Merry Chestnuts and a Happy New Fleur

Chapters

Chapter 2 – Let It Snowball! Let It Snowball!
Chapter 4 – No Jingle Bells Given
Chapter 5 – O Come, All Ye Charitable
Chapter 6 – Chestnut's Roasting on an Open Fire
Chapter 7 – Filly It's Cold Outside
Chapter 8 – Running Home For Hearth’s Warming
Chapter 9 – Do You Wear What I Wear?
Chapter 10 – Santa Hooves Is Coming to Town
Chapter 11 – Promenade Wonderland
Chapter 12 – A Hardly Silent Night
Chapter 13 – Have Yourself A Merry Little Carol
Chapter 14 – Rockin' Around the Hearth's Warming Tree
Chapter 15 – It’s the Most Magical Time of the Year
Chapter 1 – I'm Dreaming of a White Hearth's Warming
Chapter 3 – We Wish You a Merry Hearth's Warming

Chapter 2 – Let It Snowball! Let It Snowball!

Boom. Boom.

“Brace... brace for… presents,” Fleur mumbled, her eyelids still halfway from opening. “The ice, we have to… break the ice. Canon fire!”

Boom!

She tumbled out of bed, her hind legs tangled in a sail. Where was she? What was happening, who ordered the cannons to fire? She felt the wooden floor of her cabin, realizing that the sail was but a blanket, and that the wood was much softer than she’d expected. Because it was a rug. She followed it closely as she crawled around the bed. Better to lay low in case of any swords swiping or matchlocks shooting. The ship and the crew were nothing without its captain, after all.

By the time she reached the window and drew the curtains, she was awake, and the longer she allowed the bright winter scenery assault her eyes, the less she cared about the assault in her dreams. The ship sailed away, the pirates were gone, and the precious cargo she was so keen on protecting… what was it, again? No one was firing, it was just a pony shuffling the snow off the street. The shovel sounds mercilessly scraping across the pavement were loud and rhythmic, but it was hardly a cannonade. But it was close.

“Fleur, you silly filly,” she chastised herself as she put on a burgundy gown. “Pirates, bah, and on Hearth’s Warming Eve no less! This is supposed to be a season of generosity, not of… robbing and plundering.”

Generosity. That reminded her of a letter on her dressing table which, in turn, reflected how messy her mane was. She allowed herself a moment of vanity at the three-piece mirror. It was a universally accepted truth that mares looked most beautiful in the morning, with no make-up, with their manes undone, and when they were smiling. All four checked—but of course Fleur couldn’t stay a charming sleepyhead forever. Her family had a busy day ahead of them, and if she was guessing it right from the silence in the house, Fancy Pants and Chestnut had already started it.

Her horn shimmered, but in truth it was the brush working its magic, one unruly strand at a time.

Trottingham, December 17th 1206

Dear Fleur,

My sincerest congratulations on becoming a mom! I realize those are long overdue, for which I apologize here and will do so again once we meet. I have been pushing for a lot of work to be done before Hearth’s Warming so I can start the new year with the third boutique up and running. I am actually writing these words as they are bringing in furniture, which is absolutely lovely!

Nevertheless, with my personnel stretched thin, it turned out Sassy and I would be guarding our Canterlot branch on the Eve. How about joining us in the afternoon for a little get-together? As I recall you are passing on the play this year, so I know you are available!

Cordially, I am also extending my invitation to your family. I do hope that it will at least partially absolve me of my absence on your recent Canterlot Elite party. A little bird told me that it has been quite an exciting event, and that your guest of honor has made an impression on our certain mutual acquaintances (and also a different kind of impression on our other acquaintances). But let us spare the ink on this one. I am looking forward to hearing all about it!

RSVP at your earliest convenience. Or simply drop by—we are certainly not going anywhere.

Yours,

Rarity

PS: I may also be working on a little something for New Year’s Eve...

Looking respectable now, Fleur put down the brush and letter.

“Trying to outsource your quality assurance again, are you?” she murmured, giving herself a quick glance in the mirror. “Bien,” she confidently remarked and trotted downstairs.

Hearth’s Warming had always been a curious holiday to Fleur, she realized over a bowl of chocolate-packed cereal, one she didn’t actually celebrate when she was younger. At its core, it was about the founding of Equestria, so other pony nations had no reason to mention it and instead focused on commemorating local events. Of course Equestria’s influence on the ponykind was undeniable, and even understandable with the alicorns in charge, so at some point those local events melded with whatever Hearth’s Warming represented.

Back in Prance it boiled down mostly to adapting its commercial side—decorating a house, playing themed music in the restaurants, or buying presents and then pretending that some spirit brought them. The holiday’s actual meaning was diluted at best. In Pearis, it was the Prench National Day or Fête de la Victoire that her overly patriotic family celebrated the most. Or the annual Criniarmures parade. Or her father’s favorite Flag Day, because vive la République!

Puffing up her cheeks, Fleur exhaled heavily. Perhaps she was still resentful about how they had treated Hearth’s Warming, but she wasn’t going to let her family disrupt her family’s day. A smile returned to her face when she looked outside, where in the garden Fancy Pants, Chestnut, and their friend Rich Card were finishing a formidable snowpony. Rich Card’s wife, Hyacinth, must have had him deliver the invitation to that New Year’s Eve party she was obviously throwing, to which Fleur was pretty much obligated to go. Hyacinth mentioned it several times. However obnoxious she could be, however, Fleur owed her.

She knocked on the window, drawing the attention of a young thestral. “Come inside, there’s tea,” she mouthed and raised a mug. But Chestnut shook her head and instead beckoned Fleur to join her, saying something. “What? I can’t hear you.” She pantomimed a deaf monkey. “No, I’m not bringing it there. The whole point is to get you inside. There’s tea, I mean, I was going to make some.” She pointed to the mug again. Chestnut rolled her eyes, then pointed to her orange scarf, and to the snowpony’s bare neck. Fleur got the message. A sculpture that impressive needed details. “Give me a minute.”

A little more than a minute later, outside, she squinted her eyes at the blinding snow, took a breath of cold winter air—

SPLAT!

—and got an out-of-nowhere snowball straight to the chest.

“Eek!” she squealed in surprise. “Good one, Nutsie! And I thought that years of wearing corsets would have made me tougher. Ow.”

Chestnut flew out from behind a snow-covered shrub. “Whoopsie! Sorry, mom! That wasn’t for you. I was trying to hit dad from the hiding, but he moved, and I didn’t know that, so I guessed and took my chances because he was standing right there by the bench, and hit you instead, but I didn’t mean that,” she frantically explained. “And hey, how did you even know it was me? I thought I was being stealthy.”

“An educated guess. I know for a fact Rich wouldn’t hurt a fly—good morning, Rich, good to see you, and I do remember about the party!—and your father has, well, let’s just say he would’t be invited to hang out with eagles.” She drew a shape of a monocle over her eye. “What’s with the snowballs anyway? Weren’t you building a pony? I got you the fashion upgrade you wanted for him.”

“Rad!” Chestnut snatched the scarf and quickly wrapped it around the sculpture’s neck, completing its looks. “It’s finished! Do you think that’s the biggest snowpony ever?”

Fancy Pants was just done cleaning his monocle. “Why, it’s certainly the biggest snowpony that has ever stood in this garden,” he proudly said. “On a side note, dear, my aim is impeccable.”

“If you’re sitting on the target, perhaps,” Fleur chuckled. “Remember the darts fiasco last summer? Tell us, how many points did you get in a hundred and eighty game, again?”

“Actually, I believe I won that day, dear,” Fancy Pants replied stoically, but with a growing grin. “My score of a hundred and sixty-nine versus, how to put it, yours. And you only had one cider, mind you, therefore, like I said: impeccable.”

Despite the cold Fleur felt her cheeks warming. “Oh. Well, you know, that doesn’t prove you’re good with throwing snowballs or anything. Everyone knows that darts are pure luck anyway,” she tried to dismiss the notion, but the stallion wasn’t letting go.

“Even if that’s true, I suppose I do have a right for retaliation now,” he said teasingly. “Honestly, I’m willing to wager that I am a better thrower than you, and considering the season is proper… I’m willing to put that claim to the test.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Perhaps.” He threw her a dashing smile. “How about you, Rich? Are you in for a little exercise?”

The balding stallion, who spent most of his life crunching the numbers in the City Council’s Department of Finance, was indeed a perfect guest and hardly a troublemaker.

“Well,” he said unsurely, “only if the lady of the house allows. I have to admit already, though”—he nodded at the snowpony—“I haven’t had that much fun in the snow since Cherry Drum left for college. Hyacinth isn’t really fond of me doing anything in the garden in winter. Unless you count smoothing the snow cape, that is,” he added with a wince, yet never lost any politeness innate to his demeanor. “I suppose I’m in, as long as we’re not teaming up as families. I’d be outnumbered.”

“How about fillies and gentlecolts?” Fancy Pants suggested. “A simple, five minute game. Fleur and I will try to land a snowball on the other. No other hits score. Our teammates need to guard their respective unicorn, draw the fire of the opposing team, and, well, help in any way they see fit. Oh, and no magic allowed.”

“So we win by mom hitting you, and you win by hitting mom, and it doesn’t matter if Mr. Rich or I hit you or get hit ourselves. Sounds fun!” Chestnut exclaimed. “I’m definitely in.”

“Wonderful! In the spirit of good sportsmanship, if either of us get hit, we admit it to the opposing side.”

“That goes without question,” Fleur agreed. “Nous acceptons. May the better duet win.”

The ponies commenced their preparations.

Fancy Pants and Rich Card chose a spot next to the house from which they could easily jump to the porch and get about two feet of height advantage. That must have been their backup plan, Fleur ventured a guess, because they quickly went to piling up snow to make a wall right before the steps. Fleur and Chestnut settled for an untrimmed shrub at the far side of the yard where, unlike the stallions, they were less fortified but had more spots to which they could easily retreat. However, jumping between shrubs and rock gardens meant exposing themselves more often.

A risky gambit, but ever since she woke up, Fleur’s adventurous mood was on for some reason.

“Let’s talk strategy,” she proposed. “Our main advantage is that we’re both mares, so Fancy won’t dare throwing too hard at us, and especially at you. The same goes with Rich—as a guest, he won’t risk getting on our bad side, because Hyacinth wouldn’t let him in for the night if we didn’t accept her invitation he brought. But they will skirmish us, so whenever I’ll be moving between those bushes, or peek out to take a shot, I need you to cover me.”

“Got it. I know I’m good at catching snowballs even with my face, so that may help. Any disadvantagerous things we need to look out for?”

“I hate to admit it, but for someone who needs his monocle to read a sticker on a jar, your dad really has a keen eye. Now that I remember, he pretty much destroyed me at darts that night.”

“Uh-huh.” Chestnut straightened up to watch the stallions, but then swiveled back, trying to sound casually. “Oh, hey, just so I’d know, how many points did you get then?”

“About… twenty-eight?”

The filly’s ears dropped.

“Thirty-two? You know what, let’s not think about it right now!” Fleur said cheerfully. “Come on, help me make some snowballs.”

Chestnut gave a disheartened murmur. “It’s too late to change teams, isn’t it?”

“Ready and set?” they heard the call. “Begin!”

The game was on. At first it was quiet, as both teams were busy strengthening their defenses or producing icy marbles of destruction. As the pile grew large enough, the fillies gained the upper hoof by striking first. They flung a few test shots at the frigid fortress, the walls of which were, as expected, formidable. Soon the stallions responded in kind, if with a less intense flurry due to their need to conserve the snow and definitely not benevolence. Admittedly, Fleur had underestimated Rich—he was throwing high-lobbed snowballs meant to confuse her, and Fancy Pants tried to exploit that with fast, precise strikes.

“I have you now, Fleur!”

“Nope!” Chestnut flew in. “Sorry, dad!”

Chestnut was an excellent protector. She used her hooves, body, even wings to intercept the coming projectiles. It was barely two minutes into the game and she’d already saved Fleur from certain doom a good couple of times. She wasn’t a bad thrower herself, and she contributed her nimbleness and speed to mess with the stallions. They spotted her behind one shrub, she fired, they had to duck behind the wall, and when they were back slinging at that shrub, Chestnut was already crouching behind a rock garden, or another shrub, or somewhere else entirely. She was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, which forced them to keep glancing over the safety of their cover in hopeless search.

“Where is she? Where?”

“Do it, mom, do it!”

She’d given Fleur a couple of good, clean shots, which the mare of course completely blew. She was indeed super terrible at throwing things. Snow splashed all over the house, the porch and the bench, and the impenetrable frost walls. Her lack of progress encouraged the stallions, and they focused their attacks on Fleur, who was highly experienced in standing and promenading, but not ducking and dashing. She didn’t get hit so far, but her stamina was dwindling.

The fifth minute was nearing.

“They got themselves holed up nicely,” Fleur huffed heavily. “Guerrilla tactics will only get us so far.”

“Yeah, I don’t know anything about gorillas, mom,” Chestnut replied, also gasping for breath. “But I don’t think I can keep up much longer. Do we even have a plan at this point?”

Fleur pursed her lips as she desperately searched for a better tactic. She couldn’t stand the thought of losing to her husband now—her personal pride was one thing, but it would make her look bad in front of Chestnut too. They couldn’t keep on running when the stallions were nice and cozy behind cover, true… but if only they could flush them out…

The porch. It had a roof. Which was slightly inclined.

“I got it! Nutsie, come here. You said something about being stealthy? Well, now’s your chance…”

She explained her plan in detail, or at least as precisely as the continuous barrage allowed. Splitting up was a risky strategy, but if Chestnut could get up there then the battle was as good as won. The two of them parted with a hoof bump and dashed in opposite directions. They both had their objectives, but Fleur felt she had it easier—no running, no straining yourself, but simply ensuring that all eyes were on her. Piece of cake.

Fleur power-slid into cover. “I’d hardly call that performance impeccable, husband!”

“It felt only appropriate to grant you some lenience, dear,” Fancy Pants taunted back, throwing one snowball after another. “But you can’t run and hide forever. I see you!”

Fleur rolled a snow patch into a ball. One was all she needed. She flailed her forelegs over the shrub, pretending to be taking a shot, but in truth signaled Chestnut to do her thing. The brave filly had quietly landed on the porch’s roofing, almost exactly over the stallions, in a hoof-deep white quilt. It needed but a push.

“Go ahead, take the shot!” Fancy Pants shouted. “I’m sure it will be worth at least ten—”

“Leg it, Fancy!” Rich Card exclaimed.

The curtain fell with its cold and unforgiving might. In a split second, Fancy Pants and Rich Card jumped to the sides. The latter risked and succeeded as he dived under grinning Chestnut and to the porch, while Fancy Pants saved himself by going into the open.

That was it. Fleur pounced from cover with the snowball held closely to her chest. When their gazes crossed, she realized her husband also had one snowball left. He must have grabbed it while he was making his escape, which meant his thoughts mirrored Fleur’s own: the opponent was exposed. At that one moment, whoever had better reflexes and whoever decided to strike first, would win.

Neither of them did.

Fancy Pants dropped his snowball. “Well played?”

“Well played indeed, husband.” Fleur smiled and did the same. “You can come out now! Rich, Nutsie! I think… I think we’ll just have a draw. Come on, let’s get inside to warm up, shall we?”

That’s how families were supposed to celebrate Hearth’s Warming, Fleur thought. And the best thing was that she didn’t even feel defeated. The front yard might have looked like a battlefield littered with missed shots, her heart was still pounding with the exertion, and she didn’t technically win, but put that aside and she felt like a genuine winner. Not having a snowball splash on your muzzle was a big plus, too. Feeling a loved stallion’s discreet peck on her cheek, however—an even bigger one.

And to think the day had only just begun.

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

Snowballs, snowballs everywhere! Inspired by Dean Martin’s classic Let it Snow!!

Interestingly enough, I think I first heard that song in a Die Hard movie (I wonder, does your local TV also pulls that one out every Christmas, or is it just my country?). I suppose I could have embedded the other version above, but I don’t want Fleur to go all John McClane on the Canterlot Elite!

I mean, not yet.

Chapter 4 – No Jingle Bells Given

There was a hundred ways to approach Hearth’s Warming, Fleur assessed.

For some ponies, it was about those extra non-working days and meeting up with friends who weren’t normally available throughout the year. For others, it was about leaving town with a pair of skis on their back—so that they wouldn’t have to meet up with their insisting acquaintances and finally get some rest. Children played in the snow. Shopkeepers dug out old wreaths and garlands to attract customers. Restaurants pulled out new menus where ‘I’s had dots in shape of snowflakes, and where some of the meals had the words ‘warming’ or ‘winter’ slapped onto them.

Fleur knew one more way. Well, technically she knew two, but the Prench tactic of dismissing Hearth’s Warming didn’t really count. The one she’d learned after she moved to Canterlot was the high society’s way. Participating in fashion shows, fundraisers and dinners which, in the end, were just like regular events with a more or less justified winter theme applied. It wasn’t bad, but the repetitiveness of sleeping until midday, dressing up, visiting a party or two to end up watching the pageant with the Canterlot Elite didn’t feel like the best way of celebrating. But if that wasn’t the right way, then what was?

A weird thought occurred to Fleur. Could it really be that she was an adult mare who had never truly learned what Hearth’s Warming was about? That would be… kind of lame, actually.

They were following the Promenade when Chestnut’s excited voice pulled her out of her reverie.

“Hey, we’re almost there! Next stop: a restaurant with lions! But why lions? Aren’t they scaring off the visitors?”

“I suppose they do look a tad menacing, which only compliments the sculptor,” Fancy Pants agreed. “However, the lion is also considered a symbol of power and royalty. He is often called the king of the jungle, which may not be entirely accurate if we take into account all the magical creatures that could challenge him. Nevertheless, in the animal world he evokes respect. He means business, that is,” he supplemented. “That must be why Chef Garlic decided to put them there, because when it comes to running a restaurant, he is the lion.”

“Chef Garlic Bread,” Chestnut echoed. “He is the owner and chef de quai… de que… chef de cuisine of Acquarellion. I’ve met him during the party and he didn’t mind me being young or a batpony, so he’s okay. He likes all kinds of food, especially things that are small but many, like for a single bite. He saved the restaurant thanks to trying new recipes and adding many exotic dishes to the menu. He’s not the easiest pony to work with when he’s angry,” she recited without stalling. “Just like a lion.”

“Impressive!” Fancy Pants couldn’t hide his astonishment. “Someone’s been doing her homework, I take it?”

“Guilty as an accomplice,” Fleur said. “I simply wanted to outfit her with all the important facts before she goes in. I know it’s about cooking, but no meeting is normal when there’s someone from the Elite involved.”

“Also, mom thinks he has a nice beard, but he’s not married, but mom thinks he has a special somepony,” Chestnut added casually.

“All the important facts indeed,” Fancy Pants chuckled—but his hoof went to his clean-shaved chin still.

“Indeed,” Fleur admitted without shame. “So, how about we go over the plan again? We’re delivering Chestnut to Acquarellion where we split up. You stay with Garlic, you go to work—for the record, I still don’t understand why, and on Hearth’s Warming Eve no less!—while I head to Valenmane Estate… only on the other end of town,” she sighed.

Chestnut nodded. “Fine by me!”

“You know that as a senior ambassador I need to be there when the Houndrel Federation is formally established,” Fancy Pants said. “Personally, I find it quite poetic. We are celebrating the founding of Equestria while Diamond Dogs and their allied tribes start their own nation. It’s a momentous occasion for everyone involved!” he added. “Remind me, we’re scheduled at Rarity’s at three, correct?”

“Oui, if her train from Trottingham arrives as planned. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to pick Chestnut up?” When the stallion shook his head, Fleur turned to the filly. “Then the plan is for you to wait for me. You can never really tell how long an auction like that will take, but in the worst-case scenario I’ll just excuse myself earlier. You just stay here. Sounds good?”

“Not… really, I guess? I was thinking I could go straight to the boutique when I’m done.”

“Alone? Out of the question.”

“But mom, you said it yourself you don’t know how long it will take,” Chestnut protested. “I mean, if you can finish earlier and be back then it works, but what if you’ll be running late? I don’t want to be a trouble for Mister Garlic when we’re done.” Flying up, she looked over the crowd. “And it’s not even that far. I can see both the restaurant and”—she squinted her eyes—“almost see the boutique from here. It’s on Emerald Street, right? Is that Emerald Street? I think it is because the snow is green.”

“Still a terrible idea. Help me out, husband.”

“It’s not like she’ll be crossing a desert, dear,” Fancy Pants said gently. “It’s a five-minute walk tops, the streets are bright and cozy…”

Betrayal. Betrayal at its finest. Did he not comprehend the gravity of the situation? Stallions, bah!

“B-but what about that frostbite?” Fleur pointed out. “Haven’t you read the weather bulletin? There’s a frostbite coming in the afternoon. And may I remind you that a frostbite is the strongest form of concentrated snowfall applicable to cities like Canterlot. The bulletin said so! She’ll freeze, poor thing. Look, she’s shaking already!” Fleur said, wrapping herself around the filly who was most certainly not shaking.

“Yeah, but I have this to keep me warm.” Chestnut nuzzled her orange scarf. “I’m pretty sure that if I put it on our snowpony, its head would melt. That’s how warm it is. Actually, I have to ask Miss Rarity what material it is, because it feels better than a normal scarf would.”

The stallion nodded. “I believe it’s called silversilk. It’s from Saddle Arabia.”

“Don’t change the subject, you two! Come on, I’ll show you.” Determined to make a point, Fleur waded through the crowd. “You’re not telling me it’s a short walk when it isn’t. Just look,” she said at the corner of the Promenade and Emerald Street—which indeed had its snow and all decorations tinted green for some reason. “You have Acquarellion over there, and the boutique is as far”—she stopped, surprised—“Huh, it’s actually way closer than I thought. Was it always like that?”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you.” Fancy Pants moved behind Chestnut and put his hoof on her shoulder. “The final decision is yours, dear, but I think you’ll agree that our Chestnut is a responsible, young mare, so if she says she can make those, oh, four hundred yards on her own, then I, for one, trust her.”

Fleur was this close to rolling her eyes, but there was something about her husband’s words that tipped her off. The persistent, focused way he was looking at her over their daughter’s back... he was giving her signals! It was like he was telling her to ease her concerns. She knew she had them, probably like every freshly made mother. She’d gained that attitude less than a month ago when Chestnut was lost on the very same Promenade they were walking right now. Of course she’d been informed by Doctor Sunlit Hugs that Chestnut needed encouragement more than she needed protection, especially considering the life changes she was going through, and that the best encouragement would come from trusting her in small things.

“Très bien,” she finally said. “When you’re done and I’m not around, you go straight to the boutique. But”—she raised her hoof—“you don’t talk to anyone, you don’t touch anything, and for all that is Hearth-Warmingy, you don’t try to help anyone. If someone drops a necklace, then it’s their problem. For five minutes, be selfish. Or better yet, be stealthy! Don’t let anyone see you.”

“Deal!” Chestnut bumped Fleur’s raised hoof, a gesture which never failed to amuse the mare. “But I think what you meant was to not let anyone notice me, mom. It’s kind of hard not to be seen on a big street like that. But not noticed? No problem when you’re a batpony.”

Fleur threw the stallion a stare. “She really has been doing her homework, hasn’t she?” she deadpanned.

“Guilty as an accomplice.”

A while later they had left Chestnut in Garlic Bread’s care, who was delighted to take her into the culinary world of high society dining. The chef was a respected fellow and their good acquaintance, but Fleur, while smiling charmingly and exuding confidence, couldn’t shake off the feeling that something irregular was going to happen. Not necessarily bad or dangerous, just some weird event in which Chestnut would be playing the central role.

She just had that hunch.

“Am I being overprotective?” she asked herself as much as her husband. “Because I can’t fight it, I literally can’t. All I can see is her getting into something and ending up alone and scared.”

“Frankly, I don’t think it’s Chestnut that you’re worrying about. I think you’re mostly worried that if she gets into trouble, you won’t be there to assist her,” Fancy Pants proposed. “But we can’t treat her like a helpless foal, you know. I doubt anything has changed over the last, oh, thirty years in that matter, so ponies her age tend to be quite touchy when those never-understanding adults think of them as of little kids. If they do, those kids will rebel at some point. And I don’t think our house could withstand a rebelling Chestnut.”

“I see you’ve been reading the books. Good for you.” Fleur glanced back, just in case there was a filly in tears running to her. “But you weren’t there. You weren’t in that alleyway when she was hiding in a trash can.”

“From what you’ve told me she was taking it quite well,” Fancy Pants replied. “She wasn’t crying, or distressed, and then she was comfortable talking about it like it was the greatest adventure she’d been through. She straight told you she ran not out of fear, but to keep your meeting with Rarity undisturbed, correct?”

“Oui.”

“Now consider this: was she, at any point, in any actual danger? Food for thought. She is found by the Royal Guard, who are obligated, by law, to seek out her parents or legal guardians—which would be an interesting case because you probably wouldn’t be able to bail her out—so she gets escorted back to Orphanarium safe and sound.”

“Why, I’m sure it would have impressed Doctor Hugs with our parenting skills,” she quipped. “I’m sorry. You may be right. I just... I don’t feel comfortable leaving her out of my sight like that.”

“If it’s that difficult for you, why did you let her accept Garlic’s invitation in the first place?”

“You know why I did it,” Fleur replied on a subtler note. “Do you remember what the doctor told us about her biological parents? Considering what kind of ponies they were and what they got themselves involved in, I figured out that baking chestnuts was one of the few ‘normal’ childhood memories she has, so to speak. Plus it’s her talent she can’t even practice on a daily basis, so I couldn’t deny her that opportunity,” she said with a mixture of embarrassment and concern on her face. “But I’m still worried. Maybe I’m overreacting.”

They reached the end of the Promenade, or its beginning depending on whom you asked. Right before them was the Aphelion Gate, a massive ivory arch and the main entrance to the Canterlot Castle grounds. A little to the right stood an unimpressive building that was the heart of Equestrian diplomacy. Fleur had once asked Fancy Pants if he was content with walking the entire Promenade to get there, to which he said he would always welcome a chance for a brisk trot while working a desk job.

“Overreacting is what parents do best, I suppose,” Fancy Pants said. “But Chestnut strikes me as someone who has more ‘street smarts’ than you and I combined. She’ll get there without hassle, you’ll see. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but when you were her age, weren’t you already travelling all around Prance, assisting with shows and learning the trade? Just imagine what your parents had to go through!”

“Hardly. They were fine with anything as long as I kept myself to Prench soil,” she replied blankly. “Alright—I’m fine with her walking, how much did you say it was, four hundred yards? I’m fine with that. There’s no reason to blow it out of proportion.”

She didn’t sound very convincing in her own mind, but repeating definitely helped.

“Ears up, dear,” Fancy Pants said at the embassy’s doors. “Golden Gavel could probably use a brave mare who will expedite the expenses during the auction, and who knows? Maybe you will even find something interesting for yourself. A fun little Hearth’s Warming gift!”

“Decide. Either I’m going there to help with the bidding, or to have fun. I can’t do both.”

“Why is that?”

“On my own? I’ll have to pay for everything myself.” Fleur grinned disarmingly. “Where’s fun in that?”

* * *

“Yak think auction wasn’t the best idea,” a hulking, hair-covered mass of muscle said. “At this rate, yak will never rebuild school.”

Golden Gavel meant money—his coat had the color of an Equestrian bit that had been in circulation for too long, whereas his pale mane resembled a freshly minted one. He was Canterlot’s prime auctioneer and as such he had to make sure everything was going smoothly. From showcasing items put up for sale and watching over the proper bidding etiquette, up to convincing ponies their investment was going to be a well-made one, it was a demanding work on all fronts.

Especially when the thousand-pound front on your side you were backing up was prone to aggression and smashing things at the first sign of trouble.

“May I remind you, Headmaster Ostwald, that the actual auctions hasn’t even begun,” Golden Gavel politely replied. “Right now, the participants are meant to familiarize themselves with the items I’ve put on display, so that when the auction starts in just a couple of minutes, they will already have an idea of what they want to acquire. We’re celebrating the founding of our country right now, the ponies are in a joyful, not to mention charitable mood, so there is nothing to worry about. Or, to get upset about,” he added preventively.

“Yak trust to not be disappointed at the end of the day.”

“Yak won’t be disappointed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve spotted a pony of importance I need to speak with.”

The stallion hurried across the grand dining room to the only mare who could save his skin.

“Fleur! Oh, Fleur de Lis, thank the stars in the sky for sending you here,” he moaned. “You have to help me.”

“And… good morning to you, Golden Gavel,” she replied cautiously. “What’s going on? And why is it so numb in here?”

“I don’t know—I mean, I do know. Gah, I knew it had been a terrible idea to organize the auction today. It seems like everypony has already spent their entire month’s salary, their holiday bonuses, and their hidden nest eggs. Piggy banks are broken, pockets are empty, socks have holes in them, whoever I talk to tells me they’ll be”—a pair of elegant mares passed by them—“Welcome, please, do come in! We’ll be starting in just a couple of minutes!” The moment they were gone, his mask fell. “That they’ll be playing it safe today. And you can’t have a successful auction when everyone’s holding to their bits,” he hissed.

“I understand, but what do you expect me to do?” Fleur said quietly. “You know that my usual plays work only in tandem with Fancy Pants. You know, the tried and trusted show of how much he is willing to spend on his wife’s desires so that other mares get jealous and other stallions have to step up their game, that sort of things. I’m hardly a solo player.”

