Hoofballistic

Chapters

Tartarus Hath No Torment...

Tartarus Hath No Torment...

It was hard for the sisters to find things they could do together. Part of that came from the age gap: Rarity had been born fairly early (and perhaps suspiciously early) in her parents' marriage, while Sweetie had been a fairly late surprise. One was still living in the family house, while the other had been on her own for years. It limited opportunities, cut down on contact, and often seemed to make each sibling into a slightly foreign presence in the other's life. The fact that life as a Bearer meant Rarity had to spend a steadily-increasing amount of time outside of Ponyville didn't exactly help.

"Where's Sun?"

"Where it always is, I would imagine. Somewhere beyond the atmosphere. And at this hour, somewhat to the east."

And even when they were together -- well, that didn't always help. Sweetie usually declared there was no fun to be found in a stockroom, while Rarity crossly wondered how the process of not having fun had still managed to completely disorder the place. And Rarity could honestly, rather darkly say that Sweetie was an inspiration for the creative process. Having the younger sibling within the Boutique would eventually see the older trying to find a moment of quiet solitude, she would be trying to think about anything other than the inevitable cleanup job ahead of her, something in her mind would respond by sparking into an I-dea!, she would desperately begin to sketch and then Sweetie would find her. Typically, the last would happen with a crash, a bang, some degree of optional shout, and the design within Rarity's mind breaking apart into puffs of despair, never to return. For Rarity, Sweetie had a way of turning into The Pony From Porklock, and she was still waiting for the younger to invest five seconds of library time into learning what that meant.

"It feels like we've been up for hours."

A little crossly, "Yes. Because we have been. And I believe that would be your fault. You awoke several times during the night. To get a drink. To use the restroom. In both cases, you made rather a lot of noise. Also, I'm not sure you ever thought about why the pattern kept repeating."

Different personalities. One sang more or less freely, while the other was still reticent to try any public performances and usually settled for blowing out the bathroom windows. Deliberate flamboyance could be compared to a certain shyness. The latter occasionally resorted to slinking around town, trying to stay out of sight because the tree sap was still in her coat.

"Sun," Sweetie decided, "should have been here by now." She adjusted her position upon the darkened stone pathway which led up to the front door, wriggled a little. Trying to warm up.

"It is winter," Rarity stated, and shifted somewhat at the center of her layers. "Sun will get here when it gets here."

There were only so many Sisterhooves Socials on the calendar, which admittedly went nicely with Rarity's yearly limit on dealing with non-spa mud: something Rainbow usually tried to overwhelm by early spring. Beyond that, they enjoyed very few of the same games. There weren't really any shared tastes in books, music, or movies. Each did follow a certain sport, and did so on a level which overwhelmed mere hobbyists -- but that was more of a family thing. When it came to participation... neither was particularly physical, didn't really go in for athletic activities outside of special occasions. And, unknown to the other, each secretly perceived that as a failing in herself.

They didn't do very much together, as older sibling and younger. (They hadn't even tried to combat the chill outside the house in a similar matter: Rarity was bundled at the core of complementary fabrics, colors, and quite a bit of violet fringe, while Sweetie had head-whipped a scarf around her neck and erroneously called it solved.)

But there was one thing...

"Sun," Sweetie somewhat forcibly repeated, "should have been here."

"The schedule is in the kitchen," Rarity muttered. "You can look at it any time you like. Admittedly, 'now' would be a rather poor choice --"

With that sharp, sudden anger which surprised just about everypony when it actually manifested for so much as three heartbeats, "The courier should have been here!"

Rarity's eyes slowly closed.

"Perhaps they're delayed." Most of the lie had been meant for herself.

"We're the first town out from Canterlot! They have to --" the younger briefly struggled to find the right word, and the wriggling accelerated accordingly "-- co-or-din-ate everything across the whole nation, everypony getting the news at the same time, but the Livery is in Canterlot and we're just a gallop away! If anypony wouldn't get a delay --"

The anger vanished, all at once. It often did.

"-- I'm sorry," Sweetie softly finished.

"There's nothing to apologize for."

Every year. Every year since their father had retired from one role and stepped into another. After this much time, it had gone beyond habit, existing as something on the edge of ritual. Rarity would come to the family house, needing to spend the night: the excuse was different each time and after the first year, all had been equally transparent. She would sleep in her sister's bedroom, because that was the best way to make sure each got the other up on time. And then they would sit outside the house, on the cold front path, waiting in winter's chill for an ultimate moment of warmth and validation.

"...the courier isn't coming."

Sun kissed the sky with rose and pink and a rather fine orange. Rarity couldn't seem to appreciate any of it.

"No," the older sister heavily decided. "I don't think they are."

They stared at the sky for a while. There was still a faint chance for one of the clouds to grow wings.

"You know what I hate?" Sweetie eventually asked. "That he just sleeps through it. He doesn't even try to get up on time. It's like it isn't important enough to him, like he doesn't want to see the courier come in when it's the most important thing ever."

"Perhaps he'd rather wait for a knock," Rarity sighed. "Or... he just doesn't want to look eager, Sweetie. Hopeful." Her head dipped: three layers of hood fringe dutifully bobbed along. "I imagine we look rather desperate. Almost pitiful."

"If he heard a knock," Sweetie stated with open frustration, "then the courier would tell him. We wait for the courier so we can tell him. What's pitiful about that?"

"The wait," said the older sister. "The cold." She looked up again. "The silence. It's like putting a dress into the Boutique's main display window, Sweetie -- if it had taken my entire career to make. One dress. The core of me. Everything I was in a single creation. Waiting for judgment." And this time, the elder shivered. "Which turns into rejection. Again and again --"

Rarity blinked.

"-- I hear wings."

Sweetie tried to find Rarity's ears under the hood, checking for orientation. Failed to spot them, and began examining the sky in all directions.

"I see wings!"

"It may," Rarity tried to emotionally pull back, "just be one of our commuters --"

"-- she's wearing saddlebags! And they're full! And she's heading right for us --"

Rarity looked up, just in time to see the pegasus enter the hover. Just a little in front of them, and slightly above.

The mare glanced down.

"Can I give it to you?"

Both sisters nodded so quickly as to produce the feeling that their horns were about to come off.

"...okay," said the slightly-confused pegasus. Turned her head towards the right saddlebag, fetched an object, let it fall onto cold stone, and flew away.

They stared at the results for a while.

"...of course," Rarity sighed. "It's the off-season. He's going to be home for a time, so he's decided to get it here. Especially given the way in which this particular edition tends to sell out at the newsstand..."

Sweetie, however, had moved forward and was already nosing it open. "National news," the younger openly dismissed. "'Lifestyle'. Whatever that is -- sports section!"

Two mares pounced. Each pinned a section of newsprint beneath their hooves, and both looked down.

They both saw it at the same time.

It was the front-page story. It took place on the same day every year and it was always the front page story. The words surrounded a center column, because that was where ponies looked.

They looked.

The column had a line in the center. There were a few names above it, and a great deal more below. Each sibling oriented on the center divide.

It had been a few years. Too many, and that was why they both looked down.

And there it was.
In the same place it always was.
Just below the divider.

"AGAIN!" It wasn't quite a scream, because they had sleeping neighbors and their parents were somewhere back there. It was a sound which was going to wait until Rarity reached full privacy, and then it was going to break something. "The same result! Every single --"

"-- I hate this," Sweetie whispered. "I hate this so much. I hate that he doesn't hate it..."

Neither had ever been sure whether they could claim that their father was famous. He was hardly ever recognized and when that happened, it wasn't always to the good. That was part of the price he'd paid during his playing days: some hoofball fans were forever on his side, while others had been desperately hoping for either a potentially permanent injury or a trade to their team: whichever came first. It hadn't gotten any better since he'd retired as a player, because coaches couldn't be traded.

He usually wasn't recognized: protective equipment had obscured his features during the first part of his career, and the hideous hat shadowed them in the second. And perhaps he wasn't famous. But for those who followed the sport, he was known. He had been known as one of the greatest linebreakers in hoofball's storied history, along with just being one of the very few unicorns to ever hold the position at all.

One of the greatest. And in Canterlot, you found the Immortal Livery: a museum dedicated to hoofball. A celebration of its history, and the best to ever play the game.

Once a year, there was a vote. Only fifty ponies participated in the balloting: sportswriters from across the nation. The results were mostly secret: you could reveal your choices if you wished, but -- only one pony ever did. And once an active player had retired, he went on the ballot for a period of ten years. Enough votes from those who had watched it all, and a courier would arrive. One box would contain a golden brooch. There would also be an appointment schedule, to visit a sculptor who worked in bronze.

How many ponies had at least tested themselves at hoofball once in their lives? Across the centuries, it had to be hundreds of thousands. A tiny percentage of those would play professionally (and a few really shouldn't have). Prior to this year's vote (and neither sibling could make herself read above that horrible line), there had been two hundred and forty-six bronzeworks in the Livery's central hall. In the Legendarium, a name which Rarity personally considered to be so pompous as to be leaking ego from the center of the vowels, and yet it was something she dreamed about every year. Because this was her father and if anypony deserved to be in their company, to be remembered...

It took thirty-eight YES votes to get in.
Their father had received thirty-seven.
Again.

"There's the opinion column," Sweetie quietly observed.

"Same title?"

"Why Nopony Is Worthy," the younger quoted. "Yes." Sadly, "Do you want to know the reasons this time?"

