In a small, minimally furnished room, can be heard the occasional frowning sigh and little grunt of satisfaction of a young stallion hard at work. The figure sits on a single bed and stares at the dark yellow furred face displayed in a modest bedside mirror; the visage is dominated by a steel-blue of a magnificent moustache and topped by dark brows furrowed in concentration as the pony focuses on the moustache-brush in his hoof with which he is delicately curling a plume. The carpet-less crystal floor bristles with the choppings of a late night 'tache-crop. Eventually, with a faint 'hmmf', the stallion rises and places the brush into a box containing a number of similar instruments that he thrusts into a saddlebag before brusquely throwing it over his slender yellow back and heading out of the room and downstairs.
In the living room sits Mustafa Combe's mother, Lilac Combe, gently combing her brilliant lavender crystal tail. As her son comes in, she gives him a slight smile and wishes him luck for 'his big day' and begins to rise. He mutters a thank you, but raises his hooves for her not to get up, a signal which she ignores as she goes to fuss over him, rubbing away the odd bead of stray beard oil that has caught in his mane.
He makes no protest at first, but as Lilac reaches to brush his mane he furrows his brow and irritably shies his head away. "I have to go. See you later."
Lilac looks a little ruefully after her son's departing tail, feeling a slight pang as the lanky yellow frame is briefly silhouetted in a momentary hesitation in the light of the front door. She makes to say something more, but he moves on. Lilac picks up her brush and returns to her morning routine.
Outside is a gleaming and warm day in the Crystal Empire: sun rays sparkle off the many-hued hides through which Mustafa Combe trots, a ship with moustache sails fluttering in the breeze as the sparkling chromatic seas part before him. His brisk trot takes him into the shadow of the palace whose spire towers over the Empire. He is heading to a building at the edge of the immense interior dome formed by the four pillars at the base of the palace: the glittering blue and white domed festival hall. His pace quickens as faces almost as impressively adorned as his turn his way, but he does not return their looks. He trots towards a small side-entrance, over which there is a banner decorated with pictures of smiling bearded ponies which reads: ‘Festival of Talent: Facial Hair category’.
The festival hall is at the edge of the palace
The quiet interior of the festival hall is empty as Mustafa heads away from the echoey giant of the auditorium dome, where he and the other contestants in the festival will present their faces for judgement shortly, and towards the contestant chambers. On entering, he encounters a breathless calm and several anonymous makeshift stalls that dominate the small droom.
Mustafa occupies the nearest stall, takes out his silver grooming box and examines himself tensely in the stall mirror. He frowns at his mirrored face framed by the four plumes of his painstakingly trained and groomed steel-blue moustache, but does not adjust it. Instead, his eyes dart to the door and he takes out a different brush from his saddlebag; unlike the delicate silver moustache combe he had used previously, still encased in the silver box beside him, this brush is large, wooden and hairy. With his eyes still on the door, he pulls his tail round his flank and brushes it – rapidly at first, wincing occasionally as he catches a tangle, but soon slows down to a more relaxed pace. He stays like that, brushing away, till the silence is shattered by the entrance of three large moustachioed stallions together, who are talking animatedly to one another about the upcoming contest in a hearty baritone. As they enter, Mustafa stops abruptly, thrusts the brush into his saddlebag and makes a show of tending to his moustache. As he scans himself for a hair out of place, another pony enters the room, and while re-oiling a plume, two more ponies enter together. In the heat of the close room which is now full of anxious contestants, a bead of sweat forms on his forehead which he wipes it away before it can trickle onto his creation.
The faces next to Mustafa call out to each other, prominent among these are those belonging to the burly trio. Some of the ponies who had recently entered the room call Mustafa’s name, and in response he nods and replies shortly, without taking his gaze off the mirror. To this clamour is soon added noises from outside as the auditorium begins to fill up with attendees.
