The Waning Dusk

Princess Luna was engaging in Spring Cleaning. She had just been introduced to the concept by her new maid and was fascinated by the idea. The mayor of Ponyville had her old things sent up from the Castle of the Two Sisters just the other day, and she'd been looking forward to digging through them.

She squealed with excitement.

She opened her closet and levitated out a large box. She started pulling things out at random.

“Ooh! Our old cloak. We missed this dearly.” It was a deep purple, with soft silk and silver trimmings soft silk.

She gasped, “Sir Limbly!” She hugged a large, white, wool spider. “We thought thee lost amongst the wreckage. 'Tis a joyous day indeed! We wonder what other marvels art hidden here.”

Levitating some objects from the box she noticed a slip of paper stuck between a chessboard and an old candlestick. Curious, she pulled it out. It was a letter addressed to her, from a few years before her banishment. She thanked the preservation spells Celestia cast to protect the castle after it was abandoned and opened it up.

It was a poem titled 'A Starlit Moon'. Luna froze. She swallowed the emotions that rose up without warning and set the letter delicately on her bedside drawer. She didn't want to have to read that right now. She grabbed Limbly and left the room for breakfast.

'What an awful way to start a day,' she thought.

⁂

Harold woke to the smell of anesthetic and the steady tones of a heart monitor.

He felt sore, but strangely fresh.

He rose his forehooves to his face. They were a chestnut brown. He noted they were also shaking rather violently. He set them down and stared at the ceiling.

He was hurt and confused, and he felt deeply, deeply alone.

He felt a looming presence from deep in his mind, and slowly, but with enormous weight, something became very clear to him.

Those eyes that he saw, that held within them the raw emotion of an eternity, those eyes had come to him in the night, held hard upon the face of a midnight blue horse, stripped him bare and birthed him anew.

The eyes of God.

He did not want to think about that. He did not want to think about anything.

He counted the tiles in the ceiling.

He heard a creaking noise from his left and looked to see what it was. There, in the bed a few feet from him, was a lime-green horse, wrapped in casts covering its front legs, with bandages over its eyes and mouth. It had a tube leading to its stomach from what looked like a large IV bag.

The horse was on its side and seemed to be staring at him.

He wondered how it managed that through the bandages.

Harold looked back at the ceiling.

Twenty-two... twenty-three... twenty-four...

A very deep, droning voice spoke from the direction of the bandaged horse, “To end the thaw you must kill the host atop the mountain of Gurkron. She will be there. You have one year to do so.” Harold slowly turned to look at the bandaged horse in stupor. “You must be cautious, you must be careful. Tell no one. Question everything. Learn something. Answer nothing.”

Harold stared on in sheer loathing. “Fucking hell you pile of god-blasted bandages, I fall a thousand feet out of the sky on a bed, broke like a twig on my family tree waiting to bleed out by the gallon, when I wake up again in this infernal hospital bed, so I can hear you tell me to murder some woman on a mountaintop and quote fucking Euripides! Why? Why!?”

Or so Harold tried to answer. Flailing wildly in his bed, the words sounded much more like a very long, very angry whinny. His hooves caught on his sheets, and he fell out of the bed with a 'thump'.

“I shall give you speech and understanding so that you may accomplish your mission.”

Harold felt a strange shudder, like cold water flowing down his scalp.

Harold's muffled voice came from under the tangled ball of sheets in a strange language of neighs, whinnies and nickers, “This doesn't make any sense! You don't make any sense! Farce! Foolishness! Sweet bloody applesauce, you god-forsaken horse!”

After a moment of struggling, he broke free from his prison and tried to stand. He couldn't keep his balance, and he fell to the floor, crying in exasperation. He dragged himself to the bed beside his own and held himself up his forelegs awkwardly, staring down at the bandaged horse in unadulterated rage.

The horse was snoring.

Harold trembled. His vision blurred; his face went hot and he clenched his strange, new teeth tightly. He reached a shaking hoof up to strike to horse as hard as he could...

