Musings of a Greying Duke, Part I
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Alicorn, Hexed
Musings of a Greying Duke
Part I
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When I was a little fellow, I had an unusual fascination with heraldry. The posh society that bread and groomed me fostered this interest well. The colours and symbols—the subtle differences in arms—offered, to the trained eye, a nearly complete description of an armiger’s genealogy, social rank, and life accomplishments.
My own achievement, I always felt, was rather overdone—presented in the gaudy rococo style that was necessary to accommodate my own pedigree, overstretched and opulent. When I was old enough, I commissioned a more tasteful “lesser” arms to hang above my choir stall in the Lord’s chamber. This, of course, over my late father’s objections, but, since I had not yet taken possession of his, he had little ground on which to grumble.
A father and son both sitting, simultaneously, in the House is not unheard of, but it is rare. And no—I have not great accomplishments on the field or in the bureaucracy that would warrant my sitting astride my father. Rather, it was the double accident of my birth that entitled my premature entrance into the House of Lords.
One of our Great Charter’s oddities is that any born horned and winged is, upon reaching the age of majority, entitled to sit in the Lord’s chamber. For those of high birth, though, this should not be a concern—only one pony born to commoners has ever been elevated to the chamber via this method. Though, the number of Life Peers in our midst is, thankfully, growing.
Alicorns, or more specifically those afflicted with Alicorn Bispecial Syndrome, are almost always members of the nobility—becoming more frequent the higher the rank. It is a birth defect—a result of generations of inbreeding, and, though still very uncommon, does occur around a dozen or so times a century.
I should point out that this does not include Their Highnesses; they are similar in that they have wings and a horn and can be classified as Alicorns, but they are something different entirely. Not demigods, per se, as they are ultimately mortal, but some kind of higher species that seems to defy scientific explanation. Also—Her Grace Sparkle is also not included in this classification; I do not know exactly what she is, having achieved her status via an odd apotheosis.
Speaking of Her Grace, as queer as it was that my father and I once sat in the Lords together, it must be particularly odd that she joined her Father, a Duke, and her brother, a Viceroy, in the chamber after her ascension.
I actually knew her father when he and I were little chaps. My father and his were second cousins once removed, similar in age, and well acquainted. I had always admired the simplicity of his arms; even though he had a rank similar to mine, his was not the swirling mess mine was. His father had some amount of artistic foresight and, like I would later, prescribe a lesser arms for his family to accommodate modern tastes.
But that aside… Night Light was a fine young fellow, though quiet for someone of his status. Though we played together when we were younger, our interests drifted as we matured. One interesting note I can recall is when some in the court made up the rumor that he was to be engaged to my younger sister, but his eventual union to the Marquette Twilight’s second daughter put an end to that murmur.
I do have some amount of fondness for my younger days, not so much the joy of youth as its naivety. Not a naivety of the world, of course, or the affairs of those around me, rather, the obviousness to my own condition. I spent my youth cavorting about with fine young mares, and maybe one or two particularly fine stallions; I enjoyed a degree of physical and mental prowess that shoehorned itself into my peers’ understanding of what an Alicorn was.
Indeed, Alicorns do enjoy a heightened magical ability and, in youth at least, an agile frame and strong wings. But, like everything in youth, this fades. Alicorns do, in fact, have a longer lifespan than normal equines, but, of course, the difference is widely exaggerated. We can expect to live, on average, about ten years longer than we would otherwise have been predisposed to. Of course, there are always tradeoffs.
My father told me, when I was old enough to comprehend it, that my mother was overjoyed when she gave birth to me. This joy was beyond the normal joy that a mare feels upon holding her foal for the first time—it is said that an Alicorn is a good omen, and that she understood that, being the socially aware child of a Count, such a birth would certainly enhance our already high standing in the gentry. She was not alone in her excitement; most of the members of my house were overjoyed that they could count an Alicorn among their kin.
My father wept, though, not tears of joy.
He knew the fate I had been condemned to at my birth; he had seen his grandmother deteriorate. He did not know her when she was said to be the most beautiful mare in Equestria. Whose flowing mane and elegant trot could melt the hearts of politicians and make soldiers weep. No—he knew a crippled, bedridden mare, whose thin, hollow Pegasus bones could hardly support the thick skull and heavy horn that her Unicorn head required.
My legs ache, my neck strains, I can feel myself crumbling under my own weight. I can barely fly; really, all I can do is hover a bit. I frequently indulge in opium to make this constant pain go away. In the House of Lords, I had to have a special cushion and seat installed—one that I can use my magic to help lift me up. And I have a long life still ahead of me…
But I have my voice and my quill—I will thunder down the halls of antiquity, and I will raise my banner once more!
Heralds, my friends, keep up the patents—to thee, Kings of Arms, grace me with a new symbol. Let this movement call forth the end of dark times; let the enlightenment fulfill its promises! Let us, together, forge a new age!
