derpestia red flag ryze & fall: re-heated revendetta: the spoiled broth [an absurdist fantasy]by Blank!Chapters"It takes a lot to make'em stew," or "The Path of Blossoms: To(wards)/Set(ting) The STAGE!""Waiting for Approval" or "Life out of Balance"Chapter Zero: "Ressentiment" or "Smile!""A pinch of salt and laughter, too!" or "Far beneath the misty storm fronts warm/in waters deep and trenches old...""It takes a lot to make'em stew," or "The Path of Blossoms: To(wards)/Set(ting) The STAGE!"Author's Note Dear reader, I'm mad, and I'm not gonna take this anymore! "But Blank! Why so crank?" Oh, Pinkie, my dear, this is tragic, a catastrophe of Homeric proportions. "I think we can handle a regional conflict between bronze-age tribes, Blank!" Indeed, Twilight. Let me rephrase it: this is a catastrophe of Lovecraftian proportions. "I reckon there ain't no point in worryin', then, it's not like we can do anythin' 'bout it. All we gotta do is buck on and enjoy existence while it exists, is all I'm sayin'." ... It's a disaster of alarming proportions. "OH NO! WE'RE ALARMED NOW, BLANK! TELL US MORE!" Well, it all began on a dark and stormy night, Heartswarming Day's Eve in fact... BUT FIRST...! *GASP* FIRRRST...! "It takes a lot to make'em stew," or "The Path of Blossoms: To(wards)/Set(ting) The STAGE!" First off, dear reader, I would like to give you my own, personal opinions about the characters in this story. Now, I'll admit, I've been wrong about my characters before. I'd tell my reader, "Hoof is a miser and an ass—no offense" ("None taken..."), and he'd go on and do nothing miserly throughout the tale! In fact, he'd be nothing but helpful and fair and sensible! Why, such rebellion! To tell the truth, only time, and their actions within this story, will tell what their true character is; this is only my prejudiced opinion, and you should take it for what it is. I mean, you think you know someone, you raised them from foalhood, gave them everything backstories could buy, and the second you give them some trust, the very instant you actually put them on stage, they start writing their own lines and, and it's "Oh, I have my own idea how this should go!" and "No, I won't do that, that's insane and contrived and stupid, buck your plot!" Argh, rashin' fashin' ramnable writtle... Ahem, where were we? Ah, character introductions. Now, for starters: Princess Celestia is a mediocre leader. I have a magnificent proof for this hypothesis, which this margin is too narrow to contain. Now, let's get on with the other characters: Straw Mare is a special case: she's defined entirely by her opinions. She was orphaned in an accident in her childhood, a fire in the town of Hotspringville, not far from Fillydephia, and has lost all sense of self. The mare who rescued and later adopted her, Neigh Check was an old widow, with an impressive beehive hairdo and piercing eyes, that lived and died by the soapbox—as in, she died while giving an impassioned diatribe on how modern children's entertainment was corrupting our youth by eliminating all the blood and violence that had been traditional in it since times immemorial. [Need to elaborate a funny scene here] She would write angry, outraged letters to every single newspaper, of any political leaning, contradicting them for the principle of it, calling out every hypocristy, inconsistency or weakness with , and signing her letters "Disgusted, of Hotspringville"—or "Disgusted of Hotspringville", if the town itself had earned her ire. [...] Fisher Prize is a gamer, a player, a gambler, and a sportsmare. She will challenge the odds, and beat them up with their own rear ends. She will win hearts, and then she'll play and she'll play and she'll play and she'll play them to the beat. Do not underestimate the things that she will do if she feels challenged—and, above all, be wary of what she will do if she feels unchallenged. Everything is a game to Fisher Prize—and she plays to win! Don Jairo is a fashionista. Not an establishment fashionista, mind you; he will hardly ever be featured in Cingle or Navigue or Capitalitan except as a curiosity, the sort that is showered in backhanded compliments by journalists who think themselves clever, and snickered at by their readers, who concur. No, Don Jairo belonged to the alternate scene, the gritty underground, thought of himself as a provocateur. That he provoked laughter rather than ire, he didn't seem to noticenotice—or perhaps he didn't care, so long as he was provoking something. Perhaps, knowing that he lived in a reactionary world, he exploited it for all the reaction it was worth? At any rate, Don Jairo's appearance is so byzantine, so complex, so eye-searingly strident that I don't dare attempt to read it, let alone hotlink an image to it. Now, Platero, Platero was something else. Platero was an ass. A young ass. A soft, hairy ass: so soft to the touch that he might be said to be made of cotton, with no bones. Only the jet mirrors of his eyes are hard like two black crystal scarabs. On a sunny day, he goes to the meadow, and, with his nose, he gently caresses the little flowers of rose and blue and gold.... You call him softly, "Platero?" and he comes to you at a gay little trot that is like laughter of a vague, idyllic, tinkling sound... He eats whatever I give him. He likes mandarin oranges, amber-hued muscatel grapes, purple figs tipped with crystalline drops of honey... He is as loving and tender as a child, but strong and sturdy as a rock. When on Sun Days you walk with him through the lanes in the outskirts of the town, slow-moving country folk, dressed in their Sun Day clean, watch him a while, speculatively: "He is like steel," they say. Steel, yes. Steel and moon silver at the same time. He—was my foal friend. The only equine who wouldn't whinny and rear every time he heard my name. I miss you, Platero. Here, have a profile pic: And a portrait: Isn't he gorgeous? There's also MIKE and BOB lurking somewhere in the background. But there will be time enough to introduce them. Katawako is a dragon from the Far East. She doesn't breathe fire, and she has no hooves or hands, and she's blind, so some would consider her a cripple. Her response to being called "gimp girl" or any such derogatory expression was lightning-fast, as in, she would electrocute them on the spot: Katawako had a long, scaly body, and a short, scary temper, and