“Yes, certainly, but there must be something you can do. Please! Those yaks lost their school in a fire!” He took a few aimless steps back, forth, and around the mare. “I know! Perhaps you could use your newfound status of a mother to your advantage and inspire others with a few well-placed words that, quoting Honey Whitestone, children are our future?”

“A good play, but not convincing enough as of today.” She invited him to take a stroll when some grey unicorn approached the display of Yakyakistanian woodwork near them. “Everypony I could perhaps convince on my own knows that I’ve been a mother for three weeks, so I’m hardly credible. And others?” She gently turned him around the room. “Those are a lot of new faces I see here, Gavel, who don’t necessarily know me, so unless you have a stack of last year’s Fervid lingerie special laying around…”

“A stack? I couldn’t even get my hooves on one,” he confessed. “Just do what you can, Fleur, please. I’m counting on you. Yaks are counting on you. Yak children are counting on you!”

“Alright, I get it! Everyone is counting on me,” she replied, wondering why those near world-changing events kept happening when there was no Fancy Pants around. She never subscribed to that ‘strong, independent mare’ mythos that was being forced nowadays, and she believed in a healthy relationships she had she didn’t have to. Having her husband around would make it easier, but it didn’t mean she was helpless on her own. “Let me walk around and… think of something.”

Fleur went to do some mingling, and to analyze the balance of power.

The event was held in Valenmane Estate, an impressive property of Lady Upper Hoof. A cunning, middle-aged mare, she was a fountain of philosophical tidbits, or her Rules of Success as she called them. Rule of Success No. 11: Always know who’s the most important pony in the room, or Fleur’s favorite Rule of Success No. 16: There’s always a better dress you can wear. Lady Upper Hoof prided herself in following those aphorisms to the letter, even after she quit the Canterlot Elite squabbles a couple of years ago.

She left the success of her family to her children, Victory Sash and Laurel Wreath—whose names Fleur only knew because there was a pair of masterfully done paintings in the mansion’s foyer, where she happened to casually drop some ‘well-placed words’ about how supporting younger generations mattered. But it was too little to wake anyone up. The mood was exactly as Golden Gavel described: conservative and cautious, with a tinge of belittlement towards the yak hooficraft.

She was walking down the hallway when some force pulled her into a room.

When she realized who that force was, several alerts—some installed quite recently—resounded in her head.

“Hello, Fleur,” Upper Crust said. “Merry Hearth’s Warming.”

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

I’m looking out the window and see that the last week’s snow is gone. No matter - December still reigns as far as I’m concerned, and Fleur has just headed into an auction. The jingle of coin will be heard, so it felt fitting to listen to some Jingle Bells Rock!

Plus she met Upper Crust. Oh dear.

Chapter 5 – O Come, All Ye Charitable

Merry Hearth’s Warming? Where’s the catch? Upper Crust was wearing the same unapologetic snobbish face she always did, so her greetings were best taken with a grain of salt. Belay that—with a whole packet of salt. In fact, it would be best to not take her greetings at all.

“Goodbye.” Fleur headed towards the door.

“Wait!” Upper Crust stepped before her. “I wish only to talk.”

Now that was unexpected—but was it really, though? She wasn’t there to make a scene, not without a proper audience, so whatever she was up to must have been personal.

“Talk?”

“I admit, I haven’t prepared an opening line, so I’ll ask straight: how is your daughter?”

“Then you do recognize Chestnut as my daughter?” Fleur asked inquisitively. “Not a maid, not a thestral who got lost and just accidentally landed in my living room? Not a jewelry thief?”

To Fleur’s surprise, the other mare did not lash out at her.

“Regardless of my personal feelings concerning bat—thestrals, I should have been more supportive of your decision. Considering our years of acquaintanceship if nothing else.” She rested against the wall and looked up. “I’ll be honest with you. Be a dear and spare me the look, I can be an honest pony if I want to.”

“And I thought those to be rumors...”

Upper Crust did not take that bait. “You see, I really put myself in a no-win scenario that night. When the faux pas I committed became clear to me, I had a choice: either admit my mistake, apologize and plead for mercy, which would put me on the losing side automatically… or throw a tantrum and leave the party goodbye.”

“How did that work out for you?”

“As you can see I’m still in this game”—she waved her hoof around, her voice echoing across the spacious room—“still getting invited into places, for which I suppose I should thank you. You could have used my slip to ruin me completely but you didn’t, while there’s a number of ponies in and outside of the Canterlot Elite who would love to see me fail. That Hyacinth being one of them,” she drawled. “She thinks she’s so smart, scoring points because she now speaks highly of thestrals.”

“Is that gossiping I hear?”

“Just watching your back out there. I hope you do realize her change of heart wasn’t sincere. It was but a move.”

What a strange conversation they were having. There was an actual apology missing from the mare’s words, but Fleur didn’t feel malice behind any of them. Neither Fancy Pants nor her were vengeful ponies and they would have never thought of sacrificing another socialite to move up higher in the social ladder. The truth was they had a lot on their minds with the adoption formalities, so the character of Upper Crust and her outburst had been completely marginalized.

Not mentioning it to the pony in question was probably for the best.

But what was her game now? Was she genuinely reaching out, or was it but an attempt to salvage their, as she put it, acquaintanceship? Vengeful or not, it usually paid off to be in good standings with Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis, so it made sense she’d come around eventually,

“I suppose it fits her personal agenda for the moment. But yes, I know how the game works. Constantly minding yourself during those over-the-top parties, all that insincerity and plotting, it’s all so straining…”

“Is that complaining I hear? Be honest with me.”

“What if I don’t feel like sharing?”

“Then it is a choice you can make.” Upper Crust shrugged. “I didn’t drag you here to plead for mercy, but to show gratitude for not ruining my reputation. With that said, I’m pretty much done. Just know that I was being honest with you today.”

A strange, strange conversation indeed. Fleur figured she could as well go all the way in.

“Honesty for honesty, then,” Fleur joined the other mare at the wall. “Having a foal was going to be my vacation, but of course it ended up opposite,” she admitted. “Fancy Pants and I have brought Chestnut into this crazy world of ours sooner than it would normally take, so now we have to watch her back if she gets involved.”

“Does that trouble you?”

“Not at all, we’ll do it gladly, because, you know—parents. But I’d like to think that ponies with whom we’ve shared years of acquaintanceship will not make it any harder for us or Chestnut.”

“Like I have a choice.” She gave Fleur a cautious look. “I understand you didn’t have it either.”

“What do you mean?”

A bell resounded outside, signaling that the auction was about to begin, but neither mare moved.

“I put the two and two together. You chose to adopt… for a reason, didn’t you?”

It was what poems described as a Hearth’s Warming miracle. The moment Fleur nodded she had a friendly hoof on her own, a fleeting gesture that nonetheless spoke more than any of them could put into words. At the end of the day, Upper Crust was a mare. She understood the one reason Fleur took a stroll to the Orphanarium instead of taking Fancy Pants for a picnic with a bottle of wine and a basket full of rose petals. At that moment, it turned out there was an actual pony being under the perfected demeanor of a stuck-up snob.

It shouldn’t be so surprising to Fleur, but it was, almost as much as discovering that she wasn’t angry at Upper Crust. What happened during the party wasn’t the biggest bomb dropped in the history of the Canterlot Elite, and even those kept the attention for several weeks at best. If Upper Crust intended to be fair with Fleur, then she was going to do the same.

No one should feel uncared for on Hearth’s Warming Eve, not even the mare who almost broke Fleur’s family before it was fully formed. In a way… that experience brought them closer, too.

“One thing puzzles me, though,” Upper Crust said. “Why would you need a break when you two always seem to stay at the top of your game? It can’t be that bad. What you call over-the-top parties I call living the dream, and insincerity and plotting are only some of the many tools we use to stay ahead of the competition.” She livened up. “And we’re winning! Just look at us, Fleur—we have good jobs, excellent contacts, we travel, we wear the best dresses and jewelry, meet celebrities… not to mention the excitement it brings!”

“I’m good at it when I need to. Perhaps I want to see if I’m half as good at playing the family game as well. New horizons, new challenges, that sort of things.”

“Well, that means someone will have to check on your dodgeball skills every now and then, lest they deteriorate. It wouldn’t do you or your family any good if you lost your edge, don’t you think?”

“Actually, I was hoping to avoid unnecessary conflict.”

Upper Crust snorted. “Please. You’re making it sound like conflict was a bad thing. But conflict is good! Drama is good.” She trotted to the nearest mirror and brought up her lipstick. “I try not to be the central characters in those, nevertheless there is some perverse pleasure in stealing the spotlight by failing spectacularly. Bottom line, dear: without drama, your life is just a series of mundane and dull. Take this auction, for example.”

“No argument here,” Fleur agreed sourly. “Gavel asked me if I could do something to liven up the mood, but so far I’ve come up with nothing. The cause is just, but it’s total stagnation here today!”

Upper Crust was done fixing her mane back into an impeccable coiffure.

“I may have an idea. A little exercise in conflict since we’re at it,” she replied with a polite, but ever-so-devious face. “But if we’re going through with that, I better promptly wish you and your entire family, your daughter included, merry Hearth’s Warming from myself and Jet Set. Happy new year, too! Also, if I turn down the next two or three of your invitations to whatever event, please don’t hold it against me. I plan to capitalize on my mistake… in a way that will cause no trouble to you, obviously,” she added. “I’m just saying it all now because I won’t have a chance later, you understand.”

“What are you playing, Upper?”

“The only game I’m good at.” She grinned sardonically. “The only game worth playing!”

* * *

The Valenmane Estate’s dining room wasn’t filled to the brim, but thankfully the number of hooves present wasn’t insignificant either.

“Fillies and gentlecolts!” Golden Gavel shushed the murmurs. “I am pleased to see—or rather, to hear such a sonorous response to the call, by which I of course mean your, ah, generous attendance here, and on such a special to us ponies day. Thank you all for coming! I’d like to also thank Lady Hoof for being such a welcoming hostess and inviting us into her beautiful home, let’s have a round of applause for her!”

“Rule of Success No. 25,” the mare in question said, “Don’t get a mansion if you can’t invite enough guests.”

“Yes, well put, thank you! Dear ponies, much like Hearth’s Warming itself, fundraisers are about charity. About looking past the luxuries that surround us and opening ourselves to others who may be less fortunate, who need brave ponies to give them a nudge of kindness straight from the bottom of their hearts!” he said ardently. “I look around, and you know what I see? I see that those ponies, the ponies who have that kindness in their hearts, are you. Because you’re not here to participate in another auction of shiny trinkets, not at all. You are here to join a mission of mercy, to support a noble cause of rebuilding a Yakyakistanian school.”

His tone turned somber.

“Classrooms have been destroyed. Almost all teaching aids have been lost. Close to a hundred young yaks is unable to carry on with their education. Together with me is Headmaster Ostwald, who would like to say a few inspiring words on behalf of those children. Headmaster?”

The hulking yak, hitherto occupying a cozy spot by the fireplace—where he could have been easily mistaken for a piece of decoration—walked up the platform.

“Our school lost in a fire. Yak need school to teach future generations,” Headmaster Ostwald said. Perhaps it was his broken Equestrian, but he wasn’t very inspiring. “Many subjects can’t be provided: language, numbers, art, smashing, all equally important. Yak not like talking long, so will only say this: school is school. Good school make smarter yak, and smarter yak make stronger herd. That’s why yak bring shiny trinkets for trade.”

“Ahem, those are in fact unique objects of exquisite cultural value!” Golden Gavel hastily corrected. “Calling them ‘trinkets’ wouldn’t do them due justice.”

“No difference really. We need gold to make repairs, so ponies need to open their—”

“Hearts, hearts! Ah, thank you for giving us insight into your perilous situation, headmaster! A round of applause for Headmaster Ostwald, everyone! I’m sure there’s nothing more he could say now to bring us closer to the subject at hoof. Which is, of course, partaking in the spirit of Hearth’s Warming by helping those in need. So, without further ado, we now commence with the auction! Please turn your attention to our first object of desire, which is”—he glanced into his notes—“a traditional yak wedding headdress, how quaint…”

The auction had begun.

For antiquity-slash-oddity collectors it was a candy land. There was almost no competition over the various goods, which in themselves weren’t half bad, so whichever pony met the opening offer would eventually become the winner—no, not winner, simply the new owner. It was hardly a win if there was nobody opposing you. Despite Golden Gavel’s best efforts, the biding game was monotonous, and Fleur would be bored to death after the first few things if the devious plan she was about to execute wasn’t keeping her awake.

“…we are in for a treat, ladies and gentlecolts,” Golden Gavel announced. “We have a hoofcrafted chess set with a hexagonal board—may I say, this is not something you see every day, and something you definitely can’t get anywhere on the Promenade! Thirty-six pieces resembling yaks, carved of wood and impregnated with no additional coloring that would wear off. Just like in regular chess you have the rooks, here represented by those big and formidable yaks, the three bishops on each side are, ah, slightly taller yaks, and the pawns appear to be calf.. for some inexplicable reason. I say, this is an excellent Hearth’s Warming present for any board game enthusiast! We will start with the initial bid of twenty bits.”

If she hadn’t already bought Fancy Pants a little something, Fleur would regret having to give up on that set. He enjoyed playing chess—with ponies other than Fleur, naturally. She wasn’t much of a challenge for him. A slight frown crept on the mare’s forehead. He was, in fact, better at darts and chess. And most card games they’d played. She should find a suitable game in which she could rule. Preferably a one they could also play with Chestnut to catch two apples with one basket. Maybe one of those involving made-up characters in a fantasy world. That sounded like something along Daring Do, Power Ponies and other of Chestnut’s interests, didn’t it?

As she mused, no one had started the auction yet. She raised her hoof lazily. It was time to stir up some drama.

“Twenty bits.”

“Thank you, ma’am! Twenty bits from the lovely lady in pink,” Golden Gavel replied. Fleur wasn’t sure if he’d noticed it was her—his auctioneer mode was making him quite oblivious to the ponies around him. “Do I hear twenty-five? Twenty-five bits, fillies and gentlecolts, and this refined piece of decorative arts can be yours.”

“Twenty-five!”

“Twenty-five from the lady with fantastic mane,” Golden Gavel called, pointing to the other end of the row.

Fleur looked over the crowd with all the fake pretense she could muster. All the ingredients were there: a slight scowl of discontent that somepony dared to outbid her, her neck stretched so she could spot the culprit, a nervous shuffle of hooves as she wriggled in her chair. Finally, a casual murmur that was loud enough for the ponies around her to hear.

“That Upper Crust,” she drawled. “This cannot stand. Thirty bits!”

“Thirty-five!” Upper Crust shouted back. “Give it up, dear. You have enough exotic things under your roof.”

A dozen heads between the mares turned to Fleur. Good, they were hooked.

“You dare? Why, I’m surprised you’re here, to be honest. During our last you made it clear that you have no taste for the exotic,” she hissed. “How fitting for an upstart among the Elite. Forty bits!”

Concerned whispers slithered across the room. Strains of conversations, questions, demands of explanation what those two self-centered mares were prattling about. Luckily, there were enough informed ponies around, and soon, everyone had either said or heard the words adoption, thestral, racist bigot and a couple of others spoken in favor of Fleur, or against her.

“Forty-five bits!” Upper Crust countered. “Look who’s talking! An exile from Prance who bought herself the way into the Canterlot Elite with nothing but the shape of her derriere!”

“At least my derriere has a shape!”

“A square is a shape, true!”

“Ladies, please! On Hearth’s Warming?” some well-clothed stallion in the front said. “This event is to support our friends in Yakyakistan, not to bring out your personal vendettas. Please take them outside. In the meantime”—he raised his hoof—“let’s make that fifty bits from an actual enthusiast.”

“Fifty bits from the gentlecolt in the front row!” Golden Gavel exclaimed. “Will there be fifty-five? Going fifty once…”

“Fifty-five,” a mare in the back joined, immediately turning to her circle of friends. “I’ll show him a vendetta. He didn’t come to see my relief collection, and now he’s into woodwork? Not a chance!”

“Sixty!” Fleur shouted.

“Seventy!”

“Eighty!” the stallion in the front cried out.

“One hundred bits,” came a new, calm but audible statement from the audience.

“One hundred bits from the unicorn wearing a black cape!” Golden Gavel shrieked a high-pitched cry. “Fillies and gentlecolts, I think we have a real lover of chess and art among ourselves, big applause for reaching the hundred bits line for the first time today!” He started clapping himself, infecting the crowd with the idea that spending money was a good thing. He raised his hammer, ready to finalize the deal. “Going one hundred once, going one hundred twice… and… the Yakyakistanian chess set is SOLD to the gentlecolt in the sixth row for one hundred bits!”

After that, the event really picked up the pace.

None of the following auctions were boring. The ponies were participating, switching seats to be closer to those who bid the most—naturally, if they had money to spend on shiny trinkets just because, they were worth acquainting. To make big in Canterlot, you had to surround yourself with such individuals, and then exploit those connections to go even higher. All around the room, such exploits were taking place.

“Well, at least she didn’t win. We can’t…”

A classical two-horn helmet with authentic battle damage from the battle of Laeri Peak, sold for sixty bits!

“…allow such ponies to shape our society. We have…”

A hoof-woven wall rug depicting yaks at work, sold for ninety bits!

“…standards to uphold, exactly what I’m talking about. Thankfully it’s not over yet, so I’ll still have a chance…”

A set of goblets engraved with the names of yak princes, sold for a hundred and forty-five bits!

“…to show her…”

“…where…”

“…her place…”

“…is.”

Finally, Golden Gavel put the hammer down for the last time.

“...and SOLD for the amazing three hundred bits! What a finale, everypony! A round of applause to our happy buyer, and to all of you who joined us today! With your help, the Yakyakistan primary school will be rebuild, refurbished, and the young yak will have a chance to grow up big and strong, ah, I mean smart because they’re already big and strong. Isn’t that right, headmaster?”

Headmaster Ostwald and his entourage had already melted several times over, overwhelmed by pony charity. He was crying, shouting incoherently how ponies were the best yaks there ever were.

Fleur exhaled and sunk in her chair, holding a bundle she bought when the bids hadn’t skyrocketed yet. Phew! She wasn’t even sure what it was, but she was too tired to unwrap it. That was not a boring fundraiser, and the bits gathered were counted in thousands.

She noticed Upper Crust leaving, and for a moment their eyes met. The other mare’s muzzle shot to the ceiling as she harrumphed in the most ostentatious way possible. Fleur wanted to giggle, to smile at her and congratulate on the job well done, but Upper Crust didn’t even flinch. She was an excellent actress and a masterful manipulator who thrived in arising drama. They might have never been close friends, and seeing how they differed in their approach to the great socialite game, they probably never would. But did it mean they had to be enemies?

Realizing the late hour, Fleur wrapped up her musings with an old Istallian proverb.

Look your friend in the face, but your enemy in the eyes.

Truly, words to live by.

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

I'm sure you know the carol that inspired this chapter's title. Have a Pentatonix's rendition of O Come, All Ye Faithful!

I'm really interested in hearing your opinion on this chapter. With the whole Fleur vs. Upper Crust it would be all too easy to fall into a violent rematch type of scene (so repeating the original's story way), or into a FiM-like "all is forgiven" ending (bleh). Hopefully the third path I chose makes sense to you!

Chapter 6 – Chestnut's Roasting on an Open Fire

Among all eighty-something gastronomic venues Canterlot had, one could find places which excelled in the quality of food they offered, but in turn weren’t the cheapest. Others, which had their menus full of dishes both affordable and edible usually couldn’t set an example when it came to customer service. Others again suffered from a terrible location. Far from the lights and warmth of the Promenade, they simply weren’t popular enough in the wake of Equestrian winter.

Then there was Acquarellion—the best-staffed, most prestigious and perfectly situated. And also the priciest.

There were two ways of getting into that palace of palatial pleasures. The obvious one through the front doors was guarded by two identical lion statues with impressive manes covered with a thin layer of snow. They stood proud amidst the carved sea foam rising at their paws, and watched the visitors carefully, as if assessing their worth. If their menacing stares hadn’t discouraged, a quiet lobby welcomed the bold and the beautiful of Canterlot’s finest ponies, yet even those had to wager their names against the booking list. If they had requested a table a month in advance—or were socially outstanding enough—they were invited in.

The commoners were kindly informed that the restaurant was full for the evening.

“Full for the evening?” a beige mare harrumphed as she stormed out of the lobby. “How can they be full at three o’clock already? I can see free tables just fine from here!”

“That’s their thing, honey,” the mare’s boring companion replied. “They want to appeal to elitists and snobs, so they’re keeping some extra reservations on the side to get any unexpected VIPs seated,” he explained. “Don’t fret, on any other night we’d have a chance, but it’s just before Hearth’s Warming after all. Let’s find us some other place, how about that?”

“Gladly. The Weather Corps scheduled a frostbite for tonight and I’d hate to be outside when it strikes.”

The pair had gone their way, oblivious to the restaurant’s second point of entry. Not that going there would help them in any way—it was perhaps even harder to pass, located just around the corner in an unnamed alley. The door lead to the kitchen area which, unlike the restaurant itself, was hardly quiet, especially when there was so many demanding guests waiting for tonight’s special. To get through that door one didn’t have to face any wild animals, but had to either be one of Acquarellion’s many workers, or know the owner.

Luckily for Chestnut, she was considered a part-timer for the afternoon, so that’s something.

It was evident by the white mushroom-shaped hat she borrowed from an Istallian sous-chef, Pastalardo, a stallion sporting a mustache curved upwards so typical to his nation. Plus, she knew Chef Garlic Bread himself—of course she knew him. They both belonged to the same club of the city’s high society ponies: the Canterlot Elite.

In which Chestnut considered herself a part-timer, too.

“Not too spicy for you, sir?” she asked with concern she picked from the ponies surrounding her. A dozen stallions and mares in double breasted jackets all awaited the verdict. “The sauce we made—“

“Glazing, signorina,” Pastalardo whispered.

“The glazing we made was mostly honey and butter, but also some ginger and a pinch of caradmom.”

“Cardamomo, signorina.”

“Cardamomo, sorry. And then we squeezed a few oranges dry into the mix.”

“That part è corretto,” the sous-chef agreed. “We-a followed the young signorina’s recipe to the letter, capocuoco. Do you find the results satisfactory?”

Unusual silence fell upon the kitchen, as if suddenly everyone decided they didn’t have to cut, dice, fry or blend.

The big-boned Chef Garlic Bread was known of his love to small eatables and flair for dramatics. As the unquestionable master of his trade, he accepted only the best cooks, ingredients and ideas presented to him.

The sweet-and-spicy chestnuts the filly and the kitchen brigade roasted had been under his scrutiny for a good few minutes now, and Chestnut was nervously recalling every step of the preparation process. Did they mix it right? Was the milk to honey ratio accurate? Did they add too much ginger? They probably added too much ginger.

“Miss Chestnut,” Garlic Bread began slowly, his voice that of a Canterlotian artist-cook, “your recipe is definitely… something.”

“Something good, I hope?”

“I’ve been to Tramplevania once, you know, and I’ve tried regional treats there. It was a cold evening, yes. I asked my friend for something warming but not too hot. A snack made with certain finesse, but nothing as complicated as a full dish.” He put the bowl down, then leveled his eyes with it. “Imagine my surprise when he brought me a plate of roasted chestnuts, an ingredient which was never too popular among Equestrian chefs. I was skeptical at first, naturally, but then I tasted them. Oh, so I did. They were absolutely delicious.”

The circle of ponies shuffled as he paced around the table, beholding the bowl like a priceless sculpture.

“It was a memorable experience, sweet and warming as promised,” he continued, “though I doubt the ponies who care little for the subtler aspects of the Great Cuisine would appreciate it. I certainly did. I was told that those chestnuts came from a nearby village where supposed experts in their trade lived, ponies who also came up with the secret recipe for the glazing. Right off the bat—pardon the phrase—I decided to visit and inquire for it as a fellow pony interested in culinary matters, but a snowstorm cut off the valley.”

The chef picked up the bowl, weighted it in his hoof, then put it back down. It didn’t go unnoticed that he was stalling to delay his judgment, but not even Chestnut, her hooves shuffling nervously, dared to interrupt him.

“When I was leaving Tramplevania on the following day, I had only a note listing the possible ingredients I remembered. Milk, butter, ginger, cardamom, orange juice and… something else. I spent a few good days tinkering with the amounts and different ways of executing the recipe, different temperatures, intervals, tools, but I was never able to replicate the taste of those ‘gilded roastnuts’, as the dish was supposedly called.”

The filly nodded ever so slightly. That was the name of the dish. The name her... her first family came up with.

“Eventually, I moved on. There were more recipes to try and more flavors to discover.” Garlic Bread straightened up, easily towering over Chestnut and most of the staff. “Tonight, you made an attempt to recreate the taste, and I have two things to say about it.”

He reached out for a shard of glazed chestnut and savored it. The tension boiled throughout the kitchen like a five-star stew, steaming and bubbling out of the excess of emotions.

“That’s not the taste I remember.”

The kitchen team reacted: Chestnut’s ears drooped, the saucier groaned, entremetier cried, potager dropped the ladle, legumier started chewing on his hat, and grillardin fainted.

“Order in the hall!” Garlic Bread boomed and the ponies collected themselves in an instant. Even the grillardin got back to all fours and returned to grilling asparaguses like nothing happened. “I said I had two things to say! The first is that, unfortunately, you were unsuccessful in reproducing the flavor of what I’ve tasted those years ago. But!” He raised his hoof, taking a moment to look at each and every pony involved. His bearded muzzle was stern, but when he got to the filly, a warm smile appeared in the black bush. “But it’s close. Very close. Closer than I’ve ever gotten myself. You should all be proud of yourself, brigade!”

Within the general cheer a loud thump was heard.

Garlic Bread put a hoof to his face. “Someone take care for Wobble Heart, please. And her asparaguses, they’re needed at table four. Pastalardo, take the roastnuts and prepare them to be served at table nine. Madam Polomare has a feisty temper… and you wouldn’t like her when she’s moody,” he muttered under his breath. The others looked at him inquisitively, as they couldn’t recall any restaurant-related incident regarding the mare. “What are you looking at? Everyone, to your stations! There are tongues to be satisfied!”

The word ‘Suri’s’ was heard but Garlic Bread was denied the chance to lash out at the culprit. The ponies dashed quickly to their respective positions and were momentarily back to cutting, dicing, frying and blending. The stallion nodded in content and turned to the filly, the only pony whose job for the day was done.

“You seem to have a hoof for the stove. Have you ever considered a career in the culinary branch?”

Chestnut snickered at the idea. “I’m afraid I’m a pony of a single trick, sir. I may know a thing or two about growing and cooking these, but that’s it. I don’t think a restaurant serving a single dish all year long would be very successful,” she said. “To be honest, I’m surprised I could be of use here in Equestria. Tramplevanian chestnuts are hard to get and I was worried I wouldn’t know what to do with them.” She rubbed the back of her head. “I hope your guests will like them. They all look like ponies of refinded tastes, and it was just a simple recipe.”

“Sometimes, simple is all a pony needs—especially during Hearth’s Warming,” Garlic Bread replied and reached out his hoof. “I am grateful for your help tonight, Miss Chestnut.”

As a socialite-in-training, Chestnut didn’t realize she was supposed to offer her foreleg for the waiting gentlecolt’s respectful kiss. Instead, she bumped hooves with him.

“Hey, no problem, it was fun!” she exclaimed. A long second later she noticed the awkwardness painted on the stallion’s face, and it got to her. Acting as a lady and not just a child was still something new to her, much like keep finding herself in those rich and fancy places. She wasn’t quite feeling the line between being casual and formal just yet, but she was learning. “Uh, I mean, I am delighted I could be a part of tonight’s culinary entrepreneur. Enterprise! Enterprise, is what I meant,” she corrected herself, flushing with embarrassment. Learning didn’t mean getting better, it seemed. “So, I guess I will be going now. My mom’s waiting at the Carousel Boutique.”

“Don’t you want to stay and enjoy your creation?” Garlic Bread asked. “Anything from the menu you’d like with it?”

She shook her head. “Perhaps another time, sir. I’ve had plenty when we were working on the recipe.”

“Then at least take some for your parents.” He quickly wrapped a generous pile of hot chestnuts in a silver foil. “They were kind enough to let you come, and I feel I’ve eaten most of the refreshments the last time we met, so consider it a form of repayment. You are, of course, cordially invited to a dinner at my restaurant whenever you find fitting, as we agreed, anytime.”

“Any time? What if you’re full?”

“For VIPs like you, Miss Chestnut, we always keep an extra reservation on the side.” He pushed the bundle into her hooves. “Allow me to accompany you to the door.” The filly made a step. “No, not the kitchen door. The main entrance.”

“Whoopsie. Sorry.”

At the swinging doors separating the kitchen from the restaurant, Garlic Bread suddenly stopped.

“Just lose the toque, if you please. I can’t have my brigade running ill-equipped.”

“Double whoopsie.” With the tip of her wing, she swung the hat over the plates full of soon-to-be-served roasted chestnuts. “I think that’s yours, Pastalardo! Thank you for letting me wear it.”

“Grazie, signorina,” the sous-chef replied. “Buon Hearth’s Warming.”

