The Myth of Blueblood

Ask any Canterlot resident of the city’s oddities and you will invariably get the response that: the weather is rarely of note. In fact if it was not for that oddity the weather would never be of note. The sun always shone but never too brightly. It never seemed to rain but the morning was always moist. The weather was perpetually the same.

Today was no different. The air was tepid but the Royal Gardens seemed to love it, the solar sustenance reflected in the flowers' beauty. Such a sight would grant relief to most city dwellers or casual wanderers but to the white unicorn mare and stallion it was just another stop on a preordained path.

“It has changed, of course,” said the fuchsia maned mare, levitating a map in front of her. “The map is centuries old. Additions would have been made.” Her companion ignored her. “There is not a maze depicted to start with, only a straight path to the Palace.” The stallion lit up his horn to brush his blond mane.

The stallion’s hoof prints must have worn into the path by now. He was staring at the centre-pieces of the Gardens: the Royal Statues. Over the past several millennia of Canterlot’s existence a statue has been erected for each new monarch to ascend to the throne. They all stand side by side in a perfect line. There are two so far.

The one to the stallion’s left stood thrice his height. Its paint was fresh enough to fully depict a coat of purest snow and a mane cut from a pale, morning rainbow. Its wings were outstretched; each feather replicated down to the smallest strand. Its slender horn pointed towards midday sun. The plaque between the idol’s hooves bore the inscription:

THE PRINCESS CELESTIA

OUR GUIDING LIGHT

The other statue was only slightly shorter. It was covered in dark green vines that wrapped around its entire body cumulating at the tip of its horn. Gaps in the leafy tendrils were strewn here and there. All one could see through them was cracked stone off of which any decoration had long since flaked. Below it and between its barely discernible hooves was a plaque covered by withering wolf’s bane. Its words were rusted beyond legibility.

“Slave!” yelled the stallion. “Make this readable.”

The mare looked up from the map; rolling her eyes at him. “Please, I am not your slave.” She inhaled and exhaled. “I am your tutor.”

The stallion jerked his head in her direction with his chin upturned. “It is irrelevant what you would call yourself, slave.” He exhaled sharply. “My family bought you, therefore: you are a slave.” He turned back to the decrepit statue. His chin lowered. “And remember, slave, you must always address me as ‘your highness’. Now make this readable.”

“But I have-”

He coughed.

“But… your highness, I have no cloth and from all this travelling my coat is already in much too wretched a state for display.” She looked to the plaque. She cringed slightly. “The dead flowers and rust; it would be too…” She shuddered. “dirty.”

The stallion was indignant. “So you would have me do it, you wretch! You would have me lower myself to the dust and dirt and scrape my hoof through it like some pathetic peasant!” He raised his chin. “No… I will not, and you will do as you are told, slave. So damn your coat and make that plaque readable.”

She opened and closed her mouth. She gave up upon realizing she was a less than unstoppable force against an immovable object.

She approached the statue and stuck out her front right hoof to prod the rusted plaque. She gasped as she saw the red, brown excess on her. She looked over her shoulder at him. His face was set. She turned back. She prodded again: more dirt. She closed her eyes and turned her head away. She rubbed furiously, feeling the ever increasing layer on her coat. She continued, with clenched teeth, until eventually:

T  E PRI  CE  S LUN

The next three words were covered by graffiti but even those profane marks were fading:

WHOR OF DE  D CR  PS

The mare’s work done she vigorously rubbed her hoof on the ground, exchanging dirt for dust. She groaned.

The stallion grunted, “hmph… I thought it would be more interesting.”

Eyes aflame, her mind a bursting inferno she turned to him, butting her brow to his. Her breath was hot and thick. It made the stallion sweat. “What!?”

The stallion was quivering; his regal pose discarded as she arched over him. She was about to yell the most profane curses unworthy of Discord at him.

A green stallion forced them apart, watered the plants the two were blocking and trotted off. Her view followed him. It came to her that others may witness this… indecent act. She would spite the shaking mass before her later. She would put something in his tea.

Her eyes no longer conveyed the flame of one newly scorned. Now they held the contempt of superiority. Why had she ever felt compelled to follow this over-kempt mule’s orders? “Oh, please,” she said. “This after one mare scolded you.” He was still shaking as he looked up with his torso on the ground. “It is hardly becoming of one your unproven rank.”