control over the weather, of a different sort than pegasi had. However, she's good-natured in accepting that her blindness is a bit of a running gag among her friends, as she's so perceptive they often forget she is blind, and inadvertently end up doing things like showing her a piece of paper or asking her if they look pretty today. She may be cranky, but she's got a kind, generous, loyal, honest heart. And a wicked sense of humour, as long as the targets are other people. Oh, speaking of differently-abled characters, in this fic, Princess Twilight Sparkle has lost her wings during the battle against Tirek. Only when harnessing the Rainbow Power of Harmony and Friendship do they temporarily come back, but, otherwise, Twilight Sparkle is mostly ground-bound, and must learn to appreciate life without her beautiful wings, never to freely soar in the heavens, streaking the clouds of purple and red in the sunset like she once did. Oh, the tragedy of it! Now, our protagonist, ladies and gentlemen: anon, which is short for "anointed". He is the son of Man, the Redeemer, the only resident of Equestria with qualia. Through his True Consciousness (fake), he is the only sapient being to justify Equestria's existence to itself. anon is , however, a shy, subtle, ambiguous figure, working backstage and in mysterious ways. He has one grand plan: to share his gift with all of Equestria, giving souls to to all living beings, and ending his terrible, terrible loneliness. "Waiting for Approval" or "Life out of Balance"Twilight signed her weekly Friendship Report with a flourish. Your Most Faithful Student, Twilight Sparkle The real Covert Report, not that kihd’s stuff nonsense she always sent out while in public. Those were practically—sometimes literally— postcards. No, these reports were for posterity, and included a detailed contextualization of the lesson—again, the real lesson, which may or may not be what came out in the public letter. Sometimes, she also included suggestions for ways to test the lessons in a controlled environment, as well as any caveats or exceptions that her mind could summon. After all, despite our wishes, the plural of anecdote is not data, and truth resists simplicity. All in all, it was arduous work, and took her a good chunk of the rest of the week, along with helping with the cleanup and damage evaluation. Twilight may admit to being a bit neurotic, but no-one could say she wasn’t conscientious. After eleventy drafts, and choosing between three alternate final versions, Twilight took a deep breath, and Spike shook his hands in tiredness. She only summoned Spike to transcribe the final final draft, because, while she didn’t want to tire him too much, he had the best calligraphy of the two. “Ready, Spike” They exchanged an ominous look. “Let’s do this.” Together, all of these reports were meant to constitute the basis for her final Book of Friendship, her Doctoral Thesis, a reference guide for all future generations, the basis of the new discipline of Fileology, the Crowning Moment of her Life as a Graduate, and her first step in the world of Academics. There was no room for error. Which meant, it wasn’t just up to Twilight and Celestia. It had to be submitted to the real test —*gasp*— Peer Review! Spike and Twilight both drew a deep breath, and the Number One Assistant, the Loyal Aide, her True Companion, blew the fire that would send the letter on its way. Doom. The relief of inevitability, of the release of responsibility, no matter how temporary. Soon—and they never knew when, besides “not right now” and “within the week”, and that was torture, that was a nightmare”—soon they would know whether it passed or not. Probably not. And then they’d have to go through the work again. This graph (on page 14) using a logarithmic scale is objectionable, as per Tough Tub’s On The Visual Display of Quantitative Information... There is an alternate hypothesis that may better explain the data; what if... This and that word need to be defined in the glossary… There seems to be a gap in this demonstration. What’s the rationale, ‘then a miracle occurs’? Well, they were in Equestira, unlike what happened in other countries’ research circles, kind words and positive feedback were to be expected as well: Section 2.3.a) was very enlightening, that was amazing The potentials of these results for overall equine happiness are incalculable! Keep this up, Miss Twilight, and I don’t doubt you’ll be a Doctor soon. Ah, words of praise from the Peers of the Crown—the real ones, not those (Ig)Noble Prats out there in the public eye—they were the third best thing after the approval of the Princess —she may be very nice, and polite and caring and wonderful and amazing and beautiful and perfect, sigh, but real praise from her was, as it turns out, surprisingly rare— and that of her friends… and they could definitely make her day. Now, though, now was time to wait. To wait and fret. “Spike, feeling burpy yet?” “No.” … That was good. It meant nothing was excessively wrong with the document at a first glance. Then again, maybe not. It had once taken them five hours to send it back, only to tell her they felt the Abstract was too vague and she should rewrite it before they could proceed. “Post-Production” was truly an exercise in frustration. “What about now?” “No. Twilight, we’ve talked about this, I’m worried enough about a fireball coming out of my throat unbidden in the middle of doing something delicate, I don’t need to deal with your anxiety on top of that!” Gulp. “You’re right, Spike. I’ll… I’ll just have to wait.” “You gotta stop worrying, Twilight. Relax. Just… let it happen.” “You’re right, Spike. I guess… I’ll just have to wait.” “Oh, my, this is worse than I thought! You’re repeating yourself!” “Oh my! You’re right, Sp—” She went quiet at Spike’s withering glare. But kept fidgeting. So it went on. ಠ_ಠ “But—” ಠ_______________ಠ “I’m going to the observatory to meditate. Wake me up if—” ಠ_ಠ “... if something comes up.” Twilight sat cross-legged, her mug of warm brew in her hands, and contemplated the evening in Ponyville. The sun was getting closer to the horizon, after illuminating quite an exhausting day. After all that work, Twilight needed to take her mind off of things. The way to do that, she had found, wasn’t to distract herself with books, or to meet up with her friends—that only replaced one kind of buzzing