Learning To Love

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The knocks were loud, and unexpected, so Feather rose with a start. She looked around, almost forgetting where she was. The curtains, carpet and double bed would give the impression of finery, if it wasn’t painted in the veneer of the fact it was merely a room on the second story of a motel. On the table at the foot of the bed was a suitcase with her belongings, every possession she had in her quarters was contained within that drab box, her entire tenure as maid, years, kept locked within that container…

She climbed out of the bed, giving a yawn. She had a rather early night, trying to fix her sleeping schedule; having spent so many days in slumber and nights awake had left her feeling topsy turvy in that department. She had left the castle’s employ shortly after her brief meeting with Princess Celestia. Since then, without a regimen and work arrangement, all of her days since have blended together into a single indistinguishable mess; like a foal mixing together all the paints on a palette. She stopped colouring her mane with brown dye and straightening her mane. It left her locks ginger and curly; her face dotted with little freckles. She didn’t see the point any more. It would at the very least save her parents the trouble of suffering a heart attack on her return, seeing their filly looking like a completely different mare. It also had the added benefit of saving her the tedium of getting rid of every little speck of orange along her muzzle.

She opened the door, initially, with furrowed brows. She was somewhat annoyed by the unknown knocker. An immediate second later, and they rose. It was a unicorn mare. A familiar one. Even in the dark her bright pink mane lost none of its colour. She had on her back a long cardboard box tied in a dark blue bow. And in her mouth, an enveloped sealed with light blue wax.

“I know you,” Feather apprised, struck with disbelief; opening the door wider. “You used to serve at the castle.”

Rather than say anything immediately, the mare’s horn sparked with a yellow light. The letter was carried from out her mouth, the box off her back. She placed them both down before Feather, the letter atop the box, both delicately. “No longer past tense, I’m happy to say. Very fortunate too. You’d be surprised at how few ponies like a mare such as I serving them,” she replied, her voice carrying in it the unexpected cadence of somepony upper class. “I’ve been instructed to give these to you from an anonymous suitor, the same suitor which rehired me,” she ended with a restrained but knowing smile. “I can say no more. I bid you adieu, Feather,” she ended cordially, nodding, before taking off with a steady strut. However, at the stairs right before descending down to the ground floor, she looked to Feather over her shoulder. “Oh, and from me: thanks!”

Feather blinked, watching her disappear down the small set of stairs. She then turned her neck to look down at the box. The letter had no name on it. And why would it? It was being hoof delivered. But how did its sender know where she lived? She picked up both box and letter, taking them into the room and placing them onto the bed. She looked between the two, pensive. It was obvious who sender was, but she was too scared to think the name. She reached for the letter first, breaking the seal and looking within. What struck her first was the calligraphy. It possessed an unmistakable finery within it. A finery she had read in a hundred poems before. As she scanned the page, her eye lids widened in disbelief.

It was an invitation. An invitation for an event scheduled for the twenty-first, the date of her departure back to Trottingham. The wording of the letter lacked a the straight-edged formality of a press printed invite. This wasn’t something just sent to anyone. It was hoof written, lacking any sense of sentimentality yet at the same time oozing it, Feather couldn’t explain it. When she reached its bottom she noted the lack of name, and tore her eyes away. Feather clenched her eyes closed, pushing it away from her with a quivering hoof. She couldn’t obey Princess Celestia’s request completely. She lacked the strength to. It pained her to leave without saying a word, and tried to force the mare from her mind, not even daring to say her name, even in thought.

When her eyes opened, they were on the box. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what it was. With the letter serving as context it left only one thing, but did she dare open it? Her hoof traced down its edge, her lips pursed. With her other she brought it close to her until its width hanged over the edge of the bed. Looking at the dainty ribbon, the tip of her left tugged at it, untying it, whilst her right lifted off the cover.

What was within left her breathless.

It was a pewter velvet gown beautifully embroidered with an embossed parade blue pattern. She pulled it out by the shoulder straps. There was a singular small sapphire upon one of them. It would clearly be highlighted as it was singular, and considering how restrained the dress was, the singular jewel would only be punctuated. Even when not worn it appeared to fall with a languid grace, and she could only imagine how it would look draped upon her form. Beneath it were four flat slippers, and Feather was surprised that they lacked any pronounced heel. They had a floral lace exterior – similarly coloured as the dress itself - while elegantly pointed.

Feather would have taken a step back were she standing. It was a beautiful dress, but it must have cost more than every item she had in her possession combined. Her hooves trembled, and it was dropped back into the box. She was torn. Why now? Was she forgiven? How could she possible be forgiven for something like that? Feather then doubted if the intention meant by this dress was positive, toying with the idea – and even hopeful – that she was wanted there to be humiliated, or shamed because she thought she was deserving of it… but she knew her love was incapable of that.