The symphony of knives, plates and frying pans died out in favor of music. Tonight’s smooth jazz embroidered with bells so typical of Hearth’s Warming was brought by a gramophone in the corner, but Acquarellion was known of bringing in musicians to perform live for the guests. The sounds served as a reminder of the holiday, as if the mounds of snow piling outside weren’t obvious enough.

As Chestnut followed the stallion across the room packed with ponies of importance, she got into the right way of walking in such places. Head high. Straight as a string. A delicate smile. That was the walk of a true Canterlot pony her mom taught her, and although it argued a little with the filly’s natural state of limbs, the lesson was yet too novel to be forgotten or ignored.

She made a small ceremony of putting on her jacket and scarf while engaging in small talk with the chef, as it was proper. A few discreet stares had been thrown their way, and she couldn’t tell if they were more surprised seeing one of her kind, a batpony, in such a classy restaurant, or watching the owner paying so much attention to someone so young. Either way, Chestnut felt out of place—and not the first time since she found a new family.

Done with the layers of orange around her neck, she nodded at Garlic Bread’s final bow and left.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” she assessed. “Good job not setting anything on fire, me.”

The icy wind smiting Chestnut’s cheeks didn’t bother her at first. After over an hour spent between stoves and ovens she welcomed it, much like she welcomed the short walk ahead of her. The boutique was... that way! She couldn’t say she knew Canterlot very well. She only know a couple of points and the simplest routes between them, like the Promenade and home, home and Mr. Inkblot’s shop, and the Promenade and the Orphanarium. That last one was giving her some trouble because the first time she went there she actually ended up in a wax figure museum...

But she was positive she could get to Emerald Street. She had to. She didn’t want her mom to be worried all the time, so she had to prove herself.

It was also a chance to be alone with her own thoughts for a moment. Of course she wasn’t really alone, as despite the late afternoon, the Promenade was still crowded with ponies rushing from left to right, across the street, back and forth between shops, and everywhere else. They carried all sorts of seasonal shopping: a new tree to put in the living room, new ornaments to hang, or new stockings to put gifts into.

Chestnut wondered how many new things awaited her in the coming months. Not merely objects, but experiences she would never live through as a full-time orphan.

Tonight’s cooking in Acquarellion was a perfect example. When she first acquainted Chef Garlic Bread, her legs were shaking and she could think straight only thanks to the insane amounts of orange juice she was pouring into herself. The memorable party with the Canterlot Elite made her a guest of honor and had her talk to a great many adult mares and stallions. Her game face on, she managed to be brave only because her mom believed in her, and she didn’t want to disappoint her, Fancy Pants, Doctor Hugs or herself. At some point, Fleur had recommended she talked to Garlic Bread, and from one casual topic to another—and from the first toothpick snack to eleventh—Chestnut got herself invited to share an old family recipe with the best cooks Canterlot ever saw.

It felt good to be useful again, to have her talent matter. The chef probably didn’t realize it, but Chestnut had a good idea of what village he intended to visit for the recipe. It brought all kinds of memories, too… but nothing concerning the missing ingredient.

A wailing blast of cold brought her back to the present moment.

“Brr!” She shivered and weighted the silver-wrapped package. “Frostbite, right. I better get to the boutique before these nuts get cold!”

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

Titles are silly. Did you know that the song which most people know today as Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire is technically called simply The Christmas Song, and was originally referred to as Merry Christmas to You? Either way, titling this chapter as it is was a no-brainer.

In the spirit of the original story, in which we take a short break from Fleur’s path to see Fancy’s point of view, this time we can see a scene through Chestnut’s eyes, and get a little insight of what’s going inside her head. Tune in next time for her monumental journey to the boutique!

Chapter 7 – Filly It's Cold Outside

The wind roared on a high note, but Chestnut’s spirits were higher. Freezing temperatures? Ha! Whatever extra heat she borrowed back at the Acquarellion’s kitchen was all but gone now, but she was a batpony and was scared of no frost. Batponies were tough, and in Tramplevania they sunbathed in such conditions!

A gust of wind taught her humility in an instant.

“Brr! Seriously, what were the weather ponies thinking when they made a frostbite start so early?” she muttered under her breath. “Couldn’t they wait for everyone to return to their homes and make a cup of hot cocoa?”

If she was in charge, she would make sure everyone in Canterlot was safe and sound with their families or friends before she let the clouds loose. Everyone would get a mandatory cup of cocoa, too. Chestnut wondered if there was going to be any at the Carousel Boutique. She was supposed to meet with her mom there to talk about some new fancy things to wear, which, knowing Miss Rarity, could take hours.

There better be cocoa—or else!

She giggled at the wailing wind, somewhat glad of the challenge. Trailblazing through the city was yet another experience she would have never tasted at the Orphanarium where wiser ponies decided when she could go outside. It was just her against the elements now, though, and she felt a little like the titular heroine of Daring Do and the Rainbow Rupture during the Frost Wizard’s Trial in the lost land of Coldalopolis. It was a cool read overall. Spoiler alert: Daring Do won the day.

Drawing strength from the idea, the filly grabbed the edges of her scarf and wrapped herself more tightly, covering her muzzle in warming softness. With a matching orange cap on her tufted ears, only her eyes were cold now. She squinted them to the point of walking blind, picked up the pace, and took right at the next crossroads off the Promenade.

Emerald Street greeted her with bizarre, but true to the name pastel green snow piled neatly on the sides, and much milder winds. The first one was probably the doings of magic. The second—good news for Team Nuts, she wasn’t going to end up literally frozen before reaching her destination.

Just then, she froze. Figuratively.

Right around the corner stood two Royal Guards, menacing and unforgiving in their bearings. The horn of the taller one shined with who knew what dangerous spell cooking at its tip. Chestnut’s heart thumped anxiously. Their golden armors reflected colorful lights blinking overhead, but the joyful cascade didn’t last long. One spark in blue, one in yellow, then there was no more blinking. The shining cable connecting one balcony with another went off, taking a few buildings’ worth of illumination with it. The entire street’s illumination followed momentarily.

It got dark.

The wind flattening the Promenade cried out behind Chestnut’s back. Guided by instinct, she took a ninety-degree turn to continue her stroll inconspicuously, but decisively away from the guards tinkering with the broken lights. She was prepared to go all the way to the Victory Plaza and around the block if it meant avoiding them. She had been through enough misadventures on the Promenade to last a lifetime.

As luck wold have it, they noticed her. Not good.

“Halt, winged citizen!” the taller guard called. “By the decree of the Royal Guard, you are now called to assist.”

Chestnut no longer minded the cold, but she shivered all the same. What to do? She couldn’t take off in that wind and snow, and on hoof the guards would surely catch up to her. Perhaps pretending she was deaf and didn’t hear them would work? Not bad, but they clearly saw her seeing them. Pretending she was deaf and blind? Well, it certainly beat hiding in the dumpster, if giving roughly the same results.

A moment of clarity came—she didn’t do anything wrong or illegal, after all. Of course it was a poor consolation because the last time she didn’t do anything bad either. In five words or less, her situation was not cool.

“Buckleberry, stand down,” the other guard chastised his companion. His horn sparkled into a simple light spell which shined over him and Chestnut. To her surprise, his face wasn’t that of a nefarious, ugly, filly-chasing villain, but rather of a regular guy. As regular as a Royal Guard could be, at least. “Please excuse my colleague, miss. I am Private Wave Heart of the Promenade Patrol. We are a division of the Royal Guard tasked with taking care of the matters along the Promenade. I would normally say ‘at your service’ now, but it’s actually the other way around this time.”

So she wasn’t getting arrested. Rad. That was leaving her with talking her way out of whatever was that all about. She felt the odds moving in her favor. Like the game of social dodgeball with the Canterlot Elite, it wasn’t about how confident you really were, but about the confidence you were able to present to others.

“Oh, what a delight,” Chestnut said, bringing a sufficiently high-societal note to her words. It could not mask her accent, but it was something. “And here I thought I would be getting cuffed for some crime I totally didn’t commit.”

Wave Heart chuckled. “Good humor is our best defense against cold, isn’t it?” He pointed up to a darkened balcony which cornered the block. “As you can see, we have a problem with the lights. I don’t want to bother you with details, but there’s been an issue with some magically-charged green snow ordered by one of the Emerald Street’s shops.” He battered a pile of greenish snow at his hooves. “It interferes with some of the batteries powering up the lights. Most of them are cased and sheltered, but the one on the balcony needs a manual restart. The only problem is…”

Buckleberry stepped into the light as well. “We can’t see our target from down here, and the owners are MIA,” he supplemented. “To make things worse, there’s a volatile decorative unit jeopardizing our assignment.”

“You mean that cute reindeer?” Chestnut guessed, noticing the antlers protruding over the balcony.

“That’s an affirmative. The thing got itself tangled in the lights which started blinking like it’s the Firework Festival. We tried to move it, but then it must have taken the plug out of the battery and, well, you see what’s missing. No fireworks at all on Emerald, not even a single light bulb sparkling. We need an able and willing citizen fly up and plug it back in, and that’s ASAP!”

“Buckleberry, manners!” Wave Heart hissed. “Please accept my apologies, miss. What my overly zealous colleague wanted to convey is that we’d normally call for air support, but in this weather they’re probably better deployed elsewhere.” He gave a rare, honest smile that inspired trust and respect towards the organization he represented. “In the spirit of Hearth’s Warming, would you be so kind and help us make Canterlot a bit brighter tonight?”

“I-I’m not sure I can take off in this wind...”

“Don’t worry. Wards are my specialty, I can set up one to protect you. It’s like a magical shield.”

Huh. Maybe not all guards were stupid, evil, batpony-chasing jerks, a thought occurred to Chestnut. Those definitely weren’t like the ones who had chased her away from Les Deux Maregots—though in all honesty, she probably wouldn’t be able to tell them apart just by looking, as the one guard’s eyes, coat and mane under the helmet were a perfect mirror image of the other.

Some two or three years ago, still at the Orphanarium, she participated in awesome workshops with the Wonderbolts, which were also a division of the Royal Guard. One of her friends, Wind Whisper, asked what was the deal with all the guards patrolling the city looking like two peas in a pod. It turned out they weren’t all brothers, or clones as someone-but-definitely-not-Chestnut claimed, but wore enchanted armors, which was totally awesome. Those were the armors which magically whitened the ponies’ coats during their work hours.

That was it: there were regular ponies underneath the mask. There was nothing to be afraid of. Encouraged by the discovery, Chestnut loosened up.

“Well, I don’t know much about magic batteries, but I’ve seen them at work. I, uh, I will be most delighted to help you. Please, hold this.” She put the roastnuts bundle in Wave Heart’s hooves. He conjured a barrier, and a few quick wing flaps later she landed on the edge of the balcony. “I’m here! What now?”

“Good!” Wave Heart called from below. “You should be seeing the battery box, but it may be buried somewhere in the snow. First, try to move the reindeer away. It shouldn’t be left anywhere near the cables, just in case.”

The supposedly ‘volatile decorative unit’ was a reindeer figure with antlers the color of the sky, proud posture, and thinly chiseled legs wrapped in cable. Chestnut had never met their kind, but from Doctor Hugs she learned they lived in the Tundra far to the north, even more farer than the Crystal Empire, with most of their kind concentrating around the capital city of Rein. The figure, Chestnut noticed, looked like she represented someone important. She wondered if the deerfolk had their equivalent of the high society as well. That one would definitely belong to the Rein Elite if they did.

“Why, a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Reindeer,” she chuckled quietly. “Got yourself into power cables, are we?”

The untangled cable suddenly slid away. She grabbed it at the last second and put the plug under the weight of an empty flowerpot, one of many present on the balcony. Most of them were half-filled with green snow or buried in it, and as far as she could see, so was the battery.

“Everything all right up there, miss? The cable’s shaking,” Wave Heart called, concerned. The filly gave a quick ‘yep’ for a confirmation. “Just making sure! Oh, and by the way, if you don’t mind me asking, what is this you’re carrying? Some special Hearth’s Warming treat? It smells absolutely fantastic!”

Chestnut suppressed a snigger. She was now talking foodstuffs with the ‘evil’ guys. Why not.

“Gilded roastnuts!” she admitted with pride. “Just a little sweet and spicy snack from where I come from.”

“Trottingham, I take it?”

“Nope. Tramplevania.”

“Ah, apologies, I couldn’t tell through the scarf and all.”

“No worries. I guess I should worrrk on the accent then.” Chestnut wondered if she should feel complimented or offended, but eventually the spirit of the upcoming holiday got better of her. “Those roastnuts—they’re the bestest. Help yourselves if you want!”

“That’s a negative,” the no-fun-allowed Buckleberry said sternly. “We’re on duty. No snacks on duty.”

“What he meant to say was that you are most kind, miss, thank you! We appreciate your generosity and we will try some,” she heard Wave Heart making a counter-decision. “See, Bucks? I told you it’s all about individuals. Maybe now you will stop fixating on that other thestral runner.”

There was a figment of an idea floating somewhere around Chestnut’s thoughts, but nothing concrete, as it had been pushed aside when she finally found the battery. It was a small gizmo made of a toolbox-like casing and power crystals which should have been humming with magic, but weren’t. She wasn’t an expert on magitronics, but she once saw Fizzy, a mare helping at the Orphanarium, fetching a similar battery to a projector. Supposedly, it was as simple as plugging the cable to the battery’s socket, flipping the switch, and saying some nasty words at it—though Chestnut was pretty sure that last part was optional.

Then her thoughts dragged her back to what the guard just said, and it clicked. Thestral runner? Could it be? She grabbed the cord and twirled it casually, considering her options. They couldn’t see her anyway, and Emerald Street could wait for its lights a little longer. On top of it, she was having the time of her life playing an important pony just for kicks.

“Uh, I found the battery but this will take longer than I thought!” she informed. “Be, uh, be advised that the decorative unit’s hooves are frozen to the ground, and the cable is all tangled. Oh, my, it will take me ages to straighten it all up! So tangled, what a world! There’s cable everywhere and… and there too!” she exclaimed dramatically, seating herself comfortably on a big flowerpot. “But I interrupted you—you were saying something about my misbehaving kin? Should I be concerned for thestral community?”

“Nothing to be concerned of, miss, just a little misadventure my friend and I had.”

Chestnut couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Thestrals, misadventures, the Promenade Patrol… it was all coming together! She, a batpony, once a fugitive and now a helper on good terms—ha, how the tables have turned. Then again, she had been involved in enough table turning, mostly upside down, and with the help of those two Royal Guards no less. Unless those weren’t them, and the enchanted armors were transferring memories and witnessed crimes as well. Or something.

She had to convince the guard to spill the beans. She had to be very convincing. She should sound like...

“Please, Captain Heart, I need to know. You wouldn’t left a poor mare uninformed, would you?”

Apparently, even emulating Miss Rarity had a certain effect on ponies.

“It’s, uh, it’s actually ‘Private’ Heart, miss.” The response was sufficiently abashed. “Well, uh, like I said, it was nothing major. We’ve been responding to a larceny in progress. A supposed thestral thief supposedly assaulted a citizen with the use of a metal container and liquids, then tried to steal a valuable, as we have been passionately told, piece of jewelry.”

“The culprit,” Buckleberry added, “he or she—we were unable to determine it—dropped it when we approached, but refused to be held for questioning, and fled the scene.”

Chestnut frowned. In a way, it was insulting they hadn’t recognized her. Was she really just an echo of every other thestral out there? New year, new manestyle, she decided—it was a must, if only for the sake of standing out in the streets. That’s what the Canterlot Elite was all about, wasn’t it? Standing out.

“Such a rascal!” she quipped. “On behalf of my kin, I apologize for her actions. Or his actions! We may never know, after all. Uh, that said…”

She plugged the cord into the battery and flipped the switch to the ‘ON’ position. It needed no bad words but a light kick to get it running, and moments later Emerald Street was shining with hundreds of lights along the buildings. The world itself seemed to slow down for a moment, with individuals snowflakes dancing gracefully. It was a sight to behold: patches of green-paved street peeking out from the greenish snow, with green and white candy canes at every lamppost, and yellow and blue lights illuminating the way. Even the wind quieted down as if in respect.

It was magical.

Before gliding back down, Chestnut double-checked if her scarf was covering her entire muzzle and cheeks. At least one of the guards was friendly, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

“How about that?” she said. “Thestrals can be helpful, after all.”

“I wouldn’t presume anything else, miss!” Wave Heart called. “There’s plenty thestrals in the service, all really straight fellows. And on the streets? I learned that for every honest unicorn there’s one bad apple spreading ferment somewhere too, but I think that’s a general rule when it comes to us, ponies, even this time of the year.”

“Well said, sir.”

“Call me a sentimentalist, but for me, on Hearth’s Warming, the best gift is finding a good citizen doing her part for the community.” He put the silver bundle back in the filly’s hooves. “Great recipe too. Just what we needed before another hour on patrol.”

“You’re welcome,” Chestnut exclaimed cheerfully. “I understand I am free to go now?”

Unlike his partner, Wave Heart saluted her without hesitation. “On behalf of the Royal Guard, you have our thanks,” he said and shook hooves with the filly. “We were lucky you came along when you did, miss. Without you, we would have to report the incident as something beyond our capabilities, and I’m sure you realize how bad a note about being beaten by a fake reindeer would look in the file.”

“No worse than being outsmarted by a thestral vagabond,” Buckleberry grumbled under his breath.

“Bucks...”

“It’s alright, sir, I’m not offended,” Chestnut deftly replied. “All’s end that ends well, right? I did something good for the Royal Guard, you won’t have to answer silly questions, Emerald Street has its lights back… I just hope that robbed citizen got her necklace back in the end, too.”

“She did, actually, the culprit dropped it during their escape.” A curious spark shined in Wave Heart’s eyes. “Hey, I never said it was a necklace.”

It was the exact moment when Chestnut realized she was a silly filly—and that she had been having too much fun at the expense of the oblivious guards. She giggled nervously, taking a careful step back, but the guards made one of their own.

“Whoopsie.”

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

This chapter was brought to you by Baby It's Cold Outside. Because it's cold, and Chestnut's outside, duh! Have some joined adults/children performance by Idina Menzel & Michael Bublé.

One of the things that was not included in the original story were the events that actually happened on the Promenade - we only see Fleur and Rarity as they follow the mayhem Chestnut and the two guards caused. Having the filly take a five-minute walk between the restaurant and the boutique felt like an excellent opportunity for a random encounter!

Chapter 8 – Running Home For Hearth’s Warming

Three windows there were overlooking the darkened Emerald Street. Three mares appeared in them, one by one, each more worried than the last.

“There’s nothing to worry about, darling,” Rarity’s soothing voice came from the side. “It’s a five-minute walk, after all. You’ll see, she will be here safe and sound, and momentarily.”

“Unless something stopped her,” Sassy Saddles added from the other end of the boutique. “Frivolous fibers, I haven’t seen such a dreadful weather in ages. I wouldn’t stick out my muzzle even if they paid me!”

“Remind me that when I’ll be calculating your bonus,” the first mare replied melodiously, giving Sassy a ‘you’re not helping!’ look behind the third mare’s back. “I’m sure she’s fine, Fleur.”

Fleur shuffled her hooves anxiously, scraping the expensive floor of the no less expensive Carousel Boutique. Perfect! Just perfect. She knew she should have disregarded the fundraiser altogether and stayed with Chestnut. In fact, she should be holding her hoof right now and making sure she reaches the next point of their busy day safely, like a good mother would.

But no—instead, she’d gotten herself convinced her presence was necessary at Golden Gavel’s auction. Fancy Pants was to blame for that, him and his well-made remarks about trust and bravery and whatnot. The Weather Corps was guilty too, with their nonsensical schedule for today. Oh, and Garlic Bread as well, with his personal assurance that her daughter will be done by three o’clock. Come to think of it, even Chestnut wasn’t innocent! She promised Fleur she would be careful and that she just wanted to make use of her talent, to help someone because it’s Hearth’s Warming after all.

Everyone was to blame. To Tartarus with all this seasonal understanding!

“She’s gotten herself into something. I can feel it.” Fleur’s breath left a mist of exasperation on the glass. “Plus the lights went off. If that’s not enough of a sign, then I honestly don’t know what is.”

“I swear it’s Maregots all over again,” Rarity remarked under her breath, but then put a hoof on Fleur’s shoulder. “Listen. You have every right to be worried and I find it commendable that you do, because it proves that you care. But there is a difference between worrying and straight panicking. Remember our last? Galloping through Canterlot in a particularly unladylike manner?”

“It is not the same if that’s where you’re going with this,” Fleur replied adamantly. “The last time Chestnut was lost, I cared only... well, mostly... about finding her so I wouldn’t have to deal with any legal repercussions from Doctor Hugs. I had to find a missing orphan. Now, frostbite or not, I’m going to get my daughter.”

Without delay, she summoned a pair of brown and orange crocheted earmuffs from the auction and rushed to the exit. She was one step from the door, one step from unwrapping the package, when she noticed herself in one of the many mirrors scattered around the boutique. Those earmuffs, to that scarf? She gave a spin, quickly glancing over her figure. What was she thinking?

“I can’t be rescuing anyone looking like that,” she murmured. “Fashion upgrade, s’il vous plaît?”

“At once!” Rarity exclaimed. Out of nowhere, a trolley with a hundred scarves and one Sassy riding it parked next to Fleur. A large box of leg warmers quickly followed, and so did three separate hanger stands with dozens of wooly caps and hats. “We wouldn’t have you leave not looking absolutely fabulous.”

Fleur cursed the tingling of her fashion sense, but allowed the mares to change her ensemble five times in the next twelve seconds.

“If it’s any help, Emerald Street is the safest place in Canterlot,” Rarity said. “There are no maintenance alleys nor shady businesses running about. Only big and gleaming ones, if I do say so myself,” she giggled. “Well, of course not with the power outage, but you’ve seen how we freshened up the neighborhood.”

“Green snow. I should have known it was you.”

“We wanted to make something spectacular.” Sassy swapped the other mare’s hunter’s knit cap for a ski-hat with twin pompons, a balaclava, and finally a bomber hat. “The whole pattern was Rarity’s idea while I’ve been managing the details. First, we appealed to the City Council and the Weather Corps to make the snow appear green. Second, we convinced other businesses to set up some green decorations. Green ribbons, green candles, even green wreaths all around!”

“Aren’t wreaths already green? Just asking.”

“Green today, red tomorrow. Trends come and go,” Rarity added. “There were supposed to be flags too, but it didn’t work out, unfortunately. The Weather Corps’ instructions stated explicitly to remove those from our roofs.”

Sassy gave a nod. “Unfortunately. But we’ve even had an acquaintance paint the candy canes green and white instead of usual red. All to raise the public spirit on the Emerald Street… plus it goes so well with our new line of green Hearth’s Warming vests!”

“It does? What a coincidence,” Rarity said mischievously, wrapping and unwrapping Fleur’s neck in scarves of different thicknesses and numbers of tassels. “I’m sure you’ve heard most of the local designers are going with gold and yellow this season, but puh-lease, that’s what they’ve been showing last year. I simply wanted to remind the fashion world there are other, interesting colors to wear in the season, not just those in which we wrap our gifts.”

“Which in itself is a regional matter,” Sassy pointed out. “In Trottingham, we pack our presents in silver and white.” She took a step back. “Hmm, I don’t know. Less tassels, perhaps?”

“More tassels, perhaps?” Rarity replied, also taking a step back to look at the mare. “What do you think, Fleur?”

For the most part, the ensemble the two mares created consisted of two scarves, one pastel green and one pink-white, entangled together like a braid. The Yakyakistanian earmuffs, however artsy, wouldn’t go well with that, so they’d been replaced with a snowy bomber hat with grassy stitching. The leg warmers created neat, pink framing for the search-and-rescue costume worthy of a high society mare.

“I have my reservations, but there’s no time,” Fleur quipped and dashed outside.

If it wasn’t for the frightful cold biting her nose, the view itself would take her breath away. The power was back on, and the entire street shined with colorful lights, bright blues and brilliant yellows—which, however, wasn’t enough for Fleur to notice a dark, filly-shaped smudge which galloped past her and into the boutique.

“Close the door, close the door!” the smudge called.

“Eek!” Fleur squeaked and closed the door. Behind her.

Two Royal Guards appeared from behind a big decorative present in the middle of the street. They were in a rush as if they were chasing a dangerous individual, and Fleur, having put two and two together, was once again questioning the reality, probability, and abnormality of the situations her daughter was getting herself into. It was amazing, in a way, so she wasn’t even mad.

“Buckleberry, take point!” huffed the shorter guard as he stopped by the boutique. “Private Wave Heart of the Promenade Patrol! Madam, we’re in the middle of a pursuit after a thestral suspect. Young mare, possibly a teen, grey coat, orange scarf. Have you seen her?”

Fleur shot her hoof down the street without hesitation. “Something just went thataway!” she called, playing a scared snob convincingly enough. “But you should also try the cafés by the Promenade. A friend told me there’s been a robbery there, is that true?”

“Attempted robbery, but don’t worry. The Royal Guard will find her,” he shouted and galloped away.

“Sur mon cadavre, you will,” Fleur murmured.

Back inside the Carousel, she found Chestnut halfway through greeting the other mares.

“…Miss Rarity. Miss Saddles. How are you on this fine afternoon we’re having?”

“Look at the well-bred young lady you are!” Rarity said in glee. “Without a doubt my dear friend Fleur had a hoof in that.” She glanced over the filly’s back. “Am I right, Mom?”

Fleur sighed with relief and began unwrapping herself from the wooly layers. “You should have seen her at the party. I may have shown her a few tricks, but it was her who charmed the entire Canterlot Elite,” she said, giving Chestnut all the spotlight. The filly took the compliment with dignity—and a little joyous bouncing, which stopped when Fleur flooded her with motherly attention. “But look at you! You’ve been running. Did you have your cap on?”

“Yeah,” Chestnut replied. “Really, I’m alright, and I brought some freshly roasted chestnuts, see?”

It would take more than a treat to stop Fleur now. “That’s wonderful, but what about the scarf? You know you shouldn’t be running with your mouth open in winter…”

Chestnut nodded. “Yes, the cap was on all the time.”

“…or better yet, don’t walk with it open either, and oh, don’t speak. Breath through your nose. You remember about breathing through your nose? Because I was so worried. Trotting through the city alone, such a dreadful weather, and with those lights gone off, no less!” She’d continue the litany, but she noticed a vivid shade of embarrassment on Chestnut’s face. “Well, but you’re with us at last. Come here!”

Fleur hugged Chestnut tightly. She was her daughter. Her little batpony. Her précieuse châtaigne. She was here, and Fleur’s heart soared.

“Help,” the crushed filly mouthed. “Can’t… breath… Miss… Rarity?”

The fashionista took five to enjoy that show of affection, but ultimately had mercy. “I think that’s enough, Fleur. She fits in her vest just fine.”

“Not enough.” Fleur kissed the filly on the forehead and playfully messed her mane. “Never enough.”

Sassy, who’d taken upon herself putting all the scarves, headwear, leg warmers and whatnots back where they belonged, clapped her hooves. “Now that we’ve put a pin in getting you in for our little get-together—the weather really is awful, and you must be cold, young miss. What will you have, hmm? Hot tea? Maybe coffee?”

“Is there a chance for some cocoa, perhaps?”

“Trends and tassels, you’re reading my mind! There should be a sizeable supply in the back,” the mare replied. “Rarity, a cup for you? Yes? Fleur, yes? Alright, so four cups it is.”

“I guess I’ll go with Miss Sassy?” Chestnut offered questioningly, swapping the silver package off the table. “These roastnuts should be good with just about anything, but it won’t hurt to warm them up a little,” she added, looking at Fleur for approval, which she granted.

With the two rummaging through the kitchen supplies, Fleur and Rarity moved the party to two horseshoe-shaped sofas, courtesy of Inks and Seats. The sofas and the low table between them purposed to ease the waiting game for the clients, mostly poor stallions whose mare companions got stuck in a dressing room. Husbands and boyfriends could rest their legs there, pray for the salvation of their wallets, and of course guard the carefully chosen ‘of course I will wear it more than once, honey’ pieces of clothing.

Like in any store during the season, there would also be a gramophone set for ambiance, and a collection of Hearth’s Warming-themed magazines: the popular among younger audiences Cosmare, trend setting Cellist’s Fair, and of course Glacial known of its cheeky columns and stylistic photos. Glancing over, Fleur wondered how long it would take for her to stop recognizing the ponies modeling for the covers.

Rarity seated herself next to her.

“What did I tell you? Safe and sound.”

Corners of Fleur’s mouth arched up. “Oh, shush!”

“I’m glad to see you’re doing better, Fleur,” she said quietly. “You and Chestnut—you two are so precious together. The last time we talked you were quite downhearted and I didn’t know how to help you besides giving some generic pointers I could think of. I apologize if my advice sounded so… cliché back then.”

“Your generic pointers were just what I needed, it seems. From my point of view you knew exactly what to do and what to say.” Fleur realized she didn’t have a chance to sit down with her friend and talk since they’d met at the Maregots. “I was pretty much running in circles, but you gave me courage I lacked. I don’t think I would have made it through without your support.” She squeezed the other mare’s hoof. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” Rarity replied and lightened up. “So, tell me so I could have something to gossip about: what is it like to be a mother? Is it everything they tell it is?”

“It’s… unique. It’s nothing like the articles I’ve read in the past, that’s for sure. They describe the first few weeks as a nightmare because newborn foals take all the attention, but my experience is and will be different, because that’s not a newborn foal we’re talking about,” Fleur replied. “Chestnut’s fourteen, but if you consider the orphan factor you’ll end up with a filly who is more mature in certain aspects, as if she was older. At the same time, I think, she now has a chance to play, to enjoy herself and do things she couldn’t because she had other matters on her mind.” She cracked a smile. “Which, believe it or not, makes her sound straight juvenile at times. She’s a box full of surprises I’ll be discovering every day anew.”

“That’s a smart conclusion. Did you come to it all by yourself?”

“Mostly.”

“Pray tell.”

Absent-mindedly, Fleur shuffled a magazine at her hooves. “A few excerpts came from the books on parenting, others I figured out on my own. Most of the lecture is aimed at those who are with their child from day one onwards. I didn’t have that luxury and there’s a lot I’ll have to learn on the run about her from her,” she pointed out. “Some parents choose to shape their kids as they grow up, darn, I had a plan to shape mine. With Chestnut, it’s not only that I don’t want to, it’s just that I can’t. She is her own person—and it’s fine by me.”

“You and Fancy went through a lot to finally make your family a bit more complete,” Rarity said.

Fleur walked around the sofa and sauntered along the dresses on display. She always enjoyed boutiques after hours. She could still enjoy the fashion, but it was so blissfully calm.

“Complete, period,” Fleur replied. “Two plus one suits me just fine. The original idea of raising two children was tailored as an excuse to phase out of the high society, but Fancy Pants and I dragged Chestnut into it, so now we actually have a reason to stay.” She passed her hoof along a green cashmere dress with side bow detail, one of many ensembles in the boutique which would fit a Canterlot Elite lady just fine. A Canterlot Elite lady... like Chestnut? It was too early to tell. “One thing that haven’t changed is that I still want my daughter to have a good future. Establishing a few contacts with the right ponies will at least give her a backup plan if whatever she chooses to do in life doesn’t work out.”

“I see. In order to help her succeed in the game, you need to play the game as well.”

Fleur couldn’t agree more. The status quo of the Canterlot she knew had been stirred, but so far nothing new came up. As far as she knew it, everyone was focusing on the weather or on spreading the magic of the season—or using that magic to up one’s one social standing. Some crazy ex-supermodel adopting a thestral was old news at this point. Not for everyone, of course, especially with Upper Crust intending to ‘capitalize’ on her mistake. Collectively, however, the Canterlot Elite was probably waiting that one out. Perhaps they wanted to see if that this whole ordeal was a fad, or wondered if Chestnut was going to become a token daughter for her and her husband.

“But, correct me if I’m wrong, the ball does go both ways,” Rarity added. “So the question remains: who will be playing by whose rules? The Elite by yours, or Chestnut by theirs?”

Fleur came a full circle around the displays, pondering the consequences of either scenario. Changing the strictly traditional way of thinking some ponies had was going to be tough, but not impossible. Seeing Chestnut change and lose herself in the game of appearances and fake importance—a sad vision, but technically possible without someone watching over her. It was something Fleur must never allow to happen, which was why she was going to bear the antics of the Elite a little longer, and as long as it was necessary.

She heard laughter coming from the other end of the boutique. Sassy was levitating four mugs and a bowl, and Chestnut accompanied her, chatting happily. A warm smile came back to Fleur’s muzzle in an instant, along with a hearty dose of motherly pride. That was her daughter, her little light that could pierce the thickest clouds of worry and doubt, a filly whose enthusiasm was the epitome of what Hearth’s Warming was all about: being excellent to each other, and especially to your family and friends. She hoped for that one thing to never change.

“Another time, perhaps?” Rarity whispered.

“Oui. It’s Hearth’s Warming after all,” Fleur said. “Let’s focus on what really matters!”

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas was what inspired this chapter’s title. Of course there aren’t cars in Equestria, hence running. I mean, there aren’t cars yet. Fleur and Fancy Pants will have one ten years from now, courtesy of Flim & Flam’s Crysteam Automated Roadster - CAR! There’s actually cameo of that in that one Spike story of mine, and some technobabble about how they even work.

I’ve been reading through the comments and I noticed that a lot of you expected a chase scene with Chestnut and the Royal Guard, so I apologize that I haven’t planned one here. I hope that bringing back Rarity and introducing Sassy Saddles will make up for it - especially since they’re here to stay!

Chapter 9 – Do You Wear What I Wear?

“A necklace,” Sassy deadpanned. “You actually said that?”

“That’s what happened, I promise!” Chestnut assured. “He only said jewelry, but I knew better because I was there. Well, he was there too I guess, but I was closer.” She glanced around the mares, making sure they all listened, and as far as Fleur could tell from her friends’ faces they did, and were delighted. “So then he looks at me and is all like, ‘Hey, how did you know about the thingy, miss?’, and I’m like, ‘What thingy, officer?’ and I point behind them”—the filly shot her hoof over the table—“and go, ‘Watch out, there’s a windigo behind you!’ ”

Rarity and Sassy burst out laughing while Fleur, if with a sincere smile, only chuckled nervously. All’s well that ends well, to an extent. She just hoped that her daughter’s biography won’t be all about her glorious escapes from the peacekeepers. Young fillies like her, or rather ponies in general should stay on the right side of the law. Not for the first time today, Fleur recalled her father who’d hammered respect to the Criniarmures, or “Armored Manes” into her head. The Royal Guard of Canterlot were quite a notch behind those guys in overall competence, but that could have been just the latest events speaking.

“Two on two. It’s obviously a sign.” Rarity wiped a tear of joy. “You will be joining the Royal Guard when you grow up. Ooh, have you seen their ceremonial armors? So imposing yet so elegant! Participating in the parades, standing guard next to the princesses... just imagine it!”

“Please don’t,” Fleur quickly said. “She would score some points with my side of the family, but Fancy and I would be dreading every day she’d put on that armor.”

“That absolutely fabulous set of armor, you meant to say.” Sassy chuckled and took a sip of her cocoa. “I’m with Rarity on this one. There’s something about strong ponies clad in steel that makes me wish I was born in different times,” she added, her eyes dreamy. “Oh, and since we’re on that, here’s an interesting fact I came by doing market research last week: when it comes to jewelry gifts this season, village ponies want to wear regular metals more often. Not gold or silver, just copper, bronze, sometimes plain iron in extreme cases.”

“Why is that?” Chestnut asked. “Don’t they want to look cool?”

“Everyone wants to look good, but sometimes it pays to not look too good.”

“Not in this neighborhood, it doesn’t,” Fleur said.

“I’m talking about villages! Let’s take a pony from Ponyville”—Sassy winked at the fashionista—“but for the sake of me making a point, let’s treat our friend here as a statistical error.”

Shrugging, Rarity helped herself to another roastnut. “So I’m an error. How quaint.”

“A pony from Ponyville,” Sassy continued, “wears a silver bracelet or fancy earrings when she’s visiting Canterlot, but when she’s checking off her day-to-day tasks, she doesn’t want to stand out too much among her friends and family. Not too much, but just a little, which is why she’d like to have something nice and shiny, but at the same time modest and, most importantly, cheap. This is also the primary reason why fashion, or wearing clothes in general isn’t quite ‘the thing’ there yet.”

Fleur clapped her hooves. “Fashion, oui, that reminds me. Rarity, on the invitation you mentioned a dress for New Year’s Eve you’ve been working on?”

Rarity’s eyes shined. She wasted no time summoning a sketchbook and opened it on a simple, but precise depiction of what would undoubtedly become the next Reign in Stain. With glasses at the end of her muzzle, she guided Fleur through the more prominent aspects of the project, her voice slipping into dramatics every so often.

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask! This is something meant to be worn by taller mares, but it can be shortened by taking out a row of chandelier frills here, and here. The lining’s tricot knits, naturally, and this goes around the empire waist but the weight is on the shoulders. Prench seam, a little tribute to Hoity Toity’s last year’s collection. It should be good for dancing and for dazzling the masses through more, shall we say, stationary means.” She pointed at a small, decorative bag meant to be part of the ensemble. “And a minaudière, of course. They’re making a comeback. Right now I’m experimenting with different shapes at the coup and I was wondering if you could open my mind to something… something exquisite, I suppose?”

“Asking a retired supermodel for advice?” Sassy raised her eyebrow. “I thought you were done with working in the fashion business, Fleur.”

“It’s perfectly fine, darling.” Rarity dismissed the claim. “It’s not work if I’m not paying her.”

Fleur took a while to burn through her mental catalogue of every dress she had ever worn. With all that happened lately, she had a backlog on the vogue haute couture, but she could see where Rarity was going. She was about to hint at the next logical step when she felt Chestnut moving closer on the sofa.

The filly’s brilliant eyes sought insight, but were clueless in the tangle of lines and shapes. Fleur knew that fashion wasn’t her daughter’s strongest suit—pun not intended—and that she probably didn’t understand a word of hardcore terminology the other mares were intimately familiar with. Fleur had outfitted her with the basics on which they could build one day should the need arise, but of course there were other important things to cover first. A mental note refresh: together with Fancy Pants they’d decided to think about Chestnut’s further education sometime next month.

Maybe knowing haute couture wasn’t as important as knowing to speak and write properly—oh, who was she kidding, in Canterlot it was equally elementary.

“What do you think, Chestnut? Do you think Rarity has a chance to hit the covers this time?”

“W-why are you asking me? I’m not an expert, mom, you are.”

“The ponies who shop here are almost never experts, but that doesn’t stop them from having an opinion,” Rarity said with minimal wince. “Say, would you wear it to a fancy ball?”

The filly shook her head. “It’s definitely too big for me. You’d have to cut out all four rows of, how do you call them, the chevalier thingies so I could fit it? I think. But of course then the dress doesn’t make sense. I mean, it doesn’t have to, and it is pretty, plus I really like that bag with added jewels. My friend once did something similar during arts and crafts, only that she used those shiny, colorful whatnots… you know, sequences,” she said, somehow ending even more abashed than before. The balance on the sofa changed again when she backed away. “Sorry I don’t have anything smarter to say. I don’t know, uh, what’s popular these days.”

Discreetly but with great reassurance, Fleur squeezed her daughter’s hoof.

“It’s alright,” she said, bringing a crooked smile to her daughter’s face. “How about a triangle? I’ve always had good experience with triangles,” she proposed, but Rarity didn’t look convinced. “Ah-ah, I know what you’re going to say, that it’s a bit too classic, and it is, but consider this…” Fleur draw a shape with her hoof. “Reversed, then. Start small on the coup and cover the forelegs.”

A fresh idea must have started buzzing in Rarity’s head, as evident in her creased forehead. She grabbed a pencil. “Yes, hmm, a little line here, I can see the benefit of full sleeves, but that will leave the flanks utterly exposed for everyone to…” She halted and smiled coquettishly. “Ooh, I see what you’re after, you naughty girl, you!”

“Non, that’s not what I—”

“After what?” Chestnut asked.

“Aerodynamics in dancing, of course,” Sassy hastily clarified. “The dress has to stay on your back when you’re spinning, and still look good in every other, uh, position.”

“Alright! Thought so!”

Fleur cleared her throat, recovering after a shade of red that burned her cheeks. She praised Sassy for quick thinking, and she not-praised Rarity—because it would be in a very bad taste to curse anyone just before Hearth’s Warming—for heading into risqué territory as if there were only adults in the room. Didn’t she know that Fleur, as a mother, was supposed to be a role model, at least to some extent? She had always aspired to be considered an elegant and sophisticated young filly herself, just like how her mother raised her. Being a naughty girl was not acceptable in Pearis, and it wasn’t going to pass in Canterlot either.

“Exactly that.” Fleur nodded vehemently. “Being aerodynamic and looking good whatever dance you dance. Isn’t that what you wanted, Rarity?” She emptied her second cocoa and tipped the cup at her friend. “You’ve got your pagoda sleeves for the table, and the rest of nothing for the dance floor. It’s not like anyone’s looking at your hooves when you spin.”

Rarity eagerly agreed. “Point well made! Give me a moment.” Upon finishing a new layer on the sketch, she proudly presented it. “A-ha! How’s that for New Year’s?”

“Padded plumages, Rarity, it will be a hit!” Sassy exclaimed. “I simply cannot wait to buy the next issue of Glacial so we could add it to the collection!” She waved at a row of neat frames hanging by the entrance. Each frame featured a cover of a fashion magazine with one of Rarity’s creations, season after season and year after year. “Hmm. I may also consider updating my letter to Santa.”

“I’m sure Santa will consider it. How about you, Chestnut? Did you write your letter to Santa Hooves yet?”

Fleur held her breath.

“Nope!” Chestnut splayed out her hooves in defeat. “There’s nothing in the world I need. Seriously. I don’t want mom to buy me unnecessary things.”

Phew! One less trial for Team Parents to worry about, and more power to Fleur. There was a chapter in a book she’d once read about telling kids the truth about milk, cookies, and of course toys mysteriously appearing under their pillows. She wished someone she knew had read those parts...

“ ‘Mom’? Whatever do you mean, darling?” Rarity said theatrically. “Those are neither moms nor dads who bring us presents. It’s Santa Hooves, the one and only!”

The filly smiled gently, only the tips of her fangs shining from between her lips. “It’s okay, madam. I know that Santa isn’t real, but it’s fine. I actually found out a few years ago at the Orphanarium. Everyone was asleep but me—I-I ate too much, that was the reason—and I spotted Doc Hugs as he was sliding gifts under our beds. It wasn’t too hard to figure it out, but there were many younger ponies at the Orphanarium too, so I kept it a secret and never told anyone.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Sassy said. “Personally, I think it’s good to have such a mystery in your childhood. Close your eyes, little pony, here’s a present, then poof! He’s gone!” Her mysterious smile wore off, replaced by a serious face. “Of course eventually time comes when we all have to grow up. Mysteries are solved, the truth is revealed, and childhood ends. Of course it doesn’t mean us adults can’t enjoy it!” She looked around. “Agree? Yes? No?”

“Yes, but for children only. And by your definition, I had no childhood whatsoever,” Fleur remarked gloomily, with a tiny thorn of lifelong regret piercing her. “My dear sister Oriflamme made sure of that,” she added under her breath.

Sassy waved her hoof.

“Trust me, it’s better to become informed early rather than learning it when you’re sixteen.”

“Sixteen? But that’s high school already, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“Ouch. Désolé.”

“No worries, it’s still my favorite part of Hearth’s Warming. That, and legally stuffing myself with pie,” Sassy said. “How about you, Rarity? When did you stop believing?”

Having heard enough, Rarity straightened up and took a stand.

“Stopped? Oh, my dear fillies of little faith, I have never stopped!”

The trio looked upon each other, wondering what kind of message Rarity wanted to convey. Certainly she didn’t mean she actually believed in Santa? They could only wonder while the mare was trotting around the boutique, collecting items from multiple departments, caps, cloaks, and whatever was red or white included. She ended up in dressing room with a pile of clothing too large to be put on a single pony. The others watched the waving curtain, anticipating the reveal—all the more obvious considering a jolly all-time classic about making a list and checking it twice Rarity was humming.

“Crimps and corsets!” Sassy said. “Sit back and enjoy, ladies. It appears we’re in for a show.”

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

What do you get when you put a supermodel, a designer, and a boutique manager in the same room? A chapter filled with fashion terminology, where transforming the good old Do You Hear What I Hear (apparently by someone named Noël Regney) into a related wordplay title was a no-brainer. As always, here’s the next position in our special Hearth’s Warming playlist.

This chapter was the second out of three times when, during writing, I decided to split a larger chunk of the story to keep its length consistent with the rest. Consider it a prelude to a good dose of lore about Santa Hooves - and the arc that will be with us up to the conclusion of this story.

Chapter 10 – Santa Hooves Is Coming to Town

The curtain swooshed to the side, revealing Rarity under a plain, hooded attire.

Fleur, Chestnut and Sassy let out a collective ‘ooh?’, but Rarity, being in the zone, made them go quiet with but a stare. She was giving the utmost of her not insignificant acting, and her head was popping out from behind the sofas every now and then as she circled the room.

“You say Santa Hooves isn’t real, but I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. The story I’m about to share comes from the streets of this very city, your Canterlot, so one would think that every daughter of this magnificent Jewel of Equestria would treasure it in her heart. But, as it appears, some of you have forgotten…”

Sassy leaned over Fleur’s ear. “You’re Prench, Chestnut’s Tramplevanian, I’m from Trottingham. How are we daughters of Canterlot again?”

“Bien vu, she has more Canterlot in her than most Canterlotians do,” Fleur whispered back.

Rarity appeared right over their heads.

“Legend has it, the original Santa Hooves was a wealthy but utmost buffoon-y stallion who owned the land and riches it hid. He was a ruthless entrepreneur and cared for nothing but making more bits every day… nothing, except maybe his only son whom he loved even above his gold. The boy was his reason for pursuing wealth, in fact, as the stallion had known the bitter life of the poor long before he tasted that of the rich. And so, he desired to always be able to afford what he could never have himself. He wanted to make him happy.”

“Sounds like one of the good guys,” Chestnut said, looking up to the other mares. “I guess?”

“Debatable. Securing one pony’s future by extorting hundreds others is hardly a noble way to go,” Sassy commented. “The needs of the many and so forth.”

“I don’t know, Sassy.” Fleur shook her head. “A parent can go to great lengths for their child.”

Rarity trotted around the room, weaving the tale further. Her voice became somber.

“One winter, a mysterious plague fell upon the city. It claimed the lives of many ponies and cared not for social stratum nor wealth. It could just as well reach out with its icy fingers for a poor beggar in the streets, as for a sumptuous noble warming himself at a fireplace. No one was safer than the rest: not earth ponies, pegasi, or unicorns, neither mares nor stallions… and not even children.”

Fleur instinctively wrapped her foreleg around Chestnut. When Rarity wanted to be ominous, she was ominous.

“Eventually, the plague released the city from its grasp, but not before claiming one more innocent life,” Rarity said, looking over her audience as they whispered the inevitable. “Yes. The young colt was indeed the one. On Hearth’s Warming Eve, the stallion cried at his son’s bed, surrounded by all the wonderful toys he’d bought him over the years, and the riches he’d gathered for him. He cried, and he cursed his wealth for being so useless.”

Sassy joined the embrace. Now all three were locked in a secure hug, mesmerized by the storyteller who lay down on a sofa.

“ ‘It’s only useless when it’s not used well, father,’ his son would reply between faint coughs. With the last of his strength, he raised his hoof and pointed to his toys. ‘I won’t be playing with those anymore, but there are other children in the city who don’t have their own... like you’ve never had when you were young. When I’m gone… could you please make them happy… as you made me?’ ”

Tears stung Fleur’s eyes. Wasn’t that supposed to be a season of joy? She squeezed Chestnut even harder.

Rarity got back to all fours. “The stallion wanted to honor his son’s wish, but he wasn’t, shall we say, too popular with the common folk. He was afraid that they would not believe his intentions had he just waltzed into the city bearing gifts, and accuse him of trying to cash-in on the aftermath of the plague. He thought of a clever disguise so that no one could recognize him, and eventually made effort to not be seen at all. Eventually, he became… Santa Hooves,” Rarity concluded, shrugging the boring coverings off her back.

Through the spectacular power of fashion, she too became Santa Hooves.

Considering the mere minutes she had, she’d unquestionably outdone herself. Her ensemble sported a red cloak on her back with fur trimmings, a classical matching hat with a big round tassel, and a black belt with aureate buckle around her waist. Underneath the outer layer was a white, high-collared shirt, and a vest in the color of tree green. The final touch was a wooly scarf which posed for a convincing beard and completed the look.

The audience cheered, and Rarity allowed for a moment of vanity.

“Thank you, thank you! Now, the narrative ends here, but the story continues. The original Santa Hooves may be long gone, but his legend lives on. While we all, of course, buy each other presents to celebrate the memory of the gift-giving stallion as Equestria far and wide—or simply because it’s easier to say a mythical figure is spending our bits instead of us—we now circle back to our Canterlot where it all began. For you see, certain interesting occurrences took place here exactly six years ago, on a night much like this one. Ponies of all kinds discovered gifts under their beds and in their socks, gifts that came from neither their families nor friends.”

“Then who were they from?” Chestnut asked.

“It’s a mystery,” Sassy said. “I heard the rumors Santa Rarity is talking about. The presents always have proper name tags, but it’s impossible to tell who sent them or how did they manage to place them inside. It’s almost as if they were appearing out of thin air when no one’s looking.”

“A teleportation spell,” Fleur proposed. “A skilled unicorn glancing through a window could achieve that.”

“Perhaps, but those mysterious gifts are quite accurate,” Rarity pointed out, “and you can only receive it once. Two of my customers—sisters, though you’d never tell—Sunshine Smiles and Moonlight Raven each claimed to have gotten one. They described them as well-thought-out and personal. Sadly, they didn’t want to tell me what exactly they got, but said the batteries weren’t included, and I believe you all see how unhelpful of a clue that was. It could mean any number of things!”

“It must be someone who lives in Canterlot as no other city got ‘affected’, if you will,” Sassy said. “And every Hearth’s Warming, more witnesses pop up telling stories about a tall, cloaked figure galloping on rooftops, or riding in a sleigh drawn by a pair of celestial reindeer!”

“Nonsense. They’re probably making it up,” Fleur replied skeptically. “Just think about it: even if there was someone out there pretending to be the next Santa Hooves, how could he possibly know everyone’s dream gift? The answer: he can’t. The only way those ponies received what they wanted is if they mentioned it to someone—their friends, their moms, husbands, neighbors, doesn’t matter—someone who took upon themselves making that wish come true. From there, all it takes is deft hooves and a touch of subtlety.”

“And just like the stallion in the story, those super secret friends and neighbors probably want to stay anonyma… anomau.. they want to stay not named,” Chestnut said. “They keep it a secret, everyone thinks they got their presents from Santa Hooves and they are all happy because they feel special. Perhaps the next year they will be someone else’s Santa!”

“Thus keeping the legend alive and the holiday cheer rolling,” Fleur said, content that the filly had come to the same conclusion. “Though I have to admit, I would prefer my gifts to be from trusted ponies I am acquainted with rather than having mysterious strangers stalk me, lurk around my house and eventually come in uninvited…”

The boutique door opened. First came the cold, howling wind, then a whirl of snowflakes, and then—a mysterious stranger in the flesh.

Everyone froze.

“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Hearth’s Warming!” the dark figure exclaimed, but a moment later came to the light with a handsome smile under his mustache. “Ladies.”

“Fancy Pants! Please, do come in!” Rarity exclaimed. “Let me take your coat… your very classy coat. Genuine double weave wool, buttoned neck strap… Speck Fashions, how fitting. Not only did you adopt a thestral, you’re wearing Salient Speck’s garments too!” she said, but when the stallion gave a clueless look for an answer, she changed the course. “She’s a thestral designer, for your information. Doesn’t matter. I promise we are done talking about fashion for today.” She trotted to a pile of colorful boxes by the Hearth’s Warming tree. “The current topic is Santa Hooves and presents.”

“Ah, how fitting! The original, or the mysterious renegade, I wonder?”

“Both. In fact, you’re just in time for the big finale, so go ahead and take a seat!”

“I do apologize for arriving at such a late hour, everyone. The representatives of the newly founded Houndrel Federation were eager to express their gratitude for how smoothly all the exodus formalities went.” He gave Sassy a friendly hug appropriate for the ponies classified as ‘my wife’s inner circle’, then laid quick kisses on both Fleur’s and Chestnut’s foreheads. “How was the auction, dear?”

“You will be pleased to hear that I have done my part for Yakyakistan. Not for the first time, might I add, but this time Headmaster Ostwald didn’t have a chance to offer me a job as their new Prench teacher.”

She tactfully omitted that she also bought a pair of crocheted earmuffs she didn’t know what to do with.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they named one of the labs after you,” he remarked. “How about you, Chestnut? Did you have fun with your little cook-off with Chef Garlic?”

“Yeah! Everyone was so helpful and I’ve never seen a kitchen so big!” Chestnut replied gingerly. “There was a pony for everything: one for washing asparaguses, another for cutting them, one for… no, actually two for grilling them. The first one passed out when Mr. Garlic was judging my roastnuts.” She grabbed a bowl. “We saved some for you! They should be still good even if they’re cold. Come on, try some!”

“You mentioned something about a pony passing out...?” Immediately, he received a swift punch in the ribs from his wife. “I mean, of course I’d love to try them,” he added, grabbing a single shard which he savored. Encouraged, he attacked a small pile that would soon disappear from the bowl. “Delicious! We really should try to get some more.”

“Santa Rarity, we’re waiting!” Sassy moaned. “Where’s that big finale of yours? There are ponies here and they’ve all been nice for the last twelve months! Most of the time!” Leaning in over the table, she beckoned the others closer. “Psst, time to let you in on a secret. Rarity got a little something for each of us, courtesy of Carousel Enterprises. What she doesn’t know is that I got her a present from us as well. Since she is really into the whole Santa Hooves idea, let’s do a wall of silence on this one, okay?”

“Then why tell us at all?” Fleur asked, seriously conflicted about Sassy’s clandestine aptitude.

“Because we’re splitting the bill, duh?” she reminded and straightened up. “Sleeveless substitutes, could it be? Did Santa Rarity find something extra under the tree?”

“She did,” came the unsure response. “And she finds herself quite bewildered by it.”

Shimmering blue mist sent the presents flying to their respective addressees.

“I bet it’s Santa Hooves!” Sassy cheered. “He must have heard that you’ve been a good, generous pony and thought that you should—”

“Why do I get two?” Fleur quickly counted the boxes on the table. Five ponies, six presents. Two with her name on it. “Anyone missing theirs? Non? Come on, who is my secret Santa?” She grabbed the bigger package. “This one’s obviously from Ra—uh, Santa, who does his shopping at Carousel Enterprises. But this one’s different. Sassy, did you do it? I thought we’ve had an agreement,” she added with a frown. “Or... husband?”

“It’s not me, I swear!” the mare replied. “Like we agreed: no presents for Hearth’s Warming but we’re treating each other to a spa after New Year’s.”

“I’m afraid it’s not from me either,” Fancy Pants assured. “Had I gotten you a present, hypothetically, I would have stored it in a place where you never look, say the attic, and then hid it somewhere in the bedroom so you could stumble upon it later. Of course if that was the case, Chestnut here would confirm my story—she would be my likely accomplice if I had to choose a gift for you.”

The filly threw her hooves in the air. “Dad! That was supposed to be a surprise!”

“Interesting. I thought she’s been helping me,” Fleur replied, cupping her chin in wonder.

“Mom! Seriously, you guys need to learn how to be stealthy,” Chestnut murmured. “But if none of us got it for you… then who did?”

Rarity pointed at the tree. “I was using your gifts for decoration. They’ve been on display for perhaps a couple of days now. It would be easy for someone to notice there your name in the pile and drop a little something. Any secret admirers who might have been bothering you lately?”

“None that I know of,” Fleur and Fancy Pants replied as one.

Go happily married couples!

There was only one way to find out. Fleur put Rarity’s gift aside—carefully, so that her friend wouldn’t think she valued it less—and ripped the wrapping to shreds.

At first she thought she was holding a work of art in the shape of a flat brick. A book with fancy cover? No, a notebook, she realized when she found no title on either side, but one she had never seen before. She would have never thought they were actually a thing. In essence, the notebook had a dark, but pleasant shade of blue for its soft cover, but the whole thing was locked in silvered casing. It must have been only silvered, no one would pay for real silver… right? The casing was filigree from top to bottom, wired into tracery that was sturdier on the sides and along the back, and more delicate, intricate towards the middle.

Flowers.

Amazed, but also flattered, Fleur carefully removed the notebook from its casing. She had never before stopped to think about the scent of paper itself, yet her nose told her it was of the highest quality, worthy of a high society mare. Her hoof confirmed that suspicion. Premium product indeed, pages were smooth and blank, the insides had no lines nor squares, not even margins. Only endless sea of white which would not limit one’s desire to fill them.

“Rad!” Chestnut broke the silence.

“Marvelous,” Fancy Pants agreed.

“This is by far the most exquisite notebook I have ever laid my eyes on,” Sassy whispered in awe.

“It’s more than just that.” Fleur divined her gift’s purpose from a little padlock on the casing. “I’m pretty sure it’s meant to be used as a journal. Which would make it a most fitting present, because I’ve been thinking about setting one up, to be honest.” She carefully placed it back on the table. “It’s actually a perfect gift.”

“Who else knew?” Rarity asked. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to find the well-wisher among your acquaintances.”

“Only two ponies, I think. Fancy Pants knew, but if he’s telling it wasn’t him then I believe him. Second would be Doctor Sunlit Hugs from the Orphanarium—he actually proposed the idea to me. But he wouldn’t go as far as buying it,” Fleur chuckled at the ridiculous notion. “First, it would ruin his psychological ploy aimed at encouraging me to make it personal or something like that. Second”—she tapped at rich coverings—“he simply couldn’t afford it.”

“Whatever extra bits he had, he was spending them on us,” Chestnut agreed. She hesitated for a moment, looking around the adults deep in their thoughts. “Okay, I’ll be the one to say it: Santa Hooves?”

“If that’s the case, then we must know!” Sassy erupted. “Think, Fleur! You must have dropped it in a chat, casually steer onto the topic without even noticing, anything! Perhaps someone from the Elite? It would make sense for Santa Hooves to come from the Canterlot Elite, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose... but still, something doesn’t add up here...”

Shaking her head, Fleur went to seek the answer by the window. Santa Hooves wasn’t real. It was just an Equestrian legend told for the sake of the kids, and a mere excuse for adults to give each other gifts. And even if he had been real, then she really didn’t know what she did to deserve special treatment.

