The Marchioness and the Urchin
The Marchioness and the Urchin
by Present Perfect
The murmuring audience settles down as a single spotlight shines upon the stage. The theater, dim, fills with anticipation.
The curtain begins to rise, and the audience applauds.
The applause intensifies, joined by cheers and hollers, as the curtain reveals the star of our show. The object of our punishment.
Spoiled Milk -- the former Mrs. Spoiled Rich -- is dressed in a fine maroon silk gown, with a purple velvet shawl and matching high heels. Her mane has been done up in a sparkling beehive, and long diamond dangles descend from her ears, catching the spotlight and transmuting it into stars. She stands with her head aloft, nose pointed and skyward, the perfect picture of ladylike poise and grace.
She opens her mouth, and the illusion shatters.
In a strained voice, she introduces herself as Marchioness Marquise of Trottingham and wonders aloud what she might be doing today. Spoiled overpronounces her words, stressing ill syllables because that's what she thinks constitutes acting. It really is a shame, though it's hardly the worst thing she's done in her pitiful life. Thankfully, the audience has little time to suffer before the first song begins.
There is, of course, no orchestra.
Much the opposite of her speaking voice, Spoiled Milk's singing voice is lovely, for all that she may as well be singing to herself. The Marchioness sings about all the ways the ponies of Trottingham love to see her out and about, but no one is around to care. To her credit, Spoiled keeps perfect pitch even without accompaniment, but she is not a good enough actress to hide the confusion that writes itself across her face.
It only gets worse when other singers are supposed to chime in with their various praises for the Marchioness's beauty or riches, or their envy of the size of her castle. Spoiled stops, holding her pose, as the role intends, but glances around, fearful, as the expected line never materializes. She completes her part of the song with no issue, of course, but each time those gaps appear, she grows more and more confused and disturbed.
Why shouldn't she?
She is, after all, the Marchioness Marquise, fairest and richest mare in Trottingham. That is not all there is to her, of course. As she exchanges words with ponies who are supposed to take their mark but never do, we learn being beautiful and rich is not enough for her. She is a greedy mare, like Spoiled Milk herself, with a heart vile and black, like Spoiled Milk herself, and though many of the townsponies -- who do not appear even once en scène -- are especially jealous of her wealth, not a one would ever call her friend.
Not a one.
Like Spoiled Milk herself.
Is it obvious why?
If not, well, the audience is in luck. The Marchioness stops at an empty stall, proclaims loudly that she could purchase the vendor's stock three times over, and then disparages said wares as 'common'. What an absolutely despicable excuse for a pony. Simply wretched.
The play goes on like this for a while, Spoiled Milk spending her time besmirching the good names of ponies who may as well exist in her mind, for all that they are absent from the stage. She overacts the whole time, of course, forgetting no lines but nevertheless unable to make up for the lack of responses she was otherwise expecting. None appear to reprimand, chastise or challenge; she is alone with her greed and her delusions. The audience begins to boo after a while; not only is her behavior dreadful, but they get the point, already.
She may be doing her best with the material she was given, but honestly, she should have known better. She always could have known better.
At long last, the Marchioness returns to her castle, and we can get on with it. She bustles about her home, ordering phantom staff to do this or that, berating them for not living up to her patently unrealistic standards, ignoring when nothing happens. It is a role to which she is perfectly suited. There is a knock at the door.
Spoiled Milk stops for a moment. It's plain on her face that she has by this point resigned herself to being the only pony in this show. She is just barely able to hold back the giddy little giggle bubbling up in her throat, the excitement at knowing she is not truly alone on this stage, that one small thing might be going right. But it's there.
With no maid to answer the door for her, she does so herself. Upon her stoop is a little white filly with pink mane. Both are so soiled, it's difficult to tell what her true colors are.
The theater fills with whoops and shouts. The audience is stirred to leave their seats and cavort in the air above. They behave like absolute animals, simply no decorum whatsoever. This is acceptable and expected. They are merely excited, and rightly so. They know what happens when a little white filly with pink mane appears in a morality story.
The Marchioness waits for the tumult to subside before speaking.
"Hello there, little filly," Spoiled Milk finally says, concealing her disdain for the filly beneath a thin veneer of sweetness. "Whatever brings you to my stoop?"
"I'm sorry for troubling you, ma'am," says the filly. Her voice, though projected for the audience to hear, is small and frail, much like the filly herself. She grinds the tip of one hoof against the stage floor. "I have travelled so far today, and I am very tired. Could I trouble you for some water, and a place to rest tonight? If you could accommodate me, I would be ever so grateful. I could even grant you a simple wish!"
The Marchioness ponders this request for a moment. "Water I can give you," she says, disdain leaking out through her voice like ink onto a tablecloth. "But I have no room for you in my home." A blatant lie, but the filly says nothing.
One must marvel at Spoiled Milk's response. We do not, of course, expect her to recognize the filly. But when one is presented with a pauper who makes a simple request and promises 'a wish' in return, mightn't a reasonable pony be expected to stop for a second and wonder just how a beggar might fulfill so grand an exchange?
