes! Offensive, with plus two on sophistry. Credo.” —but what was the compass for? Or the spirit level? Apparently consulting them cost a half-clump except when the turnbull was crosswise, when it cost six. This was well understood among the ponies studying the game. “Defensive, plus four with esse est percipi aut percipere. Credo denied. Point to me?” What was less understood was what a turnbull was in the first place, or what it could possibly mean for one to be crosswise. It was known that a certain number of clumps made up a boot, but theories as regarding to the actual number ranged from ‘three’ all the way to ‘forty-seven and a bit.’ “Point-and-game. W—I agree. Well played, sister.” And then the game would be over, just like that. The sisters, who at that point seemed just about ready to re-fight the more stirring bits of the War of the Two Sisters would smile at each other, cross necks, spend a few minutes tidying up, and walk off, one to bed, the other to a full day of dealing with the permanent state of emergency that was Equestria. Behind them, they’d leave an entire hall of confused ponies who’d wait respectfully, until both the princesses were safely away and then get down to some serious arguing. “And you too, Luna. Sleep well.” Not today, though. Today one of the ponies followed Celestia with a purposeful trot, struggling to match the princess’ long stride with his own stubby legs. He finally caught up to her in the gently sloping corridor leading down to the Hallway of Easterly Radiance. It was a cozy, plush place—quite small by palace standards—and lit with thin shafts of sunlight admitted through embrasures as ornate as they were tactically unsound. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, may I ask for a moment of your time,” he asked, huffing slightly. “Mr. Secretary! Of course. I didn’t know you watched us play,” Celestia replied. “Not frequently. But I do drop by from time to time, as errands take me past the hall,” Dotted Line replied, looking almost bashful to admit interest in anything not related to paperwork. “How can I help you, then?” “Well, Your Majesty, I was curious and, uh, I was meaning to… for some time now, ah,” Dotted trailed off a bit, but then managed to catch himself, “My apologies. What I meant to say is I was curious about the game you and princess Luna play. I—I mean if it isn’t personal, of course.” “No, no, not at all. It’s perfectly fine, but—you mean ponies don’t know?” “No, Your Majesty. Nopony does.” “But…surely it’s mentioned somewhere in the chronicles.” “There are references to ‘The Game the Princesses Play,’ yes, but that’s generally assumed to be chess. Hence the white and black pieces.” Celestia laughed, and Dotted could swear that the shafts of light grew brighter and wavered. “Me? Play chess with Luna? Oh, that wouldn’t end well. She’d beat me in five minutes looking insufferably bored while she did so, and then where’d we be? No, no, we haven’t played chess in…well, a very long time. So…nopony knew what we were doing all this while?” “No, Your Majesty.” “Why didn’t they ask?” “Well the nobles were afraid of seeming ignorant before both you, your sister, and their peers, of course.” “I see.” “And the scholars were enjoying the arguments altogether too much. Asking you or princess Luna would quite spoil them, and would, as far as I can tell, be considered cheating.” “But you did ask.” “I did, Your Majesty. I argue quite enough in my day-to-day job, and if I were afraid of seeming ignorant before you, I’d never open my mouth.” Celestia looked… It was hard to say. Pained? Worried? Sad? Dotted wasn’t sure. He always had trouble reading her face. The light kept getting in his eyes. Still, she was clearly distressed, so he hurried to cover over any offense he had caused. “Then what is the, uh, name…?” The princess seemed torn for a moment, as if she wanted to say something else, but then gave up and spoke, brightly. “We never gave it a name. We called it ‘our game’ ever since we were foals. Oh, we had such arguments trying to give it a proper name, but in the end we never managed it, and ‘our game’ stuck.” “Then what are the rules? Are there any?” “Oh, a great many rules, but only one really important one.” “Which is?” “The rules may never be the same twice.” “What?” Dotted barked, surprised, and then caught himself. “Sorry, Your Majesty, I meant to say could you, uh, explain that?” “Every time we play, we change the rules, at least a little bit. We are never quite the same from one game to another, why should the rules be?” “That—I guess it makes sense. And you’ve been playing for…?” “Hundreds of years. It’s gotten quite complicated over time.” “I can imagine. So you—um… what’s the score?” They had started down the corridor by this point, Celestia walking more slowly this time, so that Dotted could keep up. As he asked the question, she stopped suddenly with a surprised expression. She fluffed her wings and tapped her hoof absently. At length she turned back to Dotted with an unreadable smile on her muzzle and spoke. “Do you know, Mr. Secretary, I’ve completely forgotten.” And Dotted Line was enlightened. On the Inaccuracy of ProverbsOn the Inaccuracy of Proverbs Cadence sighed, and addressed the little bundle under the blanket. "What did they say, Twilight?" There was a silence, broken only by a few sniffles from below the embroidered stars. Cadence felt something knot unpleasantly in her gut. She was not a violent pony, never that, but the idea of someone teasing Twilight until she wept and hid herself under her blankets made something cold and ugly uncoil inside her. For a fleeting moment, she recalled how certain ancient chronicles described Celestia as 'terrible.’ Right now, Cadence felt she could be terrible, too. All too easily. But that thought fled soon enough. There were more pressing things, like trying her best to be a good foalsitter. She laid a gentle wing across the bundle, and stroked it lightly with a hoof. "Were you hurt by the things they said?" A face peeked from under the blankets. A tear-streaked, puffy-eyed face of a tiny unicorn filly pretending with all her might that she wasn't as upset as she was. "There's—there's a saying about that," said Twilight, voice raw and wavering. Cadence lifted her up gently, and let the little filly lean against her. Absentmindedly, she wiped away a tear with a wingtip. "And what would the saying be?" Twilight's face took on a look of extreme concentration. "Sticks and stones may break my bones," she said in a sing-song voice, "but words are the smallest units of language capable of carrying meaning in isolation and, thus, cannot exert the four thousand neightons of force per square centimeter necessary to break pony bone." Cadence managed to choke down a laugh. She'd bite her wings off before hurting Twilight's feelings in a time like this. Still, it took some concentration to ask her question without snickering. "That's all true, Twilight, I’m certain, but that's not how the saying goes, is it?" "No. Mine's better. I improved it. 'Cause--'cause, it's more accurate, I looked it all up, and I was thinking..." "Yes, honey?" "Sticks and stones can break my bones. That's why mom says to be careful and not climb things, and words can't break my bones, but—" Cadence didn't say anything. She simply tried to look encouraging, and shifted her wing so it covered her charge. Twilight snuggled into the down, and for all that the little filly tried to be serious and scientific, she could feel a quivering under the sensitive feathers. Her weather-sense tried to tell her it was a storm coming. It wasn’t entirely wrong. After a while, Twilight spoke up again. "They can't break my bones but they can hurt. The saying is stupid. So—so I made it better," said Twilight, looking up at Cadence, proud, but with fresh tears welling up in her eyes. There was nothing Cadence could think to say, so she just scooped Twilight up in her forelegs and held her close, as she wept, and wept, and wept. She held her like that until the little filly, exhausted by tears, drifted off to sleep. Author's Note This story was written chiefly because I watched this video, heard the, ah, improved version of the saying and had to give it a home. The Nature of WarThe Nature of War They say… In the year 356 after Banishment, the Greater Griffonstan Empire declared war on Equestria for, it must be said, no reason at all. Six hundred and thirty years hence, the Griffonstan Ambassador in a happy confluence of scholarship and diplomacy, called it ‘the most senseless of wars.’ But, at the time, the war seemed not only sensible, but inevitable. As the Emperor himself explained to an enthusiastic Imperial Council, while honor surely lies in victory, the greatest honor must then lie in victory over the superior foe. And which foe could be more worthy than one led by a living goddess? Somewhere around the autumn of 357, the enthusiasm for war was cooling a bit. The ponies proved to be not only worthy opponents, but boring ones, too. They preferred to avoid large glorious battles and instead sulked in fortresses, and struck at supply lines and poorly defended materiel depots. Even the pegasi, who could usually be relied upon for a good stimulating bit of bloodshed, hid behind clouds and seemed to prefer striking from ambush. After conferring with his generals, the Emperor decided that the whole war started off on the wrong foot and was in serious danger of being utterly ruined. To forestall that, he devised a plan to inject some much-needed glory into the proceedings, inspired as he was by ancient sagas. Thus, under his orders, a measure of starfall iron was taken from the imperial treasury, and conveyed to the finest smiths in all of Griffonstan, in the many caves and grottoes of the Steel Fastness Eyrie. An ancient dragon lived here, and suitably propitiated with a king’s ransom of gems, she used her fire to help the smiths purify the metal, and then forge it into the finest blade the world had ever seen. It is said twelve smiths worked it, with hammers passed from claw to claw for untold generations. It is said, also, that it was quenched in ancient, untouched glaciers, its power—even while being forged—such that the heat of it split the glaciers in twain. As it was worked, it was sharpened finer and finer still. First on coarse stones, then on finer ones, and finally, it is said, on sounds. First, the rumble of a waking volcano, then the scrape of stone on stone, then the crackle of fire, and finally on the high pitched war-cry of a thousand griffin warriors. The wisest griffins are said to have been summoned, and to have sat under lock and key in council for forty sleepless days and nights distilling their wisdom: the ice-runes of the fallen Crystal empire, the mysterious petroglyphs found in Northern Griffonstan so alien than no more than one in ten could study them without succumbing to madness and death, and a thousand other mysteries besides, each more terrible than the last. After forty days they had whittled down their storehouses of knowledge and hoards of ancient secrets to a mere twenty inscriptions fitting easily on the blade. It is said that they were written in ink made of crushed diamonds, and the blood of the sages themselves. It is said that the flight-feathers of the first emperor himself were brought out of their jeweled reliquaries and used as quills. The power of the inscriptions was such that upon being written with trembling claws they sunk themselves into the metal itself, becoming part of the heart of the blade. The strain of summoning so much power into the world was terrible, and a full quarter of the sages died in the attempt, and still a further quarter went mad. The chief of the smiths then fitted an ornate gold-and-sapphire hilt to the blade, with sturdy claw-rings lined with dragon-hide and studded with lapis lazuli. She then took the blade to the deepest hall of the mountain, and spent the night there in solemn contemplation of the work she had done. When she emerged with the sun the next day she was nameless, having sacrificed her name and her clan to the perfection of the blade. And so, even now, none know who the smith was, or where her bones lie. The sacrifice sealed within the blade such power as had never been seen before in any weapons but those said to be used by gods in long past ages. Until that moment the blade was kept from the sun, and was only worked in the dead of night under flickering torchlight. But now it was judged strong enough, and was taken to greet the dawn with defiance. The Emperor himself held it aloft, and such was the blaze of its polished blade, and the menace of its mien that none would dare meet his eyes. He struck a light blow on a stone crag and it shattered in a clap of thunder. This, he said, was good. He then had blades from all quarters of the world brought to him—prized Qilin blades forged over lifetimes, curious leaflike Zebra swords, delicate Unicorn’s blades of Equestria, and a dozen more besides—and he struck each in turn. Every one of them shattered, but he would not stop until the ground beneath his talons was aglitter with broken metal. This, he said, was better. At last, he caused the finest of Qilin silk to be brought, and holding the blade straight, he allowed a wisp of it to fall onto the blade. No sooner had it touched the edge than it split in two. The Emperor sheathed the blade and inspected the cut. It was arrow-straight, and free of the slightest blemish or tear. This, he said, was best of all. The sword, then, was held under guard in the imperial treasury while the Emperor caused the greatest warriors of Griffonstan to be summoned to the White Peak Eyrie. Fully ten-score answered his call. This robbed many a unit of its commander, or finest fighter, but there was little worry. The ponies were content to sulk in their infernally effective fortresses tending to their bizarre instruments of war. The proud warriors arrived resplendently arrayed, each more magnificent than the last. The Slayer of a Thousand, whose bones and name lie beneath White Peak, was there, as was The Red Terror, whose bones and name lie beneath Iron Crag, and whose every feather was dyed crimson, so that no foe could ever say that they were attacked by stealth, and many other storied warriors besides. The Emperor decreed that they were to fight in single combat until only a dozen remained, and so they did, joining battle with joyous fury. Such was their fierceness that, even though they fought in armor with blunted blades, fully half were wounded, and ten were killed. But their deaths were judged to be of great honor, and none grieved. At last, only a dozen remained, and these were taken to the highest point of White Peak, where the air is so thin, that all but the hardiest cannot dwell and none but the most powerful can fly. It was so cold, so far up and in the dead of winter, that no griffin dared perch still for more than a moment, lest hoarfrost root them to the spot. There, the twelve were bid to fight in a mock battle, first six to the side, then three, and finally alone against two others. The victor would be granted the blade. The fighting was terrifying. Not only was the cold murderously strong, the wind cruel and relentless, and the air thin, but the passing clouds could unexpectedly cloak combatants from one another, suddenly turning the long drawn-out stalking into a welter of unseen claws and deafening battle-cries. After four hours, all the Emperor’s attendants either fled to lower altitudes and into disgrace or died where they stood, obedient to the last. But the Emperor yet lived, and so did the warriors. All had survived, though most bore grievous wounds that would, in time, become honorable scars. One stood above them all: The Breaker of Chains, whose bones and name lie beneath White Peak. He was not, perhaps, as strong as Howling Storm, whose bones and name are lost, nor was he as quick as the Red Terror, whose bones and name lie beneath Iron Crag, but he was the most fierce. He would never back down, and never fail to press home his attack. Even the toughest of foes wilted at his will, and he had no fear. At once, the course was clear. Griffin armies converged on a powerful pony fastness near Whitetail, and, arraying themselves outside, waited as their champion was sent forth. Breaker of Chains, whose bones and name lie beneath White Peak, flew forth, in gilded armor that displayed proudly the colors of the empire, with blade held high. It blazed bright in the dawn sun, each gleam and glitter a declaration of defiance against Celestia and her children. He hovered, outlined against the rising sun, and bellowed out a challenge to any pony brave enough to step forth. He exulted. His whole life, first as a hunter, then as a soldier, and now as champion to all of Griffonstan, was mere preparation for this one moment of utter glory. It was then that Corporal Sure Cut, of the 133rd Royal Hussars, shot him with a crossbow. How much his previous life as a mane-dresser prepared him for that moment is unknown. The war ended shortly thereafter, with the agreement of the Diet of Whitetail, where the griffins agreed, at last, to give up a diet of pony forevermore. The blade survived, and is today kept in the Armistice Museum, at the Griffonstan/Stalliongrad border. * * * Carl von Clawsewitz, ambassador of the Greater Griffonstan Empire, paused, and smiled the best one could with a beak. The two foals had taken cover. The little one behind her older sister, peeking from between her legs, and the older one, the colt, behind a stack of folders perched atop a filing cabinet lying on its side. A sign of a good story well told, children hiding behind things, he always thought. “And that’s the story. I hope you liked it.” “It was very nice, Your Excellency,” said Rose politely, “though not quite as I had heard it.” Carl made an expansive gesture with a wing, expertly keeping balance on his perch atop a small hillock of filing cabinets piled together, apparently, in emulation of ancient Equestrian megalithic sites. “Well, I do put my own spin on it, I must admit. And please, Miss Salad, ‘Carl.’ Titles are for diplomacy. This is storytelling. You can tell because it is a lot more fun.” “Um,” came a little voice from below. Carl bent down, until his beak was level with the tiny filly. “Yes, little Daisy?” “Um. Um. Why do you do the dipl—diplomaty stuff? If you like tellin’ stories why don’t you be a storyteller? ‘Cos, ‘cos, you tell ‘em really well,” the little filly said, blushing. “Yeah,” said Dandelion perking up, “with the fighting and the sword and—” he meant to punctuate that last line with a dramatic gesture, but overbalanced and fell from his sister’s back. He caught himself before he could hit the floor, and ended up flying upside-down. This did not seem to lessen his enthusiasm to any appreciable degree. “Well. Young Miss Daisy, Mr. Salad, I’m very glad you think so. As for why I do, ah, this diplomacy stuff, ah…” Carl cast around for something he knew about foals. “Well,” he continued, “it’s like alfalfa. It makes you big and strong, your mother says, right, but you don’t like it?” The two foals nodded vigorously and Rose smiled. “But you have to eat it, yes? Well, this,” he said, sweeping a wing to indicate the office of the Cabinet Secretary piled high with paper, “this is my alfalfa. You can’t always do what you want. Even as a grown-up.” “Oh,” said Daisy, looking sad. She crept up from between her sister’s legs, and inched forward. The she rushed forward, gave the ambassador’s downy legs a quick nuzzle, and said, “I hope you can have cake after, then, an’ tell your stories someday.” Then, she scooted back, hiding. “Thank you, little Daisy, that’s very—” Carl stopped, hearing the sound of intemperate language coming closer. “Ah. That would be your uncle approaching. By the way he’s referring to ‘Those Bastards in the Rising Damp,’ he’s still quite put out with the weatherponies of Cloudsdale. It’s likely we are going to be snowed in for a while yet. You were right, Mr. Salad. A story really did help pass the time.” “I wonder,” said Rose speaking a bit louder to be heard over the threnody on the subject of damages and forms that need filling in being preformed just outside, “why you picked that story to tell, Your Ex—Carl.” “Well it is a very curious tale. The most curious, I should think.” “Why?” “Because it is often told and retold by both ponies and griffins alike, both of whom tell it in order to demonstrate how the other side utterly misunderstands the nature of war.” On Forensic Accounting & Choral SingingOn Forensic Accounting & Choral Singing a serious study Leafy wasn't pleased. At all. “I’m not pleased,” he said, redundantly, “At all.” Balanced Ledger made a face. This caused her thick horn-rimmed glasses to slip forward and down her muzzle, and she had to scramble and hold them in place with a hoof, somewhat ruining the effect. “None of us are, Mr. Salad. If we don’t handle this appropriately the result will be disastrous for the Equestrian economy. The president of one of our oldest banks has been dabbling in insider trading and embezzlement, and doing so poorly, at that,” she said. “I don’t mean that. I’m not pleased we haven’t arrested him already. Normally when this happens Dotty and Sky Scribe go and make, like, a mountain of skulls in lower Manehatten to put the fear of Celestia in anyone else thinking about funny business.” “I don’t think Her Majesty is who they are afraid of,” said Balanced Ledger, with a sly smile. It was a well known fact that the mere prospect of being audited by Sky Scribe was enough to cause bankers to leap out of their office windows in stark terror[1]. Somewhat less known is that Dotted Line had to move Sky Scribe’s office from Manehatten because every time he strolled down to get a sandwich for lunch he’d pass by the stock exchange and cause the market index to drop twenty points. [1] Pegasus pony bankers, admittedly, but still, the thought was there. “Well, yes, point is by this time in most cases we’ve arrested all the executives and anyone standing next to them just for good measure.” “Ah, but those were clever crooks. Well, clever by the limited intellectual standards of financial criminals, at any rate. Their investments worked out. Gilded Guilder, on the other hoof, lost all the money he siphoned off his bank. As a result a major Equestrian bank—one of the big five!—has about the same capitalization as a lemonade stand. It’s running on good will, credit, and nopony realizing what had happened yet. When they do, there’s going to be a run, ponies are going to figure out the bank is a hollow shell, the bit will fall like a brick, and before you know it, the Equestrian economy is a smoking crater. Canterlot Mercantile Bank is important.” “This just sounds like more reason to arrest him now before he flees,” said Leafy, peevishly. “He agreed to cooperate fully in exchange for us holding off for a week.” “That just gives him time to make good his escape!” “Probably.” “But—” “We need that week. If we act fast and spend a terrifying amount of bits we can issue short term bonds, then acquire insurance by arranging for a rate swap with a major Qillin bank, say, then buy a put, right, on bonds nominally in Zebrican Dr—” “Right. Right. Magic. Dark wizardry. Hold the eye of newt,” said Leafy massaging the bridge of his nose. “You can’t—and this comes straight from the Secretary—arrest him for embezzlement, fraud, any financial crime at all until a full week has elapsed.” “Yeah? You can tell Dotty that—” “—he wants your word on this, Mr. Salad. He insisted.” Leafy sighed. “…fine. I give my word. I won’t be arresting him for embezzlement, anything financial at all, until a full week has passed. I promise. Does he want that signed in blood?” “He said he’d get back to you on that.” Leafy walked down the palace corridor, nearly trembling with fury. He couldn't be mad at Dotted—poor fuzzy bastard's only doing his job—but he could be mad at Gilded Guilder—greed of a dragon, brains of a small buttered turnip. And since he was going to be mad, he was going to be productively mad. It was time to get creative with the law. For all that he was seething on the inside, he appeared calm, walking with practiced precision, one hoof in front of the other, with small delicate steps. Only his wings—fluffing and re-fluffing—betrayed how unsettled he was. By the time he got to his office, his wings looked as if he had just flown through a hurricane and then stopped and gone back in a few times more just for the heck of it. He stormed past his secretary with a mumble that could be, with a certain generosity of spirit, interpreted as a greeting and flung himself in his chair. He leaned back and shut his eyes, thinking. Can't arrest him for what he did. Can't arrest him for what he didn't do—well no, I can, but I can't make it stick. So what do I... Cooperation, eh? Full cooperation? Well. There was a thing. What if we— —he was roused from his plotting by a quiet cough. He opened one eye a hair, and saw his principal private secretary holding a tray with a sandwich on it. This merited the attention of both eyes. He leaned forward intent on the sandwich. "Oh, Celestia, sweet and full of grace, you are a life-saver, Quillstroke." "This is widely known, yes." Leafy grinned. "You do realize you don't have to make me lunch, right? Your job description is light on cookery." "I thought it prudent to do so, sir. I saw that your mood was... stormy, and decided it would be best for the both of us if it were less so. Hence sandwich. If you were a volcano I'd be looking for a suitable virgin sacrifice to toss into the caldera. Luckily, you are easier to mollify. Pay attention to the almond-stuffed olives and the bell-pepper relish. They are exquisite." Leafy bit down. They were. "Still," he said, his mouth full, "still, you are making me feel guilty. For starters I definitely owe you lunch." "Guilty, you say? Good. May I ask that you remember that guilt when time comes to determine the magnificence of the lunch you owe me?" Leafy chuckled, and attacked the rest of the sandwich with gusto. Warm and comfortable in a post-prandial glow, Leafy settled back to do some serious plotting. After about half an hour, he had all he needed. He heaved himself out of his chair, and sauntered out of his office. "Off somewhere?" asked Quillstroke. "Yup. To be the victim of a terrible crime. Don't wait up for me." Gilded Guilder was going through his papers, making sure that the payment for passage to Zebrica was untraceable when the door exploded, flying off its hinges. Half a dozen Royal Guardsponies rushed in, armed and armored as if they were here to evict a somnolent dragon, and formed a perimeter around him. Behind them, quite slowly, came Leafy with the air of someone taking an evening constitutional in a park. He squeezed past the vast armored bulks of Corporal Swift Wing and Sergeant Hyacinth with a polite "Sorry" and a half-bow, and walked up to Gilded's desk. He leaned on it, then, hooves on the paperwork, and gave the banker his very finest grin, the sort light reflects off of with a faint metallic 'ting!' noise. "What's the meaning of this?" Gilded asked, trying to mask how terrified he was. "Your pony, Dotted, said that it will be a week before--" "Oh, no no no! Hah! No! Before you are arrested? Heavens forefend! We aren't here to arrest you—isn't that right, Sergeant," said Leafy, all smiles. "Nossir," said Hyacinth. Her expression wasn't all smiles. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was the sort of expression they presumably taught you during guard training, the one that said “Don’t run. You’ll only die tired.” "Then why are you here," asked Guilder, suspicious. "Well, you promised full cooperation, yes?" "Yes. But—" "Well, we are here to be cooperated with. To be cooperatees. Cooperands? Anyway. I'm going to go through your papers, you see." "Sky Scribe already went through—" "—and now I'm going to do so again. You know. Second opinion." "And the guardsponies?" "Oh, they are just my bodyguards. Can't be too careful, you understand." "So you want me to—" "—give me your ledgers and stay put while we go through them." "Then you'll leave?" "'Course." "Fine. Here you go. Please be quick. I still have a bank to run." "Oh, of course. And you've done such a cracker-jack job of that." Gilded supressed a growl, and hoofed a pile of ledgers over. Leafy grabbed them, and opened the first one. He ran his eyes over the page thick with numbers and yawned. He flipped a page and yawned again, extravagantly, spreading his wings to their full extent, before snapping them back. "Celestia! This is boring work, isn't it, Gilded? It’s so easy to lose your place and all. Well. How 'bout a cheery sing-song to keep our spirits up? Lads, Sergeant? How 'bout it?" "I don't—" Before Gilded could get more than a few words of protest out, Leafy leapt up into the air, powerful wings causing instant chaos in the paper-strewn office. Gilded could only watch, helpless, as his precious ticket—to Zebrica and hence to freedom—got blown out of the window. He looked after it, despair beginning to settle onto him, and just as he was considering going after it—damn not being able to fly—Leafy began to sing. "One thousand bottles of beer on the wall! One thousand bottles of beer! You take one down, pass it around..." The guardsponies dutifully chorused after him, faces carefully blank, and eyes focused on nothing in particular. Several hours, and nine hundred and fifty six bottles of beer later, Gilded started to seriously consider chewing his own hoof off to escape. He wasn't entirely sure how that would help, but that's the sort of thing you did to escape when desperate. And, heavens, was he desperate. The singing was bad enough—more than bad enough—but this Salad fellow was the clumsiest pony alive. He managed to crash into the little cabinet of spirits for important guests and get liquor absolutely everywhere. The office smelled like a distillery exploded inside a dive bar. The carpet was probably a write-off, too. Then, then he had accidentally set fire to one of the ledgers and in the mad scramble to put it out—still singing—had accidentally triggered the little switch on Gilded's desk that opened up the compartment with the special ledgers. The ones with the routing numbers he meant to take to Zebrica. Of course the idiot didn't notice anything, but the ledgers were right there. And then the lunatic pony climbed onto his desk to belt out the four hundred and fifty first bottle of beer—apparently that was the best one—he slipped and swept all the secret ledgers into Gilded's lap. That meant he couldn't even move. If he even tried, not even the idiot pegasus would miss a small mountain of paper sliding to the floor. So Gilded sat rooted to the spot, praying Salad would run out of beer bottles soon. "Forty-four bottles of beer on the wall, forty-four bottles of beeeeeer, you take one down—I must say you've been a terribly good sport about this Mr. Guilder, very cooperative—pass it aroooooooound—" "Yes—well—anything to help out..." "Forty three bottle of beer on the waaaaall—of course, now we'll have to go through your mail, too, and, yes, also your tax returns. Thoroughness is very important, after all." "But—I—tax returns?" "For the past ten years." "That's preposterous!" "You know, I think you are right." "I am?" "Yes. No idea what came over me." "Yes, well, good, I—" "Twenty years. At least." "But—" "And we'll need a comprehensive list of everypony you've employed, of course, and depositions from all of them and—oh, damn and blast," said Leafy. For the first time he looked genuinely upset and distraught and his smile slipped off. "What now?" "D'you know, I've completely lost count. Which bottle were we at again?" "What?" "Stumped too, eh? How about you officers?" "Nossir," said Hyacinth. "Really?" "Nossir. No idea whatsoever. We were just following your lead." “Astonishing,” said Leafy, who was astonished. “No head for numbers. If we had one, sir, we wouldn’t be in the guard,” said Hyacinth solicitously. "Ah well. I guess we'll have to start again. One thousand bottles of beer on the wall, one thous—" And it was then that Gilded punched him. Hard. It seemed like the thing to do. A second latter the world became a blur of pain, and when he came to he was being held down, expertly, by six musically inclined guardsponies. One would have been enough. Three, overkill. Six now, was just a farce. He was as thoroughly arrested as anypony in history. Leafy rubbed his jaw, but kept his grin. He ran a hoof across his mane, smoothing a few hairs back into place. Satisfied that, whatever the state of his jaw, at least his coiffure was intact, he spoke. "Ow. Why didn't you say you weren't a music lover, Guilder? Oh dear, oh dear. Assault on a public official in pursuit of official duties? That’s a very serious crime. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. And I thought we were friends, too!" "But I—" "—but nothing. As I said, very serious crime. It’s a class four felony, in fact. I’m a lawyer by trade, and trust me, it is dire. It has to be prosecuted, a case of compelling state interest without the possibility of nolle prosequi. But don't worry! I'll put in a good word for you at your bail hearing about, um... about a week from now, actually. Heh. Funny how that works." "But you—" "Oh and look! You found us some more ledgers," Salad exclaimed, quite cheerful, "you really are being very helpful. Tell you what, I'll have a word with the judge myself. To make sure things go well for you. It’s the least I can do." "You—you—" "Aw, shucks, you don't have to say anything. You are welcome. Now, take him away, please. The law is the law, after all. See you in a week, Gilded me old china." The highly befuddled Gilded was taken out by most of the guardsponies, and Leafy calmly gathered all the new ledgers and made a mental note to thank Gilder's maid for the incredibly helpful information. Astounding what you find when dusting, apparently. He loaded the ledgers into his saddlebags, signed a clipboard for Sergeant Hyacinth who was grinning openly now, in defiance of all ancient guardspony traditions, and sauntered out of the office, pausing to check again that his mane was still in perfect order. It was. The headline read “TIRED AND EMOTIONAL BANKING MAGNATE ASSAULTS PUBLIC OFFICIAL DURING ROUTINE AUDIT.” Just below it, in slightly smaller type was “PERMANENT SECRETARY SALAD SAYS NO HARD FEELINGS.” Spinning Top was very good at her job, after all. “But I thought we—I—no, we agreed not to arrest Mr. Guilder,” said Luna. She was holding the newspaper down with both hooves, as if trying to keep it from escaping, and regarded it with very nearly cross-eyed intensity as she tried to decipher it. Modern times hadn’t been that hard to adapt to, but the Equestrian press was hell on someone not used to it. “Oh, yes. Dotted Line gave explicit instructions to Mr. Salad not to finagle any way of arresting Guilder,” Celestia said. “Then he disobeyed…?” “Dotted Line said financial crime. This is not financial.” “It seems careless of Mr. Line.” “That he gave imprecisely worded instructions to a pony who, when he was practicing law, was widely known as ‘Loophole Leafy?’ Oh, yes. Quite unlike him.” Author's Note Pre-reading by the highly amazing Bookplayer. Also if the name Sky Scribe sounds hauntingly familiar, well, that's no accident. :) HoofprintsHoofprints a My Little Pony fanfic, of sorts Let’s talk about importance. Obviously, the universe doesn’t care about any one date more than the next, nor for any second more than any other. The universe doesn’t even know what a second is, let alone a date. Humans do, it’s true, but what they care about most of all is the stories they tell about these important moments. It's not the moment, but the story that's important. The stories are real to them, and times long past, well, those are beyond reach. The humans can no more get to them than—hah—than walk to the Moon. But humanity’s ever been bad at taking ‘no’ for an answer and got to the Moon, in the end. It did so using magic. Oh, it was exceptionally understandable magic: take a witches’ brew of long-chain hydrocarbons and mix them all up just so, now introduce it to so much oxygen you’ve squeezed and chilled into being liquid, and then step way back and watch the party in the exhaust nozzle. But that’s just one perspective on it. The other is that wizards built a tower to pierce the sky, and filled it with air that was made so it would burn. This bewitched air burned with such fury that the tower flew like an arrow, all the way to the Moon, carrying people who—somehow—lived through the experience. See? Magic. And just like they climbed to the Moon—what did they expect to find up there, do you think?