That perked him up. “Unproven!” he yelled, rekindled pride pushing him to full height. “You know very well what the mystics said of me.” He raised his chin high. “Not only that. I bear the sign.” He turned ninety degrees to display his flank. It held the symbol of the North Star.

“As I said: unproven.” Her eyes closed as she raised her chin. “Few would believe your claims to royalty based on the drug-induced words of Zebra tribals and a vague mark on your flank.” She opened her eyes, managing to look down on the taller stallion. “That’s why we’re here. If there are any documents pertaining to a familial connection we will find them here in your supposed kingdom.” She looked away from him: scanning the area. “The only problem is finding our way anywhere. The map is useless and the ponies here are intolerably impolite. Why just now that one-” She pointed passed her companion to the green stallion “-forced his way between us during a conversation.”

“We’ve ended up near the Palace. That is progress.”

“Perhaps, but we have, essentially, traded a figurative maze for a real one.” She looked to the green stallion. “You there!” she yelled. “Can you hear us!?” He watered the plants and walked out of view. “He’s a prince, you know!” She sighed.

“Do not spite them, for they know no better.”

The mare jerked and her coat bristled. The voice had come from behind her. No steps preceded it. She turned around fully prepared to give this assailant a piece of her mind. Clad in tattered, stained rags the figure was two heads taller than her. For some reason she had lost her words.

“I did not mean to startle you.”

The mare’s pulse had calmed. The sudden approach no longer mattered nor the extreme height and apparel. Hearing it a second time it was the voice that was most peculiar. It was not unpleasant, quite the opposite in fact. It was both low and thick with a breathy undercurrent that made each syllable feel like a flow of warm water. It was undoubtedly feminine despite some not unnerving masculinity. This voice, the mare was sure, could make even the most vulgar slurs seem like poetry.

“P-pardon?” The mare asked.

“What in blazes are you doing talking to this rag covered beggar?” asked a voice from behind her that would surely make a poet disown any work spoken by it. “This act is far below even your class. Shoo, miscreant! Shoo, deviant! Shoo away, you pl-.” A hoof was shoved in his mouth.

“P-please excuse my companion’s rudeness.” She sent a glaring glance his way. “He was raised by Zebra shaman you see. Their mixtures did terrible things to him.” She put on a quivering smile. “But that does not matter. I am Rarity-” The gagged stallion tried to speak. “And this is Blueblood. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“A name?” the figure seemed to consider. “I have acquired so many that I may not have one at all. I do not need a name, I have found. Coming and going you will know me; and ask any of me and they will know me too.” The figure thought for a bit. “Whether they know it or not.”

Rarity was silent. The voice was still coursing over her. “Oh, hoh, hoh, hoh-” Blueblood bit down. She shrieked, desperately trying to pull her hoof out. When he released her she almost fell backwards. “You bucking foal! What the buck is wrong with you?!”

“You put your filthy, common hoof in my mouth that’s what 'bucking' wrong!” He spat on the ground. He looked away from her as his tongue poked around in his mouth. “I think I got some of your blood as well.” He spat again. He turned to the figure. “I believe we have spent enough time with this vagrant.”

She kept her injured hoof off the ground. “I remind you, your highness, that no one will speak to us.”

“Correction,” he said with closed eyes and raised chin. “No one will speak to you. As royalty I am the best of my people and thus can freely converse with any and all of them.” He opened his eyes and surveyed for a chance to prove this. He spotted a pony a few hundred metres away on the other side of the garden path. “You there, commoner!” Blueblood galloped off and while his words were quelled by distance one could distinctly hear the other barking like a rabid dog.

Rarity rolled her eyes while glancing over her shoulder at him. “Correction: no one but crazies.” Her eyes burst wide. Her view returned to the stranger. Despite the overhanging hood their eyes managed to lock. “Present company excluded of course.” She gave a weak laugh. She had not noticed until now how nice those eyes were: pleasantly peculiar like all the rest of the figure’s features. They were large and turquoise with oval pupils, they seemed to resemble the eyes of a dragon but without intimidating. Their gaze instead gave one a feeling of tremendous warmth and humble importance.

“Have no fear of my offence.” That voice. “And do not be offended by them, as taking too much pleasure in work is their sole sin.” A smile dawned on those lips. “Indeed, only at events as joyous as this will they partake in conventional pleasures.”

