Mark of a Noblepony

by BlndDog

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Drama, Original Character
Length: 4708

The complex identity of a bat pony.

Born and raised in Canterlot, Nick had always known his roots in the ancient nobility of Equestria. Although nopony in his family had held any real power for generations, history was inheritance enough. But when he meets another pony like himself, one also named "Nick," he will have to reevaluate everything he thought he knew about the place of ponies like himself in Equestria.

Published 2016-10-30 03:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2016-10-30 03:00:01 UTC

Freshman Year

Snip.

The world changed. It closed in on me. It became narrow. I kept turning around in circles to fill in the parts that had been lost, but every piece I gathered disappeared as soon as I turned away.

My first vest was made of fine blue silk embroidered with gold flowers, so thin and light that it never bothered me even in summer. I did not feel the need to fly; we were (are) not like pegasi.

Just like that, I was able to have an uneventful childhood in Canterlot. We had a big house; too big for our little family. I went to school with a lot of unicorns, but earth ponies and pegasi were not as uncommon as some might think. Since grade school I was considered good-looking, and I was good on stage too. At seventeen I entered the Baltimare Theatre School, and it was there that I met the other Nick.

Names had never been a problem in Canterlot. All my life there had been no other Nick. I was the only one, and it was my name. But Baltimare had its own Nick; a famous Nick that everypony seemed to know or at least have heard of. And when I finally met him in the History of Pre-Equestria Theatre lecture I knew that he had just as much a claim to that name as I did.

And I disliked him. Not because he used my name, and not because he had arrived five minutes late wearing the loudest horseshoes that ever existed. I disliked him because he was wrong.

The tufts of his ears were intact, and I could tell by their thickness that they had never been trimmed before. His mane was long, and one lock dangling left of his face was curled and dyed white. He had his wings covered, but he did it with a dirty green jacket that looked to be made entirely of pockets. He took a seat in the back row, and though I did not look at him again I got a little pleasure from the idea of him sleeping through the lesson.

I was surprised to find him waiting outside the lecture hall. We were about the same height, and I thought I was a little more square-shouldered. He walked right up to me and leaned in close, looking at something above my head. I whipped my ears back quickly and walked into him, taking him by surprise and throwing him off balance. He stumbled back a step, and a few students turned their heads.

“Sorry,” I said flatly, and turned to head down the hall.

“It’s alright,” said a clear, powerful voice. I knew it was him. “I’ll see you around.”

Despite my dislike of him, I was curious too. I had never met a bat pony outside my family before, and never a pony that old with untrimmed tufts. I understood why everypony found him so memorable, and wondered if any of them knew the truth.

I ran into Nick in the Arts Quad later that day. He was waiting under two chestnuts with another bat pony also with tufted ears. This one was a smaller stallion with a short mane gelled into spikes on top. At least he was dressed more neatly in a white jacket.

I tensed when they intercepted me.

“Hello, I’m Nick,” said the bigger pony, offering his hoof. “You’re new here?”

“Yes,” I replied, shaking his hoof firmly. “I’m Nick.”

“You know there can only be one, right?” He chortled good-naturedly.

“It’s short for Nicodemus,” I said seriously. “I suppose I’ll be Dean then.”

“No, don’t,” Nick implored, putting up a hoof dramatically. “It’s fine, Nick. You be whatever you want to be. Don’t let me stop you. If that’s your name, I won’t tell you to change. Your name is your name.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. I tried to glance at his ears discreetly, but he noticed.

“Where are you from, Nick?” he asked.

“Canterlot,” I replied curtly. “And you?”

“I’m local,” he said. “You haven’t been here long then? Just got here?”

“Excuse me,” I said, ready to walk through him and his companion.

“Hey, hold on,” he said, putting his hoof on my chest. “Look, you see this?” He flapped his ears to make his point. “You know what this is. I just want you to know that things here are different. This isn’t Canterlot. You’re new here, so I thought you might want to meet someone like you. Ponies like us, we got to look out for each other. This is my brother, Silverwing. Look, if you ever need anything, just keep us in mind.”

“Thank you,” I said, and finally they let me go. I had decided that they were strange, but they were hardly threatening.

The student residence was a refurbished sandstone mansion. My parents had paid extra to get me one of the private rooms. It was west-facing on the fourth floor overlooking a quiet street. I hadn’t opened the curtains in the two weeks since I moved in. I latched the door and took off my vest, a green and gold one for that day.