—so, too, did humans reach the past. And just like climbing to the Moon they used magic to do it. It turns out if you really cozy up to a black hole—a small tame one, of course, a friendly one—you can persuade time to go backwards just a little bit. You’ll need some magic, naturally. Demon’s breath, dragon’s scale, matter with negative density... That sort of thing. And with the right spells, you can borrow a few photons here and there. A bit of scattered starlight from times long past. Nobody would miss it. Honest. So. Right. Importance. When humans finally reached the past, and got to peer at it, the concept of an important date suddenly meant something. Important was what humans thought it should be, and it was important because they peered at it. And, time travel being what it is, this meant that the dates were important all along. Always a bit special. Always momentous. With so many eyes and eye-adjacent things fixed on them how could they not be? Pay attention. A man is about to go through one of the most important moments of all time. You wouldn’t want to miss it. Of course, time travel and all that, he was always about to go through that moment. Or had gone through it. Time travel is hell on grammar and the human brain. Hold on and try to steer with your knees. So a man—by all accounts an astounding man—is about to go through one of the most important moments ever. Humans, being human, have given this moment a name. July 21st 1969 02:56:15 UTC they called it, or some of them, at least. Not very poetic, but it is precise. This man is about to step onto the surface of the Moon. This, on its own, is not that impressive. Octogenarians hike all across the Mare Tranquillitatis. Or have hiked. Or will hike. One or more of the above. What is impressive is that he’s the very first to do it. Humans, being creatures of linear time, are very impressed with that sort of thing. And being impressed, they are curious. And being curious they look. They look a lot. And so many eyes, in so small a space, so many stolen photons, in so narrow a time-slice, well, something was bound to give. It did. A woman, lean and tall with staff in hand, stands in the savannah. She looks up—a sudden impulse—locking eyes with the Moon and in its surface she sees the face of a goddess. She is not wrong. A child looks at her parents in confusion. They are so intent on this little screen, and it isn’t showing anything interesting, not really. It’s all a jumble—white ground and sharp shadows. The child looks down at her toys and then up, grasped with wild surmise. She knows something and can’t quite place how she knows it or what the knowing encompasses. Her parents think she’s afraid and her mother picks her up, holds her and tries to explain. There’s a man on the Moon, now, she says. An explorer. Is he there to rescue the princess, the child asks? What princess? The one on the Moon. She’s been there for a long time and she’s very lonely. Her parents laugh. She doesn’t. For the rest of her life, she’ll remember moonlight as something a little bit sad. A little bit forlorn. But she’ll never remember why. A unicorn filly looks up at the Moon. She could never quite see the mare’s head that was supposed to be there. She’s tried, but it just looks like spots. Lighter spots. Darker spots. Just noise that stubbornly refused to resolve into anything at all, let alone dark and shuddersome mare of legend. Tonight, however, the light of the moon is silvery and beautiful and she knows there is something special about it. There’s somepony up there, she says. Her mother lifts her eyes and smiles. No, dear, it’s just a story, all that about Nightmare Moon. It’s not real. There’s nopony on the Moon. No, no, not a pony. What then? A dragon? Her mother tussles her mane, strands of it as white as the moonlight, and smiles. No! Not a dragon! A...thing. In... in white and gold, that walks on two hooves in... in armor never meant for war. And, oh, it’s so very far from home. Her mother laughs again, kindly. Foals have such imaginations. A human who’d probably put their sex as ‘undecided’ if someone were so rude as to ask, looks at an image. It’s the image of a man, clad all in white, wearing a helmet with a gold visor, amidst a landscape of magnificent desolation. In the eyes of this man, eyes that they have spent a long time teasing out of errant photons stolen from the past, the human sees something. Shock. Surprise. Tumult even beyond the time and place the man is standing in. The human has nightmares about those eyes. A splinter intelligence of the core mind of what was once called Andromeda looks into the past. This is not difficult. It tries to comprehend what it sees. This is more difficult. Worse yet, it tries to explain what it is it sees. This proves to be impossible. The clean language of the machine is, for the first time, inappropriate. It’s too precise. Too exact. In this situation of uncertainty it will have to reach back to the glorious inexactitude of the primitive languages of the two species that birthed it and its kind countless eons in the past. Gone now, but for their many children flitting and dancing between stars, but never forgotten. If it could, it would smile. Such a wonder not to know something! It speaks. “Anypony think time’s...fractured over there?” Now look what you did. Time’s broken. Fractured. Cut. Too many eyes, too little space. And you certainly weren’t helping. No. You are right. Apologies. You were told to look. Well look then. The damage is done. Has been done. Will be done. Conjugation is a filthy habit. Look. The man is descending the stairs from his magic ship. He hasn’t spotted the fracture yet. Won’t be long, though. He knows that he should be feeling the momentousness of the occasion, this man, but he isn’t. All he can think about is how uncomfortable it all is, the suit and the stairs, all of it. Later the passage of time will gild those memories, but for now, he’s focused on the sheer hideous uncomfortableness of it all. This will soon change. He’s close to the surface now. It looks like fine, fine powder. Like icing sugar. He steps on it carefully and clears his throat. He has something important to say. “That’s one small step for—” And that’s when he noticed the hoofprints in the powder. Can you hear it? No? Really? The sound of time snapping. Well, it is quite loud. No telling what happens now. Or if there is a now. Technically what the man saw next never happened. There’s proof, too. Incontrovertible videographic proof. All he has are memories. Hoofprints. Hundreds of them, winding and overlapping, like a crazed mandala. So many he’s amazed he’s never seen them before. He’s amazed he hadn’t seen them landing. He’s amazed humans hadn’t seen them from Earth, there were so many. He lifts his eyes, trying to see how far they go. They go all the way to the horizon, ever more complex, ever more involved. A delicate lace tracery, with whorls now symmetrical and even, now wild and swooping. Hoofprint over hoofprint over hoofprint, like an army directed by a General-Choreographer rode over the lunar surface in exacting time over centuries. It’s a sight to chill the heart, but the man doesn’t see this. Above the horizon, the sky is beyond alien. The stars seem closer, winking in patterns and glowing, ghostly and pale. Like the Starry Night brought to life. It’s an amazing, astounding sight, but the man doesn’t see this, either. Beyond the stars, two Earths hang in the sky. One’s the familiar one, the one he’s watched recede for three days, the beautiful blue marble, precious and fragile like a soap bubble and the other is... alien. The continents are in the wrong places, the clouds swirl the wrong way. It’s a sight to provoke wonder and fear in equal measure, but the man doesn’t see this either. All he sees are the eyes. Large—too large to be human—teal eyes. But that’s not what arrested the man so. It’s a wonder, sure, to see eyes where no eyes should be, but the sight before him is replete with wonders, great and small. And they are beautiful eyes, it is true, but beauty, simple, complex, stark, gentle, beauty to satisfy anyone and everyone is not in short supply. Not here. What drew him in, what made him unable to look away, was the pain. There was suffering in those eyes, and sorrow, and loneliness, and a thousand other emotions in ceaseless turmoil. They were the eyes of someone in Hell. The man wants to say something—anything. He is not unkind, never that, and the eyes break his heart. For a moment—a wild, insane, beautiful moment—he thinks that that’s why he had come all this way, so very far from home. To help. To take away at least some of the pain. No-one should suffer so. He reaches out and— And nothing. This all never happened. Weren’t you paying attention? It never happened. Time just shuddered for a bit. Temporal stress or some other fancy word. The man is back right where he started. Alone in such an important moment, surrounded by the striking landscape of an empty, unmarred Moon—desolate, yet beautiful, in a stark sort of way. Obviously this is before they built the park, or the restaurant with the rotating observer lounge and curly fries I can really quite recommend. So the man stumbles just a little bit but regains his equilibrium. He’s nothing if not competent. “—man, one giant leap for mankind.” It’s fine. Nothing happened. No mandala of hoofprints. No twin Earth, no alien sky, nothing. And the eyes...well. The momentousness of the occasion got to him. Had to be that. Had to be. Still, to be safe he decides never to speak of it. Not a word to anyone. And he keeps his promise. He never manages to forget, however, no matter how hard he tries. Dr. Spinning Top—Specimen Annotated Daily ScheduleDr. Spinning Top Specimen Annotated Daily Schedule Look carefully. There's an ornate clock on the nightstand, all gilt and clever scrollwork—the owner clearly devoted to the concept of beauty in all things—and it is going to ruin somepony's day in a minute or so. It's not the clock's fault of course, it's just following orders—the Nuremberg Egg defense of clocks, really—but it's going to ruin a pony's day all the same. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick. This is going to take a while. There's bound to be something more interesting than a clock around here... let's see (you are looking carefully, aren't you?) clothes, jewelry, all very pretty but in an anodyne way. All very neat. The jewels especially, arranged on velvet like surgeon's instruments, gleaming in the dawn half-light. There's a bookshelf too, rosewood, stuffed with books in at least four languages. The books are beautiful, bradel-bound with gold thread much in evidence, but unlike nearly everything else in the room they are worn and a little bit faded with cracked spines and frayed thread. There's a pony here too, of course, nestled deep under the blankets with only a shock of red and orange mane poking out of the covers. If you strain your ears (you should be listening carefully, as well) you can hear her snore very very gently—though she would, of course, deny this vehemently. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick—won't be long now—tock. Click. It is conceivable that the clock could have made a more horrible noise, if only just. 06:00—Wake up. 06:00-06:05—Stare at clock, bewildered and uncertain what the hell it is and why it is making that horrifying sound. Stare at still-dim sky. Reconsider life choices. 06:05-06:20—Shower. 06:20-06:30—The Sacrament of Coffee. News is officially prohibited from happening during this hallowed time. 06:30-06:45—Reviewing early editions of major newspapers. 06:45-06:50—Primal scream therapy. 06:50-07:50—Achieving state of sufficient equianity by way of diverse ablutions and the application of cosmetics. 07:50-07:55—Seeing if the morning editions look any better now. 07:55-08:00—Further primal scream therapy. 08:00-08:30—Morning commute. Casting aspersions on the ancestry, character, and post-mortem fate of the Transport Secretary and all 18245 ponies working under her. 08:30-08:35—Tense negotiations with the security ponies which devolve into philosophy: If you were a changeling but didn't know it, and were in every respect exactly like the original would you need a visitor badge or could you enter through the staff entrance? And what does that have to do with tortoises? 08:35-08:36—Telling the security pony about your mother. 08:36-08:40—Dodging, avoiding, and if necessary assaulting ponies blocking access to the press office. 08:40-08:41—Discovering a fresh croissant and cup of coffee delivered by the principal private secretary. 08:41—08:45—Pledging eternal gratitude, hoof in marriage, and a hundredweight of jewels. 08:45—08:50—Breakfast. 08:50—08:55—Timorously peeking at the day's agenda. 08:55—09:00—Considering self-duplication spells, mirror-pools, time-travel, cloning, and shooting Blueblood. Giving up on shooting Blueblood as unrealistic. 09:00—09:30—Meeting three journalists and a gentlecolt from Equestria Daily regarding Equestrian territorial pretensions. Explaining Equestria has no territorial pretensions. Underlining that a princess suggesting a visit does not imply bringing an army along. Pointing out that Princess Twilight Sparkle does not have the constitutional authority to order the army anywhere, even if she wanted to, which she doesn't. Providing assurance that Shining Armor now commands the armies of the Crystal Empire. A brief tutorial on the difference between the Crystal Empire and Equestria. An even briefer tutorial on the proper use of a geographical atlas. An exceptionally brief—bordering on brusque—tutorial on the difference between 'over there' and 'here.' 09:30-09:35—Primal scream therapy 09:35-10:00—Civil Service status meeting. Enduring twenty-two minutes' natter about irrigation policies in the Southwest during which the Permanent Secretary for the Weather Office felt it necessary to explain what clouds are to the Permanent Secretary for Agriculture. Hoof-to-hoof combat averted when Dotted Line gave the belligerents a Look. Approx. 6.7 on the Death Glare Index. No casualties. 10:00-11:00—Discussing terms of favorable interview for Princess Twilight Sparkle in Equestria Daily with Breaking News. 11:00-11:30—Meeting with the Blueblood Fiasco Management Group. Doomsday Clock minute hand moved to three minutes to midnight based on unanimous vote. Drafted & sent letter to Princess Celestia suggesting that Blueblood be sent as emissary to the fabled kingdom of Amarant. 11:30-11:35—Brief interruption as the Permanent Secretary for the Foreign Office broke in on account of a standing enchantment which causes a klaxon to ring in the secretary's office whenever someone says 'Blueblood' and 'emissary' in the same sentence. 11:35-12:00—Meeting of the BFMG (Motto: Ne nos inducas in interfectionem!) continues with the drafting of the General-Purpose Blueblood Catastrophe Apology Form, version 27.1. 12:00-12:15—Drafting a press release regarding the Northern Griffonstan situation. Reworking it so it is impossible to claim the statement supports either side of the conflict. 12:15-12:20—Further revisions in order to remove any hint of territorial pretensions. 12:20-12:25—Finalizing revisions in order to remove the merest hint that Equestria has any opinion on the conflict whatsoever except, perhaps, to acknowledge that it might exist. 12:25-12:30—Realizing that what with the equivocation, the qualifiers, the weasel-words and so on the press release is actually the functional equivalent of a perfectly blank sheet of paper. Giving up on further work on it in disgust. 12:30—13:00—Lunch. "You need to do something about Twilight Sparkle." Spinning Top looked up from her buttered broccoli—no great chore, that—to see Dotted Line wearing his usual expression—the one that put ponies in mind of a large mournful dog. "I am doing something about it. I've already scheduled a friendly interview to change the tone the press is taking at least a little bit. Breaking News okayed it just now. We're getting Gilded Lily, and she'll softball the interview." Dotted nodded. "Good. Give Her Highness a chance to shine. Maybe remind everypony that they owe her their lives a few times over. But that's not what I meant." "Oh?" Spinning Top polished off another piece of broccoli—finding it no easier to swallow than the previous one—and waved her hoof at a seat. For reasons hidden deep in that big fuzzy head of his, Dotted absolutely refused to sit unless invited. "The press are eating her alive," he said, worried, "I've not seen it get this vicious with anyone else. Can't you... teach her?" "She's a princess, Dotted-dear. I can't possibly presume to..." "Yes, she is. And what she knows about media relations could comfortably fit in a matchbox. Without first removing the matches, either. Please?" "I can... I can offer her my help." "Thank you," Dotted said looking at his plate—ratatouille, more pushed around than eaten—his expression grumpier than usual. "She might need all the help she can get. I can’t believe how bad it got." Spinny shrugged. "I expected it." "You did?" "I worked the foreign news desk for ten years, Dotted. By the end, I saw this thing happen all the time." "What do they have against Princess Twilight Sparkle?" "Nothing at all. Oh, don't get me wrong, sometimes they do a hatchet job on purpose, sure, but this time I don't think they cared about the princess one way or the other. It's all about...look. Tell me. What is the real news of the day?" "What?" "You are the cabinet secretary. Don't tell me you aren't informed. Let's say you are the editor-in-chief for the day. What does your front page look like?" "Heroic Civil Service Perform Yet Another Silent Miracle In Keeping Country From Exploding. Again, " said Dotted. He flashed a grin, suddenly looking considerably less mournful and about ten years younger. "Too long for a title. Try SERVICE MIRACLE SAVES EQUESTRIA. Also I was being serious." "Sorry. Okay. Um. Well, there's the second round of ceasefire negotiations between the Free Gryphon Rep—" "Foreign policy. Under the fold, at best. Also this is the fifth time it was the second round of negotiations. Ponies are bored of it. Next." Dotted blinked, taken aback. "But they agreed to put the Steel Shadow Eyrie Massacre claims asi—" "Nopony knows where Steel Shadow is. Hardly anypony cares. That won't even make it into the story." "Okay. Well. The new Securities Trading Act is coming out of committee." "Excellent! Money. That works. Can you explain it in twenty five words or fewer?" "I... uh... It introduces the need for a third party to verify that there is good-faith collateral posted behind offers of default-swap and monoline insurances on debt inst—" "Well done. Only about six ponies are still reading. And one of those is probably Sky Scribe checking if they got the jargon correct." "I—it's important!" "Of course it is. That doesn't change that only about six ponies are still reading. Will it make ponies richer?" "Not really." "Poorer?" "No, but it will lessen the impact of a potential cra—" "Nopony cares." "I... I guess... well. There's nothing really important going on." "Ah. Good. Blank front page. Perhaps with NOTHING AT ALL HAPPENING SORRY on it? That's going to go down well with management." Dotted blinked. Flicked his ears, and pushed aside his plate. "Fine. Show me how its done, newshound," he said with a crooked smile. Spinny speared a piece of broccoli. "Well. You always want the same sort of story leading. The basic beats you are looking for are fear, outrage, and anger. Outrage's best of all. That explains the Twilight Sparkle story." "It does?" "Certainly. You take a hatchet to a well-known figure. That gets you attention. Everypony knows who Princess Twilight is. Best of all, she's new to everypony so you can invent anything you damn well please. Now, about half of the ponies like the rough treatment. They like seeing the high-and-mighty taken down a peg. Especially this Twilight Sparkle, turning her nose up at everypony, thinking she's all that! Everypony knows that something ain't right with her, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera," Spinny said, her voice turning sharp and mocking. "Surely not everypony is like that?" "Oh, of course not, my dear. Of course not. Then you have the other half who are furious about a national treasure like Twilight Sparkle—smartest mare in all of Equestria, she is—being dragged through the mud. So they buy the papers in order to be outraged at them and to wave them at equally outraged friends who also bought copies." "But these ponies are angry at the press." "So? Angry readers and avid readers show up the same in circulation numbers and that's all the advertisers care about. Besides, give it a while and they may even make a story out of the outrageous treatment of Princess Sparkle in the press, and isn't it a shame, and isn't it a disgrace and so on and so forth. The result is the same: same outrage, same letters to the editor, except the two groups change sides for a bit," said Spinny with a resigned shrug. She cleaned her plate, and finished a slice of bread. Dotted's ratatouille remained untouched, as he leaned in, ears pointed forward. "So none of them really care about Twilight Sparkle..." "...she's just a prop to them. Best we can hope is to move the cycle of outrage to another position: the Poor Heroic Princess gambit." "She is heroic!" "I know this, you know this, the citizens of Ponyville probably know this. To most of Equestria she's just a name." Dotted sat back, ears drooping. "I can't accept that, " he said, "surely ponies are better than that." "The Canterlot News Nightly circulation numbers say otherwise. It's past one. I'm going to have to leave. Is there anything else?" "No," said Dotted, who looked quite deflated. "Thank you for the chat." She left him lost in thought tapping the edge of his plate with a fork absentmindedly. 13:00-13:30—Midday editions survey. 13:30-13:35—Primal scream therapy. 13:35-14:15—Damage control due to marital indiscretion of a Cabinet Minister. 14:15-14:20—Plan to issue mandatory libido suppressants to Cabinet-level appointees vetoed. 14:20-14:25—Brief lecture in which Dotted explains the actual effects of saltpeter and how heart disease isn't likely to help except in a very terminal sort of way. 14:25-15:30—Drafting suitably contrite apology for said minister to read out in her front garden, projecting as much content domesticity as she possibly can. 15:30-16:30—Meeting on the maximum secrecy limits for classified material with the board of the National Security News Agency. Recommending that the short-term discretionary classification powers of the Tactical Subterfuge Act be retained, but issuing a statement of censure against the head of the Equestrian Secret Service for declaring the whole city of Manehatten top secret as a joke. 16:30-16:45—The Blueblood Fiasco Management Group receives a response from Princess Celestia which politely reject the Amarant posting idea on the grounds that fabled Amarant is lost somewhere beneath the endless shifting sands of Dromedaria. The letter also preemptively vetoed the idea of making Blueblood's first act as emissary be finding fabled Amarant on the grounds that ponies who try never come back. 16:45-17:00—The BFMG unanimously votes in favor of the proposition that "It Was Worth A Shot." 17:00-17:15—Evading Dotted Line, who has taken to enforcing his views on the suitable length of a workday with a squad of palace guards empowered to eject any workaholics (that aren’t him) from the premises. 17:15-17:50—Departmental budgetary meeting. 17:50-17:55—Brief debate on whether alcohol can be classified as an expense. 17:55-18:00—A department-wide agreement is reached that it can be—specifically under the 'medical attention' heading, provided it is is consumed just after attending a meeting of a legislative body. 18:00—18:30—Evening edition survey. 18:30—18:35—Primal scream therapy, though under the effect of a conus silentii spell due to necessary stealth. 18:35-18:44—Meeting of the Parliamentary Press Secretariat. 18:44-18:45—Meeting interrupted by Dotted's Overtime Inquisition (Motto: Nemo nos exspectat!) 18:45-18:50—Being gently prodded out of the building with assurances that the crisis will still be there tomorrow. 18:50-18:55—Vain attempts to get back in. 18:55—19:15—Arranging meeting with Gilded Lily. 19:15-19:30—Traveling to Chez Radin. Renewing blood-feud with the Transport Secretary and all who stand beside her. 19:30-19:45—Terse negotiations with the maître d'. 19:45-20:45—Dinner. The very best thing that could be said about Chez Radin was that it was fashionable. Sadly—at least in Spinny's opinion—that was also the only good thing that could be said about it. The food was selected more for sounding provocative and chic on a menu—carbonized kale? hay rehydrated in champagne? mud soup?—than for actual taste, and the portion size was somewhere between a studied insult and a bad joke. Vast porcelain seas with the odd scrap of food just to break the monotony. Gilded Lily was well aware of all these faults, so asking to meet here must have meant that she needed to be seen above all else, and Spinning was hard pressed to refuse her oldest friend. She knew quite well what it was to climb that particular greasy pole, with everything hinging on access, reputation, and the perception of keeping up. It wasn't always like that, of course. It used to be that working for EqD meant something and—Ah, but that was a road Spinny had been down altogether too many times. Things change. What was it that Gilded Lily used to say all the time back at Uni...? Right. Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. Times change, and we change to suit them. And Spinny... Spinny had changed. She'd given up the greasy pole for one that, it must be said, seemed to be covered with glue. Of course, she was head of her own department—not a lot of room for promotion there, but it was still an odd feeling not to be clawing for that extra little hoof up. Was she going to be doing the same thing ten years from now? Dotted had been hinting that she was likely to be offered his job when he retired but Spinny found the idea of Dotted Line retiring to be utterly ridiculous—even death itself, it was widely thought in the Service, wouldn't be enough to divest him of his job. Lily had changed in her own way, too. She didn't run away when things had gotten... difficult in the newsroom. She stayed on, shrugging off buyouts and political shakeups. Spinny envied her a little bit. Oh, certainly, Press Secretary was a respectable job, well paid—not that that mattered—well regarded, and altogether much more to her mother's liking. That was rather the problem, really. Spinny sat, lost in thought, slowly settling into the comfy chair, half-blind and half-indifferent to the restaurant's synthetically idiosyncratic décor when a familiar voice shook her from her reverie. "Spinny! My dear! It's been too long!" And it had been. It always was. Once upon a time they were inseparable. Once upon a time they were the twin terrors of the EqD newsroom. And before that at Uni, swotting Horsace, and making up wild stories about the fate of the Hermocoltes. Now it was so hard to sync up schedules, they went weeks without so much as catching sight of each other. "Lily! Darling! It has! So lovely to see you. How's the Great Equestrian Novel coming along" said Spinny willing herself to smile. Gilded Lily sat and smiled back. "Slowly. It's coming along slowly. Actually, not so much coming along as backing away. Work's hectic, as you may imagine. We miss you in the newsroom, still." "Oh, come now. Surely, you've trained up replacements?" "Dozens. And if we keep it up and train up a few dozen more, we might be able to equal about a quarter of you. On your off days." From behind Spinny' willed smile the real, hidden one, flashed for just a second. "You are too kind, Lily. I'm sure they are quite capable," she said. "Said like someopony who's never had to look at their copy. It's like the schools simply left off teaching Equish, I swear. So? How's working for The Mare," she said. She paused to catch the waiter's eye, and held up a hoof. "What can I get you, Spinny?" Spinny smiled, put a theatrical hoof to forehead. "Working for The Mare? Nam Versatricem quidem Phillydelphiae ego ipse oculis meis vidi in munere pendere, et cum illi equi dicerent: Κλωθοῖ τί θέλεις; respondebat illa: ἀποθανεῖν θέλω." Lily actually giggled. Not the pleasantly tinkly giggle she used to tell you that, on mature reflection, what you said was acceptably droll, but her snorty giggle Spinny found herself missing so much. "Well," she said, "I had no idea it was that bad! Death I can't—won’t!—provide, but let's see if we can't find something suitably numbing. Poulain! Please, a bottle of the 988 Château d'Yquem for my weary friend here." Spinny smiled. Lily knew her weaknesses all too well. But still, the 988! That was altogether too expensive. Even for Lily. She tried to protest. "Well that's magnificently kind, Lily, but that's really a dessert wine. It doesn't quite pair with—" "Nonsense. You've been here before. They hardly propose to feed us here, now do they? Château d'Yquem it is! Well for you. I'm too sensible to drink moldy wine." It was Spinny's turn to snort with laughter. "It's delicious!" "Moldy." "Many things that are delicious are also moldy." "Griffin propaganda." "You like Pu-erh!" "That's fermented. Not moldy." "Spoiled, is the word you are looking for, Lily my dear." "Hah. So. Is it really that bad?" "Pu-erh? It tastes like something mistook your cup for a lav—" "No, no. Work. Nam Versatricem quidem and all that. Mind. I'm not entirely sure you can hang in an office." "It sure feels like it." "And I see your delusions of godhood are progressing nicely." "Oh come on! I couldn't think of another word for 'Spinny.'" "Ταλασιουργοϛ?" "That's a spinner of wool, Lily." "Well? It could mean over ponies' eyes, couldn't it?" "Ouch." "Well, you walked into that one." "Granted." There was a moment of silence as the waiter approached, soundless, and poured wine. The delicious tawny-gold nectar for Spinny and something pale, cold, dry, and difficult to pronounce for Lily. Lily broke the silence first. "You never answered me." "Mm?" "Work. Is it that bad?" Spinny sighed. "No. Not really. It's... it's the same as it ever was. Just, sometimes I don't feel like I'm accomplishing that much. Every job has its grind, sure enough, but back at EqD you could hope that you'll write that one big story that'll change something. At the press office... you are forever treading water. If you do your job right you keep your department one step ahead of catastrophe until tomorrow. Then it starts all over again. I have to say... I envy you a bit. You can get somewhere." "Aren't you supposed to get a shot at the big job someday?" "So Dotted says. But that's really more of the same. You just juggle more catastrophes." Lily swirled her drink in her glass and took a tiny bite from an even tinier portion of quail egg smothered in tarragon somethingorother. "It's not that sunny over here, you know. The newsroom isn't as you remember it. It's all about the circulation, these days." "So you've said." "Yeah. But you haven't heard it. Not properly. Remember why you left?" "Yes." "It's ten times worse. It's not just squelching unprofitable stories. Copy gets edited from On High these days. Editorial independence is a joke, " Lily drained her glass and continued, "Yeah, you can write a story that makes a difference, sure, but nopony will let you publish it. Sometimes... sometimes I think you were lucky to get out when you did." Spinny put her glass down carefully. It was worse than—well no. It was as bad as she had heard. But worse than she had believed. What she told Dotted at lunch was... well, cynicism. Bitterness. He shouldn't have tried to talk to her when broccoli was about. She hadn't believed it was true, not really. But now? Maybe she should have believed. "So how are you holding on," Spinny asked. "I... okay. I get by. Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis and all that. I'm too senior to fire just like that, but I have to be... careful. Or I'll get sent to cover flower shows and Celestia knows what else." "Well," Spinny said, trying for cheerful, "at least tomorrow we can do some good, you and I. This mess with Princess Sparkle has to end. Thanks for agreeing to softball it." "Yeah. Anyway, you asked about the novel? I do have some news," Lily said, reaching into her saddlebags. They kept chatting for a while longer, making game attempts to eat the frequently puzzling and always inadequate food being placed before them. It wasn't until she was leaving that Spinny realized that they forgot to make a plan for the interview tomorrow. The conversation kept slipping away from the subject. Ah well. No need for some master plan. She could just rely on Lily, same as always. 20:45-21:15—Traveling back home. 21:15-22:00—Reading things that, blessedly, aren't newspapers. 22:00-22:15—Shower. 22:15—Collapsing in bed. 22:15-06:00—Uneasy sleep. Author's Note Many thanks to the inestimable, irreplaceable, and incredible (also some things not starting with an 'i,' I'm sure) Bookplayer & Bradel for pre-reading this. Also more thanks to the splendidly pecunious Bradel for technically paying for this story, in accordance with this offer. Normally I match Bookplayer blog posts (not that anyone was much interested, it turns out), but in this instance Bradel asked for a story and... well... here it is. Note: This story is technically a prequel to Bradel's magnificent A Filly's Guide to Not Making Headlines, however, you can read them in whatever order you wish without detracting from the experience one bit. Lastly, this story includes the most obscure joke I ever made, and as such, I feel it appropriate to offer a bit of a crib sheet. So. The untranslated bit of Latin and Ancient Greek Spinny spouts off (Classics Majors. Tch.) is a take on a line in the Satyricon of Petronius (which if famous because it is used as an epigraph in a rather noted poem) which has been lightly modified by me. Seeing as my knowledge of Latin is... insubstantial, let's say, and that of Ancient Greek isn't even that, I may have messed up quite, quite badly. Allow me to offer a translation: "And, indeed, I had seen with my own eyes Spinner(fem.) from Phillydelphia hanging in an office, and with her ponies saying "Spinner(fem.), what do you want?" She replies: "I want to die." (It was, naturally, originally about the Cumaean Sibyl) One last annotation: There's a joke about 'delusions' of godhood later. That's because the word Spinny used to translate her own name in the Ancient Greek segment is 'Κλωθοῖ' (well actually that's the vocative case, but let's not complicate matters) which is, as you've probably guessed, 'Clotho,' the youngest of the three Moirai (fates). Right. All that probably didn't make the above funny, but I hope that, at least, you want to throw things at me somewhat less. Love and Other Acquired TastesLove and Other Acquired Tastes The cardboard roof caved in, and the little filly spluttered as cold rainwater drenched her. She tried to hold the box up with her hooves, but the wet cardboard spalled off in ragged chunks and then her home fell apart entirely. She was now entirely open to the unfriendly sky, and her coat and mane were sodden through in seconds. She tried to bunch up, huddle to gain some warmth but she couldn't. The wind was too fierce. She hugged herself with her forehooves and scuttled closer to the wall. It was damp and cold, and the bricks bit into her back uncomfortably, but the eaves of the building provided some small protection. Not enough. She sniffled. The cup in front of her was nearly empty. When she first started yesterday a few ponies tossed a bit or two, but that quickly stopped. She hadn't seen anyone so much as approach her since. They even crossed the street to avoid her. All those rich-looking ponies in their well-made suits, and not a bit to spare. She could tell they were... afraid. Why? She heard the clip-clop-splash of someone approaching through the abandoned rain-soaked streets. She looked up, and saw—blurrily through the mixed tears and rainwater—a gray shape coming closer. She blinked furiously, and her vision cleared well enough for her to see a short, broad-shouldered, pudgy little pony with a grey coat and a dark mane. He appeared to ignore the rainstorm with equanimity. He wore not a scrap of clothing—just a rather battered-looking silver necklace—and the rainwater drained from his thick coat in streams. He didn't seem to mind. She allowed herself a glimmer of hope, and looked hopefully at her cup. He passed her by. Her ears drooped, and then perked up again when she heard his steps pause. He came back and gave her a look. To her surprise he sat right next to her, splashing into a puddle. He did not seem to mind that either. He extracted a thermos from his saddlebags that looked as if it had been in half-a-dozen wars—and on the losing side, too—unscrewed the top which was patterned in peeling gold suns, and poured something fragrant and warm into it. "Tea, miss," he rumbled offering her the cup, "it'll keep the chill out?" She shook her head minutely and he shrugged and took a sip himself. "Suit yourself, miss. There's more if you change your mind." They sat like that in silence for a few moments while the strange stallion sipped his tea. "Twenty billion, six hundred and eighty million, ninety three thousand, eight hundred and three bits," he said at length. That... wasn't what she expected to hear. She just looked at him, eyes wide. "The budget," he said, waving his arm vaguely, "of Foal Protective Services. That's your orphanages, foster family support, agents, psychologists, administration, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Quite a bundle as you may imagine. I should know. I make sure it passes muster every damned year. Pardon my language, miss. Still. The House passes it. Well, they do if they know what good for 'em." She kept silent. She hardly knew what else to say. "It's a big responsibility, you understand. The Princesses rule with a light touch, but on this score the rule was ever the same. No exceptions, no excuses, nothing. Nopony gets left out in the cold. No matter the price. Not ever." He took a swig of tea and continued. "Now, we're just ponies. Mortal, fallible, all that. We make mistakes. And it is possible that somewhere in the hinterlands there's somepony who got forgotten. Somepony hungry. Somepony alone. I hope there isn't, but there's no way of knowing. But in Canterlot? The center of Canterlot? Leaning on the Ministry of Equine Services building?" The strange stallion's horn flashed a muted grey, and she felt a prickling all over her... carapace. Oh crap. "What I'm really trying to say," said Dotted Line turning to the changeling beside him, "is... there's six snipers covering us right now. Any last words?" Seeker Of Hidden Places 27 swallowed. "P—parley?" "Damn." Changelings could do more than just sense the emotions of ponies. They could taste the emotional tenor of places. This, Seeker decided, was not a friendly room. It was small, neat, windowless, and—as she could sense based on the sense of tenseness in the stones—heavily warded. There was a mirror, too, and behind it... darkness? Night? The Moon? Madness. This place was thick with magic. She looked across the scuffed desk at the pony who discovered her. She tried to probe his mind a bit more directly, but she got nowhere. In a world alive with emotion, he was a blank space. A void. Shackled as she was, and trapped as she was, that made her worried most of all. What was he? Even inanimate objects had some emotional resonance. "What are you," he asked. "I... I'm a Changeling." "Changeling drones can't speak. They can't venture far from the Queen. Obviously you can." "I'm, uh, I'm Seeker caste." There was a silence. "I see. Who are you here to kill?" "I—" "Please cooperate. We do not wish you harm, but we need to protect ourselves. Who were you sent to kill?" "I wasn't sent. I... ran." "Pardon?" "I ran. From the hive. From... her. I can't... we kept our minds when she took over. The Seekers. She could still order us around and we obeyed but we knew what we were doing. What she made us do. I couldn't. Not anymore. So I ran. I expected to die, honestly. Not get this far. But I did. All the way to the Canterlot. I thought I'd be safe in the shadow of the Sun. But I was so very hungry and so I..." "You tried to feed off of sympathy?" "I didn't want to steal someone's love. It was forbidden before... Before the fall. But if they felt sympathy... sorrow... I could survive off that. But it didn't work. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interfere with your ponies, but I was so hungry and... I'm sorry." There was a drawn out silence. "I should tell you that you can't lie. Not here. Your mind is being... examined. Normally terribly, terribly illegal, but... Special circumstances. We thought you were an assassin." "I'm not lying." The grey pony looked to the side, his eyes unfocused, and expression abstracted, and then nodded to nobody in particular. "You aren't. I need to leave. Will you... starve if left here alone for a few hours?" "I—yes. Maybe. I don't know what's keeping me alive right now. It's been... weeks. Maybe a month." The grey pony looked worried for a second, and then his face set. He reached with his hoof and lifted the silver chain that hung heavily around his neck. Instantly the blank spot was gone. Seeker could sense... guilt. Regret. Sadness. Love. It took every ounce of willpower to leave the love alone. Not hers. Not hers. "Well," the pony said expectantly, "what are you waiting for?" "I can't just... we don't steal. We didn't use to—" "You aren't stealing. I'm giving. What do you need me to do?" "Just... just think about someone you care about." It tasted like... no words can explain it. Like a drink of water after a thousand years in the desert. Seeker nearly drowned in it, losing control for a moment. She smelled... a warm hearth. Pancakes. She heard laughter. Violin music. She felt at home. Cared for. At length she opened her eyes. "I... I don't feel like I love her any less," said the grey pony whose expression was halfway between apprehensive and confused. "That's not how it works. I... your daughter?" "Goddaughter, " the grey pony said, getting up, gathering papers from his desk, "I need to leave now. I've some considerable work to do. I'll be back shortly. Bang on the door if you need anything." And with that he left. He had put the necklace on and Seeker could no longer tell what he was feeling. Was he... angry? Disgusted? She wasn't as good at expressions as she should have been. It was always easier to just look. Still. She probably bought herself a few more days. Maybe even weeks. By her standards that was a fortune. She fell into uneasy sleep. She dreamed the same dream that followed her each night: of becoming someone else, forever. Of slipping on the disguise once and for all. This time, however, the dream came true. The next few months were spent getting used to being someone entirely different. She had disguises before in her life and the twenty-six incarnations that came before had thousands: brief impressions, studious imitations, false identities so involved that the fate of entire realms turned on their deception. This disguise was more difficult than any of those. Unprecedented, even. "Ah, Seeker! Please, come in." Ponies kept advising each other to 'just be yourself.' Nonsense, she always thought, as if they had any choice, but she saw it from a new perspective now. Being yourself was difficult. "Thank you, Dotted. You wanted to see me?" Luckily, she had help. The office was—if possible—even more cluttered with paper than usual. She could just barely glimpse Dotted behind a range of paperwork mountains starring intently at a stopwatch and thermometer. "Indeed. Tea?" Seeker smiled despite herself—she tried to avoid it, ponies found her smile disconcerting what with the fangs and all—but the ritual always made her grin. Ponies were starting to rub off on her. Or was she always pony-like, and they were just rubbing off the layers of disguises? How did ponies keep track of who they were without a target to impersonate? "Ah, I'm afraid I don't partake." "Of course. Of course. Some enjoyment of tea, then?" "That would be lovely." Dotted sat on his much-abused office chair, and Seeker perched on what probably was a guest chair, underneath all the papers, folders, scrolls, and books. Dotted sipped tea and she sipped, well. The joy of tea. It tasted... refreshing. Pleasantly astringent. Warm. Ponies had so many ways of enjoying things. "How are you finding the Behavioral Analysis Unit, then?" "Very well, thank you. I am surprised, though." "Oh?" "I thought you'd want me using my... abilities." "You are. Sensing emotions is a very valuable skill." "I meant... disguises. Spying." "Oh. That. Well, I figured you've had your fill of subterfuge, yes?" "That's very considerate." "Well... given the circumstances of our meeting... Anyway. You are useful in that capacity as well, you know." "I am?" "Yes. I may have leaked that I employ a Changeling Seeker, you see." "That must have caused... worry." Dotted grinned. "Some. Lots of running around in circles. Waving hooves, claws, and other distal limbs. Great fun." "But was it useful?" "Well, I must confess my ponies also may have allowed your file to be stolen." "My file?" "Yes. The one that says you are an elite spy who can turn into absolutely anything as long as it is not underwater." "That's... amazingly inaccurate." "It was a draft version. Typos, you understand. Anyway, as a result Von Clawsewitz is now holding the meetings he thinks I don't yet know about right next to my array of hydrophones." "Well, at least he's safe from my elite spying abilities." "Exactly." "Was this why you invited me here?" "No. Just making conversation. It's about the security for this big royal ruckus in Ponyville." "Ruckus?" "Mhm-hm. Technical term. Look, I don't know how to ask this but... do you do weddings?" Author's Note Believe it or not, I had this idea for ages—Bradel and Bookplayer can vouch for me. Heavens know I natter at them about fic ideas enough. However seeing the changeling at the wedding meant I simply had to get this written. Much thanks to MrNumbers and Bookplayer for kindly taking a look at this and suggesting improving alterations. You guys are made of victory and talking owls. Any Other Business?Any Other Business? "So... um... today's agenda is a little, ah. Sparse. Yes. Sparse. One item. Tch. Hardly worth meeting about, really. In fact I might suggest a motion of early adjour—" The words died on his lips under a wave of hostility from the massed nobles. "—or not. Or not. No time like the present, eh, my lords and, uh, ladies...?" More hostility. If looks could kill Dotted would already be dead, transported back to Northisle, buried, mourned, commemorated, forgotten, rediscovered by a future historian, and featured in an article in the local Sunday newspaper which Mrs. Sugar Loaf would leave off reading halfway because of a phone call from a double-glazing salesmare, never learning she was actually faintly related to this Line fellow. This course of affairs, through the miracle of cause and effect, would delay the commercialization of fusion technology by the Equestrian people by 117 years. Luckily for Mrs. Loaf, the Equestrian people, and bulk manufactures of lithium hydride, looks can't kill. It looked like the future dodged a bullet there and Dotted wondered if he'd be so lucky. He began to scan the nobility for crossbows, blades, or surreptitious blow-pipes. Nothing. Damn. So much for the easy way out. "Any, uh, business we need to take care of before we get, ah, cracking on the agenda? Any... um... motions? Suggestions? Requests?" The atmosphere, already frosty, dropped by a few dozen degrees. It was time to deal with the elephant in the room. "So, uh, the first and indeed only item on the agenda—should really be 'agendum' really—is, ah," Dotted adjusted his spectacles theatrically, "let's see, 'Princess Twilight Sparkle?!??!??!?' I say. That's quite a lot of punctuation. I daren't imagine how that might actually sound..., hah, well—" "PRINCESS TWILIGHT SPARKLE?!??!??!?," Lord Trottingham helpfully demonstrated. Dotted wiped the spittle from his spectacles. "Yes. Indeed. Isn't that lovely? Nice to see a young mare make her way in the worl—" "THIS BREAKS THE FIRST COVENANT!" "Only if princess Celestia makes someone an alicorn, I think you'll find. The Lady Sparkle, I understand, went through the process on her own with the princess only helping her do so safely which she's obligated to do under the Public Safety & Depraved Indifference Act of 887 which in paragr—" "She's to ASCEND OVER US, IS SHE? A COMMONER!?," wailed Lady Cloudsdale. "Royal, I think you'll find. Armigers, Nobility, & Royalty Act of 173, amended 284, 566, 837, and 909, clearly states in paragraph 35b that—" "This is TYRANNY!" "Her Highness Sparkle does not actually have any governmental authority as the Articles of Union state as a part of scroll XVI, right under the coffee sta—" "This is a plot! A plot to legitimize their dalliance." "Were such a dalliance to exist it would have been entirely legitimate from the point Her Highness was eighteen. Elevation to royalty would not be necessary. The question, however, is moot because I understand that there is no such dal—" "You had this planned, you northern bastard!" And with this the floodgates broke open. Dotted sat, calmly, weathering the abuse, the threats, the insinuations, accusations, slander, more threats, three separate challenges to a duel, and the thrown ink bottle stoically. At length he glanced at his pocket-watch. It read a quarter past tea[1]. "Right," he said, tone businesslike, "You, there. Lord Trottingham. Listen carefully: Cypress Hall. Second-and-a-half[2] Canterlot Mercantile Bank. Six hundred thousand bits." Lord Trottingham shut up. "Lady Cloudsdale? Does the name Peppermint Humbug mean anything to you? Mmm? August the fourth? Los Pegasus?" Lady Cloudsdale joined him. "Right. Who else? Who else? Ah! My Lady Baltimare! Listen to this. 83 right, 44 left, 15 right, 12 left. Behind a reproduction of Vermare's Filly with a Pearl Earring." Lady Baltimare covered her face with a folder. "Right," said Dotted sweetly, "anypony else want to play? No? Are you sure?" There was dead silence. The elephant in the room hung from the rafters, swaying gently. "Hail Princess Twilight Sparkle?" "Hail Princess Twilight Sparkle," the nobles chorused, glumly. [1] A Hearthswarming present from Leafy Salad. He went to a lot of trouble and hired a watchmaker to specifically craft an additional inner dial which was marked not in hours but in customary teatimes. [2] The result of the merger of the Second Canterlot Mercantile Bank and the Third Canterlot Mercantile bank whose owners, it so transpired, were of a mathematical turn of mind. Author's Note People kept asking me "How's Dotted Line going to explain Twilight's ascension to the nobles?" and, well, after being asked one time too many—this time by TheGreatEater and The Great Derpsby—I wrote the above in a comment on the original story. Bradel and Bookplayer convinced me that I ought to publish it to a wider audience and so... here it is. ...enjoy? Songs Like SnowSongs Like Snow a romantic interlude For Ferret In defiance of natural law, the sky over the Crystal Empire is simply bigger than anywhere else. Dotted stood on the snow-swathed steps, head craned up, his breath misting in front of him. He sighed, momentarily wreathing himself in vapor which streamed upwards. The conference had crawled into its third day, Hearthwarming loomed, and, as midnight approached, there was still no sign of accord. The Griffins—or was it the Yaks? Equestrians? The Diamond Dog Imperial Remnant which was unaccountably invited?—couldn’t agree on this proposition—or was it that one?—and felt insulted—or was it threatened?—by its mere mention, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. It was all rather a blur. One not even tea could make clear. He didn’t leave the conference so much as he was spat out, chewed up and reeling. Was this why he joined the Service? Why he left home? He felt drained far more than sleeplessness and hours of arguing might account for. They weren’t making peace here. They weren’t making “steps” towards it, no matter what Spinny wrote in her increasingly imaginative dispatches. They weren’t making much of anything. Just running one step ahead of disaster, just like he always did. He descended to the wide balcony below, thick coat bristling against the chill, and stood by the balustrade, scanning the horizon. There was not much on it. The ponies of the Crystal Empire were all asleep. Wise of them. He felt a pang, like something nestling uncomfortably in his breast. He missed Canterlot. He missed the fireworks. He missed the ponies there. He missed… something. There was an unexpected emptiness that unsettled him. He shook the feeling off. Tried to. Dotted glanced back at the warmly glowing windows of the Winter Palace, and pricked up his ears. The shouting had stopped and now he could hear… yes. A distinct low murmur of somepony trying to explain. Oh dear. That won’t end well. More shouting. The expensive sound of a claw slamming onto a lacquerwork table. Dotted winced and looked away. He’d stay here a while yet. He couldn’t face the conference. Not now. Maybe out here, in the peace and the snow, he’d find the reason why he did this job in the first place. Why he left. He wiped snow off the balustrade and leaned on it, inspecting the outlines of the Crystal Empire’s stark landscape, dimly visible under starlight. Sharp peaks and sloping valleys carved by glaciers. Desolate, but beautiful. He had been standing like this for a while when he felt a fluttering touch on his cheek. Then another. He looked up. It was snowing, the flakes tiny and bone dry. He had spent a few moments looking up, flakes settling on his coat, when he heard a gentle hoof-fall behind him. He turned and saw, standing on the steps, Ambassador Mkali Walidahani, the leader of the Zebrica delegation. She was tall and ramrod straight and wrapped head-to-hoof in a cloak of sea-silk dyed in intricate patterns. In a scene all in tones of black, white, and gold, she was the sole splash of color. She descended a few steps, avoiding the drifts of snow with unconscious grace, and stood beside Dotted, almost—but not quite—close enough to touch. She was as striking and beautiful as Dotted remembered her, but up close he could—just—see the tracery of fault lines and cracks in her facade. This place was getting to her too. Lost at the edge of the world, pushing the same damn boulder up the hill. The interests of Zebrica and Equestria didn’t always align but Dotted still thought of Mkali of being, fundamentally, on his side. On the side of not having a war for no damned reason. Of making peace. Of finding common ground. Of pushing that boulder, despite everything. Even when you aren’t sure why you are doing it anymore. They shared a moment of companionable but brittle silence and then Mkali spoke. “I can’t believe that I thought Canterlot was cold.” “Mm. Pride as a Northisle native rather demands me to dismiss this as ‘a bit nippy,’ but just between us, it’s utterly freezing.” “It doesn’t get any colder than this I hope?,” Mkali said, giving him a smile polished from constant use. “Not anywhere ponies live, I don’t think. We just about ran out of north getting here.” There was another silence as they stood, looking up wordlessly. Dotted was struck with how… sad she looked half in moonlight and half in lamplight. And how beautiful. There was something about it that reminded him of classical statues locked in poses of ostentatiously noble suffering, though he’d rather not say so out loud. “Any progress in there,” he asked, mentally changing the subject. “No. Maybe,” Mkali sighed, “I do not know, Mr. Secretary. I fear we are accomplishing very little little. Here and… Well. No. No progress. No sign of it, either.” “Yakistan still won’t give up the claim over Meltwater Gorge?” “Point of honor,” Mkali said, a familiar sharpness cutting through the fatigue, “It’s in everyone’s best interest, of course, but the Yaks won’t allow it because they imagine a fortress there lets them project force into Whitefeather. Idiots. The Griffins keep at least two regiments there at all times.” “Three now,” said Dotted, nodding. His brain was working a bit better now, tracing the well-worn paths of intelligence reports and speculation. He was certainly not thinking of classical statuary, nor of that very peculiar glint Mkali’s eyes got when she thought carefully about something. It was probably for the best. “Mm. 643rd Hussars,” Mkali asked, eyes slitted with concentration. “Information or educated guess?” “Now? Both,” she said, with a tight smile, “my compliments to your advance scouts. Either way, if they try to move past the Border of 889 they’ll cause a war—a real war, not this posturing nonsense—and lose terribly to the ruin of us all. Meltwater is, I believe, forty percent of the nickel trade?” “Forty-three according to my very worried economics advisers,” Dotted said nodding. He had lost the vision of Mkali as some mythological beauty, caught halfway between shadows and light. It was like one of those optical illusions Spinny was so obsessed with. He’d blinked once too many times, perhaps, and now he couldn’t see it anymore. Just Mkali doing what she did best, eyes gleaming as she teased some measure of truth out of chaos. Dotted found he could not tell if he missed the vision or not. “A nightmare. Especially for the steelworks in Griffonstan. And if they bloody their nos—beaks there, they’ll seek to make good the lack. If the imbeciles at court win—always a safe bet—they’ll do it by attacking you. You win but at the cost of general mobilization which means the food production drops, which means we can’t import it, which means—,” Mkali cut herself off, waving a hoof, “It never stops at just one place, does it? And even if we get them to agree this time, what’s the point? We’ll be back at this same table before long. This is the fifth time we’ve met over this, after all.” “Sixth.” Mkali made an expressive though difficult to describe gesture indicating something between resigned acceptance and august dismissal. “Sixth then. And there’ll be a seventh time, too. Tenth. Hundredth. On the matter of peace on Epona, Mr. Secretary, I am past cynicism and hurtling towards utter apathy. Sometimes I wonder…” She stopped herself, and made a short twitchy nod, as if shooing a thought away. There was more silence as they both looked at the snow, sneaking the occasional glance to the side, as if to confirm that the other hadn’t left. The snow was picking up now but Dotted found he couldn’t take the same measure of solace in watching it as before. Mkali’s words wouldn’t leave him, nor the sight of her with her flames banked, her eyes oddly cold. She was right. That was the worst of it. How many times had they met like this? And what had they done? If anything the interminable, terrifying, Northern Griffonstan crisis had gotten worse, and all they did was prolong it all. Draw out the inevitable war. He glanced at Mkali and saw that she was looking at the snow with an oddly wistful air. She seemed herself again, and Dotted found himself sneaking a glance more and more often. “They used to think they were songs, you know,” Mkali said suddenly. Dotted started and looked away into the falling snow, feeling as if he had been caught in something. “Sorry?” “The snow. Zebrica is too far south for any significant snowfall,” she said, looking out at the snowflakes with a wistful air, “in the lowlands, at least, but it does happen on the taller peaks, Nyeupe Kilele especially.” Dotted Line stayed silent, but turned to look at Mkali as she spoke. Her eyes were half-closed, eyelashes glinting with snowflakes, but her ears were pricked up, and she was tense as if she was listening intently for something. Voices from within? Some response from him? A fragment of song on the wind? Dotted suddenly felt cold. “The first zebras who lived there believed each snowflake was a fragment of a song,” she said turning to him, “because when you sang your song would stream heavenward. In time, they thought, winds would swirl the songs around the peak of Nyeupe Kilele, and they would freeze the breath in it into jewels that reflected the beauty of the songs. The snowfall was important to them, as their orchards and downlands were irrigated by meltwater, and so every winter they would form up on the slopes, they would look up, and they would sing. Their descendants still do it, in the more remote valleys. I’ve seen it as a student. More than once. I… I never sang with them, though.” She opened her eyes, and fixed Dotted with a look he could not decipher. The sight of her, though, flushed, coat glittering with stray snowflakes, with her misting breath curling around her like a shawl would stay with him, flitting through his mind at the oddest times. “I didn’t think about it for the longest time, but I now live in Equestria and every time I see snow I remember them. I remember the songs, and I have to fight the urge to throw open the windows and sing. To make good the lack. To make up for how timid I was, back then. I was… afraid. Self conscious. I didn’t know the songs, the people. I was afraid of what the mountain might say. Foolishness,” Mkali sighed, “But, ah, an ambassador can’t be seen singing to an empty sky like a madmare, now can she? There would be talk. And I’m older and—in theory—wiser, and we all have our roles to play, don’t we Mr. Secretary?” An unutterable sadness passed over her face, then, like a cloud over the moon. Gone before you noticed it. That sadness, too, stayed with Dotted, even longer. We all have our roles indeed, he thought. We all sit here parroting the right words in the right manner. In the interests of peace. In the interests of diplomacy. In the interest of propriety. Trapped in cages of occasion and circumstance, drowned in so many compromises we can’t even remember why we do this. He sighed. “It must have been quite a sight, Your Excellency,” he said, the quiet brittleness of his voice surprising him, “All those zebras, singing, the sky vast and open above them, the songs, like snow, settling thickly around them. “ “It was.” More sadness. Even quicker, this time, more like a shimmer on the surface of still water, but unmistakably there. Just look at her, Dotted thought. Torn over a song. All that power, that brilliance, that drive, and yet trapped all the same. Over a song! Every night in Canterlot, a thousand ponies—at least!—staggered drunkenly home pausing to serenade the Moon, but not Mkali. Not me. Not us serious ponies, Dotted thought. Ours is to do what must be done and—that’s it. There was a long silence, as they stood, looking sometimes at each other, sometimes through each other, as if looking for something. Dotted found himself lost for words. The wind picked up and howled in the gorges below them. Having stormed up the mountain, it broke over the walls of the palace walls with a sound like a giant’s sigh. The lamps set in their wrought-iron holders shivered at the force of it, and behind Dotted and Mkali their shadows danced in the snow for just a moment. To hell with it, Dotted thought, resolved. We’ve got souls too. Without warning, half surprising even himself, Dotted looked up at the sky and began to sing. His mind reached for a song and the first thing it found was his childhood and misty mornings, standing atop a green hill, looking east. Adoramus te, Sol et benedicimus tibi quia per sanctum cornum tuum illuminavisti mundum. Quae passa privationem es pro nobis Domina, Domina, miserere nobis. Mkali started at first, surprised, then it seemed that the weight of years fell from her shoulders suddenly, and she looked up, too, and sang. Dotted could not understand the words—he did not speak the Nyeupe Kilele dialect—but it did not matter. The song was beautiful. And eyes dancing, coat gleaming with refracted lamplight so was Mkali. She sang with abandon head thrown back, grinning fiercely. Baldly ignoring the rules of harmony, the two songs—a half-forgotten hymn directed at a goddess who did not want it, and an ancient call to a god who could not hear it—meshed together perfectly, all the same. They spiraled up to the heavens, together, and, in due course and according to legend, they made snow. When they were done Mkali turned to him and smiled—and that smile was nothing like the one he’d seen earlier. It was warm and playful, containing equal measures of humor and glee. The sight of her: smiling, cheeks flushed and eyes afire—that never left him. Author's Note Dotted Line's from Whom The Princesses Would Destroy, of course, and ambassador Mkali is from A Canterlot Carol. This story's my first attempt at writing something even vaguely [romance]-like and is the result of being ~~goaded~~ ~~forced~~ ~~made~~ ~~violentl-~~ gently prodded into doing so by the inestimable Masked Ferret (who is made of win) as a challenge of sorts. She's also the piece's first pre-reader though significant, indeed, crucial work, has also been done by Bad Horse, Bookplayer, Bradel, and the Mysterious Nettlefish. CivicsCivics a politically charged vignette “Elections? You want to know about elections? Well,” Dotted Line gave his audience a long, beady-eyed stare and shrugged, expressively, before continuing, “that isn’t difficult.” He started stomping back and forth while the ensorcelled microphone tried to keep pace, clattering on its tripod in the manner of a fawn first encountering ice. “First, you have to have political parties. Now to get these, you have to take the absolute worst of equianity. The craven, the venal, and the mad. Mostly all three. These genetic defectives, these dregs, these bastards we call politicians. Then, these politicians group up—each according to their own specific kind of madness, criminality, and general wretchedness. Now these groups are like a secretive, recalcitrant mixture between criminal gangs and cults, and you call them political parties. Though, I hasten to add, not the fun kind of party.” Dotted stopped, allowing the microphone to catch up—if it had been enchanted to pant in exhaustion, it would have—and gestured wildly with his hooves. “And these—these venal, cowardly, malign entities are the bearers of the future of Equestria. It’s in their hooves. But! You have to pick which hooves, see. So you get this other group who are, to the last equine, completely ignorant. Couldn’t tell a constitutional amendment from a hole in the ground. Don’t really know which party is which, couldn’t tell you really which one is in power or what it did, and are fuzzy on what, precisely, they’d want one to do in the first place. These, now, these are the voters.” Dotted paused and took a few ragged breaths. He took a sip from a glass of water, looked at it suspiciously, and took another sip. “So! Now you have to start the campaign. In this, what you do is, you line up the PR departments of all these parties and they scream lies at each other. Just lie after lie after lie, at the top of their lungs. This goes on for about six months, by the way. The journalists—a coalition of compulsive scribblers who vary between malignant, misinformed, and misdirected—carefully write all of the lies down and these get delivered to the voters for study in the form of thin sheets of traumatized tree known as newspapers. The voters then, after their best attempt at careful consideration—which is about the length of the average bowel movement—misunderstand half of them, and forget the other half, replacing it with a tissue of fancy, fiction, and… and wild surmise.” Dotted changed the direction of his stomping in mid-stride causing the microphone to trip and catch itself on its own cord. He swept around to suddenly turn to his audience. “And then—THEN we get the elections. Oh yes. In these all the voters—well no, not all of them, just the ones who had nothing better to do that day like washing their mane, trimming their hedges, or staring, unblinking, at paint as it dries—so these, these extra-idle voters show up at their designated voting stations, get a piece of paper, and are given a bit of privacy in a booth to do their voting. Here, behind a curtain, away from prying eyes, they pick one of the parties they know nothing about to do something they can’t conceive of, for reasons utterly opaque to the rest of equianity and not entirely clear even to themselves. Rumor has it that cosmic rays, phases of the moon, and weather forecasts for continents long since sunk all play a vital part in this mad, deranged process we call democracy. They then take this piece of paper, and put it in a box. Once the day is over, all these pieces of paper are tallied up and counted and tabulated, and we get to know the results, which is to say which group of gormless malicious idiots will attempt to ruin Equestria next. By the morning each paper declares the result a disaster and hires, presumably, escaped mental patients to explain how such a disastrous and unprecedented result came about. These rants, raves, ramblings, and attempts at prophecy then become gospel truth in political circles for the next four years when the WHOLE BLOODY THING STARTS OVER AGAIN.” Dotted’s gray telekinesis aura picked up the glass, held it as it trembled gently, and then downed it in one go. He grabbed the microphone which couldn’t dodge aside fast enough, and grasped it as if it was a substitute for a neck he wasn’t allowed to wring. “Your options,” he said, with bleak intensity, “are these. You can be in one of those parties and lie. You can be a voter, and be lied to. Or you can be a civil servant and spend your life cleaning up after things like this. None of these options offer so much as a shred of dignity or sanity. We are, all of us, utterly doomed. Any questions?” The foals in the audience burst into tears. Behind them, the teacher quietly buried her face in her hooves. “So we’re scrapping the Civil Service Community Outreach program, then,” asked Balanced Ledger, adjusting her glasses. “Oh yes. Schools won’t play ball anymore,” said Spinning Top, serenely. “Completely scuppered. On reflection, perhaps we shouldn’t have sent Dotted just after an election. What a shame,” she finished, primly. “Shame,” asked Ledger, “Didn’t you hate the idea?” She blinked at Spinning with the same perplexed expression she used for particularly recalcitrant differential equations. “Dearest Ledger,” said Spinning Top with the sincerity only available to born liars, “I am sure I have no idea what you mean.” Author's Note Note that this is not the story I promised. That's being written. Up to about 1000 words so far. This is a completely different story I wrote in July and then utterly forgot. Um. Sorry. Much thanks for Bookplayer & Bradel for pre-reading and Ferret & Oliver for providing motivation and encouragement. The Other PrincessThe Other Princess Princess Celestia looked up from her notes—another briefing on the theft of state secrets employing what she considered criminally excessive exclamation marks—and nodded to a guard. “Manny, would you please ask Mr. Line to see me at his earliest convenience?” The guard who was named Flanking Maneuver by parents who really should have known better and who, thus, preferred to be known as ‘Manny,’ snapped off a sharp bow—more of a militant nod, really—wrenched open the door to the royal study, and bounced off Dotted Line who was standing on the threshold with one hoof raised. “I was just about to knock, Your Majesty,” said Dotted, bowing, “You wanted to see me?” Celestia merely nodded and motioned him in with her hoof. She had long since[1] given up on trying to understand how her Cabinet Secretaries—the newest one in particular—worked. [1] Specifically ‘round about 311 when she got up in the middle of the night—several pots of coffee were involved as was, possibly, a certain amount of alcohol—and summoned Lady Sharp Quill. As she waited, excited to have finally defeated the uncanny and possibly preternatural abilities of her civil service staff, she heard a polite cough from her left and a whispered, “Oh, I do say, Your Majesty, this is exciting. Who are we waiting for?” “Mr. Secretary! So fortunate you happened to be, ah, passing by,” she said, “I wanted to discuss a matter relating to my sister.” Saying ‘my sister’ still felt sweet on the tongue, even months later. “Your Majesty,” Dotted said noncommittally—but she could see him tense up. Privately she suspected that no laboratory in the world had the chemical sophistication to synthesize something that would relax Dotted Line; still, there were ways. “Ah, before we begin, cup of tea, Mr. Secretary?” Of course he said yes. Let Lord Trottingham say what he wanted—empirically quite a lot, it turns out—she ruled with—at worst—a golden hoof. “Her recovery is progressing well—quite well, and while her—what was the term the Service adopted in the end?” “Amateur astronomy, Your Majesty.” “For controlling the Moon?” “It has to do with tax brackets, Your Majesty.” “I see. Well, her amateur astronomy work is progressing well, but she has always helped me with governance before—ah—in the past. Helped tremendously, in fact. And she has expressed a desire to help again, but as you may imagine a thousand years is quite a lot of time,” she said, taking a sip of tea to cover for her shudder. A very long time. “She may need help,” she continued, “and I cannot possibly provide it—my presence would detract from hers, I fear. I understand this may conflict with your other duties and I would never dream of ordering it, but would you consider helping her all the same? There is nopony else I could trust with the matter.” Sometimes asking was as bad as ordering but—she hadn’t lied. That was some comfort. Of course he said yes. Luna had moved into a tower previously used for storage. For nearly a thousand years everypony assumed that a mirror image of the Princess’ own quarters was built in the palace as part of the free-wheeling, happy-go-lucky approach to such frivolities as ‘planning’ or ‘making sense’ during its construction that famously gave the building such character[2]. Well. Everypony knew better now. Dotted skulked through what was increasingly being known as ‘The Cynthian Tower’ feeling his steps shorten as he reached the top. [2] Not to mention plumbing not connected to anything in particular, indoor balconies, and at least one migrating room. Part of it was that he really should listen to Goldie when she went on about exercise and diet. Another part—a big one—was that his hooves were full already, what with the theft of the fleet disposition documents. He had a lot to hide and a lot of ponies to hide it from and it didn’t help that the princess—Princess Celestia, that is—didn’t like lying to her ponies. Or trapping them. And we were all blessed that she was such, a treasure to be sure, but how she imagined a security service might be run without a few secrets was—but that wasn’t the reason he was dragging his feet. Not really. In truth it was because he did not relish this task. Oh, he’d bite his own tongue off rather than say it, but… How on Epona was he supposed to instruct royalty? Divinity? And the other princess—and he couldn’t think of her as anything else—was… she was like this tower. Familiar and yet, somehow, not. Shortening though they might have been, his steps eventually brought him to the door of the Princess of the Night. The guard was wearing purple-and-silver sure enough but underneath that Dotted was glad to recognize a familiar face. “Doleful! Long time no see! How’s the new post?” Doleful Shade, being a guardspony, remained motionless, yet managed to indicate with the particular nature of the motionlessness that, all things considered, it was all going quite well, really, and the the missus enjoyed the raise the promotion brought which meant she could take a few less shifts. “Well, that’s certainly good to hear. Look, you are a batpony with his head on straight, what do you think of…” Here Dotted, who, unlike veteran guardsponies, wasn’t an expert in immobile communication, jerked his head towards the door. Doleful indicated with particularly stiff immobility that, being sworn to the new princess’ service it really couldn’t be his place to comment, but on a personal note, he himself had nothing to complain about. “Your discretion does you credit, “ said Dotted, nodding. “Well, can’t stay here gabbing, can I? Do give my best to the family.” With that he rapped his hoof on the door gently, expecting Doleful’s partner—Sinister Spectre, likely as not—to open it and announce him when the door suddenly shot open and he found himself muzzle-to-muzzle with a wild-eyed Luna. He skittered a few steps back in shock and nearly went over backwards. “How dost thou do that,” she asked, speaking just quietly enough that Dotted largely retained his hearing. “...I… you… what?” “We just spake of thee but a moment ago to Guardsmare Sinister! My sister oft speaks of this habit of thine.” “Ah, sorry Your Majesty. It just happens, I’m afraid,” he replied. Not that you didn’t learn to pay special attention to odd impulses to go and see what the Princess is up to in the middle of the night, of course. And it did help a reputation for efficiency. Luna remained staring at him for a long moment and then swept back into her study suddenly and then, once she had reached the center, snapped back to face him, and said “Pray, enter, My Lord Line. And forgive u—me my manners. My sister hath a penchant for jest, and I thought the talk of your manner of entrances & exeunts was one of them.” Dotted entered with a certain amount of care, putting one hoof ahead of another as if he expected the floor to be broken glass. The other princess was… different. Celestia glided. Fast or slow, there was a certainty and sedate pace to her movements. Luna darted, hardly seeming to bother with the intervening space, and there was a harsh suddenness to her movements that made him wary. She wasn’t Celestia. The room was still largely bare: papers in piles, books open on all available surfaces with other books used to mark places. A gleaming walnut desk. A few scattered chairs, and cushions. And, on one wall, a threadbare tapestry that Dotted could swear he had seen in the Equestrian National Gallery. “It’s, uh, perfectly alright, Your Majesty,” said Dotted bowing belatedly, “I understand you wish to take a part in the running of Equestria?” “Indeed,” said Luna, giving a very vigorous nod, “such was ou—mine role before my banishment, and I am eager to return to it as soon as I am suffered to do so.” “Well, Your Majesty, the requisite legal details have all been resolved. Your rights and prerogatives broadly match that of your sister with seniority according to the time of day based on the Lex Sororum.” Luna’s face lit up. “Ah! Disputationes legum Equine locutae tamen sunt?” Dotted’s mouth worked soundlessly for a minute or so before he answered, offering a silent internal prayer of thanks for having known and put up with Spinny for as long as he had done. “Ah, no, Your Majesty, we no longer use Classical Equestrian—Equine, I mean—except for a few terms here and there, I fear. I just used the classical name because, ah, the law was long obsolete before we revived it with your return.” A shadow passed over Luna’s face. “Ah. Of course. Apologies, We just thought… well it was ancient even before… Right. Does the Night Court still exist?” “Oh, yes, Your Majesty, in fact, I thought that meeting a few of the Royal Council and holding a session might just be the—” Dotted stopped when he realized that Luna was no longer in front of him. He turned bewildered to find an impassive Sinister Spectre by the door and a disturbing lack of royalty. He was about to declare a security of the realm emergency when a booming voice, echoing through the entire length of the tower, nearly knocked him off his hooves. “Come, My Lord Line! The Council awaits!” It was considerably later and the moon was peeking through the stained glass and giltwork of the Cynthian Hall. Dotted took another—in theory calming—sip of tea. He sniffed the thermos. Unfortunately, much like the last five times he checked, there still wasn’t any alcohol in it. The fleet disposition papers were an uncomfortable bulge in his saddlebags and he could not prevent a small stab of annoyance that he could not work on them now. But if Princess Celestia was as… old fashioned and overkind as she was, her sister would surely be worse. He suppressed a twinge of irritation. Princess Luna couldn’t help being a thousand years out of date, not the mention help being— "So, my Lord Line, how did W—I do," Luna asked, with an expression so earnest it was actually painful to behold. "Well, Your Majesty, it was a... a noble effort. Very, uh, very earnest. A few minor quibbles if I may. Firstly, we no longer draw and quarter ponies. Haven't for nine hundred and some odd years. Secondly, you can't order ponies executed. Equestria hasn't had capital punishment since the reform act of 514, and even if it were reinstated—which given the positions of the Crown Loyalists and the Front Pegasus is actually probably possible—you'd need due process. Thirdly, the usual mode of address for members of the Royal Council is 'my lord' or 'my lady' not 'brief mortals.' Fourthly, we can't declare war on Stalliongrad, it's been a part of Equestria since 344, and fifthly the person you kept addressing as "Lord Privy Seal" is the stenographer. We haven't had a Lord Privy Seal since 889. Sixtly, while I happen to know that it is true that Lord Trottingham’s in dire financial straits and that the Duke of Whitetail is involved with… who you said, those were rather meant to be secrets, and chastising them for not hiding them better—even though it was a rather excellent lecture on OPSEC, Your Majesty—doesn’t really help. But aside from those, ah, trifling matters, it went well, I think." Luna's hopeful expression didn't so much disappear as drain from her face. "Oh," she said in a very small voice. "But those issues should be very simple to resolve, Your Majesty. You were very... regal. Very commanding. Though... on that score..." "Yes, My Lord Line?" Dotted winced, not for the first time that night. It was bad enough when ponies called him that today but when she last walked Equestria the titles meant something and according to Dotted and any Northisler born in the last thousand years, what they meant was nothing good. "The... uh, the Royal Canterlot Voice. Is it necessary?" "My sister hath said that it is not for informal gatherings and I have heeded her words with great care, but the Night Court was a formal affair, was it not?" "Yes. Yes. Um. Yes. Agreed. It's just that... with the volume being what it is I think I will have to fill out paperwork to reclassify the Cynthian Hall as a... uh.... as an industrial zone, you see, due to the noise. As per Occupational Health & Safety regulations, codicil six, paragraph 35d, amended 995. Which—uh, which may mean everyone will have to wear hearing protection, eye protection, and hard-hats. And that... well it, it might clash with your regalia for one. Also painting the Lunar Throne in safety orange would probably count as vandalism or treason or polyphiloprogeny or something." Luna had looked crestfallen before, but now looked entirely devastated. Dotted's heart broke a little at the sight of her and he stuttered into silence. She tried. She really, really did. It was hard to see when she strutted and shouted and declaimed thunderously but now as she sat crestfallen, the throne seemingly made for a much larger mare, he could see it all too well. She could never be Celestia so she tried for… what? The Great And Terrible Princess of Darkness (but on your side, honest)? A lifetime—a long lifetime—of not fitting in, ever, and of forever falling short of whatever it was that was expected. It sounded like misery. It sounded familiar. They sat together in the cold echoing chamber for a span of eighty heartbeats studiously looking away when Luna said, quietly. "What is polyphiloprogeny?" "No idea. It's mentioned in a bill from 324 as being strictly forbidden in Equestria on pain of summary phythoplasty, but nopony can find what ‘polyphiloprogeny’ actually is. Or was. The law is still on the books since we can't repeal it because we can't debate it because we don't know what it says." Luna laughed. Her sister's laugh seemed unearthly and brought to mind such things as babbling brooks, or the tinkling of silver bells. Luna's was an echoing belly laugh, and Dotted could swear he heard a trace of a snort as she slapped a silver-shod hoof on the conference table. Hearing it, he found he could smile again. “It is pleasing to hear,” said Luna, at length, “that the present hath as much difficulties with the past as I do with the present. It’s a hopeful thing, methinks. I have much to learn, My Lord Line, but… surely there’s aught I can do?” Dotted took a speculative sip of tea. “Well, Your Majesty, there is always the, ah, informal side of being a diarch of Equestria. Any salon in Canterlot would, of course, welcome you. Your sister tries to attend a few and use the opportunity to mix with the higher echelons of society, provide a gentle steer, as it were, but there’s hardly ever time. And, well, classical culture is always respected and I’m, uh, sure that your, ah, knowledge of Shakespony, say, will allow for a certain flair—” Luna laughed again. Dotted found he could really get used to the sound. “Shakespony! That old rascal! Classical culture! Oh, My Lord Line, my sister hath not said that you had such a flair for jesting! I must commend ye, ‘twas excellently said.