Everypony knows that Canterlot Castle has the largest post office in all of Equestria, able to process thousands of letters, reports, proclamations, announcements, parcels, and even secure diplomatic missives each and every day (except Hearth's Warming, Summer Sun, and Nightmare Night, of course, when they're on partial operation). The Main Office is centrally located, immediately to the right of the castle gate, with doors wide enough to accept three carts at once, and staffed by dozens of experienced clerks and mailponies who sort the incoming and outbound mail by hoof and horn (and claw, on occasion). I don't work there.
The Correspondence Chamber adjoins the throne room, and handles sensitive mail - deliveries for the Princess, messages to and from foreign dignitaries, and anything insured for more than a hundred bits. Working in that reinforced mailroom requires the highest security clearances and the utmost dignity and presentability. I... 'Don't qualify' to work up there.
I work in the Archives. Or at least, I do now. Straight out of the academy. It's an honor, I guess, for a 3rd class junior mailpony to be assigned to Canterlot Castle at all. I'll keep telling myself that.
All I got was a tatty old binder of responsibilities and a shove out the door. The old guy, Direct Delivery, took a nasty fall on the stairs and had to be replaced with A Suitable Candidate, and By Royal Decree, and As Soon As Feasible.
Or, as my supervisor put it, "You. Palace. Now." That was two hours ago.
Hey, that was as fast as I could get there. Traffic was bad.
The quartet of palace guards flanking the gate were tall. And sturdy. And heavily armed, with nasty scowls on their faces. One of them had a scar! I fumbled my saddlepack open.
"Umm, hello. I have papers. Orders. Mailpony reporting for duty. Sorry. Junior Mailpony, third cla-" One of them growled! I dropped my binder on the cobblestones, scattering loose pages across the street.
"The post office is the first door on your right. And the second door." The biggest guard grunted in amusement. "The third and fourth doors too. And the fifth one. They're under the big sign that says Post Office."
"Thank you. I've never been here before." I scrambled the papers back together with my hooves. Luckily the road wasn't too damp, so they were only a bit soggy.
"Go in, kid." He snorted, and the scarred one leaned on his spear. Wow that thing looked sharp. I shoved the papers back into my pack.
"Right. Yes. Thank you, sirs. Good bye?" They ignored me completely as I walked past them. I guess I didn't look like a threat to the Equestrian security. Hey, I could have been an assassin or something, right? Well, no, probably not. They usually have coordination. And muscle tone. And less anxiety.
I managed to find my way to the main office - the directions were very helpful. Do assassins get anxiety? I have anxiety.
"Hello?" There were easily a dozen workers in the office, resplendent in their Senior Mailpony uniforms, working frantically to empty a mail cart, as an impatient minotaur teamster tapped his hoof on the floor.
"Excuse me?" They looked busy. And angry. "I'm here for the Archives, and... I don't know where to go."
An older mare rolled her eyes and kept shoving gold-embossed scrolls into a dirty canvas bag. "Through the side door and down the stairs. It's the only thing down there. You're the new Direct Delivery?"
"Yes, ma'am, um, do you know what I'm supposed to do?"
"Inbound mail, clear. Load outbound! We're four minutes behind." The team shifted positions, grabbing sacks and crates from a table and dumping them into the cart. "You've got a binder? Do what it says."
I ducked out of the way of a pegasus swinging a mailbag and headed for the side door. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Welcome aboard, newbie!" shouted one of the earth ponies, and a few of the others mumbled similar sentiments. "Now get gone."
Another loaded mail cart backed into the second bay at high speed, bumping my flank. "Air-mail, arriving with priority dispatches!" shouted the pilot, a young gryphon with a fancy foreign uniform and a heavy accent.
The old mare cursed under her breath. "We're five minutes behind. Get a move on! Parcel Post, grab the priority items and get them to Correspondence. Syndication, take Parcel's spot."