That made her heart ache, her expression becoming pained. It wasn’t her love’s name, but it hurt her just to acknowledge that. Already, she felt the strength to keep away fail her. Celestia was right however. She was mortal, and the thought of time tearing her away from her beloved left her feeling pained. She thought on it, eventually finding her eyes going back to the letter. She brought it closer to her. The way the words were written, how the letters connected to one another. The letter was the first she had seen of her love in months, even if it was only a sign of her; the mare’s features contorted into an expression of longing. The letter didn’t open with her name, or some other cordially expected opening. It was the line that cast the whole invitation in a warm glow, that punctuated the heart of its writer. It was what forced her eyes closed, that made her wish she had an excuse to not take the invite up on its offer...

[centre]My Love.[/centre]

She re-read that opening line time and time again. It was the barely the third time it was said aloud in her mind that she went over to the beside drawer, pulled out her train tickets and shred them in two, depositing the stubs in the trash bin.

She felt content with her decision.

She closed the lid on the box thereafter, placing it besides her suitcase, and then she slept. The morning after – a day before the gala – she did what she ordinarily did to pass the time prior to her leaving, even if it was sort of moot by now. She decided to take up an old hobby – and what the brush on her flank was actually depicting – and took to painting in the park. It was cold, as expected for that time of year, but she felt warmed by the anticipation of what came tomorrow. Beyond who she may meet again, there was an excitable being a guest at the nation’s most prestigious event. It left her feeling giddy. After weeks of infrequent daily vomiting, loneliness and emotional fatigue, she was simply elated at the prospect.

She spent her afternoon painting in the park. She was trying to capture a scene before her. The picturesque image of a family having a picnic by the pond. There was no particular reason why she wanted to capture that image, but the sight of smiling foals was something that made her feel warm inside. However, she was out of practice, yet she had become reacquainted with painting fairly easily. It was something she abandoned. She hadn’t the time, nor space, to keep in steadfast pursuant of improving herself in this regard. As much as she grew to enjoy poetry, there was something about holding a brush that came to her more naturally than a quill. It was her talent after all. She always felt shy about it revealing it to ponies. It was an unprofitable skill, however the width of the bristles meant that it could be mistaken for a duster, so long as she insisted upon it. In Canterlot, the rich were in high need of servants and cleaners, and Feather would do anything to live in such a city of renown, even if that included effectively lying on her resume.

By late afternoon the painting was only half done. She was something of a perfectionist in that regard, as she was with all tasks she tried to set for herself – be them poems, paintings or cleaning. The family had long since left, leaving just their happy visages in the middle of an otherwise white canvas. Yet, despite the lack of surrounding detail, it already felt… complete. She had captured the emotion of contentment, and the surrounding white void only seemed to punctuate it. She couldn’t actually bring herself to add more to it after that. She simply stayed sitting on her bench after she added the last stroke to the colt’s ear, feeling oddly wistful.

She left the park, with canvas and supplies. She went through her usual motions. She grabbed a bite to eat from the nearby diner, a pickle, mustard and tulip sandwich. The waitress who handed Feather the place wore a visibly forced smile, her muzzle wrinkling, and left the former maid’s cubicle with haste. Feather consumed it heartily, and left. By the time she reached the motel the sun had gone down, and her love’s opal hung in the night sky. She slept with the curtain’s open that evening, allowing the soft glow of light from the moon to cover her cheeks. It was a far cry from the physical comfort of her beloved holding her close, but with the light upon her she didn’t feel almost as alone that night…

Luna walked with a stiff and haughty posture with an uncomfortably quick gait. She tried to ignore the fact that Celestia matched her pace beside her, trying to avoid meeting her sister’s curious expression. Lower your brow sister, or else it may fly off your head.

“You’ll be attending the gala this year, I hear,” Celestia remarked. Luna heard in her tone a level of disbelief, but also surprise of the pleasant kind. “You’ve been unusually talkative with the ponies on your shift of late.”

“Yes, we will, and yes we have,” Luna replied vaguely, continuing to ignore her sister’s gaze. She turned a corner, coming into a new hall. There was an increase to the bustle and hustle of staff. The evening was fresh, and preparations for the gala needed to be completed by the staff, but so long as Celestia remained hooked to her side like a stubborn tick, she couldn’t finish any preparations of her own.

“You have never attended galas of previous years,” Celestia pointed out.

“We care not for the company of sycophants,” Luna replied, looking to her sister with a passive stare. “No matter how much their pockets are weighed down with wealth, or their letters made heavier by their numerous titles. How you suffer their droning is a mystery, even to us.”

