Celestia is a fake and you're all still going to Tartarus
Blasphemy
A My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fan fiction
by grumpyoldpony
Totally unauthorized by the copyright holders (call it a parody)
Acolyte Mystic Heart was excited to travel with Bishop Scribble to the Third Convention of Manes, but only because he hadn't been to the first two. Scribble had, first as a young acolyte when Her Supreme Loveliness Cadenza made Her public appearance, then last year when Her Enchanting Radiance Luna made a rather precipitous return. Between then and now, Scribble had rescued Mystic from a dull future as a backwater priest – not that such ponies were unimportant but the colt had so much more potential – and made him her personal scribe at the Canterlot Temple. Now there was yet another goddess, and after the Summer Sun celebration where Bearer Twilight Sparkle the Cleverer took Her Glorious Shininess Celestia's place in actually raising the golden orb, well, there was no denying the young mare a place in the pantheon.
Scribble pondered the numerosity of the problems to be resolved at this convention. Numbers were the problem: while the Monotheists had the increasing difficulty of insisting that all four goddesses were in fact one poniage and all of the hoofwaving that entailed, her own Polytheist denomination had the problem of bounty. With three goddesses, there had been seven modes of worship discounting non-doctrinal reorderings, but with four goddesses there were fifteen modes. Should another goddess appear or be born – no sane Equestrian believed Her Supreme Loveliness to be celibate and no devout worshiper doubted Her fertility – there would be thirty-one modes.
Something had to be done. Scribble only wished that she hadn't been called upon to help do it.
She and Mystic boarded the Niceness Express at Canterlot Central Station. The train was crowded: not only were her own delegation of half a dozen ponies on board, but also a dozen Monotheists on their way to Nice for a convention of their own. Reporters from every major newspaper had gotten tickets too, each with a photographer and a galloper.
Scribble found herself seated next to the Monotheist Rich Loon. They had known each other since their days in adjacent seminaries of their respective factions. She said, “Lovely day, Cardinal.”
“Lovely indeed,” said Rich. “Have you decided to join the One True Faith yet?”
Scribble stuck out her tongue. “Have you decided upon your One True Pantheon yet?”
“Still not there,” said Rich. “I may speak up against a quadrinity, though..Maybe we can kick Her Supreme Loveliness out of the trinity and replace Her with Her, um...”
“Her Extreme Adorkableness?”
Rich laughed, which he covered with a cough. “Blasphemy. You Polies are too casual with beings who move the sun and moon about.”
“Fair enough,” said Scribble. Mystic joined them, having stowed the luggage. “This is my scribe, Mystic Heart. His OTP is Poly-Lunarian-Celestian.”
Rich nodded politely “Cardinal Rich Loon at your service. Have you considered joining the superior faith of Monotheism?”
Scribble shook his head, just as politely. “I'm afraid that you take yourselves too seriously,” he said, eliciting a smile from Scribble. “In any case, my heart is drawn to Her Glorious Shininess and Her Enchanting Radiance, and following one's heart is the core of Polytheism.”
They chatted as the train left the city and wound down the mountain. After Mystic had worn himself out with utterly unnecessary instruction to the cardinal on relative religion, they slipped into silence. Mystic busied himself reviewing Scribble's notes from the Second Convention. Rich busied himself with a newspaper. Scribble resumed her sketches for her latest project: a hoof-drawn and illuminated reproduction of a Gentlemare's Quarterly interview with Bearer Fluttershy the Quiet.
The train reached Manes at sundown. They bid Cardinal Loon farewell and good luck, found the Stampton Hotel, and slept.
Morning mass was a riotous affair. The three archbishops – and many of the attendants – stood dressed in the regalia and cutie marks of their goddesses. A fourth pony, the Twilightian Archbishop pro tem, stood beside them and seemed to being doing his best to include Her... Sparkly Tweenness? in the ceremony. More interestingly, shocking even, were the number of ponies who dressed in likenesses of the Bearers of the Elements of Harmony. She could practically feel the smugness radiating from those who represented pre-ascendant Twilight Sparkle. Her eyes wandered to a fetching young mare representing Bearer Fluttershy – just for a moment – before she forced her attention back onstage.
The archbishops led everypony in a song, then a supplication to Her Glorious Shininess. Finally they adjourned to workshops.
Scribble was technically the lowest-ranking bishop from Canterlot, but her prior experience put her in high demand. Her schedule was packed with panel seats, starting with What Did We Do Last Time?, going on to Will My Goddess Be Angry If I Change My OTP?, breaking for lunch catered by Krispy Fried Chickpeas, then Who Has Any Lyrics For Twilightian Hymns?, followed by Fact And Fiction In The Twilightian Saga Up To This Point, finishing with dinner served by the Stampton, then breakout sessions wherein Scribble spent most of her time introducing Mystic to the movers and shakers of Polytheism.