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “My Lord Line? You are jesting, are you not?” “Uh, no, Shakespony is, in fact, considered rather the apex of classical culture.” Luna goggled at him. “Thou canst not be serious,” she hissed. “Puns and profanity! The vulgar and the venal! Amusing to be sure but… this, to ye all, is high culture?” “For everypony. Um. Sorry, Your Majesty.” Luna facehoofed. “O tempora, o mores,” she muttered, dejectedly. “We... I did not do well in there, My Lord Line.” Dotted’s smile turned very brittle. It was considerably worse than that. He glanced around the street but there was nopony to overhear. The courier who waited outside to give him the crucial scouting report was already turning a corner at the far end of the street and the guests of the little soiree they had crashed didn’t leave as much as they had fled. “Oh, Your Majesty, I’m sure there was friction and, ah, misunderstanding in there but—” “And it is normal in this time,” Luna said, bitterly, “for guests to leave these salons in tears, is it?” “Well… not as such, Your Majesty. You may have been a touch… harsh with Lady Baltimare wh—” “The things she said! About Lady Sparkle no less! About my sister. It is them two I owe my liberty, My Lord Line! I will not hear them slandered,” Luna said, finishing with a hoof-stomp which, Dotted noted in a distant sort of way, pulverized a considerable amount of the flagstone Luna was standing on. A small, irrepressible part of him made several notes and slid them into folders marked ‘road repair,’ and ‘palace finance, misc. monies, royal snit sub-account.’ “Your Majesty,” Dotted began in his most conciliatory tone, “While harsh, ‘pigeon-liver’d froward and unable worm’ was perfectly understandable. And, really, so was ‘poisonous bunch-backed toad.’ The charge laid that Lady Baltimare has in her, ah, ‘no more good faith in her than a stewed prune’ is, based on my data, quite correct—well, uh, spotted. Comparing her to an, uh, easy glove that goes off or on at pleasure was a bit… extreme, but I, uh, certainly see you were quite upset at this point, and again, none can fault you as far as correctness is concerned. I cannot imagine how you managed to ascertain when, with whom, and how but it was quite impressive, though given the reaction it would have perhaps been better if you were, ah, less perceptive. But, uhm… the, ah, duel, Your Majesty?” “What of it?” “They are illegal for a start.” “Balderdash,” said Luna, seething, “they were illegal afore, as well. And give me not moralizing, Lord Line, we weren’t going to hurt her, just prove a point. And she’s a noble, is she not? It’s not like she is unaccustomed to the sight of a bit of blood?” Luna took one look at Dotted’s face and all the fury drained out of her in an instant. “My Lord Line?” “Titles of nobility have nothing to do with military service, Your Majesty. Not anymore. I doubt Lady Baltimare has ever wielded anything more lethal than a salad fork.” “We challenged to a duel—” Luna caught herself short. She seemed to sag and shrink until Dotted could not help the feeling that, short as he was, he was looking down at her suddenly frightened face. She seemed… lost. A foal, far, far from home. She looked away. “Oh, My Lord Line… what a wretched muddle I’ve made. I do not belong here. Not anymore.” “Your Majesty! That’s not true, there’s just a—” Dotted’s assurance died on his lips as he saw Luna’s face. She looked at him for a moment, then up for a second, and sighed. “One cannot even see the stars anymore. My little ponies stay up all night now, I find, and burn lanterns ‘till the sunrise, but they are not mine anymore, are they? Not my little ponies. I do not know them. What are they to me and I to them? Strangers. I might have as well gone to search for a home among the Griffins or the Qilin.” They stood silent in the street for a long while, Luna inspecting the sky like somepony looking for an old friend in a crowd, and Dotted staring at his own hooves, unsure what to say. The cry of a night-watchmare broke the silence. “How did you know,” said Dotted, suddenly. “Pardon,” Luna replied looking, with wide a curious eyes, a bit more like herself for just an instant. “About Lady Baltimare? Or the Duke of Whitetail? Or… any of it?” Luna looked puzzled, she stepped back a few feet, and fluffed her wings. “Wasn’t it obvious?” “Not to most ponies, Your Majesty.” “Well, ponies told me, My Lord Line.” “Oh? Which ones?” “I could not venture as to their names, but the diverse guests of this salon we just visited were discussing all manner of things. One only needed to listen.” Dotted blinked. “You can follow a dozen separate conversations in crowded room,” he asked, disbelief coloring his voice. “Oh, it is quite a simple thing, My Lord Line. One only need know how to note things properly according to their natures.” “And the Duke of Whitetail? Lord Trottingham?” “Some in their words. Some in their silences. The rest in how they moved and stood still. It is still noting things and naught more.” “You notice a lot of things, Your Majesty,” said Dotted still not quite able to make himself believe. “A few. A few. Much like I noted the envelope that pony gaveth unto ye just now—to choose an example by chance, of course,” said Luna the gleam in her eyes almost eclipsing her dejection. “Oh,” said Dotted, suddenly going very, very still, “that. Hah. Well spotted, Your Majesty. Well spotted. Well, you know how it can be. The business of government never stops, after all.” Luna fixed Dotted with a long, long look, and smiled, thinly. She still looked withdrawn and somehow grey and the smile did not seem to fit on her muzzle. “So my sister saye—says,” Luna said blandly. Dotted resisted looking back at the saddlebags where the envelope was and instead smiled. “The night’s still young—middle-aged at worst. Perhaps given your skill at noting things you might like to see how the actual business of government is conducted?” The Office of Unified Intelligence was dark, cold, and empty. This was a surprise. “Where is everypony,” Dotted asked, shocked, “it’s a security crisis, I’d have expected ponies to be in here at it hammer and tongs. Why, most days we have to kick them—ah. Damn.” “My Lord Line,” asked Luna, quietly. She was a bit better than on the street but her mien was… subdued. She even spoke softly and Dotted found that hit him the hardest. A voice like hers was made for exuberance or, at the very least, for shouting. Whispers ill-suited it. “Well… we’ve issues with ponies working at all hours and so to promote—ah, what’s the phrase—work-life balance we have started ejecting people after work hours are done. And I, uh, wasn’t here to rescind the order.” “So?” “So, around six a bunch of rather burly guardsponies came in and carted my intelligence analysts away.” “Ah.” Dotted’s horn lit up and the lanterns embedded in the ceiling flickered with a greenish flame that was efficient, safe, cold, and—whatever the experts might say—guaranteed to drive you insane with its subtle flicker within an hour. Then again, in the Service, who’d notice? The office was designed without anything resembling a central plan. It was windowless and managed to seem poky despite being large enough to play hoofball in. The center was a pile of untidily piled-together desks covered in paper and the walls were covered in cork-board and thousands upon thousands of newspaper clippings, notes, photographs, sketches, and what at first blush appeared to be at least one shrunken head[3]. [3] The Tsantsa people of central Yakistan write exclusively in knots braided in the hair of shrunken heads of defeated foes. Of course, once double-entry bookkeeping reached the Tsantsa the supply of foes declined precipitously, and so this was merely an imitation fashioned out of cord and rough canvas. These days the Tsantsa generally save the actual heads for important things like high-end business cards. “Well,” said Dotted, keeping a close eye on Luna, “here we are. Please feel free to look around and I’ll, make a nice cup of tea.” “Thank you, My Lord Line.” Dotted retreated a ways and started fiddling with an emergency tea kit he hid in a cubbyhole in which—annoyingly—somepony had also hidden a crossbow, a bag of bits, and a stack of passports. Spies! Really! Dotted leafed through the passports while he waited for the water to boil and then, as the kettle began to sing, he dumped the whole lot on the floor unceremoniously. He’d have to have a talk with this Lshtshfum Asc’f, whoever he was, about finding better hiding places for his emergency bag. As he waited for the tea to seep he kept an eye on Luna. She was shuffling past the desks seemingly not paying anything much attention. Then again, she didn’t seem like she was listening to a dozen different conversations earlier either and yet… If she could do this sort of thing at will she might truly be an enormous help in government. Not just feeling useful but— “This is quite fascinating,” mumbled Luna who had, despite her ambling pace, somehow managed to move out of his line of sight, “I mean obviously, you know it’s this pony named State Secret doing this, yes?” Dotted dropped his teacup. “What?!” “Quite, quite obvious. The payment from Second-and-a-Half Canterlot Mercantile Bank, sayeth here, is exactly the equal of the payment by this Sifter person for the hardwood floor to a shop one of your ponies hath marked as not actually existing, and Sifter doesn’t exist either because he livet...lives at 137 Harmony Avenue, which that map over there says only has 120 numbers in it. Hidden payment. State Secret. It must be.” “I… how did you… I mean you just glanced at—” “But the question is how a junior courier gets access to… oh. You gave him the secrets.” Dotted dropped the teapot as well. He turned, slowly, to see Luna considerably closer than he expected glaring at him. He suddenly remembered a powdered flagstone and just how hard that would be to replace and yet how easy compared to other things that might also be reduced to powder. “I… how did… you—,” he fell silent as he was not roughly but irresistibly lifted off his hooves by a dark blue aura. Luna kept glaring at him and then blinked, slowly, and looked carefully around the room for a long moment while Dotted contemplated calling for help. “They… are not real secrets. This note,” she said pointing at a piece of paper next to the fireplace where Dotted could swear she never even looked, “says it’s about fleet disposition of… whatever a ‘submarine’ is and how they are in the Coldwater Strait but this map,” she continued, almost dancing with excitement and pointing at a half rolled-up map on a table next to them, “shows the disposition from the same day it was supposed to have been stolen and shows entirely the wrong layout. Nothing near Coldwater!” She beamed and swung Dotted around as if he was an—immobile and slightly terrified—dancing partner and then, remembering herself, she put him down very, very gently. “Thou gavest him false secrets,” she declared proudly to Dotted and, given the volume, to most of Canterlot’s population. Dotted fought an urge to shush her, despite his forebrain signaling frantically that this would likely not be survivable. He took a few deep breaths and marshalled his thoughts. “Yes. I was sure there was a leak of less important sensitive information and I gave different reports to three of our newer recruits and tasked a few personal friends in Sky Reconnaissance to keep an eye on the locations I mentioned. The moment I heard that a Griffin Q-ship was spotted in the straits I knew who my culprit was. How on Epona did you know?,” Dotted asked, stopping himself to add, “Your Majesty.” Luna grinned. "The world hath changed, My Lord Line, changed well past my ability to grasp, at least for now. But this, My Lord! This I understand. This is the same, as it ever was. Betrayal and deception. Trickery and illusion. These are mine now and were mine in the past. Oh, I may not know what a submarine is—” “It’s a ship that travels underwater, Your Majesty.” “Truly?” “Yes.” “Can a visit on such a device be arranged?” “For a princess of the realm? Certainly.” Luna managed to find a way to grin wider. “Excellent. Perhaps this future isn’t as bad as I feared. Well. I may or may not know about submarines, but ponies lie about them exactly as they did when the world was young. Nihil novi sub luna,” she added with what Dotted could swear was a wink, “This will do for now. Oh, yes. I will be useful. Hah! Spycraft! The oldest profession!" There was a pause, and Luna blushed. "Ah, second oldest, I should say." There was another, longer pause, and she added, thoughtfully, "Well. Third, actually." Dotted raised a questioning eyebrow. "Flint-knapper, Mr. Line. Trust me. I was there," she said and then laughed, eyes sparkling. Coda: “Mr. Secretary, I know I must be taking you away from important duties but I simply must ask, did you employ my sister as the president of the Office of Unified Intelligence?” Princess Celestia spared a quick look at Luna who radiated innocence. “Oh, no, heavens forefend, Your Majesty. I could never legally do such a thing. No, no, I hired L, an entirely mysterious mare whom none of us at OUI know much about as the president. She’s a completely different person than your sister. Wears a little domino mask and everything.” Celestia turned to face her sister who redoubled her look of cherubic innocence. “Luna?” “I myself know little about this ‘L’ though by report she is absolutely brilliant at spycraft and subterfuge. And quite handsome, too, I’m given to understand,” she said, retaining a straight face throughout. Princess Celestia briefly massaged the base of her horn. “I see. Is the highly mysterious L close to catching the thief of those documents, then?” Luna made an expansive gesture with a silver-shod hoof. “Well! Who among us can possibly know the mind of a mistress of spycraft of such eminence, but I suspect that she can easily get her hooves on whoever it is that has caused the leak. Wouldn’t you agree, My Lord Line?” Dotted didn’t even blink. He was a professional. “Quite easily I am sure, Your Majesty. I think he wouldn’t know what hit him.” “Indeed,” Luna chimed in, “Or her, of course.” “Of course,” Dotted concurred. They both looked at Celestia with eyes soaked in innocence and entirely free of guile. It was a pretty disturbing sight. “Well. I’m sure we all wish L, then, all the best in this difficult time.” As Dotted Line and Luna stood to leave—Luna to bed, and Dotted to—it was Monday, wasn’t it?—terrify the cabinet—Princess Celestia motioned to Dotted. “Mr. Secretary, would you please stay for just a moment more?” Dotted paused on the threshold and then returned back to Celestia’s desk. “Yes, Your Majesty?” Celestia waited for a moment to be sure her sister was out of earshot and, bending her head closer to Dotted’s, whispered. “Thank you.” Dotted smiled. “Always, Your Majesty. Though… if I could ask for your aid over a trifling matter?” “Certainly, Mr. Secretary. As ever, you need but ask.” “Could you please make your sister stop calling me ‘My Lord Line?’” Yep, Dotted thought. Definitely like silver bells. Or a babbling brook. Author's Note Written as a part of FanOfMostEverything's excellent Imposing Sovereigns contest. By all means check out ~~those fools who will pay they will all pay~~ my excellent competition. I also find myself in the position of Mark Twain (without the writing talent thought, darn) of having to explain that my characters aren't trying to talk alike and failing. Luna's grammar is all over the place in this story but that's because she's trying to adapt to the modern idiom and, depending on her mental state, failing more or less. Infinite thanks to Bad Horse, Bookplayer, The Amazing & Most Excellent Ferret[1], and MrNumbers for vital pre-reading help. [1] Might not be her actual username[2]. [2] I'll have footnotes in my author's notes if I want to.
Table of ContentsObiter Dicta things said in passing Contains the following short stories and vignettes: An Afternoon for Dotted Line [slice of life] [comedy] -- Takes place just after A Canterlot Carol and shows Dotted that being reminded goes both ways. A fluffy and cheerful story of an afternoon, just for Dotted Line. The Game The Princesses Play [comedy] -- A strange game played by princesses and what it means for Equestria. On The Inaccuracy of Proverbs [slice of life] [sad] [comedy] -- Filly Twilight expresses her concerns about the low standard of scientific accuracy in the proverbs dispensed by adults. Her foalsitter tries to neither laugh nor cry. This proves difficult. The Nature of War [history] -- An edifying account of a celebrated war between the Greater Griffonstan Empire and the Principality of Equestria. On Forensic Accounting & Choral Singing [comedy] — Leafy Salad explores the implications of close harmony singing on white-collar crime. Or, at least, that's how it is getting put down in the report... Hoofprints [sad] [human] — The first man on the Moon sees something, something incredible he never mentions to anyone. Maybe. It's hard to tell. Time is being... difficult. Note: Not a HiE story. Dr. Spinning Top—Specimen Annotated Daily Schedule[Slice of Life]—One day in the life of Spinning Top, press secretary & chief news-wrangler. It's technically a prequel to Bradel's magnificent A Filly's Guide to Not Making Headlines, however, you can read them in whatever order you wish without detracting from the experience one bit. Love and Other Acquired Tastes [comedy][sad]—A little homeless filly is out in the rain, all alone. This is sadder than you think. Also happier. Any Other Business? [comedy]—Twilight Sparkle is now an alicorn. This... is not what Dotted Line promised the Council of Lords. They react with their customary tact and grace. Songs Like Snow [romance]—Dotted Line and Ambassador Mkali share a moment on a snow-covered balcony during a Crystal Empire peace summit. Author's Note Great, nay, infinite thanks to my wonderful pre-readers: Bad Horse (He's bad!) Bradel (He's... actually rather good) The Mysterious Nettlefish (She's magnificent!) PoweredByTea (who is made of awesome and needs to publish Summer Sun already). Also thanks to Bradel for providing me with the cover art, used with his kind permission.
An Afternoon for Dotted LineAn Afternoon for Dotted Line If you were visited by royalty, Dotted reflected, you usually had some foreknowledge. You could make sure that the place was clean and presentable. Dust things. Scrub. Polish the silver, should you have any. Not so with dreams. He heard the beating of mighty wings. A familiar sound. A hopeful sound. A frightening sound. Dotted looked around in panic. Rain-soaked rocky beach. Waves crashing against it. Overcast skies above drizzling in a sort of vague, uninterested way. Reassuringly normal, all of it. Well, there was a house floating in the sky—only occasionally it was an orange depending on the angle you looked at it from—but that couldn’t be helped. Still, not embarrassing, not as such. At least unless Her Majesty thought to ask what it was a dream of. He could hear the click of hooves behind him, and he turned, bowing quickly. Dream or not, it didn’t do to forget one’s manners. Luna, the Ruler of the Night, and, perhaps more importantly right now, the Steward of the Dreaming, stood before him. She’d tried for a smile, he saw, but didn’t quite manage. Something of her accustomed stern mien bled through and the smile, paradoxically, made it worse. He replied with a smile of his own, and, by force of habit, reached to tug his chain of office back into place. It wasn’t there and he felt a stab of panic. It was always there. He forced his hoof away from the bare patch through an effort of will, and focused his attention on the princess. If Luna noticed any of this, there was no sign of it. Instead, she spoke, her voice much quieter than normal. “Dotted Line? We are sorry for disturbing th—your sleep, and would normally consider this an unworthy use of ou—mine powers as the steward of the dreaming, but my sister did ask.” “Yes, Your Majesty?” “My sister wishes to see you at your earliest convenience. But, please, don’t wake up right—” The ground quaked, the rocks leaping up into the sky which turned a nasty bruised color before crumpling and burning away. The ashes became birds which faded, leaving behind only the flutter of wings and a faint mournful cry. The house/orange thing burst into dandelion seeds which dispersed on a wind that took with it the sea and the early morning light. Luna was left alone in a formless void with only the rain, falling from nowhere to nowhere, less because of gravity and more out of sheer obstinate habit. After a few moments even that stopped. “—away. I told her this would happen,” she said, sighing, and with a single beat of her powerful wings, departed the dreaming. * * * Dotted awoke, blind, trapped, and struggling to breathe. For most this would be cause for panic, but Dotted, after the initial shock, knew what was going on. He had fallen asleep in a filing cabinet. Again. He sighed in the warm, papery darkness, and kicked out once, hard. The weak hinge of the filing cabinet gave way, as he knew it would, and the drawer slid into his office. He heaved himself out of the drawer and noted with grim satisfaction that he had conscientiously filed himself under ‘L.’ He looked around the office which, chaotic even in the best of times, now appeared a battleground. Behind his desk the piles of paperwork were merging, threatening to one day wash away all of the furnishings in a papery tsunami. The cleaning staff was going to have a fit when they saw the state of it. Still, he had some time to tidy. They never came in on the morning after Hearthwarm—his eye, lazily drifting across the room, caught sight of his clock and he leapt up into the air with a muffled curse. He was late. He always had a brief meeting with Her Majesty first thing in the morning, and it was a quarter past ten. It took him one breathless instant to realize all of this, another to panic, and yet a third to start running. He was late and Celestia had sent Luna herself to wake him. Dotted couldn’t begin to imagine how the princess might react. What she might do. He ran faster. He reached the door to Her Majesty’s study in two minutes and eighteen seconds, breaking several speeding ordinances in the process, the sort usually meant to rein in daredevil pegasi. The guards watched him impassively—as per tradition—but he could swear he read a touch of worry in their posture. He took a precious second to regain some of his breath and then, with considerable trepidation, walked past them wheezing out a “Good, uh, Morning, Sergeant Cloud. Sergeant Winter” as he did. They nodded, and made no move to stop him. Well that was something. At least he still retained his job. He crept in, quieter now than even last night, and bowed deep. He couldn’t quite look at her, not yet. He couldn’t take the look of disappointment, not this soon after waking. He just couldn’t. So his eyes were still firmly fixed on the carpet when he spoke. “Good Morning, Your Majesty. I—I am terribly sorry. I, well, I overslept, and I—” “Mr. Secretary! What are you doing up?” “—didn’t mean to be late, I must have not heard the alarm, the paper does muffle it, but that’s absolutely no excuse and I ought to have—” “Mr. Secretary?” “—just incredibly sorry, I didn’t mean to—” “Dotted Line?” Dotted stopped short, and, with considerable hesitation, lifted his eyes to meet those of his princess. She—she didn’t seem disappointed. Or angry. Just…worried? Heavens. He didn’t worry her, did he? He opened his mouth to speak but his princess raised a hoof and, instantly, the words died on his lips. “The guards I sent to find you didn’t want to disturb you—you had clearly had a very hard night—and I agreed with them. I asked my sister to give you a message in the only way I knew wouldn’t wake you. Clearly that didn’t work. Are you well?” “Yes. Of course. Fine. I’m sorry I was—” “You need not apologize. I am only sorry your sleep was interrupted. You get precious little of it, as I understand.” “I’m so—it is very unfortunate I was so late.” “It is no trouble, I assure you. But now that you are here, I would like to draw your attention to an odd occurrence.” “Yes, Your Majesty?” “Last night I wanted to finish the work regarding the new treaty with Zebrica, but I fell asleep. I find it very hard to stay up after the sun has set, I am afraid. That is the price of being so attuned to it.” “It’s quite alright, Your Majesty.” “Except, this morning, I found the work all completed on my desk.” “Sleepwriting. Very common. Like sleepwalking, but with writing. A bit embarrassing on occasion, but a great boon to students, as I understand it.” Celestia’s worried expression softened into a gentle smile, and Dotted’s heart sang just a little bit because of it. He tried not to let any of that show. That’s not how the game was played, after all. “Except, Mr. Secretary, none of it was in my hoofwriting.” “A Hearthwarming miracle, perhaps?” “It was in your hoofwriting.” “Well, miracles are peculiar things. I’m given to understand that they often choose the most unlikely vessels for their, ah, miraculous purposes.” “I see. I had intended to give a copy of the papers to you, but something tells me the miracle saw fit to leave them on your desk.” “In my desk drawer, Your Majesty. Very neat. Very tidy.” “A very considerate miracle, this.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” There was a brief pause, as both players regarded their performance. Neither was dissatisfied. It was an old game, true, but a cherished one. “Have a very happy Hearthwarming, Dotted Line.” “Likewise, Your Majesty. A Happy Hearthwarming. Will your require anything else?” “One more thing.” “Anything Your Majesty requires.” “Go rest. Miracle-working is tiring work, as I of all ponies should know. You might even regard it as a professional opinion.” “Of course, Your Majesty. As soon as—” “Mr. Secretary?” “Yes?” “I am your princess.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “Being that, on occasion, I do give you orders.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “This, I suggest, is one of those times.” “Your Majesty?” “Go. Rest. At the very least this afternoon. If I must, I will make it an official royal command. And I shall arrange that it be in writing with calligraphy and I shall have town-criers read it out in the square.” “No need, Your Majesty. Besides, I sent the Notary Royal home for the holidays. I’d have to write up the order prohibiting me from doing any work myself. And then, I guess, I’d have to write up a note of censure about me breaking that command and so on. Bit of a vicious circle.” Celestia’s smile grew into a grin. “Go, Mr. Secretary. Rest.” * * * Dotted’s home wasn’t what people expected. The post of Cabinet Secretary had a very generous, some might even say extravagant, salary and involved a lot of rubbing shoulders[1] with nobility. Thus, most Cabinet Secretaries lived as Canterlot lords and ladies, and the majority of ponies expected a mansion. Those who knew Dotted well knew there was no chance of that, but were at a loss to come up with an alternative. Not that they didn’t try for fanciful theories, anyway. Spinning Top once suggested a house-sized teapot, and Balanced Ledger, in the same tipsy conversation, suggested that he had no home, aside from his office, and that there was a bathroom and a kitchen buried somewhere in the papery strata. [1] Or knocking heads. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Or, in the case of Lady Moonflower, Cabinet Secretary 137-158, literally speaking. The truth was, Dotted lived in a comically tiny two-story rowhouse at the outermost part of Canterlot, nestled against the outer walls. A very unfashionable quarter, whose decent view and clean air in no way made up for catching the very worst of the weather. The house was ancient but sturdy, the only signs of age being the extensive network of cracks and faults in the stonework. So extensive, in fact, that it harbored a thriving little ecosystem of its own, with ivy blending into moss, and several different pigeon species warring over choice nesting spots in cracks and faults in the stonework. It was only through the dint of hard work that Dotted managed to keep his home from being classified as a wildlife refuge. Dotted reclined in the ratty old easy-chair in his front room, leafing distractedly through the Journal of Improbable Chemistry, occasionally pausing to take a sip of tea, or to write ‘rubbish!’ in the margins. He never spent much time in his home, which rather explained just how tidy it was. It never had time to get otherwise. Tidy it was, but it was also cold and quiet and empty. He realized he had read the same sentence about charge separation fourteen times in the past five minutes and threw the journal down on the side table in disgust. He took a sip of the tea and made a face. It didn’t taste right. The chair didn’t feel right. It was all wrong. He got up and started wandering around his tiny living room, but there really wasn’t enough room to pace properly. Instead he shuffled along the same patch of threadbare carpet desperate for something to capture his attention. The new trade treaty will need to be ratified in the House, of course. There’s no good reason to be opposed to it, but someone will need to reassure the Whitetail South and Whitetail East MPs that the paper mills in their constituencies will be unaffected. Maybe suggest a preferred-vendor approach to— Dotted jerked away from that thought. He was supposed to rest. Hay, he had orders to that effect. And, besides, how hard could it be not to think about parliamentary politics? He redoubled his pacing. Briefly, he wondered how Leafy, Inky, and the kids were doing in Fillydelphia, but that thought hurt so he gave up on it too. He sat in the chair again, but his thoughts immediately drifted back to the treaty, so he flung himself out of it as if it were on fire. Seeing as there was nowhere else to sit, he sat back down again, feeling foolish, picked up a piece of paper and a quill and set about idly sketching a wildly irresponsible proposal for a high-density rocket fuel[2], the sort that used to give his doctoral thesis adviser apoplectic fits. Happier times. As he sketched and scribbled, he drifted off, and appeared not to notice when what looked unmistakably like a diagram of the seating plan of the House of Commons began to take part on his paper. After a while he began to hum tunelessly. [2] It was chemically highly amusing, but somewhat impractical, considering that actually using it would involve poisoning everything within a mile of the launch site in two separate yet equally horrifying ways, melting whatever remained after that, and then setting the remainder, if any, on fire. On the other hoof, it did launch you heavenward with considerable alacrity. Which was probably a good idea, since ponies would be looking for you. A lot of ponies. Curiously insistent ponies, in fact. With big sticks. * * * The sound of knocking on the door shook Dotted out of his reverie. He glanced guiltily at the parchment, and noted that he had devised the majority of a plan to launch the House of Commons into Low Epona Orbit, lock, stock, and porkbarrel. He heard another knock, got up, considered the paper, made to crumple it, thought better of it, and filed it. He flung the door open, and goggled at his most unexpected caller. “Leafy? But—you are in Fillydelphia.” Leafy grinned and tugged his scarf into place. “I am?” “Yes, you—well, no, obviously you aren’t but—what are you doing—is everything okay?” “Everything’s fine. You are a world-class worrywart, you know that, right?” “Well I’ve a lot to worry about. Want to come in? I’ll put the kettle on?” “No. No. I have errands to run, but I wanted to tell you Inky and the kids would love it if you’d drop by.” “They are here too?” “Yes. We came back early.” “Why?” “Oh, the kids were whining up a storm. Something about it not being a proper Hearthwarming without this ‘Uncle Dotty’ character,” he said with a smile, breath misting in the icy air. Dotted’s face was a battleground between glee, worry, and contrition. Thanks to a cowardly and underhanded ambush, glee was sweeping the field, though pockets of the opposition were still visible here and there. “Oh. Oh! Um. Sorry. You know how kids are sometim—” Dotted stopped. Leafy had reached out and laid a hoof on his shoulder, and kept it there until Dotted met his gaze. For once, Leafy was serious. No smile, no arch wink, no joke. It made him look smaller somehow. And older, too. “Dotty. We, hah, we didn’t really take much convincing.” With a glad yell the last of the enemy pockets were routed, and glee stood proudly victorious. “Um. Thank you. I—Inky’s parents aren’t going to be happy.” “They’ll cope. We’ve promised a vacation together. So you coming?” “Oh, of course I am.” Leafy beamed. In an instant, he sprung back into his old self, and a dozen years seem to slip away from his brow. “I’ll run along now. See you there?” “Sure.” Leafy shook the snow from his wings, stretched, and then took to the air with a few well-practiced wingbeats. Remarkably quickly, he became quite difficult to spot, just another white speck among many. Leafy would have been a pretty good racer. Shame he never got the hang of going around corners. Dotted spent a few minutes blinking after him, and rushed back inside to grab a hat and a a scarf. He’d make that much of a concession to his increasingly creaky bones, but he drew a line at boots. He’d have to renounce his status as a Northisle native if he donned hoofboots for anything less than a raging blizzard. He threw the clothing on, and ran past the hall mirror giving himself one cursory look. As he did, his hoof automatically went for his neck, and he adjusted his chain of office and stopped. He stood unsteadily for a second, hoof touching cold silver. Then, determined, he took the necklace off with his telekinesis. It was amazing how heavy it was. You didn’t even notice, wearing it all the time, until you took it off. He rubbed the suddenly bare patch on his neck absent-mindedly then nodded, and ran off. * * * The Salad residence was even farther from the center of Canterlot Town than Dotted’s. Unlike Dotted, who was out at the outskirts because he’d bought the same house he rented when he was an impecunious researcher, Leafy and his family were all the way outside the city walls because that was the only place you could get a bit of a garden without having a major street named after you, or rather your family. Your exceptionally, indeed, extravagantly pecunious family. And while the house was unremarkable, a rambling two-story built of honey-colored stone, the garden was, in Dotted’s completely biased opinion, the finest in Canterlot[3]. Now, in the dead of winter, it was mostly just an expanse of snow dotted with bare-branched trees. There was also an asymmetrical but enthusiastically built snowpony, and in one corner a defiantly verdant and flowering rhododendron[4]. Luckily, the snow seemed to have tranquilized the migrating herb patch, and it could be seen as a vague mound, shifting slightly under the snow, even though there was no wind. Dotted knocked on the bright green door, and heard a muffled “Come in!” from inside. The Salads didn’t really bother locking their door most of the time. Crime simply didn’t happen to the pony who ran most of Equestria’s police force. And, besides, the houseplants could probably eat any interlopers. [3] Pushed, he might admit that there was such a thing as the Palace Gardens, but he'd defend his stance by pointing out that, by virtue of being accessible to the public, they were really more of a park. And besides, they didn't have a swing, and did use to have the stone prison of the personification of all chaos. Two major black marks right there. [4] This illustrated why it was vitally important not to let a biochemist have unchecked control over any plot of land larger than about a square foot. Some ponies took up gardening to get away from their day jobs. Dr. Inky Salad-Flower, Green Hoof Chair for Inadvisable Botany, never quite managed. He opened the door with care, and slipped in, shaking snow from his thick coat. The house seemed surprisingly quiet. With three exuberant children, their no less exuberant if frequently tired mother, and Leafy Salad one of only three ponies in Equestria who could sleep exuberantly, the house was never quiet. Never, the thought came to him, unless— “FOALPILE ON UNCLE DOTTY!” —it was deliberate, he thought in the fuzzy, uncertain manner of someone who had just been stunned by a foalvalanche. “HAPPY HEARTHWARMING!” “Tffrf yff. Hffy hffwffinf fy yff tff.” “Lio, what did uncle Dotty say?” Filly’s voice. That would be Daisy. Dotted thought he could feel her hooves somewhere on his withers. “Stop sitting on his head and maybe we’ll hear it properly.” That was a colt. So Dandelion. Probably the crushing weight on his back, then. There was a sudden light, blessed blessed air, and the freedom to get up. Dotted stood in the archway that led into the parlor and blocking his way were Daisy and Dandelion Salad, all but vibrating with excitement. Dandelion kept fluffing and re-fluffing his wings, while Daisy hopped in place, suspending herself in the air with frantic flapping from her stubby little wings. She was getting, Dotted noted, some pretty good air. Time for flight camp? He put those thoughts aside and tried not to grin. He might have tried to leap over the sun, for all the good it did him. “I said ‘Thank you. Happy Hearthwarming to you too.’ How was Fillydelphia?” “Boring! They wouldn’t let me use the chemistry set you got me!” Dandelion’s adopted an attitude of aggrieved dignity so fierce that Dotted had to suppress a sudden mad impulse to giggle. “Well, they might have been worried about, um, stains. And perhaps your mother—” “—wants to have a word with you, Dotted.” Inky Salad-Flower was an earth pony mare, about three inches taller than Dotted, and with a caramel coat, chocolate colored mane, and a cutie mark of a dark tulip ending in a nib. This was all quite agreeable. She was quite pretty, and had a pleasant, soothing voice[5]. Likewise agreeable. Despite all this agreeableness she looked like a dragon might, if you woke one up by, say, hitting it over the head with its largest diamond. Which you then ate. [5] Just ask her students, who could generally go from wide awake to blissful slumber after only three minutes of her lecturing. Over the years she graduated from tossing bits of chalk at the more flagrant snoozers and snorers to a custom-built squirtgun. “Happy Hearthwarming, um, Inky,” Dotted squeaked. Inky’s countenance reverted instantly to a heartfelt smile. “And a happy Hearthwarming to you, too, Dotty.” Having said this, she quickly returned to the distinctive look of somepony who’s already decided where to hide your body, though now there was the barest trace of a suppressed grin. “Now. Dotty. About that chemistry set.” “Moooom. I told you it was safe,” said Dandelion, who traded in injured dignity for expert wheedling. Might make a good actor, thought Dotted, or if Inky and Leafy fail utterly as parents, a good politician. Now there was a shuddersome thought. “I know it’s safe, Lio. I know Dotted. That’s not the issue. Dotted? Are you teaching my children chemistry?” Dotted grinned. It was hard not to. This was an old, old game, but neither of them tired of it. “Only a bit. Some redox. Some stoichiometry. Perfectl—mostly harmless.” “You are a corrupter of youth, you are.” “I shall await my hemlock smoothie with stoicism, then,” said Dotted, and smiled and waved as he saw Leafy come downstairs. “Wrong philosophical school, Dotty, wrong philosophical school,” Inky replied. “Daaaad!” said Dandelion, “Mom and uncle Dotty aren’t making sense. Again.” “You get used to it, squirt. Hi, Dotty,” Leafy replied, ruffling his son’s mane. “Hi! Everypony’s here, I see. Except Rose? Where…?” “She’s upstairs,” said Inky with an odd smile. “She wouldn’t do the foalpile with us ‘cuz she said she was too big. She’s not too big, is she uncle Dotty?” asked Daisy. “Well—” “An’ an’ I think she’s only sayin’ that ‘cuz she’s up there tuning her—” Daisy’s eyes got very, very wide and she clamped one hoof over her traitorous mouth, then she looked, panic-stricken, to her mother, father, brother, and finally sort-of-honorary-uncle and managed to squeak out, “—room?” Dotted’s eyebrows rose. “Do you, uh, tune rooms?” Leafy gave a rueful smile. “Not generally, no. You better go upstairs. She’d set us on fire if we told you anything. We’ll be waiting for you downstairs. You are staying for dinner.” “Well I wouldn’t want to—” “—wasn’t a question, mate. Statement of fact. Now go on. She’s in her room. Tuning it, apparently,” Leafy said winking at a mortified Daisy. * * * Dotted reached the door of Rose’s room, which was a sober brown decorated only by a plaque with Rose’s cutie mark—a sixteenth note—quite unlike Dandelion’s door which was positively festooned with labels, and dire warnings. Were they serious rather than fanciful and, arguably[6], decorative, the only pony allowed to open the door would be the Surgeon-General of Equestria, and even she would have to get special dispensation from Celestia and Luna both. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, and his hoof went to adjust his chain of office and stopped, inches away from his coat. With some effort he lowered it, straightened his posture, and knocked. [6] And, boy, were they some arguments. “Come in?” Rose sounded…apprehensive? He pushed on the door and entered. Rose was sitting in her favorite chair fussing over her violin almost like one would over a newborn. She glanced up, saw Dotted, and started a little bit. With great care, and considerable dexterity for an earth-pony, she laid the instrument on its little stand, and got to her hooves, smiling nervously. “Uncle Dotty! I wasn’t—I mean you—I mean happy Hearthwarming! Um. Oh! Thank you so much for the tickets! I thought they were sold out instantly! How did—I mean they are wonderful and I always wanted to hear Octavia Van Clef perform the—” Rose started to ramble. Dotted, who had spent most of her foalhood with her in his capacity as foalsitter-in-chief, knew this was a sign of almost terminal nervousness. Still, he let her talk and let his eyes flit across the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Upright piano, with enough sheet music piled on to nearly obscure it; writing desk, untidy; closet, surprisingly tidy; a corkboard covered to an inch’s depth with notes, music scores, and concert posters. Everything was reassuringly normal. “—they say that she ends that phrase with an appoggiatura which is really tricky because—oh, but I’m rambling.” “It’s fine, Rose. Please, tell me, are you okay?” “Well—uh—I do have news.” She sounded apprehensive. Dotted carefully kept how worried he was off his face. “Yes?” “You—you know how I wanted to go to the Canterlot Conservatory?” Dotted’s heart sank, and his hooves grew cold. He was sure she would get in. Sure of it. But if it were good news she wouldn’t be this apprehensive. Hay. If she had gotten in, there’d be a party on already. Leafy would see to it. That must mean she didn’t—that they hadn’t— that she was— Dotted couldn’t even think it. He tried to marshal some comforting words, but could find none—none seemed adequate, not for this level of disappointment. He would probably never have children, and Rose… Well, he loved the rest of the kids as if they were his own, honestly, but Rose—he suspected she was as close to a daughter as anything he’d ever have. And to have this happen to her! He remembered how she would ramble on about her dreams and about music and—all of it, gone. It’s those stuck-up prejudiced tribalist bastards in the admission board, he was sure of it. Not good enough because she’s not a unicorn, was she? Rejected without an entrance exam, was she? Well now. His hoof flew to his neck to wrench the chain into place and he suppressed a stab of irritation that it wasn’t there. We’ll see about— he caught himself short. It wasn’t time for anger. Not now. He took a deep shuddering breath and managed, with some difficulty, to speak. “Y—Yes?” “Well, I, uh, I got in.” “Oh, my dear, dear Rose I am so very sorr—wait… did you say you got in?” “Yes.” It would be an exaggeration to say that Dotted’s whoop could be heard all the way to the palace, but only just. “That’s marvel—no, that’s the best news ever! Why aren’t we celebrating right now? When did you learn—when was your entrance exam?” “A week ago.” “A week? Then why… Why didn’t you tell me? I would have attended! I would have made time.” “Yeah. But—but you are you. You sitting there would have influenced the judges. I… I wanted to do this for myself. Because later, well, I’d always wonder, wouldn’t I?” “Oh, come on, Rose. Hardly anypony knows who I am. They wouldn’t even notice me sitting in the back.” Rose gave him a Look that made Dotted instantly think of Celestia. It’s the sort of look that suggest that you are not only an open book, but the large print edition, too. “Maybe they wouldn’t know who you are, and maybe they would, but you’d make sure of it, wouldn’t you? Oh, not in person, no, but you’d make an indiscreet remark to just the wrong pony, who’d blab to just the right pony, and your reputation would precede you. Accidentally on purpose,” Rose said, maintaining the Look. “Nons—well. Um,” Dotted said, sighing, “have you been talking to the princess?” “Which one?” “Take your pick. You sound like all of them. Okay. Yes. I might have—but I just want you to do well and I would never tell them to do anything—but you know how snobbish some of these—” “Yes. Yes. I know why you’d do it, but—I had to do it alone. And so you couldn’t know. Are… are you angry with me?” “Oh, Rose,” Dotted sighed, and rushed in to hug her, “of course I’m not. I’m proud. I’m happy. But I’m not even a little bit angry. You were nervous about that?” “Well, um, a little bit. But there’s another reason. You know how the entrance exam requires that you play your own composition?” “Yes. I was there when you read the exam rules.” “Yes. Yes. Well,” the nervousness returned to Rose. She cast around for something to say, gave up, grabbed a sheaf of papers and thrust them at Dotted. Dotted scanned the score. Foalsitting Rose for all those years had required a surprising facility with music theory, and Dotted had a very good memory. So he could, with some difficulty, make some sense of the score. A solo violin piece, very difficult, lots of ornamentation and trickery that made it seem like the violin was playing more than one melody at a time. A lot of it played in pizzicato, too. He was just about to start sounding out the main theme when he noticed the title. ‘An Afternoon for Dotted Line’ Dotted lifted his eyes, wide with surprise, to regard Rose who was… yes, she was blushing. It was hard to tell, what with her honey-brown coat, but it was there. “Rose—I… I don’t know what to say…” “I thought I could maybe play it to, um, to you, if—if you want to—” Rose was stuttering now, uncertain, but the bow was attached to her hoof and she held the violin gently. Dotted smiled, motioned with a hoof, and sat down, the picture of attentiveness. Rose got to her hind hooves in one smooth motion, and began, one long note held steady, fading at the end into a sort of practiced discord. It was always a wonder, seeing her play. No matter how nervous, listless, sad, angry, or anything she was before, the moment the bow touched the strings a profound peace settled on her. She’d half-close her eyes and just drift off, almost seeming asleep, while her hooves danced and blurred. The music started slowly. A simple theme played once, serious and solemn, with no ornament and in it, woven throughout, the rhythm of crashing waves. Then a counterpoint, plucked and cheerful, seeming to laugh and caper. At the final note, Rose seemed to accelerate and the two melodies intertwined and danced one ‘round the other. It hardly seemed possible that one violin was making all of these sounds, but no matter how carefully Dotted looked, an orchestra refused to materialize. The music grew yet more complex, introducing another theme to the dance, a variation on the Equestrian March, bold and official. The swirling complexity of it all continued, with three themes weaving and melding in a dance that was becoming more furious with each passing measure. After a while, Rose somehow found some new reserve of energy and a fourth theme was added, a soft elusive variation on the Solar Hymn. The four themes fought. They had to, there wasn’t room on the violin’s strings for velvet dances, or considerations anymore, and the noise of battle quickly grew cacophonous. Of course, this was still a single violin and the cacophony was… restrained, seen more in the chromatic nature of the notes, rather than sheer volume. Still, there was no mistaking it, where once there was harmony, now there was war. After a climax where the violin was made to shudder and weep, there was a full semibreve rest, and the piece seemed to start anew, but now it was the second theme, the laughing one, that was played first and all the other ones followed, laughing along with it. The piece ended, and Dotted reminded himself to breathe. Rose opened her eyes, at last, going from beatific calm to nervous in one move. “Did—did you like it, I wrote it so—are you crying?” “No. No. I—I just have something in my eyes, is all.” “Oh,” Rose said, eyes narrowing, “what’s that?” “Tears.” “Oh. Did you—” “—I loved it. It was… beautiful.” Rose rushed and threw her hooves around Dotted’s neck, nearly clipping him alongside the muzzle with her bow. “Thank you,” said Dotted, his voice rough. “What for?” “Best Hearthwarming present ever.” Rose smiled, and let go, walking back to put the bow and the violin on their little stand. While she was busy tidying up, Dotted spoke. “The judges—did they ask who this ‘Dotted Line’ was?” Rose turned, and grinned. “They did! After they told me I passed.” “And what did you say?” “The pony who makes sure your budget passes every year.” “Attagirl.” Author's Note This story dedicated to Kobalstromo, who is made of win, whom I promised I'd write this a very, very long time ago. Sorry it took so long, mate.
The Game the Princesses PlayThe Game the Princesses Play a My Little Pony koan “I’ll buy two hedgehogs, and then I’ll spin for two-fifty.” There was a game the princesses played. “You can’t do that! It’s Tuesday! We get to interrupt your turn and spin for four-fifty now!” Every morning, just before Luna retired, they’d meet in the Entirely Unnecessary Hall[1] and play, with every possible sign of enjoyment. “It’s ‘I get to interrupt,’ Luna. And if you spin four-fifty I invoke my Lettuce/Snail card and ask for an extra half-round, but since it’s an alternate Tuesday, I get an eight of a round over that. Point to me I think.” [1] If you should happen to have a princess, and if she happens to have a...robust sense of humor, don't ask her to name things. An architect, long dead, didn't heed that piece of advice, sadly, and as a result his very finest work was forever called the Salon of Suspiciously Smug Statues. The thing was… “Nuh-uh! Vegetable exception! Half a point!” The thing was, nopony in all of Equestria seemed to have the faintest idea what they were playing. “Are you sticking your tongue out at me? Really. Anyway. I’ll begin. Remember, no northern approach. My first move is Finchley Central.” Nopony in Equestria, or, indeed, outside of Equestria. Inquires were made—discrete ones, of course—with the ambassadorial staff of many proud nations of Epona. The Zebras were puzzled, Griffons confused, Qilin taken aback, and the Diamond Dog Imperial Remnant delegation may have entirely failed to grasp the question in the first place. “We can stick our—my tongue at whomever I wish. ‘Tis a perfectly fine tongue. And you always play the same. Burnt Oak.” Oh, there were theories. Protocol demanded that the princesses be always attended, and quickly the word spread and game had its first connoisseurs, every one of which was certain they had the firmest grasp of the rules. Many a learned debate was had over the advisability of playing with green cards[2], or just how many ‘clumps’ there were in a ‘boot.’ “It is a fine tongue, but it’s a bit foalish, isn’t it? Embarkment.” [2] Apparently that was bad unless it was a Wednesday with an 'r' in the name, whatever that meant. Some—and there were quite a few, for the game had built up quite the audience—claimed it wasn’t a game at all. There was a strong school of belief which maintained that it was a religious ceremony, meant to avert the end of the world. Though as to how, the details varied wildly. “Foalish? We? Foalish? We aren’t the ones who balance buckets on doors! Chalk Farm!” One particularly innovative theology claimed it was to calm a chaos spirit, parent to Discord, and keep him—or possibly her, hard to know with chaos spirits—from destroying the world. The game, this theology said, didn’t have rules, just pure chaos that fed the spirit and kept it safely sleeping. “That one’s a classic prank, Luna. Classic. Morningto—” Another theory claimed that this was the way the secretive, covert activities of the realm were discussed: in a code so intricate, so ingenious, so devious, that entire lifetimes went into its devising. This school of thought had little traction, however, mostly because its proponents were fidgety ponies, with intent expressions, and the unnerving habit of looking just up and to the left of the person they were talking to. “—ah-hah! You can’t! The Euston Exception is in play, with the Brent Cross modifier. Foul! We get to draw two cards!” On one celebrated occasion, one of these conspiracy-minded ponies heard Luna confidently state that the green cat was in play on the board of becoming. He went very pale and very, very still, pausing his frantic scribbling in a notebook. Then, after a moment, he rushed out, never to be seen again. “Fine. Fine. You don’t have to gloat over it.” It was later rumored that he started enlarging the basement of his house and stockpiling water, canned goods, musical instruments, and twine. Nopony knew why, though, of course, a great many ventured a guess. “We aren’t gloating. We never gloat. A prince and a deuce! Fizzbin! Huzzah! In your forehead!” Yet a third group of ponies thought that it was all a devious test. Whoever understood the rules well enough to sit down with the princesses one day and play with competence, they said, would be granted some sort of grand prize. Current favorites were ascension to royalty, immortality, and immorality[3], in that order. [3] This last one said with a lot of eyebrow-waggling and suggestive elbows to the barrel. “Face, Luna. In your face. And I’m so glad you never gloat. You can’t imagine. Okay. Fizzbin it is. Let’s rotate the board.” Two big problems for everypony’s theories were the board and the pieces, of course. “Shall I get the time-fracture wickets?” There were so many. Most of them were in the Royal Museum where they’d been variously classified as farming equipment, early examples of abstract art, marital aids, and votive objects[4]. They made a staggering mess, arrayed across the main table and the many side-tables either randomly or through a system too intricate for even the most dedicated furtive notebook-scribbler to grasp. Some were fairly ordinary, like the cards from half-a-dozen mutually incompatible decks; some less so like the dice with an entirely unreasonable number of sides; and some made no sense whatsoever, like the magnetized spoon half-filled with salt, and the yarrow sticks. “No, let’s play the counter-epistemological variant today.” [4] Archeologist for 'we have no idea what this is for.' Other synonyms include 'probably ritual,' and 'of religious significance.' Many a scientist has remarked in the past about the curious fact that archeology had so many ways of saying 'no idea,' though it's prudent to make this sort of remark outside the earshots of archeologists, to better avoid a fusillade of exquisite antique potsherds. And the board? Up until six months ago, it was proudly displayed in the Royal Gallery. Six doctoral theses, two books, and countless papers discussed its swirling, almost fractal patterns, and their significance: artistic, philosophical, and sociological. Pony academia was still reeling at the realization that it was not, in fact, a metaphor for the Pegasi struggle for identity in the post-reconstruction period, nor a study in oppressive social dynamics. “Very well! I shall play as the solipsist premise.” Though some outré academics were starting to suggest that using the picture as a games-board was actually an act of deconstruction and subversion that added fresh layers of meaning to an already meaning-laden artwork. “Oh come now, Luna, you always pick—never mind, never mind, have it your way. I’ll play as the empiricist premise.” Even stranger, were the instruments that surrounded the board. They weren’t anything out of the ordinary in and of themselves— “Double sixes! Offensive, with plus two on sophistry. Credo.” —but what was the compass for? Or the spirit level? Apparently consulting them cost a half-clump except when the turnbull was crosswise, when it cost six. This was well understood among the ponies studying the game. “Defensive, plus four with esse est percipi aut percipere. Credo denied. Point to me?” What was less understood was what a turnbull was in the first place, or what it could possibly mean for one to be crosswise. It was known that a certain number of clumps made up a boot, but theories as regarding to the actual number ranged from ‘three’ all the way to ‘forty-seven and a bit.’ “Point-and-game. W—I agree. Well played, sister.” And then the game would be over, just like that. The sisters, who at that point seemed just about ready to re-fight the more stirring bits of the War of the Two Sisters would smile at each other, cross necks, spend a few minutes tidying up, and walk off, one to bed, the other to a full day of dealing with the permanent state of emergency that was Equestria. Behind them, they’d leave an entire hall of confused ponies who’d wait respectfully, until both the princesses were safely away and then get down to some serious arguing. “And you too, Luna. Sleep well.” Not today, though. Today one of the ponies followed Celestia with a purposeful trot, struggling to match the princess’ long stride with his own stubby legs. He finally caught up to her in the gently sloping corridor leading down to the Hallway of Easterly Radiance. It was a cozy, plush place—quite small by palace standards—and lit with thin shafts of sunlight admitted through embrasures as ornate as they were tactically unsound. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, may I ask for a moment of your time,” he asked, huffing slightly. “Mr. Secretary! Of course. I didn’t know you watched us play,” Celestia replied. “Not frequently. But I do drop by from time to time, as errands take me past the hall,” Dotted Line replied, looking almost bashful to admit interest in anything not related to paperwork. “How can I help you, then?” “Well, Your Majesty, I was curious and, uh, I was meaning to… for some time now, ah,” Dotted trailed off a bit, but then managed to catch himself, “My apologies. What I meant to say is I was curious about the game you and princess Luna play. I—I mean if it isn’t personal, of course.” “No, no, not at all. It’s perfectly fine, but—you mean ponies don’t know?” “No, Your Majesty. Nopony does.” “But…surely it’s mentioned somewhere in the chronicles.” “There are references to ‘The Game the Princesses Play,’ yes, but that’s generally assumed to be chess. Hence the white and black pieces.” Celestia laughed, and Dotted could swear that the shafts of light grew brighter and wavered. “Me? Play chess with Luna? Oh, that wouldn’t end well. She’d beat me in five minutes looking insufferably bored while she did so, and then where’d we be? No, no, we haven’t played chess in…well, a very long time. So…nopony knew what we were doing all this while?” “No, Your Majesty.” “Why didn’t they ask?” “Well the nobles were afraid of seeming ignorant before both you, your sister, and their peers, of course.” “I see.” “And the scholars were enjoying the arguments altogether too much. Asking you or princess Luna would quite spoil them, and would, as far as I can tell, be considered cheating.” “But you did ask.” “I did, Your Majesty. I argue quite enough in my day-to-day job, and if I were afraid of seeming ignorant before you, I’d never open my mouth.” Celestia looked… It was hard to say. Pained? Worried? Sad? Dotted wasn’t sure. He always had trouble reading her face. The light kept getting in his eyes. Still, she was clearly distressed, so he hurried to cover over any offense he had caused. “Then what is the, uh, name…?” The princess seemed torn for a moment, as if she wanted to say something else, but then gave up and spoke, brightly. “We never gave it a name. We called it ‘our game’ ever since we were foals. Oh, we had such arguments trying to give it a proper name, but in the end we never managed it, and ‘our game’ stuck.” “Then what are the rules? Are there any?” “Oh, a great many rules, but only one really important one.” “Which is?” “The rules may never be the same twice.” “What?” Dotted barked, surprised, and then caught himself. “Sorry, Your Majesty, I meant to say could you, uh, explain that?” “Every time we play, we change the rules, at least a little bit. We are never quite the same from one game to another, why should the rules be?” “That—I guess it makes sense. And you’ve been playing for…?” “Hundreds of years. It’s gotten quite complicated over time.” “I can imagine. So you—um… what’s the score?” They had started down the corridor by this point, Celestia walking more slowly this time, so that Dotted could keep up. As he asked the question, she stopped suddenly with a surprised expression. She fluffed her wings and tapped her hoof absently. At length she turned back to Dotted with an unreadable smile on her muzzle and spoke. “Do you know, Mr. Secretary, I’ve completely forgotten.” And Dotted Line was enlightened.
On the Inaccuracy of ProverbsOn the Inaccuracy of Proverbs Cadence sighed, and addressed the little bundle under the blanket. "What did they say, Twilight?" There was a silence, broken only by a few sniffles from below the embroidered stars. Cadence felt something knot unpleasantly in her gut. She was not a violent pony, never that, but the idea of someone teasing Twilight until she wept and hid herself under her blankets made something cold and ugly uncoil inside her. For a fleeting moment, she recalled how certain ancient chronicles described Celestia as 'terrible.’ Right now, Cadence felt she could be terrible, too. All too easily. But that thought fled soon enough. There were more pressing things, like trying her best to be a good foalsitter. She laid a gentle wing across the bundle, and stroked it lightly with a hoof. "Were you hurt by the things they said?" A face peeked from under the blankets. A tear-streaked, puffy-eyed face of a tiny unicorn filly pretending with all her might that she wasn't as upset as she was. "There's—there's a saying about that," said Twilight, voice raw and wavering. Cadence lifted her up gently, and let the little filly lean against her. Absentmindedly, she wiped away a tear with a wingtip. "And what would the saying be?" Twilight's face took on a look of extreme concentration. "Sticks and stones may break my bones," she said in a sing-song voice, "but words are the smallest units of language capable of carrying meaning in isolation and, thus, cannot exert the four thousand neightons of force per square centimeter necessary to break pony bone." Cadence managed to choke down a laugh. She'd bite her wings off before hurting Twilight's feelings in a time like this. Still, it took some concentration to ask her question without snickering. "That's all true, Twilight, I’m certain, but that's not how the saying goes, is it?" "No. Mine's better. I improved it. 'Cause--'cause, it's more accurate, I looked it all up, and I was thinking..." "Yes, honey?" "Sticks and stones can break my bones. That's why mom says to be careful and not climb things, and words can't break my bones, but—" Cadence didn't say anything. She simply tried to look encouraging, and shifted her wing so it covered her charge. Twilight snuggled into the down, and for all that the little filly tried to be serious and scientific, she could feel a quivering under the sensitive feathers. Her weather-sense tried to tell her it was a storm coming. It wasn’t entirely wrong. After a while, Twilight spoke up again. "They can't break my bones but they can hurt. The saying is stupid. So—so I made it better," said Twilight, looking up at Cadence, proud, but with fresh tears welling up in her eyes. There was nothing Cadence could think to say, so she just scooped Twilight up in her forelegs and held her close, as she wept, and wept, and wept. She held her like that until the little filly, exhausted by tears, drifted off to sleep. Author's Note This story was written chiefly because I watched this video, heard the, ah, improved version of the saying and had to give it a home.
The Nature of WarThe Nature of War They say… In the year 356 after Banishment, the Greater Griffonstan Empire declared war on Equestria for, it must be said, no reason at all. Six hundred and thirty years hence, the Griffonstan Ambassador in a happy confluence of scholarship and diplomacy, called it ‘the most senseless of wars.’ But, at the time, the war seemed not only sensible, but inevitable. As the Emperor himself explained to an enthusiastic Imperial Council, while honor surely lies in victory, the greatest honor must then lie in victory over the superior foe. And which foe could be more worthy than one led by a living goddess? Somewhere around the autumn of 357, the enthusiasm for war was cooling a bit. The ponies proved to be not only worthy opponents, but boring ones, too. They preferred to avoid large glorious battles and instead sulked in fortresses, and struck at supply lines and poorly defended materiel depots. Even the pegasi, who could usually be relied upon for a good stimulating bit of bloodshed, hid behind clouds and seemed to prefer striking from ambush. After conferring with his generals, the Emperor decided that the whole war started off on the wrong foot and was in serious danger of being utterly ruined. To forestall that, he devised a plan to inject some much-needed glory into the proceedings, inspired as he was by ancient sagas. Thus, under his orders, a measure of starfall iron was taken from the imperial treasury, and conveyed to the finest smiths in all of Griffonstan, in the many caves and grottoes of the Steel Fastness Eyrie. An ancient dragon lived here, and suitably propitiated with a king’s ransom of gems, she used her fire to help the smiths purify the metal, and then forge it into the finest blade the world had ever seen. It is said twelve smiths worked it, with hammers passed from claw to claw for untold generations. It is said, also, that it was quenched in ancient, untouched glaciers, its power—even while being forged—such that the heat of it split the glaciers in twain. As it was worked, it was sharpened finer and finer still. First on coarse stones, then on finer ones, and finally, it is said, on sounds. First, the rumble of a waking volcano, then the scrape of stone on stone, then the crackle of fire, and finally on the high pitched war-cry of a thousand griffin warriors. The wisest griffins are said to have been summoned, and to have sat under lock and key in council for forty sleepless days and nights distilling their wisdom: the ice-runes of the fallen Crystal empire, the mysterious petroglyphs found in Northern Griffonstan so alien than no more than one in ten could study them without succumbing to madness and death, and a thousand other mysteries besides, each more terrible than the last. After forty days they had whittled down their storehouses of knowledge and hoards of ancient secrets to a mere twenty inscriptions fitting easily on the blade. It is said that they were written in ink made of crushed diamonds, and the blood of the sages themselves. It is said that the flight-feathers of the first emperor himself were brought out of their jeweled reliquaries and used as quills. The power of the inscriptions was such that upon being written with trembling claws they sunk themselves into the metal itself, becoming part of the heart of the blade. The strain of summoning so much power into the world was terrible, and a full quarter of the sages died in the attempt, and still a further quarter went mad. The chief of the smiths then fitted an ornate gold-and-sapphire hilt to the blade, with sturdy claw-rings lined with dragon-hide and studded with lapis lazuli. She then took the blade to the deepest hall of the mountain, and spent the night there in solemn contemplation of the work she had done. When she emerged with the sun the next day she was nameless, having sacrificed her name and her clan to the perfection of the blade. And so, even now, none know who the smith was, or where her bones lie. The sacrifice sealed within the blade such power as had never been seen before in any weapons but those said to be used by gods in long past ages. Until that moment the blade was kept from the sun, and was only worked in the dead of night under flickering torchlight. But now it was judged strong enough, and was taken to greet the dawn with defiance. The Emperor himself held it aloft, and such was the blaze of its polished blade, and the menace of its mien that none would dare meet his eyes. He struck a light blow on a stone crag and it shattered in a clap of thunder. This, he said, was good. He then had blades from all quarters of the world brought to him—prized Qilin blades forged over lifetimes, curious leaflike Zebra swords, delicate Unicorn’s blades of Equestria, and a dozen more besides—and he struck each in turn. Every one of them shattered, but he would not stop until the ground beneath his talons was aglitter with broken metal. This, he said, was better. At last, he caused the finest of Qilin silk to be brought, and holding the blade straight, he allowed a wisp of it to fall onto the blade. No sooner had it touched the edge than it split in two. The Emperor sheathed the blade and inspected the cut. It was arrow-straight, and free of the slightest blemish or tear. This, he said, was best of all. The sword, then, was held under guard in the imperial treasury while the Emperor caused the greatest warriors of Griffonstan to be summoned to the White Peak Eyrie. Fully ten-score answered his call. This robbed many a unit of its commander, or finest fighter, but there was little worry. The ponies were content to sulk in their infernally effective fortresses tending to their bizarre instruments of war. The proud warriors arrived resplendently arrayed, each more magnificent than the last. The Slayer of a Thousand, whose bones and name lie beneath White Peak, was there, as was The Red Terror, whose bones and name lie beneath Iron Crag, and whose every feather was dyed crimson, so that no foe could ever say that they were attacked by stealth, and many other storied warriors besides. The Emperor decreed that they were to fight in single combat until only a dozen remained, and so they did, joining battle with joyous fury. Such was their fierceness that, even though they fought in armor with blunted blades, fully half were wounded, and ten were killed. But their deaths were judged to be of great honor, and none grieved. At last, only a dozen remained, and these were taken to the highest point of White Peak, where the air is so thin, that all but the hardiest cannot dwell and none but the most powerful can fly. It was so cold, so far up and in the dead of winter, that no griffin dared perch still for more than a moment, lest hoarfrost root them to the spot. There, the twelve were bid to fight in a mock battle, first six to the side, then three, and finally alone against two others. The victor would be granted the blade. The fighting was terrifying. Not only was the cold murderously strong, the wind cruel and relentless, and the air thin, but the passing clouds could unexpectedly cloak combatants from one another, suddenly turning the long drawn-out stalking into a welter of unseen claws and deafening battle-cries. After four hours, all the Emperor’s attendants either fled to lower altitudes and into disgrace or died where they stood, obedient to the last. But the Emperor yet lived, and so did the warriors. All had survived, though most bore grievous wounds that would, in time, become honorable scars. One stood above them all: The Breaker of Chains, whose bones and name lie beneath White Peak. He was not, perhaps, as strong as Howling Storm, whose bones and name are lost, nor was he as quick as the Red Terror, whose bones and name lie beneath Iron Crag, but he was the most fierce. He would never back down, and never fail to press home his attack. Even the toughest of foes wilted at his will, and he had no fear. At once, the course was clear. Griffin armies converged on a powerful pony fastness near Whitetail, and, arraying themselves outside, waited as their champion was sent forth. Breaker of Chains, whose bones and name lie beneath White Peak, flew forth, in gilded armor that displayed proudly the colors of the empire, with blade held high. It blazed bright in the dawn sun, each gleam and glitter a declaration of defiance against Celestia and her children. He hovered, outlined against the rising sun, and bellowed out a challenge to any pony brave enough to step forth. He exulted. His whole life, first as a hunter, then as a soldier, and now as champion to all of Griffonstan, was mere preparation for this one moment of utter glory. It was then that Corporal Sure Cut, of the 133rd Royal Hussars, shot him with a crossbow. How much his previous life as a mane-dresser prepared him for that moment is unknown. The war ended shortly thereafter, with the agreement of the Diet of Whitetail, where the griffins agreed, at last, to give up a diet of pony forevermore. The blade survived, and is today kept in the Armistice Museum, at the Griffonstan/Stalliongrad border. * * * Carl von Clawsewitz, ambassador of the Greater Griffonstan Empire, paused, and smiled the best one could with a beak. The two foals had taken cover. The little one behind her older sister, peeking from between her legs, and the older one, the colt, behind a stack of folders perched atop a filing cabinet lying on its side. A sign of a good story well told, children hiding behind things, he always thought. “And that’s the story. I hope you liked it.” “It was very nice, Your Excellency,” said Rose politely, “though not quite as I had heard it.” Carl made an expansive gesture with a wing, expertly keeping balance on his perch atop a small hillock of filing cabinets piled together, apparently, in emulation of ancient Equestrian megalithic sites. “Well, I do put my own spin on it, I must admit. And please, Miss Salad, ‘Carl.’ Titles are for diplomacy. This is storytelling. You can tell because it is a lot more fun.” “Um,” came a little voice from below. Carl bent down, until his beak was level with the tiny filly. “Yes, little Daisy?” “Um. Um. Why do you do the dipl—diplomaty stuff? If you like tellin’ stories why don’t you be a storyteller? ‘Cos, ‘cos, you tell ‘em really well,” the little filly said, blushing. “Yeah,” said Dandelion perking up, “with the fighting and the sword and—” he meant to punctuate that last line with a dramatic gesture, but overbalanced and fell from his sister’s back. He caught himself before he could hit the floor, and ended up flying upside-down. This did not seem to lessen his enthusiasm to any appreciable degree. “Well. Young Miss Daisy, Mr. Salad, I’m very glad you think so. As for why I do, ah, this diplomacy stuff, ah…” Carl cast around for something he knew about foals. “Well,” he continued, “it’s like alfalfa. It makes you big and strong, your mother says, right, but you don’t like it?” The two foals nodded vigorously and Rose smiled. “But you have to eat it, yes? Well, this,” he said, sweeping a wing to indicate the office of the Cabinet Secretary piled high with paper, “this is my alfalfa. You can’t always do what you want. Even as a grown-up.” “Oh,” said Daisy, looking sad. She crept up from between her sister’s legs, and inched forward. The she rushed forward, gave the ambassador’s downy legs a quick nuzzle, and said, “I hope you can have cake after, then, an’ tell your stories someday.” Then, she scooted back, hiding. “Thank you, little Daisy, that’s very—” Carl stopped, hearing the sound of intemperate language coming closer. “Ah. That would be your uncle approaching. By the way he’s referring to ‘Those Bastards in the Rising Damp,’ he’s still quite put out with the weatherponies of Cloudsdale. It’s likely we are going to be snowed in for a while yet. You were right, Mr. Salad. A story really did help pass the time.” “I wonder,” said Rose speaking a bit louder to be heard over the threnody on the subject of damages and forms that need filling in being preformed just outside, “why you picked that story to tell, Your Ex—Carl.” “Well it is a very curious tale. The most curious, I should think.” “Why?” “Because it is often told and retold by both ponies and griffins alike, both of whom tell it in order to demonstrate how the other side utterly misunderstands the nature of war.”