with another, and she needed her mind to stop buzzing altogether. Instead, she distracted herself by the deliberate and neutral witnessing of the world around her and within her; by focusing her senses entirely on what was happening, then and there, rather than projecting it into whys and hows and whens and what-ifs. It was like cloudwatching, a detached yet absorbing activity. So then, she thought as she finished her warm broth, time to begin. Like Zecora taught her: It is by will alone I set my mind to rest, With the breath comes the world Listen, to what breaks the silence Smell, every fragrant nuance, Feel, the touch and the warmth and the beat With the breath leaves the dream My voice is quiet, My soul is open, It is by will alone I set my mind to rest. A cart’s wheels on the frozen street. A dog barking. The smell of fresh grass under the snow. A foal crying. A foal laughing. An owl hooting. A smell of apple pie. Her heartbeat. The wooden floor she sat on. Her breath. A door opens. A salutation. The door closes. A gust of fresh air. A lump of snow, falling. A whiff of chlorine. Steps on gravel. Her hooves on each other. Her mug growing cold. She opened her eyes. The skies were on fire, purple and red and orange and blue The first stars were there, Her heartbeat slowed A cat mewed A window opened, close by. There was Rigel And Sirius And Betelgeuse And Aldebaran Such wonderful names they had, the Stars Cold and blazing and far away. The sting of the winter air through her nostrils, and, with it, the smell of rice with curry, from what she knew to be Spike’s recipe, and with it, the gentle taste of saliva, the push of her tongue against her palate, the gulp of gluttony. Silence. She took a deep breath. That had been enough. Twilight stood up, took up her mug, gathered herself, and returned to the the warmth of her home, following the gentle caress of the fragrance of her little chef’s skillful course, closing an open window along the way. Upon entering the kitchen, she did not ask, knew not, did not need to, she just glanced at him, and he glanced back, and that was it. She would have to wait some more, but she found that she didn’t mind. No, that wasn’t it; they exchanged a warm smile. “The table is ready.” “Instead of calling for me and interrupting my meditation, you opened a window to summon me through the redolence of royal-grade cooking? Subtle.” “I hung out with the palace staff, back in the day. Herding nobles and princesses requires a gentle touch. Same goes for scientists. You all focus on those big important thoughts of yours, and we’ll make sure that you go through the motions of keeping yourselves alive and comfortable. Ideally, you’ll never even know we were there.” “... Spike, you know you’re not my servant.” “I’m your assistant. That’s just even more responsibility.” Twilight chuckled. The drake had a point. “Ah, would it console you to know that you’ll have assistants of your own, eventually? I mean, you won’t be my assistant forever. For one thing, you’ll surely outlive me!” A shadow quickly passed over his semblance, then he chortled. “... Come on, let’s dig in while it’s still warm.” Author's Note I wrote this chapter while waiting for the Fimfic staff to approve my story for publication. And that, my friends, is how you turn your sorrow into story. Storrow? Anyway, leave no crisis unexploited, that's my advice for ya. Chapter Zero: "Ressentiment" or "Smile!"Derpy was flying the graveyard shift. Again. Very little traffic, of ponies and of letters. Minimal risk. No-one ever trusted her with any responsibility. She’d learned to smile through her frustration. A single mother. A slurred voice. Cross-eyed. Why, obviously, an idiot! Not just your garden-variety idiot, but a lovable idiot, one people wanted to protect. One people couldn’t help but patronize. Why would you be mean to Derpy? She’d learned to smile through it, and play along. Play dumb. Frowns don’t look good on you, my sweetheart, her mother would say. Smile! Why don’t you give me a nice smile! It was never “Why are you frowning?” or “What’s wrong?” or “How are you feeling?” Her feelings didn’t matter. All that mattered, was that she smile. That she be, well, if not beautiful, then at least adorable. An ornamental mare, a background pony. She couldn't even be a trophy wife—barely a mascot. Even becoming a widow hadn’t give her a shred more of dignity. She was only pitied. Why don’t you smile? So she smiled that sheepish smile of hers. She turned her feelings into something to smile about. Decrying all the things that she couldn’t get, and elevating all the things that she didn’t want, but happened to have. ‘Sexlessness’ became ‘purity’. ‘Weakness’ became ‘meekness’. ‘Submission to people one can't stand’ became ‘obedience’. And ‘not being able to take revenge’ turned into ‘forgiveness’. She blended into the herd, and forgot herself. But sometimes, when she was flying alone, in the cold dusk, her thoughts would wander, and she would remember, all that she wasn’t, all that she’d never have, all that she’d never attain. Meeting Celestia… had changed things. Wait, what? They had met? Ho—Derpy’s mounting confusion at the strange thought suddenly went quiet, somehow. It wasn’t important. But her thoughts had turned to Celestia and— A green flash, in the night, through narrow windows. There it was. Golden-Oak library. A letter had just been sent. By the amazing, fantastic, super-special Twilight Sparkle, to the brilliant, dazzling, magnificent Princess Celestia. She enviedadmired them, these wonderful ponies. She wished she had all of Celestia’s attention like that… What would it be like, to bask in her warmth? To lose her mind in her ethereal hair... If she only knew… Wha— D̵̢̳̖̗͔̞̫̫̬̗ǫ̵̦̫͔̪̱͇̰͉͚ ̸̧̮̠͉̬͚̬̥͜ͅY̵̧̢̳̙̯̖̫̙̘͓o̷̡̝̤̫̭̲̪̠̖̫u̴̫̖͓̞͍͓͔͜͜ͅ ̵̧̖̖͍̝͉͙̹͖̖R̵͔̭̜̯̜̣̙͚̠̗e̶̢̡̜̦͖̹͍̻̻̜m̸̖͍̥̝̖̜͎̟͎͉e̴͕̼͖̳̤̰͔̘̫̩m̴̧͙͖͖͚̻̳͈͖̩b̸̧̦̻͉̘̝͕̺̙̥e̶̡̞̲͍͓͍̙͎͇͉r̴͕̣̹̤̻̰̮̪͔͜ ̷̫̱͖̱͓̜͕͚̫̲Ṱ̵̤̘͖͔̘̗̺͖͚h̶̤̰̜͎̘̠͎̘͍̖e̶̡̢̢̥̫̥̪̤̞̘ ̴̼̫̥͈̩͎̬͓̝̯Ţ̵͖͔̦̜̺͕̙̯͜i̵̡̨̢̫̺̻̪̻̗̺m̶̡̧̲̳͕̫̤͚͇̥ȩ̸̢͇̗̣̗̺̻̟͜ ̷̧̥̦̗̤̩̭̗̱ͅW̴̧̧͍̫͙̱̮̖̙͇h̵̢̡͕̙̭̦͚̗̱̺ę̶̡͓͚̲̯͉̻̮͜n̸̡̗͖̗̣̲̬͕̹̹ ̵̹̼̭͔̼̤̯̳͜ͅW̷͖̖̣͚̤̟͔͖̖ͅȩ̵̢̯̦̥̗̻̲͜ͅ ̶̰͍͉̘̤͙͔͇̠ͅF̶̡̧̨̖̙͈̟͕̮̺ḙ̵̰̘͇̱̩̖̙̗̙l̴̬͙̰͓̘̬̣̖̻̟l̵̨̨͖̺͙͇̯̮̲͜ ̷̧̡̢̟̣̗͉̗̰̙Į̴̧̱̰̳̩̯̥͎̝n̴̯̻̗̞̭̙̞͍ͅͅ ̴̨̦̬͖̭̫̭̩̜̫L̸̮͇̟̠̣̼͉̫͇͇o̷̧̡͚̣̻̘̮̰͙̠v̷̡̫̖͖̳͙̖͍͔̻e̵̡̹̜͈̤͎͎̗̘͚ ̴̯͈͖̟͓͖̻͈͖͜D̷̢̤̺̦̠̙͍͚̭͎ọ̴̢̧̳̰̖̼͓̲͙ ̷̬̩̼͍͚̜̼̞͖͍Y̵̨͈̫̩̠̺̬͚̣̼o̶̢̧͙̞̫̣͚̩̙̪ų̷͙̮͚̮̟̜͔̼ͅ ̶̝̖̳̰̠͉̯̠͕̳R̴̨̟͖̪̬̼̙̥̼͜ȩ̷̞̘͔̲̻͕̥̻ͅm̸̡̘̫̜̰̗̰̙͙̳e̸̡̢̦̫̤͔̭̫͍ͅm̵̨̥̘̹̝̲̫͔̘̦ḇ̵̨̩̹̦̻̦͈̙͜e̶͎̼͍̜̖̪̝̳̰ͅr̶̢̢̧̭̼̩̰̲͙͈ ̴̡̻̱̲̟̝̺̗̩̖T̴͔̯̟̜̜̩͚̯̳̻h̶̨̩͖͇͉̘̰͚̯̘e̷͚͇̤̣͙̘̮̻͜ͅ ̴̗̖̖̘͈͙̭̮̦͓T̷͚̜͓̺̯͇̳͔̲ͅi̷̡͈͇̣̳̹͈͚͜͜m̴̢̜̱̜̲͈̖̦̥͚e̷̥̩̬͖͈̲̼̬͜͜ ̶̨̪̝͉̪̪͕͎̰̲W̶̨̘͖̫͓̪̙͙̰͙ḩ̵̧̜͖̟̲̦͎̭̭e̷̢̗͉̠̝͚̣̞̜̜n̵̡̧̹͙̭͖̥̬̯̹ ̴̺̗̺͈̟̺̩̼̪͚W̴̡̥̹̳̭̘͍̘̙͇ę̸̜̠̯͔̲̯̥̙ͅ ̶̨̨͇̣̙̭͍̦̥̟F̷̻̫͎̗̹̝̰͕̞̦i̷̢̢̬͔̠̜̫̩͔̙r̷̨͖̟̥͇͉͔̳̠͖s̶̟̰̱͎̬̫͇̰̠ͅt̴̖͖̪̲̙̟̞̫̰̮ ̵̖͉͍̱̻̰͖̺̮͎M̶̙̙͚̪̟̥̘̰̠͓e̶̡̪̼͕̱̹̼͔̹̞t̸̢̡̺͇̦͇̥̝̻͉ "A pinch of salt and laughter, too!" or "Far beneath the misty storm fronts warm/in waters deep and trenches old..."In Upper Canterlot born and raised, where did Twilight spend out most of her days? In the library, at school, on her desk, with just enough time spent on sleep and sexfood. Still, she did take a break sometimes to study with her Teacher, the Great and Powerful Celestia, the Magnanimous, la Large d’Esprit, μεγαλόψυχος, die Großmütige, and so on and so forth. Writing down all of Celestia’s titles, surnames, nicknames and pet names would take a treaty on its own, and we need to get on with the story. Now, sometimes Tia took Twi to tea on top of town, and sometimes there was there a tame and tired old-timer named Tantalus, although she preferred to be called “the Dam”. Now, the dam had seen much of the world beyond equestira, and even beneath, for she was a sailor mare, specifically a Sub-Marine. She told Twilight, with the help of books and journals and souvenirs, of the whole wide world, of both the beautiful and the horrible, of corruption and regeneration, of rises and falls and writings on the walls. Saddle Arabians were especially good at those - Twilight’s favourite was one that said “READ!” over and over and over… The Dam had a way of making the most world-wearying stories sound delightful to a child’s ears, even without sugar-coating them one bit. She had this detached, unflappable attitude to her, and, beneath this nonchalance, a poignant sense of humour. Once, she told Twilight about her time on the Titanic Medusa. You know where this is going… “I’ll skip right ahead to the interesting part,” she said. Heh, I could stand to learn from her. Not that this isn’t interesting, but sometimes even I can’t tell whether I’m advancing the plot or just rambl - shutting up now. “Now, picture this, little Twilight. I’m on a boat. “Was it one of those fancy yachts?” “Nope.” “A gritty barge?” “Nope.” “Or a fisherman’s seiner—” “Ee-nope. It was a lifeboat.” To the Dam’s satisfaction, Twilight gasped. “It was flimsy, and frail, all light-weight and bright-coloured. Orange. Stuck out like a sore thumb in the middle of all that blue, that azure sky, that marine sea… now, why was that, Twi?” “... Someone in the crew likes citrus fruits?” “Try agian.” “Well, it sticks out, and it’s a lifeboat, so… to make it easier to find you?” “Exactly.” It was always a pleasure, giving Twlight a chance to ‘earn points’ like that. Whenever she got an answer right, Twilight would give the cutiest, most gleeful little smiles. "Now, here comes the fun part. All around me, circling the horizon all over, were huge anvil-shaped clouds, electric blues of thunderbolts and lightnings, snaking freely between silver linings. And yet, right above my orange little raft, was the unconquered white sun, ambling through the zenith, burning its way to eternity, like nothing was the trouble. Now, why was that, Twi?” “It was a cyclone, a big one, and you were in the eye of the storm?” “Precisely,” she said the word like the slice of a knife. “I am at the peaceful heart of the writhing storm.” “What about your ship and crew?” “Well, let me put it this way:” the Dam said, raising a sardonic eyebrow, “there was room for eight on that lifeboat, yet I was all alone.” “That was a rather frightening situation to be in, my little pony.” It was the first time Celestia had heard that one as well. “What did you do?” “What I always do, your Highness; I take’er easy. I can’t outrun the storm, so, I enjoy the the peace of the moment, while it passes. I bask in your sun, while it shines. I go with the flow. The Dam abides, little Twilight. Determined, to live to see the sun again.” The dam paused for a moment, letting the lesson sink in. Then she went for the finisher: “So, seeing as I was relaxing under the mid-day sun like that, what do you think was the first thing the Dam did?” “I don’t know… you set out a distress flare?” “Well, yeah, but after that.” “You made sure the provisions and water and survival equipment were in place?” “Wasn’t much point in doing that, Twily.” “Wha-why-oh, yeah, you do that while it’s still on the mother-ship, otherwise it’s too late.” “I did check, though, but that wasn’t the first important thing I did. Here’s a hint, we were in tropical waters.” “You took out the fishing rod and tried to get some food while the calm lasted.” “... Actually that’s the second important thing I did. Ready to give up?” Twilight gave the most adorable frustrated sigh. “I believe you should let us know already, Dam.” Oh Goodness, Celestia’s smile was becoming patient. “Right you are, Princess. Twilight, the first thing I thought to do was, I put on sunscreen.” There was a silence. There was a shudder. There was a burst of laughter. “O-hmpf-okay, Twilight, so, so -ha!- so what’s the lesson?” “Don’t worry about stuff you can’t affect, enjoy the good stuff while it lasts, and never lose sight of the long-term and the small details, even when things seem desperate and hopeless. Above all, as always, be prepared!” “Indeed, Twilight! Now, sing it with me!” Be prepared! That's the Kid Scout's marching song, Be prepared! As through life you march along. Be prepared! That's the Kid Scouts' solemn creed, Be prepared! And be clean in word and deed. Don't be nervous, don't be flustered, don't be scared. Be prepared! Years later, Twilight would find out about the rest of the lyrics of that song, and would affectionately chuckle with her masters at her younger self’s innocence. Another lesson she had learned over the years was the following: Knowledge is power, ignorance is bliss: to be blissful, is to be powerless. To give the blessings, to guard the garden, is to trade purity for understanding. a Royal Marine reservist: they sub for those on duty when extra hands are needed Author's Note WE TAKE SUGGESTIONS! SUGGEST, SUGGEST, BUT ALWAYS, NEVER, EVER, INGEST! Preview of next chapter: Regal: Do you want a carrot? Tarragon: Is that all there is? Regal: I might have some turnips. Tarragon: Give me a carrot. (Regal rummages in his pockets, takes out a turnip and gives it to Tarragon, who takes a bit out of it) It's a turnip! Regal: Oh pardon! I could have sworn it was a carrot.
