The Chronicle of Equestria: Miseriae

Author's Forward:

For those of you who did not read the last chapter, Pinkie Pie repeated the events of Cupcakes with the exception that Michael didn't die and opened "the fourth black seal" and he escaped, after effectively going evil super-saiyan and terrorizing Pinkie. He then lamented again

As I finished lamenting, I did only what came natural to one who has dwelt in the Spirits’ realm.  I grasped my robes and rent them. I made many tears in my clothing. Then I grasped the dust from the ground and heaped it onto my head. I cursed as I remembered that Pinkie had cut my hair short, which had previously dropped as low as the back of my abdomen. Now, though a little had regrown, as far as I was concerned, I was bald.

The sun rose and I returned to my labor with many scars showing. I had made sure also that my back was not showing. It would be a while before my wings regrew. Although Applejack asked about my condition, I gave no answer. I spoke nothing of what had transpired. I only went on with my work in a sober mood.

The sound of sawing through wood gave me no comfort either throughout the day. While I may boast that I am hardened against pain, it is not so easy to ignore. In addition to the nostalgic sound of steel cutting through something, my entire body ached with pain from opening the fourth black seal the last night. Although it was not as bad as it could have been, it was difficult to handle. Everything was harder than usual. The day seemed so much longer than it was. The dark sun refused to set even though the days were becoming shorter. Yet all things must come to an end so it finally did.

Returning home, oblivious to my weariness, I quickly ate my meager dinner and started for the door. Applejack stopped me.

“Michael, you seem kinda down today. Somethin’ the matter?”

I turned to her and put on a fake smile and responded with mock happiness. “I have only realized that the world was not what I thought it was.”

My dirty appearance and tired eyes though, did not help with my disability to mask my emotion and she easily saw through my façade. “Come on I know somethin’s bothering ya. It’s not good fer ya to not talk about yer problems.”

I sighed. I could not just walk out but I also could not speak about the discovery I had made. “Miss Applejack, what would you do if you had a friend that you thought highly of, but you just found out that they were not so good of a person?”

She pondered for a moment and replied, “Well, I suppose I’d just have to treat ‘em the same anyway. We all have problems with us, but it’s those problems that make us ponies.”

I had anticipated this response. I had heard it many times before and it did not help me at all. But this was not something for which I could receive help. I just needed to make her believe everything was better. So I did my best to make it seem like I had just had an epiphany and said, “That makes a deal of sense. Thank you for your help in this matter.” She seemed satisfied with this and permitted me to leave as I did every other night.

I walked towards Ponyville and instantly my head drooped and my face relaxed to a frown. I thought about how Applejack felt about life as it was and again it occurred to me that she was content enough as she was unaware of the lowliness of her quality of life. I began to think of all the tears I had shed for her kind. “Ignorance is bliss,” I thought. I wondered what they would feel like if they saw the gluttony that was in Canterlot and how juxtaposed their city was compared to it. “Oh well, that is a tangent of thought for another day.” I came again to my stomping grounds.

And again I put dirt onto my head, and rolled around in the dust. I groveled in self-pity and lay there for a while. Then I heard footsteps. I quickly jumped to my feet, and said before identifying who it was, “I thought this place was a secret. It was difficult enough to find among the trees.”

Yet I realized only after I had spoken these words that I was looking at the angel of Passion. Before I could speak any further, he offered me the courtesy of a response, “Unlike you archangels, the gods’ power has not been sealed and restricted so heavily. I am free even with the burden of a fleshly body to traverse this realm with ease by using the pathway of the fifth dimension.”

I did not speak further, but eagerly awaited his words. He continued. “I am aware that you are mourning, and do not wish to interrupt your sober mood, but I have a message for you. Do not enter the house of the killer tonight. Rather, enter further into the city and walk on until either the sun rises or you are stopped. Do not worry about your promise to her. I have already made it clear that you will not come and she has pardoned your absence. Neither worry about her continuance in her dark deeds. I will relieve you of your duty and watch her. As you must have realized by now, her ailment is not of the flesh, but of the soul. Therefore, I see that it is unfitting for you to try to prevent her in your current state; trying to fight a demon-possessed person is rarely so different from fighting a demon himself.

“Also,” he motioned to Kadosh, my white sword, at his side. “You will most likely not be able to hold this sword for a while. I will hold onto it until it can be returned to you.”

I inquired of him further. “Do you happen to know also of what has become of Fraternitas or Uranus?” I was referring to my two other swords that were confiscated when I was imprisoned.

Passion responded immediately. “Uranus is in another treasure room like the one that I was in. Similarly, the guards are trying to extract Christina [the goddess of Peace]; however, she is not feeling so outgoing the time. It was amusing to watch them try.

“It seems also that Fraternitas is in the hands of the sun-goddess. Skuld has found that she does not even have to waste her time in the empyreal world when she could just sit in Heaven and remotely control the queen of this world by her link with it.” Skuld was one of the three people who had established a link to me through the sword and made the issue of distance between them and me nonexistent. Her attachment to the Fraternitas, however, was not as intimate as the other two and I had. The other two, my brother and sister by blood, had placed a part of their essence into it.

This was good to hear. I felt very insecure without those weapons at my side that had been with me for aeons. So to know of their location was at the least comforting. I spoke to Passion in the language of Heaven; a nice change from the restricting language of Equestria. Our words are bit difficult to translate, but I will do my best.