And saw the face of his daughter, sleeping.

He scrambled backwards in panic, hyperventilating. His back hit up against the bed, and he laid there, beside the bed.

He cried, choking and hiccuping.

His mind reached into the void for hope, and there staring back was the memory of those angry eyes.

He brought his shaking hooves together in front of him. He never really used to do this, and it didn't look quite right, but he hoped God wouldn't mind.

“I am sorry, Lord,” he sobbed. “I have failed you. I am a disappointment. I am sorry for not praying to you. I am sorry for not thanking you. I am sorry for not showing up to church enough. I am sorry,” he choked, “I am sorry for driving my wife away. I am sorry for hitting my daughter. I am sorry for not donating to the Salvation Army. I'm sorry I made fun of Ms. Bujold's hair so much and for not recycling. I'm sorry for using the handicapped parking spaces, I'm sorry I stole ink from the office, and I'm sorry I never made my bed at the hospital...”

“That's alright, I don't mind.”

Harold jolted at the voice answering him.

A yellow horse with a pale blue mane entered the room, carrying a tray with several cups and needles. It had a hairnet and a nurse's hat and seemed to have a mellow, easy-going look on its face, which seemed to Harold very strange on a creature so similar to a horse. “We're happy to fix those. It's our job to take of you, after all, not the other way around. Oh!”

She stared down at him, surprised. He was sitting awkwardly against the bed, half-wrapped in sheets, his eyes red and sore from crying. “Bad dream?”

Harold suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “Yes. A very bad dream.”

“Ah,” she said. “Shame. You're the stallion they just brought in for the botched teleport, aren't you?”

“What?”

“Well, I mean, we assumed it was a teleport. They found you in a broken bed out in the fields. Can't think of too many other ways you'd have ended up like that.” She walked over to the bandaged horse across from him and set down the tray.

“Oh. Yes, that's,” he paused, “pretty much what happened.” He watched as the nurse walked over to the other patient and set her tray on the bed. She picked up one of the needles and began injecting it into a small port on the large plastic bag hung next to him. “So, what happened to him?”

“Poor thing had his entire torso burnt in a fire last week. He hasn't been able to see or eat since.” She sighed. “It's quite tragic, but he's looking to be able to walk by the end of the month.”

She put the needle away and picked up the tray. “He'll probably never be able to speak again.”

“I see.”

“Still, he seems to be dealing with it pretty well. His family's been very supportive, you know. Um, are you okay down there?”

Harold looked down at himself and the mess of sheets and legs he found himself in. “I,” Harold considered what to say carefully, “...had some trouble trying to walk earlier. My legs don't seem to be working like they used to.”

The nurse set down the tray and walked over to help him up. “Oh, that's perfectly normal. Probably just stiff muscles from the healing. Try not to move too quickly, it might take some getting used to.”

Harold slowly managed to get his feet under him properly, swaying a little trying to stay up. “I think you're right there.”

She stared down at his flank. “Oh, that's an interesting one. What do you do, then?”

Harold stared over at his own flank. There, printed into the brown fur was a gold-yellow coin, with a rough image of a loon on it. It was a simplified Canadian loonie. He glanced over to her flank, where there was an image of a white cross with four small hearts.

He gave the answer he was used to giving. “I'm an accountant.”

“Guess that makes sense. Snowheart, by the way,” she said. “And you are...” she stared at the loonie with an intense expression.

“I'm...”

“Wait! Wait, don't tell me. Lemme guess,” she hummed to herself, while Harold felt embarrassed at her stares. Given the relief he felt from at least some kind of normal conversation, though, he did his best to ignore it.

“That's a loon, and you're an accountant. I'm going with Loonsworth,” she said.

“...Sure,” he said.

She stared at him with her mouth gaping. “No way! Really?”

“Yes, really,” he said.

“Wow. That's...” she took on the embarrassed look he had moments ago. “...Pretty suckish, actually.”

