The Rose Way

How fast can you fly when somepony might be hurt should you not reach them, Prim Stride?

The pegasus pumped his wings with all his might, arcing across the sky over the Merrie River like a bolt of gray-blue and black shot forth from a crossbow. Toward the Rosewine Bridge, where a crowd of ponies, Dammers and Merriers alike, had gathered. Some big party, he knew. Hosted by a vinter and her mate.

Does it matter who they are? Will your wings fly true, or will you hesitate?

He could hear the wind shrieking in his ears, as if protesting against his efforts to climb and hit the peak of his arc in time. The timing had to be perfect. Every Dammeguard pegasus who could fly worth their feathers, each of them who might be posted near the river had run through this drill a thousand times.

But never in the river itself, always in a pond or a canal.

Never with an actual pony in the water.

A nightmare. Both for the Dammeguard and the Merrieguard.

I need to know, Strides. You’re the fastest. Cloudy knows it, even if she’ll never, ever say it. If only by a nose. I want to be able to put you there, but I need to know I can trust you.

Through the rushing waters, a tiny figure bobbed and thrashed about. A foal. Born of Merrie.

A foal in the water.

He reached the peak of his ascent, time seemed to stand still. Below, the ponies gathered at the edge of the bridge, all reaching, all crying out. The unicorns sought desperately to cast tendrils of magic to try to snare him. It wouldn’t work.

Stride knew it. There were, perhaps, two with such reach. Neither were on the bridge.

And none save they could ever hope to muster their magic against a mighty current like that.

With a quick prayer to Celestia, the Mare in the Moon, and any star in the sky listening, Prim Stride arched his back and folded his wings tight against his sides, and dove straight down, hooves outstretched.

Prim Stride, tell me, honestly, right now—if a foal falls in that water, even if it’s one born of the Rosethorn line, will you fly to reach them?

Faster.

He’d been the best at this drill. The technique was as instinctive, as habitual as walking. Stride set his body in a straight line, like a javelin, and angled himself just slightly off-center. He needed to sweep up and hook the foal, not plunge straight into the depths. But he had to be careful where he pulled out of his dive. Too early, and he would miss entirely.

Too late, and he’d be lucky if he just skipped off the surface of the water. Worst case, they would both be in, and he in armor.

Faster. Ten seconds.

Stride felt the wind ripping along his body, like a thousand hooves trying desperately to slow him. It clung to his shoulders, his snout, it even hooked in through the openings of his black helm and began to tug against the chinstrap. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

The only thing he could see was the foal’s head, bobbing just above the surface of the water. Drowning.

If he didn’t make it, there would be nothing for the parents to bury.

Five.

He would make it. He simply would. The foal had no other hope.

His head sank underwater.

Four … Three … Two …

The chinstrap snapped, his helmet went flying backward, ripped clean off his head the very instant he passed by the bridge, all those ponies watching as his messy gray mane spilled out.

Two tail lengths away, Prim Stride screamed, “Reach up!”

A pair of tiny hooves thrust forth from beneath the surface in one last, desperate effort. Stride pulled up, and caught them tight in his own.

You can trust me, Lord Collar.

In the corner of Prim Palace’s ballroom, the pegasus snapped back to present, blinking owlishly as a phantom spray of cold water played across his face. Just as Prim Collar finished his proclamation honoring the unnamed stallion who’d flown across the river to save a foal.

Him.

The whispers which followed, then, were like the first huntings of a storm playing against his feathers. Eyes of Rose and Prim hues flitted this way and that, searching out this mysterious rescuer. Culture, the value of family, those were things shared between cities.

Which among the Dammeguard, those gazes wondered, could be that stallion?

It was a mistake to agree to this.

It wasn’t difficult to feel out of place in Prim Palace, no matter how many times Prim Stride had been placed on guard duty.

He wasn’t tonight, thank heavens. Prim Stride shivered at the thought. The poor Dammeguard who drew the misfortune of watching over this evening’s festivities deserved the next week off, in his opinion. His eyes flitted about the dance hall, the noble blue and purple banners of the Primlines hung alongside the seductive, passionate pink and crimson with that pink rose with crimson highlights on a white field which the Rosethorns favored for the lone night the families gathered every year under universal truce.

A truce mandated by Princess Celestia herself some two centuries prior, angered by the warring families from the sister cities situated upon the Merrie River.

Truly, the décor was the only thing indicative of any semblance of unity.

Prim Stride hid himself in the far corner of the ballroom, a glass of wine held in hoof as he watched the nobles of both feuding cities smile and feign politeness, the eyes and clenched teeth from some of his own distant cousins and the lustful gleam and smirks of their age-old rivals betrayed the accusations and battles fought in darkness and economic might. Enchanted candles and charms lined the hall, nullifying even the most potent of the Roses’ scent magics.