She returned to her room early and flopped into bed.
She woke to Mystic's gentle shaking. “Bishop,” he said, “you slept through today's opening ceremony. You're on a panel in half an hour.”
She stumbled to the shower. In the five minutes it took to make herself less nauseating to the nose – if still as offensive to the eyes – Mystic had managed to conjure coffee, orange juice, and granola bars.
“What's on the agenda?” she said while stuffing herself.
He said, “We have The Propriety Of Invoking The Bearers As Intercessors – didn't Cardinal Loon say something about that?”
Scribble swallowed the last of her orange juice and said, “Indeed. Some ponies are praying to tiny statues of the Bearers and asking them to pass the prayers along to the goddesses. Seems rather indirect, doesn't it?”
“A little,” said Mystic. “Then we have Ponderings Upon Why Her Glorious Shininess Is Expanding The Pantheon. I suppose we could ask Her.”
“She doesn't meddle in religious affairs,” said Scribble.
“Of course,” said Mystic. “The Deal of 223: the priestly class agrees to stay out of politics and She agrees to stay out of religion. Why would a goddess agree to that?”
“Mysterious are Her ways,” said Scribble. “What's after Ponderings?”
“Lunch, then When Did Twilight Sparkle Become A Goddess? Then there is the hot one: What Shall Her Moniker Be? Round One.”
Scribble muddled through the second day, offering her advice when she could and generally trying her best to be the dignified bishop she ought to be. A headache started about the time that a delegate – swiftly ejected – screamed that Bearer Rarity the Magnifique was the true goddess of magic, grew worse during lunch, and brought her to a halt just before the final session.
She handed her moniker notes to Mystic Heart. “You're good at naming things,” she said, which might have been a small stretch of the truth.
“It's not really my place-” said Mystic.
Scribble cut him off. “Nonsense,” she said, “I've done almost nothing the past two days. Cover for me, and I'll see you in the morning.”
She had no appetite for dinner, so she picked up a cider at the hotel bar and headed to her room. The cider blotted out her worries of the convention arriving on nonsense such as “Her Friendly Sparkleness” or “Her Powerful Greatness” or “Her Magical Magicness.”
Scribble slept early and woke early the third day. Mystic had left his moniker notes for her. She was glad to see that “Her Magical Friendshipness” had been crossed out, though “Her Purple Starriness” had been left in, as had “Her Bi-tonal Tomboyishness.” Heavily scribbled out but still legible was “Her Extreme Smexiness.”
The second moniker round immediately followed morning worship, so Scribble made herself presentable before waking Mystic and dragging him down to the ceremony. She noted that most of the Twilightians had attached wings of various quality to their regalia.
Round Two was a dismal affair. Mystic had been roped into another session, so she had nopony to snark to. The lead priestess, Bishop Uana Bee from Palomino, tried her best to lead the panel, but soon surrendered as the discussion became a cycle of suggesting a name, such as “Her Bookish Good-lookishness,” followed almost immediately by reasoned arguments such as, “That's stupid!” Her Enchanting Radiance had presented no such difficulty: She simply said what She wanted to be called, offered a few hymns of praise to Herself, and threatened any squabbling ponies with terrible vengeance if they fought over the details of Her worship.
“Her Reserved Brilliance” sounded good to Scribble, so she proposed it, to be shot down by the nonsensical cry of, “She isn't a data structure!”
The panel was scheduled for three hours but let out at two and a half. She stepped outside the Stampton to the sight of rows of vendors plying Twilight Sparkle merchandise sacrilegiously laid out for sale. She bought a Fluttershy keychain.
She caught Mystic as he left the Are Purple Feather Quills Banned By The Coronal Recitations? workshop. He greeted her with relief. Over lunch he said, “I'm not sure why we bothered inviting the Moonies. I can't make snouts or tails of that book.”
The Moonies were technically Polytheists, but their doctrine was based on the personal diary of Nightmare Moon. Fortunately most of the adherents were sane enough to ignore the later sections. There had been some vicious infighting between the Starries – a subgroup that demonized Twilight Sparkle for defeating the Nightmare – and the Sunnies – another group that praised her for the same act. The fighting had died down in recent months, and hopefully would be made moot by Her elevation to goddesshood.
Scribble toyed with the keychain while Mystic ranted on about irrational Moonies; ignoring, she mused, the irrational nature of faith in general. She glanced again at her schedule. Her afternoon panels were Let's Make Some Melodies To Go With Those Lyrics, and Nomenclatural Adjustments. Neither seems particularly interesting. She completely missed when Mystic changed the topic, only noticing the silence while he waited for a response.