She reached a hoof up to her mouth, looking anxious and ashamed. “Oh geeze. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it like that. It's just such an awful name.” She looked panicked and hid her face behind her hoof. “...Don't look at me. I'll just shut up now.”

Harold suddenly felt incredibly guilty for agreeing with her like that. “It's fine, it is a terrible name. That's why... my friends call me Loonie.”

“I, uh, should probably get back to the other patients,” she said, awkwardly, turning to leave. “Oh! Uh, before I leave,” she said, turning around, “Since we have your name, and the doctor checked you out as being fixed up, you can feel free to leave whenever you want.”

She turned again and left.

Harold wasn't sure what to think, or do. He had felt quite nice when he wasn't doing anything at all earlier, but that last few times he tried that he found himself falling into things with voices speaking to him. He'd just woken up, attempted homicide, prayed to God for the first time in decades and had an awkward chat about his made-up name with a blue horse, all in the span of a few minutes.

He decided to leave the hospital.

The idea scared and excited him. He hadn't left the hospital in months. Or years, apparently.

But this was a new hospital.

'Loonsworth, eh?' Well, anything was better than Harold Piggs, he thought.

He stepped forward.

And promptly fell on his face.

'This may take some learning,' he thought.

⁂

Luna rushed into the dining hall, Sir Limbly floating just ahead of her. “Tia! Tia, see what we have uncovered...” She stopped. The long dining table had many ponies laying at it, staring at her. At the head of the table laid Princess Celestia, paused in eating a plate of toast and salad, the only food on the table.

Celestia set down a slice of bread. “Sister. It is good to see you.” She glanced at the object. “Is that your old stuffed spider?”

Luna nodded hesitantly. “We were,” she paused, “unaware the crown was hosting guests this morning.”

Some mutterings crept from the table of ponies. Celestia spoke up, “It has become custom for the subordinate elective monarchy to go over first readings and discussions of bills of the day during the royal breakfast. It saves time, leaving the afternoon free for debate.” Luna shuffled her hooves. Celestia indicated towards the end of the table.

“Would you like to join us?”

“That's quite alright, thank you. We shall be in our room should anypony need us.” Luna left the room, closing the doors behind her. Once they were shut, she tucked Sir Limbly in close and walked back to her room.

⁂

“Now then. We were discussing the South Canterlot Public Grazing Bill, proposed by Lady Viridian. Lord Calamus Silver has the floor,” said Celestia.

A grey pegasus stood. “In reluctant deference to the comment made earlier by Lady Hackles that the proposed bill is 'cattle excrement',”

“Bullshit. I said it was bullshit.”

“Her statement did have a kernel of truth in it, and although I would not go so far as to say it would lead to 'the destitution of our entire society', the visual state of the central road to Canterlot is a vital factor in the sustainability of the Canterlot tourist industry, which in turn is the central economic force of the city as a whole. While the south field is of a healthier crop, the east field is of an at least comparable quality” The pegasus laid down, and an earth pony raised her hoof.

“Lady Viridian has the floor,” said Celestia.

She rose to speak. “That kind of view is heartless and callous and is exactly why we have the problems that require us to pass this kind of bill. Forcing the impoverished to march halfway down the side of a mountain for a meal they need to live is entirely obscene.”

“See, this is what you get. When you buy your bills in bulk, you get big buckets of bullshit.”

“Thank you for that elegant and deeply relevant piece of poetry, Hackles,” said Calamus.

“That's why I'm here.”

Calamus sighed. “As important as your concerns are, Lady Viridian, it would be best if you saved your views for the Open Debate and focused on the points of the bill itself,” he said.

“It's just something that needed to be said,” she responded.

Hackles farted loudly.

“Sorry everypony, I just had to pull that particular piece of inspired commentary out of my ass. Felt it was appropriate given the other comments pulled out of asses this morning.”

Celestia sighed and continued munching on her toast. She really wished Luna had stayed for breakfast. She would have had some interesting things to say, certainly.