Even the Rose Terror herself couldn’t do more than flutter her lashes and try to entice some mare or stallion like a common pony, and thank every star for that!

He closed his eyes and only just resisted a want to thump his head against the stone wall. Rosewater. Rosewater. Rosewater. Lord Collar and Cloudy have spoken to me about that. Rosemary would be hurt if she ever heard me call her that. Rosewater felt far too familiar, far too informal though.

For a mare who had, in the past, lured Dammeguards to hold for the herdgild. Lady Rosewater. That would be fine.

Formal, polite, and distant. And respecting her power and standing.

Right about now, though, that power she held seemed to pale in comparison to another’s.

To her counterpart’s, ironically.

His sky blue feathers bristled, a wrinkle of his snout made the spattering of the Primfeathers’ typical storm cloud colored dapples which trailed from nose to tail scrunch, granting him a rather coltish look. On second thought, maybe he should have told his lord, Prim Collar, that he’d come down with something and stayed home. A night in with the doors locked and a book would be far more preferable than this.

This den of vipers. All of them alert, their tongues waggling and eyes darting about after Collar made his little announcement. So vague, so very ceremonial having done so immediately following the traditional opening greetings between the Baronesses. Stars, this was exactly what Stride wanted to avoid.

The Lord Heir of Damme had just enticed an entire room full of the most influential ponies in both cities with a tale of bravery and heroism, a move one might be forgiven for calling Roselike. So many of them, Stride knew from reputation and word of mouth, were responsible for this stupid war’s continuation—directly or otherwise.

And if one could find a pony who hadn’t bitten like a fish does bait on a hook, Stride would buy them a round at Prim Tap and Lager’s.

Which left him the task of doing his very best to appear as dumbfounded and unassuming as possible so not to be the odd pony out.

He hadn’t nearly enough alcohol to prepare himself for such a feat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Prim Stride could see his parents and their more hardline friends huddled against the wall opposite their counterparts on the Rose side of the room, their eyes carrying venom and barbed words muttered only to one another as unpleasant as the looks worn upon their faces. Whether at Prim Collar’s enticement or the idea that a Dammeguard had flown across the river to save one of them, well, the jury was hung.

And they all wondered why this feud never seemed to end.

How could it?

Prim Stride opted to throw propriety off a cloud and tossed his head back to drain his glass in one gulp. An act, no doubt, which would send his mother, Prim Down, clutching her over-expensive pearls if she noticed.

Oh, she had. And she’d even taken a break from glaring daggers at a cluster of three Rose nobles—bonded, by those pendants around their necks—so she could clutch her husband’s foreleg and swoon against him.

The young Dammeguard turned away to hide a smile, swishing his stormy gray tail in a way that brushed against his smart silver tux. “Give you something to gossip about other than them or Lord Collar and Cloudy for once.” His smile faded in an instant. “You prissy old nag.”

He sighed and looked down at his glass. He’d need more to get himself through the night at this rate, he could already feel a Prim Down and Prim Wing-sized headache coming on.

Which meant it was time to venture back into the lone slice of Damme that was Rose territory for the evening.

They always did make the best wines. Such lovely floral taste and fragrance. Rosemary had been right. Again.

And she wouldn’t let him hear the end of it until the next item of debate was won in her favor.

Stars curse him if it wasn’t delicious, though. But there were other flavors. As many, he imagined Rosemary or Cloudy would tease, as the flowers adorning Merrie’s hills or the parks he so loved.

A good thing, too. The mare behind the table looked … familiar when he’d first walked in and dared venture over, enticed by her voice, the way light shone off her bottles and glasses, and her eyes—verdant green, piercing deep into him.

Yes, she was familiar. Watch list familiar.

In the back of his mind, a name nibbled at him. Wasn’t there a mare who used the fragrances of wine and grapes blended with flowers for her lures? Stride was certain he’d read of her.

Prim Stride offered a reserved half smile to the less-involved Roses. They weren’t all bad, of course. Only the hardliners, really, especially those who fell in step with Baroness Roseate. Being in the Dammeguard gave a rather interesting look when defectors crossed lines.

Still, it didn’t spare him a few stray tails and wingtips flirting against his hips and shoulders, smoldering looks and smiles which promised his delight should he take a turn toward the bridge with them when the festivities ended. Mares and stallions alike, typical of the Rose lines. And quite a few were beautiful—oh, who was he kidding?

They all were. The Roses had that in spades.

But much like their namesake, each came with thorns.

As Stride sidestepped a pair of mares of the distant Roseroot line, their smiles winning and inviting and eyes lingering on his wings as if to call them around their shoulders for the night, he glanced down at his empty glass again. The colors were nice, just like the mare said. Especially when he’d given them a little swirl like she’d shown. Whatever purpose that served.