"No," Rarity heavily said. "In the second year, I noticed that he repeats himself on the older candidates. Perhaps he just moves some ancient arguments to new names as needed. The one sportswriter who displays his ballot every year, and that's just to reveal that he's decided Equestria is experiencing an ink shortage. Clearly marking a YES vote would use up too much of what we have left. Perhaps that's why he never posts a picture..."

Every year, they waited for the news. The confirmation their father was immortal.
Every year...
There was only a little bit of eligibility left. And then he would be off the ballot for two centuries. The amount of time required before he was passed over to the Historical Committee. When there was no one left who remembered seeing him play, with only numbers to testify.
Numbers couldn't talk about power. Presence.
About being gently tucked in at night, on those scarce-feeling nights when he'd been home.

They silently folded the paper. Went inside, deposited the bundle on the kitchen table, and climbed the ramp towards Sweetie's bedroom.

"So he didn't vote for Dad," Sweetie bitterly declared. "Again."

"As per usual."

The younger glanced back. "Where would you start this time?"

The older's smile was thin and vicious. "I think we could ambush him outside the newspaper's offices."

"Too public," Sweetie decided. "Especially if we're going to start with a kicking."

"True..."

Both went into the little bedroom. Rarity, who always closed the Boutique for the vote announcement, had the day free. It was always in the hopes of having time to celebrate, and when that failed...

The sisters didn't get to do much together. But once a year, strictly for the vicious, fully-impotent pleasure of it, they planned a murder.

Getting their non-victim out of sight took them through breakfast, but -- neither felt hungry, and they stayed on the upper floor. Body disposal covered up most of the soft knock on the front door. But when it came to the approach of their father's hoofsteps a few minutes later, getting close to the bedroom -- that was a sound for which both daughters were attuned.

The large hoof politely rapped on the thin barrier. "You two got a minute?"

The siblings glanced at each from across the small bed. It was currently hosting two sisters, plus a sketchbook filled with dress designs, jewel stock figures, and strictly-theoretical escape routes.

"We're okay, Dad," Sweetie called out as Rarity hastily closed the cover on this year's non-killing. "Come in."

He entered. It took a few seconds for the process to complete, for he was an exceptionally large stallion -- at least, for a unicorn. Solid, muscular, much more bulky than what was usually associated with a horn -- but an earth pony of similar size could easily overpower him. So could a smaller one. And yet...

Their father had a tendency to move rather carefully. The speed was normal, but -- to Rarity, it often felt as if each muscle received a silent self-test before use.

"Looked at the paper," he said. Which was probably still downstairs because otherwise, it would have been in his mouth. He used his corona less than any adult unicorn they knew. "Livery made the announcement today. But you girls knew that."

The words had been calm. Almost passive.

His daughters each had to force the nod.

"And we just had a courier."

They shared very little, the sisters. But on rare occasion, they managed to duplicate a thought.

late just late got delayed on the way in just late and he's

Their father smiled. It was a rather warm specimen, and all the more so for how seldom they got to see it. Coaches were still on the road a lot.

"Sturmundrang got in."

The other two unicorns stiffened. He didn't seem to see it.

"About time," he added. "Should have been the first ballot, but..." There was a slight, rather measured shrug. "Not the way it worked out. Important thing is that he's in now. And --"

"-- he hurt you." Sweetie's words had lost no force for the lack of volume. "He hurt you so badly. I remember the white sheets on the bed. The smell of the potions..."

"You were in the hospital for two moons after that impact," Rarity starkly stated. "Two. Moons."

It was most of what they remembered. Sweetie had been too young, unable to retain much more than impressions, and Rarity -- she'd had access to the articles, she could have asked for a full breakdown of the play at any time, and all she'd cared about was that her father had been hurt. She had the name of the culprit, and had added memories of the rehabilitation period. Two moons in the hospital, and another four of watching her father as he figured out how to move all over again. It was something which didn't seem to require any further detail.

"I was a linebreaker," the stallion rather peacefully said. "He was on the line." Paused. "With Sturm, he pretty much was the line. So we went up against each other a few times. Wasn't anything personal, you two. He got me once, and I got better."

There were so many reasons why you didn't usually see unicorns in the linebreaker position. It wasn't always the line which wound up broken.

"I always figured he got the worst of it," their father shrugged. "Anyway, we had a courier. Sturm wants me to give his pre-induction speech. The one which officially puts him in the Legendarium, at the ceremony. After the honorees party."

Four eyes went wide with unrepressed fury.

"The pony who nearly ended your career," Rarity began, all too aware that she was already doing some verbal editing because your life couldn't be said in front of Sweetie, "wishes for you to be the one who grants him the ultimate honor --"

"-- we know each other pretty well," the stallion gently interrupted. "And he got the worst of it. Least I can do."

They were staring at him. He didn't seem to notice.

"Not asking for help with the speech," he added, and smiled at his eldest. "No offense, Rares -- but if you write it, everypony's gonna figure out that I didn't in a hurry. Just giving you both some advance notice. Ceremony's off-season, so everypony can attend without trouble." Hesitated. "For the ones who can get there."

Another pair of nods were forced.

"I'm invited," their father said. "When it's invitation-only. Usually that's just the inductees, whoever they asked to come, and some ponies in the voting pool. But I can bring family, and -- your mother ain't interested. She... doesn't think it's worth the trip, not when it's Sturm. Told me so. But I'd like some company. So... two moons from now?" He looked towards Sweetie. "It's a weekday. I can talk to Cheerilee, pull you out of school a little early for the train. And Rarity, I know I'm asking you to close the Boutique, but... you've never been, either of you. The Livery -- it's something to see..."

He almost looked wistful, as if there was a dream hovering just in front of his eyes. But he didn't look at it. He looked at them.

"Okay by you two?" he asked. "To come with?"

They waited until the sound of his hoofsteps had fully receded down the ramp.

"I know why I said yes," Sweetie began. "I don't want him to be alone. Not when there's a lot of ponies who've -- made it. Who got what they wanted, and he doesn't have it, and..."

She glanced at her right flank, then quickly looked away.

"...they might be judging him," the younger quietly finished. "Nopony should be alone for that. Why are you going? It'll still be winter, but you usually need that whole week to finish the spring line." With just a little irritation, "Or that's what you always say when you kick me out."

"Sturm," the older sister harshly stated, and temporal echoes set a place within her ears. Distant moans as her father struggled to complete the simple act of climbing into a bed. "It's his special day, isn't it? Perhaps the most special of his life, given how few are ever inducted into the Legendarium. But the voters look at the special moments. Those which distinguish his career from all of the others. For a player on the line, that would include -- memorable impacts."

Her lips twisted. Nothing about the results could be called a smile.

"It's his special day," Rarity repeated. "I intend to make sure of that."

Sweetie nodded. Rarity worked her way off the mattress.

"I'm going to fetch some water. Would you like a mug?"

"Yes, please."

One left. The other waited. Both shared the thought.

One vote.
He misses by one vote every year.
He said there's going to be voters there...

Neither really talked to each other about the plan. They didn't know that each had thought of the same thing -- and if there had been so much as a single mention, neither would have been surprised. The sisters had very little in common, and any efforts which wound up as coordinated seldom started that way. But on the rare occasions when they did act together...

Rarity, who already understood the sport on a level which made her the terror of multiple fantasy leagues (all of which she entered secretly, by mail, and the participants were convinced there was a stallion on the other end), spent a good portion of two moons researching her father's career. Sweetie took to books of statistics with the sort of ferocity which occasionally had her glancing towards her flanks with light fear: this stopped after she realized that it was only her own dedication which was keeping her from falling asleep. Each compiled a list of talking points and prepared to inflict them without mercy. Or, if necessary, without stopping for breath.

On the day of the ceremony, Rarity closed the Boutique early: a partial sales day was better than none, and a slow specimen simply gave her that much more time for rehearsal. Father and elder daughter withdrew Sweetie from both school and the near-crushing vise of classmate envy, with the other students staring at the one who got to leave early.

There wasn't much talking on the train. Their father tended to be a stallion of few words, and it could take moons after the season ended before he fully shifted out of postgame interview clichés. The siblings were both using the time to review potential strategies. And when it came to others on the train car approaching them... one had been found at the edge of a few too many craters and the other, while often considered attractive, was generally thought to be one enchanted sewing device accident away from becoming a supervillain. The device itself was potentially optional.

(Both siblings brought a certain amount of creativity to their endeavors. A number of ponies were enthralled by that prospect, and just about as many were terrified.)

So the trip largely took place in silence, both for the railway and the passage on hoof to the Livery, because of course the museum hadn't sent a carriage. And when they finally approached their destination...

Hoofball hadn't been born in Canterlot. True devotees of the sport had been known to make pilgrimages to the very first play site: a forlorn little pasture some distance outside Farmington, marked with a little plaque: the plaque received a reliable half-polish at least once per decade. It would have been easy to set up the Livery there, but -- the museum had been built long before the rail lines, and those who'd placed it had wanted access to the capital's money. It had still been a rather reluctant decision, because Equestria's longest-running war was the Equestrian Hoofball League vs. Princess Celestia.