“Joyous as-” A bang cut her off. The sound of cheering erupted in the distance. The sound Blueblood’s galloping came closer.

“Rarity!” he screamed. “Rarity, the anarchists! The anarchists have found me!” He halted and clung to her side. “I heard their cannons and saw their horrid rituals.” His eyes were watering.

The stranger laughed with smiling face raised high. “Truly this is a happy day.” The still pathetically clinging stallion gaped. “Do not be frightened so. This celebration is no anarchist revolution. Rather, it is recognition of a young foal’s new found use in society.” Still met by confused stares the explanation continued. “Surely the ritual is universal. Today is a cute-ceañera. Where you come from is not the first physical sign of a foal’s destiny a momentous occasion?”

Rarity’s horn lit up. The purple light enveloped Blueblood wrenching him from her side and onto the ground. “Well, yes, of course. But Zebras do not put such… energy into it.” Blueblood was pulled to his feet. “To them it is a nice thing to have but the symbols are so vague that they do not place much faith in them.” She looked at the ground. “It may be clearer for ponies but I have only him and his aunt and uncle to go on.” She shuffled on her hoofs.

The figure spied Rarity’s white, unmarked flank. “Oh, how callous I feel. Here, in ignorance, I speak of cutie marks as existence’s penultimate goal unaware of the fully functioning mare before me. I apologise deeply, hoping my shame is near enough to consolation.”

Rarity reddened like a beet. She could not raise her eyes to the figure. “P-please, do not worry about me. Taking care of him-” He scoffed. “-leaves me little time to explore my own talents.”

“But I still do hope you accept my apology.” The stranger smiled. “If it grants solace, though, I will admit that there is a reason I cover myself in rags.” Rarity looked up. Their eyes connected. They laughed.

“Slave!” Her contentment was broken. “We need to get a move on. You have wasted too much time flirting with this tramp.”

She was about to rebut but was pre-empted. “An inadvertently wise decision from your friend. We should depart soon as it is traditional at the close of a cute-ceañera to have a fruitless wander through the maze.” They stared. “It is symbolic, I suppose. Regardless, there are many places in Canterlot I can lead you.”

“The Palace is my only destination,” Blueblood said. “Take me there and your squalid existence will have had some meaning. Point the way and you will have the favour of a Prince.” Rarity rolled her eyes.

“If you must: the Palace resides on the other side of the maze. The palace walls are grand and meet the maze, so going around would be a waste. I apologise, though, for I cannot lead you. Some say Discord himself resides within the impenetrable hedges. You see, while you can effortlessly arrive at the entrance from without and within the correct path through does baffle even the Princess.”

“Bah! Merely a deterrent for those of unworthy blood.” He started galloping into the maze but stopped. He turned to Rarity. “Well, come on.”

She was about to follow but a rag covered hoof blocked her. “Why not leave him?” Rarity looked to the figure, her eyes wide. “You depend on him for nothing. He has you not in chains and you clearly do not cherish his companionship. Why not leave him?”

Rarity mouth dropped open. “Y-you are right.” The stranger smiled. “I could have abandoned this worthless, abusive stallion at any time on this journey and no Zebra would have stopped me.” She gritted her teeth. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She looked at Blueblood; then up to the stranger, their eyes connecting. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She galloped off in any direction that was away from him.

“Why the bloody stars did you do that?” He viewed her slowly diminishing form. “That was my slave damn it!”

“I did nothing,” the stranger said. “And neither did you. Had you truly cared you would have put her in shackles.”

“Bah! Who needs an ungrateful slave anyway? And you…” He glared. “I now without a doubt know not to trust beggars.”  He galloped into the maze.

The smile did not vanish from the stranger’s face, it only changed. The lips thinned and pursed. The slit-like pupils narrowed further. The rags were gone, fizzling from perception, revealing a coat of darkest night adorned by armour crafted from the furthest stars. Her wings were tucked in, their feathers ever so often rustling and writhing. Her mane, cut from the fabric of a dying galaxy flowed behind her. Her entire form glowed as from the tip of her ebony horn downwards she turned to lavender fog.

The investigation was not worth it. The mare would find her place. The stallion would not make it through the maze. Neither were variables in the end. There was only one variable in all Equestria and she was always kept in check.