"It takes a lot to make'em stew," or "The Path of Blossoms: To(wards)/Set(ting) The STAGE!"Author's Note Dear reader, I'm mad, and I'm not gonna take this anymore! "But Blank! Why so crank?" Oh, Pinkie, my dear, this is tragic, a catastrophe of Homeric proportions. "I think we can handle a regional conflict between bronze-age tribes, Blank!" Indeed, Twilight. Let me rephrase it: this is a catastrophe of Lovecraftian proportions. "I reckon there ain't no point in worryin', then, it's not like we can do anythin' 'bout it. All we gotta do is buck on and enjoy existence while it exists, is all I'm sayin'." ... It's a disaster of alarming proportions. "OH NO! WE'RE ALARMED NOW, BLANK! TELL US MORE!" Well, it all began on a dark and stormy night, Heartswarming Day's Eve in fact... BUT FIRST...! *GASP* FIRRRST...! "It takes a lot to make'em stew," or "The Path of Blossoms: To(wards)/Set(ting) The STAGE!" First off, dear reader, I would like to give you my own, personal opinions about the characters in this story. Now, I'll admit, I've been wrong about my characters before. I'd tell my reader, "Hoof is a miser and an ass—no offense" ("None taken..."), and he'd go on and do nothing miserly throughout the tale! In fact, he'd be nothing but helpful and fair and sensible! Why, such rebellion! To tell the truth, only time, and their actions within this story, will tell what their true character is; this is only my prejudiced opinion, and you should take it for what it is. I mean, you think you know someone, you raised them from foalhood, gave them everything backstories could buy, and the second you give them some trust, the very instant you actually put them on stage, they start writing their own lines and, and it's "Oh, I have my own idea how this should go!" and "No, I won't do that, that's insane and contrived and stupid, buck your plot!" Argh, rashin' fashin' ramnable writtle... Ahem, where were we? Ah, character introductions. Now, for starters: Princess Celestia is a mediocre leader. I have a magnificent proof for this hypothesis, which this margin is too narrow to contain. Now, let's get on with the other characters: Straw Mare is a special case: she's defined entirely by her opinions. She was orphaned in an accident in her childhood, a fire in the town of Hotspringville, not far from Fillydephia, and has lost all sense of self. The mare who rescued and later adopted her, Neigh Check was an old widow, with an impressive beehive hairdo and piercing eyes, that lived and died by the soapbox—as in, she died while giving an impassioned diatribe on how modern children's entertainment was corrupting our youth by eliminating all the blood and violence that had been traditional in it since times immemorial. [Need to elaborate a funny scene here] She would write angry, outraged letters to every single newspaper, of any political leaning, contradicting them for the principle of it, calling out every hypocristy, inconsistency or weakness with , and signing her letters "Disgusted, of Hotspringville"—or "Disgusted of Hotspringville", if the town itself had earned her ire. [...] Fisher Prize is a gamer, a player, a gambler, and a sportsmare. She will challenge the odds, and beat them up with their own rear ends. She will win hearts, and then she'll play and she'll play and she'll play and she'll play them to the beat. Do not underestimate the things that she will do if she feels challenged—and, above all, be wary of what she will do if she feels unchallenged. Everything is a game to Fisher Prize—and she plays to win! Don Jairo is a fashionista. Not an establishment fashionista, mind you; he will hardly ever be featured in Cingle or Navigue or Capitalitan except as a curiosity, the sort that is showered in backhanded compliments by journalists who think themselves clever, and snickered at by their readers, who concur. No, Don Jairo belonged to the alternate scene, the gritty underground, thought of himself as a provocateur. That he provoked laughter rather than ire, he didn't seem to noticenotice—or perhaps he didn't care, so long as he was provoking something. Perhaps, knowing that he lived in a reactionary world, he exploited it for all the reaction it was worth? At any rate, Don Jairo's appearance is so byzantine, so complex, so eye-searingly strident that I don't dare attempt to read it, let alone hotlink an image to it. Now, Platero, Platero was something else. Platero was an ass. A young ass. A soft, hairy ass: so soft to the touch that he might be said to be made of cotton, with no bones. Only the jet mirrors of his eyes are hard like two black crystal scarabs. On a sunny day, he goes to the meadow, and, with his nose, he gently caresses the little flowers of rose and blue and gold.... You call him softly, "Platero?" and he comes to you at a gay little trot that is like laughter of a vague, idyllic, tinkling sound... He eats whatever I give him. He likes mandarin oranges, amber-hued muscatel grapes, purple figs tipped with crystalline drops of honey... He is as loving and tender as a child, but strong and sturdy as a rock. When on Sun Days you walk with him through the lanes in the outskirts of the town, slow-moving country folk, dressed in their Sun Day clean, watch him a while, speculatively: "He is like steel," they say. Steel, yes. Steel and moon silver at the same time. He—was my foal friend. The only equine who wouldn't whinny and rear every time he heard my name. I miss you, Platero. Here, have a profile pic: And a portrait: Isn't he gorgeous? There's also MIKE and BOB lurking somewhere in the background. But there will be time enough to introduce them. Katawako is a dragon from the Far East. She doesn't breathe fire, and she has no hooves or hands, and she's blind, so some would consider her a cripple. Her response to being called "gimp girl" or any such derogatory expression was lightning-fast, as in, she would electrocute them on the spot: Katawako had a long, scaly body, and a short, scary temper, and control over the weather, of a different sort than pegasi had. However, she's good-natured in accepting that her blindness is a bit of a running gag among her friends, as she's so perceptive they often forget