They hated being directly under her snout, because that placed them within the direct supervision of a mare who Just Didn't Get It. The league could cite any number of reasons why the Solar alicorn was clearly the stupidest mare in the world, and had recited most of those arguments in court. For example, there was their idea for making any hosting settled zone fully pay for the construction of a team's arena out of resident taxes, because having a hoofball team play in your city was a privilege. The Princess had rather politely countered with a stupid concept which said that if the taxpayers had funded a building, then they clearly owned it. And if they were the owners, then not only did the franchise need to start paying rent, but there were never going to be any ticket sales because you'd hardly expect somepony to pay for admission into their own house.

There were generations of attorneys who were still collecting fees in the ongoing attempt to overturn that one. Some of them were direct descendants of those who'd stood before the judge and testified that the league itself shouldn't have to pay any taxes because you didn't charge government fees to any truly vital enterprise. And as hoofball was self-evidentially more important than Sun and Moon...

It could be argued that the decision had ultimately worked out in the league's favor. The fundamental injustice inherent in rigged courts might have them reluctantly nosing over their taxes every year, but having the Princess steer Sun and Moon around every arena for three decades had done wonders for advancements in artificial lighting.

The league had engaged in centuries of legal war against the palace, lost every battle, was somewhat afraid to permanently lock the Princess Box in every arena, and still went back into court with syllables blazing because there was a remote chance for the executive branch to eventually go through an overturn and besides, maybe Princess Luna would see sense. The first attempt to shoelick the younger alicorn was already underway, but shifting most of the schedule towards night games didn't seem to be doing much.

Still, the Livery had wound up in Canterlot, because the league loved money. They claimed that the museum only existed due to love of the sport and for a scant few of the team owners, this was arguably true. But the majority loved money more. They loved any idea which had the potential to bring them more money, and the current generation was still trying to figure out why the Princess loathed profit so much as to have personally written the law which banned the very concept of the 'personal bench license'. They loved collecting bits, keeping them, and the oldest had yet to reconcile the horror that their players wanted to be paid.

But there had been a strike, a long time ago. Something which had nearly shut down the league entirely, until the team owners had decided to bring in low-cost replacements for the professionals, and -- that had been the fiasco which had finally made the owners realize that when it came to money, they needed to give the players a little more of it.

League money had built the Livery. (It was that or lose the ability to charge admission fees.) And since the Livery was a celebration...

"I thought it was bigger," Sweetie announced, staring up towards the roof.

The little filly didn't have to arc her neck all that far. The Livery consisted of two visible levels, with one storage area below the ground: the museum portion presumably needed somewhere to keep all of the history they weren't using. The building was largely made of unforgiving granite, with a few artistic mica chips to catch the light. It was something which made the walls slightly more forgiving than the league's first attempts to construct an artificial playing surface.

There was only a little glass, at the very center of the first level. It mostly served to show where the entrance was, and offered just enough visibility to get a glimpse of the ticket desk. The league saw very little point in putting windows into a museum. It was best to control every aspect of interior light for best display and besides, if anyone wanted to see the artifacts, they could pay to come in.

Granite, about twice the length of a hoofball field. A little mica. And, at the very top, the sculpture. It showed half of a giant hoofball, turned vertically to point at the sky. The results were lined with strips of brass, did a wonderful job of catching the light, and mostly reminded Rarity that she was probably overdue to replace her juicer.

"Ain't the size," their father proudly said. "It's about what's in there. Come on, you two. We can go right in." With a smile, "Not many ponies who can say that today. Closed to everypony except the inductees, voters, the invited, and their families." The stallion thought that over for a moment. "Also got some press. Ones who don't vote. But they'll be in the ceremony room -- well, on the other side of the stage, off the sanctum. Don't get to take part in anything else."

He looked up, and then angled his head back a little more until he found the nearest clock tower.

"Plenty of time before the honorees party," he said. "Why don't we take the tour?"

Rarity hesitated.

"Must we?"

Her father rather placidly looked at her. "Problem?"

"I..." She fought the urge to swallow. "...I was waiting. Until I could... take it with you."

Until after the day when that horrible line had you above it. Finally recognized you.
Said what I always knew. That you were worthy.
That my father would never die.

He smiled. "Then this is the perfect time, ain't it?"

The large unicorn peacefully trotted towards the door, and the start of the designated path. After a moment, his daughters followed.

It began as history.

The first thing to greet them after the door -- well, after the door and a security guard who checked to make sure they'd been invited -- was an ancient carriage. It was the sort of thing which mostly still existed due to the power of strong wood, careful polish, and a lot of preservative spells. A sign announced it as the carriage used by two owners of the league's Original Eight teams. They'd been sharing a ride on their way to sign a contract. The paperwork which had brought the Equestrian Hoofball League into existence.

The display case just beyond that held the contract. It glowed slightly from the radiance of the stasis spell which allowed it to still exist, and also from the power of absorbed dreams.

The Livery claimed to have everything. Just as long as it was important.

Sweetie and Rarity had so little in common, but... they were both the children of a professional athlete. Neither was capable of performing on that level, each saw that lack as a failure in herself, and... when it came to what was required to find a place in the Livery's halls, they understood. They recognized the history of the league, and something in them longed to honor it. The league had given their father a place. Said he was special.

...not immortal. Just -- special...

...it was so easy to become lost among the artifacts, at least during the first part of their tour. Adrift within the centuries, as the final echoes of ancient cheers rang in six white ears.

There were other ponies taking the tour, because there were other inductees being honored. Theirs had not been the only invitations issued, and perhaps some of the voters were moving around the display cases, shifting through lighting which ranged from slightly too subdued through just a little too bright. The sisters would have seen it as an opportunity, but -- they weren't quite sure who did what just yet, and they were moving across time in the company of their father.

You could get lost in the centuries, within the great ring of time: you entered the first circle at the deepest point of the past, walked around the perimeter until you reached the present, and it was still possible to become fully adrift. Rarity noted that color-coding of the walls denoted eras -- but didn't pay immediate attention to the wording, because there was too much history to review. It was probably something like Early Wedge Formation Epoch moving through to Spellwork: The Banned List Takes Shape, which would naturally lead into every single way ponies had tried to sneak their coronas past it.

For the most part, those within the ring spoke quietly, if they spoke at all. Sweetie kept picking up on traces of a harsh, half-sneering voice moving at low speed somewhere on the other side, but -- for the majority, the weight of time muted words.

There was so much to look at.

This sweater: it had belonged to Wraith Runner. So many players had said trying to nip at the fabric of his uniform had always resulted in something... strange. As if the pony wasn't quite there. And then he'd be six body lengths closer to the goal. Sweetie smiled at the familiar logo, while Rarity admired colors, design, and athlete. Their father briefly bowed his head.

They found a genuine cursed document. It was the certificate which had officially brought the Baltimare Hoofprints into existence. Rarity waited for a moment of distraction, then taught Sweetie a new curse.

Here: a cracked helmet. One of the earliest models, there to demonstrate how protective equipment had evolved with the times...

"What cracked it?" Sweetie tentatively whispered.

Their father hesitated. "Can't say, Sweetie. A lot of this stuff is just old. Even with all of the spellwork, every trick the Livery can pull or cast... it can break down over time."

"Helmets can become cracked through impact," Rarity softly stated, and her tail twitched. "Especially the sort of impact which pretends to have legality."

Another hesitation. "There's always a risk," the stallion reluctantly admitted. "But what we've got now is better than what they used to have. They were boiling the armor plating off dead monsters once, you two. Make it soft enough to mold, then let it harden again. 'course, if you can bring a monster down in spite of the armor, then maybe it wasn't protective enough. Got some of that a few cases down the line. The ones embedded in the wall --"

Another shared thought.

Players get hurt.
Even coaches --

Each saw the second half of that concept coming, and both siblings stomped on it.

"Hey!" a powerful, half-laughing voice rang out from somewhere behind them. "Hey, hornhead! Since when did their standards lower enough to let you in?"

And before either sister could turn, their father had moved.

"Once they dropped them enough for you, I was automatic!" the big stallion called back. "Don't you remember me waving as you went by?"

It brought a full laugh. "Get over here! You owe me a minute, at the very least! Not to mention one of those foreleg loops!"

Their father glanced towards them. "You two mind?" They shook their heads. "Okay. Back in a few."

They watched him leave. Moving carefully, but -- with a certain joy in the step.

"Not Sturm," Rarity noted.

"No, Sturm's an earth pony," Sweetie agreed. "Pegasus, with that mark and colors... I think that's Swoopright. He's a freeroamer."

Rarity nodded. "One of the speedsters." The older male still looked as if he could get a good pace going, at least on hoof. The grey left wing didn't seem to be sitting in a proper rest position.

They tried standing next to the case for a while. Ponies caught up to them, needed a viewing angle. They shifted awkwardly. Then they had to do it again.

"We can just move a little, to the next ones," Sweetie proposed. "I don't mind looking at the same things again when he gets back."

Rarity nodded, and they shifted to another piece of paper. One where the mouthwriting was frankly horrible, with every character distorted by the jagged lines of movements made in fury.

Sweetie, who'd been ignoring most of the explanatory plaques, squinted. "What's that?"

Rarity rather more sensibly glanced down. "The first max contract written under the collective bargaining agreement," she read. "So that would be the post-strike era --"

The older sister squinted. Brought her head up, automatically shifted neck and body to reorient her garment, and glanced back along her right flank.

"-- did we miss something?"

"Sorry?" Sweetie asked.