On Forensic Accounting & Choral SingingOn Forensic Accounting & Choral Singing a serious study Leafy wasn't pleased. At all. “I’m not pleased,” he said, redundantly, “At all.” Balanced Ledger made a face. This caused her thick horn-rimmed glasses to slip forward and down her muzzle, and she had to scramble and hold them in place with a hoof, somewhat ruining the effect. “None of us are, Mr. Salad. If we don’t handle this appropriately the result will be disastrous for the Equestrian economy. The president of one of our oldest banks has been dabbling in insider trading and embezzlement, and doing so poorly, at that,” she said. “I don’t mean that. I’m not pleased we haven’t arrested him already. Normally when this happens Dotty and Sky Scribe go and make, like, a mountain of skulls in lower Manehatten to put the fear of Celestia in anyone else thinking about funny business.” “I don’t think Her Majesty is who they are afraid of,” said Balanced Ledger, with a sly smile. It was a well known fact that the mere prospect of being audited by Sky Scribe was enough to cause bankers to leap out of their office windows in stark terror[1]. Somewhat less known is that Dotted Line had to move Sky Scribe’s office from Manehatten because every time he strolled down to get a sandwich for lunch he’d pass by the stock exchange and cause the market index to drop twenty points. [1] Pegasus pony bankers, admittedly, but still, the thought was there. “Well, yes, point is by this time in most cases we’ve arrested all the executives and anyone standing next to them just for good measure.” “Ah, but those were clever crooks. Well, clever by the limited intellectual standards of financial criminals, at any rate. Their investments worked out. Gilded Guilder, on the other hoof, lost all the money he siphoned off his bank. As a result a major Equestrian bank—one of the big five!—has about the same capitalization as a lemonade stand. It’s running on good will, credit, and nopony realizing what had happened yet. When they do, there’s going to be a run, ponies are going to figure out the bank is a hollow shell, the bit will fall like a brick, and before you know it, the Equestrian economy is a smoking crater. Canterlot Mercantile Bank is important.” “This just sounds like more reason to arrest him now before he flees,” said Leafy, peevishly. “He agreed to cooperate fully in exchange for us holding off for a week.” “That just gives him time to make good his escape!” “Probably.” “But—” “We need that week. If we act fast and spend a terrifying amount of bits we can issue short term bonds, then acquire insurance by arranging for a rate swap with a major Qillin bank, say, then buy a put, right, on bonds nominally in Zebrican Dr—” “Right. Right. Magic. Dark wizardry. Hold the eye of newt,” said Leafy massaging the bridge of his nose. “You can’t—and this comes straight from the Secretary—arrest him for embezzlement, fraud, any financial crime at all until a full week has elapsed.” “Yeah? You can tell Dotty that—” “—he wants your word on this, Mr. Salad. He insisted.” Leafy sighed. “…fine. I give my word. I won’t be arresting him for embezzlement, anything financial at all, until a full week has passed. I promise. Does he want that signed in blood?” “He said he’d get back to you on that.” Leafy walked down the palace corridor, nearly trembling with fury. He couldn't be mad at Dotted—poor fuzzy bastard's only doing his job—but he could be mad at Gilded Guilder—greed of a dragon, brains of a small buttered turnip. And since he was going to be mad, he was going to be productively mad. It was time to get creative with the law. For all that he was seething on the inside, he appeared calm, walking with practiced precision, one hoof in front of the other, with small delicate steps. Only his wings—fluffing and re-fluffing—betrayed how unsettled he was. By the time he got to his office, his wings looked as if he had just flown through a hurricane and then stopped and gone back in a few times more just for the heck of it. He stormed past his secretary with a mumble that could be, with a certain generosity of spirit, interpreted as a greeting and flung himself in his chair. He leaned back and shut his eyes, thinking. Can't arrest him for what he did. Can't arrest him for what he didn't do—well no, I can, but I can't make it stick. So what do I... Cooperation, eh? Full cooperation? Well. There was a thing. What if we— —he was roused from his plotting by a quiet cough. He opened one eye a hair, and saw his principal private secretary holding a tray with a sandwich on it. This merited the attention of both eyes. He leaned forward intent on the sandwich. "Oh, Celestia, sweet and full of grace, you are a life-saver, Quillstroke." "This is widely known, yes." Leafy grinned. "You do realize you don't have to make me lunch, right? Your job description is light on cookery." "I thought it prudent to do so, sir. I saw that your mood was... stormy, and decided it would be best for the both of us if it were less so. Hence sandwich. If you were a volcano I'd be looking for a suitable virgin sacrifice to toss into the caldera. Luckily, you are easier to mollify. Pay attention to the almond-stuffed olives and the bell-pepper relish. They are exquisite." Leafy bit down. They were. "Still," he said, his mouth full, "still, you are making me feel guilty. For starters I definitely owe you lunch." "Guilty, you say? Good. May I ask that you remember that guilt when time comes to determine the magnificence of the lunch you owe me?" Leafy chuckled, and attacked the rest of the sandwich with gusto. Warm and comfortable in a post-prandial glow, Leafy settled back to do some serious plotting. After about half an hour, he had all he needed. He heaved himself out of his chair, and sauntered out of his office. "Off somewhere?" asked Quillstroke. "Yup. To be the victim of a terrible crime. Don't wait up for me." Gilded Guilder was going through his papers, making sure that the payment for passage to Zebrica was untraceable when the door exploded, flying off its hinges. Half a dozen Royal Guardsponies rushed in, armed and armored as if they were here to evict a somnolent dragon, and formed a perimeter around him. Behind them, quite slowly, came Leafy with the air of someone taking an evening constitutional in a park. He squeezed past the vast armored bulks of Corporal Swift Wing and Sergeant Hyacinth with a polite "Sorry" and a half-bow, and walked up to Gilded's desk. He leaned on it, then, hooves on the paperwork, and gave the banker his very finest grin, the sort light reflects off of with a faint metallic 'ting!' noise. "What's the meaning of this?" Gilded asked, trying to mask how terrified he was. "Your pony, Dotted, said that it will be a week before--" "Oh, no no no! Hah! No! Before you are arrested? Heavens forefend! We aren't here to arrest you—isn't that right, Sergeant," said Leafy, all smiles. "Nossir," said Hyacinth. Her expression wasn't all smiles. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was the sort of expression they presumably taught you during guard training, the one that said “Don’t run. You’ll only die tired.” "Then why are you here," asked Guilder, suspicious. "Well, you promised full cooperation, yes?" "Yes. But—" "Well, we are here to be cooperated with. To be cooperatees. Cooperands? Anyway. I'm going to go through your papers, you see." "Sky Scribe already went through—" "—and now I'm going to do so again. You know. Second opinion." "And the guardsponies?" "Oh, they are just my bodyguards. Can't be too careful, you understand." "So you want me to—" "—give me your ledgers and stay put while we go through them." "Then you'll leave?" "'Course." "Fine. Here you go. Please be quick. I still have a bank to run." "Oh, of course. And you've done such a cracker-jack job of that." Gilded supressed a growl, and hoofed a pile of ledgers over. Leafy grabbed them, and opened the first one. He ran his eyes over the page thick with numbers and yawned. He flipped a page and yawned again, extravagantly, spreading his wings to their full extent, before snapping them back. "Celestia! This is boring work, isn't it, Gilded? It’s so easy to lose your place and all. Well. How 'bout a cheery sing-song to keep our spirits up? Lads, Sergeant? How 'bout it?" "I don't—" Before Gilded could get more than a few words of protest out, Leafy leapt up into the air, powerful wings causing instant chaos in the paper-strewn office. Gilded could only watch, helpless, as his precious ticket—to Zebrica and hence to freedom—got blown out of the window. He looked after it, despair beginning to settle onto him, and just as he was considering going after it—damn not being able to fly—Leafy began to sing. "One thousand bottles of beer on the wall! One thousand bottles of beer! You take one down, pass it around..." The guardsponies dutifully chorused after him, faces carefully blank, and eyes focused on nothing in particular. Several hours, and nine hundred and fifty six bottles of beer later, Gilded started to seriously consider chewing his own hoof off to escape. He wasn't entirely sure how that would help, but that's the sort of thing you did to escape when desperate. And, heavens, was he desperate. The singing was bad enough—more than bad enough—but this Salad fellow was the clumsiest pony alive. He managed to crash into the little cabinet of spirits for important guests and get liquor absolutely everywhere. The office smelled like a distillery exploded inside a dive bar. The carpet was probably a write-off, too. Then, then he had accidentally set fire to one of the ledgers and in the mad scramble to put it out—still singing—had accidentally triggered the little switch on Gilded's desk that opened up the compartment with the special ledgers. The ones with the routing numbers he meant to take to Zebrica. Of course the idiot didn't notice anything, but the ledgers were right there. And then the lunatic pony climbed onto his desk to belt out the four hundred and fifty first bottle of beer—apparently that was the best one—he slipped and swept all the secret ledgers into Gilded's lap. That meant he couldn't even move. If he even tried, not even the idiot pegasus would miss a small mountain of paper sliding to the floor. So Gilded sat rooted to the spot, praying Salad would run out of beer bottles soon. "Forty-four bottles of beer on the wall, forty-four bottles of beeeeeer, you take one down—I must say you've been a terribly good sport about this Mr. Guilder, very cooperative—pass it aroooooooound—" "Yes—well—anything to help out..." "Forty three bottle of beer on the waaaaall—of course, now we'll have to go through your mail, too, and, yes, also your tax returns. Thoroughness is very important, after all." "But—I—tax returns?" "For the past ten years." "That's preposterous!" "You know, I think you are right." "I am?" "Yes. No idea what came over me." "Yes, well, good, I—" "Twenty years. At least." "But—" "And we'll need a comprehensive list of everypony you've employed, of course, and depositions from all of them and—oh, damn and blast," said Leafy. For the first time he looked genuinely upset and distraught and his smile slipped off. "What now?" "D'you know, I've completely lost count. Which bottle were we at again?" "What?" "Stumped too, eh? How about you officers?" "Nossir," said Hyacinth. "Really?" "Nossir. No idea whatsoever. We were just following your lead." “Astonishing,” said Leafy, who was astonished. “No head for numbers. If we had one, sir, we wouldn’t be in the guard,” said Hyacinth solicitously. "Ah well. I guess we'll have to start again. One thousand bottles of beer on the wall, one thous—" And it was then that Gilded punched him. Hard. It seemed like the thing to do. A second latter the world became a blur of pain, and when he came to he was being held down, expertly, by six musically inclined guardsponies. One would have been enough. Three, overkill. Six now, was just a farce. He was as thoroughly arrested as anypony in history. Leafy rubbed his jaw, but kept his grin. He ran a hoof across his mane, smoothing a few hairs back into place. Satisfied that, whatever the state of his jaw, at least his coiffure was intact, he spoke. "Ow. Why didn't you say you weren't a music lover, Guilder? Oh dear, oh dear. Assault on a public official in pursuit of official duties? That’s a very serious crime. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. And I thought we were friends, too!" "But I—" "—but nothing. As I said, very serious crime. It’s a class four felony, in fact. I’m a lawyer by trade, and trust me, it is dire. It has to be prosecuted, a case of compelling state interest without the possibility of nolle prosequi. But don't worry! I'll put in a good word for you at your bail hearing about, um... about a week from now, actually. Heh. Funny how that works." "But you—" "Oh and look! You found us some more ledgers," Salad exclaimed, quite cheerful, "you really are being very helpful. Tell you what, I'll have a word with the judge myself. To make sure things go well for you. It’s the least I can do." "You—you—" "Aw, shucks, you don't have to say anything. You are welcome. Now, take him away, please. The law is the law, after all. See you in a week, Gilded me old china." The highly befuddled Gilded was taken out by most of the guardsponies, and Leafy calmly gathered all the new ledgers and made a mental note to thank Gilder's maid for the incredibly helpful information. Astounding what you find when dusting, apparently. He loaded the ledgers into his saddlebags, signed a clipboard for Sergeant Hyacinth who was grinning openly now, in defiance of all ancient guardspony traditions, and sauntered out of the office, pausing to check again that his mane was still in perfect order. It was. The headline read “TIRED AND EMOTIONAL BANKING MAGNATE ASSAULTS PUBLIC OFFICIAL DURING ROUTINE AUDIT.” Just below it, in slightly smaller type was “PERMANENT SECRETARY SALAD SAYS NO HARD FEELINGS.” Spinning Top was very good at her job, after all. “But I thought we—I—no, we agreed not to arrest Mr. Guilder,” said Luna. She was holding the newspaper down with both hooves, as if trying to keep it from escaping, and regarded it with very nearly cross-eyed intensity as she tried to decipher it. Modern times hadn’t been that hard to adapt to, but the Equestrian press was hell on someone not used to it. “Oh, yes. Dotted Line gave explicit instructions to Mr. Salad not to finagle any way of arresting Guilder,” Celestia said. “Then he disobeyed…?” “Dotted Line said financial crime. This is not financial.” “It seems careless of Mr. Line.” “That he gave imprecisely worded instructions to a pony who, when he was practicing law, was widely known as ‘Loophole Leafy?’ Oh, yes. Quite unlike him.” Author's Note Pre-reading by the highly amazing Bookplayer. Also if the name Sky Scribe sounds hauntingly familiar, well, that's no accident. :)
HoofprintsHoofprints a My Little Pony fanfic, of sorts Let’s talk about importance. Obviously, the universe doesn’t care about any one date more than the next, nor for any second more than any other. The universe doesn’t even know what a second is, let alone a date. Humans do, it’s true, but what they care about most of all is the stories they tell about these important moments. It's not the moment, but the story that's important. The stories are real to them, and times long past, well, those are beyond reach. The humans can no more get to them than—hah—than walk to the Moon. But humanity’s ever been bad at taking ‘no’ for an answer and got to the Moon, in the end. It did so using magic. Oh, it was exceptionally understandable magic: take a witches’ brew of long-chain hydrocarbons and mix them all up just so, now introduce it to so much oxygen you’ve squeezed and chilled into being liquid, and then step way back and watch the party in the exhaust nozzle. But that’s just one perspective on it. The other is that wizards built a tower to pierce the sky, and filled it with air that was made so it would burn. This bewitched air burned with such fury that the tower flew like an arrow, all the way to the Moon, carrying people who—somehow—lived through the experience. See? Magic. And just like they climbed to the Moon—what did they expect to find up there, do you think?—so, too, did humans reach the past. And just like climbing to the Moon they used magic to do it. It turns out if you really cozy up to a black hole—a small tame one, of course, a friendly one—you can persuade time to go backwards just a little bit. You’ll need some magic, naturally. Demon’s breath, dragon’s scale, matter with negative density... That sort of thing. And with the right spells, you can borrow a few photons here and there. A bit of scattered starlight from times long past. Nobody would miss it. Honest. So. Right. Importance. When humans finally reached the past, and got to peer at it, the concept of an important date suddenly meant something. Important was what humans thought it should be, and it was important because they peered at it. And, time travel being what it is, this meant that the dates were important all along. Always a bit special. Always momentous. With so many eyes and eye-adjacent things fixed on them how could they not be? Pay attention. A man is about to go through one of the most important moments of all time. You wouldn’t want to miss it. Of course, time travel and all that, he was always about to go through that moment. Or had gone through it. Time travel is hell on grammar and the human brain. Hold on and try to steer with your knees. So a man—by all accounts an astounding man—is about to go through one of the most important moments ever. Humans, being human, have given this moment a name. July 21st 1969 02:56:15 UTC they called it, or some of them, at least. Not very poetic, but it is precise. This man is about to step onto the surface of the Moon. This, on its own, is not that impressive. Octogenarians hike all across the Mare Tranquillitatis. Or have hiked. Or will hike. One or more of the above. What is impressive is that he’s the very first to do it. Humans, being creatures of linear time, are very impressed with that sort of thing. And being impressed, they are curious. And being curious they look. They look a lot. And so many eyes, in so small a space, so many stolen photons, in so narrow a time-slice, well, something was bound to give. It did. A woman, lean and tall with staff in hand, stands in the savannah. She looks up—a sudden impulse—locking eyes with the Moon and in its surface she sees the face of a goddess. She is not wrong. A child looks at her parents in confusion. They are so intent on this little screen, and it isn’t showing anything interesting, not really. It’s all a jumble—white ground and sharp shadows. The child looks down at her toys and then up, grasped with wild surmise. She knows something and can’t quite place how she knows it or what the knowing encompasses. Her parents think she’s afraid and her mother picks her up, holds her and tries to explain. There’s a man on the Moon, now, she says. An explorer. Is he there to rescue the princess, the child asks? What princess? The one on the Moon. She’s been there for a long time and she’s very lonely. Her parents laugh. She doesn’t. For the rest of her life, she’ll remember moonlight as something a little bit sad. A little bit forlorn. But she’ll never remember why. A unicorn filly looks up at the Moon. She could never quite see the mare’s head that was supposed to be there. She’s tried, but it just looks like spots. Lighter spots. Darker spots. Just noise that stubbornly refused to resolve into anything at all, let alone dark and shuddersome mare of legend. Tonight, however, the light of the moon is silvery and beautiful and she knows there is something special about it. There’s somepony up there, she says. Her mother lifts her eyes and smiles. No, dear, it’s just a story, all that about Nightmare Moon. It’s not real. There’s nopony on the Moon. No, no, not a pony. What then? A dragon? Her mother tussles her mane, strands of it as white as the moonlight, and smiles. No! Not a dragon! A...thing. In... in white and gold, that walks on two hooves in... in armor never meant for war. And, oh, it’s so very far from home. Her mother laughs again, kindly. Foals have such imaginations. A human who’d probably put their sex as ‘undecided’ if someone were so rude as to ask, looks at an image. It’s the image of a man, clad all in white, wearing a helmet with a gold visor, amidst a landscape of magnificent desolation. In the eyes of this man, eyes that they have spent a long time teasing out of errant photons stolen from the past, the human sees something. Shock. Surprise. Tumult even beyond the time and place the man is standing in. The human has nightmares about those eyes. A splinter intelligence of the core mind of what was once called Andromeda looks into the past. This is not difficult. It tries to comprehend what it sees. This is more difficult. Worse yet, it tries to explain what it is it sees. This proves to be impossible. The clean language of the machine is, for the first time, inappropriate. It’s too precise. Too exact. In this situation of uncertainty it will have to reach back to the glorious inexactitude of the primitive languages of the two species that birthed it and its kind countless eons in the past. Gone now, but for their many children flitting and dancing between stars, but never forgotten. If it could, it would smile. Such a wonder not to know something! It speaks. “Anypony think time’s...fractured over there?” Now look what you did. Time’s broken. Fractured. Cut. Too many eyes, too little space. And you certainly weren’t helping. No. You are right. Apologies. You were told to look. Well look then. The damage is done. Has been done. Will be done. Conjugation is a filthy habit. Look. The man is descending the stairs from his magic ship. He hasn’t spotted the fracture yet. Won’t be long, though. He knows that he should be feeling the momentousness of the occasion, this man, but he isn’t. All he can think about is how uncomfortable it all is, the suit and the stairs, all of it. Later the passage of time will gild those memories, but for now, he’s focused on the sheer hideous uncomfortableness of it all. This will soon change. He’s close to the surface now. It looks like fine, fine powder. Like icing sugar. He steps on it carefully and clears his throat. He has something important to say. “That’s one small step for—” And that’s when he noticed the hoofprints in the powder. Can you hear it? No? Really? The sound of time snapping. Well, it is quite loud. No telling what happens now. Or if there is a now. Technically what the man saw next never happened. There’s proof, too. Incontrovertible videographic proof. All he has are memories. Hoofprints. Hundreds of them, winding and overlapping, like a crazed mandala. So many he’s amazed he’s never seen them before. He’s amazed he hadn’t seen them landing. He’s amazed humans hadn’t seen them from Earth, there were so many. He lifts his eyes, trying to see how far they go. They go all the way to the horizon, ever more complex, ever more involved. A delicate lace tracery, with whorls now symmetrical and even, now wild and swooping. Hoofprint over hoofprint over hoofprint, like an army directed by a General-Choreographer rode over the lunar surface in exacting time over centuries. It’s a sight to chill the heart, but the man doesn’t see this. Above the horizon, the sky is beyond alien. The stars seem closer, winking in patterns and glowing, ghostly and pale. Like the Starry Night brought to life. It’s an amazing, astounding sight, but the man doesn’t see this, either. Beyond the stars, two Earths hang in the sky. One’s the familiar one, the one he’s watched recede for three days, the beautiful blue marble, precious and fragile like a soap bubble and the other is... alien. The continents are in the wrong places, the clouds swirl the wrong way. It’s a sight to provoke wonder and fear in equal measure, but the man doesn’t see this either. All he sees are the eyes. Large—too large to be human—teal eyes. But that’s not what arrested the man so. It’s a wonder, sure, to see eyes where no eyes should be, but the sight before him is replete with wonders, great and small. And they are beautiful eyes, it is true, but beauty, simple, complex, stark, gentle, beauty to satisfy anyone and everyone is not in short supply. Not here. What drew him in, what made him unable to look away, was the pain. There was suffering in those eyes, and sorrow, and loneliness, and a thousand other emotions in ceaseless turmoil. They were the eyes of someone in Hell. The man wants to say something—anything. He is not unkind, never that, and the eyes break his heart. For a moment—a wild, insane, beautiful moment—he thinks that that’s why he had come all this way, so very far from home. To help. To take away at least some of the pain. No-one should suffer so. He reaches out and— And nothing. This all never happened. Weren’t you paying attention? It never happened. Time just shuddered for a bit. Temporal stress or some other fancy word. The man is back right where he started. Alone in such an important moment, surrounded by the striking landscape of an empty, unmarred Moon—desolate, yet beautiful, in a stark sort of way. Obviously this is before they built the park, or the restaurant with the rotating observer lounge and curly fries I can really quite recommend. So the man stumbles just a little bit but regains his equilibrium. He’s nothing if not competent. “—man, one giant leap for mankind.” It’s fine. Nothing happened. No mandala of hoofprints. No twin Earth, no alien sky, nothing. And the eyes...well. The momentousness of the occasion got to him. Had to be that. Had to be. Still, to be safe he decides never to speak of it. Not a word to anyone. And he keeps his promise. He never manages to forget, however, no matter how hard he tries.
Dr. Spinning Top—Specimen Annotated Daily ScheduleDr. Spinning Top Specimen Annotated Daily Schedule Look carefully. There's an ornate clock on the nightstand, all gilt and clever scrollwork—the owner clearly devoted to the concept of beauty in all things—and it is going to ruin somepony's day in a minute or so. It's not the clock's fault of course, it's just following orders—the Nuremberg Egg defense of clocks, really—but it's going to ruin a pony's day all the same. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick. This is going to take a while. There's bound to be something more interesting than a clock around here... let's see (you are looking carefully, aren't you?) clothes, jewelry, all very pretty but in an anodyne way. All very neat. The jewels especially, arranged on velvet like surgeon's instruments, gleaming in the dawn half-light. There's a bookshelf too, rosewood, stuffed with books in at least four languages. The books are beautiful, bradel-bound with gold thread much in evidence, but unlike nearly everything else in the room they are worn and a little bit faded with cracked spines and frayed thread. There's a pony here too, of course, nestled deep under the blankets with only a shock of red and orange mane poking out of the covers. If you strain your ears (you should be listening carefully, as well) you can hear her snore very very gently—though she would, of course, deny this vehemently. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick—won't be long now—tock. Click. It is conceivable that the clock could have made a more horrible noise, if only just. 06:00—Wake up. 06:00-06:05—Stare at clock, bewildered and uncertain what the hell it is and why it is making that horrifying sound. Stare at still-dim sky. Reconsider life choices. 06:05-06:20—Shower. 06:20-06:30—The Sacrament of Coffee. News is officially prohibited from happening during this hallowed time. 06:30-06:45—Reviewing early editions of major newspapers. 06:45-06:50—Primal scream therapy. 06:50-07:50—Achieving state of sufficient equianity by way of diverse ablutions and the application of cosmetics. 07:50-07:55—Seeing if the morning editions look any better now. 07:55-08:00—Further primal scream therapy. 08:00-08:30—Morning commute. Casting aspersions on the ancestry, character, and post-mortem fate of the Transport Secretary and all 18245 ponies working under her. 08:30-08:35—Tense negotiations with the security ponies which devolve into philosophy: If you were a changeling but didn't know it, and were in every respect exactly like the original would you need a visitor badge or could you enter through the staff entrance? And what does that have to do with tortoises? 08:35-08:36—Telling the security pony about your mother. 08:36-08:40—Dodging, avoiding, and if necessary assaulting ponies blocking access to the press office. 08:40-08:41—Discovering a fresh croissant and cup of coffee delivered by the principal private secretary. 08:41—08:45—Pledging eternal gratitude, hoof in marriage, and a hundredweight of jewels. 08:45—08:50—Breakfast. 08:50—08:55—Timorously peeking at the day's agenda. 08:55—09:00—Considering self-duplication spells, mirror-pools, time-travel, cloning, and shooting Blueblood. Giving up on shooting Blueblood as unrealistic. 09:00—09:30—Meeting three journalists and a gentlecolt from Equestria Daily regarding Equestrian territorial pretensions. Explaining Equestria has no territorial pretensions. Underlining that a princess suggesting a visit does not imply bringing an army along. Pointing out that Princess Twilight Sparkle does not have the constitutional authority to order the army anywhere, even if she wanted to, which she doesn't. Providing assurance that Shining Armor now commands the armies of the Crystal Empire. A brief tutorial on the difference between the Crystal Empire and Equestria. An even briefer tutorial on the proper use of a geographical atlas. An exceptionally brief—bordering on brusque—tutorial on the difference between 'over there' and 'here.' 09:30-09:35—Primal scream therapy 09:35-10:00—Civil Service status meeting. Enduring twenty-two minutes' natter about irrigation policies in the Southwest during which the Permanent Secretary for the Weather Office felt it necessary to explain what clouds are to the Permanent Secretary for Agriculture. Hoof-to-hoof combat averted when Dotted Line gave the belligerents a Look. Approx. 6.7 on the Death Glare Index. No casualties. 10:00-11:00—Discussing terms of favorable interview for Princess Twilight Sparkle in Equestria Daily with Breaking News. 11:00-11:30—Meeting with the Blueblood Fiasco Management Group. Doomsday Clock minute hand moved to three minutes to midnight based on unanimous vote. Drafted & sent letter to Princess Celestia suggesting that Blueblood be sent as emissary to the fabled kingdom of Amarant. 11:30-11:35—Brief interruption as the Permanent Secretary for the Foreign Office broke in on account of a standing enchantment which causes a klaxon to ring in the secretary's office whenever someone says 'Blueblood' and 'emissary' in the same sentence. 11:35-12:00—Meeting of the BFMG (Motto: Ne nos inducas in interfectionem!) continues with the drafting of the General-Purpose Blueblood Catastrophe Apology Form, version 27.1. 12:00-12:15—Drafting a press release regarding the Northern Griffonstan situation. Reworking it so it is impossible to claim the statement supports either side of the conflict. 12:15-12:20—Further revisions in order to remove any hint of territorial pretensions. 12:20-12:25—Finalizing revisions in order to remove the merest hint that Equestria has any opinion on the conflict whatsoever except, perhaps, to acknowledge that it might exist. 12:25-12:30—Realizing that what with the equivocation, the qualifiers, the weasel-words and so on the press release is actually the functional equivalent of a perfectly blank sheet of paper. Giving up on further work on it in disgust. 12:30—13:00—Lunch. "You need to do something about Twilight Sparkle." Spinning Top looked up from her buttered broccoli—no great chore, that—to see Dotted Line wearing his usual expression—the one that put ponies in mind of a large mournful dog. "I am doing something about it. I've already scheduled a friendly interview to change the tone the press is taking at least a little bit. Breaking News okayed it just now. We're getting Gilded Lily, and she'll softball the interview." Dotted nodded. "Good. Give Her Highness a chance to shine. Maybe remind everypony that they owe her their lives a few times over. But that's not what I meant." "Oh?" Spinning Top polished off another piece of broccoli—finding it no easier to swallow than the previous one—and waved her hoof at a seat. For reasons hidden deep in that big fuzzy head of his, Dotted absolutely refused to sit unless invited. "The press are eating her alive," he said, worried, "I've not seen it get this vicious with anyone else. Can't you... teach her?" "She's a princess, Dotted-dear. I can't possibly presume to..." "Yes, she is. And what she knows about media relations could comfortably fit in a matchbox. Without first removing the matches, either. Please?" "I can... I can offer her my help." "Thank you," Dotted said looking at his plate—ratatouille, more pushed around than eaten—his expression grumpier than usual. "She might need all the help she can get. I can’t believe how bad it got." Spinny shrugged. "I expected it." "You did?" "I worked the foreign news desk for ten years, Dotted. By the end, I saw this thing happen all the time." "What do they have against Princess Twilight Sparkle?" "Nothing at all. Oh, don't get me wrong, sometimes they do a hatchet job on purpose, sure, but this time I don't think they cared about the princess one way or the other. It's all about...look. Tell me. What is the real news of the day?" "What?" "You are the cabinet secretary. Don't tell me you aren't informed. Let's say you are the editor-in-chief for the day. What does your front page look like?" "Heroic Civil Service Perform Yet Another Silent Miracle In Keeping Country From Exploding. Again, " said Dotted. He flashed a grin, suddenly looking considerably less mournful and about ten years younger. "Too long for a title. Try SERVICE MIRACLE SAVES EQUESTRIA. Also I was being serious." "Sorry. Okay. Um. Well, there's the second round of ceasefire negotiations between the Free Gryphon Rep—" "Foreign policy. Under the fold, at best. Also this is the fifth time it was the second round of negotiations. Ponies are bored of it. Next." Dotted blinked, taken aback. "But they agreed to put the Steel Shadow Eyrie Massacre claims asi—" "Nopony knows where Steel Shadow is. Hardly anypony cares. That won't even make it into the story." "Okay. Well. The new Securities Trading Act is coming out of committee." "Excellent! Money. That works. Can you explain it in twenty five words or fewer?" "I... uh... It introduces the need for a third party to verify that there is good-faith collateral posted behind offers of default-swap and monoline insurances on debt inst—" "Well done. Only about six ponies are still reading. And one of those is probably Sky Scribe checking if they got the jargon correct." "I—it's important!" "Of course it is. That doesn't change that only about six ponies are still reading. Will it make ponies richer?" "Not really." "Poorer?" "No, but it will lessen the impact of a potential cra—" "Nopony cares." "I... I guess... well. There's nothing really important going on." "Ah. Good. Blank front page. Perhaps with NOTHING AT ALL HAPPENING SORRY on it? That's going to go down well with management." Dotted blinked. Flicked his ears, and pushed aside his plate. "Fine. Show me how its done, newshound," he said with a crooked smile. Spinny speared a piece of broccoli. "Well. You always want the same sort of story leading. The basic beats you are looking for are fear, outrage, and anger. Outrage's best of all. That explains the Twilight Sparkle story." "It does?" "Certainly. You take a hatchet to a well-known figure. That gets you attention. Everypony knows who Princess Twilight is. Best of all, she's new to everypony so you can invent anything you damn well please. Now, about half of the ponies like the rough treatment. They like seeing the high-and-mighty taken down a peg. Especially this Twilight Sparkle, turning her nose up at everypony, thinking she's all that! Everypony knows that something ain't right with her, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera," Spinny said, her voice turning sharp and mocking. "Surely not everypony is like that?" "Oh, of course not, my dear. Of course not. Then you have the other half who are furious about a national treasure like Twilight Sparkle—smartest mare in all of Equestria, she is—being dragged through the mud. So they buy the papers in order to be outraged at them and to wave them at equally outraged friends who also bought copies." "But these ponies are angry at the press." "So? Angry readers and avid readers show up the same in circulation numbers and that's all the advertisers care about. Besides, give it a while and they may even make a story out of the outrageous treatment of Princess Sparkle in the press, and isn't it a shame, and isn't it a disgrace and so on and so forth. The result is the same: same outrage, same letters to the editor, except the two groups change sides for a bit," said Spinny with a resigned shrug. She cleaned her plate, and finished a slice of bread. Dotted's ratatouille remained untouched, as he leaned in, ears pointed forward. "So none of them really care about Twilight Sparkle..." "...she's just a prop to them. Best we can hope is to move the cycle of outrage to another position: the Poor Heroic Princess gambit." "She is heroic!" "I know this, you know this, the citizens of Ponyville probably know this. To most of Equestria she's just a name." Dotted sat back, ears drooping. "I can't accept that, " he said, "surely ponies are better than that." "The Canterlot News Nightly circulation numbers say otherwise. It's past one. I'm going to have to leave. Is there anything else?" "No," said Dotted, who looked quite deflated. "Thank you for the chat." She left him lost in thought tapping the edge of his plate with a fork absentmindedly. 13:00-13:30—Midday editions survey. 13:30-13:35—Primal scream therapy. 13:35-14:15—Damage control due to marital indiscretion of a Cabinet Minister. 14:15-14:20—Plan to issue mandatory libido suppressants to Cabinet-level appointees vetoed. 14:20-14:25—Brief lecture in which Dotted explains the actual effects of saltpeter and how heart disease isn't likely to help except in a very terminal sort of way. 14:25-15:30—Drafting suitably contrite apology for said minister to read out in her front garden, projecting as much content domesticity as she possibly can. 15:30-16:30—Meeting on the maximum secrecy limits for classified material with the board of the National Security News Agency. Recommending that the short-term discretionary classification powers of the Tactical Subterfuge Act be retained, but issuing a statement of censure against the head of the Equestrian Secret Service for declaring the whole city of Manehatten top secret as a joke. 16:30-16:45—The Blueblood Fiasco Management Group receives a response from Princess Celestia which politely reject the Amarant posting idea on the grounds that fabled Amarant is lost somewhere beneath the endless shifting sands of Dromedaria. The letter also preemptively vetoed the idea of making Blueblood's first act as emissary be finding fabled Amarant on the grounds that ponies who try never come back. 16:45-17:00—The BFMG unanimously votes in favor of the proposition that "It Was Worth A Shot." 17:00-17:15—Evading Dotted Line, who has taken to enforcing his views on the suitable length of a workday with a squad of palace guards empowered to eject any workaholics (that aren’t him) from the premises. 17:15-17:50—Departmental budgetary meeting. 17:50-17:55—Brief debate on whether alcohol can be classified as an expense. 17:55-18:00—A department-wide agreement is reached that it can be—specifically under the 'medical attention' heading, provided it is is consumed just after attending a meeting of a legislative body. 18:00—18:30—Evening edition survey. 18:30—18:35—Primal scream therapy, though under the effect of a conus silentii spell due to necessary stealth. 18:35-18:44—Meeting of the Parliamentary Press Secretariat. 18:44-18:45—Meeting interrupted by Dotted's Overtime Inquisition (Motto: Nemo nos exspectat!) 18:45-18:50—Being gently prodded out of the building with assurances that the crisis will still be there tomorrow. 18:50-18:55—Vain attempts to get back in. 18:55—19:15—Arranging meeting with Gilded Lily. 19:15-19:30—Traveling to Chez Radin. Renewing blood-feud with the Transport Secretary and all who stand beside her. 19:30-19:45—Terse negotiations with the maître d'. 