The young pegasus happened to glance up just as a heavy hoof clapped his shoulder, and found himself met by a grinning Prim Collar, those deep blue eyes shining. “Strides!” he greeted merrily. “You look good! Enjoying the start of festivities, I hope?”

Stride offered an uneasy smile. So far, the pair of glasses of wine he’d had were the highlight. And the only thing he’d really partaken in—the second, a glass pressed into his hoof by the grinning stallion before him with a wink and utterance of its name.

He’d at least not teased when Stride sucked in his lips and hid a blush.

“Certainly an interesting time,” he replied evenly, mindful of the eyes and ears around them, watching to see if there might be any sign of tell. “Thank you for the invitation, I didn’t think I’d be off-duty.”

His young lord and mentor swished his tail gaily. “You work hard and serve well. Everypony deserves a chance to enjoy a night like this.” Prim Collar cast a glance around, his easygoing smile fading as he took in the sights and sounds of the families mingling.

A rarity.

One only afforded at such events.

“Yeah, everypony does,” Prim Collar repeated. He shook himself, then clapped Prim Stride’s shoulder again. “Especially you, with all you’ve been through in the past month. You deserve to be here, I’m proud of how you’ve grown, especially these last months.”

Prim Stride felt his throat tightening as the memory flashed before his eyes, his heart hammering in his chest. Not again. “You’re too kind, my lord.” He splayed his ears and tried to force a smile. The praise was welcome. From Lord Collar, it was always welcome.

The memory it conjured was not.

He licked his lips and added, “I’m just glad you and Lady Rosewing gave me the chance. Anypony would be.”

Collar’s father, Dapper Rosedown, fixed him with a look of gentle chiding. The old stallion tended to act more like a doting grandfather to those closest to Collar, especially those under his tutelage. “You assume much and do yourself equal discredit, young stallion,” he said. “Taking the time to examine oneself and make changes is no small feat, and is telling of character. You have a good heart within you.”

A good heart. Wasn’t that one of Rosemary’s big points when they spoke on his shifts?

He barely understood her ideals or Cloudy’s attachments to Merrie. Not without having them set before him, or some of the old transgressions of both cities and their alternating patterns through the centuries of conflict. Like the coming and going of the tides.

But he’d read those books Rosemary put before him, debated philosophy with her, or drank and bantered and argued merit with Cloudy at the pubs. And he listened to them. Every word, no matter how they made him squirm to consider.

Slowly but surely, they helped him unwind the trappings of his parents’ words and old hardline justifications. They let him see what others missed.

And they let him decide himself what he felt and held true.

What he changed or didn’t, then, was his decision.

Stride swallowed. “Er, y-yes, Baron Dapper.” He glanced down at his empty glass, and then up. He blinked thrice. “What did I come over here for again?”

Those interested glances and swiveling of ears died, and the search continued elsewhere. This was clearly just a young Dammeguard collecting some token praise. Little of note.

Thank the stars.

“Good question,” Collar replied, smiling brightly. “But, now that you’re here. I thought we might share a drink.” With a nod toward the Merrier vintner’s table, he added, “After you, Strides.”

Dapper nodded. “Y’know. Take advantage on the tariff exemption. Not a bad idea.” He chewed the inside of his cheek in thought, then pulled a face. “I should like to get a few pretzels first, I think. Drinking another on an empty stomach isn’t advisable, it’s been ages since I’ve tasted a Rosewine vintage.”

“Good call, dad. I’ll walk you over.” He glanced toward Stride and raised his brows. “How about you, Strides? That vintage I got for you to your liking?”

Stride took a moment to process his reply. Rosewine, Rosewine, he definitely knew that name. There was definitely a name featured on the watch list, and he just knew the name Rosewine from old matron Primyard’s rantings—yet another old rivalry, this one, mercifully, one of commerce.

A Rosewine mare, he remembered. She’d allegedly lured five Dammeguards with her wines, two of whom regained their senses and returned. Or so his father and his ilk claimed.

Allegedly is not definitive, he reminded himself.

No more than his being a Primfeather meant he couldn’t be friends with a Rosewing or a Rosethorn. Or enjoy a Rosewine’s vintage.

“It was good,” he muttered, flicking a look to the table.

The mare had brought more vintages than he could count, their bottles all different colors ranging from deep greens and vibrant pinks and reds to almost midnight blue. And their designs varied with them, differentiating each even further. Clearly, she knew some fine glassblower.

Perhaps the stallion who’d been by her table? One had been with her, chatting with another mare at the time. Where had he gotten to—oh, there he was. A Rosethorn stallion by those dark red, near crimson, markings.

He could almost imagine Cloudy giving a low whistle should the stallion enter one of their haunts. Dang. That’s a big boy, she’d no doubt mutter, then jab him with an elbow. You get him if any of these idiots start a brawl. This mare’s only getting crushed beneath one stallion, thanks.