“A thousand thank you’s my good friend. Your words are comforting. But tell me, why have you chosen to restrict yourself to this realm when you could easily traverse the other eight?”

He answered with a question. “Why have you not given up on this world?”

“Does it appear that I have not? My clothes are torn and ashes are on my head.”

“You could have left long ago. You and I are the only angels that stay in this dark realm (except for Peace. But as usual, she will not be of much help). Even when you were imprisoned, here you are now still. I think that there is a cause is worth fighting for.”

“It seems like a lost cause though. Hope is nowhere to be found.”

“You are right. Estelwen [the goddess of Hope] is not here. She lazily reclines within your daughter’s sword; not caring for the suffering of these people. All of Heaven has seen Equestria and said that the Fates have abandoned it as well, but I think that this is all the more reason to fight.

“Only the lost causes are the ones worth fighting for. Only when all the world is covered in darkness and the minions of the Dark One call themselves the princes and princesses of it and the Keres overpopulate it, is it time to take up arms. You are not alone. For too long I have seen the oppression that is taking place under the sun, which enshrouds the world in night. I think that it is time to bring the respite of the moon to this world and let its inhabitants see the light of day.”

I spoke. “How do you expect us to do this?”

His answer was so characteristic of him. Passion answered, “Let us wait. Let us bide our time. Let them bring down oppression on us all the more. Let us await for the right time.”

And with a loud voice he broke into song. The tune was swift and inspiring.

“The night is nearly over.

the day is almost here.

Let us then put off any weakness

that may yet linger in our hearts.

No man, no god

Neither demon or angel, spirit or immortal—

no one can make us bow our knee until our end.

But we chose to do so freely.

The Fates have chosen the choicest elite

To stand guard before they call for the attack.

Let us then call upon Rika [the spirit of Endurance]

And stand firm like trees planted in water.

Like the phoenix who rises from the ashes,

or the hydra that loses a head,

we will soon stand up and return their blows;

crushing our enemies beneath our feet.”

He said this and then turned to leave and be about his business. On the way out of the clearing, he calling without looking back, “Expect a change of profession soon. Your talents are wasted on wood-cutting.” He disappeared through the trees. Passion had gone against custom and conversed with me. It is common knowledge to those who dwell in Heaven that anyone that walks about with torn, dust-covered robes wishes to be alone. Courtesy then dictates that people abide by this custom. Therefore, his words were of great importance.

But no sooner did he leave then did Charlotte’s influence return. Passion had provided a brief moment of relief, but he was gone now. He had spoken of the stoic life by which joy can be found. Yet if no one other than me knew the secret then it was meaningless. I cared little for my own state of happiness. I saw an entire world of suffering people before me. I was not so selfish as to think I could be joyful amidst this. I had a long night ahead of me. My mood slowly slackened from inspired to depressed again.

I was still in the realm of darkness and I was still in mourning for the tragic revelation that I had witnessed. The world was ruled by a tyrant that boasted control over the sun (and the moon). I lived in this world and was forced to labor in it. Nor did my labor have any value. Anything produced from my hard work was taken from me.

The walks through the streets of Ponyville in the cover of night were at least something to do other than sleep away my existence, but they did not provide any sense of achievement. There was only the dull pang of depression coupled with the bane of boredom. The streets were light now enough to see. The light from the houses had dimmed and the grey color of pretty much every building on the block did nothing to help the mood. Each one was exactly the same as the last.

I did not know to where I walked either. I was told to walk until I was stopped or the sun rose. That is what made me feel a bit uneasy. Before when I had walked, I had nothing in mind, no objective, and no clear destination. I was just walking for walking’s sake. Yet now I was on guard for something to happen. It was unnerving to have to look for something.

Additionally, I could not help but feel out of place as I walked. By-passers sniggered and pointed. (I suppose that even the enslaved have standards.) Ponies looked from inside their houses to see my shameful attire. I was rudely reminded that I was in a foreign land with alien customs. Here my dirty apparel did little more than make me stand out rather than cause bystanders to ignore me. “Oh well,” I thought. I was a traditional person so even if my exterior meant nothing to everyone I would not clean myself. I ignored them.

As I walked through a part of the city that I had never seen before, I passed past a shop whose color contrasted heavily with the dullness of the rest of the city. It reminded me a bit of Sugarcube Corner. The name “Carousel Boutique” was engraved into a sign above its threshold. I quickened my pace ever so slightly. It brought back a hint of nostalgia from when I would shop in the company of my late wife.

Yet I slowed to a crawling speed as a thought crossed my mind, and I was surprised it had not come to mind earlier. The god of Passion did not have the gift of foresight. In order for him to suggest that I would be stopped by someone, he would have to have thought out the path I would take through Ponyville and determined why someone would stop me in the first place. And for what purpose did he do this? Furthermore, what did he mean by a job change?

The door to the shop that I had just passed opened behind me and a voice stopped my train of thought. “You, come in here!”

I turned around to determine its source, yet the pony who had spoken had already come around me and started to push me into the store whose door was momentarily left ajar.

“Good Celestia,” said the still unidentified but obviously feminine voice. She had scarcely spoken six words and I could already tell she had a refined manner of speaking that seemed not in common with any other pony I had spoken. “Why in the princess’ name are you drifting around Ponyville with that shredded and shamelessly filthy apparel of a ruffian and with what little mane you have mangled and full of dust? As a fashionista I simply cannot allow you to continue on until you have cleaned yourself and acquired a suitable set of clothes.”