For a split second she thought she spotted a silhouette landing on the roof, but it was just a flag battered by the howling wind. A flag, like on a pirate ship. The idea felt somewhat familiar. She rested her hoof on the window, absent-mindedly drawing a shape of a ship. Flags, ships, pirates sailing across the inky sky...

Fleur’s thoughts danced around a strange mare she couldn’t picture. A mare who straight asked her—in a dream, but still—what she would like to get for Hearth’s Warming, which was making her a plausible candidate. She remembered... she believed she remembered there was something off about that mare, like she didn’t match her pirate dream at all. She wasn’t any of her friends who were also present, so perhaps it really was Santa in disguise? But why the masquerade? Who could possibly be bored enough to go that extra mile?

High and above on the sky, a silver discus shined between the receding frostbite clouds.

Then it hit her. A notion so ridiculously absurd, yet so compelling all the same. There was only one pony she could think of that was mysterious, resourceful, and magically skilled enough to pull off such a number. A pony who, given choice, would be the first to use the nighttime to find out if someone was naughty or nice. And she most definitely lived in Canterlot—at its very heart, actually.

“There’s... one more who knew. But you’re not going to believe me.”

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

Now that Rarity told us the story of Equestria’s first and foremost fat, red, and bearded dude, feel free to celebrate it with some music - for example this duet of Frank Sinatra and Seal performing Santa Claus Is Coming to Town. Though in Fleur’s case, something along the lines of “has already come to town” would be equally fitting.

Sorry it took me so long to deliver this chapter (relatively, I mean, compared to the tempo set up be the previous ones). It was of course because of the SNOW and COLDNESS hindering my every move and thought, because it’s obviously still winter - for a couple of chapters more!

Chapter 11 – Promenade Wonderland

Every phenomenon conjured by the Weather Corps had its purpose. Frostbites, though, they had a reputation.

Essentially brief blizzards, they were cold, unforgiving, and their lashing winds chased everyone away—the exact reason for which they were made. With everybody indoors, there was no one to disturb the fresh layer of snow it brought. The concentrated snowfall would cover every patch of grey on the streets, every trace and trail of hooves or sleigh, and it would fix every spot where the great white had been disturbed.

Ponies would tread over that featherbed at some point. But for one, perfect moment, when the entire city was frozen in time, the scenery looked truly impeccable, glimmering under the hundreds lights.

Fleur dashed through the glacial mounds, scraping the white off the green snow packed underneath.

“So let me get this straight,” Sassy called from behind. “You had a dream in which you met a mysterious mare. She asked what would you like to get for Hearth’s Warming, to which you pretty much described a notebook that you could use as a journal. You say you’ve never met that mare before, you can’t remember how she looked, or her name, but you’re positive she wasn’t one of your friends turned into a pirate version of themselves.” She trotted forth to line up with the other mare. “And you’re telling me it was the Santa Hooves? And that Santa Hooves is really—”

“I know it doesn’t make sense.” Fleur tried her best to remember something—anything—from the dream she had. “She said her name was Sunshine, I think. Or Sunset, something along those lines. And she was… some kind of a scholar, definitely not a pirate like the rest of you. Rarity, you’ve always been good at connecting dots. Any thoughts on that?”

“Why, I do feel empowered by the idea of myself being presented as a dashing fashion pirate. There is a potential for a line-up in that… perhaps I should look into tricorne hats soon.”

“Wrong dots.” Fleur shook her head. “It has nothing to do with the issue.”

“Well then, spoilsport darling, if I won’t be inspired when I sit to the drawing board, I shall blame you,” Rarity said. “Now, the case. First, let’s assume someone really spies on our dreams to find out what we desire. That someone would need a good way of recognizing, as the song goes, who’s naughty and who’s nice”—Chestnut and Sassy hummed a related tune—“so perhaps we can divine his, or as you’re insisting, her identity from that. Since the magic of dreams is complicated to say the least, it would take a very skilled unicorn, or another magical creature to drop by Fleur’s dream.”

“Perhaps it’s someone who knows Fleur, or has a personal interest in her,” Fancy Pants pointed out. “How many magic ponies do you know?”

“Or rather, how many know me?” Fleur replied. “If we dismiss my original conclusion for a moment, that leaves us with Princess Celestia, probably Princess Twilight Sparkle, and Empress Daiyu of Shanghay. But let’s be real, they don’t even have winters, or Hearth’s Warming, and she wouldn’t exactly want to give me a present, if you know what I mean. Then there’s probably a dozen unicorns who made it big at some point thanks to their magic. Beatrix Lulamoon comes to mind first, but she’s an actress, not a dream thief.”

“Wasn’t she in Dream Thief, though?” Sassy asked. “I think I saw a poster once.”

Fancy Pants gave a nod. “She was indeed. An excellent show, exquisite costumes, great stage dynamic. And the way they used the pendulum to make the audience question their reality? Simply stunning.”

“Like I said: I saw a poster once,” Sassy said impassively. “Showoff.”

“We can scratch off Twilight,” Rarity said. “First, I would have known. Second, she thinks globally. She’d come up with a way to give everypony a gift, for equity’s sake, which we know it’s not how our Santa Hooves works. Same thing for Princess Celestia, plus she probably couldn’t keep it a secret from the castle staff.” She looked up into the clear, evening sky, as if the answer was written in the stars. “However unlikely it may be, we really have only one matching candidate, and it’s not even too far-fetched.”

“Well, she is the one watching over our dreams, after all,” Sassy agreed.

Fleur double-checked her bag for the unusual gift. It was there, under the auctioned earmuffs, and it was going to serve as a leverage. Of course ‘leverage’ wasn’t a proper word considering whom she was going to challenge, but the day had been bringing her weird experiences so far, so why stop now?

Still, asking the Princess Luna whether she was secretly Santa Hooves was kind of insane.

“I’m not saying she has to come down every chimney personally. That would be ridiculous,” Fleur said. “But she has to be involved somehow. Perhaps she’s using her magic to find out what we really need or want, and then she gives a shopping list to… I don’t know, to her guards, or aides, or whomever. Someone else packs the presents, someone else again delivers them, no one can spill the beans because no one knows the entire secret. She probably has a whole network of Santa helpers!”

“I think your musings have grown into a full-fledged conspiracy, dear. I’m not convinced that’s a good thing.” Fancy Pants furrowed his eyebrows. “What’s your plan, anyway? Are you going to walk up to her and straight claim she’s Santa? Let’s say she is, a mastermind behind the last few years’ surge. She’ll undoubtedly want to keep it a secret, so she’ll deny everything. Which is still a better outcome than if she has nothing to do with it,” he said. “Did it occur to you that playing nosy around royalty may not be the best of ideas?”

“You’re worried about my reputation, is that it? That I’ll make myself an idiot?”

“Frankly, I’m worried that I’m working for the government under that very royalty.” Fancy Pants laughed dryly. “I rather enjoy my job.”

“I can be tactful.” Pretending to be serious, she nudged at Rarity. “So, about that pirate lineup, you’re going to need a model or what? My husband’s getting laid off.”

“Hilarious,” Fancy Pants deadpanned.

Fleur would never endanger her husband’s good standings with either of the Canterlot alicorns—or her own, assuming she had any—but he was making a good point. She couldn’t just play her cards and hope for the best. The last time she played an actual card game with bravado she lost it all. Thankfully, it was at a casual, mares-only table where you could still come on top after losing all your chips. All it took was a casual line about certain ponies not having luck in cards, but finding it in love and leaving the singles green with envy. And probably a few married ones too, given Fleur would be next seen with Fancy Pants.

Fun times at Las Pegasus!

They were back at the T-shaped crossroads connecting Emerald Street to the Promenade when Fleur realized she didn’t have an actual game plan. She stopped dead in her tracks.

“You’re going to need a compass or what?” Rarity echoed. “Oh. You have no idea where to look for her, do you?”

“Not even a slightest,” Fleur admitted. “I thought we could maybe go to the castle and request an audience?”

Only Rarity’s high standards stopped her from rolling her eyes. “Well, no. Fortunately for you, I possess certain knowledge when it comes to princesses and their busy schedules. I once spent half a month at the castle perfecting Hearth’s Warming decorations, naturally with my eyes and ears wide open,” she said. “On the Eve, there are two places either of them can be. First is the pageant, to which we can’t go because we have no tickets. I mean, I’m certain we could get past the guards—”

“Non! No funny business around the Royal Guard,” Fleur pleaded.

“As you wish. It’s Princess Celestia’s turn to honor the show with her presence, anyway. Now, the second place is obviously the Victory Plaza, but Luna may not be attending the festivities formally. She once told me she enjoys mingling with the common folk, surprising them as they come and go,” Rarity explained. “It makes you think. It’s been six years and she still has to fight very hard for her right to walk among us without being feared.”

Fleur noticed that Chestnut had something at the tip of her tongue, but said nothing.

The pieces were coming together. Six years since the Summer Sun Celebration and Princess Luna’s return to Equestria. Six years since random Canterlotians started getting gifts from an unknown benefactor. Coincidence? Fleur thought not. Taking the dreams and making them come true, having virtually inexhaustible resources, working in the shadows—then, when everything was put in place, stepping back into the light among the common folk. And what better place for Santa Hooves to hide than in plain sight of the Victory Plaza? Participating in the traditional tree decorating event would be an excellent cover.

Fleur took a mental step back. She could as well be taking it too far. She didn’t have any substantial proof.

“By the stars, I’m running a foal’s errand.” She turned around to face her friends and family. “I may be stepping into quite a faux pas here, so if any of you would rather stay out of it—”

“Oh, quit it, Fleur,” Sassy said. “We all want to know who the mysterious Santa is. I certainly do!”

“A foal’s errand or not, Hearth’s Warming is about spending it with your closest ones, is it not?” Fancy Pants said, and Chestnut quickly nodded. “We’re with you. And even if you won’t get Princess Luna tonight, it’ll be nice to see the tree for a change. Just… make sure your faux pas will be easily excusable.”

“You’re the captain of this enterprise, Fleur,” Rarity added with a cheeky grin. “In my experience, there’s nothing like a little adventure to get inspired, so I’m definitely on board, so to speak.”

“Oh, are we doing sailing puns now?” Sassy cheered. “Hornswaggling haulers… or… something! Raise the anchor!”

“And set course for the Plaza,” Fleur commanded with adamant resolve. Yes, she could probably get used to captaining a crew. “I got a really nice present. It feels only proper to thank someone for that. Personally.”

Cruising through the unstirred surface of the Promenade’s white ocean was no easy task, but the ponies had their eyes on the prize. In the distance, there was a soon-to-be shining beacon of hope, a giant green tree partially dotted with bulbs, chains, and lights ready to illuminate the night. It stood tall, surrounded by ponies anxiously waiting for their turn in decorating. Others, young and old alike, played in the snow or looked for and greeted their acquaintances with mirth. Without any trace of negative emotions in the air, everyone was wishing each other merry season, even, or perhaps especially, when they hardly knew those they bumped into.

Such was the atmosphere reigning over the Victory Plaza, a wide plateau in urban scenery, like a clearing in the forest. The tree was set right next to a fountain in the middle. If Fleur remembered correctly… no, she couldn’t recall what kind of victory that fountain commemorated. But she could name a dozen bridges in Pearis in case someone asked about famous battles. Someone? Anyone? Well, of course it was useless knowledge.

“Let’s ask around if she was seen here,” Rarity proposed. “Ooh, decorations! I know where I’m needed!”

“Dibs on the food zone! All those roasted nuts made me hungry,” Sassy exclaimed, trotting to a stand serving chocolate pinecones.

Fancy Pants waved at a half-circle of opinionated socialites discussing the tree. “Some familiar faces over there. I’ll see what I can find out about the princess or if they heard about anyone getting a mysterious gift this year. Surely we can’t be the only ponies on the case.”

“Good idea. Chestnut, you’re with me—allons-y!”

Around the fountain, Fleur’s maternal instincts kicked in. She was still unused to those sudden jolts of compulsion to help, protect, and take care whenever she was alone with her daughter. This time it came with a bonus shade of embarrassment impossible to notice in the cold. She forgot! With all the excitement over the recent discovery, she totally forgot what Doctor Hugs told her about Chestnut and her rather… unique opinion regarding Equestrian royalty.

Gently, she leaned over the filly’s ear. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Nutsie. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about me,” Chestnut quickly replied. “I’m fine, it’s just, uh, it’s been a long day, that’s all. It’s fine.”

“Is it, though?” Fleur led her away from the thick crowd and leveled with her. “Speak honestly. Is it about me trying to find Princess Luna?”

“K-kind of.” There was a slight tremble in her voice. “It’s just… she doesn’t exactly look, to me at least, as a pony who gives you anything, if you know what I mean. I think what you said about your dream makes sense, but I don’t really see her as Santa Hooves. I would think another pony should be Santa Hooves. A kinder one,” she added quietly.

“In case I find her”—Fleur chose her words carefully—“would you rather not be around when I talk to her?”

“I’m not afraid of her!” Chestnut replied vehemently, as if her raised tone was meant to compensate the lack of conviction in her yellow eyes. “I’m just… super not fond of her.” Puffing her cheeks, she exhaled loudly. “Doctor Hugs talked to me on my last day at the Orphanarium. I’m sure he talked to you and dad, too. He told me I should talk to you about this, because without him around I should have someone else to talk to about things that are difficult to me.”

“I am here for you. Me and dad, we both are. Anytime you need.”

Chestnut brightened up. “I know, and it’s cool that you are. I promise we’ll talk soon. Just… not today, okay? It’s the Eve, after all!” She gave a crooked smile. “You should have your fun too. You need to find the princess and discover the secret, like Daring Do does in her adventures. It would be lame if I stopped you from doing that.”

“Are you sure?”

A truth as old as time—when adults were asking the same question one too many times, younger generation had only one response: a prolonged groan of boredom, which was a good sign as long as they weren’t also trying to push said adults away. It seemed that whatever concerns chased Chestnut, she intended to outrun them. Fleur didn’t want to push either, so she made a mental note to unearth the issue soon. As much as she admired her daughter’s care for others, she was responsible for her now, and that went beyond teaching her how to handle the high society.

“Yes, mom. I’ll stick with dad or Misses Rarity or Sassy,” Chestnut replied. “But I will be keeping my eye on you.”

Fleur wrapped her hooves around Chestnut in a hearty, reassuring, love-transferring embrace.

“You are a brave pony, Nutsie. I’m proud—”

She was cut out by a grey blur that appeared out of nowhere, jumped and pinned her to the cold stone of the fountain. The blur had a shape of a familiar earth pony who took Fleur and Chestnut’s side during the last Canterlot Elite evening. Though she was generally considered a quite collected pony, bearing innate delicacy and elegance as much as her pink bow tie, this time she looked like she’d just seen a ghost. Pale as a sheet on her face, she was breathing heavily. If she was being chased by concerns of her own, she was definitely losing the race.

“Fleur, I beg you, you have to help me!” Octavia pleaded, supporting herself with a cello-shaped case. Her heavy breath was coming out in mist clouds. “It’s Hyacinth. She’s coming after me!”

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

Winter Wonderland for you all! This time I decided to go more local, with this Polish duet of Natalia Kukulska and Andrzej Piaseczny. I think it was recorded as a part of a telecom commercial, interestingly, but it has a nice vibe regardless.

So far so good! As you can see, one of the goals for this story was to show the characters from the original in a winter setting, and by that learn more about them. We’ve had Rich Card, Mr. Inkblot, Chef Garlic to name a few (drat, I forgot to have a chapter about Doc Hugs!). It’s time for the all-time favorite Octavia and her nemesis, Hyacinth!

Chapter 12 – A Hardly Silent Night

Octavia’s plea left Fleur feeling utterly deflated—and a little numb on her face.

Perhaps it was just the late hour talking, but after tossing snowballs, rushing across the city and back, and trudging through the ankle-height mounds, she elected to be wary. First the auction and now this! Was she really the only available pony for solving everyone else’s problems today? She should have expected that, considering how abundant in bizarre the day had been so far. But why now, of all the moments in time, when she was pursuing her own personal quest?

Stop. A numb face equaled a bad face, and such a blank bearing wasn’t much supermodel-y. Head high. Straight as a string. A delicate smile.

“And hello to you, Octavia. Merry Hearth’s Warming,” she greeted the other mare. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m kind of in the middle of something. Could it wait?”

“Hyacinth stuff doesn’t wait for nobody, it just happens!” Octavia replied. “It’s about what she—oh, good evening, Chestnut. Enjoying the evening? I-I just said ‘evening’ twice, my apologies. I love the scarf!” she complimented the filly before donning the panicked muzzle again. “I’m sorry, Fleur, I understand, I have no right to interrupt your evening, so uncalled for, but please, you have to listen to me. I-I’ll spare you the details and get straight to the point.” She turned red, blurting out words faster than her lungs could power them.

Wow. Hyacinth had a certain effect on ponies, but Fleur had never seen Octavia so distraught.

“Breathing first. Getting to the point, second.”

The mare took the advice and simmered down. When she wasn’t gasping for air, her voice was clear, tinged with high-societal tones, but without self-imposed superiority. It was a learned tone, not innate. As far as Fleur knew, Octavia first adapted that manner of speaking in Vanhoover, at the most prestigious music academy there was. She was never a socialite, though, and had been on the receiving end of a stipend for financially underprivileged. After years of living among the finest, there were few who knew she was but a miner’s daughter.

Not that Fleur would mind—not anymore—and although she was busy, she… she could spare a minute before searching for Princess Luna, right? Octavia was the first pony to talk to Chestnut on the party, so she owed her at least a moment of her time.

“Breathe in… breathe out,” she instructed, inadvertently making the filly join as well. “Good. Now, I’m listening. What is the Punch Mistress’ great plan this time?”

“Short version: someone I respect, a stallion from the Marelin Amusement Group—you know, the guys who run amusement parks, museums, organize shows et cetera—asked me if I could give an impromptu concert. A few carols, nothing fancy. I thought to myself: why not, it’s Hearth’s Warming and all. He even gave me this thing”—she waved a red-green songbook at them—“so I could find something proper to heighten the mood.”

“Then Hyacinth came about? Just a guess.”

“Then Hyacinth, obviously having heard everything, comes about. She’s overjoyed and all, and says she will gladly enrich my performance with her, quote, ‘utmost adequate vocal capabilities’.” Octavia’s hooves went in the air. “Adequate capabilities! Adequate for maybe making a manticore regret its life choices after you screamed at it for trying to swipe your quilt in the middle of the night!”

Fleur and Chestnut looked upon each other, but neither could make much of Octavia’s rant. The cellist was exceedingly proficient at not getting straight to the point.

“That’s… oddly picturesque, but go on.”

“So! I told her insisting face that her support is appreciated, but not required at the moment, but of course she turned a deaf ear like she always does,” Octavia said. “And, full disclosure, I’m not saying it out of spite, but remember last year at Blue Moon’s? Hyacinth is beyond terrible. Good lungs but nothing else. I felt so embarrassed back then, embarrassed I tell you, all those ponies were watching. And you know I don’t care much about what they say of me, but the fact that I disappointed so many was unbearable. Hyacinth, she’s like a foghorn…”

“It wasn’t your fault—”

“Bwaaam! A foghorn!” Octavia roared, causing Fleur and Chestnut to back off. “My apologies. Anyway, I blurted out that I already have a friend on stand-by who will be joining me.”

“Why, then the problem is solved,” Fleur replied. “Who will be replacing her?”

“Why, am I glad you asked.” She shoved the songbook into her hooves. “Congratulations. You’re the vocals now.”

Fleur was perhaps only as smart as the next pony, but it took her a good, tension-ridden moment to process Octavia’s words. ‘You’ and the fact she was looking her straight in the eyes suggested she was indeed talking to her, not Chestnut, not anyone else who might have been behind them the whole time. She glanced back—nothing but the fountain. ‘Vocals’ meant the role of a singer, a pony opening her mouth to create melodious words. You. Vocals. Singing. Octavia was congratulating her as if she’d won something which, given that entire tirade about Hyacinth meant…

Fleur’s brain has stopped working. We apologize for any inconvenience.

...Equestrian carols? Don’t be ridiculous, Fleur. We have plenty songs about snow and winter of our own, we don’t need foreigners to...

“Quoi?” she deadpanned. “Non, absolutely not, I can’t do that! I-I have my thing, I actually need to find Princess Luna, you see. Besides, I’m trained in doing a rather different kind of show.” The panic charge must have transferred itself onto Fleur as she laughed nervously. “Good one, Octavia, you nearly got me there. Me, singing? Bah! How delightfully preposterous.”

“Mom? I think Mrs. Octavia is serious.”

“I know, Nutsie,” Fleur squeaked with a stupid grin. “That’s how I cope.”

“What’s a cope?”

...just look at them, grinning like rabid monkeys. Honestly, allowing them to sing in the streets was the worst...

“Sing with me, Fleur, I beg you!” Octavia shook her by the shoulders. “I know you can, I heard how you sing the anthem. Equestria, the land I love. A land of harmony…” she intoned, and Fleur’s lips moved as if on their own. “See? Far better than most ponies. Trust a musician’s professional opinion on that. Seriously, I once heard someone singing ‘a land of high money’ while you knew all the words perfectly.”

“And that’s an achievement, how exactly?” She moved the other mare away. “It’s a song about flags and patriotism, of course I’d be good at that. But carols? Non, Octavia, that’s a different story!”

...for the last time, Fleur, no means no! This is a public place. Look to your sister, at least she can behave...

“How is it different?” Octavia’s face grew strained. “You have a clear voice, you can be heard if you want. The only thing you have to do is change the topic to decorations on a tree, presents, Santa Hooves, being together with others, you know, all those things which make the atmosphere of Hearth’s Warming so special. You just have to feel it!”

“Then find someone who can feel it!”

She shouted.

Not her proudest moment, definitely—she regretted it instantly. She raised her voice not to make a point, but in anger, plain and simple. Octavia stared at her wide-eyed, shocked even, and when Fleur raised her hoof towards her, she instinctively moved away. The ponies walking around the fountain took wider arcs now, just in case. Fleur didn’t dare to look at her daughter, she was too afraid to see disappointment in her eyes, or embarrassment, or any of a hundred feelings coursing through her. What just happened? How did it go from searching for the princess to shouting at her friend?

...we are Prench, Fleur, and we are proud to be so. There will be no silly caroling. Do you understand?

Yes, mother...

“Fleur… are you alright?” Octavia asked unsurely.

“Mom?”

She gasped for breath. It was getting a bit too emotional for her.

“F-forgive my outburst,” she mumbled. “But I don’t think I am the right pony for the job. It’s just… I’m not. Ever since I moved here I’ve been trying to figure out how Equestrians celebrate Hearth’s Warming, and how me, a Prench girl from a rather traditional Prench family which doesn’t care about this… this so darn wondrous time of the year, how I can fit it!”

She needed to collect herself. Breathe in... breathe out...

“You want me to sing about a tree which I never got to decorate until I was a grown mare. You want me to sing about presents that were just like any other gifts, because Santa Hooves was my parents all along. I… I can’t partake in the atmosphere… because I never understood it.”

She felt warmth forming in the corner of her eye, warmth which traveled down her cheek with a trail of coldness. She wiped the tear with her scarf.

“Forgive me, Fleur,” Octavia said quietly. “I never knew it was such a complex topic for you. Perhaps I should go look—nope, never mind. She’s here.”

“I—”

Following a tried and trusted way to regain her composure—and not for the first time escaping her inner, conflicted self—Fleur focused on looks and appearances.

Hyacinth appeared, a purse in her hoof and visibly displeased with the crowd. Her small, beady eyes went through a series of twitches, as if she was reevaluating her situation. Another twitch and the musician retreated behind Fleur, likely choosing the lesser evil. Hyacinth wore the right expression in an instant. She considered Fleur her greatest ally in the Elite, because of course she did. She brought to mind Fleur’s least favorite aunt whose sole reason for waking up was to criticize someone else’s life choices, so with that in mind, even Hyacinth’s warm smile she beamed at them felt somewhat patronizing.

Fleur’s thoughts dashed back to her family, but found only more unfulfilled childhood dreams. Back. Go back!

Unlike Auntie Jaune-Jonquil, however, that chubby mare had style, and to her credit, was choosing her ensembles accordingly. She didn’t try to squeeze herself into size six when she was clearly an eight. She wore her vintage floral dresses to impress, she was not extravagant, at least not from the forehead down. Upwards, it was a different tale, as she happened to have a certain affinity for hats, and owned possibly the largest collection thereof in the city. Tonight’s choice was a burgundy, wide-brimmed hat with silvered snowflakes scattered on the outer rim, and a row of tiny bells around the band which jingled with her every move.

Which were as numerous as her eye twitches.

“There you are, oh my dear, dear Octaaavia!” Hyacinth gave a high-pitched screech. “And, hello to you, Fleur. And young Miss Chestnuts, too!” She nuzzled her hoof at the filly’s cheek like they were besties, but if Chestnut had anything against that, she did not flinch. “How delightful to see you both. Now, Octavia, I must have misheard you the first time, dear. Surely you didn’t mean to tell me that you already have someone to work with you during your recital, did you?”

“Actually…”

In a last-ditch effort, Octavia looked up to Fleur, but the mare was too focused on keeping a straight face to look back. She was not a singer. She was a model, retired though, a socialite, a Prench not-so-ex-general’s daughter, she was all of those things, and she certainly did not see herself in the role of a singer. Of course there was that one time she thought it would be interesting to carol on the streets of Pearis, but her mother would always thwart her attempts as immature. In the end, she was not a singer. She was not.

She felt a discreet nudge, one that she’d given out earlier today, one that returned to her with the reassurance she needed.

After all, she’d never thought she’d have a thestral for a daughter either.

“Actually, she has. Me.” Fleur stepped forth, throwing a genuine fake regret at the other mare. “I’m terribly sorry to steal the spotlight from you, Hyacinth. I know how you love to sing.”

First came a torrent of twitches that jolted across Hyacinth’s face. Second, her sweetened giggle. “Really? How unexpectedly marvelous! I shall take the proverbial step back and leave the stage tonight to you, dear. And I will do so gladly! I’m looking forward to getting to know your dulcet aptitude. Or should I say, hearing forward”—she moved dangerously close to Octavia’s face with a chuckle—“if you forgive the parlance we, the ponies of music sometimes get into.”

“You do?” Chestnut raised her eyebrow.

“We really don’t.” Octavia deadpanned, but Hyacinth was already back by Fleur’s side.

“Perhaps my exquisite New Year’s Punch Tastextravaganza could use a vocalist like you? You do remember you are all cordially invited, don’t you?” she asked in what must have been the seventh or eighth reminder since the last Canterlot Elite meeting, not counting the announcement letter and the following invitation proper, or Rich Card’s morning visit.

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Fleur drawled. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need a moment to, uh, prepare.”

“By all means! Do not waste your pretty, mellifluously inclined voices on setting the stage. I will take care of everything.” She ironed Octavia’s pink bow tie with her hoof. “You take your time and I will round up the ponies and inform them that this year’s Hearth’s Warming will be given the voice of none other than Fleur de Lis. Well, not all the ponies. Only those in the same income bracket as us. Still, a little excitement is very much called for, wouldn’t you say? Oh, is that North Star? I’m going to start with her. Toodle-oo!”

“Non, wait, I’d rather keep it… on the… low profile… thing. And, she’s gone.” Fleur gritted her teeth. “Seriously. It’s Hearth’s Warming. Why can’t she take this one day off? Just one!” She went as far as snarling, which was both largely inappropriate and much needed at the same time. The last thing she needed right now was the Elite scrutinizing her every move. “Nutsie, go find the others. Tell them that if I mess this up they better be coming to my rescue.”

“On it!” Chestnut spread her wings, but didn’t take off immediately. She did a double-take. “Wait, what? We’re still talking about just a carol, right?”

Fleur pushed a stray forelock of her daughter’s mane back under her cap. “Nothing is ‘just’ a something when there are ponies like me or dad involved.”

“Yeah. Kinda noticed that. But I’m not getting it in full details yet.” She gave an innocent shrug. “I mean, now that I’m in this together with you, I suppose it’s just another part of the fancy living stuff I need to learn.”

“There are ponies out there who look up to ponies like us. Whether we like it or not, our decisions can affect more than just one Fleur or Fancy Pants.” It wasn’t the best of times for a dodgeball seminar, but she managed to find a quick example. “Whether it’s choosing one designer’s dress over another or singing in public, there will be those who will and won’t approve the choice you’ve made, and you’ll have to live with the consequences.”

Chestnut nodded in understanding, but shook her head halfway through.

“Yeah... I’m not getting it. But you’ll teach me and I will one day, right?”

“Only if you’ll want to.” She raised her hoof for a bump, a gesture which was gingerly reciprocated. “Now go!”

With the filly gone, her expression grew sour.

“Since half the Elite has me for a deviant, getting half of Canterlot to think the same will be a definite step forward, wouldn’t you say? Don’t even answer, it was rhetorical. Now, what next?”

“You’re saving my life, Fleur, I won’t forget it.” Octavia was around her neck before she could protest. “Try the book—we can do something you’re comfortable with.”