⁂

Applejack was selling some apple pie in the market square, a place whose name always seemed a mite silly to Applejack, given it was circular. She saw a pink blur rushing through the marketplace, towards her stand.

“Mornin' there, Pinkie,” she said. Pinkie Pie rushed on past, and Applejack humphed. “T'aint got the time ta say hello, eh? I guess there's somethin' that got her busy.”

Pinkie rushed back to the pie stall. “Hey, I always have time for friends!” she said indignantly.

“Ah don' mean it like that, Pinkie. Ah was just wonderin' what has you so up in a tizzy,” said Applejack.

“Oh, there's somepony new in town, but he's stuck in the hospital, so I'm getting his 'Glad-You're-Better-And-Out-Of-The-Hospital-So-You-Can-Be-At-Your-Welcome-To-Ponyville-Party-Welcome-To-Ponyville-Party-Party' ready. It's going to be at the Brown farm. Oh!” she gasped, “I almost forgot! Here's your invitation.” She hand Applejack a letter.

Applejack frowned. “Why's it gonna be there?” she asked.

“Oh, Brown heard the new pony's an accountant, and he's been needing one, so he's hoping to hire him. I know you do all that fancy-shmancy stuff yourself at the Apple farm, but Brown never learned any of that, so he needs somepony to do it for him,” she said.

“Ah see.”

Pinkie squinted at Applejack suspiciously. “You aren't going to make a scene at somepony's Welcome Party, are you Applejack?”

“'Course not,” said Applejack. “Ah woulda rather'd it done somewhere else, but Ah don't got much of a right telling him not ta host it if he's willing. Ah can bite the billet fer the night, Pinkie, don't you worry about me.”

Pinkie Pie squinted for a bit, then smiled wide. “I trust you, Applejack.”

“'Course you do. Now git moving girl, you got work ta do.”

“Yes ma'am!” Pinkie ran off to the Brown farm, at the edge of town. Applejack watched her go, tentatively.

“Ah just hope he can do the same.”

⁂

“Moving on,” said Celestia. She levitated a short stack of sheets in front of her. “Bill 'C-571' as proposed by Her Most Empyrean Majesty Princess Celestia.”

The room filled with quiet chatter, thick with anticipation. It had been sixty years since the last bill Celestia proposed, and another eighty before that.

“To amend the Equestrian Parliament Implementation Act, to reestablish the Equestrian Diarchy, and to allow for the eventual repurposing of the Equestrian Parliament.

“Her Most Empyrean Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Parliament of Equestria, enacts as follows:

“1. This bill may be cited as the 'Bill of Equestrian Reestablishment'.

“2. The following definitions apply in this act, with otherwise conflicting established definitions notwithstanding:

“'Princess' meaning the highest rank of authority, including Her Most Empyrean Majesty Princess Celestia and Her Most Astral Majesty Princess Luna, with all other holders of the title being superficial and not applicable within Equestrian Legislature.

“3. Sections 1 through 5 of the Equestrian Parliament Implementation Act are replaced by the following:

“1. Before the passing of any bill by the Equestrian Legislature, each Princess shall be consulted with respect to the proposed bill, and no bill shall be so enacted without the approval of each Princess.

“2. Before the passing of any bill by the Equestrian Legislature, the Subordinate Elective Monarchy shall be consulted with respect to the proposed bill.

“3. Sections 6 through 12 of the Act are repealed.

“Bill ends here.”

The room fell deathly silent. It was void of sound, save for the chatter of the market and the soft pattering of the paper Celestia was now setting back on the table. The anticipation of earlier had been replaced with a grim tension, tight in the air, and an unease uncomfortably lain on the ponies there.

Celestia waited. “Then if there are no comments, moving on...”

A pony tentatively raised a hoof.

“Lord Patterspiel has the floor.”

He stood slowly, and he stayed silent for a few seconds. “For the purpose of clarification,” he began slowly, “the proposed bill would effectively be the dissolution of the Equestrian Parliament.”