The pony pushed me behind a movable screen in the left corner of the boutique, which was a bit short for my height so by instinct I bent my knees to conceal my entire body. She went around the other side. Momentarily, she tossed over a large white towel.

“Now stay right there, disrobe, and cover yourself with that. I’ll be back in a moment.” I heard a door open and shut towards the middle of the room.

“Well, that was abrupt.” I said aloud to myself. “The mare does not even know me.” Apparently the pony who owned this shop was so bothered about my appearance that she was compelled to fix the matter. “Well, I am not so concerned for tradition as to make a deal about it. Practicality is also a virtue.” And I decided to oblige my host.

I removed my torn robes and folded what was left of them on the ground. I then grabbed the towel that she had given me. It was quite large; large enough to cover me from my knees to just below my neck. Why she would have a towel this large, I did not know, but considering the suddenness of the situation I decided not to number the possibilities.

About five minutes later, I heard the door open again and the same pony spoke. “Are you at least relatively decent sir?”

“I have covered myself if that is what you are referring to Miss.”

“Well then, in that case, follow me.”

I stepped around the screen and finally was able to look at her. The beauty that I had set eyes on was a unicorn. Her coat was colored the purest white and her mane was a vibrant and deep indigo. Her eyelashes were long and beautiful and her eyes were blue like the sea.

As she led me through the door she had come from and we ascended the stairs to a third floor, I could not help but think that she was incredibly beautiful for one of her kind. Also I realized that her speech did not match the dialect of the city, but resembled one of the more distinct dialects that one would find in the city of Canterlot.

We came to the third floor and entered into a very large bathroom. At first I was very surprised at how large the room was from the inside as, from the outside, it appeared that the third floor was quite small. I was also surprised at how similar this room looked to one of those at my palace on Osiris. The entire room was covered with intricately decorated tiles except for the ceiling which was made of glass. Around the room were twelve columns carved and decorated in the Corinthian fashion and on each column were three torches that gave off a great amount of light which compensated for the time of day. On the left side of the room was an area that had two mirrors, two showerheads and two stools. That side had a slight slope that lead to a drain. Taking up most of the room though was a bath the size of small swimming pool filled with steaming water. I marveled at the extravagance of the room.

The pony brought me into this room and said, “You’ll find everything you need to bathe yourself. Please do Equestria justice and make yourself clean.”

Before she left, I thought it would be at least good to know my host’s name. “Thank you for your kindness Miss…”

She faced me and was gracious enough to respond, “Rarity,” she said with an elegant tone and shut the door behind her.

I gazed around the huge room. “Well, this is quite odd.” I said. “I wonder where she acquired the resources to create a room of such luxury.” Yet again this was a question I would leave unanswered. I had not bathed in quite a while now. There was a shower outside of the block where I lived, but the water was always cold. To have a warm bath was a chance that I could not pass.

So I washed myself with the soap and shampoo (for what little hair I had) while sitting upon the stool and then rinsed myself. I was not one to make of big deal of how I felt based on my level of hygiene, but it was very nice to enjoy cleanliness. I only wished that my hair would grow back faster. Then, I could be completely comforted for several reasons. Yet that problem could not be helped.

I finished cleaning myself and walked over to sink into the enormous tub. To my dismay, it was a bit shallower than I had hoped for, yet I cannot say that I was surprised with the great difference in my height versus those who would generally use it. I stood at a height of about six feet and four inches while the standard pony from head to tail was only four feet. The water did not come up to my chin as I hoped it would, but instead rose to immerse me from the stomach down.

I was disappointed; however, shifting over to a different part of the tub, I found that there was another section where the depth increased to that desired level. There I sat down and enjoyed the pronounced heat of the water which leveled at my upper chest. The pony who designed this must have had larger occupants in mind. I was greatly pleased at this feeling I had not appreciated in so long and sat back to soak for a time; letting thoughts pass through my head freely.

I was in mourning over Pinkie Pie’s situation, yet Passion would watch over her. I could rest easily knowing that nopony would die on his watch. Despite my sadness over all my crushed conceptions about her, I could not help but feel that the heat was washing away the issue. For a second I was alarmed and considered if there was some chemical in the water that would alter my state of mind, but I quickly calmed back down again. It just felt like home. So I forgot about the deep, depressing thoughts that troubled me and looked to other facets.

Glancing at the room, I realized I could not withhold my wonder at the structure of the bathroom. I had noticed that even in Canterlot that they did not have such luxuries like this as it did not go with the culture. Rather, the practice of cleaning oneself and then soaking in a sort of hot tub as an everyday practice was a custom that was unique to my country. I marveled at this change of pace. So my thoughts came much more smoothly than they had been doing for the last few years. They were coherent and intelligible rather than the erratic and survival based judgments into which I had recently narrowed myself. I began to let my mind pass over some books that I had long been meaning to digest. With the calm state I was in, thought was clearer, reasoning easier, and deduction more natural. I was able to draw conclusions that I had not had the capacity to before.

Even now I am not aware of how much time I passed sitting there, but I can say that at least an hour passed. After this time had elapsed, I finally arose from the heated water and toweled off. I noticed that a white bathrobe hung on the door with a pair of sandals my size below it (once again, why these things were in Rarity’s house I will never know). I placed these on and walked down the stairs. Descending down one flight, I was about to begin the flight down the second, but I heard the sound of a light sneeze come through the door that led to the second room. Thinking that my host was in this room, I knocked thrice on the wood.