19:45-20:45—Dinner. The very best thing that could be said about Chez Radin was that it was fashionable. Sadly—at least in Spinny's opinion—that was also the only good thing that could be said about it. The food was selected more for sounding provocative and chic on a menu—carbonized kale? hay rehydrated in champagne? mud soup?—than for actual taste, and the portion size was somewhere between a studied insult and a bad joke. Vast porcelain seas with the odd scrap of food just to break the monotony. Gilded Lily was well aware of all these faults, so asking to meet here must have meant that she needed to be seen above all else, and Spinning was hard pressed to refuse her oldest friend. She knew quite well what it was to climb that particular greasy pole, with everything hinging on access, reputation, and the perception of keeping up. It wasn't always like that, of course. It used to be that working for EqD meant something and—Ah, but that was a road Spinny had been down altogether too many times. Things change. What was it that Gilded Lily used to say all the time back at Uni...? Right. Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. Times change, and we change to suit them. And Spinny... Spinny had changed. She'd given up the greasy pole for one that, it must be said, seemed to be covered with glue. Of course, she was head of her own department—not a lot of room for promotion there, but it was still an odd feeling not to be clawing for that extra little hoof up. Was she going to be doing the same thing ten years from now? Dotted had been hinting that she was likely to be offered his job when he retired but Spinny found the idea of Dotted Line retiring to be utterly ridiculous—even death itself, it was widely thought in the Service, wouldn't be enough to divest him of his job. Lily had changed in her own way, too. She didn't run away when things had gotten... difficult in the newsroom. She stayed on, shrugging off buyouts and political shakeups. Spinny envied her a little bit. Oh, certainly, Press Secretary was a respectable job, well paid—not that that mattered—well regarded, and altogether much more to her mother's liking. That was rather the problem, really. Spinny sat, lost in thought, slowly settling into the comfy chair, half-blind and half-indifferent to the restaurant's synthetically idiosyncratic décor when a familiar voice shook her from her reverie. "Spinny! My dear! It's been too long!" And it had been. It always was. Once upon a time they were inseparable. Once upon a time they were the twin terrors of the EqD newsroom. And before that at Uni, swotting Horsace, and making up wild stories about the fate of the Hermocoltes. Now it was so hard to sync up schedules, they went weeks without so much as catching sight of each other. "Lily! Darling! It has! So lovely to see you. How's the Great Equestrian Novel coming along" said Spinny willing herself to smile. Gilded Lily sat and smiled back. "Slowly. It's coming along slowly. Actually, not so much coming along as backing away. Work's hectic, as you may imagine. We miss you in the newsroom, still." "Oh, come now. Surely, you've trained up replacements?" "Dozens. And if we keep it up and train up a few dozen more, we might be able to equal about a quarter of you. On your off days." From behind Spinny' willed smile the real, hidden one, flashed for just a second. "You are too kind, Lily. I'm sure they are quite capable," she said. "Said like someopony who's never had to look at their copy. It's like the schools simply left off teaching Equish, I swear. So? How's working for The Mare," she said. She paused to catch the waiter's eye, and held up a hoof. "What can I get you, Spinny?" Spinny smiled, put a theatrical hoof to forehead. "Working for The Mare? Nam Versatricem quidem Phillydelphiae ego ipse oculis meis vidi in munere pendere, et cum illi equi dicerent: Κλωθοῖ τί θέλεις; respondebat illa: ἀποθανεῖν θέλω." Lily actually giggled. Not the pleasantly tinkly giggle she used to tell you that, on mature reflection, what you said was acceptably droll, but her snorty giggle Spinny found herself missing so much. "Well," she said, "I had no idea it was that bad! Death I can't—won’t!—provide, but let's see if we can't find something suitably numbing. Poulain! Please, a bottle of the 988 Château d'Yquem for my weary friend here." Spinny smiled. Lily knew her weaknesses all too well. But still, the 988! That was altogether too expensive. Even for Lily. She tried to protest. "Well that's magnificently kind, Lily, but that's really a dessert wine. It doesn't quite pair with—" "Nonsense. You've been here before. They hardly propose to feed us here, now do they? Château d'Yquem it is! Well for you. I'm too sensible to drink moldy wine." It was Spinny's turn to snort with laughter. "It's delicious!" "Moldy." "Many things that are delicious are also moldy." "Griffin propaganda." "You like Pu-erh!" "That's fermented. Not moldy." "Spoiled, is the word you are looking for, Lily my dear." "Hah. So. Is it really that bad?" "Pu-erh? It tastes like something mistook your cup for a lav—" "No, no. Work. Nam Versatricem quidem and all that. Mind. I'm not entirely sure you can hang in an office." "It sure feels like it." "And I see your delusions of godhood are progressing nicely." "Oh come on! I couldn't think of another word for 'Spinny.'" "Ταλασιουργοϛ?" "That's a spinner of wool, Lily." "Well? It could mean over ponies' eyes, couldn't it?" "Ouch." "Well, you walked into that one." "Granted." There was a moment of silence as the waiter approached, soundless, and poured wine. The delicious tawny-gold nectar for Spinny and something pale, cold, dry, and difficult to pronounce for Lily. Lily broke the silence first. "You never answered me." "Mm?" "Work. Is it that bad?" Spinny sighed. "No. Not really. It's... it's the same as it ever was. Just, sometimes I don't feel like I'm accomplishing that much. Every job has its grind, sure enough, but back at EqD you could hope that you'll write that one big story that'll change something. At the press office... you are forever treading water. If you do your job right you keep your department one step ahead of catastrophe until tomorrow. Then it starts all over again. I have to say... I envy you a bit. You can get somewhere." "Aren't you supposed to get a shot at the big job someday?" "So Dotted says. But that's really more of the same. You just juggle more catastrophes." Lily swirled her drink in her glass and took a tiny bite from an even tinier portion of quail egg smothered in tarragon somethingorother. "It's not that sunny over here, you know. The newsroom isn't as you remember it. It's all about the circulation, these days." "So you've said." "Yeah. But you haven't heard it. Not properly. Remember why you left?" "Yes." "It's ten times worse. It's not just squelching unprofitable stories. Copy gets edited from On High these days. Editorial independence is a joke, " Lily drained her glass and continued, "Yeah, you can write a story that makes a difference, sure, but nopony will let you publish it. Sometimes... sometimes I think you were lucky to get out when you did." Spinny put her glass down carefully. It was worse than—well no. It was as bad as she had heard. But worse than she had believed. What she told Dotted at lunch was... well, cynicism. Bitterness. He shouldn't have tried to talk to her when broccoli was about. She hadn't believed it was true, not really. But now? Maybe she should have believed. "So how are you holding on," Spinny asked. "I... okay. I get by. Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis and all that. I'm too senior to fire just like that, but I have to be... careful. Or I'll get sent to cover flower shows and Celestia knows what else." "Well," Spinny said, trying for cheerful, "at least tomorrow we can do some good, you and I. This mess with Princess Sparkle has to end. Thanks for agreeing to softball it." "Yeah. Anyway, you asked about the novel? I do have some news," Lily said, reaching into her saddlebags. They kept chatting for a while longer, making game attempts to eat the frequently puzzling and always inadequate food being placed before them. It wasn't until she was leaving that Spinny realized that they forgot to make a plan for the interview tomorrow. The conversation kept slipping away from the subject. Ah well. No need for some master plan. She could just rely on Lily, same as always. 20:45-21:15—Traveling back home. 21:15-22:00—Reading things that, blessedly, aren't newspapers. 22:00-22:15—Shower. 22:15—Collapsing in bed. 22:15-06:00—Uneasy sleep. Author's Note Many thanks to the inestimable, irreplaceable, and incredible (also some things not starting with an 'i,' I'm sure) Bookplayer & Bradel for pre-reading this. Also more thanks to the splendidly pecunious Bradel for technically paying for this story, in accordance with this offer. Normally I match Bookplayer blog posts (not that anyone was much interested, it turns out), but in this instance Bradel asked for a story and... well... here it is. Note: This story is technically a prequel to Bradel's magnificent A Filly's Guide to Not Making Headlines, however, you can read them in whatever order you wish without detracting from the experience one bit. Lastly, this story includes the most obscure joke I ever made, and as such, I feel it appropriate to offer a bit of a crib sheet. So. The untranslated bit of Latin and Ancient Greek Spinny spouts off (Classics Majors. Tch.) is a take on a line in the Satyricon of Petronius (which if famous because it is used as an epigraph in a rather noted poem) which has been lightly modified by me. Seeing as my knowledge of Latin is... insubstantial, let's say, and that of Ancient Greek isn't even that, I may have messed up quite, quite badly. Allow me to offer a translation: "And, indeed, I had seen with my own eyes Spinner(fem.) from Phillydelphia hanging in an office, and with her ponies saying "Spinner(fem.), what do you want?" She replies: "I want to die." (It was, naturally, originally about the Cumaean Sibyl) One last annotation: There's a joke about 'delusions' of godhood later. That's because the word Spinny used to translate her own name in the Ancient Greek segment is 'Κλωθοῖ' (well actually that's the vocative case, but let's not complicate matters) which is, as you've probably guessed, 'Clotho,' the youngest of the three Moirai (fates). Right. All that probably didn't make the above funny, but I hope that, at least, you want to throw things at me somewhat less.
Love and Other Acquired TastesLove and Other Acquired Tastes The cardboard roof caved in, and the little filly spluttered as cold rainwater drenched her. She tried to hold the box up with her hooves, but the wet cardboard spalled off in ragged chunks and then her home fell apart entirely. She was now entirely open to the unfriendly sky, and her coat and mane were sodden through in seconds. She tried to bunch up, huddle to gain some warmth but she couldn't. The wind was too fierce. She hugged herself with her forehooves and scuttled closer to the wall. It was damp and cold, and the bricks bit into her back uncomfortably, but the eaves of the building provided some small protection. Not enough. She sniffled. The cup in front of her was nearly empty. When she first started yesterday a few ponies tossed a bit or two, but that quickly stopped. She hadn't seen anyone so much as approach her since. They even crossed the street to avoid her. All those rich-looking ponies in their well-made suits, and not a bit to spare. She could tell they were... afraid. Why? She heard the clip-clop-splash of someone approaching through the abandoned rain-soaked streets. She looked up, and saw—blurrily through the mixed tears and rainwater—a gray shape coming closer. She blinked furiously, and her vision cleared well enough for her to see a short, broad-shouldered, pudgy little pony with a grey coat and a dark mane. He appeared to ignore the rainstorm with equanimity. He wore not a scrap of clothing—just a rather battered-looking silver necklace—and the rainwater drained from his thick coat in streams. He didn't seem to mind. She allowed herself a glimmer of hope, and looked hopefully at her cup. He passed her by. Her ears drooped, and then perked up again when she heard his steps pause. He came back and gave her a look. To her surprise he sat right next to her, splashing into a puddle. He did not seem to mind that either. He extracted a thermos from his saddlebags that looked as if it had been in half-a-dozen wars—and on the losing side, too—unscrewed the top which was patterned in peeling gold suns, and poured something fragrant and warm into it. "Tea, miss," he rumbled offering her the cup, "it'll keep the chill out?" She shook her head minutely and he shrugged and took a sip himself. "Suit yourself, miss. There's more if you change your mind." They sat like that in silence for a few moments while the strange stallion sipped his tea. "Twenty billion, six hundred and eighty million, ninety three thousand, eight hundred and three bits," he said at length. That... wasn't what she expected to hear. She just looked at him, eyes wide. "The budget," he said, waving his arm vaguely, "of Foal Protective Services. That's your orphanages, foster family support, agents, psychologists, administration, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Quite a bundle as you may imagine. I should know. I make sure it passes muster every damned year. Pardon my language, miss. Still. The House passes it. Well, they do if they know what good for 'em." She kept silent. She hardly knew what else to say. "It's a big responsibility, you understand. The Princesses rule with a light touch, but on this score the rule was ever the same. No exceptions, no excuses, nothing. Nopony gets left out in the cold. No matter the price. Not ever." He took a swig of tea and continued. "Now, we're just ponies. Mortal, fallible, all that. We make mistakes. And it is possible that somewhere in the hinterlands there's somepony who got forgotten. Somepony hungry. Somepony alone. I hope there isn't, but there's no way of knowing. But in Canterlot? The center of Canterlot? Leaning on the Ministry of Equine Services building?" The strange stallion's horn flashed a muted grey, and she felt a prickling all over her... carapace. Oh crap. "What I'm really trying to say," said Dotted Line turning to the changeling beside him, "is... there's six snipers covering us right now. Any last words?" Seeker Of Hidden Places 27 swallowed. "P—parley?" "Damn." Changelings could do more than just sense the emotions of ponies. They could taste the emotional tenor of places. This, Seeker decided, was not a friendly room. It was small, neat, windowless, and—as she could sense based on the sense of tenseness in the stones—heavily warded. There was a mirror, too, and behind it... darkness? Night? The Moon? Madness. This place was thick with magic. She looked across the scuffed desk at the pony who discovered her. She tried to probe his mind a bit more directly, but she got nowhere. In a world alive with emotion, he was a blank space. A void. Shackled as she was, and trapped as she was, that made her worried most of all. What was he? Even inanimate objects had some emotional resonance. "What are you," he asked. "I... I'm a Changeling." "Changeling drones can't speak. They can't venture far from the Queen. Obviously you can." "I'm, uh, I'm Seeker caste." There was a silence. "I see. Who are you here to kill?" "I—" "Please cooperate. We do not wish you harm, but we need to protect ourselves. Who were you sent to kill?" "I wasn't sent. I... ran." "Pardon?" "I ran. From the hive. From... her. I can't... we kept our minds when she took over. The Seekers. She could still order us around and we obeyed but we knew what we were doing. What she made us do. I couldn't. Not anymore. So I ran. I expected to die, honestly. Not get this far. But I did. All the way to the Canterlot. I thought I'd be safe in the shadow of the Sun. But I was so very hungry and so I..." "You tried to feed off of sympathy?" "I didn't want to steal someone's love. It was forbidden before... Before the fall. But if they felt sympathy... sorrow... I could survive off that. But it didn't work. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interfere with your ponies, but I was so hungry and... I'm sorry." There was a drawn out silence. "I should tell you that you can't lie. Not here. Your mind is being... examined. Normally terribly, terribly illegal, but... Special circumstances. We thought you were an assassin." "I'm not lying." The grey pony looked to the side, his eyes unfocused, and expression abstracted, and then nodded to nobody in particular. "You aren't. I need to leave. Will you... starve if left here alone for a few hours?" "I—yes. Maybe. I don't know what's keeping me alive right now. It's been... weeks. Maybe a month." The grey pony looked worried for a second, and then his face set. He reached with his hoof and lifted the silver chain that hung heavily around his neck. Instantly the blank spot was gone. Seeker could sense... guilt. Regret. Sadness. Love. It took every ounce of willpower to leave the love alone. Not hers. Not hers. "Well," the pony said expectantly, "what are you waiting for?" "I can't just... we don't steal. We didn't use to—" "You aren't stealing. I'm giving. What do you need me to do?" "Just... just think about someone you care about." It tasted like... no words can explain it. Like a drink of water after a thousand years in the desert. Seeker nearly drowned in it, losing control for a moment. She smelled... a warm hearth. Pancakes. She heard laughter. Violin music. She felt at home. Cared for. At length she opened her eyes. "I... I don't feel like I love her any less," said the grey pony whose expression was halfway between apprehensive and confused. "That's not how it works. I... your daughter?" "Goddaughter, " the grey pony said, getting up, gathering papers from his desk, "I need to leave now. I've some considerable work to do. I'll be back shortly. Bang on the door if you need anything." And with that he left. He had put the necklace on and Seeker could no longer tell what he was feeling. Was he... angry? Disgusted? She wasn't as good at expressions as she should have been. It was always easier to just look. Still. She probably bought herself a few more days. Maybe even weeks. By her standards that was a fortune. She fell into uneasy sleep. She dreamed the same dream that followed her each night: of becoming someone else, forever. Of slipping on the disguise once and for all. This time, however, the dream came true. The next few months were spent getting used to being someone entirely different. She had disguises before in her life and the twenty-six incarnations that came before had thousands: brief impressions, studious imitations, false identities so involved that the fate of entire realms turned on their deception. This disguise was more difficult than any of those. Unprecedented, even. "Ah, Seeker! Please, come in." Ponies kept advising each other to 'just be yourself.' Nonsense, she always thought, as if they had any choice, but she saw it from a new perspective now. Being yourself was difficult. "Thank you, Dotted. You wanted to see me?" Luckily, she had help. The office was—if possible—even more cluttered with paper than usual. She could just barely glimpse Dotted behind a range of paperwork mountains starring intently at a stopwatch and thermometer. "Indeed. Tea?" Seeker smiled despite herself—she tried to avoid it, ponies found her smile disconcerting what with the fangs and all—but the ritual always made her grin. Ponies were starting to rub off on her. Or was she always pony-like, and they were just rubbing off the layers of disguises? How did ponies keep track of who they were without a target to impersonate? "Ah, I'm afraid I don't partake." "Of course. Of course. Some enjoyment of tea, then?" "That would be lovely." Dotted sat on his much-abused office chair, and Seeker perched on what probably was a guest chair, underneath all the papers, folders, scrolls, and books. Dotted sipped tea and she sipped, well. The joy of tea. It tasted... refreshing. Pleasantly astringent. Warm. Ponies had so many ways of enjoying things. "How are you finding the Behavioral Analysis Unit, then?" "Very well, thank you. I am surprised, though." "Oh?" "I thought you'd want me using my... abilities." "You are. Sensing emotions is a very valuable skill." "I meant... disguises. Spying." "Oh. That. Well, I figured you've had your fill of subterfuge, yes?" "That's very considerate." "Well... given the circumstances of our meeting... Anyway. You are useful in that capacity as well, you know." "I am?" "Yes. I may have leaked that I employ a Changeling Seeker, you see." "That must have caused... worry." Dotted grinned. "Some. Lots of running around in circles. Waving hooves, claws, and other distal limbs. Great fun." "But was it useful?" "Well, I must confess my ponies also may have allowed your file to be stolen." "My file?" "Yes. The one that says you are an elite spy who can turn into absolutely anything as long as it is not underwater." "That's... amazingly inaccurate." "It was a draft version. Typos, you understand. Anyway, as a result Von Clawsewitz is now holding the meetings he thinks I don't yet know about right next to my array of hydrophones." "Well, at least he's safe from my elite spying abilities." "Exactly." "Was this why you invited me here?" "No. Just making conversation. It's about the security for this big royal ruckus in Ponyville." "Ruckus?" "Mhm-hm. Technical term. Look, I don't know how to ask this but... do you do weddings?" Author's Note Believe it or not, I had this idea for ages—Bradel and Bookplayer can vouch for me. Heavens know I natter at them about fic ideas enough. However seeing the changeling at the wedding meant I simply had to get this written. Much thanks to MrNumbers and Bookplayer for kindly taking a look at this and suggesting improving alterations. You guys are made of victory and talking owls.
Any Other Business?Any Other Business? "So... um... today's agenda is a little, ah. Sparse. Yes. Sparse. One item. Tch. Hardly worth meeting about, really. In fact I might suggest a motion of early adjour—" The words died on his lips under a wave of hostility from the massed nobles. "—or not. Or not. No time like the present, eh, my lords and, uh, ladies...?" More hostility. If looks could kill Dotted would already be dead, transported back to Northisle, buried, mourned, commemorated, forgotten, rediscovered by a future historian, and featured in an article in the local Sunday newspaper which Mrs. Sugar Loaf would leave off reading halfway because of a phone call from a double-glazing salesmare, never learning she was actually faintly related to this Line fellow. This course of affairs, through the miracle of cause and effect, would delay the commercialization of fusion technology by the Equestrian people by 117 years. Luckily for Mrs. Loaf, the Equestrian people, and bulk manufactures of lithium hydride, looks can't kill. It looked like the future dodged a bullet there and Dotted wondered if he'd be so lucky. He began to scan the nobility for crossbows, blades, or surreptitious blow-pipes. Nothing. Damn. So much for the easy way out. "Any, uh, business we need to take care of before we get, ah, cracking on the agenda? Any... um... motions? Suggestions? Requests?" The atmosphere, already frosty, dropped by a few dozen degrees. It was time to deal with the elephant in the room. "So, uh, the first and indeed only item on the agenda—should really be 'agendum' really—is, ah," Dotted adjusted his spectacles theatrically, "let's see, 'Princess Twilight Sparkle?!??!??!?' I say. That's quite a lot of punctuation. I daren't imagine how that might actually sound..., hah, well—" "PRINCESS TWILIGHT SPARKLE?!??!??!?," Lord Trottingham helpfully demonstrated. Dotted wiped the spittle from his spectacles. "Yes. Indeed. Isn't that lovely? Nice to see a young mare make her way in the worl—" "THIS BREAKS THE FIRST COVENANT!" "Only if princess Celestia makes someone an alicorn, I think you'll find. The Lady Sparkle, I understand, went through the process on her own with the princess only helping her do so safely which she's obligated to do under the Public Safety & Depraved Indifference Act of 887 which in paragr—" "She's to ASCEND OVER US, IS SHE? A COMMONER!?," wailed Lady Cloudsdale. "Royal, I think you'll find. Armigers, Nobility, & Royalty Act of 173, amended 284, 566, 837, and 909, clearly states in paragraph 35b that—" "This is TYRANNY!" "Her Highness Sparkle does not actually have any governmental authority as the Articles of Union state as a part of scroll XVI, right under the coffee sta—" "This is a plot! A plot to legitimize their dalliance." "Were such a dalliance to exist it would have been entirely legitimate from the point Her Highness was eighteen. Elevation to royalty would not be necessary. The question, however, is moot because I understand that there is no such dal—" "You had this planned, you northern bastard!" And with this the floodgates broke open. Dotted sat, calmly, weathering the abuse, the threats, the insinuations, accusations, slander, more threats, three separate challenges to a duel, and the thrown ink bottle stoically. At length he glanced at his pocket-watch. It read a quarter past tea[1]. "Right," he said, tone businesslike, "You, there. Lord Trottingham. Listen carefully: Cypress Hall. Second-and-a-half[2] Canterlot Mercantile Bank. Six hundred thousand bits." Lord Trottingham shut up. "Lady Cloudsdale? Does the name Peppermint Humbug mean anything to you? Mmm? August the fourth? Los Pegasus?" Lady Cloudsdale joined him. "Right. Who else? Who else? Ah! My Lady Baltimare! Listen to this. 83 right, 44 left, 15 right, 12 left. Behind a reproduction of Vermare's Filly with a Pearl Earring." Lady Baltimare covered her face with a folder. "Right," said Dotted sweetly, "anypony else want to play? No? Are you sure?" There was dead silence. The elephant in the room hung from the rafters, swaying gently. "Hail Princess Twilight Sparkle?" "Hail Princess Twilight Sparkle," the nobles chorused, glumly. [1] A Hearthswarming present from Leafy Salad. He went to a lot of trouble and hired a watchmaker to specifically craft an additional inner dial which was marked not in hours but in customary teatimes. [2] The result of the merger of the Second Canterlot Mercantile Bank and the Third Canterlot Mercantile bank whose owners, it so transpired, were of a mathematical turn of mind. Author's Note People kept asking me "How's Dotted Line going to explain Twilight's ascension to the nobles?" and, well, after being asked one time too many—this time by TheGreatEater and The Great Derpsby—I wrote the above in a comment on the original story. Bradel and Bookplayer convinced me that I ought to publish it to a wider audience and so... here it is. ...enjoy?
Songs Like SnowSongs Like Snow a romantic interlude For Ferret In defiance of natural law, the sky over the Crystal Empire is simply bigger than anywhere else. Dotted stood on the snow-swathed steps, head craned up, his breath misting in front of him. He sighed, momentarily wreathing himself in vapor which streamed upwards. The conference had crawled into its third day, Hearthwarming loomed, and, as midnight approached, there was still no sign of accord. The Griffins—or was it the Yaks? Equestrians? The Diamond Dog Imperial Remnant which was unaccountably invited?—couldn’t agree on this proposition—or was it that one?—and felt insulted—or was it threatened?—by its mere mention, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. It was all rather a blur. One not even tea could make clear. He didn’t leave the conference so much as he was spat out, chewed up and reeling. Was this why he joined the Service? Why he left home? He felt drained far more than sleeplessness and hours of arguing might account for. They weren’t making peace here. They weren’t making “steps” towards it, no matter what Spinny wrote in her increasingly imaginative dispatches. They weren’t making much of anything. Just running one step ahead of disaster, just like he always did. He descended to the wide balcony below, thick coat bristling against the chill, and stood by the balustrade, scanning the horizon. There was not much on it. The ponies of the Crystal Empire were all asleep. Wise of them. He felt a pang, like something nestling uncomfortably in his breast. He missed Canterlot. He missed the fireworks. He missed the ponies there. He missed… something. There was an unexpected emptiness that unsettled him. He shook the feeling off. Tried to. Dotted glanced back at the warmly glowing windows of the Winter Palace, and pricked up his ears. The shouting had stopped and now he could hear… yes. A distinct low murmur of somepony trying to explain. Oh dear. That won’t end well. More shouting. The expensive sound of a claw slamming onto a lacquerwork table. Dotted winced and looked away. He’d stay here a while yet. He couldn’t face the conference. Not now. Maybe out here, in the peace and the snow, he’d find the reason why he did this job in the first place. Why he left. He wiped snow off the balustrade and leaned on it, inspecting the outlines of the Crystal Empire’s stark landscape, dimly visible under starlight. Sharp peaks and sloping valleys carved by glaciers. Desolate, but beautiful. He had been standing like this for a while when he felt a fluttering touch on his cheek. Then another. He looked up. It was snowing, the flakes tiny and bone dry. He had spent a few moments looking up, flakes settling on his coat, when he heard a gentle hoof-fall behind him. He turned and saw, standing on the steps, Ambassador Mkali Walidahani, the leader of the Zebrica delegation. She was tall and ramrod straight and wrapped head-to-hoof in a cloak of sea-silk dyed in intricate patterns. In a scene all in tones of black, white, and gold, she was the sole splash of color. She descended a few steps, avoiding the drifts of snow with unconscious grace, and stood beside Dotted, almost—but not quite—close enough to touch. She was as striking and beautiful as Dotted remembered her, but up close he could—just—see the tracery of fault lines and cracks in her facade. This place was getting to her too. Lost at the edge of the world, pushing the same damn boulder up the hill. The interests of Zebrica and Equestria didn’t always align but Dotted still thought of Mkali of being, fundamentally, on his side. On the side of not having a war for no damned reason. Of making peace. Of finding common ground. Of pushing that boulder, despite everything. Even when you aren’t sure why you are doing it anymore. They shared a moment of companionable but brittle silence and then Mkali spoke. “I can’t believe that I thought Canterlot was cold.” “Mm. Pride as a Northisle native rather demands me to dismiss this as ‘a bit nippy,’ but just between us, it’s utterly freezing.” “It doesn’t get any colder than this I hope?,” Mkali said, giving him a smile polished from constant use. “Not anywhere ponies live, I don’t think. We just about ran out of north getting here.” There was another silence as they stood, looking up wordlessly. Dotted was struck with how… sad she looked half in moonlight and half in lamplight. And how beautiful. There was something about it that reminded him of classical statues locked in poses of ostentatiously noble suffering, though he’d rather not say so out loud. “Any progress in there,” he asked, mentally changing the subject. “No. Maybe,” Mkali sighed, “I do not know, Mr. Secretary. I fear we are accomplishing very little little. Here and… Well. No. No progress. No sign of it, either.” “Yakistan still won’t give up the claim over Meltwater Gorge?” “Point of honor,” Mkali said, a familiar sharpness cutting through the fatigue, “It’s in everyone’s best interest, of course, but the Yaks won’t allow it because they imagine a fortress there lets them project force into Whitefeather. Idiots. The Griffins keep at least two regiments there at all times.” “Three now,” said Dotted, nodding. His brain was working a bit better now, tracing the well-worn paths of intelligence reports and speculation. He was certainly not thinking of classical statuary, nor of that very peculiar glint Mkali’s eyes got when she thought carefully about something. It was probably for the best. “Mm. 643rd Hussars,” Mkali asked, eyes slitted with concentration. “Information or educated guess?” “Now? Both,” she said, with a tight smile, “my compliments to your advance scouts. Either way, if they try to move past the Border of 889 they’ll cause a war—a real war, not this posturing nonsense—and lose terribly to the ruin of us all. Meltwater is, I believe, forty percent of the nickel trade?” “Forty-three according to my very worried economics advisers,” Dotted said nodding. He had lost the vision of Mkali as some mythological beauty, caught halfway between shadows and light. It was like one of those optical illusions Spinny was so obsessed with. He’d blinked once too many times, perhaps, and now he couldn’t see it anymore. Just Mkali doing what she did best, eyes gleaming as she teased some measure of truth out of chaos. Dotted found he could not tell if he missed the vision or not. “A nightmare. Especially for the steelworks in Griffonstan. And if they bloody their nos—beaks there, they’ll seek to make good the lack. If the imbeciles at court win—always a safe bet—they’ll do it by attacking you. You win but at the cost of general mobilization which means the food production drops, which means we can’t import it, which means—,” Mkali cut herself off, waving a hoof, “It never stops at just one place, does it? And even if we get them to agree this time, what’s the point? We’ll be back at this same table before long. This is the fifth time we’ve met over this, after all.” “Sixth.” Mkali made an expressive though difficult to describe gesture indicating something between resigned acceptance and august dismissal. “Sixth then. And there’ll be a seventh time, too. Tenth. Hundredth. On the matter of peace on Epona, Mr. Secretary, I am past cynicism and hurtling towards utter apathy. Sometimes I wonder…” She stopped herself, and made a short twitchy nod, as if shooing a thought away. There was more silence as they both looked at the snow, sneaking the occasional glance to the side, as if to confirm that the other hadn’t left. The snow was picking up now but Dotted found he couldn’t take the same measure of solace in watching it as before. Mkali’s words wouldn’t leave him, nor the sight of her with her flames banked, her eyes oddly cold. She was right. That was the worst of it. How many times had they met like this? And what had they done? If anything the interminable, terrifying, Northern Griffonstan crisis had gotten worse, and all they did was prolong it all. Draw out the inevitable war. He glanced at Mkali and saw that she was looking at the snow with an oddly wistful air. She seemed herself again, and Dotted found himself sneaking a glance more and more often. “They used to think they were songs, you know,” Mkali said suddenly. Dotted started and looked away into the falling snow, feeling as if he had been caught in something. “Sorry?” “The snow. Zebrica is too far south for any significant snowfall,” she said, looking out at the snowflakes with a wistful air, “in the lowlands, at least, but it does happen on the taller peaks, Nyeupe Kilele especially.” Dotted Line stayed silent, but turned to look at Mkali as she spoke. Her eyes were half-closed, eyelashes glinting with snowflakes, but her ears were pricked up, and she was tense as if she was listening intently for something. Voices from within? Some response from him? A fragment of song on the wind? Dotted suddenly felt cold. “The first zebras who lived there believed each snowflake was a fragment of a song,” she said turning to him, “because when you sang your song would stream heavenward. In time, they thought, winds would swirl the songs around the peak of Nyeupe Kilele, and they would freeze the breath in it into jewels that reflected the beauty of the songs. The snowfall was important to them, as their orchards and downlands were irrigated by meltwater, and so every winter they would form up on the slopes, they would look up, and they would sing. Their descendants still do it, in the more remote valleys. I’ve seen it as a student. More than once. I… I never sang with them, though.” She opened her eyes, and fixed Dotted with a look he could not decipher. The sight of her, though, flushed, coat glittering with stray snowflakes, with her misting breath curling around her like a shawl would stay with him, flitting through his mind at the oddest times. “I didn’t think about it for the longest time, but I now live in Equestria and every time I see snow I remember them. I remember the songs, and I have to fight the urge to throw open the windows and sing. To make good the lack. To make up for how timid I was, back then. I was… afraid. Self conscious. I didn’t know the songs, the people. I was afraid of what the mountain might say. Foolishness,” Mkali sighed, “But, ah, an ambassador can’t be seen singing to an empty sky like a madmare, now can she? There would be talk. And I’m older and—in theory—wiser, and we all have our roles to play, don’t we Mr. Secretary?” An unutterable sadness passed over her face, then, like a cloud over the moon. Gone before you noticed it. That sadness, too, stayed with Dotted, even longer. We all have our roles indeed, he thought. We all sit here parroting the right words in the right manner. In the interests of peace. In the interests of diplomacy. In the interest of propriety. Trapped in cages of occasion and circumstance, drowned in so many compromises we can’t even remember why we do this. He sighed. “It must have been quite a sight, Your Excellency,” he said, the quiet brittleness of his voice surprising him, “All those zebras, singing, the sky vast and open above them, the songs, like snow, settling thickly around them. “ “It was.” More sadness. Even quicker, this time, more like a shimmer on the surface of still water, but unmistakably there. Just look at her, Dotted thought. Torn over a song. All that power, that brilliance, that drive, and yet trapped all the same. Over a song! Every night in Canterlot, a thousand ponies—at least!—staggered drunkenly home pausing to serenade the Moon, but not Mkali. Not me. Not us serious ponies, Dotted thought. Ours is to do what must be done and—that’s it. There was a long silence, as they stood, looking sometimes at each other, sometimes through each other, as if looking for something. Dotted found himself lost for words. The wind picked up and howled in the gorges below them. Having stormed up the mountain, it broke over the walls of the palace walls with a sound like a giant’s sigh. The lamps set in their wrought-iron holders shivered at the force of it, and behind Dotted and Mkali their shadows danced in the snow for just a moment. To hell with it, Dotted thought, resolved. We’ve got souls too. Without warning, half surprising even himself, Dotted looked up at the sky and began to sing. His mind reached for a song and the first thing it found was his childhood and misty mornings, standing atop a green hill, looking east. Adoramus te, Sol et benedicimus tibi quia per sanctum cornum tuum illuminavisti mundum. Quae passa privationem es pro nobis Domina, Domina, miserere nobis. Mkali started at first, surprised, then it seemed that the weight of years fell from her shoulders suddenly, and she looked up, too, and sang. Dotted could not understand the words—he did not speak the Nyeupe Kilele dialect—but it did not matter. The song was beautiful. And eyes dancing, coat gleaming with refracted lamplight so was Mkali. She sang with abandon head thrown back, grinning fiercely. Baldly ignoring the rules of harmony, the two songs—a half-forgotten hymn directed at a goddess who did not want it, and an ancient call to a god who could not hear it—meshed together perfectly, all the same. They spiraled up to the heavens, together, and, in due course and according to legend, they made snow. When they were done Mkali turned to him and smiled—and that smile was nothing like the one he’d seen earlier. It was warm and playful, containing equal measures of humor and glee. The sight of her: smiling, cheeks flushed and eyes afire—that never left him. Author's Note Dotted Line's from Whom The Princesses Would Destroy, of course, and ambassador Mkali is from A Canterlot Carol. This story's my first attempt at writing something even vaguely [romance]-like and is the result of being ~~goaded~~ ~~forced~~ ~~made~~ ~~violentl-~~ gently prodded into doing so by the inestimable Masked Ferret (who is made of win) as a challenge of sorts. She's also the piece's first pre-reader though significant, indeed, crucial work, has also been done by Bad Horse, Bookplayer, Bradel, and the Mysterious Nettlefish.