In present time, Stride watched them pouring wine and chatting with ponies. Their smiles, and those of the Roses who frequented their table, and those Prims they managed to coax and cajole into their company to try their wares, were radiant. The little mare, in particular, seemed like she couldn’t be happier.

Unbidden, his tongue ran along his lip. Stride made to take a step forth, but hesitated and stayed his hoof. “Though, I’d like to try another just to see …” He glanced up at Collar, hoping he could send his request with look alone.

By the ticking of Collar’s ears, he understood well. Unfortunately, the Lord Heir of Damme chose not to provide escort into a Rose’s company.

He found this one of his teachable moments.

“Well, you’ll not find yourself wanting for delicious wine with Rosewine Vineyards’ vintages,” the stallion said, offering a pat on the shoulder and a gentle, coaxing nudge to start Stride on his path to the table. “Let me know if it’s one that gets your feathers rustling, I’ll have to give it a try myself.”

Stride stumbled that first step in his taste to try and stop and keep balance. He glanced between Collar and the table, and then, only then, did he notice the imposing figure just a step or two out of his path.

Her snow white coat and rosy pink mane coupled with her height to separate her from any crowd, though nothing could do nearly as much as those deep crimson Rosethorn markings gracing her cheeks and breast. Belying her talent and depth of her ancestor’s gifts.

Not that Lady Rosewater Rosethorn needed anything else to help her command attention.

The memory returned again. Purple lights slithered through the fog and sank into his skin. Stride shivered, but managed to tear his gaze from her and sent a renewed plea for escort to Collar via shared look.

For a moment, he dared think that thoughtful look which crossed Collar’s face might mean he’d changed his mind.

Then Collar drew him in close to whisper, “Take a deep breath and relax.” He squeezed Stride gently. “Enjoy the night, Strides. Make a couple new friends. In fact!” He grinned and raised his brows. “I have a new assignment for you! A personal challenge, actually.”

It took an effort of will not to wilt before him. “Yes, my lord?” Stride asked.

“By night’s end, I want you to spend some time talking to somepony you don’t know.” He held up a hoof, already dashing any notion to slip on technicalities. “Somepony not of Damme—and, no, ordering more wine doesn’t count. Not unless that starts an actual conversation.”

Stride blanched and took a step back, his ears flattening to his mane. “You … er …” A nervous laugh escaped his lips. “You don’t give easy tasks, my lord.”

Chuckling, Collar patted his shoulder. “I like to challenge ponies who meet my expectations.” With another squeeze, he added, “Or surpass them. Remember, relax, enjoy yourself, and talk to somepony from Merrie by the end of the night. Something to regale our guest with in the morning, I should think.”

Which meant she’d know to ask. Or simply that Collar knew she’d ask and then set upon him should he not make new acquaintance in Merrie, and then it would only be a matter of whether she decided to make good on teasings of merciless tickle torment and ear gnawing.

Stars help him on the latter.

On instinct, he brought his hoof and wineglass to his chest in salute. “Yes, sir.”

“Good lad. Off you go, and let me know how the next tastes. Remember, I’d like that friendlier look.” Here, Collar cast a look to Rosewater, and offered a slight smile.

The small sort which said, I’m doing my part. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything I wouldn’t.

The matter had been quite settled. Emphasized as Collar patted his shoulder, then turned as though to trot off with his father.

Stride swallowed and faced forward. For the briefest of moments, his eyes met with Rosewater Rosethorn’s, and the ballroom seemed to fade to background.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The Heiress of Merrie winked, then broke their shared gaze like she’d given him leave to … well … leave her presence.

Not an urging he needed to receive twice.

Only manners drilled in by his nag of a mother and his friendships with Collar and Rosemary kept him from scampering off like a frightened kitten, but Stride made damn certain to weave his way through the crowd as swiftly as his hooves could carry him, never stopping or deviating until he was safe and sound before the Rosewine Vineyards table.

But when those eyes of verdant green and deep, deep rosy fuchsia fell upon him and he realized himself quite alone between the pair, Stride felt his wings itching.

The stallion wore a look of amused mischief all too similar to Rosemary’s.

Stride did his best to ignore the warning shiver down his spine and set his glass upon the table. “Another, please,” he said softly. “Er, a different vintage. If you don’t mind.”

“Didn’t like my Rosemary Reverence, sir Dammeguard?” the mare asked, pouting and fluttering her lashes. A tease, of course. She’d been playful like this when they’d first met. “I all but promised Lord Collar that would be to his friend’s taste when he came for two glasses.”

He didn’t bother asking how she knew. She could probably smell Collar on the glass, or his touch lingering around Stride’s shoulders. Or, stars, simpler—she’d just seen them talking and connected the dots.

Not everything had to be so overly clever.