she is blind, and inadvertently end up doing things like showing her a piece of paper or asking her if they look pretty today. She may be cranky, but she's got a kind, generous, loyal, honest heart. And a wicked sense of humour, as long as the targets are other people. Oh, speaking of differently-abled characters, in this fic, Princess Twilight Sparkle has lost her wings during the battle against Tirek. Only when harnessing the Rainbow Power of Harmony and Friendship do they temporarily come back, but, otherwise, Twilight Sparkle is mostly ground-bound, and must learn to appreciate life without her beautiful wings, never to freely soar in the heavens, streaking the clouds of purple and red in the sunset like she once did. Oh, the tragedy of it! Now, our protagonist, ladies and gentlemen: anon, which is short for "anointed". He is the son of Man, the Redeemer, the only resident of Equestria with qualia. Through his True Consciousness (fake), he is the only sapient being to justify Equestria's existence to itself. anon is , however, a shy, subtle, ambiguous figure, working backstage and in mysterious ways. He has one grand plan: to share his gift with all of Equestria, giving souls to to all living beings, and ending his terrible, terrible loneliness.
"Waiting for Approval" or "Life out of Balance"Twilight signed her weekly Friendship Report with a flourish. Your Most Faithful Student, Twilight Sparkle The real Covert Report, not that kihd’s stuff nonsense she always sent out while in public. Those were practically—sometimes literally— postcards. No, these reports were for posterity, and included a detailed contextualization of the lesson—again, the real lesson, which may or may not be what came out in the public letter. Sometimes, she also included suggestions for ways to test the lessons in a controlled environment, as well as any caveats or exceptions that her mind could summon. After all, despite our wishes, the plural of anecdote is not data, and truth resists simplicity. All in all, it was arduous work, and took her a good chunk of the rest of the week, along with helping with the cleanup and damage evaluation. Twilight may admit to being a bit neurotic, but no-one could say she wasn’t conscientious. After eleventy drafts, and choosing between three alternate final versions, Twilight took a deep breath, and Spike shook his hands in tiredness. She only summoned Spike to transcribe the final final draft, because, while she didn’t want to tire him too much, he had the best calligraphy of the two. “Ready, Spike” They exchanged an ominous look. “Let’s do this.” Together, all of these reports were meant to constitute the basis for her final Book of Friendship, her Doctoral Thesis, a reference guide for all future generations, the basis of the new discipline of Fileology, the Crowning Moment of her Life as a Graduate, and her first step in the world of Academics. There was no room for error. Which meant, it wasn’t just up to Twilight and Celestia. It had to be submitted to the real test —*gasp*— Peer Review! Spike and Twilight both drew a deep breath, and the Number One Assistant, the Loyal Aide, her True Companion, blew the fire that would send the letter on its way. Doom. The relief of inevitability, of the release of responsibility, no matter how temporary. Soon—and they never knew when, besides “not right now” and “within the week”, and that was torture, that was a nightmare”—soon they would know whether it passed or not. Probably not. And then they’d have to go through the work again. This graph (on page 14) using a logarithmic scale is objectionable, as per Tough Tub’s On The Visual Display of Quantitative Information... There is an alternate hypothesis that may better explain the data; what if... This and that word need to be defined in the glossary… There seems to be a gap in this demonstration. What’s the rationale, ‘then a miracle occurs’? Well, they were in Equestira, unlike what happened in other countries’ research circles, kind words and positive feedback were to be expected as well: Section 2.3.a) was very enlightening, that was amazing The potentials of these results for overall equine happiness are incalculable! Keep this up, Miss Twilight, and I don’t doubt you’ll be a Doctor soon. Ah, words of praise from the Peers of the Crown—the real ones, not those (Ig)Noble Prats out there in the public eye—they were the third best thing after the approval of the Princess —she may be very nice, and polite and caring and wonderful and amazing and beautiful and perfect, sigh, but real praise from her was, as it turns out, surprisingly rare— and that of her friends… and they could definitely make her day. Now, though, now was time to wait. To wait and fret. “Spike, feeling burpy yet?” “No.” … That was good. It meant nothing was excessively wrong with the document at a first glance. Then again, maybe not. It had once taken them five hours to send it back, only to tell her they felt the Abstract was too vague and she should rewrite it before they could proceed. “Post-Production” was truly an exercise in frustration. “What about now?” “No. Twilight, we’ve talked about this, I’m worried enough about a fireball coming out of my throat unbidden in the middle of doing something delicate, I don’t need to deal with your anxiety on top of that!” Gulp. “You’re right, Spike. I’ll… I’ll just have to wait.” “You gotta stop worrying, Twilight. Relax. Just… let it happen.” “You’re right, Spike. I guess… I’ll just have to wait.” “Oh, my, this is worse than I thought! You’re repeating yourself!” “Oh my! You’re right, Sp—” She went quiet at Spike’s withering glare. But kept fidgeting. So it went on. ಠ_ಠ “But—” ಠ_______________ಠ “I’m going to the observatory to meditate. Wake me up if—” ಠ_ಠ “... if something comes up.” Twilight sat cross-legged, her mug of warm brew in her hands, and contemplated the evening in Ponyville. The sun was getting closer to the horizon, after illuminating quite an exhausting day. After all that work, Twilight needed to take her mind off of things. The way to do that, she had found, wasn’t to distract herself with books, or to meet up with her friends—that only replaced one kind of buzzing with another, and she needed her mind to stop buzzing altogether. Instead, she distracted herself by the deliberate and neutral witnessing of the world around her and within her; by focusing her senses