Fleur leafed through the songbook, reminiscing about those couple of times in her life she actually sang. National anthems. Happy birthdays. That short-lived adventure in her high school’s choir. To her surprise, her thoughts took her deeper into her childhood. What experience did she have with carols, anyway? One Hearth’s Warming in Pearis, before her mother scolded her for making supposedly pointless noises in public, known also as singing, she actually learned a couple of winter-themed songs. She did it on the off chance of finding carolers along the way with which she could share some genuine cheer. Spoiler alert: she never did.

Were the old songs still valid today?

“Gah, it would be easier if I my repertoire wasn’t so limited. Where is it—aha!” She halted her search at a comfortable, classic piece. “This. Can you play this?”

“I can play anything.” Octavia threw her a glare before consulting the book. “Papaya Berry? Alright, this is going to be easy. And once again, I owe you.”

“Shush. I’m concentrating.”

“Sorry.”

There she was, caught between the fountain’s cold stone and a giant tree which she was certain would fall down should she sing out of tune. She was surrounded by a semi-circle of ponies, but at least she was not alone, backed by the greatest musician she’d ever known. Hyacinth was frighteningly efficient, she had to give her that. In addition to a lovely couple of North Star and Blue Moon, she brought the Canterlot art curator Silver Frames, and Four Steps, a dance teacher Fleur had been seeing frequently on high culture events. And about a hundred ponies that were there to judge her performance—alright, perhaps that hundred was more like two dozen tops. But they didn’t look any less intimidating. Of course she did face crowds before, but never armed with a songbook.

One stroke of the bow after another, the cello went alive. There was no escape now.

Fleur joined in with the vocals at a slow, rhythmic pace.

O wondrous night, the stars are brightly shining
It is the eve of Equestria’s birth
Long were the tribes in woesome mistrust fighting
‘Till hope appeared for all who dreamt of mirth

A flame of old, the weary pon’es rejoice
For yonder south a new land is born

Well, there’s that. Her voice was far from heavenly, but it was decent. At least the ponies weren’t running away, a good sign. At first she thought that singing over her accent would be troublesome, but it wasn’t so—after all, all the Hearth’s Warming songs she’d ever learned, she did in their original, Equestrian versions. Was it her juvenile way of protesting her family, or fate’s foreshadowing that she would eventually marry a stallion of this soil? She couldn’t tell.

Open your hearts
O hear our unity’s calling
O night for one tribe
O night to make amends

Ooh night to shine, o night
O night to shine

More ponies approached with varying degrees of interest, but Fleur liked to think it was only because of the cello. Right now, it was Octavia who took the stage with a purely instrumental passage, but in a moment’s time she would give Fleur the spotlight. She was no longer afraid. It was just another kind of performance, albeit a different one from a catwalk stroll. Standing still instead of parading back and forth, it was like finding a center to an aspect of her life that had been all over the place for the past… well, many years.

In the morning she set out to find the meaning of Hearth’s Warming. Now she was finally getting it.

A flame of old, the weary pon’es rejoice
For yonder south a new land is born

Traditional Prench families did not celebrate Hearth’s Warming, calling it a foreigners’ holiday. But Fleur had always suspected it meant more. It was about following the example set by the ancient pony tribes which was universal and didn’t apply just to Equestrians. It was about celebrating unity among ponies, proving their fraternity, about cheering to the liberty from their past when they were divided. Last but not least, it was about family—spending time with them, appreciating them and loving them for what they were and not just during a customary gift exchange.

Tonight, it wasn’t just a song she was singing. It was her creed.

Open your hearts
O hear our unity’s calling
O night for one tribe
O night to make amends

Ooh night to shiiine!
O night to shine…

The crowd, having grown by a substantial degree, cheered and stomped their hooves. Neither Octavia nor Fleur were rock stars, so the message they read wasn’t a ‘we love you forever’ but more like ‘thanks, we appreciate that you’re with us this season’—which was its own reward. A couple of ponies, from the high society and the regular crowd alike, came up and congratulated them in person. Congratulated Fleur on her performance!

Octavia twirled her bow. “Not bad! Perhaps in your retirement you should actually take up singing? You are—oh, alright, now you’re embarrassing me. Oh dear.”

“Oh merci, merci, merci!” Fleur’s hug wasn’t getting any less firm. “Thank you for dragging me into this. Singing on Hearth’s Warming Eve… it’s been kind of a big deal for me.”

“Careful with the affection!” Octavia giggled. “I don’t want to end up explaining myself to Fancy Pants, but if you keep on hanging off my neck like that...”

“Oui, of course. My apologies.”

“No offense taken,” the mare replied with a playful wink. “Oh, look. Hyacinth is already busy scoring points. What a surprise.”

Fleur got to the tips of her hooves to see over the crowd.

“…a close acquaintance of mine, naturally,” Hyacinth said to someone who looked both important and too well-behaved to tell her to buzz off. “Fleur de Lis, of course I do know her. Yes, she is a brave mare for singing in public like that. Why, of course I’ve been saying that for years now. Did you know that she adopted a lovely thestral recently? I was there, supporting her decision with all my heart. Such progressive thinking…”

Fleur stifled a giggle. One could always count on Hyacinth to be a Hyacinth.

“A most inspiring performance indeed,” said a new, familiar yet alien voice behind her. “You certainly have the aptitude... Fleur de Lis, is it?”

The mare in question turned around, glad to give a hoofshake to her newfound fan, or even a signature if they requested it. Yet, when she found herself facing the towering posture and the unmistakable flowing mane, she squeaked like a rubber duck. A surprised, slightly intimidated, and suddenly much less tall than usual rubber duck.

Because when Princess Luna compliments you, there’s really not much you can say.

“Eep!”

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

Shoutout to all radio stations for bringing us seasonal songs as early as the first week of November! I have to admit, I love the secular part of Christmas - songs, decorations in malls, stylized ads all around. Like this Mariah Carey’s performance of O Holy Night, they sure bring a smile to my face.

Our heroes are trying to figure out the identity of Santa Hooves, but judging from the comments you already have a good idea of who that might be. At this point I can’t confirm or deny that - obviously, that would be a poor way of selling the story’s finale - but I can say that the very first chapter has an unequivocal proof whether or not a certain alicorn was involved with Fleur's dreamed gift. No one seemed to have realized it yet... perhaps because it’s hidden in plain sight, ha!

Chapter 13 – Have Yourself A Merry Little Carol

Growing up wasn’t half as glamorous as you’d expect.

One moment you were a child—an unbound dreamer captaining the ship of your own existence, who followed the course set by your capricious heart’s desires. The next, you saw yourself becoming a teenager and debarking to never sail the high seas again. Apparently, there were rules against enjoying life when you’re older. Nobody warned you, nor asked if you were okay with those changes. Your opinion did not matter, because despite having more teenage years behind you than ahead, you still counted as a mere child to some ponies.

Yesterday, your only responsibility was to buddy up with your colleagues and to score good grades. Today your mom was telling you to behave. To be a serious pony. To watch and learn from those important mares and stallions she and dad were always fixating on, because one day you would join them too. You would join them at their parties, discussing serious topics, and involving yourself in the only correct way of life: the life of fancy you were meant to live.

If growing up wasn’t glamorous, then being a Fleur de Lis—being me—was even worse.

“You are slouching,” Riva said as we left the restaurant. “Come now, I will not have my daughters present themselves like that. You have to keep your head high. You have to be straight as a string, and don’t forget to smile, but do so delicately. To be noticed, you don’t need to dry your teeth. Or your… accessories, for that matter.”

“Oui, maman.” I ran my tongue along the metal wire. Bleh. I never got used to the taste. “I can’t wait to take these off.”

“Two months, is that correct?” Ancien laughed heartily. “Operation Overbite is drawing to its glorious conclusion! Just two months and she can shine her teeth all she wants! Haha!”

Riva hissed at him. “Juste ciel, Ancien, curb your enthusiasm. Ponies are watching. And where is Oriflamme—ah, here you are. Very well. Allons-y.”

Those three meant the world to me, but I wouldn’t exactly invite them for a cruise into the unknown. The fact aside that my mother, Rivage d’Azur, wouldn’t set her hoof on anything less than a luxurious yacht, she’d be constantly complaining about the weather being not mild enough, sights being too wild or exotic, or the ponies being too not-Prench. In fact, what was not inherently Prench valued less in her opinion.

My father, Ancien Régime, had a similar mindset. However, where my mother treated with disdain everything that laid outside the borders, he glorified everything within instead, the older and more rooted in tradition, the better. He frequently complained about the current government and secretly yearned for the return of monarchist rule, but despite his respected status in the military he was yet to stage an actual coup. Perhaps for the better. A luxurious yacht or plain sloop, a revolutionist’s daughter would have a hard time traveling abroad by either.

A peach-pastel filly strode over a mound of shoveled snow, her steps full of confidence. Oriflamme, my older sister. She would make a dependable companion on most days, but not on Hearth’s Warming. Not after she completely ruined it a couple of years back.

Such was my family, as proud and traditional as we could get—and in a way, also incredibly boring. Whether it was about art, food or music, we—I mean they—were most fond of the products of their own soil. A limited-time exhibition from Ornithia? Fine, but there’s a glass pyramid with a thousand Prench paintings, and we’ve only discussed half yet. A newly opened Istallian restaurant just around the corner? An acceptable choice, but let’s make sure to find something annoying about the service. Equestrians celebrating Hearth’s Warming, their greatest holiday, with a song? Ah, yes, they’re that kind of ponies…

There was a group of carolers at the nearest intersection, clothed in red-and-green winter vestments and funny hats with fluffy pompons. They didn’t seem to mind the cold as they were smiling brightly, singing one of the songs they brought from their homeland. It was a strange language, much simpler in form compared to Prench, but with an alluring cadence nonetheless.

O wondrous night, the stars are brightly shining
It is the eve of Equestria’s birth

My ears perked up at the foreign words, and immediately my cutie mark compelled me to listen. Although I got it under rather unusual circumstances, I had a grasp on what my purpose in life was: making beauty bloom, like a lily blooms to present itself in all its glory. Wherever I went, I strived to bring that concept to those who weren’t as sensitive to aesthetics as myself, be that through pointing out the beauty in others, appreciating it in things, or even straight showing it myself. Not always vanity-free, admittedly, but hey—one does not argue with what a mirror says.

To be honest, I was yet to come up with a job to go with that talent. I was thinking modeling, but obviously I had to get rid of my braces first. I could probably also use a boost in confidence, too.

Long were the tribes in woesome mistrust fighting
‘Till hope appeared for all who dreamt of mirth

“I know this one.” I realized, trotting up to my parents talking. “Maman! I know this one!”

“…and how was the auction, dear?” Ancien’s question came out on top.

“You will be pleased to hear that I have done my part to preserve our integrity,” Riva replied. “Not for the first time, might I add. Charity or not, I can’t understand why some of our acquaintances even bother themselves with griffon antiquities. It’s not like they’ll be putting them on display, anyway.” She threw a glance at me, the insisting filly prodding her. “Yes, Fleur? What is it?”

“Maman, the song those gentlecolts are singing. I know it!”

My mother’s eyes narrowed into thin slits.

“Is that so? Do tell.”

“We sang winter songs at school, during our last Equestrian class before the break. I mean, the professor actually taught us a different one called Silent Night, but then I went to the library and borrowed myself the entire songbook. I figured it would be a good practice for my pronunciation and vocabulary, plus singing in other languages is fun—even if you mess up the words, as long as you keep the rhythm, it still sounds mostly good.”

“A songbook, you say. Hmm. Let me guess, you know them all by now?”

“I-I know the one they’re singing. Do you want me to teach you?”

“Teach me an Equestrian carol?” Riva snorted a weird mixture of amusement and contempt. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fleur. Why would a mare like me, or like you for that matter, ever need to familiarize herself with these? I appreciate you making an effort to do well in classes, of course, but you do know I find learning such things a waste of time.”

“I wouldn’t presume to waste your time, maman. Therefore, do you think… do you think I could leave you here and go and sing a couple of verses with them?” I asked timidly, but with hope. I just wanted to sing, after all.

Riva scanned the carolers again. Calling her stare a distrustful one would be generous. Sometimes it felt like she had total immunity to things that I was enthusiastic about, as she cut my idea short.

“Out of the question. A great many of ponies, myself included, value the peace and quiet the winter brings. Oh, I adore winter! Less ponies crowding the streets is always good, but those… immigrants publicly raving about their Eve or whatever it’s called… that’s plain disturbing.”

“I don’t think they aim to disturb your peace,” I replied. “They celebrate the founding of their country, so naturally they want to share their joy with others. Don’t we do the same every year?”

“We don’t fly all the way to Canterlot to be obnoxious. Just look at them, grinning like a bunch of rabid monkeys…”

“Permitting it was the maire’s worst decision this quarter,” Ancien agreed. “Bah! Should we retaliate by singing something of ours? I can think of at least a few winter-themed chants. Glacial March, for example, that’s never a bad choice for a skirmish. Or The Regiments Across the Snow. Or the unforgettable Raise the Buried Banner! Say, Riva, you know the lyrics?”

“Ancien! I swear, what is with you and singing today…”

He enjoyed the idea so much he started humming loudly, but another of mother’s trademark hisses brought his performance down a notch.

“Besides, those are all military songs, papa,” Oriflamme pointed out. “I don’t think that’s the kind Fleur is talking about. We probably won’t need to know how’s a spear or shield in Equestrian, and the point is to learn vocabulary that’s actually useful, something to describe the season. Just because your songs have a couple of winter words in them doesn’t mean they describe it well.”

“Well, we certainly don’t need foreigners to describe it to us either,” Ancien grumbled back. “Anyway, when it comes to languages, I don’t think you girls should be focusing on Equestrian. What’s the use of it nowadays?”

“Oh, I don’t know, papa. Knowing your enemy?” Oriflamme quipped, giving me a wink.

“You may be right, Ori!” Ancien’s eyes shined with new zeal. “I think you girls should be focusing on Equestrian. If they launch an invasion, you will be able to gather valuable intelligence. Haha!”

I almost let out a chuckle. Almost. I chose to appear indifferent, as wearing masks always came easily to me. Still, I admired my sister’s self-assurance, that she never hesitated to stood up to anyone, our parents included. She had the guts I lacked, but I would never tell it to her face. It was obvious Oriflamme took my side to try to make amends for the last time, also known as the Santa’s last time, and I wasn’t sure I was going to give her that pleasure yet. I intended to wait until we’re old and wrinkled, or worse—in our thirties.

Riva laughed mockingly.

“An invasion, really? You’re being ridiculous, husband! A country that had one of its rulers banished by the other is hardly a threat,” she said. “Bof. Let’s change the subject. This entire linguistic deliberation is leading nowhere. What you should be focusing on—and that goes for both of you—are things that will help you in life. For example, you want to be an interesting partner for discussion, say when you’re at a cocktail party. The more you learn about our local art, society, or politics, the better. These can make a conversation.”

“With whom?” Oriflamme asked. “Ponies your age?”

“Mind the tone, young lady!” Riva scolded her. “I mean your future husbands, obviously. You can charm a stallion with a pretty face, but that alone won’t make him stay if he finds out you’re a dimwit. Consider it: if you want a regarded, noble, Prench gentlecolt to truly notice you—”

“What if we don’t?” Oriflamme interrupted, a tinge of uncertainty in her voice.

Funnily enough, I knew my sister’s reason for asking such a provocative question. That reason had a shape of a colt, wore layers of flour and scent of fresh baguettes, and lead a simple life at a certain undisclosed bakery. When it came to Oriflamme, he also had a name: Secretly Sneaking Out On Thursday Nights.

“Then you’ll end up a cranky lady like your Aunt Jaune-Jonquil. Do you want to become an old mare, filled with regret for not listening to her mother? No. I didn’t think so.” Riva’s gloat was evident in her stride. She thought of herself a successful mare, and there were times I couldn’t stand it. “Actually, let’s talk about boyfriends. While I won’t count on a mere crush to last, schools are excellent proving grounds for learning to separate the wheat from the chaff. Oriflamme? Anyone special on the horizon?”

“Uh—like, me—I mean… uh…”

I noticed my sister’s cheeks go rose. Her guts came at a price of being hopeless when it came to wearing masks. Worse—her maybe-boyfriend was hardly a regarded gentlecolt, at least not by our mother’s standards, and it would be better if he remained a secret for the time being. Then again, was anyone up to those standards? Perhaps some outstanding government official, a true fancy-pants, handsome, noble, intelligent, well-connected, caring…

No, there were no such ponies anywhere in the world.

A malicious thought crossed my mind: it was a perfect setting to finally get even for the Santa Hooves disappointment. To tell, or not to tell? I rummaged the thought for a brief moment, then heaved a sigh. True, winter gifts were now completely bereaved of magic because of Oriflamme’s lack of empathy, but the point of Hearth’s Warming was to be good rather than bad. Even though I was not technically celebrating it—not in that household, I wasn’t—I could tell it had something special to it. Something both magical and beautiful which stopped me from giving away the Thursday Nights’ secret.

Open your hearts
O hear our unity’s calling

We were sisters. That had to count for something, right? At the very least, we shared a common… adversary. I appreciated many of my mother’s traits, and she was an inspiration, in a twisted way, but growing up came with something your parents couldn’t give you: the innate need to rebel. And by the stars, it was stirring inside me. I just wanted to sing! So what it was a carol, even if an Equestrian one? It was beautiful in its own way, and I felt I should participate, deep inside. Was that too much to ask?

O night for one tribe
O night to make amends

She wasn’t going to let me sing? Well, I wasn’t going to let her stick her muzzle into Oriflamme’s private matters.

“No, but what if I don’t?” I quickly drew the attention to myself alone. “What Ori probably meant was, what if I find myself a husband who’s not Prench?”

“Let’s do our best to avoid such an eventuality.” My mother dismissed me and turned back to Oriflamme. “Why, you are blushing! Look, Ancien, she’s blushing! So there is a dandy colt in your life. Tell us. Tell us all.”

I took a bold step between my parents and my lost for words sister.

“Please listen to me, maman. In the interest of me finding a proper companion, I need you to explain something to me. I can choose who to approach on a cocktail party, with all the suave talk I can, but I can’t choose who will approach me. And I definitely cannot choose the pony I will fall in love with, now can I? Perhaps they will turn out to be a foreigner. Perhaps even Equestrian.”

“Fleur de Lis. I am not in the mood for your nonsense.”

I had to give it to her, she was doing an excellent job of making herself perfectly hearable without raising her voice. It was a little scary, to tell the truth, but I wasn’t going to back down easily.

The spirit of a teenage rebel took over me. I thought I was doing a really good job being a prim and proper filly, but come on, it was no longer about anyone’s boyfriend, about singing carols in public, or even about being tolerant with foreign stuff. It was about principles. I was the captain of my own life! I was allowed to make some rules!

“Why is everything that’s mine a nonsense to you?” I burst out. “It’s always the same old story with you, maman. Can’t you see the world is bigger than just our neighborhood? Well, guess what: it’s Hearth’s Warming time and I, for one, would love to learn what’s so special about it instead of dismissing it on a whim. Deal with it. Maybe I want to learn languages and travel, maybe find my future beyond the border, but you’re keeping me on a leash. I can’t even sing a stupid carol, that’s how controlling you are!”

Riva was furious, I could tell, but she kept a straight face. That mask-wearing thing? It ran in the family.

“First, keep your voice down. Ponies are watching. Second: controlling, me? Well, my sincerest apologies, young lady, for trying to set your life on a proper path!” she hissed angrily. “One day, when you’re more mature, you’ll understand how important it is to fit the society you are born into.”

“Oh, so until that day comes, I can go back and sing with those gentlecolts?”

“For the last time, Fleur, no means no!”

“Because what? Because they’re Equestrian?”

Riva stomped her hoof. “This has NOTHING to do with them being Equestrian or not. This is a public place and there will be no disturbing the peace of our fine neighbors!” she shouted, disturbing the peace of everyone’s fine neighbors. “Why can’t you be more like your sister, or at least try to be every once in a while? She can live her life as an elegant filly without being bothered by all those foreign distractions you’re letting in. I swear, one more word about this Hearth’s Warming rubbish and I’m going to lose it!”

“You’re going to lose a lot more if you keep that up, maman…” I whispered bitterly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If I marry a foreigner, what are you going to do, you’ll disavow me? Deny my existence?”

“Maybe I will!”

“Maman, Fleur, you’re embarrassing yourselves!” Oriflamme stepped up with a plea. “Papa! Do something!”

The moment my father heaved a sigh, I knew he wasn’t going to intervene on my behalf. He was part of the problem, he and his nauseating traditionalism, nationalism even. I was on the verge of my tears, confused and surprised how quickly the matter had escalated, but I couldn’t muster enough mental strength to stand against two adults at once.

Maybe I will!

My mother’s words cut deep, tearing the sails that had carried me through my youthful years. I wanted to believe that she really wanted what was best for me, but at the same time, how could she know what’s best if she didn’t care enough to know… me?

“Listen to your mother, Fleur,” Ancien said. “We are Prench, and we are proud to be so. There will be no silly caroling. Do you understand?”

Perhaps… perhaps it really was time to let my childish dreams go and drop the anchor in reality…

“Do you understand?” Riva echoed on a stern note.

“Yes, maman…”

“Very well.” She straightened her attire and fixed a disheveled strand of her mane—because that’s what really mattered to her. How she was perceived by the society, with little regard to her closest ones. “We shall head home now. In silence.”

Oriflamme opened her mouth to say something, but I shook my head. I wasn’t in the mood. I slouched and shambled, following my parents’ hoofsteps like a good daughter. I just wanted to go home, lock myself in my room... and cry.

Another year, another winter disappointment. Growing into a mare wasn’t getting any easier, or any more glamorous the older I got, and the joyful mystery of Hearth’s Warming remained elusive to me. Out of my reach. Even forbidden as of now, apparently.

My family and I—we didn’t decorate the tree because it wasn’t a Prench tradition to do so. We discarded the character of Santa Hooves and replaced it with a banal ritual of ponies exchanging items with other ponies, barely nodding to each other while we were doing so. We didn’t bake special treats, we didn’t sing carols, we didn’t do nothing to make those couple of days stand out in any way. And it wasn’t just us—it was our neighbors, the city, and everypony.

I could no longer stand it. Was it an Equestrian holiday? Yes. Was it only for Equestrians? I did not believe so.

Although we left the carolers and their song far behind us, their beautiful, mirthful cheer reverberated in my heart, easily trumping over the gloom my mother filled it with. My decision was made. One day, I would set sail and travel beyond the border, to a place where my boring Prench life would change forever. Where different ponies lived soaking in different cultures, celebrating different holidays and experiences. Where I could finally arrange my life according to my own schedule and not someone else’s.

I was a mare with a plan now, and by the stars I was going to make my dreams come true even if it meant planning every single aspect of my life. Step one: get rid of those braces. Step two: find a career that involves traveling. Step three: include Equestria in the flight plan.

A flame of old, the weary pon’es rejoice
For yonder south a new land is born

Step four: freedom.

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

Hearth’s Warming, Christmas, any type of holiday honestly, may not always be a happy time for everyone. As it happens, so were the events of this chapter. Googling “saddest Christmas songs” to go along with that theme turned out fruitful, and led me to Judy Garland’s Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. I can’t say it’s super sad, but it’s definitely a different vibe from some of the jumpy tracks we’ve had here.

Much apologies for the long wait! ~~Summer time~~ Strangely warm December really isn’t a good time for writing winter stories, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter nonetheless. It was originally meant to be a flashback in a certain conversation to come, but I took it as an opportunity to introduce Fleur’s family members who were already mentioned in the story. Next stop: Fleur talks to Luna!

Chapter 14 – Rockin' Around the Hearth's Warming Tree

Finally!

Fleur had been on the hunt for Princess Luna for maybe an hour now, but the whole endeavor felt like it had begun early in the morning, with the dream she had and ruminations over the puzzling nature of Hearth’s Warming. If someone told her she’d be looking for Equestrian royalty to solve the mystery of one Santa Hooves, she’d probably stay in bed. Truth be told, she’d march to her bedroom right now, as the impromptu performance with Octavia left her a bit wobbly in the knee-area, which was even before the aforementioned alicorn actually showed up, with words of praise no less.

It took a great deal of self-control to not slump onto the nearest snow pile.

“Thanks!” Fleur squeaked out a response, immediately wincing at such a lapse of dignity. She had to regain her center—head high, straight as a string, and a delicate smile—and summon proper manners back into the game. She was addressing a figure of importance, after all. “Uh, what I meant to say was that your kind words are appreciated, Princess Luna. Myself, I’m hardly a singer, and it was all Octavia Melody working the strings and, oh, this songbook here. I pretty much just read the right lyrics.”

She beckoned at her partner in song, but Octavia was too busy receiving praise of her own, and just waved apologetically.

“Anyone can read what is written,” Princess Luna stated. She must have read the same column Fleur did, on the rising rates of pony literacy. “A singer practices to do so melodiously, within certain tonalities and rhythms. But to face a demanding crowd, to sing from the bottom of one’s heart and to be truly heard, now that takes qualities no book can cover.” She gave a quizzical smile. “There is no point in downplaying our successes.”

Fleur automatically nodded, even though the point was to discourage anyone from hiring her into a musical, or for the role of a court minstrel, but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Perhaps for the worse? She still needed to hold Princess Luna’s attention to question her, and the other mare was already beginning to look somewhere else. She could definitely use a safe, pleasant topic over which the two of them could bond, and fast. How does one “bond” with royalty, again?

Yes! A light bulb shined over Fleur’s head. She glanced up, surprised to see a pegasus with a lights bundle flying towards the giant Hearth’s Warming tree. The pegasus flew away, but the good idea stayed.

“Your majesty, I would like to request an audience.” Fleur brought her tone to sufficiently high-societal levels, but also with a good dose of official pleading. “There is a matter of great importance, albeit a personal one, on which I would be most grateful to hear your input, if you would be so kind,” she said and threw in a courteous bow, because it couldn’t hurt.

“Look up. Do you see me sitting on a throne, anxious to receive petitioners?”

“N-not… not exactly, your majesty.”

“If you desire an audience, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until after the Hearth’s Warming break, and schedule it with the castle staff. You should have plenty of opportunities to bring up your case in, say, three to five weeks?” Princess Luna replied, giving Fleur the same formal treatment she’d received. However, her stern façade did not last long, and she lightened up. “Of course, if you’d like to talk, I’m all ears.”

Fleur made sure she was as good at understanding words as she was at reading them.

“Talk, your majesty?”

“Talk,” Princess Luna echoed. “As in sharing thoughts through words, even full sentences when the mood strikes. I always had the impression that ponies of Canterlot were excellent talkers, so I hope you’re not going to deny me the opportunity? Or am I not allowed to mingle anymore?” she asked from under a glare.

Only then Fleur realized Princess Luna was joking. Her glare, sharp and piercing as it was, was in fact playful. It brought Fleur a strange comfort—she was expecting a meeting with a powerful yet distant ruler, someone who didn’t want to waste her time on petty matters. She didn’t know the alicorn very well, granted, and on those couple of occasions she was more of a plus-one for Fancy Pants, so all their encounters were strictly formal and filled with pleasantries. They definitely weren’t so casual.

It was as if she was looking at the pony standing before her, but through the usual prism of social expectations, and therefore couldn’t discern her features. Somehow it felt familiar, but then the prism shattered and she saw the mare behind the title.

Princess Luna—no, Luna, she was wearing no crown this evening. Actually, she was wearing no nothing on her head, perhaps to keep her flowing mane intact at the expense of frosted ears. She dressed for the occasion, and exchanged her regalia for warm boots and an elegant, double-breasted charcoal coat with peaked lapels, which Fleur was confident would look great outside the season too. There was also a scarf. It didn’t match the rest of the ensemble, but it probably wasn’t meant to. It must have been something personal, because the craftsmanship was only decent at best, and involved way too much wool.

Casual or not, it wasn’t polite to stare, and Fleur quickly came to her senses.

“Non!” she protested, half-wondering what was the question again. “I mean yes! I mean, of course you can mingle, Princess. And talking, yes, I’d love that! Uh, I’d love that,” she repeated, quieter the second time. She didn’t want to be taken for a lunatic.

“Allow us some space.” Luna nodded at the ponies accompanying her which Fleur thought to be mere onlookers. Armored or incognito, the Royal Guard could act professional when they wanted, and a stealthy thestral would certainly fit their ranks. But of course Rarity’s idea of Chestnut one day enrolling was still preposterous.

Luna led Fleur away from the general crowd and cheer, which was not an easy feat considering how many ponies had already flooded the Victory Plaza. They poured in from the streets, most notably the Promenade, but their advance was held between the fountain and the tree, where the stands were. On the sides and in the back, they could catch a break.

“I feel I say this every year, but the City Council have really outdone themselves this time,” Luna said with pride. “The Crystal Empire was a welcome change, but this year’s Vanhoover brings us back to our roots. Finer needles and minimum sheen also bring out the baubles and lights more, and you obviously can’t have a tree without those. But, you’re not supposed to question the gifts given in good faith,” she chuckled. “What do you think, Fleur? Are you enjoying the festivities?”

Fleur agreed vehemently. “Very much so. In Canterlot, there’s always so much going on, from private events, charity auctions, restaurants serving seasonal treats, oh, and the trees, they’re so overt in the streets, windows, gift wrappings, everywhere! It really is something special. Or communal decorating of the big one? It’s always been amazing to me that a historical event can bring together young and old, you know, and even ponies who don’t know each other. A-and the idea that you bring one piece of decoration and you take home one provided by the city is simply marvelous.”

“Once again: casual talk. You don’t need to praise every little thing to keep me here.”