After a time, an announcer calls for the contestants to enter the auditorium; led by Mustafa, they trot out of the cramped preparation room. Mustafa’s snout curls into a smile as he stalks into the now full auditorium armoured with mental blinkers to keep his ears and eyes from flicking about in response to the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and general noise of the audience. His eyes glaze over, apparently fixed on the stage, while his thoughts focus on his art-piece—his moustache—which he had crafted in secret for the previous month: a four-plume handle-bar. Upon him cresting the stage, his thoughts turn to his fellow contestants — his competition, whose styles he was already familiar with.
‘The new ponies are no competition,’ he thinks to himself, running through them in his head:
‘Scout’s Honour? He’s barely grown out his ginger fuzz.’
‘Check Mate? Practically stubble.’
‘Crystal Beau? He may be a model, but he’s out of his depth.
As Mustafa turns to face the audience and sees his competition trot up the stage to take their places beside him, he silently judges them:
‘Amethyst Honour. Mutton chops are hardly original, so he should be marked down there, despite the obvious discipline to his grooming.’
‘Sunburst. I don’t know what spell he has fashioned to make his goatee into an actual goat – he would always have me beaten for originality anyway, but no judge can overlook the poor quality of his beard-care, or that it is chewing itself.’
Mustafa is taken out of his reverie by the arrival of the judge. He stands next to his fellow crystal competitors on the stage, head high and heart pounding, as the judge and his retinue stalk into the auditorium. Amethyst Honour gives a smart salute and the ponies in the auditorium rise as the contest judge awkwardly shuffles into the judging booth accompanied by two guards, one of whom blasts a cadence on a horn, after which the other announces, “Prince Shining Armor!”
Mustafa keeps his eyes on the crystal ruler, filled with pride at being presented in his presence, despite noticing the akimbo and slightly frazzled state of Shining Armor’s mane. The latter’s eyes flit over the assembled ponies, before he turns to the side to whisper something to one of the guards, who nods and retreats. As the Prince takes his seat, Mustafa notices him elbow the remaining guard jocularly, and the royal face breaks out into a grin, his forward ears gay and high.
The auditorium glows with appreciative luminescent crystal bodies, whose momentary hush at the arrival of the royal is soon replaced with a roar of excitement that almost drowns out the prattle from the microphone of the announcer: “A big hoof everypony for our contest judge …”
Mustafa closes his mind to the prattle and his body tenses as he feels the time of judgement to be nearly upon him. He briefly feels sympathetic to his rivals as out of the corner of his eyes he apprehends Sunburst and Amethyst Honour similarly rigid. A few supporters stomp and call out from the audience, but Mustafa only hears Lilac Combe’s exhortation, using his pet name: “Stafie!”, although he doesn’t look for her. Eventually the noise dies down and all eyes turn to Shining Armor…
The smooth white face of the royal judge takes on a thoughtful look. The Prince’s eyes run themselves across the stage, taking in each contestant in turn. They light up as they find Sunburst, and a chuckle rings out in the hushed chamber. When it is Mustafa's turn to be scrutinized, he settles his nerves by taking deep breaths and focusing on the distance away from the crowd. The breathless moment soon passes as the Prince moves briskly over a few of the newer contestants before pausing over Amethyst Honour — the guardpony. Mustafa frowns internally as whispered words are shared with an adjacent guard, before both sets of eyes return to the mutton chops on the purple guardpony contestant.
The crowd murmurs as the Prince retires to decide, and in the interim a few of the new contestants smile down or wave at their supporters. Amethyst Honour strikes a pose for a collection of mares whom Mustafa does not recognise next to the stage. Sunburst’s goatee gives a plaintive bleat which sets the crowd giggling. Scout’s Honour meets Mustafa’s gaze and gives a smile and little wave from the stage, which surprises him, and he gives an awkward nod in return. Mustafa still does not look to the place in the audience where Lilac Combe, his mother, must be.
Mustafa’s heart is in his mouth as a trumpet blows, announcing Shining’s return to the room. Instead of stopping at the judge’s booth, Shining Armor continues to the stage; in his hooves are various rosettes: blue for first, green for runner up, yellow for first participant, and pink for the other participants. The announcer calls the names of the new contestants, including Scout’s Honour and a few others, who trot obediently to Shining Armor and – after a brief hoof-shake – they receive their pink rosettes. Mustafa’s hoof begins to tap impatiently and he has to grind it into the stage floor to stop himself fidgeting. Soon only three ponies remain on the stage: Mustafa, Amethyst Honour and Sunburst.