“No, I quite enjoyed it,” came his honest reply, coupled with a nervous smile with how his feathers betrayed his effort to understate. It had been tasty. Sweet, but with a kick of spice. Like Rosemary herself. “Just, er, hoped to try another. A friend has paid compliment to the vineyard, and, well …”

The empty space was obviously filled. His curiosity coupled with his enjoyment, clarity enough for both Roses.

The stallion’s eyes flitted between Stride and the rest of the party for a bare instant, then his nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath, like Rosemary playing her game. Scenting him, Stride realized. Part of meeting a Rosethorn, she’d told him.

His brows raised. Bemused, the stallion tilted his head, a smile and look of intrigue spread across his features.

“Well,” the mare mused, turning her eyes toward the ceiling in mock consideration before she winked at Stride. “For one of the few Prims bold enough to return to our table twice, I suppose I could make a personal recommendation.” The way she managed to wrap her lips around the word personal was like a playful kiss beneath the jawline, more than enough to make anypony’s heart flutter. “Hmmmm, for a pegasus like you, strong wings and handsome, I should think—“

Now, her stallion companion laughed and leaned down to nip at her cheek. “Petal, my love, don’t tease him so!” He cast a grin at Stride like they were old friends. “Let him have his wine without your playing games with his heart and palate.”

Petal drew back from him and glared. “You hush, Rose Seed! Don’t you begrudge me tempting a virgin palate, especially one so ready to actually try something new!”

Her name clicked into place. Rosewine Petal. That was the mare on the watchlist.

The heiress to the Rosewine name and head of Rosewine Vineyards, a prodigal vintner, if rumors were true and matron Primyard’s rantings held any water. The passage of control from Rosewine Cabernet to his daughter had resulted in what could only be described as an explosion of growth, a little mare who cast a big shadow.

Rose Seed, though, was another familiar name. And with those markings and their coloration.

He wasn’t of Roseate’s line, certainly. Stars, though, he was near enough that his heritage showed so vibrantly.

Still.

A mare allegedly responsible for luring five Dammeguards. Talented Dammeguards, at that.

Allegations weren’t definitive though. Not until proven.

Seed, for his part, merely grinned at the smaller mare then turned to Stride. “My dear wife does love to tempt each and every new palate she can, sir Dammeguard. Dammers especially, if only so she can give a taste of ‘a proper vintage’—her words, not mine!”

“The truth!” she urged. The slight tugging at either corner of her mouth betrayed enjoyment of their banter. Petal shook her head and met Stride with a long-suffering look. “You have the looks of a stallion who suffers my Damme competitor’s vintages, much as I must suffer my lump of a husband’s mockery.” Here, she tried to hip bump him. Seed didn’t so much as move, merely laughing. “You see? You see what I deal with?”

“Er, if you say so, ma’am,” Stride replied. He’d learned well how Rose mares played their games. Or at least well enough to know to keep himself out of trouble as best he could. Whether Rosethorn stallions could be as wicked remained to be seen, but …

Well. If Dapper Rosedown was any indication, that was a definite yes.

And the glinting in his eyes, another.

Chuckling, Seed stole another nip to her cheek. “Perhaps I’ll give you a hoof then, love.” He turned that smile back upon Stride and asked, “What say you, sir Dammeguard? Would you be willing to join us for more of a game style of tasting? A bit of fun to it.”

The pegasus chewed on the inside of his cheek. His nerves failing him, Stride gave his wings a telling rustle and flicked a look over his shoulder. Collar was nowhere in sight, even less likely to swoop in to make a quick social save.

Much like his other assignments on Merrie culture and social norms—some portion had to be his own.

This just happened to be the first in which his conversational partners weren’t known and vetted ponies. But they were here, and Collar had given them patronage. And asked him to share a vintage recommendation if he should find one to his liking.

If nothing else, Stride could take solace in that. Tonight, at least, some of these ponies could be called friends.

Alleged crimes were still only allegations until proven, also.

Despite years of his parents and grandparents’ sermons on the vulgarity and duplicity of Roses and Merriers, Stride offered a half smile and bobbed his head. Collar’s guidance hadn’t failed him yet.

Nor had theirs.

Breathing a sigh, Stride murmured, “I’m willing to listen, at least.” He dipped an ear, adding, “I can’t promise I’ll be any good. I’m more a Dammerale stallion.”

“That,” Rose Petal teased, “we’ll correct in short order.” She glanced up at her husband and tilted her head. “A simple one, rather than adapting, I should think.”

“Oh, of course. I was thinking the sampling game.”

“Ah! Yes, yes, that would do nicely in this setting.”

The couple seemed to share a quick look, then trapped Stride beneath their gaze again. Like their eyes could seed and coax tangle vines to grow ‘round his ankles and hold him fast.

“The game is actually quite simple,” Seed said. Then, he held up a hoof. “And don’t worry about being good at it—the only skills of yours required are an open mind, trust, and your sense of taste. Your, ah, palate for wine.”