I heard the now familiar voice of Rarity answer. “Come in.”

I found her hard at work gazing through a pair of red glasses intently upon a peace of parchment. Around her horn was an aura of energy and a pencil was levitating close to her. Every now and then, using magic, she would move the pencil and make a mark on the parchment. I could see that she was making a design of some sort.

I took her silence as a chance to survey this floor. The room I had entered appeared to double as both a bedroom and her work place. Around it were columns and arches that had beautiful designs on them. To my left was a four poster bed with a fine comforter on it. Near the walls were shelves with rolls of fabric of many colors. There was a sewing machine on the right, and in the middle was Rarity’s drawing space that had several pieces of parchment hanging on the walls. Some were blank and others had sketches of dresses.

She had reached a stopping point and looked towards me. “Ah, thank Celestia, you look better already.” She said when she looked me over.

“Yes, Miss Rarity, I thank you for your kindness in lending me your wonderfully designed bathroom. I can see, however, that you are a tad busy at the moment. Do you have some simple robes in this place that you could sell me so I could be on my way?” I had taken Passion’s advice, but now all I desired to do was to return home and rest. I was still feeling the burn from the black seals I had opened and I would need rest to last through the coming day.

Rarity looked at me like I did not know what I was saying and said, “Oh, no, no, no, I said that I was going to do Equestria a favor. You are not going out there like you were. I am going to make you a suit and you’ll wear that from now on until you understand what it means to present yourself properly in public.”

“Miss Rarity,” I said very confused. “Are you not aware that I have to go back to Sweet Apple Acres in the morning?”

“Well of course I know that you have to work in the morning, but don’t worry yourself about that. I will have it ready before sunrise.”

Despite my disbelief in her promising declaration, I continued objecting. “And on top of that I do not believe I could work in your house to repay you as your trade appears to require a fair amount of skill.”

“Oh, you do not have to worry yourself over that either. I will not charge you.”

“But Miss, I could not allow you to do me such a kindness. Moreover, are you not bound by the crown to use your resources only for your clients? Do these fabrics belong to you?”

“Well first, ah … what did you say your name was?”

“Michael Iaponis Fujiwara.” I spared her my numerous titles.

“Hmm, that is quite an elaborate name for such a ruffian.” Do not assume reader that I was at all hurt by her slur on my social status. “First, I insist on making you a suit. You do not have to repay me. I have not designed clothing for a gentlecolt for quite a while now. And also your form, where you walk on two legs rather than four, makes me want to try a few new ideas. As for your question on my ownership of these materials, they are indeed mine. Whatever I work on after sundown is mine. So if I work through the night, I can actually earn a bit of money. All you see here is mine; paid for with my money.”

At this point I gave up. There was a chair behind me so I asked if I could sit down.

“Do you think that you could keep quiet while I work? The only reason I don’t send you downstairs is because I’ll have to take your measurements after my concept work is done.”

I answered in the affirmative and she allowed me to sit. She turned to her work and I could see she was in the deepest concentration. For the first few moments I was a bit bored. Although I was able to bear shopping with my wife when she was with me, I generally did not gain pleasure from thinking about clothes. Talk of fashion often put me to sleep. Yet as I watched Rarity work, I became fascinated. She looked quite like myself when I was designing a sword. I knew she would only be working through the night so she would not be producing a masterpiece, but I could see in her eyes from an angle that she considered important even her least important projects as I did when I occasionally designed and forged a low quality sword for a mortal in my spare time.

After she measured the length of my arms and legs, the width of my waist and found my height, I truly became interested. I could tell by the look on her face as she guided her tools with her glowing horn that she was a true mistress of dressmaking. I felt a tear come to my eye as I began to appreciate what I saw before me. Here was a true mistress of an art: keeping attention to each and every slight detail and yet seeing simultaneously with her mind’s eye the shining prize at the end of the challenge before her that was the finished product.

Eventually I saw a suit coming together. When I thought it was finished it turned out she had only just started. On a simple pair of pants, a shirt and a jacket, she went on to sew into them wondrous and intricate patterns with golden and royal blue thread. I was amazed at the extent of the skill by which she made these patterns. On many a sword I had done my best to engrave decorations, but none of even my fanciest works even compared to what she wove into her work. This went on for even longer than it took to make the clothes themselves, and after what seemed an eternity, she had accomplished her self-ordained task.

“Well then, let’s go downstairs and try this on shall we.” She finally said.

This rhetorical question brought back memories of what my wife, Serena would say. Normally I would have groaned and begged her not to put me through to boredom. Yet in this incident I could barely control my excitement, and squeaked out in the most composed, polite voice, “Of course Miss Rarity.”

I stared aghast as I stared at myself in the mirrors from every angle. The outfit she had designed was absolutely breathtaking. Out of all the many outfits that I had worn over the years, not even one of them, the most ingenious masters of all the time I had been ruling over either my island that I currently was king over, or the huge empire that I once was emperor over, had ever made anything that could have ever compared to the majesty of what this was.

“Miss Rarity,” I said. “This is the most astounding work that I have ever seen.”

“Really?” Rarity asked with a puzzled tone. “First, that was only what I put together in the span of a few hours. Second, most of those in Canterlot do not like it when I decide to be creative. And I’m not only speaking of the form that I had to make this in to fit you. They always have me make dresses and suits exactly how they want them, and when I make even the slightest change that I think would improve it, they tell me that it looks well but will not pay my shop the full price. This was just a bout of fancy that I thought would be fine to experiment with. I never have fun with my work because it is so constricting so I thought that I would have a bit this time.”