"This is the start of the post-strike era," Rarity said. "But we didn't pass anything from the strike. None of the altered rosters, or the temporary team uniforms which used new names and colors to claim that the players weren't actually replacements. They couldn't be, when they so obviously hailed from new franchises." There was a small sniff. "Very few of those rather ugly uniforms survive, mostly because I understand they burned rather well. But I'd certainly expect to see some specimens here."

Sweetie looked around. "There's a few more uniforms near the statue in the center of the ring. The one of Mr. Trophy."

"Are any of them puce with maroon piping?"

Two snouts automatically wrinkled with disgust.

"No," Sweetie thankfully announced, followed quickly by "Puce with --"

"-- I was not there and if I used the time travel spell for thirty seconds of exposure to that, Twilight assures me that I would be unable to stop them."

"...really?"

"I asked."

"Oh."

"Twice."

"...twice."

Defensively, "New innovations in magic are being created all the time. And this was important."

Somewhere to their left, harsh words did their best to shatter the display glass.

"-- shouldn't be here. She never would have been able to play in the modern era," an unseen stallion declared. "You all know that. She wasn't strong enough."

Indistinct mutters just barely reached the siblings, followed by shuffling hooves. Most of the latter sounded as if they were backing up.

Rarity and Sweetie looked at each other, then glanced in that direction. All they saw was the fleeting end of a curly black tail, streaked lightly with the grey of age.

By mutual silent agreement, they backtracked a little.

"I don't see anything from the strike," Sweetie finally said after reinspecting the third case: something which had reluctantly included reading everything presented. "Nothing at all..."

"Perhaps it has a section to itself?" Rarity tried to propose: the words seemed reluctant to leave her tongue. "An entire display hall. It was a rather major part of the league's history." She peered carefully at the color-coding on the walls, now searching for words. "There might be something about See Huge Room On Next Floor And Just On Your Left --"

-- she stopped, as the first word resolved. Looked back again, to where colors and words both shifted. Checked forward...

"...Sweetie," a slightly hollow voice inquired, "did you notice how the eras are labeled?"

The younger sibling, head still full of statistics and history, finally looked. Then she looked again, because what she'd seen couldn't be right and that meant making sure.

"By commissioner," she finally said. "The name of the pony who was in charge of the league..."

There had always been a commissioner. When the idea was to make money, you needed somepony who could make sure everypony made a lot of it.

White fur briefly shivered on two forms. The siblings moved.

"-- never could have played with the greats," that same voice dismissed. "Not when players are so weak now, with all the rules and equipment and spells trying to keep them going." With an audible sneer, "And they still get hurt."

"There was another game death three years ago," a mare quietly said.

Rarity and Sweetie froze.

They'd both known.
They also knew about waiting.

"If you can't take it," the unseen stallion declared, "don't play."

With a not-so-faint note of desperation, "Sturm --"

"-- and if that's why you vote," self-satisfaction announced, "then don't vote."

And that was when they lost the sounds again.

They couldn't quite seem to catch up to that voice, especially while trying to keep their father in sight. Neither was entirely sure they wanted to. But eventually, they did track down where it had been standing the first time.

They both looked at the case for a while.

"Well," Rarity eventually decided, "he is right. She could never play in the modern game."

"Why?" Something Sweetie felt was a natural question.

"For starters? She would be six hundred and forty-nine years old. And as she was an earth pony, I'm completely certain that would also make her rather dead. This is Corporae, Sweetie --"

"-- I know her," the younger gently interrupted. "The first mare on the line. The first mare inducted."

"Also the mare with the largest rib cage measurement in league history. Still. Look at that uniform, Sweetie. You and I could wear it at the same time and invite Spike in for tea. And he was saying," Rarity summarized, "that she wasn't strong enough..."

But that was when their father, smiling and light with the buoyancy of happy memories, came trotting back.

The Livery claimed to have everything. Something which made it easy for the sisters to see just what was there and, after a while, what wasn't.

There was a small cinema. That was new. You took a bench, and you watched a carefully-edited short film detailing the highlights of the previous season. Rarity openly admired the editing. It was the sort of editing which could render a twelve-cart collision into something you wanted to be part of. Impacts of bodies against bodies came across as Art, and always cut away just before you saw the medical results.

(The cinema's spectator area also rotated by a hundred and eighty degrees during the presentation. Neither sibling had any idea why. Perhaps there were some treadmills on the floor below, and ponies who needed exercise.)

Another room hosted a device which projected a sophisticated illusion. The sport's greatest coach gave them a pep talk, at least as long as the well-played album remained upon the gramophone.

They found a little hall, one where the exhibits could change by the week. Break the blocking record and your hip guards would be under glass within five days. In that sense, any player could get into the Livery with one outstanding performance, and just about none of them got to stay.

(They heard somepony claim that the last block had been a deliberate surrender by the other player, just to get their fellow the record. That it never would have been allowed Before.)

There was a case which took up most of a wall, and it hosted a sample for every championship foreleg loop which had ever been forged. They started as something simple and elegant, then slowly added jewels, metals, and near-crenelations while never looking back. The most recent version still had to be won by team effort, but lifting it required most of the fanbase.

Rarity and Sweetie had the option to see two of those loops any time they liked, simply by rummaging through their father's closet. (He had fought in the final game three times, and both sisters were convinced that the middle match had actually been another sport entirely. Players were known to have a rather hard time at Refball.) But it was something, to see them all in the same place.

To see the Livery admit that every game had taken place.

At one point, in the Modern area, their father got a little ahead of them. He had been in the lead for just about all of it, but -- they saw him approach a vertical glass case, one of those partially embedded into a wall. He glanced at the contents. And then he quickly got ahead.

The daughters accelerated somewhat. He kept moving. And when they reached the case, the siblings stopped.

"...oh," Sweetie just barely breathed. "Oh..."

Their father was somewhere ahead of them.

Their father was right there.

The Belle-Ringer was at the top of the case. The Livery always displayed a beloved fan nickname with prominence.

At the base of the glass, you found a small piece of stiff paper. A draft card. He'd been picked in the fourth round, because he was a unicorn who played as a linebreaker and sixty-three others had been taken before anypony had given him a chance.

His first uniform. (The elder sibling noted that some of the grass stains had never come out.)

There was a rather complicated ring-shaped device at the back left corner, one long-drained of charge. Their father was a unicorn facing earth ponies at close quarters: something which gave him an arguable disadvantage. But unicorns -- linebreakers included -- were allowed to cast a limited number of spells per game: something which assumed they could learn all of the legal ones and didn't suffer any sharp impact to the horn while they were trying to get one off. The scant list added spice to the matches, while making things a little more fair. Because spells were temporary -- but the horn was a permanent attachment, and that was why the device existed. It was a phase-shifter, one which only worked for short bursts. Activated by kinetics, capable of recognizing lunges and tackles. Detect the right kind of movement, and a horn would be effectively intangible: incapable of pokes, gouges, or gores. This device had been his.

A long, thin patch of preserved grass. He'd been known for pushing ponies quite a long ways when they went down. It tended to tear up the turf.

Several photographs. Neither daughter could look at the one which had the giant earth pony coming in fast from the right.

Trading cards. (It was possible for a player to make bits off their image, and so there had been a period when the league had tried to own that too.) A worn tooth guard.

The biggest picture showed him at the front, with a ball carrier right behind him. Ponies falling to either side, and the goal just a little ways ahead. The moment he'd broken the line, hauling his entire team across the final barrier for the last championship of his life.

They stared at all of it. And then they heard hoofsteps coming up behind them. Slow, careful, not carrying very much weight...

"You're the Belle sisters," a senior's voice observed. "Easy enough to spot you, when you're with your father." A light laugh. "I'd like to think I could have done it if he wasn't here. You both have his fur."

They turned, looked at the glasses-wearing elder with the slicked-back cerise mane and fur like aging paper.

"I'm Curator," the stallion told them, and offered his right forehoof: each sibling managed a press. "I collect and manage artifacts for the exhibits. It's good to see you here with him. To see him, especially looking so well." Another small laugh. "I imagine coaching is keeping him in good shape." Somewhat more softly, "And of course, I..."

He stopped. Both daughters watched his face contort a few times.

"...I work for the Livery," he eventually finished. "I'm supposed to be neutral. The judgment of history, and nothing more. You understand."

Both siblings nodded. He focused on the case.

"Do you like the display?"

Each found the strength for another movement.

"It's part of why I wanted to speak with you, when I saw that you'd come along," the archivist said. "I'm always hoping for a chance to talk with the families, for -- those who have them. And I was wondering..."

They waited.

"Well," he shrugged, "before we reach the heart of it -- I have to ask, you understand. I ask everypony. It's nothing personal."

Two white jaws tightened somewhat, because 'nothing personal' had yet to be anything other than a lie.

"Anyway," Curator went on -- and then the rest emerged in a rush. "We're always looking for new exhibits, always. And your father is rather well-known. A lot of players just take things home without thinking about what they really have. And -- well, honestly, nopony knows what Princess Celestia was thinking, not letting us get an automatic line into a former player's will. That should be a perfectly legitimate part of a contract! But should something happen, Sun-forbid-of-course, or in the natural passage of time, and there's anything you don't care to sort through -- and really, the collectors lie about values all the time, so much of it only possesses worth as something to rest in a case, where it's safe --"

They had been staring at him during every syllable. He'd only just noticed.

"We would have special interest in the hat," he added.