I pushed the door open as quietly as I could and scampered through, hoping they wouldn't associate their delay with my interruption. The landing was dimly lit, with only a few gas lamps dotting the walls, and the spiral staircase was heavily shadowed, with stairs worn smooth by the passage of countless hooves. It was not scary at all and I did not need to hyperventilate for thirty seconds before heading down.
Okay, yeah, I was scared at first, but after several minutes of climbing down, I was just bored. The lamps were bright enough to see by, once my eyes had adjusted, and the stairs just kept going. Finally I hit the bottom. The stairs ended in an old wooden door, clearly labelled 'Celestial Archives'. It wasn't even closed all the way! I pushed it all the way open and looked around at my new workplace.
It was an office. Quite a nice one, too. There was a woven carpet, and plenty of lamplight. A comfortable chair and desk was pushed against the left wall, and a bookshelf sat opposite it. A wastepaper basket full of recent newspapers and broadsheets sat next to the desk. On the far side of the room, a narrow hallway stretched into the distance.
I took off my saddlepack and dumped it onto the floor by the door. "Hello?"
A voice whispered back from the long hallway. "'lo?"
I screamed quietly.
Echoes. Right. My heart pounded in my chest.
Okay.
I am calm. I am a professional.
I am a professional mailpony in the heart of the safest building in all of Equestria, protected by hundreds of guards, and a princess who controls the sun and the moon. A building that has only been invaded by monsters a few times in the last couple years.
I am in control of this situation.
(I was not in control of the situation.)
Having hyperventilated for a few more moments, I finally looked over at the desk. It had been cleaned off, very recently, it seemed, and a single sheet of paper was left in the center, covered in uneven, blocky writing.
Dear Mailpony,
I am truly sorry that I do not know your name, and that I am not here to greet you personally and train you for this delicate assignment. I had hope to be permitted the opportunity of picking my replacement personally and training them for the position over the course of months or years. However, reality has interfered. My name is Direct Delivery, and it seems that I have broken my hip. As a result, I will most likely be in Canterlot General Hospital for the foreseeable future, followed by a mandatory retirement, and will probably never be able to return to the archives again. This is a most disagreeable end to a forty-eight year career in the Royal Mail Service, but it was a rewarding life, and I trust that you will fulfill your duty with pride and dignity. And loyalty. And discretion.
Please forgive my wandering mind: I am in excruciating agony, and nobody has come downstairs yet to check on me. This is most inconvenient.
By Celestia, shock is one Tartarus of a drug.
Before I leave, I must pass on some important advice. First thing's first: to your left, there is a rope hanging from the ceiling. If you pull it, a bell rings upstairs in the main office to tell them that you need assistance. This is very useful if you want lunch delivered, or if you have shattered your hip and need to be rescued. Response times vary between five and fifteen minutes.
This is the office of the Archivist. Your office. The Archivist's job is a sacred one, and one that dates back to the founding of Canterlot, if not Equestria itself. You have no idea of the honor that was bestowed on you when you were selected for this position. I'm sure that you received a binder of instructions, describing in great detail how to perform your duties. Don't worry about it - it hasn't been updated in generations, and was well out-of-date when my predecessor began his service. Just give it back to the mail service sometime, and they'll pass it on to the next pony.
If you ever have time, you're welcome to write and submit a more accurate set of instructions. Good luck with getting it approved by the Mail Service secretaries, though.
Your duties are as follows: each day you will receive a number of boxes from the mailponies upstairs. Your job is to file them in the archives with other recent boxes and label them clearly, using permanent ink, and recording the numbers in the catalog. The catalog's in the first drawer, an explanation of the filing system is in the second. Lucky for you, I finished today's filings already.
After that, you will search the storerooms for a single box (preferably with the lowest available archive number - the oldest box) and bring it to the far end of the hallway. Technically there's more to the choosing than that, but you'll figure it out eventually. At the far end of the hallway is a reading room. You must place the chosen box inside the reading room before nightfall. Then, you will return here, do whatever tidying up is required for the next day, and leave. That's it. That's your job. It sounds simple, but it isn't.
