The palace appeared a lot bigger without his father there with him. Scarily big. He kept his head down, eyes clamped shut, pretending he was some place better. Pretending. Father told him Northerners were good at it. But he didn’t think the Queen was pretending to be bad. She seemed too good at it. Anvil, the captain, walked in front of him like before; his destination, he knew not. His hooves went up and down, being dragged along by fear rather than walking of his own accord.

Father! He remembered his futile cry, as his bloodied and bludgeoned elder was dragged away. The menacing grins upon the faces of the stallions who did so filled him with a terror that rendered him frigid, his limbs locking as he watched the brutal scene of a stallion outnumbered, beaten. He was too afraid to even try and run or to fight, he did not trust himself to help. This filled the colt with a shameful sentiment, allowing himself to be escorted by the armour clad guard as the Queen looked upon him with a ravenous appetite.

They ushered him to a small box of a room somewhere far from the throne room, and he entered without cajolement; he lacked the courage to be defiant, or he possessed the intelligence to know it was futile. The guards closed the door shut, leaving in a room devoid of light, save for a small flickering candle of a stand next to a bed that looked destitute of comfort. Regardless, the entire day suddenly fell upon him like a hammer, weighing him down like chains. He first sat on the bed, and then laid his head upon the dirty pillow, and fell to sleep and temporarily escaped his sadness.

He often slept dreamlessly, and when he did dream, he rarely remembered them. This time he dreamed of home, sitting on a snow drift under a cloudless sky, Na’s light washed over him in its shimmering embrace. In his dream, he heard the crunching of snow behind him, and he turned his neck with a drowsy slowness, the small smile on his lips almost drunken. Behind him, hidden in a mist, was the outline of an alien figure. Striking cyan eyes overpowered the dull grey of the mist, and they were what he was attracted to the most, they reminded him of the blue hue of the night sky. The longer he looked at it, the more he began to notice. There was a distinctly long horn atop its head, almost appearing as a needle, and at the sides, he recalled the appearance of furled wings on the train. It had both horn and wings. Sunder, alike a toddler, reached out for the figure with a weak limb; the entity recoiling and backing away with a particularly solemn slowness. Steorra’s interest was quick to fade and looked back up to the sky with a frown. He could feel the eyes on him. Not boring into him, but simply watching him. For a brief moment, near the end, he didn’t feel afraid or alone.

His eyes fluttered awake to a delicate hoof stroking his mane. For a moment, he believed the past day to be a nightmare, and he was only now just waking on the farm; the hoof belonging to Crescent. However, he tensed up, his lip quivering and eyes threatening to well upon seeing her. She was uncomfortably close to him, and he was too young to see the perverse look in her eye, but he knew something lingered there. Something unpleasant.

“Hush, don’t cry,” the Queen consoled softly, but it almost came out as a demand, her demeanour did nothing to soothe him. Northerners like playing pretend, his father’s words echoed in his mind. “I won’t hurt you, little one.”

Steorra sniffled. Not because he believed her, but because he didn’t want to shame his father. “W-where's my father?” he asked, and he frowned at her smirk.

“He’s locked away, safe,” she replied. He retreated back into himself, looking away from her. He didn’t believe her. “What’s your name, little colt?” she asked him. “Mine’s Rarity of the Blueblood. After my many greats grandmother.”

“Steorra,” he choked, trying to be curt. He was still upset.

“Do you know why you’re here, Steorra?” she asked him.

“No.” He felt like he suddenly knew very little of everything now.

“You’re a unicorn. That makes you very special. Although I’m sure you have been told that a lot already,” she spoke gently, Steorra knew it a farce. He wanted to believe so, anyway. “I grew up being told I was special, but not really. It was only to soften the blow of the burden of rulership, and that, unlike grandfather, I wasn’t blessed with the gift of magic, but I realised growing up it flowed through my blood. The rest of them grew content with not having a unicorn in our family again, but I was not…” she paused, and exhaled. “You’re going to be my groom. You know that, right?”

“W-what?” Steorra stuttered, looking up at her with furrowed brows. “But that's…”

“Your duty, as a unicorn,” she interrupted, still soft, but fierce too. “You could be the last of your kind, and once you’re nothing but bones in the Earth, unicorns have left the world forever. So you will marry me. And we will have children, many. Mares, colts, unicorns or no. And when I am too old and barren to play broodmare, your daughters will take the role, and we will not stop until unicorns are a bounty in the world again,” each second she spoke filled Steorra with a fear he couldn’t understand. Her hoof was still on him. She looked at him with a blank expression, inhaling softly through her nose, before sighing. “Yes, I much imagine you will not enjoy it. But you may in time, and if not, well… a pony can bear anything if they must. The world is full of horrors, Steorra. You can fight them, or laugh at them, or look without seeing…”

Steorra didn’t know what to say if he could say anything at all. She looked at him overly long, glancing away every so often. Her eyes looked as deep as a lake, and there was something to be found in their depths, Steorra just didn’t know what.

After a while, and without a word, she came off the bed; landing to her hooves with an audible ‘clop’, and left the room in a speed the opposite of haste. When the door creaked open, and Steorra heard it close again, the dam that held back his sorrow cracked; tears began to well in his eyes and he pressed his muzzle into the pillow, hugging himself. Despite how much he disliked her, her final words rung in his mind over and over like an echo in a deep cave. The world is full of horrors, Steorra. You can fight them, or laugh at them, or look without seeing...

Father.

Author's Note

You: Why is this so sho-
Me: There's no tiiiiiiiiime!!!

15th August.
I am thoroughly sorry for the quality.