Petal took up where he left off. “The challenge is actually ours. For your part—“ she gestured to him with a wave of her hoof “—you simply close your eyes while Seed and I each select a vintage, any you see before you.”

Another sweeping gesture, this time over the table and wine chillers, drew his eyes to the myriad colorful and artfully crafted bottles. The only constant he noticed between them, naturally, was the vineyard name and emblem of a white rose outlined in gold filament, blooming from a vine wound around another of grapes.

“Once you’ve tried each of our selections,” Seed continued. “You let us know which you preferred. If neither or if you like them equally, we select again. Until we find one which suits your fancy.”

An interesting game, certainly.

One Stride imagined might feature well at some of those parties he’d heard of, the same which always seemed to foster curiosity in commoners and lesser nobles and entice them to cross and meet their counterparts in Merrie. Right about now, he could see why.

And, with Collar’s urgings, was there any reason to refuse save his parents’ fury?

His mind was made up with that last thought.

Stride ducked his head. “I’ll play.”

The Prim Palace library was, similar to its counterpart in Rose Palace, the oldest and most expansive of those in the sister cities. Its writings including those penned by Prim Clothesline himself, and those of his heirs following to demonstrate the shaping of Damme through the centuries.

Prim Note couldn’t say he’d ever been to the Rose Palace library. Roseate and her eldest daughters lacked the goodwill Collar demonstrated, and rumor had it the Baroness summarily refused to allow ponies to see the words inscribed by the likes of Rosethorn the Wise, Rosewine, or Roseline. Not in their original form.

Preservation of history, she called it. Their original works should be preserved and kept safe, let the Rosethorn baroness and her daughters guard over their ancestor’s legacy as they guard over our right to love freely.

The subject of more than a few rantings he’d heard.

He shook himself from these idle musings and turned his attention to the love of his life, smiling as he took in the delight worn free upon her face.

Stars, how he’d missed seeing her so happy.

Those rosy eyes flitted to each polished bookshelf, wide and eager to take in everything. She stepped forward, toward the center of the reception area, and turned about on her hooves, her smile radiant. Her lips moved to form the names of the lords and ladies displayed upon the walls in fine paintings. Many Prim, mostly Prim.

But a few Roses who’d honored themselves and their ancestor’s way with their courage and valor.

In one, a battle between the Rose Knights and Rose Shadows ended with the ponies of both sides barely standing, exhaustion evident in their posture as they looked at one another from across the bridges, flanking their respective leaders. At the center, Flowering Rosebush and Malestrom Primfeather met, the latter baring his face against all tradition of the Rose Shadows, and bowed in salute to one another.

At the bottom of the frame, a golden placard dedicated its participants and named the portrait, Last Dance of Knights and Shadows.

“The last battle between the Rose Shadows and Rose Knights,” Crown whispered breathily. “As Prim Lace took the throne from her father, and ushered in the Reformations.” She flicked a look to him. “She commemorated a stalemated rivalry?”

Note inclined his head. “I asked her once,” he murmured. “She told me that she commemorated ponies who fought and demonstrated in the last moments the respect she hoped to see between our cities, and the kinship in the way Flowering Rose and Malestrom returned to their leaders and urged leniency.”

“Not quite the way we are taught about Malestrom.” The corner’s of Crown’s mouth thinned. “But, given what we’re taught of my ancestor’s way …”

Her horn sparked with a sudden rosy hue, and Crown’s magic filled and expanded out over the room like a bubble. For a bare second as it passed over his ears, Note heard naught but dead air, the oppressive blanket of silence.

She settled it around the room and turned it outward, a ward so none but those within the library could hear what went on within. “I trust what she says of Malestrom as much as I trust her to keep the promises made to force our action,” she finished, flicking an ear.

Note took that as prompting to cast his. So she hadn’t missed his trick on the walk in, and she knew he’d have another ready to go.

He ducked his head, smiling to show he accepted his being caught, and reached out with his magic to slither a pair of spells between her aural shield, and set one just on the outside. A clever little invention of his he’d used a few times to keep an ear out for interlopers when he wanted privacy. A personal spell.

With the other, he searched out and took hold of the magic he’d left in the ballroom and connected it, carefully, and settled it within their shield. The sounds of idle chatter and hooves upon the floor filtered into the library.

Crown blinked, surprised, and flitted her gaze about. “You cast Far Whispers in Prim Palace?” she asked. “Against these wards?”

His cheeks coloring to the unspoken praise, Note stepped away as if he might like to peruse the shelves. “Not so much against as with the wards,” he replied. “Breaking through would be nigh impossible, working with was difficult enough with how deceptively elastic Primline magic tends to be.”

He felt her eyes upon the back of his neck, searching him. Appraising him.

Reevaluating his talent.