entirely on what was happening, then and there, rather than projecting it into whys and hows and whens and what-ifs. It was like cloudwatching, a detached yet absorbing activity. So then, she thought as she finished her warm broth, time to begin. Like Zecora taught her: It is by will alone I set my mind to rest, With the breath comes the world Listen, to what breaks the silence Smell, every fragrant nuance, Feel, the touch and the warmth and the beat With the breath leaves the dream My voice is quiet, My soul is open, It is by will alone I set my mind to rest. A cart’s wheels on the frozen street. A dog barking. The smell of fresh grass under the snow. A foal crying. A foal laughing. An owl hooting. A smell of apple pie. Her heartbeat. The wooden floor she sat on. Her breath. A door opens. A salutation. The door closes. A gust of fresh air. A lump of snow, falling. A whiff of chlorine. Steps on gravel. Her hooves on each other. Her mug growing cold. She opened her eyes. The skies were on fire, purple and red and orange and blue The first stars were there, Her heartbeat slowed A cat mewed A window opened, close by. There was Rigel And Sirius And Betelgeuse And Aldebaran Such wonderful names they had, the Stars Cold and blazing and far away. The sting of the winter air through her nostrils, and, with it, the smell of rice with curry, from what she knew to be Spike’s recipe, and with it, the gentle taste of saliva, the push of her tongue against her palate, the gulp of gluttony. Silence. She took a deep breath. That had been enough. Twilight stood up, took up her mug, gathered herself, and returned to the the warmth of her home, following the gentle caress of the fragrance of her little chef’s skillful course, closing an open window along the way. Upon entering the kitchen, she did not ask, knew not, did not need to, she just glanced at him, and he glanced back, and that was it. She would have to wait some more, but she found that she didn’t mind. No, that wasn’t it; they exchanged a warm smile. “The table is ready.” “Instead of calling for me and interrupting my meditation, you opened a window to summon me through the redolence of royal-grade cooking? Subtle.” “I hung out with the palace staff, back in the day. Herding nobles and princesses requires a gentle touch. Same goes for scientists. You all focus on those big important thoughts of yours, and we’ll make sure that you go through the motions of keeping yourselves alive and comfortable. Ideally, you’ll never even know we were there.” “... Spike, you know you’re not my servant.” “I’m your assistant. That’s just even more responsibility.” Twilight chuckled. The drake had a point. “Ah, would it console you to know that you’ll have assistants of your own, eventually? I mean, you won’t be my assistant forever. For one thing, you’ll surely outlive me!” A shadow quickly passed over his semblance, then he chortled. “... Come on, let’s dig in while it’s still warm.” Author's Note I wrote this chapter while waiting for the Fimfic staff to approve my story for publication. And that, my friends, is how you turn your sorrow into story. Storrow? Anyway, leave no crisis unexploited, that's my advice for ya.
Chapter Zero: "Ressentiment" or "Smile!"Derpy was flying the graveyard shift. Again. Very little traffic, of ponies and of letters. Minimal risk. No-one ever trusted her with any responsibility. She’d learned to smile through her frustration. A single mother. A slurred voice. Cross-eyed. Why, obviously, an idiot! Not just your garden-variety idiot, but a lovable idiot, one people wanted to protect. One people couldn’t help but patronize. Why would you be mean to Derpy? She’d learned to smile through it, and play along. Play dumb. Frowns don’t look good on you, my sweetheart, her mother would say. Smile! Why don’t you give me a nice smile! It was never “Why are you frowning?” or “What’s wrong?” or “How are you feeling?” Her feelings didn’t matter. All that mattered, was that she smile. That she be, well, if not beautiful, then at least adorable. An ornamental mare, a background pony. She couldn't even be a trophy wife—barely a mascot. Even becoming a widow hadn’t give her a shred more of dignity. She was only pitied. Why don’t you smile? So she smiled that sheepish smile of hers. She turned her feelings into something to smile about. Decrying all the things that she couldn’t get, and elevating all the things that she didn’t want, but happened to have. ‘Sexlessness’ became ‘purity’. ‘Weakness’ became ‘meekness’. ‘Submission to people one can't stand’ became ‘obedience’. And ‘not being able to take revenge’ turned into ‘forgiveness’. She blended into the herd, and forgot herself. But sometimes, when she was flying alone, in the cold dusk, her thoughts would wander, and she would remember, all that she wasn’t, all that she’d never have, all that she’d never attain. Meeting Celestia… had changed things. Wait, what? They had met? Ho—Derpy’s mounting confusion at the strange thought suddenly went quiet, somehow. It wasn’t important. But her thoughts had turned to Celestia and— A green flash, in the night, through narrow windows. There it was. Golden-Oak library. A letter had just been sent. By the amazing, fantastic, super-special Twilight Sparkle, to the brilliant, dazzling, magnificent Princess Celestia. She enviedadmired them, these wonderful ponies. She wished she had all of Celestia’s attention like that… What would it be like, to bask in her warmth? To lose her mind in her ethereal hair... If she only knew… Wha— D̵̢̳̖̗͔̞̫̫̬̗ǫ̵̦̫͔̪̱͇̰͉͚ ̸̧̮̠͉̬͚̬̥͜ͅY̵̧̢̳̙̯̖̫̙̘͓o̷̡̝̤̫̭̲̪̠̖̫u̴̫̖͓̞͍͓͔͜͜ͅ ̵̧̖̖͍̝͉͙̹͖̖R̵͔̭̜̯̜̣̙͚̠̗e̶̢̡̜̦͖̹͍̻̻̜m̸̖͍̥̝̖̜͎̟͎͉e̴͕̼͖̳̤̰͔̘̫̩m̴̧͙͖͖͚̻̳͈͖̩b̸̧̦̻͉̘̝͕̺̙̥e̶̡̞̲͍͓͍̙͎͇͉r̴͕̣̹̤̻̰̮̪͔͜ ̷̫̱͖̱͓̜͕͚̫̲Ṱ̵̤̘͖͔̘̗̺͖͚h̶̤̰̜͎̘̠͎̘͍̖e̶̡̢̢̥̫̥̪̤̞̘ ̴̼̫̥͈̩͎̬͓̝̯Ţ̵͖͔̦̜̺͕̙̯͜i̵̡̨̢̫̺̻̪̻̗̺m̶̡̧̲̳͕̫̤͚͇̥ȩ̸̢͇̗̣̗̺̻̟͜ ̷̧̥̦̗̤̩̭̗̱ͅW̴̧̧͍̫͙̱̮̖̙͇h̵̢̡͕̙̭̦͚̗̱̺ę̶̡͓͚̲̯͉̻̮͜n̸̡̗͖̗̣̲̬͕̹̹ ̵̹̼̭͔̼̤̯̳͜ͅW̷͖̖̣͚̤̟͔͖̖ͅȩ̵̢̯̦̥̗̻̲͜ͅ ̶̰͍͉̘̤͙͔͇̠ͅF̶̡̧̨̖̙͈̟͕̮̺ḙ̵̰̘͇̱̩̖̙̗̙l̴̬͙̰͓̘̬̣̖̻̟l̵̨̨͖̺͙͇̯̮̲͜ ̷̧̡̢̟̣̗͉̗̰̙Į̴̧̱̰̳̩̯̥͎̝n̴̯̻̗̞̭̙̞͍ͅͅ ̴̨̦̬͖̭̫̭̩̜̫L̸̮͇̟̠̣̼͉̫͇͇o̷̧̡͚̣̻̘̮̰͙̠v̷̡̫̖͖̳͙̖͍͔̻e̵̡̹̜͈̤͎͎̗̘͚ ̴̯͈͖̟͓͖̻͈͖͜D̷̢̤̺̦̠̙͍͚̭͎ọ̴̢̧̳̰̖̼͓̲͙ ̷̬̩̼͍͚̜̼̞͖͍Y̵̨͈̫̩̠̺̬͚̣̼o̶̢̧͙̞̫̣͚̩̙̪ų̷͙̮͚̮̟̜͔̼ͅ ̶̝̖̳̰̠͉̯̠͕̳R̴̨̟͖̪̬̼̙̥̼͜ȩ̷̞̘͔̲̻͕̥̻ͅm̸̡̘̫̜̰̗̰̙͙̳e̸̡̢̦̫̤͔̭̫͍ͅm̵̨̥̘̹̝̲̫͔̘̦ḇ̵̨̩̹̦̻̦͈̙͜e̶͎̼͍̜̖̪̝̳̰ͅr̶̢̢̧̭̼̩̰̲͙͈ ̴̡̻̱̲̟̝̺̗̩̖T̴͔̯̟̜̜̩͚̯̳̻h̶̨̩͖͇͉̘̰͚̯̘e̷͚͇̤̣͙̘̮̻͜ͅ ̴̗̖̖̘͈͙̭̮̦͓T̷͚̜͓̺̯͇̳͔̲ͅi̷̡͈͇̣̳̹͈͚͜͜m̴̢̜̱̜̲͈̖̦̥͚e̷̥̩̬͖͈̲̼̬͜͜ ̶̨̪̝͉̪̪͕͎̰̲W̶̨̘͖̫͓̪̙͙̰͙ḩ̵̧̜͖̟̲̦͎̭̭e̷̢̗͉̠̝͚̣̞̜̜n̵̡̧̹͙̭͖̥̬̯̹ ̴̺̗̺͈̟̺̩̼̪͚W̴̡̥̹̳̭̘͍̘̙͇ę̸̜̠̯͔̲̯̥̙ͅ ̶̨̨͇̣̙̭͍̦̥̟F̷̻̫͎̗̹̝̰͕̞̦i̷̢̢̬͔̠̜̫̩͔̙r̷̨͖̟̥͇͉͔̳̠͖s̶̟̰̱͎̬̫͇̰̠ͅt̴̖͖̪̲̙̟̞̫̰̮ ̵̖͉͍̱̻̰͖̺̮͎M̶̙̙͚̪̟̥̘̰̠͓e̶̡̪̼͕̱̹̼͔̹̞t̸̢̡̺͇̦͇̥̝̻͉