Yells of support ring out from the crowd anew as Shining holds out the yellow rosette. “Amethyst Honour!” the announcer intones and Mustafa gives a gleeful nod. The crystal guard blinks and briefly hesitates before he trots, ears and tails a little flat, to receive his ‘award’.
Before the next award can be presented, there is a sudden pause in the noise of the room and another fanfare rings out – everypony other than the Prince bows low as a guard announces: “Her Royal Highness, Princess Flurry Heart.”
The young Princess, only just past babyhood, enters the auditorium with two burly guards beside her. “Sunny!” she calls out to Sunburst in her youthful high pitch, before adding, “Daddy!”
Shining Armor glances at Sunburst, who blushes. “Daddy needs to choose whose beard is the best, Flurrelsome.”
In the hush as the Prince and Princess talk, excited half-suppressed giggles break out among the audience, as well as a few quiet ‘aww's. Mustafa, from his low bow, eyes Sunburst, but Sunburst’s eyes are fixed on the youngster.
He holds his breath as the announcer begins again: “The runner up is… Sunburst!” the announcer calls out.
Mustafa sighs and hangs his head as the tension goes out of him and the forced smile he had worn since entering the auditorium becomes genuine. The crowd's respectful murmurs are pierced by a familiar voice which calls out, “Stafie!”.
He looks gratefully to its source to see his mom’s dazzling lavender mane, the rest of the mare lost in the crowd. Sunburst, meanwhile, trots merrily forward to receive his green rosette, and as Shining Armor goes to give it to him, the goat goatee snatches and munches on it to the delight of the crowd, whose titters of mirth are led by the little Princess.
As the moon rises over the Crystal Empire, Mustafa Combe has returned to his little room and, after a day of displaying his winning rosette to crystal admirers, he now places it in a show cabinet opposite his single bed, alongside two similar rosettes from previous years. He sighs contentedly and even gives himself a wink in the mirror, enjoying the jaunty sight. However, he feels something is missing; unable to place his hoof on it, he idly muses on the look the young pony, Scout’s Honour, gave him. Shortly after that his reverie is interrupted as he hears his mother, Lilac, call his name, and he trots downstairs to the living room.
The two ponies talk about the day into the evening, going over the styles of the ponies, and especially Sunburst’s bleating beard. They also talk about how special it was to be judged by the empress’ chosen in front of his peers as well as aristocrats from the royal court, including officers and even the royal heiress. Mustafa admits that he was sure that Amethyst Honour was going to take the blue, being an officer of the royal guard, and his mother chides him gently for imagining that the Royal Prince would have been so influenced by favouritism.
As the two chatter, the subject of Scout’s Honour comes up. Lilac presses him, as she had many times before, to be friendly — urging him to talk to the younger stallion. Mustafa, feeling expansive, admits that maybe it would be fun to talk to him, if only to instruct him on his grooming technique.
As it nears bedtime for the two ponies, Lilac takes out her brush and is about to preen her mane – her ritual before bed – but she hesitates. Mustafa, seeing Lilac pause, understands, and offers her his large brown mane brush. Lilac smiles, takes the brush gladly and sits beside him to brush his unruly mane. She runs it gently through his mane and tail, as she had done since he was a colt, teasing out tangles, brushing out some of the light-blue undercoat where it is thick and training steel-blue guard hairs that are becoming wayward. As she does so, he takes up his mother's bejewelled lavender combe and runs it through her luscious lavender mane, his part of the family ritual. Hers is so well kept that he glides through the seamless fronds.
The two brush each other in silence, both enjoying the closeness, before she wishes him good night with a little peck on the cheek and ascends to her bed. After a moment of quiet contemplation he rises too and trots to his room; his newly brushed and flowing two-tone light and steel-blue mane and tail bob as he climbs the stairs, catching the gentle yellows of his softly glowing crystal body, a sunset across a distant river.
Author's Note
Crystal Guard by Jenery