Hackles held her head in her hoof, speaking quietly, and bitterly, “Of course that's what it means you, you...” She inhaled deeply.

“Celestia's sweet fanny acres, I need a drink,” she said. She stood, turning and leaving the room.

Celestia looked a bit flustered at the comment, but answered Patterspiel, “Not at all. The Equestrian Parliament would remain supported by state taxes and continue its role as an advisory council.”

Patterspiel laid down again, and the room was silent again.

“Then if there are no further comments, moving on... ”

⁂

Harold managed to hobble his way to the hospital doors. The journey, though short, was very surreal to him. Strangely coloured unicorns in doctor's outfits would occasionally pass him in the hall, and in the main hall was a green horse reading a magazine behind a desk.

He made to leave.

“We need you to sign a release form before you leave,” the horse said. He walked awkwardly back over to the desk, where she was still reading her magazine, her hoof outstretched with a pencil in it. Harold reached out a hoof and made to pick it up.

He knocked the pencil to the ground.

The mare looked away from her magazine to stare at the pencil on the ground. She glanced up at Harold.

“Well?”

Harold poked at the pencil with his hoof, and it rolled around the floor.

The mare looked annoyed, and she muttered something probably quite rude about brain damage. “You pick it up. With your mouth.”

Harold looked surprised, and a little disgusted. “Off the floor?”

She rolled her eyes. “That's where it is, isn't it?”

Hesitantly, he bent down and picked it up in his mouth.

“Now sign here,” she said, pointing at a line at the bottom of a form. Harold leaned forward, the pencil in his mouth, and he slowly scratched out 'Loonsworth.' Something seemed strange about what he'd written, besides its legibility. A moment later he realized it was that he'd written it in another alphabet.

The mare picked it up, looked at it and raised an eyebrow.

“Close enough. You can go,” she said, going back to her reading.

Loonsworth carefully walked to the doors of the hospital and opened them.

“Hi!” the grinning pink pony said.

Loonsworth lost his footing for the third time that day.

⁂

Calamus closed the door quietly behind him and walked to his lounge. His wife was reading a book there.

He pulled a copy of 'Don Rocinante' from the bookshelves, poured himself a glass of bourbon from the wine cabinet and laid beside his wife Tender.

She nuzzled him gently.

“Good afternoon, Calamus.”

“Good afternoon, dear.”

They laid there reading for a few minutes, when Tender spoke up. “Is there something the matter, Calamus?”

“Whatever do you mean?” he said, continuing to read his book.

“You're tense,” she said. “Did Lord Sideburn persuade the council to vote against your public libraries again?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Nothing so pedestrian. Celestia proposed a new bill.”

“Oh? Curious. What was it?”

“She wishes to revoke the power of the Equestrian Parliament and establish Princess Luna as a ruling Diarch.”

Tender set her book down and stared at her husband in shock.

“That mare hasn't been in the modern world for a week,” she said. “I very much suspect she doesn't know the first thing about running this country, even if we were to ignore the risk of another episode with Nightmare Moon.”

“I suppose we'll just have to pray she knows what she's doing,” said Calamus. “She did run the country for quite a number of centuries with Celestia; one would hope it is just a matter of oiling up the old gears.”

Tender hummed and hawed. “The bill will be voted on next week, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well then,” she said, sounding pleased. “That's plenty of time to persuade the council to vote against it.”

He choked on his bourbon, and he spoke hoarsely, “You don't seem to quite understand, dear; Celestia doesn't often propose bills. She enacts one of her own maybe twice in a century.”

Tender was annoyed. “So?”

“The Equestrian Parliament doesn't refuse Celestia's bills, Tender. It never has. Not once, not ever in a thousand years, not with a single vote against.”

“But you could, couldn't you?”

“In theory we could, but the chances of it actually happening are so astronomically...”

“You could do it, though.”

He stood silent for a moment. “Yes. We could.”