I lay bare what I am.
Musings of a Greying Duke, Part II
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Alicorn, Hexed
Musings of a Greying Duke
Part II
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Too often I have encountered the buffoonery and intransigence of my own class. It is far too often that we simply pantomime our own interpretation of virtue—calling those who must struggle “idle” when we are so well accommodated in our own ineptitude.
When my Grandfather was a young member of the House, the saying went that “you cannot have democracy and work houses.” This is still true, but the poor houses have long been shuttered. The new threat is that the truly useless classes inhabiting their lordly seats or their equally inherited floor space in the exchanges are outstripping the resources of our Principality. How long can the divine virtues avast against these gusts?
Money—the alpha and omega of our world—still finds ways to make itself less than useful.
What vexes me, and has so for some time, is the lack of identity politics among the four big parties. Maybe this is some sign of our enlightenment, but I doubt it. Rather, all of the radical tribe-centric movements over the last century have been relegated to the minor parties that flair up from time to time—then linger indefinitely with a handful of members in the Commons.
Earth Ponies, for example, have no business supporting the current Conservative government. Their continued economic vulnerabilities have not fully dissipated with the continuing putsch of modern technology.
This is not to say that no identity politics occur within the major political factions. Indeed, most Buffalo, Fluffy Ponies, Changelings, Asses, and Thestrals (or Baties as my father called them) vote consistently Socialist, whereas most Griffins, Minotaurs, and Drakes vote Conservative.
Of course the big three tribes are evenly spread across the spectrum, for the most part anyway—and yes right leaning unicorns tend to favor the Liberals over the Conservatives, and so forth, but by in large there is little to distinguish voting patterns.
But I amuse myself—identify politics only would placate my fancy if they corresponded to my own, admittedly dated, opinions of how economic class intertwines with tribal rapprochement.
Regardless, all of our wisely imparted efforts and time could only hope to yield such political merriment as this gallery of…
… whores? No. Miscreants? No. Indigent rabble… maybe. To paraphrase the Bard—‘tis but a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury—signifying nothing.
No, quite the contrary. Our politicians are better suited to this task than we give them credit for.
It’s just the muck if it, the grinding, muddling through the slosh. Lest we forget, this is how things are done, and it is better this than any other way.
But what hindrance should I allow? What weary muses should I put forth towards the effort?
About five years ago, after enjoying a carousing evening with the Baron Parsley, then still in the Commons serving as the Opposition Whip, I discovered that we had a mutual interest. He had always been quite the Socialist, as was his mother, the first Baroness Parsley, who had served as first as Chancellor of the Exchequer and eventually Prime Minister. In spite of this loyalty, however, he never had much affinity for the Socialist emblem, a golden hammer and scythe crossed inside a silver cog against a red background.
Oh the symbolism was just fine, the industrial workers and farm labourers, bimetallism (when that was still a pertinent issue), and of course the blood of the struggle. It should be pointed out, however, that the socialist electoral colour is pink, not red.
Regardless, he thought the emblem was dated. We had discussed some ways about to improve it—and I recommended that the project should be turned over to the College of Arms. He was initially poo-poo about my idea, and initially a change in symbolism failed to materialized.
That is, of course, until we ran into each other at the Capitol Pub a little while back. We shared some drinks, and the topic of conversation turned, at some point, to the party emblem. This time he was more agreeable that we should seek out a patent for it.
The heralds did not disappoint—a rose held aloft by two hooves—simple, symbolic, and damn near romantic.
Socialists, we are not without our thorns. We are strong, proud, and we stood determined against all those forces in history aligned against us, that have sought to hold us back. We are not without our thorns.
We are imperfect; we are flawed; we are mortal. We make compromise. Sometimes we win; sometimes we fail—our ideals and our constituents.
We are politicians, and revolutionaries, and dreamers. Lovers, hexed, we are not without our thorns.
For the first time in a generation, I think that Equestrian is ready for another round of change. Let us sit together and expunge the remaining ailments of this society. Make it so there is no longer a need for politics.
Impossible? Highly improbable, certainly. We can never achieve utopia, but if we work towards it—our world will be a better place.
Simply, a better world.
Of course this gets me thinking, what can be done to expedite this process?
That new Whip, the fluffy fellow… what’s his name… Cuddle Plufluffs or something. Yes, he is promising. We will see how good a trouble maker he is. He could be quite useful.
Who am I fooling? But, I wager, I could be useful to him. Parsley surely knows him… and I had to have met him at some point.
Yes—some fine tomfoolery under the new banner. Set things right against those of idle wealth, those who still find ways to exploit the system and Their Highnesses’ subjects. Oh… it should be a time and a half.
Let us remind the world of who we are… lain out for all to see. This is what we are: politicians.
And we are not without our thorns.
My doctor said I should avoid mixing the opiates with cognac—but there will be plenty of time to be sober when I’m dead.