I decided to see if I could milk this situation. Seeing that there was no trace of the sun yet in the night sky, I said, “Well, are there any other projects that you are putting a creative spin on.”

Rarity looked at me, amazed, and responded, “Well… yes, would you by any chance wish to see them.”

Hook, line, and sinker. Didn’t even have to work for that one. “Why yes, I would love to.” Never thought I’d hear those words coming out of my mouth when I was talking about clothes. This was a strange world.

So we went back upstairs and she began to show me the conceptual drawings for her projects. Each of them was more fabulous than the last. Although I was not familiar with the kind of design that goes into dressmaking for four-legged beings, I could tell that these works were completely masterful. Each one appeared to be fit for a queen or goddess; having adornments and features that I did not think would be possible to make. Yet she apparently had the intent to make them.

Yet when we came to one, she said, “This is the only one that I just cannot seem to finish. I have been thinking about this one for a while and I just cannot seem to find what is missing.”

Now I must confess that despite my previous distaste for anything related to fashion, I had read several on the subject of design. When you have a nearly unlimited amount of time at your disposal and a hunger for knowledge that is near to ravenous, you tend to take in everything that you can. Also, being a maker of swords, the answer to her problem was obvious to me. There was a blank spot on the dress that was simply dull. Everywhere else there was a beautiful design. So I said the one thing that comes easiest to a sword-maker who has an immortal wielder in mind. “It looks like if you put a large ruby there it would be perfect.” I looked at her, ready for a critical response as to why that idea would not work.

Yet as soon as she heard this, her eyes lit up and her face spread into a surprised grin. She looked at me and said, “That’s exactly what I thought about doing a long time ago, but the people in Canterlot hate it when I do that sort of thing. My, sir, I think you may have an eye for fashion.”

I realized it then. I had wondered if there was any way that this mare suffered like all the others. She appeared to live in a large house with all kinds of luxury, but she did not enjoy her work. And when she did enjoy it, and in doing so, made her work better, they punished her for it. If the magnificent suit that I was now wearing was what she just through together impromptu, I could not imagine what it would be like if she was given unlimited time and free will to do whatever she wished with her trade. The possibility was breathtaking. The art I was staring at now was the result of years of repression of her creativity. Although they were very beautiful, I felt a chill of excitement up my spine when I imagined what the dresses would look like without that problem.

She paused for a moment in thought. Then you could almost see the light bulb appear over her head. “How would you like to stay here for a while and work as an apprentice for me?”

I nodded that I would. I felt that the fates had drawn me to this place. Passion knew that this would happen. Perhaps he had a plan.

“Oh, you will? Oh that is just fantastic. Don’t worry, I will handle everything with the overseers and we can start tomorrow. Maybe you can even help me change the minds of my stubborn clients.

I just kept nodding. I barely knew what was going on anymore. I had just agreed to do something that up until now that before I would rather have eaten dirt that do. While Rarity was nearly jumping for joy, I could not help but feel as though my spirits were being lifted. The fates had a plan, and I think I was right on track with it. Only with their interference could a series of events this inexplicably improbable occur. I believed that if I looked at the room I was in with the eyes of an empyrean, I would see Skuld and Verdandi weaving the thread of space and time into the great fabric of the universe.

I lay in the bed of the guest bedroom across from a room that boasted a sign that read ‘Sweetie Bell.” I usually had trouble falling asleep: the unfortunate bane of one who has too much to think about. Yet something was different than usual. “Why do I feel like this bed was designed for a mare?” I asked myself. “Come to think of it, this entire bloody room looks like a female’s.” The walls were painted pink and white, there was a dresser with a large mirror on my left and a large cabinet on my right. Yet, the awkwardness aside, I did enjoy the bed. The mattress was firm and the feeling of the silky sheets was a comfort that I had not ever enjoyed even as a king. I was a Spartan person so the floor and a wool blanket where all that was in my royal bedroom on Osiris. So this was quite a different atmosphere to sleep in. I fell asleep almost sooner than later; sparing myself the usual hours of tossing and turning.

I usually dreamt elaborate, detailed dreams where I would explore the possibilities of a certain event occurring. I explored psychology in them which helped me understand the philosophy that I have today. Many times I would have an ominous or prophetic dream that would give me great fear, from which I would awake and stay awake. But my first night in the Carousel Boutique was dreamless. Nor I did wake up with my heart beating like a jackhammer in a cold sweat and wait for the sun to rise as I often did. Rather, I awoke to the sound of a filly who was vigorously shaking me from the best slumber I had, had in an aeon.

I groaned even though I was rested enough to awaken. Although it had happened quite long ago, this scene was actually quite nostalgic for me. I thought, “A young woman shaking me awake each morning until she was twenty five. At least it is better than having the sun’s intense brightness wake you up. Only in this scenario I will not be walking downstairs to my—” I cut that thought short immediately. I would not be letting that remembrance ruin the good day ahead of me.

I sat up and opened my eyes, gazing at the filly who had brought me into the day. “I assume that you are Sweetie Bell, the younger sister of Miss Rarity?”

“Yep, that’s me. How’d you know?

The thoughts of obviousness crossed through my mind. “Just a good guess I suppose.”