I hear my rescuers coming down the stairs, so I have to wrap this up. Once you place the chosen box in the reading room, it is no longer your responsibility - somepony else will handle it from there. You'll do fine. I have the utmost faith in you, and in your honor as a Royal Mailpony. Good luck.
-DD, Senior Chief Celestial Archivist (involuntarily retired?), Royal Mail Service, Canterlot Castle
Postscript: If you're just some useless temp, leave this for the next pony and don't touch the bookshelf or screw up my filing system!
I hope the old guy's gonna be okay. At least I've got plenty of time before... Nightfall! It was already getting dark when I got to the castle!
I've got to find the oldest box with the lowest number. In one of the storerooms. Simple enough. I can do filing. Just like in training.
I opened the desk drawers, retrieving the catalog and record book. According to the catalog, Mr. Delivery had stored sixty two boxes labelled "831044" earlier today, in storeroom two-seventy-five.
Hundreds of storerooms. Celestia scorch it.
I strapped my saddlepack back on with a grimace, then lit a portable lantern and grabbed it in my teeth, and entered the long hall.
I pulled the first door (helpfully labeled "001" in simple brass lettering) open, and groaned. Boxes of letters were stacked solidly to the ceiling, leaving barely enough room for a single pony to squeeze into the room at all. What's worse, the boxes didn't seem particularly old, and I didn't know what box numbers I was looking for anyway.
The second door was much the same, as was the third, and the fourth. Continuing down the hallway with increasing worry, it became readily apparent that all the convenient storerooms close to the office were utterly packed with recent boxes.
Abandoning the methodical approach, I trotted down the dark hallway to the fiftieth, and then the hundredth room. Sure enough, those rooms were also full of thousands of boxes, but at least some of them looked properly old, with yellowed envelopes, crinkled scroll cases, and archaic names and stamps.
By the two hundredth room, I found my first half-empty store room. A few hundred new boxes, no more than a few years old, perhaps, were stacked along one side of the long, narrow room.
Not what I was looking for, but at least I was learning something about the mess I inherited.
As I left room 200, I glanced back towards the office. With a shock, I realized that I could no longer see the comforting light of the gas lamps.
I sprinted back towards the lower numbered rooms (out of rational concern, naturally - I didn't want to get lost on my first day), but the light quickly reappeared in the distance. Did the hallway bend? Peering back towards the office, and walking a few dozen yards at a time, it became apparent that the hallway curved gently.
Canterlot Castle is surrounded by a tall stone wall. Do the storerooms curve to stay within the castle grounds? Or for another reason?
Well, there's nothing else for it. The oldest boxes I'd seen so far were around rooms 100 to 150, so I went back to the closest (room 150), grabbed the most accessible box, and checked the number.
In badly faded, bluish ink, on a scrap of yellowed paper, the box was labelled "329408", although the numbers were written oddly, with antiquated swirls and curlicues. Nevertheless, the box was relatively intact and the letters within seemed... Actually in pretty good condition, all things considered.
Was I supposed to read them? No. Of course not. I'm a professional mailpony (junior, third class), and I do not snoop. Still, I couldn't help notice that every single letter was addressed to the Princess.
I hefted the box onto my back and took off down the long, curving hallway. I stopped at room four hundred, out of curiosity (and exhaustion). Peering through the door, I saw a hooffull of boxes sitting along the wall. How many boxes of letters were down here?
And were the fire suppression systems adequate? Every trained mailpony knows the danger of storing large quantities of paper.
Maybe they'd just pour water down the stairs and flood the whole basement. I hope I'm not down here for that.
Suddenly I was very glad that there were no gas lamps burning along the long hall.