Two minds simultaneously flashed onto a vision of the most hideous piece of millinery known to exist, mostly because the universe hadn't stopped retching long enough to try destroying it yet.

"No," the sisters said.

"I'm sure it has no real value to you --" the stallion pressed on.

"NO," was repeated in a rather Appleish way.

Curator blinked. Then he vanished.

They weren't sure how he'd done it. There had been no light and he'd lacked a horn, so a teleport wasn't involved. Not even Rainbow's wings could work that fast. The vanishing was something of a mystery, and neither cared to solve it. The important part was that he was gone.

Rarity and Sweetie looked at the case again.

"I don't want that mark," Sweetie decided.

"A vulture with a magnifying glass," Rarity determined, "is suitable for very few occasions."

The case, and everything in it.

"You see it, do you not?" the older sibling asked. "What they've done, and what they still wish to do?"

"Yeah," Sweetie morosely replied. "They want everything about Dad." Light green eyes, slightly damp, went over the contents one last time. "Except Dad."

"He belongs here." It was half a hiss: the rest was an unnoticed plea. "You know he does..."

"The Livery doesn't vote."

The remnants of an echo-tattered sneer made its way back to them.

Both turned away from the case, and they went to find their father.

When they caught up, they found him looking at a wall.

A completely blank, unadorned section of wall. And he was just... looking at it. Starting near the ceiling, moving his gaze steadily towards the floor, and then it stayed there for what felt like a very long time.

"...Dad?" the sisters offered, and each only heard the other's tremble of fear.

"Just looking," he said. "Looking at where they should have been."

And then, if only physically, he moved on.

Finally, they entered the Legendarium. The place where time itself almost fell silent.

It was a curving room of only three colors: obsidian, white, and bronze. The obsidian formed the walls. Sources of white light were cleverly hidden, shone through clear shelves, and...

...it was the bronze which caught them. Over and over again.

There were no clocks in the Legendarium. The air was as still as pegasus magic would allow. You looked at the bronze, and you held your breath. It was possible that the fixed stares would decide you weren't worthy of it.

Two hundred and forty-six bronze sculptures of pony heads. (After this year, it would be two hundred and forty-nine.) They were arranged as a march through time: the earliest days of the sport, progressing steadily towards the modern era: something the Livery designated under Commissioner Goodbits.

The faces were noble. Very few offered any expression other than steely determination, and only a few of the recent ones had anything close to a smile. Every feature was perfect. Snouts across a continent aspired to have a single moment where they could match even a third of what the sport's greatest surveyalist had shown.

Some of them had bronze collars around the base of the neck. The signifier for somepony who hadn't played, but had contributed in some other way.

It was a place where centuries dropped away. The bronze was here, only the bronze remained when nearly all of the ponies had died, but... the pony was in the shadowlands, and the bronze would be in the Legendarium forever.

Their father left them for a few minutes, getting ahead. Looking for those from his own time. They noticed him skirting around the edges of a miniherd, taking care not to make contact with a greying tail. Both heard the sneer.

And then they were alone. Standing within black, illuminated by white, surrounded by bronze. Something perfect.
Unaging.
Immortal --

"-- that's not how he looked, is it?" Sweetie softly asked.

Rarity slowly turned. Focused on the direction of Sweetie's gaze.

"Coach Touchback?" she asked. "Sweetie, everything I'd read takes special care to bring up that chin --"

"-- cameras," the younger began (and the words felt so shaky), "are pretty new. You're not that much older than film. This is somepony who lived centuries ago, Rarity. When all they had was sketches and paintings. You said once that portrait painting is like fashion for a pony's entire body. It's not so much how they looked as the way they wanted the artist to make them look. And some ponies never have anypony draw them at all --"

"-- look at all of them!" It was a whisper: it had to be, in the presence of immortals. And yet, it still felt far too urgent. Too fearful. "I've read about it, Sweetie, just in case Dad ever -- they make an appointment, and the artist uses him as a base. Slips him back in time, to when he was strongest. The pony whom the fans remember. The best of him, the best of all of them. Captured at the height of their powers, every time --"

"-- with perfect ears," Sweetie softly broke in. "A snout which the models in your magazines don't have, and there's never a mane hair out of place. It's not how they looked, is it? We don't know what some of them looked like. It's... what ponies want to believe..."

Rarity's breath felt forced.

"I can imagine that there were a few for whom there is no visual record," she made herself admit. "In which case, the artist did the best they could. The spirit of the pony --"

"-- what the Livery wants to show," the younger suggested, and there was a strange weariness there. "It's what they want you to see. Not what was."

She looked at the imperious set of the bronze chin again. Turned to face her sister, with a little echo of hooves upon the cold corpse of dead heat.

"I think I know what Dad was looking at, on the wall," Sweetie said. "Do you?"

No --

But Rarity knew.

-- yes.

The Legendarium was near the end of the designated path. They'd passed just about everything now. There was only a little more to come before they reached the party, and Rarity had found a map in one connecting corridor. A tiny section reserved for referees (her teeth automatically ground), followed by a somewhat larger one to honor great sportswriters. And that was it.

There had been exhibits designated for the greatest of the games. The championships which had been awarded at the end of more ordinary ones had their existence preserved as nothing more than a rendition of the foreleg loop.

The referees were ahead. Rarity was expecting sketches of the greats: Sweetie figured on seeing some ancient equipment. Neither expected a single acknowledgement of any call which had been wrong. Mistakes which changed seasons, careers, and lives. There were loops in the case which rightfully belonged to the other team, because any game of Refball got in the way and you couldn't ask the third faction to leave the arena.

The Belle sisters disliked referees, and that was at the minimum. You couldn't be a hoofball player's daughter and like the officials. But they still acknowledged the danger of the profession. A referee who utterly blew a call that went against the home team would usually need a police escort from the arena or better yet, a paid teleport escort because the police probably rooted for the locals. And when the game was being played...

As with players, the ideal referee would have a mark for it. The suite of magic associated with the icon always granted superior eyesight. Less common was the ability to slow down memory. Replaying a just-seen event in their minds, changing the speed of time with every review. Trying to make sure they'd gotten it right. But for just about all of them -- superior eyesight, a good turn of speed, and a knack for moving just in time. Finding that place where they could still watch the action, while not being in the way. And they didn't always make it.

The siblings had been through just about all of the Livery.

The Livery said no call had ever been wrong. Every game was exciting. Winless teams were noted by record along a wall which hosted the season-by-season tallies for every franchise, and you were supposed to be looking at the electrum which noted who the champion had been.

The strike -- the single most important event in the league's history, that which had nearly destroyed it entirely as the players had held firm, supporting each other through fast-closing poverty while the owners hired amateur replacements and, once the Fumble Follies had taken over, reluctantly admitted that perhaps true skill wasn't as fungible as they wished -- wasn't mentioned once.

They'd found two ancient knee braces. Each had been noted as having been worn by a Legendarium occupant during a crucial game, because you played through pain. Those had been the only pieces of medical equipment. Nothing about wraps and bandages and splints. The stink of potions. What some of the more dangerous ones looked like, those which too many former players couldn't stop drinking, needed just to reach the bathroom in the morning. There would be another potion in the bathroom.

They hadn't found a single word about concussions. About injuries which never healed, or fathers who needed four moons to figure out how to move again.

And sometimes referees didn't get out of the way in time.
Or a player wouldn't move fast enough.
Some tackles went into the sidelines.
The impact would be too hard, or strike in just the wrong place. Somewhere which hadn't healed yet, because the greats played through pain.

There was barely any mention of the injured, and part of that was because the Livery was for those who'd fought past it. The immortals.
Immortals who were, for the most part, already dead.
Some of them had left the best of themselves in the arena.
Several had left a corpse.

Players died in the game. So did referees. One coach had been in exactly the wrong place. Hoofball's trail across the centuries was long, storied, and marked by bodies dragged off to the side of the road. Kicked into a ditch, so the museum wouldn't have to see. Centuries of hoofball, with imperfect equipment and injured players and all of those chances for things to go precisely and definitively wrong -- the numbers added up.

Ponies died in hoofball. Rarity and Sweetie, who had always been waiting for their father to come home, to come home on his hooves and scoop them up in his corona with a smile because he had to smile for them, even after what he'd seen -- they could recite virtually every name. Just about any child of a hoofball player could, because they knew all about waiting to see if their parent came home at all.

Their father had been looking at the place where the names should have been.

A place which preserved the whole of history, good and bad and horror -- that was a museum. This is everything which happened. We remember it so that some might never happen again.
One which held naught but a golden age, reserved strictly for the best of what had been and the best of the ways ponies had wanted it to be...

"Two hundred and forty-six," Sweetie said. "A lot of them have the collars."

"Executives and owners," Rarity softly replied.

"Why do they get in?" The younger asking a question for which the answer was already known.

"Well, a general manager can earn their way in," Rarity considered in hollow tones. "It's not an easy profession. Talent evaluation. Trying to get the best of trades. A coach guides the team, but the general manager builds it. As executives... some have their place here, Sweetie. I dearly hope to see Mr. Unity claim a shelf one day. You know he took Dad over the objections of so many..."

"And the owners?"

"A few opened up new markets. Pushed for innovations. New rules, changes to the scoring system."

"A few," Sweetie repeated.

Rarity looked around. Her left forehoof pointed three times.

"And the rest?"