"A pinch of salt and laughter, too!" or "Far beneath the misty storm fronts warm/in waters deep and trenches old..."In Upper Canterlot born and raised, where did Twilight spend out most of her days? In the library, at school, on her desk, with just enough time spent on sleep and sexfood. Still, she did take a break sometimes to study with her Teacher, the Great and Powerful Celestia, the Magnanimous, la Large d’Esprit, μεγαλόψυχος, die Großmütige, and so on and so forth. Writing down all of Celestia’s titles, surnames, nicknames and pet names would take a treaty on its own, and we need to get on with the story. Now, sometimes Tia took Twi to tea on top of town, and sometimes there was there a tame and tired old-timer named Tantalus, although she preferred to be called “the Dam”. Now, the dam had seen much of the world beyond equestira, and even beneath, for she was a sailor mare, specifically a Sub-Marine. She told Twilight, with the help of books and journals and souvenirs, of the whole wide world, of both the beautiful and the horrible, of corruption and regeneration, of rises and falls and writings on the walls. Saddle Arabians were especially good at those - Twilight’s favourite was one that said “READ!” over and over and over… The Dam had a way of making the most world-wearying stories sound delightful to a child’s ears, even without sugar-coating them one bit. She had this detached, unflappable attitude to her, and, beneath this nonchalance, a poignant sense of humour. Once, she told Twilight about her time on the Titanic Medusa. You know where this is going… “I’ll skip right ahead to the interesting part,” she said. Heh, I could stand to learn from her. Not that this isn’t interesting, but sometimes even I can’t tell whether I’m advancing the plot or just rambl - shutting up now. “Now, picture this, little Twilight. I’m on a boat. “Was it one of those fancy yachts?” “Nope.” “A gritty barge?” “Nope.” “Or a fisherman’s seiner—” “Ee-nope. It was a lifeboat.” To the Dam’s satisfaction, Twilight gasped. “It was flimsy, and frail, all light-weight and bright-coloured. Orange. Stuck out like a sore thumb in the middle of all that blue, that azure sky, that marine sea… now, why was that, Twi?” “... Someone in the crew likes citrus fruits?” “Try agian.” “Well, it sticks out, and it’s a lifeboat, so… to make it easier to find you?” “Exactly.” It was always a pleasure, giving Twlight a chance to ‘earn points’ like that. Whenever she got an answer right, Twilight would give the cutiest, most gleeful little smiles. "Now, here comes the fun part. All around me, circling the horizon all over, were huge anvil-shaped clouds, electric blues of thunderbolts and lightnings, snaking freely between silver linings. And yet, right above my orange little raft, was the unconquered white sun, ambling through the zenith, burning its way to eternity, like nothing was the trouble. Now, why was that, Twi?” “It was a cyclone, a big one, and you were in the eye of the storm?” “Precisely,” she said the word like the slice of a knife. “I am at the peaceful heart of the writhing storm.” “What about your ship and crew?” “Well, let me put it this way:” the Dam said, raising a sardonic eyebrow, “there was room for eight on that lifeboat, yet I was all alone.” “That was a rather frightening situation to be in, my little pony.” It was the first time Celestia had heard that one as well. “What did you do?” “What I always do, your Highness; I take’er easy. I can’t outrun the storm, so, I enjoy the the peace of the moment, while it passes. I bask in your sun, while it shines. I go with the flow. The Dam abides, little Twilight. Determined, to live to see the sun again.” The dam paused for a moment, letting the lesson sink in. Then she went for the finisher: “So, seeing as I was relaxing under the mid-day sun like that, what do you think was the first thing the Dam did?” “I don’t know… you set out a distress flare?” “Well, yeah, but after that.” “You made sure the provisions and water and survival equipment were in place?” “Wasn’t much point in doing that, Twily.” “Wha-why-oh, yeah, you do that while it’s still on the mother-ship, otherwise it’s too late.” “I did check, though, but that wasn’t the first important thing I did. Here’s a hint, we were in tropical waters.” “You took out the fishing rod and tried to get some food while the calm lasted.” “... Actually that’s the second important thing I did. Ready to give up?” Twilight gave the most adorable frustrated sigh. “I believe you should let us know already, Dam.” Oh Goodness, Celestia’s smile was becoming patient. “Right you are, Princess. Twilight, the first thing I thought to do was, I put on sunscreen.” There was a silence. There was a shudder. There was a burst of laughter. “O-hmpf-okay, Twilight, so, so -ha!- so what’s the lesson?” “Don’t worry about stuff you can’t affect, enjoy the good stuff while it lasts, and never lose sight of the long-term and the small details, even when things seem desperate and hopeless. Above all, as always, be prepared!” “Indeed, Twilight! Now, sing it with me!” Be prepared! That's the Kid Scout's marching song, Be prepared! As through life you march along. Be prepared! That's the Kid Scouts' solemn creed, Be prepared! And be clean in word and deed. Don't be nervous, don't be flustered, don't be scared. Be prepared! Years later, Twilight would find out about the rest of the lyrics of that song, and would affectionately chuckle with her masters at her younger self’s innocence. Another lesson she had learned over the years was the following: Knowledge is power, ignorance is bliss: to be blissful, is to be powerless. To give the blessings, to guard the garden, is to trade purity for understanding. a Royal Marine reservist: they sub for those on duty when extra hands are needed Author's Note WE TAKE SUGGESTIONS! SUGGEST, SUGGEST, BUT ALWAYS, NEVER, EVER, INGEST! Preview of next chapter: Regal: Do you want a carrot? Tarragon: Is that all there is? Regal: I might have some turnips. Tarragon: Give me a carrot. (Regal rummages in his pockets, takes out a turnip and gives it to Tarragon, who takes a bit out of it) It's a turnip! Regal: Oh pardon! I could have sworn it was a carrot.