Ah, but if Spoiled Milk were reasonable, she wouldn't be here, would she?
"Majordomo!" cries Spoiled Milk, turning her head back. "Fetch this filly some water at once!"
There is no majordomo to fulfill her demand. She turns back to the filly, who continues regarding her with sad eyes full of dirt and tears. The Marchioness clears her throat and giggles madly, just a bit. She lights her horn to fetch the glass of water, but there is no glass nor water to be had. She fetches a random prop from backstage, a potted plant, and gives it over.
The audience howls as the filly mimes drinking from the pot.
When she's finished, she sets the pot down and looks up at the Marchioness gratefully.
"Thank you!" she cries. "What wish could I grant you in return?"
Again, she makes a classic blunder. Spoiled Milk already has everything she could ever want, materially speaking. She would, of course, require a certain amount of self-awareness in order to realize that her best request would be for friendship or love. She lacks both just as much as the self-awareness, and always has.
Instead, she caves to her own basest desires. "I wish to be worth all the money in the world!" she crows, greed flashing in her eyes. "I want power. I want respect! I wish for every pony who comes to visit me to feel nothing but awe for me and my wealth. Envy is not enough! This town is not enough!" She sweeps a dramatic hoof toward the audience, but they are unmoved. "I want the world!"
"Very well," says the filly, with as much disdain for the Marchioness as the latter had previously shown her. "This, I can do for you."
Again, it must be pointed out that a simple beggar filly could not grant such a boon to anyone, no matter who they are or what they say. Had she been anypony else at this point, Spoiled Milk would have run.
Audience members screech and applaud wildly as the filly's form begins to change. Her legs lengthen, her body thickens. Her neck grows long, her head proud and statuesque. The audience froths at the mouth as what was once a humble earth pony grows not just a horn, but also enormous wings. Eyes roll back in the audience's heads, and a chorus of otherworldly moans rips from their throats as Princess Celestia, Sol Invicta, the Living Sun and Ruler of Equestria, stands in the sham doorway of the sham castle in this sham play.
Spoiled Milk takes a step backward.
Oh-ho-ho, we've got her now!
"P-Princess Celestia?" Spoiled squeaks, but it is too late for her. "Y-you weren't supposed to be..." Her voice trails off. Weak.
Celestia inclines her head, her voice booming out across the audience, who have flailed themselves insensate, tongues lolling out of their mouths.
"You granted me half of my request," Celestia says, glowering at Spoiled Milk with the imperious fire of the sun itself. "Thus, I shall grant half of yours."
Princess Celestia lights her horn. The audience howls like a blooded pack. The magic sinks into Spoiled Milk's very being.
"I-I don't," she stutters, inconsequentially. "What are... No!"
She learns quickly that she can no longer move. Her hooves are rooted to the stage. The magic moves up her legs, locking them in place. Her skin is crystallizing into a lovely pale blue, transparent all the way through. A good thing, as otherwise her organs would be on display for all to see as the crystal creeps up over her barrel, and no one wants that. Though the audience isn't exactly paying attention anymore.
As crystal flows up her neck, Spoiled Milk panics, tries to wriggle, stomp, do anything she can to stop its progress. This is futile.
"Please!" she cries, like the coward she is. "Stop! This isn't part of the play! Help, somepony! He--"
Her further squealing is cut blissfully short as her head at last transforms. A crystal statue, pony-shaped, pure, gleaming and radiant, stands now where Spoiled Milk once was. But as lovely as the sight is, the transformation is not over. The statue begins to shrink, its edges rounding.
If one looks closely, one can still see the image of Spoiled Milk in its many facets, pounding against her crystal prison. As though anyone would release her from it.
In but a few moments, the statue has reduced itself to a single apple-sized jewel, breathtaking in its beauty. Why, the Marchioness Marquise herself would be proud to have become such a gem. She wanted ponies to come and admire her, after all.
A platform emerges from the stage floor, and the jewel rises into the air. Celestia bids the audience to come and partake of the marvel she has created. The audience, having amalgamated into an amorphous, undifferentiated biomass, extends dozens of hooves toward it. They elongate seamlessly while Spoiled Milk watches, horror written over her fractured, faceted face.
Each hoof takes a facet of the jewel. One tiny, glimmering pyramid that returns with the hooves. Each will be taken home and treasured once the audience has sorted itself out. Bit by bit, the gem diminishes, but never loses its luster or its shine. And in every little piece of jewel is Spoiled Milk's face, pounding and screaming and making no noise. She has no recourse, no escape, no hope. All is as Celestia has willed it.
She'll be there a while. This is all that she deserves, after all.
Author's Note
Thanks for reading my attempt at horror so strange that I didn't feel I could use the tag. For more info about it, see here. If you'd like to read the story which inspired it, it takes place in the first few minutes of this video:
Of course, the rest is good fun as well, and I recommend the whole series. :) Quite different in tone from this story, but there you go.
Thanks also to Goat and RDT for feedback on an early draft, and to CloudyGlow for supplying the cover art!