“I feel I should. Where I come from, we don’t celebrate so… vigorously, so to speak.”

“Are you perhaps from Pearis? I’m going by the high Prench in your accent,” Luna ventured a guess, and when Fleur nodded a confirmation, she asked, “You don’t sing much in the streets there?”

“Ha! Funny you should mention that, because I’ve never actually sung like that before. When I was younger, it has been told to me that singing in public equals disturbing the peace.” Fleur imagined her mother’s face if she learned that street performance was her daughter’s letter of introduction to the ruling class. Sour, twisted with disgust, with a big “Quoi?” written all over. She couldn’t help but giggle. “I was never on board with such a logic, but the older I got, the less I cared. You can have a silver tongue, but silence is golden, and my job never involved talking much in the first place, let alone singing.”

Luna leaned in. “If it’s any consolation, mine doesn’t either. But that’s what soundproofing magic was made for,” she said and straightened up. “Speaking of jobs, mine is to listen to my subjects. I recall there was a matter of great importance which you wanted to discuss. What would that be?”

There was a couple of ways Fleur could put it into words. Are you secretly Santa Hooves? Was that you who put a silver-bound diary material under a tree for me? Are you running a Santa Hooves network, to cover as much of Canterlot as you can during one night? Why is my diary missing a key to its lock, did you forget to pack it? Do your guards dress up as reindeer, and do you really go in through the chimney?

All were terrible, but luckily Fleur had a perfect backup plan.

“I dream of boats,” she deadpanned.

Well, she never said it would be suave.

“I beg your pardon?”

Confident that Fancy Pants would kill her if she’d fallen from grace tonight, Fleur decided there was only one way she could go, and that way was forward. Her day had an adventurous start, and an adventurous finale it shall receive.

“I hope it’s not too pretentious of me to ask”—she knew better—“but there’s this leitmotif in my dreams I can’t really put my hoof on. It’s been with me since forever, or at least long enough to make a difference. I dream of ships, those cruising through air and across water, sometimes massive and mighty, on other times small and sleek. Usually sailing under a black flag, if you know what I mean. And, uh, I’m the captain in those dreams.”

It was perhaps a textbook example of how parents took after their children. In the times before Chestnut, Fleur would never utter such a convoluted self-fulfillment fantasy with a straight face. However, it still got hot under her earmuffs, as the social points she’d gathered with the performance were now burning into ash.

Luna said nothing so far. Luna listened.

“You’re guarding our dreams, Princess, so you must know everything about what is going on inside our heads while we sleep,” Fleur said. She was playing a long game here, but the blank diary was irrefutable proof that Santa Hooves could eavesdrop on dreams. “I was wondering if I could maybe ask you for some guidance?”

“Of course.” Luna got the analysis going rather eagerly. “The most common cognitions associated with ships are, off the top of my head… sea, sky, travel, trade, freedom, perhaps going into the unknown. Sounds to me like you’re an adventurous soul who likes to be in charge of her life. A rebellious one, if you crew your vessels with criminal element,” she gave an inquiring glance. “Quite the unconscious for a model. Or are you asking for something specific?”

Easier than expected. Luna was practically asking the exact questions Fleur wanted her to ask. Maybe she was suave.

“Yes, actually! I attended a lecture on the magic of dreams once.”

She skipped over the reason—excusing herself from a boring party, pretending to be sick to lose an admirer, scurrying through the first open door into a lecture hall.

“I’m not an expert, but I think the scholar said that our dreams are made of things we have already seen when awake. If we know someone well, they will appear to us clearly. If we don’t—for example if we’ve only met them once—they will be hazy, but believable,” Fleur said, hoping that Luna didn’t see an airheaded filly in her, and that the academic foundations she was laying in were believable too. She layered them with genuine confusion. “But last night, I’m not even sure if that even makes sense, I had this strange dream where I saw, or tried to see a mare, but she had no appearance…”

Luna stopped dead in her tracks and laughed. She truly was full of contrasts this evening: royal, yet striving to be casual. Dark and elegant, but cheerful as she stood against the partially illuminated tree behind her. Taking interest in Fleur, yet right now grinning at her like a well-informed school filly would grin at her clueless friend over a secret of sorts.

“A masterful play.” Luna was clearly trying to keep a straight face. “I expected an excellent Canterlotian talker and you haven’t disappointed. You lured me in with a song like a siren, shared a tale of ships and sailors, ask innocent questions about my area of expertise, and just when you’d have me lulled into a sense of security, you were probably going to ask me something oddly specific? Perhaps related to this season of generosity we’re having?”

“It was you, wasn’t it? The mare in my dream.”

Luna opened her mouth, then closed it again. Whatever first response she had, she instead sealed it behind her lips arching in a mysterious smile. Fleur wasn’t sure she wasn’t imagining things, but she spotted a glimpse in the alicorn’s cyan eyes. It was as if Luna had expected the question, which could only mean everything and nothing at the same time. To Fleur, it meant more of the latter, but she didn’t complain considering that she was likely being outsmarted right now.

“I yearn for a snack. Frosted blossoms,” Luna shot out of the blue. “Would you care for some too?”

Before she realized, Fleur was already holding a packet of ginger-cinnamon treats in the shape of flowers. It turned out the far side of the Victory Plaza had a second Hearth’s Warming village rich in foodstuffs and hoofcraft stands, not as crowded as the first one, but with a dedicated area for eating. The seats Luna led them to were secured from wind with decorative barrels and warmed with brightly burning lanterns. The benches were cold in touch of course, but for an outside spot it was almost cozy.

Fleur remembered to press the issue. Cookies weren’t going to silence her! Even such delicious, crunchy winter cookies…

“Why visit me of all ponies?” she asked between the bites.

“I don’t have a specific pattern if that’s what you’re asking, but neither was my choice random.” Luna’s bites were significantly larger, breaking off half a treat at a time. “Let me repay you with some talking of my own. In the Dreamworld, what speaks the loudest are emotions. Every night sounds much like this”—she pointed to the endless crowd of revelers passing by—“and it’s impossible to pick everyone’s particular fear or desire. What the general public feels, yes. An individual, no.”

Fleur got the idea. Crowds at fashion shows had their unique cadence too, they formed their own ambiance. She could never tell which one pony was expecting what, but reading the entire auditorium was a piece of cake.

“Unless someone from the crowd starts shouting,” Fleur said.

“Or singing,” Luna added. “The same is true for the Dreamworld. When strong negative emotions occur, it often means a pony is struggling to deal with a troublesome matter, and those draw nightmares into their dream. I look into those cases and, if it is necessary, intervene. I occasionally drop by later as well, to see if the situation is under control. It’s like a routine check-up,” she explained. “Your case is most curious. Forgive my nosiness, but I understand that you’ve faced a lot of stress recently?”

A shiver came down Fleur’s spine. From raindrops hitting the window of her bedroom up to tears soaking into her pillow, the dark memories were there, but they were merely that: memories, things that had happened once. Morning crosswords, weird music, life breathed into the walls of her house—those were the things she’d faced recently, and they were much brighter.

“It’s in the past.” She waved her hoof. “I’m back on track!”

“That’s exactly my point,” Luna said. “During the check-up I was surprised to see your negative emotions gone, and replaced by pure, genuine happiness. A complete turnaround. If it’s not too personal, I would like to know what happened during those couple of weeks to evoke such a change?”

“I learned that I can’t have foals, but then I adopted a filly.” Fleur said, trying to divine how big of a reveal it could really be for a pony capable of browsing someone’s—anyone’s—unconscious mind. Did she know that Chestnut wasn’t fond of her? Would she even care if she did?

“Thank you for sharing,” she just said, turning the cookie packet upside down. There weren’t even any crumbs left. “It appears my concern was misplaced. With such a radical influx of positivity, I suspected a trick or foul magic in the works, but I am glad it was nothing of sorts.”

Much to Fleur’s relief, Luna didn’t pursue that line of inquiry. Perhaps when full, Luna would talk more about Santa Hooves?

“Thank you for watching over us. I won’t presume to understand your job, but I imagine it takes vigilance,” she said. “Do you have a lot of dreams to visit around Hearth’s Warming? A lot of check-ups?”

Luna shrugged. “Only those I impose on myself. After the Weather Corps conjure the first snow, I start visiting dreams and shaping them to get everyone in the holiday mood. I tint the scenery white, spin the right tune, add decorations. Those are all minor changes which don’t affect the essence of the dream, but are rather putting a seasonal skin on it.” She raised her eyes to the top of the giant tree. “Just what Canterlot does when awake anyway.”

It was easy to take all the Hearth’s Warming decorations for granted. One day there was none, the next they were all deployed and ready to shine. Fleur always assumed it was a natural response of business owners to increase profit or prestige of their venues, and while for many it might have been the only reason, every such change was building the right atmosphere. It didn’t matter if you colored the snow green, cooked winter-theme treats or simply participated in a snowball fight—as long as you did it with a holiday spirit in mind, you were doing your part.

Luna was doing it too, just on a different scale.

“Putting a seasonal skin,” Fleur repeated. “You mean changing some old, boring cargo into presents?”

“You continue to impress. Not everyone is capable of remembering their dreams with such details.”

“In my own defense, it wasn’t a very lengthy one. I walked into the hold to check on some machinery I think, you were there, we talked, and then suddenly I found myself drowning in presents while those awful creatures are shredding the hull,” Fleur recounted to the best of her memory. She felt she was missing a piece. “The whole thing kind of crashed the moment we started talking about, oh, what’s his name? Santa… Santa Hugs?”

“Hooves,” Luna corrected. “You don’t believe in him, do you?”

“I, ah”—Fleur looked for the nearest lantern to blame for her reddening cheeks—“I’m considering whether to or not.”

“Perhaps that uncertainty is at fault?” Upon seeing Fleur’s confusion, Luna explained herself. “Your dream collapsed under the weight of Hearth’s Warming gifts, literally and figuratively. I wouldn’t exactly put them on a touchy subjects list, so the reason is likely that your unconscious mind was, through the imagery of presents, exposed to a thought or a memory it usually keeps at bay,” she said. “There was also a name.”

“A name?” Fleur replied, surprised. That part of the dream she definitely did not remember.

“Oriflamme,” Luna gently said. “I don’t mean to pry, and if you tell me to leave you be, I shall respect your privacy. But I strive to do more good than harm while I’m in the Dreamworld, and I wonder if there’s a connection between your dream’s collapse, the idea of seasonal presents, and this Oriflamme character?”

Needless to say, there was.

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

Happy (and Slightly Belayed) New Year! It’s been a while since I wrote pony, but this story deserves a proper ending, so I hope I could get close to the atmosphere I’ve started building in... March 2018. My, my! Let’s see what’s in store for us, and although it’s a bit past the prime time, have a spin of Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree by Brenda Lee.

One chapter remaining - but by the time you read this words it will be already up! Also, apologies for making you read all the prior chapters (because there’s no way you remember the plot, and if you do, please be my secretary!). I hope you will find them worthwhile nonetheless, yay!

Chapter 15 – It’s the Most Magical Time of the Year

Fleur took a bittersweet moment to gather her thoughts. Her childhood memories returned, not in an overpowering fashion, but more like a tiny thorn, a single sting that didn’t matter throughout her adult life—but only because her teen self had once made an effort to ignore it. Yet, she didn’t weed it out, rather buried it six feet under, so it was still there. She felt the same sting at the boutique earlier today when Sassy talked about the magic and mystery of one’s younger years. She disregarded it then, but being around Luna made her much more invested in self-exploration.

“That, uh…” Fleur began hesitantly. “Well, Oriflamme’s my sister, older than me, and there’s indeed a connection between her and the presents. And the character, or the tradition of Santa Hooves too. I don’t know how much you’ve already learned from my dreams, but I’ll give you a background first.”

Luna nodded. “I’m listening.”

“The Prench are on principle proud, tradition-oriented ponies, and my family is probably the most traditional of them all. It’s not like they’re not interested in Equestrian culture, they’re actively disregarding it, especially my mother. Since she was the lead voice at our household, I didn’t get to celebrate Hearth’s Warming as Equestrians do,” Fleur said. “There would be no caroling, no special dishes or traditions, however, funnily enough, there would be a tree and the presents.”

“So it wasn’t all that bad.”

“Oh, it was, believe me!” Fleur assured. “The tree was there to fish for compliments when any visitors came, because it certainly was a marvel and the baubles were truly exquisite. Sounds good, right? The truth is, our tree had no soul whatsoever, and my parents would often just hire someone to pick it up at the store and decorate it, and then dispose of it when the season was over. It was nothing more than a piece of short-lived furniture to them.”

“I stand corrected.” Helplessness mingled with compassion in Luna’s eyes. “I suppose you’re rather enjoying the way we do it here?”

“More than you can imagine.” She chuckled. “More than I could have ever imagined when I was a child! Now, the presents. It will sound awfully materialistic of me, but I was looking forward to them the most, because without carols or a proper tree, Santa Hooves and the suddenly appearing gifts was the only magic of the season I could get,” she said. “Yes, I admit without shame that I once believed in a generous wizard-type of a pony who brings us presents. In fact, by being the only thing I could hold onto, he became synonymous with Hearth’s Warming itself.”

For all the bad light she was putting her parents in, Fleur had to admit they never once spoiled the mystery to her. They played along, and so if she wrote a letter and left it on a windowsill, it disappeared by the following morning. Her wishes were later fulfilled to the best of what was available at local stores, and properly wrapped packages somehow found their way under her bed. There probably existed an ulterior motive to their niceness, but still—hats off to Riva and Ancien for not being the worst.

Unlike Oriflamme, a voice in her head tried to say, but she didn’t like the sound of that.

Fleur’s musing brought her back to the table where a steaming cup of hot chocolate was waiting for her. She looked up to see a waiter in a tightly cropped red-green jacket and a matching pair of fake reindeer horns as he put a second cup in front of Luna, who quickly produced two shiny bits for his service.

“Drink,” Luna ordered. “The air is cold and I feel you still have more to share.”

“It went exactly as you’d expect.” Fleur took a warming sip. “My sister comes to me one day. ‘What did you ask mom and dad for this year?’, she blurts. I ask her what does she mean, that she’s being silly because it’s not mom and dad but Santa Hooves. She then says that I’m the one who’s silly and that she’s eavesdropped on our parents talking about our letters. I didn’t want to believe it at first, of course, but the seed of uncertainty was sown,” she sighed. “On the night when we would get our gifts, I made sure to not fall asleep and, unsurprisingly, I saw my father placing wrapped packages under my bed.”

“Did you call him out right away?”

“Non, I was petrified, I didn’t know what to do. I was mostly angry at Oriflamme as if it was somehow her fault that Santa Hooves was a ruse. Childish, I know. I tossed and turned all night, eventually fell asleep, but when I woke up in the morning I didn’t feel like opening my presents at all,” Fleur said. “Fast forward to the following year. I didn’t write a letter, just casually mentioned to my mother that I could use a new pair of ballet shoes or something, which I of course received. Around that time we also had a fight about how singing in the streets is a crime, apparently, and then Hearth’s Warming kind of lost its meaning to me. The customs were there, but…”

“…but the magic was gone?” Luna guessed. She took a moment to warm her hooves at the cup, stirred the chocolate inside and enjoyed another gulp. “Are you and your sister on good terms?”

“I like to think so,” Fleur replied. “She’s a police officer, so pretty close to everything our father always wanted in a daughter, short for maybe joining the army. She’s also the exact opposite to what our mother expected. She wanted an elegant lady, prim and proper and, forgive my vanity, she found that in me, but Oriflamme…” She trailed off for a few seconds, enjoying the pictures of her sister’s shenanigans until a smile brightened up her face. “Ori has always been a wild card, definitely outspoken, oftentimes too direct for her own good. If nature was smarter, it would just take what’s best in us both and put it all in a single child.”

In an afterthought, Fleur realized it would mean the Ori-Fleur hybrid marrying an Equestrian baker, which of course would make their parents oh so happy. Perhaps nature was smart and playing a pair was a clever form of damage control.

“Have you ever talked about the incident?”

“Now that think of it, non, we have not. I accepted the truth and moved on, and she never brought that up either. I used to think it was because she was ashamed, but now… I suppose she didn’t want to hurt me?” Fleur asked herself more than Luna. It sounded too noble to be true, but it wasn’t impossible to dream up a gentle and caring sister characteristic onto Oriflamme. She wasn’t evil or anything. “Do you think that’s why my dream went the way it went?”

“Possibly.” Luna’s tone and gestures went academic. “The inclusion of presents in your part of the Dreamworld must have triggered a response from a dormant—and may I observe, unresolved—regret regarding your sister. That must have drawn the nightmares and eventually caused your dream to collapse,” she said and sat up, looking far and beyond towards the sky. “Curious. It appears that one’s on me. Had I not come and tinkered with your ship, perhaps your night would have had a happier finale.”

“Apology accepted. The morning, day, and now the evening made up for any inconveniences. Thank you for the… casual talk.” They raised and clinked their cups, then swallowed whatever chocolate residue still remained inside. “I suppose you have a star to put on top now? As is tradition?”

“Much like you have your daughter, husband, and friends to return to, I imagine. Duty calls”—she leaned over the table—but before we part ways, I’d like to ask for a small favor, if you would be so kind to indulge me.”

“A-anything! I owe you for the snacks anyway and—”

“Write to Oriflamme.” She made her request perfectly clear. “Any regret you hold in your heart will eventually poison your soul.”

A true carousel of sentiments took a spin. First came joy, as expecting Luna’s request to be a playful one, Fleur preemptively cracked a smile and gave half a chuckle. The other half was quickly drowned in the seriousness which arose when it became clear that Princess Luna wasn’t joking around this time. Surprising, considering how cordial their chat had been, but alicorns were hard to read. A shiver. It was fear—Fleur judged that having your soul poisoned sounded rather unpleasant, if not straight grave. There was a hint of anger too: partially aimed at herself, for her lapse in manners in front of royalty, and partially at said royalty herself, for presuming to know how to solve old and forgotten sibling-to-sibling conflicts. She was clearly exaggerating, and Fleur wanted to drawl that sadly, some things cannot be unseen and some truths cannot be unlearned.

That’s when she saw it. Purposely or not, leaning forth left Princess Luna’s scarf unfurled for closer inspection. Fleur’s original opinion about too much wool and only decent craftsmanship remained unchanged, and although it clashed with the charcoal coat and was not at all fashionable, it had something special to it: a cleverly woven monogram of one “M-S-L”. Something told Fleur there existed a twin scarf sporting the letters “M-S-C” which instead of browns must have utilized some creamy colors—and that the first two letters were no mere honorifics.

“Oh? Ooh!”

“Yes.” Princess Luna said, intercepting Fleur’s bewildered stare. “I know all too well how it’s like to have an older sister. Now, will you accompany me to the front? I believe that’s where the ceremony will be held.”

Fleur followed her between the tables, stands and around the giant Hearth’s Warming tree.

“Oriflamme. Write a letter. First thing tomorrow! Also, your scarf is very nice, very appropriate, you could just use some”—she yelped and searched her bag frantically, much to the other mare’s amusement—“I remember! The scholar from my dream, well, you, when we talked about Santa Hooves and the presents, you said you wanted something to keep your ears warm.”

She presented a hastily repackaged bundle with the brown and orange crocheted earmuffs from the auction. Rarity always said it was all in the presentation, and ex-supermodels knew it like no other, but when the occasion to beautify someone’s look presented itself, Fleur wasn’t going to fight her cutie mark.

“Original, straight from Yakyakistan. One hundred percent yeti wool,” she assured. “Or so it says on the tag, anyway. B-but I’d like you to have them, as a token of my gratitude, a-and you could really use a pair I suppose. Because, uh, cold!”

“Oh? Indeed, I suppose it is a bit chilly. Thank you, I wasn’t expecting to”—a miniscule pause—"receive anything today.” Although she put them on right away, the awkwardness with which she accepted the package reminded Fleur of a certain batpony—and then, about the rest of her friends who were probably freezing off their bottoms while she was busy mingling.

They didn’t sound happy.

Linings and laces, Fleur, we haven’t got all night! Sassy’s demanding voice resounded in her head. Now that you’ve given her a seasonal bribe, she will surely share things she wouldn’t have otherwise. And since you completely wasted your audience on talking about dreams and boats—should have tried dreamboats, that would be a royal topic I’d put a pin in—you better learn something factual now. Time is running out.

She wasn’t wrong. Only a short distance separated Princess Luna from a crowd of ponies and a committee holding an ornamental star.

“You’re the expert,” Luna said, straightening her unruly scarf and fixing her mane under the earmuffs. “Do I look presentable?”

Presentable. Present-able. Look, she’s steering the conversation back to it! You’ve been searching for the meaning of Hearth’s Warming for so long, and Santa Hooves is the closest you have ever gotten. The truth is within reach, a few well-placed words and you will uncover the greatest mystery the Jewel of Equestria has ever seen.

“Very much so, Princess.” The crowd was getting thicker with their every step, and mares and stallions were calling for their friends to come closer for the ceremony. Thankfully this was about the star, not singing, because Fleur would not carry that. “Looks like we’re all eager to see the show. So many different lights, baubles and other decorations, and yet there’s one to celebrate in particular.”

Princess Luna stifled a giggle.

“When we were young, it was always Celestia who put the star on our tree. I used to sneak out during the night, take it down, and then put it back up myself,” she remarked quietly and stopped in her tracks. “This is it. The City Council demands my attention. Thank you for your insights and the lovely gift, Fleur. I wish I had something to give you in return.”

Ask her. Ask her now! You already know she was in your dream, so just open your bag, grab the silver-bound notebook and demand her to tell you if she’s Santa Hooves, if she’s the one behind all the mysterious presents of late. Do you hear me, Fleur? This is your last chance to learn the truth. If you don’t act now, you will never know who brought you your present. Never!

Exactly.

“You have given me enough, Princess. Thank you for the seasonal skin… and the magic.”

“Magic? It’s not magic that makes ponies so seasonal this time of year,” Princess Luna replied. “Those are ponies themselves who make the season so magical. Always remember,” she added before an entourage of officials stole her away.

Fleur breathed a powerful sigh of relief. What a day that was! Without the galloping tempo and a checklist full of visits, auctions, social get-togethers and impromptu adventures, time seemed to have stopped for a moment—and by the stars, she savored it.

She raised her eyes and discovered Hearth’s Warming anew.

Whether its magic existed on one or the other end of the pony-season causality, the evening atmosphere was full of it. Fleur saw it all around the Victory Plaza, from the smallest piece of hoofcraft sold in the stands to the lavishly decorated tree towering above, but it was all about the ponies, just like Princess Luna said.

Not far from where she was standing, someone bought a tiny wooden reindeer from a local artisan.

“…very much. I’ll put it on my desk, the office looks so boring without those!”

“You’re welcome, sir. Merry Hearth’s Warming and a…”

Few steps to the right, a dashing stallion exchanged a painted decoration he himself made for the official commemorative bauble.

“…put it higher? I want my girlfriend to see it.”

“Not a problem! And here’s a little something from the Princesses and the Canterlot City Council. Merry Hearth’s Warming, be sure…”

There on the left, a kindhearted mare got to the front of a food stand queue, but did not forget about those outside of it.

“…me a favor, alright? Give the second to that quiet gentlecolt over there, the one in the ragged coat. Just don’t tell it’s from me.”

“That’s very generous of you, madam, I’ll send someone right away. Merry Hearth’s Warming to you and your…”

Extraordinary, that magic of Hearth’s Warming was. It radiated in smiles and goodwill, resounded in laughter and every amend made, and it was both flashy and modest, both ancient and refreshing. You wouldn’t see its aura sparkling around horns like it was the case with unicorn magic, but burning bright in pony hearts like the Fire of Friendship of old—and much like it had united the Tribes, it was now bringing together total strangers, but also friends, acquaintances, coworkers, colleagues, and of course mothers and daughters.

“Come on, mom!” Chestnut pulled her away from the center. “We’re all there, we found the bestest view. Everyone’s waiting!”

“Merry Hearth’s Warming, Nutsie,” she automatically said and discovered she had a cretin’s grin plastered to her muzzle. She toned it down a notch with some dignity. “Oui, of course, sorry it took me so long. How did you find me in this crowd?”

“I told you I’d be keeping my eye on you! You didn’t see me?” Chestnut gasped. “Wow, I must be getting good at stealthing myself!”

A vision of mischievous eyes shining in the dark between the giant tree’s twigs came to mind, and the silly grin was back Fleur’s face.

Chestnut navigated them to their crew—Fleur was enjoying this naval parlance—which consisted of Fancy Pants, Rarity, and Sassy stuffing herself with cake. Fleur didn’t dare to wonder if she’d taken it instead of a chocolate pinecone, or in addition to, especially since she seemed in a much better mood than the Sassy who’d shouted at her in her thoughts. She shook her head. Sassy shouting at anyone? Nonsensical.

“Sho, did you learn anyshing?” the said mare asked between the bites. “Was it Princess Luna who brought you the diary?”

“Well, she didn’t tell… but I don’t think it was her.”

“I asked around,” Fancy Pants said, “and I can confirm that this year a few unexpected gifts were given in a similar fashion to yours. All of them personal and meaningful. But if it wasn’t your original suspect, then, ah, whodunnit? A tough case indeed—perhaps calling for a detective is in order?”

“On the contrary, my dear husband. I think you will find the answer quite elementary.” Fleur smiled mysteriously. “Is it not obvious? Why, it was Santa Hooves!”

“That’s the spirit!” Rarity beamed and immediately started smoothing the creases on Fleur’s hat and scarves, as it to get an excuse to pat her on the head. “I’ve been telling you all that he’s very real, that he knows all about our dreams and desires, and he comes to the well-behaving ponies, such as you, Fleur. Good filly!”

Sassy gave a shrug. “I admit, I was expecting a straight answer, but I guess not knowing is part of fun. Makes me feel fifteen again!” she chuckled. “But, bundled baubles! Dear ladies—and sir—I don’t know about you, but the night is still young. How about we go to your place for a change? Get some snacks, cocoa, turn on the fireplace? I’ll have you know that I will freeze to death without it.”

“Have heart, dear sir, madam, and miss!” Rarity joined the plea in the most exaggerated fashion. “Look at this poor mare—also ignore that fabulous double-layered, fur-lined vest she’s wearing—she will freeze without your help. Tonight is Hearth’s Warming Eve. Won’t you accommodate two lonely mares seeking shelter?”

“Make that three!” Octavia, who suddenly popped out between them, exclaimed. Again this evening, she looked like she was running away from something. “I seek asylum. The more I stay here, the more forced my smiles and pleasantries become, and I don’t know if I can do another trip around the repertoire with Hyacinth in charge.” She shoved the songbook into Fleur’s hooves. “No more carols for a whole year, you hear me?”

“We will be happy to accommodate you all, of course!” Fancy Pants joined in. “Just don’t hold the state of our garden against us. I don’t know if even a frostbite could flatten the war damage that has been brought upon it this morning. Shall we, my dear?”

“Always a gentlecolt.” Fleur nuzzled him on the cheek. “Alright, crew! Let us set sail… for home.”

“Look!” Chestnut shot her hoof up. “The star!”

As Fleur watched Princess Luna fly up with the impressive piece of decoration in her hooves, she finally realized her fault. She tried to understand Hearth’s Warming, to discover its meaning and capture its purpose, whereas she should have been simply enjoying it like she in fact did today, throughout this long day filled with excitements. There were countless ways to celebrate it: seasonal outdoor fun, seasonal treats, seasonal clothes, things less and more material in nature, but that all wouldn’t be worth a broken bit if it weren’t for those who made it special. Or like some would say, magical.

High on the tree the star shined brightly on this wondrous night, and the ponies gathered in the Victory Plaza erupted in cheer. Fleur, her family and friends gladly joined in stomping and shouting, sharing joyful joy and wishes with each other and everyone else. In the end, it wasn’t about understanding the magic of Hearth’s Warming. It was about feeling it.

And for the first time in her life, Fleur could say with all the conviction that she felt it.

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

That was some journey, for the characters and myself as well! As I look at the story today, it seems that I should have left some plot points for other tales, but the truth is this was my last (?) opportunity to present Fleur’s family or Chestnut’s fears. But, let’s leave stuff like that for the blogs, and let’s hear it for Andy Williams and his It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

Thank you all who liked, bookshelved and commented throughout the first chapters of this story - while the spark of the idea was on my end, you were the force stoking the fire and driving me forward. And exactly because of that I felt indebted to you, and decided to make that penultimate push and finish the winter-themed tale of Fleur, Fancy Pants and Chestnut, the characters so dear to my heart. Thank you all for sticking around - the aforementioned blog will be posted soon, so as die-hard readers of mine you may want to look out for it. All the best!

Chapter 1 – I'm Dreaming of a White Hearth's Warming

Once upon a time, when midnight was nigh, an airship sailed across the inky sky…

“Captain, the ice is freezing faster than it’s melting!” came a filly’s worried voice. “What are we going to do?”

The mare sporting a tricorne hat opened her eyes. Her name was Fleur de Lis—Captain Fleur de Lis, the Model Sailor, Scourge of the Seven Catwalks. The self-proclaimed fashion wraith haunting those who had no respect for the pirate rules and regulations, and especially for the most sacred of them all: the dress code. Aye, from the Celestial Sea to both Luna Oceans, landlubbers were telling stories of Captain Fleur’s marvelous exploits and how outstanding she looked exploiting them, but also of how her flagship, Réveillon, was the most well-kept—and cleanest—across the known skies.