Hundreds of rooms later, the curved hallway finally ended at a solid stone door, which stood slightly ajar. Bringing my lantern closer, I read the engraving cut deep into the granite:
"The Reading Room"
The room beyond was pitch black, at least until I eased the heavy door open and shined my light inside.
A plain wooden table, accompanied by a large, simple chair that faced away from the door, sat next to an empty fireplace. A large clock ticked quietly in a corner.
I hoped the clock was accurate. I still had several seconds before nightfall, so technically I'd done my Official Duties on time.
I put down my lantern and walked over to the desk, placing the box where it'd be easy to reach from the chair. Hopefully, whoever had to go through this ancient stuff would appreciate the consideration.
As I did so, music started to echo down the fireplace's chimney. The bells of the castle belfry were tolling their solemn evening melody. According to tradition, the Lunar Song was performed to honor every nightfall, although nopony really knew why the Princess of the Sun bothered with all that.
I was too late. As I bent to collect my lantern, the reading room door slammed shut, either by some magical enchantment or hidden mechanism. The gust of wind from the moving stone managed to blow out my little light, and in the darkness I heard the sound of stone and metal sliding together.
I ran to the closed door, scrabbling at the smooth surface. It didn't budge, nor did there seem to be any handle or lock.
I fumbled for the extinguished lamp in the pitch blackness, trying to find the flint and tinder by hoof-feel.
I failed, obviously. And the lamp broke. I'm nothing if not consistent.
At least nothing was currently trying to eat me. That's a positive. When someone comes down to read the letters, I'll just tell them - ask them nicely - to please please let me out of the scary dark room. Great plan. Perfect.
Successful first day on the job. Everything's under control.
I spent several minutes - or maybe hours - vibrating in fear, pressed up against the locked door in a fetal position. Every second seemed like a lifetime, and my ears ached from listening for hoofsteps. None came.
Nothing lasts forever.
A silent flash of blinding light filled the tiny room, dazzling me completely. Paralyzed in terror, I was unable to make even the slightest noise or movement, simply shoving myself more firmly against the stone as I blinked to clear my eyes.
The light disappeared as quickly as it appeared, leaving me with the simple impression of a massive silhouette filling the room. I was not alone.
My breath came fast and shallow as I tried to speak. A few seconds later, I heard the rustle of paper, and the shifting of wooden chair legs on a stone floor. A dim light flicked to life above the desk, revealing its occupant.
Princess Celestia's horn provided only the barest hint of a glow, and She read the first letter slowly, deliberately. Her mane waved in the darkness, casting irregular shadows across the wall.
I tried to speak - really, I did - but what do you say to the Alicorn Princess who controls the Sun and the Moon and the Stars and rules the World in Justice and Harmony? Excuse me, could you let me out of your personal, private, secret, Royal study, please? I got locked in because I failed to perform my duties in a timely fashion? Please fire me and send me back to the Royal Mail Service so they can demote me and reassign me to some deadly wilderness where nopony will ever see me again?
She folded the letter, returning it to its envelope, and took one last look. With a flick of Her horn, She cast it into the fireplace, where it burst into white-hot flames, fully illuminating the little room for a fraction of an instant.
She selected another letter, unfolding it carefully. The ancient paper cracked, even under Her delicate magic.
I shifted position, as fear crept from my body, replaced with a degree of comfort? Curiosity?
It was Princess Celestia, after all. The paragon of all that was good and kind in the world. Surely I was in no real danger here. Right?
A couple of ink pots clinked together in my saddlepack. I froze. Surely She heard that? She must know I'm here.
The second letter disappeared in a flash of sunfire, its smoke rising up the chimney. The Princess picked a third letter from the box.
I didn't dare speak. What if the Princess was short-tempered in private? You hear stories of how all the nobles are corrupt and nasty, but pretend to be polite for their public personas. Could that be true of the Princess, too?
My hoof slid against the stone floor - a clear scraping sound. The Princess did not react. She did not turn Her head, nor did Her ears twitch to even the slightest degree.