“Well hurry up and get downstairs.” So saying this, she cantered out the door.

Dressing myself in a white shirt and a pair of some nice looking pants (Why Rarity kept articles of clothing that fit those with a human form lying around I will never know) I descended the stairs and took the left door into the kitchen. On the right side of the room was a table with three places set out apparently for the Boutique’s occupants. Sweetie Bell sat on the furthermost seat, Rarity sat closest to the door and my empty spot was with its back to the wall. I was surprised to find that a breakfast of eggs, toast, and orange juice had been laid out for me.

Resisting my urge to gorge myself on the feast, I passively walked around Sweetie Bell and took my seat between the two.

“Good morning to you Miss Rarity. Did you sleep well.”

Rarity spoke with felicity. “Quite well. And you?”

“Likewise. I usually am denied the pleasure of a full night’s rest without the condition of being exhausted before I begin sleeping.”

“Well I am glad that you did. Today I happen to have a bit of free time and I’ll be taking this opportunity to give you some instruction.”

“Miss Rarity, if I may ask, is it a regular occurrence for you to have breakfast?”

“Well yes actually. I understand that most of Ponyville does not enjoy the same luxury, yet as long as I make my clients happy, I can use my time as I wish.”

Breakfast was filled with such pleasantries. I noticed that it was a tad burnt and found that Sweetie Bell had taken the liberty to make breakfast on the occasion that a new person had taken up residence. Yet the lack of absolute perfection did not bother me in the least. I was having breakfast for the first time in ages.

So, Sweetie Bell having gone to school, Rarity brought me to the second floor and started describing the work which she did and how she did it. I thought how my brother Kisshu would probably skin me alive with teasing if he found out what I was doing in this realm. I was taking up residence in a town of cute ponies, and the particular pony that I was living with was a dress designer. Yes, I could only pray that he would not go searching for me untimely. That fact aside, I paid my best attention to my new mistress’ (yes, it sounds a bit odd writing that) lesson on the harmony between material and color.

As I laid in bed that night, as I am accustomed to doing, I could not help but think that I had found a place of rest. In many of my quests across the other realms which, as is the case of this story, I do not plan on placing with The Chronicles of the Other Realm, I would live in many places in the enslaved worlds. This was not the first time that I had lived in a world where despair or one of her minions ruled. Yet it was a rarity that I would find refuge from the pain before giving up and leaving the world for good as I may have easily done with this one.

Yet beginning one day, I was reminded of that old maxim: one must not judge a book by its cover. I awoke with a very good feeling that day. Today was the day that Rarity would finally finish a dress that she had been working on for quite some time. She had told me many times after the day was over that she had put her soul into it; that she had truly believed that it would be her best dress yet. And I was very happy for her. My joy now was just to see her smile.

It was mid-afternoon when she finally completed her work. As she did when she was so happy, she hopped a few times. I congratulated her on a job well done and we both took a few moments to admire her handiwork.

The dress that she had made was very wonderful. I confess that it did not inspire within me that same passion that I was so wonderfully given when she had made that makeshift suit on the night when she offered me employment; however, it was beautiful nonetheless. White like a dove, into it was sewn elaborate patterns that were characteristic of her handiwork. One could spend days admiring them. But the colors that abounded upon it were breathtaking. Each color was specifically intended to be exactly where it was. Scarlet, gold, azure: the most royal colors. And the form of the dress itself seemed to defy some of the natural laws. I cannot describe with words the skill that must have been required to create its intricacies. I thought that a princess could have worn it with pride.

A knock came at the door of the store. Rarity opened it to greet one of the overseers. This pony that had entered was a pure white male with eyes black as the night. He wore thick leather armor, held a small gladius in his saddle and was crowned with a helmet of bronze. Happily, Rarity brought him in and showed him the dress that was displayed upon a manikin.

The stallion looked at it with discontent for about one minute. He spoke then gruffly, “This is not what was expected of you. It’s not what was asked of you. If I were to deliver this I would be greeted by only disgust and laughter. Burn it and start over. Follow the order more precisely this time.” So saying this, he promptly exited, slamming the door behind him.

I looked at Rarity whose face was frozen in a mix of horror and shock.

I needed to say something fast. “Rarity, I—”

She cut me off using a reserved voice and maintaining her stunned expression. “No don’t say anything. It’s fine Michael. I guess I just need to be less creative.” It was not long before she broke down; galloping up the stairs and locking the door to wail and cry out a river.

Unfortunately for Rarity, the inhabitants of Heaven generally do not take pains top comfort one another. [I think from here on I will use the Heavenly name “Aesirs” for simplification rather than the earthly “inhabitants of Heaven”] There, if you want privacy, the easiest way to receive it is to do exactly what Rarity did. The immortals do not attempt to comfort one another, for our problems are usually too big to offer help, but we leave time to heal emotional wounds. Hence I did not have much experience with comforting people, even though at the time I ruled on an earthly throne.

Because her door was locked, the best I could do was beg for her to come out. When that did not work I tried to talk to her, but her only response was that she wanted to be alone. Yet I am certain that this was far from the case. So for the remainder of the day she stayed locked away in her room; sobbing.

She remained in a bitter mood for the rest of the week. Yet there was no stopping the work she had to do. Following the orders of the overseer, she burnt her masterpiece outside (I nearly wept when I saw the flames consume weeks of her life) and began working on a new one the next morning. The desolate look in her eyes betrayed the façade that she put on as she made her new dress of repression. Each night throughout the week I think that she cried until her eyes were red.