Sensitive ears twitched and ticked to the sound of slow steps, stalking, circling wide so she might move to cut off his playful attempt at escape. “Oh, don’t dare dangle that before me, my dear,” she purred. “How?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.” Note tugged at the shoulder of his dress uniform, drawing her attention to the magnolia etched among Damme symbology. “Lest you use it to hear of all the lascivious things we discuss behind wards in this place.”

Crown gave a bark of laughter. “Oh, hardly here, my dear.” Those eyes danced, the pair had come to a stop on opposing sides of a long row of staggered shelves. “My interests lay somewhere several blocks up the street, hidden to my spells.”

Now, his cheeks colored brightly. Note sucked in his lips and found interest in a copy of Prim Stitching’s work left out for re-shelving. “A-Ah.” He licked his lips, and moved to continue on his walk. “Y-You used your walk to search out my home. Tricky mare.”

She followed on the opposite side. “Me?” she asked with an angelic flutter of lashes. “When you found way to force my searches to route against my command? I strain to probe the shield ‘round your home in no small part because you make me traverse distance, my dear. Or need I fetch Gilded Page so she might titter with you over how I dragged myself through the door to the couch the first time I tried?”

The nape of his neck joined in burning to her praise. They passed a shelf, losing one another for that brief second before they rejoined again like shutter frames.

Tantalizing glimpses. Stars, why had he walked this way? She had to know what she did now. “I have to keep up with you somehow,” he replied, cursing the fluster which bled into his tone.

“Merely keep up with me? Truly?”

“Of course. Yours is a prodigal talent among those of us who lay claim to the gifts of the Sirens’ Kiss. Pray, your gentle hooves in handling me in this game have been a mercy.”

“A mercy?” She disappeared behind another shelf, then reappeared again, now fixing him with a look of calculating amusement. “Or did a rare show of Primline trickery and deceit score you an unfair advantage?”

Note brought a hoof to his breast and shook his head. “Accusing me of deceit, my lady? A minor noble such as myself, deceiving a Rosethorn lady? Tricking her! How ever should I manage the feat?”

The wrong defense.

Her smile turned vulpine, her eyes flashed behind her glasses.

His heart fluttered as he felt phantom lipping and tonguing against his ear, a memory of her last effort to bring him to heel when he dared use his wit and word to tease.

And then the whisper that she would expect more.

That brief lapsing of his attention cost him dearly. For when Note dared to look back across the aisle at his lovely Rose Crown, he found naught but empty space. Just as he’d stolen the chance to fine-tune his wards for a talented aural mage when their friendship and games began, she had stolen one the instant his focus faltered.

His only warning to her next move was a cool breath across the tip of his ear, enough to draw a shuddering gasp and fluttering of his eyes before her magic caught his chin and held him fast. Crown reared and wrapped her hooves around his shoulders in a loose embrace, then moved to press her lips against his head, just beneath the same ear.

“Wicked stallion,” she whispered, lipping along the edge. “Leading me to think you to be a minor talent, a master of but a few little tricks you’d mastered through practice, when you yourself share the blessing of the Sirens’ Kiss.” Teeth stung his ear and tugged gently, her warm breath teasing his tender flesh. “How strong is yours?”

Note fought down an urge to dance on the tips of his hooves, he bit his lip hard to swallow a moan. Stars! In the middle of the library! “Strong enough!” he gasped.

Another kiss pressed against the back of his ear. An unsatisfactory answer. “My equal?” she prompted. Her magic’s warmth engulfed the opposite ear and thrummed, a gentle, tingling caress sent shivers down his spine.

He managed to give a jerky shake of his head. “C-Crown! Love! Please, we’re in the library!”

Laughing, she nosed his cheek. “Then it’s in your interest to answer honestly this time, and quickly. Are you?”

Sucking in his lips, Note managed another shake of his head. He drew in a deep breath and hissed, “C-Can’t enchant, but I can reach far and alter quickly!”

“Ah.” He felt her smile against him. “My, my. I see now. Your shields, your offensive spells, even the wards ‘round your home and hidden in your neighborhood. Polymorphic, no?” At his nod, she dotted another kiss beneath his ear, then another upon his cheek. “Near then. I’m not certain if I should punish you this night for your deception, or sing joy that our games will grow more interesting, and our chase, more enticing when the day comes.”

Another shiver. Note couldn’t fight it any longer.

The poor stallion squirmed and danced on his hooves. “Crown, please! My ears—“

Crown plied a hint of tickle to the tip, then let her spell dissipate. Though not her embrace.

The Rosethorn mare simply shifted about so she could stand nose to nose with him, the markings framing her cheek dimpling with a bright, contented smile. No teasing, just delight.

She brushed her lips against his nose. “Aglow from the nape of your neck to the tips of those lovely, vulnerable ears,” she crooned. Her eyes flitted to his dress uniform, then back to his face. “It matches that ghastly blue, and suits you well.” Crown lit her horn and withdrew a thin pink box hidden within her sash. “Speaking of which, I believe I have just the thing to correct this issue and expose you to a more appropriate color.”