Could the Princess be deaf? No. That'd be impossible to conceal. It'd be a scandal that could overturn the government. Everypony knows that Princess Celestia is Immortal and Unaging and perfect in Her physical form.
I was calmer now. The dark room, deep underground and full of ancient letters from dead ponies, no longer seemed quite as disturbing. A fourth letter burnt into nothingness in the fireplace, then a fifth, and a sixth. The Princess read each document with the same deliberate care, before vaporizing them.
An idea occurred to me. It was probably a bad one.
I retrieved a scrap of paper from my bag, along with a quill and an ink pot. Squinting in the near-darkness, I scribbled out a short message. On soft hooves, I walked slowly to the box of letters, now sitting on the floor next to the Princess of Equestria, and placed my page on top.
Dear Princess Celestia,
Why do you read them?
A few moments passed, and I retreated again, until my tail pressed firmly against the locked door. Soon enough, the Princess burnt away another letter, and drew my note out of the box. She read it as carefully as any of the others, but did not cast it into the fireplace. Instead, She drew a glowing quill - made from some strange, red feather - from under Her crown, and wrote a few words on it. She placed my letter in front of Her, on the far side of Her desk (an invitation?), and picked another old letter from the box.
Carefully, and quietly (oh so quietly), I crossed the room and faced the Princess of the Sun across the small table. She continued to read. The expression on Her face was unreadable - not unfriendly, but not the glorious vision of radiant welcome that I'd seen in portraits or public events.
I waited for a few moments before taking the chance of glancing at my letter. Somehow I knew better than to interrupt the silence.
Dear Mailpony,
Because I need to remind myself that I cannot do everything.
-C
"But you can, can't you?" I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud until She shook Her head.
I picked up my quill and wrote another few sentences on the scrap.
What are the letters for? What do they say that's so important? They're ancient.
I showed Her the page, and She replied by floating a bundle of letters across the table, letting them settle in front of me.
Dear Princess Celestia,
Your Royal Highness, my name is Curio Blaze, and my family runs a pottery shop in the village of Manehattan. Recently we have been faced with financial hardship, as imported Gryphon ceramic-
Frowning, I turned to the next one, and the next, and the next.
-Zebrica negotiations were a disaster for the hardworking ponies of YOUR nation, but the damned stripes get to rake in the bits-
-the orphanage is so cold, and there are never enough blankets for us. Please let the sun shine again soon-
-justify hoarding immortality for yourself while we die of-
-your radiance is exceeded only by my own, and I expect that you will gladly accept my hoof in-
In the name of the Sun, we demand that you deliver rain to our fields within-
-plague and famine as you rest fat and comfortable in your gilded palace-
-please, Goddess, grant us-
-prosperity and wealth-
-cure for this disease-
-shortage is getting worse-
-end this war-
-justice-
-peace-
I backed away from the papers. I didn't want to read any more of them.
"They're all... Requests? Demands?"
She shook Her head, continuing to read. I paused to think.
"Prayers?" I whispered.
She nodded, ever so slightly.
My mouth gaped open. "All of them?"
She sighed, casting another old letter into the fire.
"Did you..." I didn't know how to ask. "These are all old letters. Did you grant them? Their prayers?"
She shook Her head firmly, closing Her eyes. In the dim light, I thought I saw something glisten for a moment.
I returned to the desk slowly, looking down at the scattered letters. "These are hundreds of years old... ?"
She tossed an envelope at me. I quickly realized what she was trying to show me - the date written in the corner. My quill scratched again.
Fourteen hundred years? Why are you reading them now?
Another prayer exploded into fire and smoke in the hearth, and Princess Celestia picked up her quill again.
I read them because they deserve to be read. I read every piece of mail my little ponies send me.
"You got sixty boxes of mail this morning, and every evening you read one box. How long will it take you to catch up? Why don't you read today's mail?"