“Sorry,” she said, “what was that?”
“I said, I met a priestess from Ponyville! She's a dedicated Twilightian, and she said that She – I mean Twilight Sparkle – was superduperiffic.”
“That's... an odd word.”
Mystic tapped his chin. “She was an odd pony. Not very priestess-like. Anyway, she had some great ideas for Sun Day service. Have you ever heard of a dance called the Pokey Pony?”
Scribble pretended that she had not. Her Glorious Shininess had given Scribble a standing invitation to the Gala – precisely, she suspected, because Scribble would rather spend her time administering the affairs of the faithful than schmoozing with Canterlot's so-called elite. She had an intimate familiarity with the Pokey Pony and its egregiously infectious tune.
Mystic continued to talk while eating, pausing only to stuff his mouth, chew, and swallow. Her headache returned with a vengeance.
“I'm looking forward to the melodies panel,” he said after scraping his plate clean.
Scribble took his hoof. “You've been a wonderful help to me,” she said. “You have a... knack for this sort of thing.”
Mystic automatically glanced to his flank, where a heart-topped wand crossed a heart-topped pencil. “I certainly feel energized,” he said.
Scribble put on her best pleading face. “Could you do this old mare one more favor?”
“Sure!”
“Attend the afternoon panels in my place.”
“R- really?”
“Oh, absolutely. This is a young pony's game, and you are just the stallion for the job.”
Mystic beamed. “I won't let you down,” he said solemnly.
She hoofed him her schedule. “Best be on your way,” she said.
He left, and she ordered another glass of cider to counter the headache.
She noticed the young Fluttershyte who had caught her eye the other day and entertained a brief fantasy where she pretended to agree with the mare's beliefs long enough to take advantage of her, but decided she had committed enough sins to last her the rest of the week.
She worked on her illumination.
She napped.
Mystic woke her. He had brought her dinner, which was sweet of him but made her feel guilty again.
“How were the panels?” she said out of politeness.
“Fascinating,” he said. “We have some super great songs. That Ponyville priestess... well, she's not actually a priestess. She says she's an intermittently itinerant party pony. Anyway, she helped come up with the tunes, and let me tell you, Twilight Time is going to be the greatest!”
“Ah,” she said. “I suppose I'll hear the songs on the ride home?”
Mystic nodded vigorously.
“And the nomenclature panel?”
“There was a split,” said Mystic. “You see, those who prefer a single goddess will be called as before: Poly-Celestian, Poly-Lunarian, Poly-Cadenzian, and now Poly-Twilightian. However, the Trottingham and Manehatten delegations wanted to call those who worship two goddesses Poly-Dualist-Celestian-Lunarian, Poly-Dualist-Celestian-Cadenzian, Poly-Dualist-Celestian-Twilightian, Poly-Dualist-Lunarian-Cadenzian, Poly-Dualist-Lunarian-Twilightian, or Poly-Dualist-Cadenzian-Twilightian. The remaining delegations, led by Canterlot, championed the names Poly-Dualist-Lunestian, Poly-Dualist-Cadestian, Poly-Dualist-Twilestian, Poly-Dualist-Calunarian, Poly-Dualist-Twilunarian, or Poly-Dualist-Twidenzian.”
“It hardly seems to make a difference,” said Scribble.
“Oh, but what about those who prefer to worship three goddesses? The Trottingham-Manehatten-ites would call them Poly-Trioist-Celestian-Lunarian-Cadenzian, Poly-Trioist-Celestian-Lunarian-Twilightian, Poly-Trioist-Celestian-Cadenzian-Twilightian, and Poly-Trioist-Lunarian-Cadenzian-Twilightian. Clearly it makes more sense to term such worship Poly-Trioist-Calunestian, Poly-Trioist-Twilunestian, Poly-Trioist-Twicadestian, and Poly-Trioist-Twicalunarian.”
“Clearly. At least you all agree that worshiping the full pantheon is still Poly-Pantheist?”
Mystic hesitated. Upon receiving his mentor's flat look, he said, “The Manehatten delegation insisted on Poly-Quadrist-Celestian-Lunarian-Cadenzian-Twilightian.”
“That's ridiculous,” said Scribble.
“I know, right? Clearly the proper term should be Poly-Quadrist-Twicalunestian!”
Scribble heard a backwater parish calling her name, maybe a frontier town like Appleloosa. Better yet, she could spend her remaining mortal days preaching to the buffalo.
“Mystic,” she said, “you're a natural at this sort of thing. In fact, if there's ever a Fourth Convention of Manes, you can go in my place.”
Author's Note
With apologies to pretty much everypony.