CivicsCivics a politically charged vignette “Elections? You want to know about elections? Well,” Dotted Line gave his audience a long, beady-eyed stare and shrugged, expressively, before continuing, “that isn’t difficult.” He started stomping back and forth while the ensorcelled microphone tried to keep pace, clattering on its tripod in the manner of a fawn first encountering ice. “First, you have to have political parties. Now to get these, you have to take the absolute worst of equianity. The craven, the venal, and the mad. Mostly all three. These genetic defectives, these dregs, these bastards we call politicians. Then, these politicians group up—each according to their own specific kind of madness, criminality, and general wretchedness. Now these groups are like a secretive, recalcitrant mixture between criminal gangs and cults, and you call them political parties. Though, I hasten to add, not the fun kind of party.” Dotted stopped, allowing the microphone to catch up—if it had been enchanted to pant in exhaustion, it would have—and gestured wildly with his hooves. “And these—these venal, cowardly, malign entities are the bearers of the future of Equestria. It’s in their hooves. But! You have to pick which hooves, see. So you get this other group who are, to the last equine, completely ignorant. Couldn’t tell a constitutional amendment from a hole in the ground. Don’t really know which party is which, couldn’t tell you really which one is in power or what it did, and are fuzzy on what, precisely, they’d want one to do in the first place. These, now, these are the voters.” Dotted paused and took a few ragged breaths. He took a sip from a glass of water, looked at it suspiciously, and took another sip. “So! Now you have to start the campaign. In this, what you do is, you line up the PR departments of all these parties and they scream lies at each other. Just lie after lie after lie, at the top of their lungs. This goes on for about six months, by the way. The journalists—a coalition of compulsive scribblers who vary between malignant, misinformed, and misdirected—carefully write all of the lies down and these get delivered to the voters for study in the form of thin sheets of traumatized tree known as newspapers. The voters then, after their best attempt at careful consideration—which is about the length of the average bowel movement—misunderstand half of them, and forget the other half, replacing it with a tissue of fancy, fiction, and… and wild surmise.” Dotted changed the direction of his stomping in mid-stride causing the microphone to trip and catch itself on its own cord. He swept around to suddenly turn to his audience. “And then—THEN we get the elections. Oh yes. In these all the voters—well no, not all of them, just the ones who had nothing better to do that day like washing their mane, trimming their hedges, or staring, unblinking, at paint as it dries—so these, these extra-idle voters show up at their designated voting stations, get a piece of paper, and are given a bit of privacy in a booth to do their voting. Here, behind a curtain, away from prying eyes, they pick one of the parties they know nothing about to do something they can’t conceive of, for reasons utterly opaque to the rest of equianity and not entirely clear even to themselves. Rumor has it that cosmic rays, phases of the moon, and weather forecasts for continents long since sunk all play a vital part in this mad, deranged process we call democracy. They then take this piece of paper, and put it in a box. Once the day is over, all these pieces of paper are tallied up and counted and tabulated, and we get to know the results, which is to say which group of gormless malicious idiots will attempt to ruin Equestria next. By the morning each paper declares the result a disaster and hires, presumably, escaped mental patients to explain how such a disastrous and unprecedented result came about. These rants, raves, ramblings, and attempts at prophecy then become gospel truth in political circles for the next four years when the WHOLE BLOODY THING STARTS OVER AGAIN.” Dotted’s gray telekinesis aura picked up the glass, held it as it trembled gently, and then downed it in one go. He grabbed the microphone which couldn’t dodge aside fast enough, and grasped it as if it was a substitute for a neck he wasn’t allowed to wring. “Your options,” he said, with bleak intensity, “are these. You can be in one of those parties and lie. You can be a voter, and be lied to. Or you can be a civil servant and spend your life cleaning up after things like this. None of these options offer so much as a shred of dignity or sanity. We are, all of us, utterly doomed. Any questions?” The foals in the audience burst into tears. Behind them, the teacher quietly buried her face in her hooves. “So we’re scrapping the Civil Service Community Outreach program, then,” asked Balanced Ledger, adjusting her glasses. “Oh yes. Schools won’t play ball anymore,” said Spinning Top, serenely. “Completely scuppered. On reflection, perhaps we shouldn’t have sent Dotted just after an election. What a shame,” she finished, primly. “Shame,” asked Ledger, “Didn’t you hate the idea?” She blinked at Spinning with the same perplexed expression she used for particularly recalcitrant differential equations. “Dearest Ledger,” said Spinning Top with the sincerity only available to born liars, “I am sure I have no idea what you mean.” Author's Note Note that this is not the story I promised. That's being written. Up to about 1000 words so far. This is a completely different story I wrote in July and then utterly forgot. Um. Sorry. Much thanks for Bookplayer & Bradel for pre-reading and Ferret & Oliver for providing motivation and encouragement.
The Other PrincessThe Other Princess Princess Celestia looked up from her notes—another briefing on the theft of state secrets employing what she considered criminally excessive exclamation marks—and nodded to a guard. “Manny, would you please ask Mr. Line to see me at his earliest convenience?” The guard who was named Flanking Maneuver by parents who really should have known better and who, thus, preferred to be known as ‘Manny,’ snapped off a sharp bow—more of a militant nod, really—wrenched open the door to the royal study, and bounced off Dotted Line who was standing on the threshold with one hoof raised. “I was just about to knock, Your Majesty,” said Dotted, bowing, “You wanted to see me?” Celestia merely nodded and motioned him in with her hoof. She had long since[1] given up on trying to understand how her Cabinet Secretaries—the newest one in particular—worked. [1] Specifically ‘round about 311 when she got up in the middle of the night—several pots of coffee were involved as was, possibly, a certain amount of alcohol—and summoned Lady Sharp Quill. As she waited, excited to have finally defeated the uncanny and possibly preternatural abilities of her civil service staff, she heard a polite cough from her left and a whispered, “Oh, I do say, Your Majesty, this is exciting. Who are we waiting for?” “Mr. Secretary! So fortunate you happened to be, ah, passing by,” she said, “I wanted to discuss a matter relating to my sister.” Saying ‘my sister’ still felt sweet on the tongue, even months later. “Your Majesty,” Dotted said noncommittally—but she could see him tense up. Privately she suspected that no laboratory in the world had the chemical sophistication to synthesize something that would relax Dotted Line; still, there were ways. “Ah, before we begin, cup of tea, Mr. Secretary?” Of course he said yes. Let Lord Trottingham say what he wanted—empirically quite a lot, it turns out—she ruled with—at worst—a golden hoof. “Her recovery is progressing well—quite well, and while her—what was the term the Service adopted in the end?” “Amateur astronomy, Your Majesty.” “For controlling the Moon?” “It has to do with tax brackets, Your Majesty.” “I see. Well, her amateur astronomy work is progressing well, but she has always helped me with governance before—ah—in the past. Helped tremendously, in fact. And she has expressed a desire to help again, but as you may imagine a thousand years is quite a lot of time,” she said, taking a sip of tea to cover for her shudder. A very long time. “She may need help,” she continued, “and I cannot possibly provide it—my presence would detract from hers, I fear. I understand this may conflict with your other duties and I would never dream of ordering it, but would you consider helping her all the same? There is nopony else I could trust with the matter.” Sometimes asking was as bad as ordering but—she hadn’t lied. That was some comfort. Of course he said yes. Luna had moved into a tower previously used for storage. For nearly a thousand years everypony assumed that a mirror image of the Princess’ own quarters was built in the palace as part of the free-wheeling, happy-go-lucky approach to such frivolities as ‘planning’ or ‘making sense’ during its construction that famously gave the building such character[2]. Well. Everypony knew better now. Dotted skulked through what was increasingly being known as ‘The Cynthian Tower’ feeling his steps shorten as he reached the top. [2] Not to mention plumbing not connected to anything in particular, indoor balconies, and at least one migrating room. Part of it was that he really should listen to Goldie when she went on about exercise and diet. Another part—a big one—was that his hooves were full already, what with the theft of the fleet disposition documents. He had a lot to hide and a lot of ponies to hide it from and it didn’t help that the princess—Princess Celestia, that is—didn’t like lying to her ponies. Or trapping them. And we were all blessed that she was such, a treasure to be sure, but how she imagined a security service might be run without a few secrets was—but that wasn’t the reason he was dragging his feet. Not really. In truth it was because he did not relish this task. Oh, he’d bite his own tongue off rather than say it, but… How on Epona was he supposed to instruct royalty? Divinity? And the other princess—and he couldn’t think of her as anything else—was… she was like this tower. Familiar and yet, somehow, not. Shortening though they might have been, his steps eventually brought him to the door of the Princess of the Night. The guard was wearing purple-and-silver sure enough but underneath that Dotted was glad to recognize a familiar face. “Doleful! Long time no see! How’s the new post?” Doleful Shade, being a guardspony, remained motionless, yet managed to indicate with the particular nature of the motionlessness that, all things considered, it was all going quite well, really, and the the missus enjoyed the raise the promotion brought which meant she could take a few less shifts. “Well, that’s certainly good to hear. Look, you are a batpony with his head on straight, what do you think of…” Here Dotted, who, unlike veteran guardsponies, wasn’t an expert in immobile communication, jerked his head towards the door. Doleful indicated with particularly stiff immobility that, being sworn to the new princess’ service it really couldn’t be his place to comment, but on a personal note, he himself had nothing to complain about. “Your discretion does you credit, “ said Dotted, nodding. “Well, can’t stay here gabbing, can I? Do give my best to the family.” With that he rapped his hoof on the door gently, expecting Doleful’s partner—Sinister Spectre, likely as not—to open it and announce him when the door suddenly shot open and he found himself muzzle-to-muzzle with a wild-eyed Luna. He skittered a few steps back in shock and nearly went over backwards. “How dost thou do that,” she asked, speaking just quietly enough that Dotted largely retained his hearing. “...I… you… what?” “We just spake of thee but a moment ago to Guardsmare Sinister! My sister oft speaks of this habit of thine.” “Ah, sorry Your Majesty. It just happens, I’m afraid,” he replied. Not that you didn’t learn to pay special attention to odd impulses to go and see what the Princess is up to in the middle of the night, of course. And it did help a reputation for efficiency. Luna remained staring at him for a long moment and then swept back into her study suddenly and then, once she had reached the center, snapped back to face him, and said “Pray, enter, My Lord Line. And forgive u—me my manners. My sister hath a penchant for jest, and I thought the talk of your manner of entrances & exeunts was one of them.” Dotted entered with a certain amount of care, putting one hoof ahead of another as if he expected the floor to be broken glass. The other princess was… different. Celestia glided. Fast or slow, there was a certainty and sedate pace to her movements. Luna darted, hardly seeming to bother with the intervening space, and there was a harsh suddenness to her movements that made him wary. She wasn’t Celestia. The room was still largely bare: papers in piles, books open on all available surfaces with other books used to mark places. A gleaming walnut desk. A few scattered chairs, and cushions. And, on one wall, a threadbare tapestry that Dotted could swear he had seen in the Equestrian National Gallery. “It’s, uh, perfectly alright, Your Majesty,” said Dotted bowing belatedly, “I understand you wish to take a part in the running of Equestria?” “Indeed,” said Luna, giving a very vigorous nod, “such was ou—mine role before my banishment, and I am eager to return to it as soon as I am suffered to do so.” “Well, Your Majesty, the requisite legal details have all been resolved. Your rights and prerogatives broadly match that of your sister with seniority according to the time of day based on the Lex Sororum.” Luna’s face lit up. “Ah! Disputationes legum Equine locutae tamen sunt?” Dotted’s mouth worked soundlessly for a minute or so before he answered, offering a silent internal prayer of thanks for having known and put up with Spinny for as long as he had done. “Ah, no, Your Majesty, we no longer use Classical Equestrian—Equine, I mean—except for a few terms here and there, I fear. I just used the classical name because, ah, the law was long obsolete before we revived it with your return.” A shadow passed over Luna’s face. “Ah. Of course. Apologies, We just thought… well it was ancient even before… Right. Does the Night Court still exist?” “Oh, yes, Your Majesty, in fact, I thought that meeting a few of the Royal Council and holding a session might just be the—” Dotted stopped when he realized that Luna was no longer in front of him. He turned bewildered to find an impassive Sinister Spectre by the door and a disturbing lack of royalty. He was about to declare a security of the realm emergency when a booming voice, echoing through the entire length of the tower, nearly knocked him off his hooves. “Come, My Lord Line! The Council awaits!” It was considerably later and the moon was peeking through the stained glass and giltwork of the Cynthian Hall. Dotted took another—in theory calming—sip of tea. He sniffed the thermos. Unfortunately, much like the last five times he checked, there still wasn’t any alcohol in it. The fleet disposition papers were an uncomfortable bulge in his saddlebags and he could not prevent a small stab of annoyance that he could not work on them now. But if Princess Celestia was as… old fashioned and overkind as she was, her sister would surely be worse. He suppressed a twinge of irritation. Princess Luna couldn’t help being a thousand years out of date, not the mention help being— "So, my Lord Line, how did W—I do," Luna asked, with an expression so earnest it was actually painful to behold. "Well, Your Majesty, it was a... a noble effort. Very, uh, very earnest. A few minor quibbles if I may. Firstly, we no longer draw and quarter ponies. Haven't for nine hundred and some odd years. Secondly, you can't order ponies executed. Equestria hasn't had capital punishment since the reform act of 514, and even if it were reinstated—which given the positions of the Crown Loyalists and the Front Pegasus is actually probably possible—you'd need due process. Thirdly, the usual mode of address for members of the Royal Council is 'my lord' or 'my lady' not 'brief mortals.' Fourthly, we can't declare war on Stalliongrad, it's been a part of Equestria since 344, and fifthly the person you kept addressing as "Lord Privy Seal" is the stenographer. We haven't had a Lord Privy Seal since 889. Sixtly, while I happen to know that it is true that Lord Trottingham’s in dire financial straits and that the Duke of Whitetail is involved with… who you said, those were rather meant to be secrets, and chastising them for not hiding them better—even though it was a rather excellent lecture on OPSEC, Your Majesty—doesn’t really help. But aside from those, ah, trifling matters, it went well, I think." Luna's hopeful expression didn't so much disappear as drain from her face. "Oh," she said in a very small voice. "But those issues should be very simple to resolve, Your Majesty. You were very... regal. Very commanding. Though... on that score..." "Yes, My Lord Line?" Dotted winced, not for the first time that night. It was bad enough when ponies called him that today but when she last walked Equestria the titles meant something and according to Dotted and any Northisler born in the last thousand years, what they meant was nothing good. "The... uh, the Royal Canterlot Voice. Is it necessary?" "My sister hath said that it is not for informal gatherings and I have heeded her words with great care, but the Night Court was a formal affair, was it not?" "Yes. Yes. Um. Yes. Agreed. It's just that... with the volume being what it is I think I will have to fill out paperwork to reclassify the Cynthian Hall as a... uh.... as an industrial zone, you see, due to the noise. As per Occupational Health & Safety regulations, codicil six, paragraph 35d, amended 995. Which—uh, which may mean everyone will have to wear hearing protection, eye protection, and hard-hats. And that... well it, it might clash with your regalia for one. Also painting the Lunar Throne in safety orange would probably count as vandalism or treason or polyphiloprogeny or something." Luna had looked crestfallen before, but now looked entirely devastated. Dotted's heart broke a little at the sight of her and he stuttered into silence. She tried. She really, really did. It was hard to see when she strutted and shouted and declaimed thunderously but now as she sat crestfallen, the throne seemingly made for a much larger mare, he could see it all too well. She could never be Celestia so she tried for… what? The Great And Terrible Princess of Darkness (but on your side, honest)? A lifetime—a long lifetime—of not fitting in, ever, and of forever falling short of whatever it was that was expected. It sounded like misery. It sounded familiar. They sat together in the cold echoing chamber for a span of eighty heartbeats studiously looking away when Luna said, quietly. "What is polyphiloprogeny?" "No idea. It's mentioned in a bill from 324 as being strictly forbidden in Equestria on pain of summary phythoplasty, but nopony can find what ‘polyphiloprogeny’ actually is. Or was. The law is still on the books since we can't repeal it because we can't debate it because we don't know what it says." Luna laughed. Her sister's laugh seemed unearthly and brought to mind such things as babbling brooks, or the tinkling of silver bells. Luna's was an echoing belly laugh, and Dotted could swear he heard a trace of a snort as she slapped a silver-shod hoof on the conference table. Hearing it, he found he could smile again. “It is pleasing to hear,” said Luna, at length, “that the present hath as much difficulties with the past as I do with the present. It’s a hopeful thing, methinks. I have much to learn, My Lord Line, but… surely there’s aught I can do?” Dotted took a speculative sip of tea. “Well, Your Majesty, there is always the, ah, informal side of being a diarch of Equestria. Any salon in Canterlot would, of course, welcome you. Your sister tries to attend a few and use the opportunity to mix with the higher echelons of society, provide a gentle steer, as it were, but there’s hardly ever time. And, well, classical culture is always respected and I’m, uh, sure that your, ah, knowledge of Shakespony, say, will allow for a certain flair—” Luna laughed again. Dotted found he could really get used to the sound. “Shakespony! That old rascal! Classical culture! Oh, My Lord Line, my sister hath not said that you had such a flair for jesting! I must commend ye, ‘twas excellently said.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “My Lord Line? You are jesting, are you not?” “Uh, no, Shakespony is, in fact, considered rather the apex of classical culture.” Luna goggled at him. “Thou canst not be serious,” she hissed. “Puns and profanity! The vulgar and the venal! Amusing to be sure but… this, to ye all, is high culture?” “For everypony. Um. Sorry, Your Majesty.” Luna facehoofed. “O tempora, o mores,” she muttered, dejectedly. “We... I did not do well in there, My Lord Line.” Dotted’s smile turned very brittle. It was considerably worse than that. He glanced around the street but there was nopony to overhear. The courier who waited outside to give him the crucial scouting report was already turning a corner at the far end of the street and the guests of the little soiree they had crashed didn’t leave as much as they had fled. “Oh, Your Majesty, I’m sure there was friction and, ah, misunderstanding in there but—” “And it is normal in this time,” Luna said, bitterly, “for guests to leave these salons in tears, is it?” “Well… not as such, Your Majesty. You may have been a touch… harsh with Lady Baltimare wh—” “The things she said! About Lady Sparkle no less! About my sister. It is them two I owe my liberty, My Lord Line! I will not hear them slandered,” Luna said, finishing with a hoof-stomp which, Dotted noted in a distant sort of way, pulverized a considerable amount of the flagstone Luna was standing on. A small, irrepressible part of him made several notes and slid them into folders marked ‘road repair,’ and ‘palace finance, misc. monies, royal snit sub-account.’ “Your Majesty,” Dotted began in his most conciliatory tone, “While harsh, ‘pigeon-liver’d froward and unable worm’ was perfectly understandable. And, really, so was ‘poisonous bunch-backed toad.’ The charge laid that Lady Baltimare has in her, ah, ‘no more good faith in her than a stewed prune’ is, based on my data, quite correct—well, uh, spotted. Comparing her to an, uh, easy glove that goes off or on at pleasure was a bit… extreme, but I, uh, certainly see you were quite upset at this point, and again, none can fault you as far as correctness is concerned. I cannot imagine how you managed to ascertain when, with whom, and how but it was quite impressive, though given the reaction it would have perhaps been better if you were, ah, less perceptive. But, uhm… the, ah, duel, Your Majesty?” “What of it?” “They are illegal for a start.” “Balderdash,” said Luna, seething, “they were illegal afore, as well. And give me not moralizing, Lord Line, we weren’t going to hurt her, just prove a point. And she’s a noble, is she not? It’s not like she is unaccustomed to the sight of a bit of blood?” Luna took one look at Dotted’s face and all the fury drained out of her in an instant. “My Lord Line?” “Titles of nobility have nothing to do with military service, Your Majesty. Not anymore. I doubt Lady Baltimare has ever wielded anything more lethal than a salad fork.” “We challenged to a duel—” Luna caught herself short. She seemed to sag and shrink until Dotted could not help the feeling that, short as he was, he was looking down at her suddenly frightened face. She seemed… lost. A foal, far, far from home. She looked away. “Oh, My Lord Line… what a wretched muddle I’ve made. I do not belong here. Not anymore.” “Your Majesty! That’s not true, there’s just a—” Dotted’s assurance died on his lips as he saw Luna’s face. She looked at him for a moment, then up for a second, and sighed. “One cannot even see the stars anymore. My little ponies stay up all night now, I find, and burn lanterns ‘till the sunrise, but they are not mine anymore, are they? Not my little ponies. I do not know them. What are they to me and I to them? Strangers. I might have as well gone to search for a home among the Griffins or the Qilin.” They stood silent in the street for a long while, Luna inspecting the sky like somepony looking for an old friend in a crowd, and Dotted staring at his own hooves, unsure what to say. The cry of a night-watchmare broke the silence. “How did you know,” said Dotted, suddenly. “Pardon,” Luna replied looking, with wide a curious eyes, a bit more like herself for just an instant. “About Lady Baltimare? Or the Duke of Whitetail? Or… any of it?” Luna looked puzzled, she stepped back a few feet, and fluffed her wings. “Wasn’t it obvious?” “Not to most ponies, Your Majesty.” “Well, ponies told me, My Lord Line.” “Oh? Which ones?” “I could not venture as to their names, but the diverse guests of this salon we just visited were discussing all manner of things. One only needed to listen.” Dotted blinked. “You can follow a dozen separate conversations in crowded room,” he asked, disbelief coloring his voice. “Oh, it is quite a simple thing, My Lord Line. One only need know how to note things properly according to their natures.” “And the Duke of Whitetail? Lord Trottingham?” “Some in their words. Some in their silences. The rest in how they moved and stood still. It is still noting things and naught more.” “You notice a lot of things, Your Majesty,” said Dotted still not quite able to make himself believe. “A few. A few. Much like I noted the envelope that pony gaveth unto ye just now—to choose an example by chance, of course,” said Luna the gleam in her eyes almost eclipsing her dejection. “Oh,” said Dotted, suddenly going very, very still, “that. Hah. Well spotted, Your Majesty. Well spotted. Well, you know how it can be. The business of government never stops, after all.” Luna fixed Dotted with a long, long look, and smiled, thinly. She still looked withdrawn and somehow grey and the smile did not seem to fit on her muzzle. “So my sister saye—says,” Luna said blandly. Dotted resisted looking back at the saddlebags where the envelope was and instead smiled. “The night’s still young—middle-aged at worst. Perhaps given your skill at noting things you might like to see how the actual business of government is conducted?” The Office of Unified Intelligence was dark, cold, and empty. This was a surprise. “Where is everypony,” Dotted asked, shocked, “it’s a security crisis, I’d have expected ponies to be in here at it hammer and tongs. Why, most days we have to kick them—ah. Damn.” “My Lord Line,” asked Luna, quietly. She was a bit better than on the street but her mien was… subdued. She even spoke softly and Dotted found that hit him the hardest. A voice like hers was made for exuberance or, at the very least, for shouting. Whispers ill-suited it. “Well… we’ve issues with ponies working at all hours and so to promote—ah, what’s the phrase—work-life balance we have started ejecting people after work hours are done. And I, uh, wasn’t here to rescind the order.” “So?” “So, around six a bunch of rather burly guardsponies came in and carted my intelligence analysts away.” “Ah.” Dotted’s horn lit up and the lanterns embedded in the ceiling flickered with a greenish flame that was efficient, safe, cold, and—whatever the experts might say—guaranteed to drive you insane with its subtle flicker within an hour. Then again, in the Service, who’d notice? The office was designed without anything resembling a central plan. It was windowless and managed to seem poky despite being large enough to play hoofball in. The center was a pile of untidily piled-together desks covered in paper and the walls were covered in cork-board and thousands upon thousands of newspaper clippings, notes, photographs, sketches, and what at first blush appeared to be at least one shrunken head[3]. [3] The Tsantsa people of central Yakistan write exclusively in knots braided in the hair of shrunken heads of defeated foes. Of course, once double-entry bookkeeping reached the Tsantsa the supply of foes declined precipitously, and so this was merely an imitation fashioned out of cord and rough canvas. These days the Tsantsa generally save the actual heads for important things like high-end business cards. “Well,” said Dotted, keeping a close eye on Luna, “here we are. Please feel free to look around and I’ll, make a nice cup of tea.” “Thank you, My Lord Line.” Dotted retreated a ways and started fiddling with an emergency tea kit he hid in a cubbyhole in which—annoyingly—somepony had also hidden a crossbow, a bag of bits, and a stack of passports. Spies! Really! Dotted leafed through the passports while he waited for the water to boil and then, as the kettle began to sing, he dumped the whole lot on the floor unceremoniously. He’d have to have a talk with this Lshtshfum Asc’f, whoever he was, about finding better hiding places for his emergency bag. As he waited for the tea to seep he kept an eye on Luna. She was shuffling past the desks seemingly not paying anything much attention. Then again, she didn’t seem like she was listening to a dozen different conversations earlier either and yet… If she could do this sort of thing at will she might truly be an enormous help in government. Not just feeling useful but— “This is quite fascinating,” mumbled Luna who had, despite her ambling pace, somehow managed to move out of his line of sight, “I mean obviously, you know it’s this pony named State Secret doing this, yes?” Dotted dropped his teacup. “What?!” “Quite, quite obvious. The payment from Second-and-a-Half Canterlot Mercantile Bank, sayeth here, is exactly the equal of the payment by this Sifter person for the hardwood floor to a shop one of your ponies hath marked as not actually existing, and Sifter doesn’t exist either because he livet...lives at 137 Harmony Avenue, which that map over there says only has 120 numbers in it. Hidden payment. State Secret. It must be.” “I… how did you… I mean you just glanced at—” “But the question is how a junior courier gets access to… oh. You gave him the secrets.” Dotted dropped the teapot as well. He turned, slowly, to see Luna considerably closer than he expected glaring at him. He suddenly remembered a powdered flagstone and just how hard that would be to replace and yet how easy compared to other things that might also be reduced to powder. “I… how did… you—,” he fell silent as he was not roughly but irresistibly lifted off his hooves by a dark blue aura. Luna kept glaring at him and then blinked, slowly, and looked carefully around the room for a long moment while Dotted contemplated calling for help. “They… are not real secrets. This note,” she said pointing at a piece of paper next to the fireplace where Dotted could swear she never even looked, “says it’s about fleet disposition of… whatever a ‘submarine’ is and how they are in the Coldwater Strait but this map,” she continued, almost dancing with excitement and pointing at a half rolled-up map on a table next to them, “shows the disposition from the same day it was supposed to have been stolen and shows entirely the wrong layout. Nothing near Coldwater!” She beamed and swung Dotted around as if he was an—immobile and slightly terrified—dancing partner and then, remembering herself, she put him down very, very gently. “Thou gavest him false secrets,” she declared proudly to Dotted and, given the volume, to most of Canterlot’s population. Dotted fought an urge to shush her, despite his forebrain signaling frantically that this would likely not be survivable. He took a few deep breaths and marshalled his thoughts. “Yes. I was sure there was a leak of less important sensitive information and I gave different reports to three of our newer recruits and tasked a few personal friends in Sky Reconnaissance to keep an eye on the locations I mentioned. The moment I heard that a Griffin Q-ship was spotted in the straits I knew who my culprit was. How on Epona did you know?,” Dotted asked, stopping himself to add, “Your Majesty.” Luna grinned. "The world hath changed, My Lord Line, changed well past my ability to grasp, at least for now. But this, My Lord! This I understand. This is the same, as it ever was. Betrayal and deception. Trickery and illusion. These are mine now and were mine in the past. Oh, I may not know what a submarine is—” “It’s a ship that travels underwater, Your Majesty.” “Truly?” “Yes.” “Can a visit on such a device be arranged?” “For a princess of the realm? Certainly.” Luna managed to find a way to grin wider. “Excellent. Perhaps this future isn’t as bad as I feared. Well. I may or may not know about submarines, but ponies lie about them exactly as they did when the world was young. Nihil novi sub luna,” she added with what Dotted could swear was a wink, “This will do for now. Oh, yes. I will be useful. Hah! Spycraft! The oldest profession!" There was a pause, and Luna blushed. "Ah, second oldest, I should say." There was another, longer pause, and she added, thoughtfully, "Well. Third, actually." Dotted raised a questioning eyebrow. "Flint-knapper, Mr. Line. Trust me. I was there," she said and then laughed, eyes sparkling. Coda: “Mr. Secretary, I know I must be taking you away from important duties but I simply must ask, did you employ my sister as the president of the Office of Unified Intelligence?” Princess Celestia spared a quick look at Luna who radiated innocence. “Oh, no, heavens forefend, Your Majesty. I could never legally do such a thing. No, no, I hired L, an entirely mysterious mare whom none of us at OUI know much about as the president. She’s a completely different person than your sister. Wears a little domino mask and everything.” Celestia turned to face her sister who redoubled her look of cherubic innocence. “Luna?” “I myself know little about this ‘L’ though by report she is absolutely brilliant at spycraft and subterfuge. And quite handsome, too, I’m given to understand,” she said, retaining a straight face throughout. Princess Celestia briefly massaged the base of her horn. “I see. Is the highly mysterious L close to catching the thief of those documents, then?” Luna made an expansive gesture with a silver-shod hoof. “Well! Who among us can possibly know the mind of a mistress of spycraft of such eminence, but I suspect that she can easily get her hooves on whoever it is that has caused the leak. Wouldn’t you agree, My Lord Line?” Dotted didn’t even blink. He was a professional. “Quite easily I am sure, Your Majesty. I think he wouldn’t know what hit him.” “Indeed,” Luna chimed in, “Or her, of course.” “Of course,” Dotted concurred. They both looked at Celestia with eyes soaked in innocence and entirely free of guile. It was a pretty disturbing sight. “Well. I’m sure we all wish L, then, all the best in this difficult time.” As Dotted Line and Luna stood to leave—Luna to bed, and Dotted to—it was Monday, wasn’t it?—terrify the cabinet—Princess Celestia motioned to Dotted. “Mr. Secretary, would you please stay for just a moment more?” Dotted paused on the threshold and then returned back to Celestia’s desk. “Yes, Your Majesty?” Celestia waited for a moment to be sure her sister was out of earshot and, bending her head closer to Dotted’s, whispered. “Thank you.” Dotted smiled. “Always, Your Majesty. Though… if I could ask for your aid over a trifling matter?” “Certainly, Mr. Secretary. As ever, you need but ask.” “Could you please make your sister stop calling me ‘My Lord Line?’” Yep, Dotted thought. Definitely like silver bells. Or a babbling brook. Author's Note Written as a part of FanOfMostEverything's excellent Imposing Sovereigns contest. By all means check out ~~those fools who will pay they will all pay~~ my excellent competition. I also find myself in the position of Mark Twain (without the writing talent thought, darn) of having to explain that my characters aren't trying to talk alike and failing. Luna's grammar is all over the place in this story but that's because she's trying to adapt to the modern idiom and, depending on her mental state, failing more or less. Infinite thanks to Bad Horse, Bookplayer, The Amazing & Most Excellent Ferret[1], and MrNumbers for vital pre-reading help. [1] Might not be her actual username[2]. [2] I'll have footnotes in my author's notes if I want to.