"They... owned things."

The sisters were silent for a time. Both looked towards a small cubicle off to the side, which held thick brass-bound books on tall display desks. It took a dedicated fan and skilled memory to recall everypony in the Legendarium: for everypony else, the Livery offered the chance to look them up.

They mutually wondered who'd written the entries. Just how heavily events had been edited.

A place which remembered everything was a museum.
One which told you what to remember was propaganda.

"...do you still want him in here?" Sweetie asked.

"Yes." Instant. Firm. A diamond wall standing against contradiction.

"Why?"

"Because," Rarity stated, "I want him to be what they remember."

"Even if what they remember isn't real?"

The elder fell silent.

"They'll remember our father," she finally said. "That's enough. We... both waited, Sweetie. Every season. This way, there would always be a place to find him. Where you could come in, and -- know he'd be there. Yes. I want this for him. Still."

The younger smiled.

"I do too," she told her sibling. "I just... thought they wouldn't know him, really. He'd just be a statue..."

"Still a statue of him. At the height of his powers."

A little too innocently, "We can make them include the hat."

Rarity thought about it.

"It would," she considered, "be a travesty. A nightmare. A masterwork of horror. In bronze."

Sweetie took a moment to examine the viewpoint, and then decided. "So we're definitely asking them to include the hat --"

"-- party's gonna get going in a few," their father quietly called out as he approached. "We can take a little more time in here, if you need it. But after that, I've got to go and see Sturm."

Rarity's head almost snapped back. The smile just barely got into place before she turned to face her parent.

"Oh, yes," she almost trilled. "I have been waiting to see him..."

It wasn't a very large room. The refreshments table took up most of it, and the amount of space occupied still didn't manage to turn it into the distinguishing feature.

Ponies were filing into the room, which was lined with photographs and portraits and what the sisters now knew were Artist's Concepts of the great moments. Some of them trotted, a few walked at a more sedate pace, and others had their own way of moving. Those who were only coming in now, because they'd been on the tour before.

That category was easy to distinguish, because they all wore bronze jackets, and each had a golden brooch at the base of their neck.

Some of those ponies smiled at their father. A few nodded politely. Many moved with a hitch in their step, or limped, or stopped every so often to lean against a wall. And then, one by one, they moved towards the true distinguishing feature of the room. The other door. The one which led to where only those with the jackets were truly free to go. They, and those who had been directly invited.

The inner sanctum. The core of the Livery. A few voters could pass through those doors, the most senior. And there would be a number of representatives from the press gathered near the stage: that could be accessed at the far side. But to freely walk into the sanctum, into the private club room, to raise a mug to lost teammates at any time you wished... you had to be immortal.

A few ponies began to mill about. Rarity, with the expert eye of a pony who'd been to a few too many palace events, judged those who headed directly for the food to be members of the press. And if they were in this section, that also meant they were part of the voting pool. She just needed to pick the right one.

Identify a pony who didn't vote for him. It's not a guarantee that I can get one. I doubt they'll just tell me what their ballot was, unless it's that one. And with the voters spread across the nation, and much less than fifty ponies here... we may not see one of those vital thirteen. But if I can identify their vote with a few careful questions, present his case...

The smile was almost a subconscious thing. It was also thin, and somewhat vicious. Rarity almost felt as if she'd pulled on a few vital muscles in the process of placing it. Something which seemed to have produced a squeak.

"So only take drinks from the right end of the table, Sweetie," her father was telling the younger. "Unless you want to get sick."

"Dad!"

"Mean it," the parent announced with a mostly-false gruffness. "This is the stuff hoofball players drink. Right end, that's mostly water and juice. Left, you need some games under your scruff. And no offense, but a life on the line isn't what I've wanted for you."

The squeak repeated, went plural and moved closer. Rarity distantly wondered if the Livery had mice. The undying pests.

"Dad, I could be better at hoofball, I was thinking about trying out for the school team again..."

"Rather have you on the anthem before the game starts."

Silence.

"I want that," he said. "Love to see it, as much as I'd love another loop. Me on the sidelines and you in the center of the arena. No amplifier. Just you, belting it out. It's something I want, Sweetie." A little more softly, "But only if you want it too. Or it doesn't work."

No answer.

Almost a whisper, "Sweetie?"

"...Dad... I..."

The squeaks became a screech, something which rattled every mug in the room as every head swiveled towards the source.

A very large earth pony had just crossed the threshold. He winced slightly in way of apology, then took another step forward. His harness straps went taut, the low wheeled cart behind him shifted...

Afterwards, Rarity tried to tell herself that there had been no shame in pulling back. She'd just been startled, that was all. There was nothing wrong with her reaction, not when so many ponies had been duplicating it and worse. A few hadn't even been able to look at all, not for more than a moment. Because there was no such thing as ghosts: everypony knew that. And when that was something everypony knew, then having that rule broken meant pulling back was the least of it.

Just about everypony pulled back. All but one.

The ghost was still breathing. Rarity was almost entirely certain that it wasn't allowed to do that, if only by definition. Then again, it was breathing in a way which suggested it might stop at any time, so perhaps it was just trying to remember what breathing had been like.

It was the ghost of a giant, fallen in on itself in the places where muscles had died first. Or... it could be seen as a dressmaker's form, if your taste in such things ran towards skeletons. Drape skin across it in place of fabric, and then add very little else. There were a few wisps of mane and tail left, and the battered fur had been well-groomed for the occasion -- at least, what she could see of it beyond the ill-fitting bronze jacket.

The brooch had sunken deep into a throat which was little more than its own hollow. Ears were flat against the skull, with no interest in moving again. The ghost of the stallion didn't move. It breathed, and it stared about with dull eyes which didn't seem to see anything. And the hauling pony pulled the ghost along on the harnessed cart, because it was too much to ask for the dead to move themselves.

The one pony who hadn't pulled back silently nodded to himself.

"If you're up to it," he told his youngest, "I'll introduce you. If not, just hang back."

He glanced in Rarity's direction. Tilted his head inwards, just a little. Because the youngest had that delicacy about her, but the older girl had faced monsters and chaos and Nightmare. She was surely up to meeting a ghost.

She told herself that all the way to the cart. She had to. There was a certain hydraulic pressure to the inner words, and it was that which moved her legs.

Behind her, she could hear Sweetie's approach. Slow, timid, and taking one step back for every three forward. But eventually, they all got there, and the hauling pony paused for them.

Her father nodded politely to the younger stallion, and focused all of his attention on the cart.

"You made it," her father gently told the ghost. "You made it all the way."

Dead ears twitched at the tips. Slowly, a fur strand at a time, they parted from the skull.

The head lifted. Dull eyes blinked twice. Focused, and brightened.

"...Ringer?"

"I'm here, Sturm."

With what was nearly normal volume, could have almost been a powerful voice once if not for the tremble which had taken up permanent residence, "Ringer! Knew it had to be you who put me in! Only way you were gonna see the Livery, the way you keep hovering at thirty-seven. Keep... hovering..."

The ghost stopped. Tried to remember how to breathe again, and eventually made it.

"Should be in," it decided. "But I cleared the big hurdle this year. Beat you to it! Picked up six votes. Don't know why..."

The hauling stallion, whose flanks were marked with a nurse's icon, closed his eyes.

The ghost grinned. Pale browning teeth glinted in the room's lights.

"Had to be you," it said. "Who knows me better? Took the best of each other, didn't we? You took the best of me, and then you came back. That's why it had to be you. That's why you should be in here..."

It fell silent again. The last fragments of a tail thumped against the padded bottom of the medical cart. And then it looked directly at Rarity and Sweetie.

"And who are these lovely young ladies?"

"My daughters, Sturm," was their father's gentle, patient response. "Rarity, Sweetie -- this is Sturmundrang. One of the best line ponies to ever live. Practically was the line."

"Which is why," the ghost grumbled, "you kept trying to break me."

It looked from one sibling to the other. Sweetie's force-locked legs and trembling tail. Rarity, who was paling beneath her fur.

"Beautiful," the ghost breathed. "Beautiful girls. You're lucky, Ringer. Luckier than I was, at least for that. I... I never had any... wish there'd been a little more time outside of training and playbooks and..."

It stopped. The head went down, forced itself upright against the weight of its skin. Blinked a few times.

"It's... it's a pleasure to meet you, sir," something deep in Rarity decided to say, because there always had to be a gift to offer. The gift of dignity. "We've only heard about you, of course. But it's enough to know that you belong here. That you've always belonged. And perhaps one day --"

The ghost's eyes dulled. Brightened. It smiled at her, and then looked to her father.

"And who are these lovely young ladies?"

They each said something then. (Rarity was never entirely sure what Sweetie had voiced, but was proud of her sister for having said anything at all.) About two minutes later, they repeated it, and then the cart was slowly, carefully pulled towards the other door as the guests parted around it. Making room for the procession.

Their father looked at them.

"If it's okay," he asked, "I'd like to go in a little early. Keep an eye on him."

They both nodded.

"You're both sure?"

Again.

He smiled a little, just for them. But then his head turned towards where the sacred door was opening for the sanctum's newest member, and the shadows on the other side reflected into his eyes.

"I always said he got the worst of it," their father softly offered. And then the stallion moved with careful precision, as if every muscle was being momentarily tested before use.

They both waited until the door had closed. Each looked at the other, and then both moved towards the hallway and a waiting restroom. Trotting at the speed of patient dignity, at least until they got out of sight.