I was greatly saddened by Rarity’s distress. When I mused on the gravity of her grief, I truly began to suffer with her. Yes I saw the luxury in which she lived in, but when I examined the income she would have made otherwise I immediately saw that she was living far below her means. She worked all day long and yet she received no fruit for her toil. When I considered her position, I reasoned that her life was even worse than that of Applejack or Pinkie Pie. At least when they worked, the quality of their work was not judged. Nor did they put great effort into one of their projects. On the farm I never remember paying special attention to one wheat stalk nor did I take great pride in one masterful cake when I worked in the company of Pinkie. All of her effort went into one project and when that one project was finished, it could all be for nothing.

I also discerned that she had another restraint. She could not express herself in any manner, which seemed to be in direct opposition of her character. You could tell in in the tone she spoke, in the way that she ordered her words, in the manners by which she conducted herself. Every part of her sought to express herself. The one thing that she wanted, she could not have.

There was also a deep longing in her that I could not see until later. Rarity knew that something was missing in her life. She had little to no interaction with other ponies. She had no friends; no one to comfort her in a way that I could not. Neither was Sweetie Bell old enough to comprehend her sister’s anguish. Solitude was a great curse for her.

On the night of her rejection, despite my lack of ability in the department of comfort, I came to Rarity’s locked door and spoke to her. Despite her angry cries to leave her alone I spoke to her soothing words all through the night. I knew inside she did not desire solitude. She desired a comforter but the pain would not let her seek aid. In the day I took every chance I could to reassure her of her genius and that those in Canterlot were mistaken. The night came and she would lock herself away. If the Aesirs are not competent in comfort, they are exceptional in patience; I persisted without fail in my efforts each night and day. I repeated my process in an attempt to have her let me enter. This continued for seven days and six nights.

On the seventh night, I assume that my efforts finally drove away the spirit of Solitude. Because of this, when I came to her door and asked if she would let me in as I did every night, she came to it and unlocked the deadbolt; welcoming me into her bedroom. She let me in and lie upon her bed in tears.

I spoke first when she appeared silent. “Miss Rarity, let me convey again my condolences for your loss.” When she only responded with a sob I continued. “I realize that there is not much I could say about your present situation that would lift your spirits; however, I have decided because of the severity of your despondency, that I will reveal a few secrets to you that will make you glad.

My tone became sober; one that I remember using many times when relating to my daughter the secrets of the empyreal world. “Now before I tell you of joy I must speak to you of sorrow. Before you can understand what wonders await you, you must understand the wretchedness of your situation. I am extremely sorry that I must further increase your pain before I can make it any better, but unfortunately, that is often how healing works.” I paused and waited for her approval. She did not express any revulsion from what I was saying so I continued.

“Each and every day you work without rest; performing a job that you dislike because of its constrictions upon your nature. Nine out of every ten parts of your wealth is taken from you and sent to Canterlot. For those around you it is ninety nine out of a hundred parts of what they earn. Worse of all, the laws against congregation prohibit you from gaining much company, and it keeps you in a deprived state of mind. Of this wretchedness I will speak no further. It is not my place to tell you of that which you are missing out on. That is a solemn duty that is reserved for one of your own race.

“Yet this pain is not the end of the matter. I think that you deserve to hear that you have the power to live in complete joy. Now you must understand what I say when I say ‘joy.’ Joy is not happiness. Happiness is an emotion. Hence, happiness is fleeting. It is what a person feels when good things happen to them. But as soon as hardship makes its way towards them, happiness flees from them like a rabbit from the dogs. Joy, in contrast, is not a trivial, passing feeling. Joy is a conscious choice to be glad even in the face of adversity. That decision creates a lasting sort of happiness. Although that choice is impossible to make if one does not understand at least one of the seven secrets.”

Rarity had ceased her weeping and now was looking at me with a face of curiosity. I took this as a sign that I could go on. “Now as you may have guessed, I am not from this world. My homeland is in a place called Álfheim, but they who dwell there call it Osiris. Yet although I was born there, it is not the place that I am destined to live. I have spent a great deal of time in and will spend many more years in a place called Asgard. You here in Equestria would call it ‘Heaven’ which means ‘the sky.’ This is an incomplete description as it is not physically located in the sky, but I digress.

“In Heaven there is a great library where books written by many angels are kept. Some of those books contain dark secrets and are locked with silver clasps which few know how to open. Others contain falsehood and are bound by black animal skin. Still others contain truth and are bound with white animal skin. There is a white book that bears the title Arcani Septimi Gaudio which in your language translates to ‘The Seven Secrets to Joy.’ As its name suggests, the book contains seven secrets that lead to perfect and complete joy. Long ago, mortals were given clues as to what the secrets might be, but these clues have been lost to time. Yet now I believe that under the circumstances, I can reveal to you the clue that hints at the first of the seven secrets. I wish that I could simply give you the secret, yet there are many statues against it that my master in Heaven has written to prevent any immortal from giving too much to the mortals.

“Over the course of the nights when you were weeping in here, I deliberated heavily over how I would relate this to you. Yet I could not think of any mortal who grasped the secret well enough to write of it. But then I remembered a poem that I once heard.”