Unlike the feathered wings of pegasi, my velvety black wings tucked nearly flat against my side. They were huge when I stretched them out, almost bridging the walls of my room.

Instantly I felt cold. There was a reason bat ponies were not as fond of flying as pegasi. We flew when we needed to, and we were strong fliers when we had to be, but there was nothing for us in the sky. We had no power over winds or clouds, and when we weren’t active our uninsulated membranous wings cooled us too much.

I shook my wings a little and folded them again. The closet by the door had a variety of clothes. I picked out a slightly heavier vest made of softened black denim and examined my reflection in the full-length mirror in the corner, paying special attention to my ears. They stood straight up and turned in every direction. I had trimmed the tufts at their tips barely a month ago, and now they were not too different from the ears of an earth pony. My golden eyes, slit-pupiled and almost iridescent, had always been impossible to hide. They were the one feature that could not be reliably modified or concealed, but fortunately it had never been a problem. Generations ago my ancestors had been the personal guards of Princess Luna, and though details of our species could be lost through the centuries such a high and ancient nobility as ours was not easily erased. In Canterlot we were thus permitted a great level of eccentricity, but as I thought over the events of the day it dawned on me that Baltimare might be very different.

I took off the vest and draped it across the back of my unpainted wooden chair. After a shower I went to sleep immediately and awoke in darkness. Clouds had rolled in through the afternoon, and the sky had turned a uniform, oppressive grey. I could see my brass alarm clock: one o’clock. A pony with huge round pupils rimmed with gold stared at me out of the mirror.

Even at this late hour there were ponies out and about. I passed a pair of inebriated classmates in the hall. They stumbled out of the way for me, too disoriented to say anything. Their behavior still baffled me, though I had been warned about these things. While ponies in Canterlot held themselves to a high standard out of tradition and a sense of pride in their noble heritage, the big cities on the shores of Horseshoe Bay had no such history. I kept my distance from the worst of it, but even the few students that had come from Canterlot seemed to pick up the local habits after a year or two.

I walked through the streets undisturbed, avoiding the major roads with their dazzling streetlights. Though I had pretended to be an earth pony all my life, I still liked nighttime the best. I was completely awake, and the darkest alleys seemed to me pleasantly lit. I had taken these nightly walks since I arrived in Baltimare, and I had seen many of its most beautiful sights under moonlight. I especially loved the broad boardwalks along the shore and the view across the bay. Tonight I planned to explore the most southern section of the shoreline close to the entertainment district.

I heard the entertainment district from five blocks away. Spotlights pointed straight at the sky projected gigantic advertisements in every color of the rainbow: “Best Cider In Equestria!” “All You Can Eat Hay Fries!” “Tonight Only: Mare of Mystery”…

I turned my head when I heard a familiar but unexpected sound: a soft whoosh overhead. Somepony had leapt across the rooftops.

“Hey!” I called, turning towards the red brick apartment to my left and unbuttoning my vest.

There was a long pause. Then a face peered over the edge of the roof, its orange iris regressed to a mere gossamer rim.

“What are you doing down there?” He asked, reaching down with his left hoof.

“What are you doing up there?” I replied, unapologetically baffled by what I was seeing.

Nick extended his wings and stepped over the ledge, falling in an effortless spiral like a giant maple seed and landing silently in front of me. He cocked his head with a confused smile on his face.

“Hello Nick,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “What are you doing here? And walking at this hour?”

“This is what normal ponies do,” I said defensively.

“Just earth ponies and unicorns,” Nick said, rolling his eyes. “Come on, this is our time. It’s way faster up there, trust me.”

His casual attitude was surprisingly convincing all on its own. He was fully convinced that he was right, and after all I was a foreigner in his city.

“What if someone sees you?” I asked.

“What do you think?” He said, and I thought I saw a hint of sadness when he glanced down at my vest. “You’re not fooling anypony, you know? Nopony has ever seen you without a jacket, right? And you can’t really change your eyes. They all know, Nick. I don’t know what it’s like where you come from, but they must be pretty dumb if they haven’t figured it out.”

He flew back up to the rooftop and looked over the edge once more.

“Are you coming or not?”

A little reluctantly I took off my vest and stretched out my wings. The height was no issue, but I felt exposed as never before. I could not imagine what I might say if somepony saw me as I prepared to launch off the ground.