Rarity almost felt that she heard a distant sneer of "...couldn't take it..." as she cleared spectator vision and broke into a gallop. But perhaps it was simply a self-judging voice in her head.

There was a brief educational session conducted in front of the mirror. Sweetie didn't know how to readjust the grain and lie of her fur after a crying jag. Rarity had to teach her.

As the last strands were being patted into place by light blue, "Do you want to go home? I can tell him, or -- ask somepony in a jacket to go inside and do it. He'll understand. I can take you back to the Grand Gymkhana and put you on the train, Or -- ride along with you, if that helps."

"No," the much smaller pony half-whimpered -- but her sternum went tight, and green eyes turned fierce. "This is where the voters are. I'm not leaving until I get a chance at --"

Blink, wince, and blush. All at the same time.

"-- oh," Sweetie finished, and her head dropped. "I... I was gonna try to..."

And Rarity, much to her surprise, found a smile.

"Well," she airily declared to both sister and surprisingly-acoustic restroom tile, "that would make two of us. Shall we go find our first target?"

In Rarity's practiced opinion, anypony who was still taking food from the refreshment table was definitely a member of the press.

There were a few ponies left. That meant there was a chance that one of them was the pony they needed. All the sisters needed to do was convince one...

An elderly stallion, whose black fur was showing multiple strands and streaks of grey, was loading up another plate. Sweetie headed towards him.

"Excuse me, sir," she began. "I was wondering --"

He turned just enough to look down at her. Cool grey eyes carefully evaluated her features.

"You're one of the Belle girls," the sportswriter said. "I saw you with your father earlier."

"Yes, sir," Sweetie politely confirmed. "About my dad --"

"I'm sorry," the stallion immediately cut her off. "In order to keep myself neutral, I do not speak to family members. Not of players who are still eligible. Voting is about my opinions. I do not allow them to be influenced. I am sure that you can say many wonderful things about your father, young lady. Just not to me."

He picked up the plate by the reinforced edge, and carried it in his teeth to the other side of the room. Well away from Sweetie.

The younger's jaw dropped. Slowly, her head swiveled to face Rarity.

All right, the elder decided. That still leaves...

The next stallion (who had a good stretch of the table to himself) appeared to have been made by a sculptor who was working from surplus parts. He was somewhat smaller than Rarity, which put him below average size for a male. The legs were far too thin, which brought up the question of how they were managing to carry a triple helping of belly -- something which was all the more apparent because the rib cage was where the assembly process had started to run low on stock. The makeup plan had been to add some extra length to the tail, and doing so with only the central hairs didn't seem to be working out for anypony. But his features were pleasant enough, and she suspected that the stallion would actually have a rather pleasant smile. The fact that he had absolutely no crease lines in that part of this face was temporarily pinned to a hope of careful grooming.

The fur was the harsh red of an ink slash, and the eyes roamed across the refreshment table as if looking for something which could be crossed out.

Rarity decided to go with the pleasant approach. Direct, but... personable. She put on a smile, and added a touch of sway to shoulders and hips as she came closer. There was a chance it wouldn't hurt.

It was the hip sway which seemed to get his attention. The stallion looked up, and dark eyes focused with obvious intent -- but he didn't smile.

That was fine. She could smile enough for two. "Greetings, sir," Rarity offered. "I should probably introduce myself at the outset. I am --"

"-- one of the Belles," he cut her off, and that felt oddly harsh. As if there was a sneer lurking under every word --

-- you're the one I heard in the circle of time, aren't you?
The one who said Corporae --
-- no. Steady. Just -- take it slowly.

"The elder," Rarity confirmed, and subtly widened her smile. "Does that mean you aren't willing to speak with me? I'd like to think neutrality can be protected throughout a simple encounter. Perhaps even during an expression of viewpoint." As the other stallion was clearly a lost cause -- no matter what his vote had been.

"It's not a problem," he told her -- but didn't present a hoof for pressing. Instead, he just shrugged. "Especially since I can guess what you want to talk about. And I'm happy to tell you why your father didn't get my vote."

YES!
...well, no. But YES! If I can just counter his argument...

The smile was being made to do Work.

"Proceed, sir," she told him. "Believe me, I shall listen."

He nodded. "For starters," declared the sneer, "he's a compiler."

The "...a what" was rapidly approaching on small hooves from the right.

"Oh," the stallion dismissed. "Both of them. Makes it easier. A compiler, little girls, is somepony whose stats only look good because they've been piled up over time. Too much time. Stay in the league long enough and anypony's numbers will start to look good just from sheer cumulative weight. Your dear old dad only puts up the illusion of being worth a place here because he stuck around too long. Blocked better ponies from playing, and just kept adding up numbers until the totals went so high, they didn't mean anything any more. Thirty-seven ponies fell for that mirage. I didn't."

The siblings were standing next to each other now, and neither had really noticed. Each was focused entirely on the stallion, and so had failed to recognize how everypony left in the room was now watching them.

Rarity took a breath.

"The average hoofball career, at the professional level," she began, "is less than four seasons. Players are cut whenever they show a true drop in performance, and only Princess Celestia's laws force the payment for the remainder of their contracts. Anypony who fails to maintain skill is out, and blocking a younger, better player is almost impossible. A better player gets the starting role. If there's somehow an overflow at a given position, you trade that pony for another. Shoring up a weakness. I'm sure you know that, Mister...?"

She inclined her head slightly, requesting the name. It arrived on the crest of a sneer.

"I could put something against you for not knowing who I was," the stallion decided, "but we haven't been talking long enough. You would have recognized the word style eventually. Hottake Barbench --"

Sweetie's eyes opened all the way.

"You wrote the column!"

"I write a lot of columns," Hottake announced. "At least one every day. Always after the votes are tallied. I figure at least one pony should explain --"

"-- the ones about why you didn't vote for anypony!" The little right forehoof stomped, and did so at the same moment when bright green sparks began to dance around the base of Sweetie's horn. "You never vote for anypony! Why even have a ballot if you're never going to use it?"

"Because nopony's worth it, little Belle," Hottake sneered. "If there was a deserving candidate, they'd get my vote. But I can find a reason to go NO on anypony. The voters who don't just aren't looking."

There were a number of ponies looking now. All of them went unnoticed.

"Anypony," Rarity repeated. (Hottake harshly nodded.) "Does that include those already inducted?"

It got her a fierce glare -- but it was an expression which felt eager.

"Most of the inductees shouldn't be in here," the sportswriter announced. "I can prove it. Give me a name."

Immediately, "Cliff Battles."

The sneer moved across deep lines in his face.

"Incomplete career," Hottake declared. "He had what, half of a normal inductee's seasons? Ponies judged him on fifty percent of what he could have been, because he took the soft way out. Sat out a few years, then came back --"

"-- Mister Battles," Sweetie said, "enlisted in our navy so he could serve our nation during a war."

"Right," Hottake said. "Sat on a ship. Soft way out."

The stare was mutual. It was also rapidly gaining intensity.

"There were some paragraphs in his biography," Sweetie stated. "I read it, because he was on the line and I wanted to understand what that was like. He wrote about how many of those ships went down. One of them was his. Waiting on a raft for a week, trying to catch rainwater and hoping he'd just drift to shore before the enemy found him --"

"-- but he wasn't playing hoofball, was he?" Hottake cut her off. "Just sunning himself on a three-year vacation. Warm fur and no impacts."

And before Sweetie could react, before the sparks began to unite in their climb up the little horn, Rarity said "Well, give him this. He clearly didn't try to --" she bit down on the last word, and was barely aware of having done so "-- compile."

"If you can't stick around --"

"-- too short a career and one is not worthy," Rarity far too calmly observed. "Too long, and... well, we went over that. Next immortal, I think. How about -- Light Surge?"

"Old Crazyhorn? He never would have made it in the modern era! He would have been banned! All the spells he used to get away with? Most of them are on the forbidden list! What kind of player would he have been if he couldn't cast anything at all?"

"What about Mr. Sturm?" Sweetie timidly asked. "He's modern. And you didn't vote for him, because you didn't vote for anypony --"

"-- the only reason he got in," Hottake announced, "is because some of the idiots heard about his health. They decided they felt sorry for him. You know what Sturm has for credentials? His medical charts. If he was as strong as he made himself out to be, then how did he get hurt in the first place? A real player would have taken all of those hits, and a thousand more. He's a weakling! All size and no power! Put him in the classic era and he'd get trampled by a real linebreaker. Somepony with some weight and strength, who didn't have to worry about moderating his charge because we're apparently all wimps now --"

There was a certain rumble making the rounds of the room. It sounded like a number of ponies scraping the floor with their hooves, added to the beat of tails lashing back and forth.

"-- or moderating spells?" Sweetie checked.

"RIGHT! What the rules call legal castings today --"

"-- the same things Mr. Crazyhorn shouldn't have done?"

It stopped him, if only for a moment. He stared at the filly, then jerked his gaze towards the older sibling. The move didn't grant him any relief.

"I'm starting to sense a pattern," Rarity observed. "A long career, not good enough. A short one obviously can't qualify. The old can't manage in the now, the current would never survive in the past. We are expected to judge each era via time travel. But as we stopped at war for a time, I was wondering -- what do you think about Beacon Bones?"

It got her a snort. "Played in a diluted player pool. How does that count for anything?"