“I think you have just been talking with the wrong ponies,” Celestia smirked at Luna’s abrasive attitude. “Dost it, per chance, involve thy change in vernacular,” she mimicked, wearing a wavering expression of stoicism, one which threatened to break into giggles.

“Imitation is flattery,” Luna said with droll. We have never sounded so… haughty.

“And that’s not an answer,” Celestia gave a mirthless smile, sighing. The sun monarch glanced to her side and then back to Luna. She lessened the space between them as they walked, wearing a look of irksome concern. “I hate to bring it up, Luna. But I have noticed something… different about you these past couple of months. It’s no coincidence that this all began to occur after-”

“That matter was resolved,” Luna interrupted with a fierce glare, which quickly softened. “We told you, we bore you no malice. Not due to our relation, but because your encouragement was a blessing. A ‘kick in the plot,’ as it were,” she simpered, saying the idiom with an expression of faux pensiveness.

Much to the moon monarch’s relief, Celestia’s lips curved into a smile. “I don’t think you’re using that idiom correctly,” Celestia informed, giving a soft smile. “Since you’re still in the process of learning modern linguistics, have you practised contractions yet?”

Luna scoffed, although thankful for the change in subject. “For what reason? We are not pregnant, sister,” Luna gibed, grinning coyly.

Feather felt considerable unease to the castle. She walked past a familiar restaurant that prompted her to keep her reddened face averted. When she reached the gates of the castle, the number of visibly wealthy mares and stallions were uncountable; a mob of money. Some stood loitering outside the gates, looking extremely miffed, most directing their imperious stares at passive eyed guard. As she got closer, she heard audible outrage. It was still relatively early in the evening, so those who were not invited to the gala were gathered almost ceremoniously to complain to deaf guard and staff. Inside the gate, those who were granted entry waved their invitations around mockingly, jeering and cackling like mad ponies at those with a modicum less fortune than themselves. Feather had witnessed the same display in previous years, on the other side of the gate but assuredly not apart of the gala itself. A background pony, serving drinks and overpriced food. But now? It was her turn to be hoity toity… or so she thought, prior to getting ready for the night ahead.

She walked with a reserved gait, self conscious and meek. When she looked in the mirror that afternoon she noticed her small frame, well, wasn’t ‘small’ anymore. She looked pudgy in places, mostly around the face, haunch and belly. It was a wonder the dress even fit! Her gain in weight, combined with her lack of dye, left her feeling ugly and unapproachable. Even though she outwardly attempted to force a smile, internally she wanted to keep her head low, trying not to lock eyes with anypony.

“Excuse me, miss,” a firm voice was directed toward her, just as she stepped beyond the threshold of the gate, lost in thought. A white unicorn guard, with an angular build.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she replied swiftly, wearing an apologetic smile. “I have my invitation right here,” she assured. She brought a hoof to her chest, where she kept in her possession a folded piece of paper – one of two, in fact – flashing to the guard the blue wax seal on its back.

“I see,” he said with a nod, giving a small smile. “Enjoy your night, ma’am.”

“I will,” she replied cordially. She put the letter back in her dress, and passed by him into the castle grounds.

She proceeded with a dawdle. Some ponies glanced at her, but only after she glanced them. She had only walked up to the castle doors one time prior not under the title of ‘maid.’ It was before getting the position. She felt some deja vu, mostly concerning how humble she was in her composition. She felt the same type of erroneous as she did back then, of not belonging. The large golden doors were just as intimidating as they were back then, as were the guards with their stoic faces, so too were the nobility with their imperious stares. In a way, her nervousness exceeded anything she felt back then. She wasn’t going into the castle as Feather Duster. She was going in as just Feather, and she hoped that was enough.

Passing into the interior, she tried her best to ignore the oppressive weight of the ceiling, and the stares from half-familiar faces. The sound of music and faraway chatter began to fill her ears and her steps continued to carry her forth. Wide open doors resided at the end of the long stretch of hallway. She saw movement, of pomp and living wealth. She had held her breath in the moments leading up to it, when she crossed the threshold and stepped into the large ballroom.

Extravagance. Glamour. A surrounding blitz of voices and lights, of laugher, and the scent of fine food. Feather felt overwhelmed, awestruck by the grandness of it all. Never before had she stepped into the main hall during the grand galloping gala; always hearing it, knowing the majesty of the event, but never had she lain her eyes on it before. However, her amazement was short lived, and instead her eyes scanned the room for a particular blue-coated alicorn.

She felt apathetic to other eyes now, there were only one pair she cared to have on her. The noise became muted, and all else seemed to fade into the background.

Then, to her left, having spotted her first, she felt her pursed lips crack into the largest of smiles. A voice ebbed up from her throat, and she dared utter the name she had until now refused to.

“Luna!”