In three silent strokes I ascended to the roof, landing gently beside Nick. On his face was a look of profound pride, the first sense of nobility I ever saw in him. For the first time I recognized some kinship between us. It was something I had never felt before. I had found somepony who could know me for all that I was; who already knew me.

“You see?” He said, gesturing at the rooftops all around us. “Much easier. Where are you heading?”

We made it to the waterfront in ten minutes, and I wished it had taken longer. I had never flown free as I did now, and after crossing a few rooftops I did not care if anypony saw. They would have to see us both, and somehow that made it all better.

Nick gave me a tour of the boardwalks, recommending darkened and empty restaurants, tailors and salons. On a boardwalk extending quite far out on the water he pointed out the ships anchored on the bay.

“You can tell by the lights,” he told me. “The white one over there is a sternlight, and it’s way higher than all the others. That’s the Cavalier…”

He stayed with me until dawn, and we talked about everything. His father ran a successful business, and he was well-known in Baltimare. His was a large clan, and there were perhaps hundreds of other bat ponies on the east coast. According to him there was little point in hiding. The bat ponies ruled the night, and had done so for generations.

We had breakfast at a waffle house just off the boardwalk—the earliest to open, Nick assured me. I was tired that whole day, but I could not wait for night to come again.

Through the winter I did not trim my ear tufts. They grew slowly; perhaps in a year or two they would look nice again, but by November I began to notice a world long lost to me. It was disturbing at first. My surroundings remained vivid when I closed my eyes, and I could sense the ponies in the rooms neighboring mine. For a few days I was convinced that they could see me too, but I was also comforted by the return of my natural senses. As my hearing returned I had dreams from my childhood; events that I used to only remember distantly because I had lost one of my senses. And I wondered why I ever gave it up in the first place.

Around Nightmare Night when the weather got colder I considered cutting wing holes in one of my jackets. Nick must have thought the same, because a few days before the first snow I received a package containing a sleek blue jacket made for pegasi.

Nick and I flew together at least once a week. He knew the quietest places where nopony would see us. He was a much stronger flier than I, and he seemed to enjoy teaching me. Sometimes Silverwing joined us. As my hearing improved I became more confident. I could fly faster through the mess of buildings and clotheslines, and I did not even need to see where I was heading. Never before had I been so comfortable with my wings. I was not a dark, plucked parody of a pegasus. For the first time in my life I felt like true nobility, possessed with innate power uncorrupted by a thousand years of hiding.

We had been Equestria’s guardians, and though we had never been a prolific race nopony back in the days of Princess Luna would have disputed our importance. As the winter drew on I felt increasingly embarrassed that I would become an actor, and also embarrassed on Nick’s behalf because he did not seem to mind.

“I’m in school because I want to be,” he said when I brought up the subject one night. “You came all the way from Canterlot for this, so I'd imagine that you want this too. I suppose you’ll be an actor. Chances are I’ll have to take over the family business at some point.”

At the time I did not know what the “family business” was, only that it was incredibly profitable. I admired him for this also. For generations my family had consistently gravitated towards inconspicuous jobs. My mother was an accountant and my father was one of two hundred cooks in Canterlot Castle; respectable occupations, but lacking in grandeur. The possibility that a bat pony could build a business from the ground up had never occurred to me.

The first semester flashed by. I was cast as a wendigo in the school’s elaborate Hearths Warming Eve Performance, and there were no trains to Canterlot on the day after. My mother was distraught when I wrote her the news, but there was no changing the matter. Secretly I was happy with the arrangement. Nick had invited me to a party on Hearths Warming Day, and by the sounds of it there were to be many bat ponies in attendance.

All through December both Nick and I were busy with our studies. We rarely saw each other except in class, and then we could not talk freely. I thought that month would never end, but one after the other exams and due dates came and went. The performance fell on a snowy Thursday night in the Baroness Opera House on the waterfront. I had only ever seen it from the outside in the hours before sunrise. It was barely recognizable with the lights on, its glass walls showing a thousand or more ponies in evening dress mingling in the lobby.

I rarely suffered from stage fright, but the layout of this hall was utterly unexpected. The builders must have miscalculated the land they needed, because the seating around me rose five storeys in cliffs instead of terraces. There was nowhere I could face without staring directly at a seat unless I craned my neck fully backwards. I started thinking about my ears again, and my eyes. I imagined the ponies scrutinizing my strange features, never mind that I would be wearing an elaborate bodysuit and a mask that fully concealed my face. Somehow they would see me through all of it, and what would they think?