"Diluted," Rarity said, "because so many players had gone to war. And as his brothers had perished, he was sent home. Not allowed to serve, so his parents would not lose the last of their children. Not to war. Instead, he took up hoofball again, risking his life still --"

"-- and what risk is there in playing nobodies? You can't get hurt! They barely had any marked players left in the arenas at all!"

"The replacement players didn't have hoofball marks," Sweetie tried (and the corona was halfway up the horn now). "A lot of them got hurt."

"Amateurs who didn't know what they were doing! And markless!"

Which was when he snorted again.

"Not," Hottake Barbench stated, "that anypony needs a mark to play something as basic as hoofball. Anypony could play: look at the schools! Anypony, if they just made an effort. An effort which marked players don't bother with, because they expect the mark to take over. I swear, a hoofball mark just makes them lazy. Worse. And then you've got the ones who somehow manage to get in the league without it! The stable rats, showing up every day to practice like that means something! Just taking jobs away from their betters --"

The rumble became louder.

"...you just made both sides of an argument," Rarity slowly said. "One after the other, while including your personal decision to question a mark. The marked cannot be capable, while those who substitute effort for natural skill should never play. Marked and unmarked -- that covers everypony, doesn't it? Everypony to ever put on a uniform --"

The bright green light reached the little horn's tip.

"You don't vote for anypony on purpose!" shouted that sudden, fierce, always-unexpected temper. "Because it gets you more pub-li-cit-y that way! You get to write your column on how nopony's good enough, the same column, and the newspaper sells out because everypony wants to read about why you wouldn't let anypony in! You're never going to vote because that's what makes you happy!"

"But not famous," Rarity abruptly realized. "You don't put your picture next to the column for a reason. Safe enough in here, but you want ponies cursing your name without knowing who you are. Because there's more than us. All of those fans, wondering who the pony is that keeps their favorites out. And when you see a player at thirty-seven, always thirty-seven -- all the more reason to never shift. Never change. Never vote."

"You shouldn't even have a ballot!" Sweetie yelled. "Not if you'll never use it! Your vote should go to somepony who can think of a word which isn't NO! Anypony, everypony in the Legendarium, there's always a NO and you'll never change your mind --"

And in the face of their outburst, at the center of the building rage -- Hottake simply sneered.

"And there is nothing," he declared, "that two weak fillies can ever do about it."

He turned that mismatched body, and the overlong central tail hairs whipped the sisters in the face.

Ponies tended towards a certain instinctive reaction when something hit them in the face. Neither sister bothered to fight it.

Teeth snapped.

Life as a Bearer meant becoming acquainted with several layers of Canterlot's society.

"Oh, hello! Yes, it's me again! ...yet again... But I'm so glad you're the one who's here tonight! So how is she doing? -- oh, wonderful! Healthy, of course? ...oh, thank Sun. The two of you -- well, three, now -- have been in my thoughts. As I'm sure you know, since you did receive my card. Er. Did you receive -- oh, good. And did my gift fit? Wonderful! I was mostly guessing: I will freely admit to that! I had to use your build as a guideline, but I've only seen pictures of her, and of course there's no telling who a foal will take after. Please let me know when you need a replacement bunting. So is my usual available? It is? All the more luck! Shall we?"

The cell door clanged shut behind her.

Rarity watched Officer O'Mallet recede down the hallway, and finally permitted herself a sigh. Went to her favorite bunk (best mattress, warmest blanket, easy view for whoever might be approaching) and took up the typical position.

She often considered herself to be a living statue during such waits. Breathing artwork.

Somepony will tell him where we were taken.
...actually, after this much time as a Bearer, he may simply look into the other room, note our absence, wait outside the restroom for a few minutes, and then guess.
Rather accurately.

She grumbled to herself a little. And then the museum display piece known as Pony, Unjustly Incarcerated (Again), Waits For Bail got down to it.

It only took six minutes before she heard hoofsteps approaching: two sets, and her ears perked. An unusually short wait, but perhaps somepony had risked entering the sanctum. It was just that one of the sets sounded oddly -- light.

"Company," O'Mallet announced. The cell door opened, and then clanged closed again. "Hope you don't mind."

He left. The new arrival took a bunk, which required a half-jump, foreleg hook, and some serious scrambling. Rarity stared.

"What are you doing here?"

"They brought us in together --"

"-- the juvenile detention area," Rarity interrupted, "is two levels up, just off the main detainee interrogation area and adjacent to the parental counseling zone."

"How do you know that?" Sweetie asked.

The older sister sighed. "I've... been here a few times."

The younger said nothing.

Crossly, "Rather a lot, then. Will you accept that?"

Silence maintained.

"It's usually Rainbow's fault -- look, they don't keep adults and children in the same cell, all right? So why are you here?"

"I asked to see you," Sweetie said. "To stay with you, until Dad came. And they said it was a really slow night, they weren't going to put any adults in with you and besides, unless you really got mad, you were mostly an --" the little face scrunched "-- au-di-o-ible threat."

"Audible," Rarity carefully repeated.

"Anypony they lock in with you starts begging for a deafness spell after two hours," Sweetie innocently explained. "But they said since I'm family, I'm probably immune."

The older folded her forelegs in silence. Maintained quiet out of sheer spite.

"Rarity?"

And managed to hold it for all of two minutes. "What is it, Sweetie?"

Tremulously, with vibrations running through mane, tail, and sudden tears, "Do you think we made things any worse? For Dad?"

Rarity sighed. "Not with Hottake, at any rate. For those who were watching... I didn't really see them, Sweetie. I was barely aware of their presence until the end, when we were being dragged out. Tunnel vision: a frequent side effect of rage. But... I don't know how they voted. Or how they might vote the next time, after we reflected so poorly upon him."

A timid nod. "Um. What does 'egregious provocation' mean?"

"It's a legal defense."

"-- because you started saying it after the police dragged you off him. Over and over, as soon as your teeth were away from his mane. What's left of his mane --"

"-- I'll have to wait until I hear from the prosecutor to know if it worked. And since Hottake will have to personally speak to the prosecutor's office, I rather like my odds. As a juvenile, you'll simply be released to parental custody --"

"But what does it mean?"

"That he had it coming," Rarity firmly stated.

And then her head dipped.

"I don't know if we hurt Dad, Sweetie," she miserably said. "It's possible. But I don't know. The only real way to find out is to wait for early winter."

"And see if he's at thirty-six," Sweetie realized.

"Or lower..."

Both blinked away the tears. After a moment, Rarity got off the bunk and began to smooth her sister's fur with a metal-coated horntip. Magic-blocking restraints were mandatory.

"Just wait it out," the expert advised. "We'll be on our way home soon enough. And then we can apologize to him. I'll stay with you the whole time. After all, I've been through this before. And I did snap first --"

Hoofsteps were on the approach. Two sets. Two adults.

"Bail's been posted," O'Mallet announced from an unseen distance. "Sorry to lose you this quickly, Rarity. Okay if I mail you some pictures of the kidlet?"

"Please." But she was already straining her neck, looking for white fur and sad eyes --

-- black fur. Black and greying in so many places, as was often seen on older stallions...

The door opened. O'Mallet stepped back. The elderly sportswriter stepped forward.

"He knows," the stallion told them. "But I asked him to stay at the Livery, because Sturmundrang gets to be inducted once. He knows where you are, and... that I came down to post bail. He didn't have the bits on him anyway."

"He'll repay you," Rarity quickly said. "We weren't expecting to need very much money for a simple trip into the capital --"

"-- I paid," the sportswriter said. "I mean..." The dark tail twitched. "I'm paying. Not him. I'll get it back from the court. That's how bail works."

Sweetie carefully stood up on the bunk. Jumped down to the floor, and had to look up again.

"Why?" asked the younger.

"Hottake --" He stopped, but only for a moment. "He's popular, did you know that? More than just at ballot time, although that's when his sales peak. It's easy to be negative. To find a reason to go against something. Somepony. One of the theater critics told me she's always wishing for a show to flop, because that review is more fun to write. It's harder to measure excellence. Or put a lot of it against each other."

His forehooves awkwardly scraped at the floor.

"I imagine so," Rarity cautiously tried. "Thank you for coming to fetch us, sir. But I fail to see --"

"And me?" the old stallion self-questioned. "I try to stay neutral. I tell myself I don't have biases. You always tell yourself that, until you hear them coming from someone else and wonder why they sound so stupid. Especially when you hear every bias. All of them at once..."

He stood aside. A greying foreleg waved them towards the door.

"You made me think," he told them. "That's all I can really give you for now. No promises, because I'm just one pony. But I'm thinking. Mostly about numbers, and a little on the kind of stallion it takes to produce kids who'll quote hoofball history to fight for him like that. And after I think... I can talk. Write. When I know who I'm writing to, and for."

The sisters didn't move. They simply stared at him, and couldn't seem to stop.

"Eleven moons," he said. "You know the date. Just... wait."

And he left.

Eleven moons. It was a long time to wait. Long enough for Sweetie to fret on more than a few of the days. Rarity used her own such occasions to work on designs for infant items, along with warm blankets meant for giants who would never shrink in history. Each was careful about when she asked her sibling for help.

The sisters didn't get to do much together. But on one early winter day, when they had already been staring at the sky for hours, after they finally heard the rustle of fast-approaching predawn wings -- they planned a celebration.