“Ne t’en fais pas, little one. I promised I would get you home and I intend to keep that promise.” She gave a warm smile. “Come now, why don’t you stay inside? The deck’s all cold.”

The filly shuffled her hooves nervously.

“Oh, uh, you want me, to stay in your cabin? But I’m just a stowaway! I wouldn’t want to mess up your maps and plans and other… captain thingies.”

“You were a stowaway, but you are no longer. You’re part of the crew now,” Fleur replied, eliciting even greater embarrassment from the filly. Crouching by, she held her hoof discreetly, but with great reassurance. “I’m confident that you won’t mess any of my ‘thingies’ up—in fact, once we’re back at Port Canterlot, I want you to look over them and plan where should we head next.”

“But if I’m part of the crew, I should be helping others with the ice!” the filly protested. “I want to help!”

Had this been a year, neigh, a month ago, Fleur would be displeased with her crew talking back to her. But she was a changed mare now. She couldn’t be angry at someone who, despite being so different from the rest of her usual crowd, was at the same time so fitting in the ways Fleur was only beginning to realize. She put her tricorne on the filly’s head.

“You’ll help in the future by learning the trade now. Go now, you can watch the show through the window.”

The filly attempted a hasty salute and scurried away, leaving Fleur leaning over the quarterdeck’s railings. She really intended to fulfill the promise she’d made to the filly and the rest of her crew, and neither snow nor ice nor turbulent skies were going to stay her. On top of it, Canterlotians needed Réveillon’s cargo for the festivities, and they needed it soon.

“Keep working those horns and chisels, you handsome scallywags!” Fleur shouted, grabbing a metal spike and pinning it into a patch of ice. It shattered with a pleasant crack. “There is only one way we can go now, and that way is forward! You don’t want to spend Hearth’s Warming Eve away from your friends and families, do you?”

The question was met with cheer and laughter.

“Indeed!” a mare at the helm shouted. “I’ve got a dress that needs finishing before New Year’s Eve! But I’m not sure our current course is the best we can take, darling. Captain! Darling, captain dear—how am I possibly still mixing those up…”

She had a brilliant white coat, covered with a thin layer of equally white snowflakes like the rest of everything on board, and a lovely mane the shade of deep purple. As the second most good-looking pony aboard she was also the second in command tasked with carrying out the captain’s orders with efficiency and elegance, but not necessarily without question.

“Have no fear, Arrity. There are no stories told after those who shun being bold or beautiful!” She shot her hoof forth. “Take us into that frostbite. De Sass, are the heat coils ready?”

Dalyss, the ship’s boatswain lashed out—not at her captain, but at some poor swab fighting the ice.

“…hornswaggling haulers, what’s that supposed to mean? Just get that project done!” She crowded through the ponies, barking orders left and right under the light of magical torches illuminating the deck. “Captain! Heat coils reporting a pin for the main and secondary rigging. Another pin for the crew deck too, but a pin missing for the lower hold. The coils must be damaged somewhere!”

Fleur was obviously fearless, dauntless and also intrepid as the ship’s captain, but those were dreadful news. With the ice biting through the hull, their mission was in danger. She summoned a rope and wrapped it around her foreleg, then looked back to see the filly beholding her with a mixture of admiration and worry. At least she was safe, and Fleur’s playful wink eased up her frown a bit.

“I’ll go under. Maintain our current course and speed, Miss Arrity, no matter what. Miss De Sass, fire up what we’ve got. Have the unicorns use their magic to give us that extra heat! This ship is our home and we will protect it!”

“Do mind the icing, captain!” Arrity shouted. “I’d hate to be a bearer of bad news to the governor!”

Fleur’s heart jumped. There was a saying about sailors having a lover in every haven, but Fleur only had one, the one. Port Canterlot might have been waiting for the cargo her mighty ship was carrying, but there was also a stallion she’d married in secret who was waiting for her. Some couple they were! He was a government official, a valued diplomat who’d risked his career for her, and she was a common scoundrel, a pirate from a faraway land of Prance.

Marvelous, so now she had another reason to not fail. No pressure.

“Avast! Mare underboard!” she exclaimed and threw herself off the railings, straight through the open hatch.

* * *

Captain Fleur could still hear the shouts overhead, but they were muffled.

Even with everypony running about the upper deck, there was little space in the ship’s underbelly, most of which was taken by barrels of black powder hanging securely overhead, or by no less important wardrobes. There were also spare sets of sails made of the smoothest materials secured behind the wall nets, and in colors—sans beige—for every occasion, be that seeking treasures, chasing the enemies of proper wear or engaging in a bit more questionable pillaging and raiding.

She followed a warm, chain-like coil slithering along the hold, reminiscing about her past adventures.

She couldn’t recall any single one in particular, but she could attest that her crew was a ruthless bunch. They left none standing once they unleashed their charm and beauty on the unsuspecting ponies who, if caught wearing improper, not-fabulous attires, received a strongly worded opinion about their looks, and then a chance for retribution... in the shape and form of some of the Réveillon’s fashion swag.

The more affluent citizens were encouraged to pay a symbolic fee for their new garments, while the less fortunate were simply gifted. That was the part after which there would be no pony standing, be that from a sudden financial crash, or genuine thankfulness.

Yo-ho, a pirate’s life, indeed!

“It’s not like we’re stealing from anyone,” Fleur said aloud to explain herself. “We’re just giving them a chance to do something extraordinary with their lives.”

“You should know, captain,” came a voice from the dark corridor. “It seems that your life has been nothing if not extraordinary lately.”

The voice materialized itself into an elegant mare, not a pirate but rather a scholar, yet Fleur couldn’t divine the reason for needing one during a frostbite. It was almost as if she wasn’t really part of the crew-family. For a moment, some stray thought the size of a candle’s flame crossed her mind, but when the mare rubbed her forelegs and huffed—due to cold, evident by the breaths escaping her lips—the idea dwindled too. Where it was but a moment ago, was now an obscuring mist.

Fleur tried to discern the mysterious guest’s features, but with the lack of light she couldn’t. She lightened up her horn. Strangely, still nothing. The corridor was the width of a pony, and she was positive there’s a pony standing before her, but details eluded her. Fleur didn’t feel endangered—she was still the captain, and she was asking questions there.

“Do I know you?”

“My name is Sunsnap Relic. I am the archeologist you hired for your quest. You remember me.”

A sudden surge of embarrassment made Captain Fleur vulnerable for a moment, leaving Fleur alone to face it. She obviously knew all her crewmates by name, but she never cared much about passengers who, speaking of, were not that uncommon considering her profession. Fashion designers sailing in search of inspiration, ponies looking for a safe passage to places where haute couture was better, even locked-up criminals who had been caught selling second-hoof dresses at regular prices.

So it was not beyond belief that they had also brought a scholar on board. That one had been instrumental in—

“I was instrumental in recovering the cargo from the island.” The mare looked offended, but gave a quirky smile nonetheless. “Or have I really made such a fleeting impression?”

“Non, of course not,” Fleur quickly assured. “My apologies, Sunsnap. I meant no disrespect.”

“Worry not. But what are you doing down here? Shouldn’t a ship’s captain be up there, commanding?”

“C’est vrai, but this is an emergency, so if you’ll please excuse me…” She squeezed herself past the other mare, wondering why did it go so easy. When she looked back, she could think of no way the two ponies could pass by each other, but that was not important right now. Saving Hearth’s Warming certainly was. She nodded at the chain going downstairs to the lower cargo hold. “If I don’t fix the heat coil there, there will be no ship for this captain to command.”

“I am coming with you, then. I want to see those delivered as much as you do,” Sunsnap replied and followed Fleur downstairs. “I heard we’re going into the frostbite. I assume the crew is taking it well?”

“Oui, they are fine mares who trust my leadership. Right now, all hooves are on deck crushing the ice.”

“Even the little ones? No, you had probably sent her to stay indoors. You look after those under your care, after all,” she replied her own question. “How did you two meet, anyway?”

Without a particular reason, Fleur thought of a familiar, but unlit candle. She reached out with her thoughts, searching for a match, but then the ship rocked, and the candle toppled.

“She came in to my life rather fortuitously, you know. For seven days straight, I was sailing lost the waters I didn’t even know existed. The weather wasn’t a dream come true, either, so I was spending most of my time locked in my cabin. Just sitting there, looking through the window, watching those tear-like droplets racing down the glass…”

Immediately, sadness weighted her down like an anchor.

“What happened later?” Sunsnap asked, as if she’d guessed her fears. “Once you found your way?”

“Long story short, I was introduced to her in a place that must have been the strangest port I have ever visited, and I took her in. At first I wasn’t sure if she’s the kind of pony I want in my crew, or if my crew would welcome her,” Fleur replied. “And some didn’t. Some protested against my decision, and if it wasn’t for some backstabbing backstabbers that had backstabbed the rebel, I would be probably dealing with a full-blown mutiny right now.”

“Adopting her was very brave of you, then.”

Fleur snorted at the word. “You scholars and your phrasing.”

They reached the lower hold.

If the spaces and corridors before were filled to the brim with sailing utilities, the hold was packed with cargo of a different nature. Boxes, packages of all shapes and weights, wrapped in colorful paper patterned with Hearth’s Warming themes. White reindeer running across red fields, gold and silver filigrees accentuating the worth of the contents, green mistletoe patterned across the surface, plus a multitude of colorful bows for decoration.

Fleur’s smile ebbed the moment she caught a glimpse of a faintly glowing heat coil.

“There you are.” She moved some boxes away. “One of the links is damaged. The heat comes only as far as here, but the ship’s belly must be freezing right now. If we don’t fix it, Réveillon goes down… assuming of course the lower hull won’t fall off first. I can fix it, but it’ll take a while. You’re here to help? Then get those boxes moving, make sure there aren’t other burnt out links down the line.”

“On it.” Sunsnap proceeded accordingly. “You know, with all those presents around… I can’t help but wonder what would you like to find under your Heath’s Warming tree?”

“A ledger,” Fleur replied.

“A ledger, like a book?”

“Surprised much? You’d probably think I was more of a sword, sails, pile of gold type of a mare, but truth be told I already have all that. And I’ve been through a lot recently,” she admitted as she was tinkering with the coil. “With a book like that, I could keep track of the courses I’ve taken, of how much I gained or lost from my exploits, or what’s been happening overall, for better or worse. It makes you think, really.” She stopped for a moment, pondering. “A ledger. So simple yet I still don’t have one. My standards may be the problem, I think. A captain can’t have a ledger that’s not elegant, wouldn’t you say?”

“Now I feel silly for wanting just something to keep my ears warm. I should have dreamed bigger,” Sunsnap chuckled. “I am sure Santa Hooves will take your dreams into consideration.”

“Non, I don’t think he will,” Fleur said plainly.

“Oh? Have you been a naughty pony?”

“Not what I meant. It’s just that, you know, there’s no such thing as Santa Hooves.”

There was a moment of silence. The crew shouting, their hooves stomping, the heat coil buzzing, it all subsided into eeriness. Fleur wondered—experienced a brief thought, really—if she hadn’t just crossed some sort of a line. In an instant that lasted a single flicker of a candle’s flame, Fleur knew that her companion disagreed, and strongly. She felt Sunsnap’s stare judging her. At the same time, she could also sense a trace of… regret. Or was it disappointment? Sunsnap couldn’t possibly still believe in that old breezie tale, could she?

Fleur threw a surprised glance in the other mare’s general direction, still unable to discern her features or even overall physique. It was as if she was always on the verge of her field of view, suspended between the shadows, no matter how Fleur turned her head. She had a flair for secrecy that one—but it would seem secrets worked both ways.

“You can’t be serious,” Fleur said, raising her eyebrow. “You’re a grown mare, a scholar to boot, and no one has ever told you the truth about who’s buying you presents?”

“Perhaps it is not a matter of what hasn’t been said to me,” a whisper, strangely audible within the silence, resounded. “But of what has been said to you, Fleur de Lis.”

The imaginary candle’s golden flame emerged amidst her thoughts, illuminating her past. Truth. She had been told things she would rather not hear. Too soon, Oriflamme. Too soon! She was not ready for that, she was just a filly. No filly should bear the painful realization she had gone through...

Suddenly, the floor creaked unpleasantly. Fleur snarled a dirty word under her breath and doubled her efforts to repair the heat coil. She was short on time. The frostbite’s claws must have pierced the outer hull, and were already icing and expanding inside every tiny hole they could squeeze through.

She wanted to call Sunsnap for help, but for naught—she was nowhere to be seen even though she had been standing right there a moment ago. Cold air hissed from the creaks in the hull, glazing the now bluish, dormant heat coil with rime. Fleur heard her crew chaotically echoing her own concerns. They were shouting something about the wind... no, not the wind. Something more.

Oh no.

“Load up the cannons!” she yelled before a hole was torn in the ceiling, revealing a terrible sight.

The ship was sailing blind across the vicious frostbite with horse-like creatures swooping all over. Just their luck, and in such a critical moment! Those were windigos, translucent ghosts with an unhealthy appetite for conflict and hatred. They were drawn to it, strengthened by it, and wherever they went, they left frozen ruin behind them. In other words, Réveillon was doomed, and Hearth’s Warming was as good as cancelled.

“Non! Je ne suis pas d’accord!” Fleur cried out. “I made a promise! I was supposed to get my crew to Canterlot!”

Fighting her own misgivings as much as the rising ice around her, she reached for her sword, slicing left and right, but the wall of frost was relentless. She was boxed between the presents when the weight of ice broke the floor, sending her and the cargo to another lower hold. But she wasn’t falling. Those were the levels of the ship rising by her.

Over there! There’s that candle again! Reconciling with its golden flame was the solution she needed. She was climbing the pile of presents desperately, gasping for breath. The combined mass of ice, presents and cannonballs splintered the wood under her hooves, putting her in yet another another hold. And next, and next, ad infinitum—but she could still hear her crew’s desperate cries.

“You made a promise!” Arrity complained. “You were supposed to get us home!”

“You made a promise!” De Sass cried out. “This ship was supposed to be our home!”

“You made a promise!” the filly, suddenly appearing out of nowhere, shouted as well. “I need a home!”

“Chestnut!”

That was the last word that left Captain Fleur’s lips before Réveillon broke in half—and before Fleur woke up.

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

This chapter was brought to you by Bing Crosby's White Christmas!

This time around I don’t have fancy covers for each new chapter, but you will notice that chapter titles are inspired by classic wintertime songs. You probably know them all already, but if you want to feel a bit of that seasonal magic while reading this story, you should definitely check out those sweet YouTube embeds!

Chapter 3 – We Wish You a Merry Hearth's Warming

After a cup of warming, eleven o’clock tea—and a formal assurance that they would indeed find their way to Hyacinth’s New Year’s Eve party—the family headed out to the city.

“Honestly, it was pretty much mom’s idea.” Chestnut bounced before Fleur and Fancy Pants, up and over a properly shoveled mound of snow. “I sneaked out behind the snowpony when you weren’t looking, flew around the house and quieeetly landed on the roof. I waited for her signal and, well, you know the rest. Operation Snowfall worked—no, wait, I’ve got better: Operation Avalanche worked!” She stopped in her tracks. “That’s how you say it, right? Ava-lunch? Or is it ava-lanshee?”

“Avalanche,” Fancy Pants said. “I have to admit, I was expecting a bombardment from the front, but I didn’t consider a sneak attack. Not of such magnitude, at least.” He threw his wife a guessing look. “I’m pretty sure mom got the idea from history lessons. Prench-Istallian border conflict, am I correct?”

“Oui, that’s right.” Fleur nodded. “June 25th, year 940 to be exact. Prench General Morning Star leads a pegasi squadron at high altitudes. Their mission is to cause an avalanche at the so grandiosely called Le Brise-ciel, which means roughly ‘the skybreaker’. They are successful, and ultimately stop the advance of the Istallian mountaineer contingent sent to occupy the lowlands,” she recounted with encyclopedic accuracy. “What? You didn’t think I was just the looks, did you?” she said to the filly.

“No, I mean—whoa, you must really liked history at school.”

“Not in particular,” Fleur replied. “My father, and your grandfather is a retired general. He used to read me battle reports as bedtime stories,” she added sourly.

Chestnut’s yellow eyes grew wide. “I have a grandfather too? That’s so cool!”

“And a grandmother,” Fancy Pants added, leaning to Fleur. “Who still haven’t heard the big news, by the way. And I still think sending a letter is a perfectly serviceable idea.”

“Non. It’s better to visit them, or better yet, have them visit us because it’s their turn now. It’s just with all that’s been happening and now Hearth’s Warming I didn’t have time to arrange anything. But it’s high on the list,” she assured. “Besides, a letter would only cause unnecessary confusion. They don’t exactly have a history of being supportive of my decisions, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, they did let you move to Canterlot eventually, didn’t they?”

“Is it about me?” Chestnut asked, rubbing the back of her head. “A-are they like Mrs. Upper Crust? You know, do they think batponies are…?”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing of sorts!” Fleur said. “It’s only that they aren’t really fond of surprises, that’s all. Normally, learning that one is about to become a grandparent takes several months, so if I were to drop the news casually, in a letter, they would most certainly read that as disrespectful and misinterpret our unique situation. Prench ponies are quick to take offense, so that’s that.”

She made a mental note to check on the current relations between Tramplevania and Prance, or if there had ever been any tension between them. Those two countries didn’t share borders, but one could never be sure with cranky ex-generals.

“Makes sense, I think. I just want to make a good first impression,” Chestnut replied. “What about your mom and dad, dad? Are they Equestrian?”

“Born and raised in Trottingham much like myself, but I assure you they aren’t half as interesting as Fleur’s family,” Fancy Pants chuckled, to which the mare rolled her eyes. “My father’s a teacher and my mother’s a nurse. They are two excellent ponies living a quiet, simple life, and they are mostly up to date with how our, ah, unique situation develops. I’m certain they’ll be excited to meet you when opportunity arises”—he cleared his throat—“and once I tell them, that is.”

“Ha! The pot calling the kettle black!” Fleur giggled. “You haven’t told yours, either!”

The stallion shrugged. “I am merely looking for the right words.”

He levitated a small box into Chestnut’s hooves.

“Anyway, we’re here, and here’s the present. Just remember: don’t get discouraged with Mister Inkblot’s antics. In this context it means his eccentric, unusual behavior,” he supplemented. “I vaguely recall there was something with him and receiving gifts on Hearth’s Warming, but I can’t really put my hoof on it,” he added. “Well, I’m sure it’s nothing of precedence.”

A brass bell announced their arrival at Inks & Seats, an unimpressive store tucked at the side of the Gibbous Moon Plaza. Fleur had only been here a couple of times in her life as shopping for inks and seats was exclusively her husband’s domain, yet the interiors looked exactly as she remembered. Despite the impressive collection of colorful bottles and a line-up of sofas, she found the room dark and not as cozy as most establishments. Soon she realized why—the seasonal cheer that was visible in the streets, especially on other shops’ displays they passed by, was completely absent throughout the store. There wasn’t a single piece of decoration, no mistletoe, not even a tree chain on the big aquarium.

Behind the counter was an old unicorn. The scar over her eye was almost indistinguishable from the wrinkles marking her face. She was reading a book on the topic of magic, judging by the cover. She must have been Mister Inkblot’s wife… a teacher, if Fleur remembered correctly? She was a teacher, alright. Only teachers had such a disheartening, over-the-glasses glare when someone was approaching them.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Chestnut greeted her. “Is Mister Inkblot here? I’ve got something for him.”

“You bet he is!” the mare croaked. “Gramps! You have visitors!”

“Visitors?” came a tired shout somewhere from between muffled hoofsteps. “For the last time, we don’t get visitors, we get customers. This is a store, not a museum!”

She cracked a cynical grin. “If it’s not a museum, then explain those two fossils we’re housing upstairs!” she quipped. “Oh, stop playing smart and just come down here. It’s that handsome gentlecolt and his family, and I don’t think they’re here to buy anything. So they’re definitely visitors! Ha!”

“I swear, one of these days—ah, Fancy Pants!” Mister Inkblot, a beardless stallion with thick glasses exclaimed. “Madam Fleur, always a pleasure to see a beautiful mare. For a change!” he said explicitly over his wife’s ear, but she’d already returned to her lecture and apparently didn’t care. He waved at her, mumbling incomprehensibly. “And… Lady Chestnut, how interesting. I suppose congratulations are in order. Be wary, Madame Fleur—now that he’s a father, he will grow fat. And old, like me.”

“Age and oldness are two separate things, and ponies like you continue to prove that,” Fancy Pants deftly replied. “Though I’m afraid Mrs. Inkwell was right about the nature of our intrusion. Chestnut?”

The filly leaned against the counter.

“Mister Inkblot, I was practicing writing with a pen the other day,” she began. “My mother was decorating the tree, and she accidentally put one of the baubles on the table, where it rolled over the still fresh ink. From your shop, that is, uh, the orange one, I don’t know if you remember?”

Mister Inkblot had a look of a pony who remembered every single vial he’d ever sold.

“Anyway, I thought that because Hearth’s Warming was coming, I’d make something just for you”—Chestnut put the box on the counter—“something which you can put on your own tree or use as a decoration here.” She looked around much like Fleur when she’d noticed the lack of holiday spirit. “But I see no decorations here which makes me think that it perhaps… wasn’t the best idea for a present… I guess?” she added unsurely, red on her cheeks. “Oh, you probably don’t like decorations! I didn’t think of that! Sorry!” she squeaked.

After meeting his wife’s glare, Mister Inkblot hobbled to the filly.

“Young fillies like you should apologize only when they’ve done something bad. Not when they were trying to do something good. From what I can see—and trust me, it’s not easy without my glasses—you were aiming for good to the best of your knowledge,” he said. “But you won’t find any decorations here because I don’t celebrate Hearth’s Warming.”

Chestnut gave an embarrassed chuckle. “Yeah… that I kinda put together. But why? Everybody in Equestria does it! It’s a—wait, I know that one: it’s our national holiday!”

Mister Inkblot took out a slice of cheesecake from under the counter. Murmuring, he beckoned at Chestnut to accompany him to the aquarium and his fat pufferfish. Fleur followed them as well. Through the prism of her own youth, she found ponies who willingly passed on celebrating Hearth’s Warming rather odd.

“Do you know the story of how Hearth’s Warming came to be? About the three tribes and the founding of Equestria?” he asked, to which the filly confidently nodded. “Good, now forget about it. You’re mostly smart, so understand that not every Canterlotian living here today traces his or her lineage to those tribes. My ancestors didn’t have to face winters, windigos, or that whole internal discussion club because they couldn’t solve some anatomical squabble!” he coughed out with more zealotry than he’d likely intended. “Instead, they were up against… help me out, ambassador. What’s the political word of the day?”

“Houndrels. Mister Inkblot, I apologize. I should have remembered…”

Mister Inkblot grated the cheesecake and tossed the bites into the water. He offered Chestnut to join him, much to the fish’s content.

“Houndrels. A fitting name, no doubt,” he said. “A long time ago, there lived a pack of houndrels who called themselves Nephrite Jackals. Think Diamond Dogs from Ponyville, only smart, cruel, and ten times as ferocious instead, also living in the desert of all places. Their favorite pastime was kidnapping earth ponies—because they were the sturdiest—and forcing them to work, build temples and pyramids for their Pharaoh, who was their king and spiritual leader. Do you know what a pyramid is?”

Chestnut joined her hooves. “Yes, like those big stone triangles that aren’t really triangles because they have more sides if you look around them?”

The stallion made a sour face, but his wife chuckled. “She’s not wrong, you know!”

“Oh, shut it,” Mister Inkblot responded. “Centuries passed. The Jackals created a formidable empire at the expense of ponies, who had no choice but to accept their fate. Generation after generation was born into servitude under their masters. Earth ponies, pegasi, unicorns, all of them, be that as builders or farmers, because those damn houndrels were too lazy to do anything themselves.”

“But if there were pegasi among them, couldn’t at least they fly away?”

“Hold up your wing, please”—when she did, he slid his hoof along the joints connecting the wing to the filly’s back—“and you’ll understand the precautions the Jackals took to keep my ancestors from ever revolting against them. I’m sure you can imagine something adequate too, Madam Fleur.”

“Ouch.” Fleur immediately touched her horn to make sure it was there in one piece.

“Indeed. One unicorn was fortuitously spared, but whether it was an oversight on the Jackals’ part, a touch of destiny or just dumb luck, it’s impossible to tell. Stone Tablet was raised in secret, and he used his magic to look into the future that was to come. He gave my ancestors the strongest weapon to outlive their captors: hope.”

Another piece of cheesecake sank in the aquarium.

“He had a vision of a great flame in the shape of a pink heart that melted the ice and revealed a lush, green land far to the west so unlike the desert the ponies knew. When the time came, the ponies fled the empire with the help of Stone Tablet’s magic, who then guided them across the desert. After years of tyranny, we were free,” he said with a satisfied smile.

Fancy Pants nodded. “The land they sought turned out to be Equestria, where the tribes had already settled.”

“There were some who weren’t happy about it, but they were idiots,” Mister Inkblot replied. “When you really think about it, nothing in Stone Tablet’s visions promised the land exclusively for us, or that we won’t ever have neighbors. Of course some of us still like to think those were us who shared with the three tribes, not the other way around. It makes us feel better about ourselves. Or something.”

“And look how excellent hosts you’ve been so far,” Mrs. Inkwell added from her corner. “Your idea to not work on Saturdays remains to be your greatest contribution!”

“What happened with the Jackals?” Chestnut asked.

“What do you think happened? Their blasted empire collapsed like a house of cards, that’s what happened!” Mister Inkblot gloated, straining his voice to its limits. “With no one to care for crops, fix their houses or maintain their pyramids, they soon blamed the Pharaoh, fought among themselves, and ultimately scattered across the desert to live a miserable existence until the last of their days. Ha! Never mess with the ponies!” He threw the remaining crumbs into the aquarium. “That, Miss Chestnut, is why I don’t celebrate Hearth’s Warming. I have different holidays to remember, like my ancestors’ great exodus or their arrival. But they are rather quiet, and don’t need flashy decorations like yours Hearth’s Warming.”

In a way, it helped Fleur reconsider her reservations. If there were ponies in Equestria who didn’t celebrate Hearth’s Warming, her family back in Prance couldn’t be counted as social deviants themselves. She’d been a bit of a hypocrite on that matter, in fact, because she hadn’t been Equestrian all her life either.

The Prench were a different culture, and she couldn’t blame them for not decorating the tree, not inviting the entire family for a festive dinner, or not singing carols—ah, but at the same time, she so wanted to one day sing carols on the streets just for the sake of it, not because there was a fundraiser or something! She’d been denied it because it was not proper behavior in Pearis, and now she was probably too old for that. C’est la vie!

Perhaps she should be shopping for inks and seats more often.

“This is fair,” Chestnut said. “I think it’s really cool that you have different things to remember on different occasions. I think that ponies who celebrate Hearth’s Warming and those who don’t can learn a lot from each other. I surely did by listening to your story, so, big thanksies for that!” she said cheerfully. “I totally understand that you don’t want decorations in your store, and that’s okay. If you won’t use it, perhaps the ma’am can? Either way, I hope you’ll like it,” she added casually, like the fact that her gift was kind of being rejected didn’t affect her at all.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, young filly,” Mrs. Inkwell, who had allowed herself to unpack the present, said. “But I’m sure my husband will find a suitable spot for it here.”

“And why would I do that? I just told you that I don’t need no decorations,” he grumbled.

“Oh, shut it, you old geezer, and read what it says on the thing!”

Mister Inkblot muttered something about needing his glasses first. He searched high and low, on the counter, the shelves, across the sofa section, until his wife loudly cleared her throat. Only then did he realize his glasses were on his face all along. He picked the blue-orange bauble, and read the words that were written in a familiar, orange ink from his shop.

When he did, he had to sit down.

hearth's warming 1206
thank you mister inkblot
your inks work even on glass
and that's kinda cool

On the other side, there was a caricature of an old pony handing a vial of ink to someone vaguely resembling a thestral.

Mrs. Inkwell gave the stallion a light punch. “Well, don’t just stare like that, gramps. Show some gratitude.”

Due to his age, the stallion’s eyes were perhaps too dry to even produce an actual tear, but he couldn’t hide the emotions surging through him.

“Every store’s owner who celebrates Hearth’s Warming wishes for customers with deep pockets. My wish would be to have visitors like you more often. Because you”—his trembling hoof was barely holding the level—“You are something different. The world needs more ponies like you. Like all of you,” he added, nodding at Fleur and Fancy Pants. “You shape better tomorrow for us all, even the cranky and cynical ones who have enough winters on their back to not be bothered about anything. But every now and then on days like these, things make me actually care, and for that I am grateful. For that, I thank you. Thank you…”

“Is it... okay for us to wish you merry Hearth’s Warming, then?” Chestnut asked timidly.

“Damn right it is,” the old stallion sniffed.

Author's Note

Hello there! Thank you for reading my story. I am no longer writing pony fiction, but if you want to support my current creative endeavor, check out my content on Twitch!

“Of course it is,” Fleur added. “And what better way to do so than through a song?” - is what she would say if I was writing a musical. Poor girl just really wants to sing carols, like Celtic Woman in their interpretation of We Wish You a Merry Christmas which inspired this chapter!

Also, thank you for your amazing support on the story’s lauch - we actually hit the feature box and stayed there for a couple of hours, which is always nice. Stay tuned for the next chapter coming in a couple of days!