I had a thin summer vest for backstage. There were many of us, and the student manager was so worried about noises traveling up to the concert hall that he would not let us talk. I tried to read my script, but there was no way to stay focused. I wanted to pace, or better, to fly. I grew more and more restless through the first act, and I had just forgotten my first line when I was ushered upstairs with the other wendigoes.

We were put on a spacious platform with silk blue trimmings that fluttered with the slightest movement. We rose smoothly above the stage, over the cave backdrop, and then slowly descended. The cold light scanned across the platform from front to back. I thought I flinched when it reached me.

I looked around, turning my head slowly, menacingly. In the audience a few children gasped. I knew that I only had a few seconds of dramatic silence in which to collect myself. My eyes scanned the audience, and to my surprise I saw a familiar grey face.

It was not Nick. This pony was older, with a perfectly-greased mane and a stiff, high collar. Nick was sitting two seats down, wearing a red tie and a wrinkly shirt under a stiff jacket. It was the first time I had seen him dressed somewhat neatly. In between these two were an almost black mare in a dark blue gown and Silverwing wearing a jacket and bow tie. The row in front of them had a dozen or so bat ponies too, all with tufted ears. Turning my head to the left, I saw more of them. There must have been at least fifty in all.

I did not know any of them, but I felt comforted all the same. Here were ponies who would not be shocked if I suddenly took off my mask. They would not whisper amongst themselves and speculate about whether I could see clearly with such odd eyes.

I took a deep breath. Air rasped noisily through the holes of the mask. The audience fell silent.

The party started at nine o’clock, hours after sunset. I had slept through the whole windy day, and I was wearing my best woolen jacket when I met Nick at the agreed-upon street corner. He was wearing the same outfit from the previous night, and a tiny red bow dangled at the end of his curled lock. I had a messenger bag stuffed to bursting with three bottles of the finest wine I could afford. I hoped it would be enough.

The entertainment district was still loud and busy at that time of night. There was no cart traffic at all, and still the four-lane street was crowded. I pressed my ears against my head to block out the cacophony. I heard so many versions of Countess Coloratura’s “The Spectacle” to convince me that it could be set to any tune. There was a dance club that held as many guests as the concert hall, and several advertisements that I could only assume to be elaborate distasteful jokes. Each establishment had its own style inside and out: a white stone Canterlot spa was sandwiched between a frontier-themed restaurant made of rough logs and a Saddle-Arabian style house-turned-karaoke.

Nick led me to a three-storey brick building with a weathered marble façade. Goat-headed gargoyles stood guard at the corners, and life-sized manticores flanked the three front doors. The brass lettering above the entrance looked like it belonged to a courthouse: “Nightwing.”

I paused in the doorway. To my left a pony clad in tarnished silver armor bowed.

“Come on!” Nick said, grabbing my hoof and pulling me into the building. “Party’s in the state room. I’ll show you around after dinner.”

I was pulled through the dark room, seeing flashes of slot machines and poker tables and many bat ponies. It was not until we were halfway up the grand staircase at the centre of the room that I realized that the greeter had been wearing colored contact lenses and fake wings.

The stateroom with its three big fireplaces was comfortably warm. Three gigantic tables had been set for dinner. Most of the guests were bat ponies, none of them in armor. Suddenly a waiter appeared in front of me, nearly spilling his tray of crackers and cheese.

“Take one,” Nick urged before throwing a cracker into his mouth and giving the waiter a shove. “They’re good!”

I tried to thank the white pegasus with the tray, but he backed away as soon as I took the food. It was a high-quality pungent cheese, but the taste grew sour in my mouth as I looked around. The other bat ponies were speaking rather loudly, gesturing with their hooves and laughing wildly. Nick was guiding me through the room, and presently offered me a flute of champagne seemingly out of nowhere. I tried to down it quickly and almost choked on the bubbles.

“Dad!” Nick called suddenly, waving across the room.

The pony with the greased mane turned to us and smiled. Nick really looked a lot like his father. He was a bit taller than me, with a jovial air about him. When he smiled I saw that he had a small fang as his upper right canine. He offered me a big hoof in a black felt slipper, and I shook it.