Note took a moment to regain his breath. He blinked owlishly as he tried to recenter himself and process her words.

Curiosity and amusement rose to join fluster. Note fixed her with a wry look, accepting the box in his magic. He unwound a bow of shimmering gold ribbon and removed the top, and let out a disbelieving bark of laughter. From within the box, he lifted out a fine silk scarf, carmine like her mane, with the emblem of the Rosethorn house woven into the ends. But with it, a musical note.

Symbolic, and meaningful.

So soon after it subsided, that burning in his cheeks returned in full. Stars above!

“You!” Note shook his head, grinning despite himself. Who wouldn’t? Who couldn’t? “You are going to have me in so much trouble!”

Her eyes dancing, Crown leaned in to nuzzle him. “Mmm, perhaps I like that idea.”

“Do you? I’ll have the rutting Primfeathers and Primmanes saying I’ve been lured and need confining in a hot box!”

“Oh, my. Such a shame I don’t use scented lures.” She stole a kiss and hummed against his lips. “Put it on for me, my dear,” Crown whispered. “Let me see how you wear it.”

Note cast a quick glance back over his shoulder, just in case. Once satisfied, he dipped his ears in submission and took the scarf in his magic, and wound and tied it around his neck. As he guided it through the air, a hint of roses and bluebells wafted to his nose.

He blinked and ticked an ear. “But—wait, how? You’re not a—“

How those dimples seemed more pronounced with her mounting glee. “My older sister, Silk,” Crown replied, her voice as warm and sweet as her magic’s touch. “She helped me pick it out and sew in our house emblem with the note, and I asked that she help me weave my scent in so this night might stay with you.” She moved, turning nimbly on her hooves to sit and press her back against his chest, her snout tracing his jawline. “So you’ll remember our first night together after months apart, and savor it as I shall.”

Her markings, he noticed, began to glow. Crown drank in his scent, the cologne he’d worn tonight, the magical talent afforded by her heritage strong enough that she still could. Enough that she could draw in every fiber of his fragrance.

A striking talent, a more striking appearance.

A mite frightening, but alluring in her.

“You look handsome in our colors,” she murmured. Glancing to his uniform, she pecked his chin. “If only we could replace ghastly blue and purple with the red, pink, and white of our Merrieguard’s dress. You would look the picture of a stallion belonging to a Rosethorn daughter then.”

Unsaid between them was the requirement that he serve under her mother to make that notion reality. And, only then, with his mind bound—either to Roseate or one of her daughters. Crown, only if she felt a mite of morbid humor.

Dark tidings neither wished to broach after so long apart.

Note licked his lips nervously. “I-I got you something as well,” he stammered, eager to steal away some small measure of control for himself.

At last, it was Crown’s turn for surprise once more. “Did you?” She rose, teasingly flirting her tail against his neck when she turned to face him.

In those rosy eyes, he caught a glimpse of excitement. Romantic gestures exchanged were so tantalizing to artists such as they—and she, a poet and songwriter herself, doubly so.

He reached into his uniform pocket with a loop of magic, and withdrew the rectangular black box he’d held all night. The butterflies in his chest whipped into such a flurry they incited a second swarm to drive a quaver in his belly as he offered it to Crown.

She bit her bottom lip as she so often did to hide her delight, her horn lighting as she removed the top and gazed inside.

Delight washed away, and in its place, a thin smile, the product of an effort, he knew, to appear stern despite herself. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

“You,” Crown said. “You are a terrible, wicked stallion, Prim Note.”

Note only just managed to stifle laughter. “Do you not like it?” he asked, his voice full of false innocence. “I was certain you’d adore such a fine pen case. And look.” He lifted it from the box and turned the top toward her. “Adorned with hoof-painted roses, my love.”

That drew quite a fun response.

Crown fixed him with a wry look. Her smile, now, was one he’d learned from his mother. The same which told him his father had, indeed, gotten himself into good trouble and would suffer consequences.

She wrapped her magic around the box and, with gentle coaxing, took it from him and turned it about so the face showed to him.

A face indeed adorned with roses. But …

“Roses,” she said slowly, amusement tinging her voice. Crown closed the distance between them, pressing her nose against his. Her eyes promised he would indeed suffer consequences, and gave hint to just how full his evening would be once they made away across the river to her Librarium. “Roses of Prim blue. You wicked trickster.”

He couldn’t help it.

The grin finally won out and spread across his features.

“I love you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against hers as he turned his head.

She turned hers opposite, her eyes fluttering. “And I, you.”

Together, they reared on their hind legs and caught one another in a tight embrace, and shared their first real kiss in months.

In Note’s heart, his own muse sang with hers.