My voice changed as I began to speak of that poem. The sound that came out of my mouth was only a whisper, yet the intensity in it was unmistakable. “I was once in a prison in my younger days. It was dark and forlorn there; each day an eternity of purposeless anguish. With swords and knives they tortured me endlessly all day and night long. There was no end to my suffering. It was so intense, but they would not do away with me. They always drove me to the edge, and left but a little life left in me. Then they healed me with their dark magic and started again. With every moment that passed, a portion of my resolve ebbed away. Each passing second came on step closer to the loss of my sanity and life. I would have lost myself there. I was about to die from the wretchedness of my depression.

“Then I fell into it. Before that day, I knew not what true hopelessness meant, but I did then. It is the feeling of being trapped, chained down, rendered completely immobile. There are many was to kill. Flesh burns, bones break, but to take hope from someone is to truly destroy them. I was so without hope that day when all I knew was pain, but what utterly broke me was that I could do nothing about it.

“I found that everything is meaningless without hope. Without hope, even the strongest are weak, the wisest are foolish, and the wealthiest are poor. All of the world appears different through the glasses of hopelessness. You realize that there is only blackness everywhere; even where you thought the light once reigned. Every day, all that is before you is the present, unforgiving pain, and the inescapable future which is before you. The pain is so intense and your body begs for it to cease. But then you ask yourself, ‘What would it profit to end the pain? Just another will replace it, and who knows if it will be worse?’ In the endless abyss of your soul you wander as your life fades unexplainably. There is nowhere to go, but if there was, would there be any reason to go there?

But I also learned that hope does not begin in the light, but in the dark. Just as the doctor does not seek the healthy, hope does not seek those who are without tribulation. Hope comes in the twilight hours when the light has been missed for the greatest amount of time. The night is at its blackest and a multitude of demons roam free. She raps on the door of your numb heart. They jeer at her saying, ‘You are wasting time goddess. He has been lost.’ There is no answer (what is the purpose in you answering? Who is this that they call hope?).

But she is patient and resolute. She softly knocks at the door; persisting relentlessly. Finally, for no particular reason, you open the latch, and she comes in. This is I learned of hope during that time.

“Unexpectedly, the dawn came. Hope came. Light soon overtook the agony that was extinguishing my spirit. There it ignited a fire that spread throughout my spirit and then engulfed my soul. It was a realization brought about by a poem that I had read long ago. The words in that poem were my strength each passing day. When my tormentors saw they change in me, the defiance against their efforts, my harsh words for them, and my unaffected resolve, they were astonished and immensely angry. They tried all the harder to receive a response from me. They invented new tortures, tried different methods, even read books (God forbid!) to try and break me like I was so recently. But there was nothing they could do nothing to dishearten or weaken me. I was unconquerable.

I would now like to share with you the poem that revealed to me one of the secrets. This is what he wrote:

‘Out of the night that covers me,

Black is the pit from pole to pole.

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance,

I have not winced, nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance,

My head is bloody but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the horror of the shade.

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate.

I am the captain of my soul.’”

I fell silent and let her take in the words that I had spoken. For an hour we sat motionless, and over time, her humor improved. She was happy for the first time in a week. She embraced me and said “Thank you so much Michael for that. Although I cannot understand fully everything you’ve said, I’m consoled now. I think that I can go back to my work with willingness now.” Hearing this, I left her to her thoughts.

I had to be very careful during this time. I found that now I was becoming attached to the unicorn. I had to be very careful how I proceeded. I had to remember that she was a mortal, and that, though she provided very good company, she would one day pass away. As much as I liked being with her, I could not allow myself to become her friend. It would be too painful for me when I had to leave her or she had to leave me.

Over the next few days, I witnessed that Rarity was slowly becoming happy again. The look in her eyes when she focused on her work was the same as it was before. She put great effort into the dress that she was making and did so contritely. She smiled as she used to, and during the nights, I conversed with her over tea; something that I had always enjoyed.

This change of events was pleasing, but I was greatly troubled. I saw that although she was gladdened by my words, but she did not fully understand. She was blind; blinded by the continuous brainwashing of the oppressors to whom she was subject. This realization was extremely painful and became all the more agonizing still as the long days passed on. I had succeeded in helping her through this one issue, but the next tribulation she faced, would be met with the same, distressed attitude.

One night it became too much for me. I walked out of the boutique for the first time in ages and saw again the dimly light streets on Ponyville. Again I went down the street to the outside; staring out the ground all the way. Nothing had changed. The blocks were grey and desolate; the only life inside the houses. The air was cold, winter was at its zenith. I scoffed. Winter is my favorite season. At that time I could not enjoy it.

I went out into the woods and I found my stomping grounds; that grove where I had uttered many expressions of sadness. I came to the center of the clearing and fell to my knees; my head drooping. I sat there doing nothing but stare at the ground for a moment. Then I looked up at the moon. I saw in the moon a great figure, but I blinked away the thought. “I am too prone to look for order in the orderless.” I said to myself. And I spoke yet another lament; another bitter speech.

“Woe to those who seek pleasure.

I have seen its value with my eyes.

Pleasures are valued at nothing.

They too are meaningless.

Laughter is foolish.

It accomplishes nothing.

Nice things are dung.

They bring not joy and soon fade.

I have seen those who desired to build great projects.

I saw a passionate master at work;

happy in his labor.

Yet his work was not valued.

His years were poured into it.

His years are now gone.

What has he gained?

Nothing.

It is better mourn than to feast.

For death is common to all mortals.

The end of a matter is better than its beginning.

As it is with the good man so it is with the sinner.”