The Princess gave me a piercing stare and started writing.
When I started reading the letters my little ponies sent to me, I only received a few pieces of mail each week - from scholars, merchants, and wealthy nobility. Time passed, and, under my guidance, my little ponies prioritized education and literacy. Time passed, and Equestria grew from a cluster of hamlets banding together against the endless dark, to a shining beacon of civilization, with cities of millions and farms that stretch past the horizon.
Once upon a time, I received a box of mail in a month. Then a box every week. Then a box each day. Then two, and three, and five, and ten.
To answer your first question: I will never catch up. Today I read the innermost prayers and pleas of ponies more than a millenium in the past. Perhaps, in the distant future, I will be reading mail from ten thousand years in the past, or a hundred thousand. My promise - that I made to myself - is that I will read every single one. Eventually.
Your second question: You think these ponies are not important? Not real? Because they died long ago? I tell you they are real, flesh and blood ponies whom I knew and lived among and loved. Just as I love you, and all my little ponies today. Just as I love your descendents and the coming generations. They are just as real and important as you are. I read their prayers because I owe them that.
"But you don't do anything."
She tossed the page aside, not bothering to ignite it, and picked a new one.
Do I not? True, technically I am no more than a figurehead for Equestria's parliament these days, but under my guidance, Equestria has grown strong, healthy, and self-sufficient. I don't take credit for your advancements, or the endless work of countless thousands of teachers and scientists and engineers and doctors, but I think I have done my part in encouraging my little ponies to form a proud civilization.
The job I have chosen for myself is building the framework for your success, and making sure you have access to the tools you need. I do not solve problems for you.
I started to cry, staring up at the ancient goddess. Helplessly, I gestured down at the prayers scattered across the desk.
"Did she get a blanket? The orphan?"
Princess Celestia froze, staring at me with eyes that had seen mountains dissolve into dust.
"You don't know, do you? And the family that was hungry - maybe someone helped them, but you didn't. And you think reading their stories eventually is enough to soothe your guilty conscience? The sick foals? Did the doctors arrive in time?"
I was openly sobbing now. "I thought you were a Hero. A Goddess. Why won't you do more?" I gasped. "Please, let me go. I just want to leave now."
The door clicked open instantly, revealing the dark hallway full of dead prayers. I scampered for the exit, but slowed as Celestia spoke for the first time.
"One wish granted would be too many." She didn't turn to look at me. She spoke as if this was an old and familiar argument. "If I granted even one prayer, my little ponies would lose something precious. Something truly irreplaceable. Thousands of ponies would grow angry that their prayers were not answered. Millions would spend their lives trying to coerce or manipulate me into granting their wishes as well. How should I choose who is worthy of a prayer? My friends? My lovers? The poor? The successful? The strong? The weak? No one pony is more deserving than all of the others. If I grant one wish, I might as well grant them all."
"Could you? Could you grant them all?"
"If I could, what would the result be, mailpony? Would Equestria still be a proud civilization full of strong, independent ponies, if it were simply an extension of my labor? If every wound was healed, every hunger satisfied, and every ambition granted. If every desire was met instantly and completely?"
"Ponies would be happier."
"Yes. But would they still be ponies? Would 'their' accomplishments still have meaning to them? Or should I enchant their minds so that they find their nonexistence utterly fulfilling? I will not reduce my little ponies to beggars. I am not so cruel."
I refused to look at her. "Then what do you do? What good are you?"
"We- I do anything that ponies cannot achieve of their own power. Their own resources. Their own creativity. I guard you against threats you cannot conceive of. As your power grows, my responsibilities wane. Eventually, you will be so great that I will have no duties left, and I will simply be another pony."
I barely heard her lies as I galloped down the black corridor.
"And I raise the sun, every day, and I raise Luna's moon, every night, and I tell myself that that is enough."
I never returned to Canterlot.