“You’re Nicodemus?” He asked in a loud, deep voice. I thought he might have been a singer earlier in his life.

“Yes,” I said, trying to be warm despite my uneasiness.

“Hey, that’s a mouthful of a name,” he said with a laugh, passing me a tiny cup of hummus and bread. “It’s really where this ‘Nick’ name came from? And ‘Dean’? Do you ever go by Dean?”

“Storm!” An older-looking bat pony clapped a hoof across his shoulder and started guiding him back into the crowd.

“Enjoy yourselves, boys,” he said after some murmuring with his friend. “Nicodemus, do come talk with me later. And if you need anything…”

But Nick was guiding me away as well. I was introduced to all of his bat pony friends, all the while accepting every hors d'oeuvre offered to me. By the time we settled down for the meal proper I was nearly full and more intoxicated than I had ever been. But the others were worse, and I was increasingly empathetic with the frightened-looking servers.

After a few flutes of champagne and several types of wine Nick was nearly as bad as the others. The main course consisted of lettuce rolls and lasagna and out-of-season fruits. After months of preparing my own simple meals I should have enjoyed the feast immensely, but the noise din of all the conversations around me was unbearable. I finished my food quickly and then told Nick that I wanted to see the rest of the property. In a way I would regret that decision.

Nick was a little unsteady as he guided me back down the hall, mumbling something as I helped him down the steps.

“This is Nightwing Casino and Restaurant,” he said, gesturing all around him. There were two armor-clad ponies at the bottom of the steps, helmet and all. They bowed respectfully as we neared. “My dad bought out this place about… twenty years ago? Not as big a place as this back then, just a bar with two slot machines.”

I asked him about the armor. I knew what it was, of course, but I suspected that he didn’t.

“It’s our armor,” Nick said. “You know, bat ponies. Looks nice, doesn’t it? Ponies love it! Eat it right up! This place… one of a kind! That’s our secret.”

As we neared a roulette table one conversation swelled suddenly into an argument. I looked over to see a large blue pegasus throwing an earth pony in a brown vest over the table. Two of the fake bat ponies looked over with concern and surreptitiously shuffled an inch back.

“Hey! Stop that!” Nick yelled, stripping off his jacket and extending his wings with a loud snap. The lighting made his shadow appear gigantic.

The fighting ponies froze and slowly turned to face him. Their anger was masked now by fear.

“You two get along, alright?” Nick said menacingly, taking a step forward. “Otherwise, take it outside.”

The two ponies nodded. Nick folded his wings and picked up his jacket. I was petrified. He rolled his eyes and guided me along by the shoulder.

“One of a kind, right?” He whispered, barely suppressing his giggles. “We’re like legends come to life. You know how many of these blokes think I might eat them?”

I nearly said something then, but found that I did not have the energy. I was silent through the rest of the tour. Fortunately Nick was too drunk to notice. He showed me the buffet and the kitchen, and the bar with “every kind of liquor from here to Saddle Arabia.” Last he took me to the penthouse. The living room was adorned with full-sized copies of paintings from Royal Art Collection and busts of generic bat ponies that Nick could not name.

I left at two o’clock that night, slipping away when Nick was playing charades with his friends. At the door I remembered the wine in my bag. After some thought I went into the kitchen and gave them to one of the chefs, an unshaven earth pony who thanked me with a genuine happy smile.

I undressed when I reached my room, but it was the middle of my day. Without turning on a light I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself.

Nyktos Deimos. It was one of the ancient names that had survived through the ages, but even I did not know what it meant. Back when tarnished silver armor was crafted over the course of two years by an artisan, before the need for "Nicodemus" and "Dean" and "Nick," what did the name mean back then?

For a moment I felt tears stinging in my eyes, but it passed quickly. Then I was furious, but that mood also passed before I could make a sound.

Is this what we have to become? Is this what tufted ears and slit-pupiled eyes and featherless wings mean?

I stood before the mirror for a long time, turning my head to see the shadows changing across my face, memorizing those details. I was really quite different from Nick. I stood straighter, and my mane was much neater. My voice was completely different, and my hooves were a little rougher from not wearing shoes. We were not even the exact same color.

I went into the bathroom and picked up the straight razor. I flicked my ears one last time. The tufts bounced and rattled pleasantly. But they did not look right at all, like something grafted onto me.

With a practiced motion I pushed my ear down with one hoof, inside facing up.